So Damn Beautiful Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

by A.E. Hodge



  SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  Prequel to So Damn Beautiful

  By A.E. Hodge

  A Fiction Fugitive Select Publication

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  Scenes from So Damn Beautiful

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  About A.E. Hodge

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  “Who really cares about a missing kid?”

  Christian’s voice is lounge-lizard deep and melodious as a song. He speaks in a low, unhurried tone, with a breathy quality that’s almost a whisper, compelling the full attention of everyone at our table.

  Everyone except for me. I’m too distracted thinking about my son.

  Under the table, I clutch my cell phone. Above the table, I’m smiling at my coworkers and biding my time, waiting for the chance to get the hell out of here.

  “So compassionate!” laughs Dick Anderson, our boss. His broad belly brushes the edge of the round table, his dark suit jacket draped over his chair’s backrest. He leans over the table, holding a glass of foam and sediment that was beer a minute ago. “Hope you’re not planning on having kids?”

  Christian flashes a handsome smile. “The thought had crossed my mind. But I mean, this is a college kid. Probably ran off to find herself.”

  I glance down at my phone. It’s almost eight o’clock. This party was supposed to end at seven, and I only told the babysitter to stay till seven-thirty. But Anderson loves his parties as much as he hates ending them. This one is long past its expiration date. Every topic has been covered: families, pets, hobbies, vacations. We’ve even exhausted talking about work.

  Out of desperation, the conversation has shifted to the evening news, playing on a small TV mounted behind our table at the back of the dim sports bar. On the screen is a selfie photo of a pretty black girl, her lips pursed in a silly way, her red baseball cap turned backwards. The headline reads, Missing Student: Yvette Montana.

  “…Yvette Montana, age nineteen,” reads the newscaster, “reported missing a week ago by her roommate at Wayne State. If you have any information on Yvette’s whereabouts, Detroit police urge you to call…”

  “Isn’t that where you go to school?” says Anderson. “Wayne State?”

  Christian shrugs. “Me and a million others. It’s not like I knew her or anything.”

  Christian’s hair is full, straight, and dark, parted neatly down the middle and falling to his chin. His eyes are a brilliant blue, set in a clear, chiseled face, his sensual lips perpetually smiling. As a new student intern at our law firm, Christian Morgan is the youngest at the table, yet he’s easily the best-dressed, still clad in his suit and tie. I’m certain his suit is even more expensive than Anderson’s—a Gucci or Prada, if I remember from my modeling days.

  Needless to say, he’s very handsome, with an ego to match. I find him childish and a little repulsive.

  Or maybe I’m repulsed by my own attraction to him—a thought I smash like a Whack-a-mole whenever it rears its ugly head.

  “Come on, let’s change this,” Christian says. “I think there’s a game on.”

  Anderson shrugs and turns to Jim Dawson, seated beside me. Jim turned forty last week, which is Anderson’s excuse for this celebration here at Tully’s Bar & Grill.

  “What do you say, birthday boy?” Anderson asks Jim. “You want to change the channel?”

  Jim looks much older than forty, with his thin hair, sagging chin, and plaid shirt. Predictably, he looks at me for a cue, adjusting his thick glasses. “What do you want to watch, Meredith?”

  I force a smile. Jim’s had a crush on me for ages. He’s a nice guy, probably my only friend in the office, so I try to think of it as sweet. “It’s your birthday, Jim. Besides, I don’t know how much longer I can stay. Troy’s waiting for me.”

  Anderson waves the thought away. “You’ve got a babysitter, right? What’s the harm?”

  I swallow my irritation, saying nothing. Jim hesitates, running a hand through his pale, wispy hair. “Well, I don’t think Meredith’s the biggest fan of sports.”

  “What is Meredith a fan of?”

  When I look up, Christian is studying me. He’s still smiling, but his bright blue eyes lock onto mine with unusual intensity, dissecting me with his gaze. It makes me uncomfortable.

  “Mystery books,” I answer, with a shrug. “Fish sticks. Classic movies. My son Troy.”

  Christian’s smile beams like a lamp. “Hey, I like movies too! Nothing beats the classics. Let’s look for a movie channel. Cuz frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn about the news.” He glances at the TV. “I mean, politics? Does it get any worse? Who wants to wager which one’s the bigger liar?”

  The news has shifted to the upcoming governor’s race here in Detroit. They’re showing scenes from last night’s debate between the top two candidates—a withered old man named Johnson and an attractive young woman in a pant suit whose name I can’t recall.

  “I don't know.” Anderson admires the woman. “But I know which one I’d rather take to dinner. She could lie to me all night long.”

  I roll my eyes at the only other woman present, the fifth party guest, Agatha, an elderly paralegal. She wears a frumpy dress, a bun in her thin gray hair, and a sunken, sleepy expression. I suspect we’re nearing her bed-time. She meets my eyes with an unhappy glare, and I look away.

  The other women in our office aren’t fond of me. They’re all older, wealthier, and better educated. They’re also uglier, and for some reason that seems to imply I’m a flirty whore who slept my way to my lofty position as a legal secretary. As if I like being treated like meat.

  I can’t help that guys like Jim and Anderson fall all over me. I was born with certain assets—I’m a tall, shapely redhead with clear skin and pleasant proportions. I’m pretty enough that I used to model, back when my photographer husband was still alive. Is it a crime I still put effort into my appearance, at the ripe old age of thirty-one? That I’m wearing makeup, expertly applied, or that my black dress happens to be fashionable?

  “Excuse me.” I rise to my feet. Anderson opens his mouth to protest, and I assure him, “I’m not leaving. Just getting a drink.”

  Settling my purse over my shoulder, I leave the table, heading for the bar across the restaurant. I can feel Anderson’s eyes on my hips as I walk away.

  Sometimes this job can be more than I can take, but I’ll do anything for my son. He’s all that matters, since my husband Max died.

  I’ve been out too long already. As I ease onto the barstool, I fish my cell phone out again to check for any messages. There are none.

  But even as I check, the phone starts to ring in my hand, making me jump. I recognize the familiar ringtone for my home phone. Troy picked it—a theme song from Super Mario.

  This must be the babysitter, calling to complain. Perfect timing. I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  To my dismay, my eight-year-old son answers, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Troy? Sorry I’m running so late. I was just about to call. Can you put Lana on, please?”

  Troy hesitates. I can hear someone else shouting in the background. “She’s leaving.” Troy speaks through a mouthful of something chewy.

  “What?”

  “That’s why I called. She’s getting her stuff to leave.”

  “Are you kidding? Put her on!”

  Troy cups the phone and calls to Lana, the high school kid who watches him. The phone rustles again and the girl says curtly, “Hello?”

  I resist the urge to shout at her. “Lana. T
roy says you were leaving?”

  “You said seven-thirty. You paid for seven-thirty. I’m sick of getting stiffed, Ms. Banks. And did you know I have a big exam tomorrow? Not like my whole future depends on it or anything!”

  “You can’t just leave my son alone. Lana, I’m sorry. This won’t happen again.”

  “Hell no, ‘cuz I quit. I got other clients.”

  “Watch your language! Listen. Put him to bed if you have to study, that’s fine. But please don’t leave till I get there.” Finally I say the magic words. “I’ll pay double, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll stay till nine. Then I go whether you’re here or not. And I still quit.”

  I say tightly, “Put Troy back on.”

  She hands the phone off without another word. “Mom?” Troy says tentatively.

  “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to stay out this late. I can’t seem to get away.”

  “Mom, I’m all right. Just playing some video games.”

  “You finish your homework?”

  “Yeah, on the bus. As usual.”

  “What are you eating? Gummy worms?”

  He pauses in his chewing. I hear him swallow. “A few.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’ve had enough for tonight. You don’t want another stomach ache, do you? Did you feel all right today?” His stomach’s been bothering him lately. I wonder if he’s coming down with something.

  “Mom, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  Despite myself, I smile. Such a good boy. So mature. Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much, but I do. I worry a lot.

  “I promise I’ll be home soon, okay? I’m leaving now. I love you, baby.”

  “Love you, too. Bye!”

  Even as I lower my phone and hang up, I’m startled by a gentle voice behind me.

  “Was that your kid?”

  When I turn, to my surprise, Christian has joined me at the bar.

  He sits on the barstool beside me, facing the mostly empty restaurant; his legs are stretched out and crossed casually, his elbows leaning on the bar behind him. As I look over, he meets my eyes with an easy smile that quickly starts to fade. “Is something wrong?”

  “My babysitter was about to leave early, without even telling me,” I growl. “Can you believe that?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like you might have a lawsuit. Talk to Anderson about it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’d rather he just let us go home already.”

  Turning back to the bar, I root through my purse for bills to pay the bartender. Dropping one of my last ten dollar bills, I set about chugging the rest of my daiquiri so I can leave. I’m aware of Christian beside me, watching me, still as a statue. “It’s okay, Meredith,” he says. “It sounds like Troy’s pretty mature. He’s eight, right? Man, the things I got up to at eight.” He shakes his head with a smile, remembering some untold mischief. Why are men always so proud of their mischief?

  I set down my cocktail glass and glare at him sideways, licking my lips. Now I can add presumptuousness to his list of turn-offs. How long was he listening to my phone call, anyway? Uncomfortably, I fidget with the bodice of my dress, reigning in the cleavage.

  Christian looks down at his sharp, Cuban-heeled leather boots, polished to a high shine. “Sorry,” he mutters, as if reading my mind. “You just seem worried.”

  “It’s… okay.” I mean to say none of your business, but at the last minute I realize I still have to be professional. He is a coworker, and he’s just being friendly. Right? I take a deep breath. “If you really want to help, you can tell Anderson to end this party, so I don’t have to argue with him about leaving.”

  He sniffs in amusement. “That could be arranged. But what do I get out of it?”

  I narrow my eyes. Oh, brother. This kid’s not trying to flirt with me, is he? How drunk are they letting him get here? “You get out of this party,” I snap. “What more could you ask for?”

  He laughs again, a little louder, and turns to sit on the stool properly, facing the bar. As he moves, I catch a pleasant whiff of sandalwood cologne. God, but he smells good. “Ah, well. I’ll quit bothering you. I was just trying to make you smile.”

  My cheeks heat as I feel a flash of guilt about my bad mood. It’s not like my babysitter problems are Christian’s fault. I force a confused smile. “I’m sorry. I just feel like I don’t know you all that well for how you’re talking about my son.”

  It comes out haughtier than I meant, my tongue loosened by stress and drink. I immediately regret it. Like my mother told me long ago: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all; so Meredith, just keep your mouth shut.

  But Christian only nods, and looks at me with those arresting blue eyes, bright even in the dim neon lights of the bar. His thoughtful pout forms a roguish smile. “Well, I’m trying to get to know you, aren’t I?”

  I look over my shoulder to our party’s table at the back of the restaurant, where Anderson is regaling Jim with some story and Jim is nodding in a sleepy way. The old woman, Agatha, glares at me and Christian. I avert my eyes and sidle to the edge of my stool, away from Christian.

  “Don’t lean so close to me,” I mutter. “Agatha’s watching. The women in this office are all gossips.”

  Christian smirks, but says nothing. Eyeing him over the rim of my glass, I polish off the daiquiri and set it down. “So what’s your plan?”

  “Hm?” He turns his head in a lazy way, smiling. A shot of whiskey has appeared in his hand. He holds it delicately between two long, sensitive fingers.

  I smile back a little. “To get us out of here already.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I’ve got a gun in my car…”

  Despite myself, I snicker. “I think this calls for something more tactful.”

  “Why don’t you just tell Anderson your babysitter’s about to split?”

  My smile sags at his naïve answer. Of course that’s what I’ll do, what I’ll have to do. It doesn’t make it any easier. “In the business world,” I say, “you know what happens to women who put their kids before their jobs? They stay secretaries. They get cut out of your little men’s club. You know Anderson promoted somebody at one of these parties last year? On the spot. Swear to God.”

  Christian sniffs in amusement, then downs his whiskey shot, smacks his lips, and grins. “The business world blows,” he announces. “You shouldn’t be punished for being a good mother. You should be rewarded.”

  “Yeah, well. Go tell that to Anderson.”

  “You know, I’m studying business,” he says. “The more I learn about it, the more cut-throat it seems. It’s kill or be killed, just like everything in this world.”

  My heart is racing a little. I can’t tell if it’s out of worry for Troy, or because of the way Christian’s smiling at me. My voice drops to a hush as I answer almost against my will. “If you hate business so much, why don’t you study something else?”

  “I didn’t say I hate it,” he says with his playful smile. He lifts a finger to the bartender, who refills Christian’s shot glass. I narrow my eyes. How old is Christian, anyway? He seems much older than he looks. He swirls the glass as he looks dreamily into the distance, through the bottles stacked behind the bar. “I was studying film, for a while. I always wanted to be a director. But you know what they say. Dreams don’t pay the rent.”

  I know I should slide off the bar stool, turn and walk out the door, and to hell with Christian and Anderson and all of it. Instead I find myself asking, “What kind of films?”

  Whatever else can be said of Christian, the boy can hold a conversation, damn him.

  His smile deepens. “You want to see? I have one of my projects here.”

  Before I can protest that I don’t have time for movies, he fishes something out of his suit jacket—a small iPod knock-off with a big, full-color touchscreen. His free hand finds mine; I’m startled at his touch and offer no resistance as he lifts my hand, turns it over, and sets the movie player in my palm. His fing
ers are firm, but gentle, and warm as fire.

  “Christian…”

  “Just watch.”

  His hand leaves mine and he pushes a button on the screen. A movie starts to play. Tinny music comes from the small, on-board speakers of the device, barely audible over the noise of the bar. Credits or some other text roll across a dark, flickering background, like an old silent film, but I can’t quite read the text.

  As I raise the small device closer to my face, the film begins in earnest, and I gasp.

  There’s a flash of light on the screen, bright as an atom bomb. Then scenes and images flash past, almost subliminal, seemingly random—oceans, deserts, city skylines, refrigerator doors, eyeballs, bodies, scenes from a war. It’s too bright and fast for my eyes to follow, but something about the colors is instantly disorienting, almost nauseating.

  The movie’s soundtrack, at first too tinny to hear, somehow rises above the noise in the bar, becoming clearer the longer I stare—until somehow the sound from the thin speakers seems to drone out everything. It sounds like rhythmic, sexual moans interspersed with some hellish choir, the garbled words and groaning voices of a demonic tongue. A harsh, pounding techno beat accompanies this and my heart races to match it.

  “Christian? What the hell… is this?”

  I’m not sure if the words actually make it out of my mouth. Suddenly I feel weak and lightheaded, to the point that I’m fighting to keep my eyes open.

  To keep my eyes on the film.

  I’m utterly transfixed by it. I can’t look away. I can’t even speak. A surreal feeling washes over me and I feel depersonalized, like a passenger in my own body. How much did I have to drink? Only two daiquiris, and I’m certain no one slipped me anything. I was watching my glass the whole time. Wasn’t I?

  “Meredith?” Christian snaps his fingers. “You still with me?”

  I look up.

  The movie is over.

  We’re no longer sitting at the bar, but at some small, round table at the back of the restaurant, practically alone, an island unto ourselves. The bar is far away. The cover band plays an endless Allman Brothers song.

  I sway in my seat, an embarrassing amount of sweat running down the sleeves of my dress, and I realize I must have blacked out a little. I don’t remember leaving the bar. How did we get to this table?

  Christian sits across from me, hands folded on the tabletop, his smile somehow expectant.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “Were you saying something?”

  “I asked if you liked it. My film.”

  I don’t remember seeing the end of it. There’s a hole in my memory, from when I started watching it to now. I clutch my head and answer Christian somehow, the words seeming to come from someone else. “Yes.”

  “It’s video poetry,” he says cheerfully, drinking down another shot. “For a class in college. Did it make you feel anything?”

  I nod, still catching my breath. “Yes,” I mutter again. My heart is still racing in some unknown, unknowable fear.

  Or is it… excitement?

  “Would you like to come home with me now? I have more movies to show you.”

  For a moment, despite myself, I almost consent without a second thought. Only at the last minute does the memory of Troy return to my mind. Stirring as if from a trance, I clutch my head, which is suddenly pounding. “No,” I say, almost confused. “I don’t want that.”

  “Then what do you want, Meredith?”

  I look over at him. He’s smiling at me from his chair in a charming way. I try to tell him I want to go home to Troy, but for some reason my tongue is paralyzed, a small dead thing in my mouth.

  “You want the moon?” says Christian. “Just say the word and I’ll give it to you. I’ll lasso it and pull it down, and when you eat it, the moonbeams will shoot out from your fingers.”

  A small, dry laugh rises out of me, unbidden. “It’s A Wonderful Life?”

  “You told me it’s your favorite.”

  “I did?” My voice sounds a little slurred.

  “Yeah,” he mutters, looking confused. “You know, you’re good at this.”

  “Good at what?”

  He holds up his hands, exasperated. “We already convinced Anderson you’re not feeling well. I mean, you are acting, aren’t you?”

  Before I can move, he leans closer and presses the back of his hand to my forehead.

  He frowns. “You’re a little warm. Are you feeling okay?”

  “No, I-I feel… light-headed.” I pull away from him. “Wait. We talked to Anderson?”

  Christian nods uncertainly. “Just now. You told him you weren’t feeling well and you had to go.”

  Oh, God. Have I somehow gotten so wasted I’m having conversations I don’t remember? Or is Christian messing with me? I can’t tell. He’s always got that same cocky smile, which returns now as I study him. There’s something mischievous in it, but it’s handsome, too. Unreasonably handsome. How have I not noticed it before?

  “So come on, Meredith. I’m ready when you are.”

  “For what?”

  He shrugs. “You told Anderson I was gonna take you home. Since you’re not feeling well. Remember? Look, don’t try to argue now.” He rises, comes to stand behind my chair. “There’s no way I’m letting you drive in your state. Besides, I already said I’d take care of you.”

  He lays his hand on my shoulder. It feels very warm through the fabric of my dress. I go to push it away, but when I lay my smaller, delicate hand over his, something about it looks so right. I try to put up a fight, try to remember myself and my son, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, I’m utterly unable to resist him.

  “Troy gets lonely, by himself,” I mumble, one last, feeble protest. But even as I speak, I hold out my arms, so Christian can help me into my coat.

  “What about you?” he whispers behind me, as he slides my coat over my arms. “Don’t you get lonely?”

  Then we’re stumbling out of the bar into the street, down the alley to Christian’s car—a little red Celica from the nineties, well-kept and very sporty. He’s telling jokes and quoting movies. I’m laughing, clinging to his arm, clumsy in my heels. My legs feel a little rubbery beneath me.

  Anticipation, I realize.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, as we pull away from Tully’s Bar & Grill. “Troy sounds like a good kid. I’m sure he’ll be fine by himself for one night. Just this once.”

  “Just this once,” I whisper. I have to hide the eagerness in my voice. “Yes. Okay, yeah. I’ll watch some films with you. For a little while. Then you’ll have to drop me off at my car or something. I can’t stay out all night.”

  “All right,” Christian says, in a light way. “I’ll take you back to my place, but only if you promise you’re not just gonna worry about Troy the whole time.” His smile is perpetual.

  I smile back. “I promise. You’re right. He’ll be fine. I’ll just let him know I’m with a friend so he doesn’t worry.”

  “Good girl,” says Christian.

  Blushing a little, despite myself, I get out my phone and call home. The phone rings for a few minutes before Troy picks up again. “Hello?” he says.

  “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

  “Mom…” His voice is reluctant, abashed. “Lana left a few minutes ago.”

  “I figured she would. That’s okay, honey. Uh, listen. I’m out with… some friends, and I’m gonna be out a little later than I expected. I want you to go ahead and go to bed. I’ll be there by the time you wake up. All right?”

  “Um, Mom? Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “Of course, honey. Everything’s fine.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  I swallow. An uneasy feeling comes over me. What am I doing? He’s right—I should be on my way home to him right now. Home to my little two-bed, two-bath townhouse in Birmingham, with its patch of unkempt grass that I’m too lazy to mow, strewn with Troy’s hot wheels, the windows bright with h
is video games, warmed with his laughter.

  But instead I look over at Christian in the dark, drinking in his smooth, angled face. “I’m fine,” I tell my son. “I just didn’t want you to worry, that’s all. You be good tonight, okay? I love you, honey. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I hang up, put my phone away, and keep my promise to Christian: I don’t think of Troy again.

  He drives casually, in the slow lane, hugging the speed limit and leaving plenty of room. As someone passes us, his smile tightens into a smirk and he mutters, “Asshole.”

  “I’d have done it too,” I tease him. “I’ve seen student drivers go faster than you. Drive much?”

  He grins again. “Not really. I’m from the wild, wild west. Where I’m from, we don’t need roads.” His voice changes subtly as he speaks each line. I think he’s quoting movies.

  “Where are you from?” I ask.

  “Colorado, mostly?” He shrugs. “That’s where I learned to drive, anyway. I came from the desert. Hell, I been all over the southwest.”

  The sound of his voice, smooth and musical as a woodwind instrument, is so distracting I have to struggle to hear his actual words. “What desert?”

  “Enough about me. Where are you from, Meredith?”

  “Illinois. My parents had a townhouse there for years, before my father died.”

  “Cool,” says Christian. “What’d he die from?”

  I shift uncomfortably at his flippant tone. “Heart attack. It took him young. Not as young as my husband Max, but young.” I adjust the wedding ring on my finger, soldered to Max’s engagement ring with its tiny speck of diamond.

  Christian glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I noticed you still wear his ring. He must have been very important to you.”

  Even through my drunken stupor, I’m a little taken aback. I lower my hand, suddenly self-conscious. “He was a good man.”

  “How’d he die?”

  A flash of irritation comes over me. It’s like he’s picking at scabs just to see if I’ll bleed. I sit up a little straighter, frowning at him. “Cancer,” I say. “Early onset. Rare, they told us. Lucky us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I relax. “He’s been gone two years now, and he told me to move on, but… I guess I’m not that strong.”

  “You seem pretty strong to me.”

  I look down, my face flushing.

  The city streets narrow into dark alleyways. The street lights grow further apart, some of them not even lit. He’s going off the beaten trail, into parts of downtown where I wouldn’t venture in daylight, much less after dark. I swallow. “Your apartment’s out here?”

  “Uh-huh. Us students gotta live cheap, babe.”

  His casual pet name arouses no protest in me. It arouses other things.

  He pulls the car up to the curb, lifts the brake and nods out the window. “Here we go.”

  Across the dim street, a brownstone apartment building rises next to an overgrown, vacant lot strewn with trash. Again I feel a pang of uneasiness. “You live in that?”

  Christian smirks. “We’ll have the place to ourselves. Come on.” He opens his door and comes around to my side, helping me out as I stare, still dumbfounded. In his expensive suit and slacks, Christian looks completely mismatched against the grungy scenery. I feel less dizzy now, but I let him lead me across the street anyway, up the wide steps of the building and through the rusted door.

  Inside, the lights in the stairwell are dazzlingly bright, stamping strange patterns of light across my vision. It reminds me, in a vague way, of the film Christian showed me in the bar, but I still can’t quite remember it. The whole memory is blanked out.

  Christian leads me down a long hallway, the wallpaper faded with age, scrawled with graffiti in places. He stops at a door at the back, fishes a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and opens the door into darkness. Leaning inside, he flips a light switch.

  “Anyone home?” When no one answers, he turns to me with a conspiratorial grin. “See? Just you and me.”

  He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me, gently, inside.

  The first room is a combination kitchenette and living room, separated by a small square table. Behind it is a beaten-down love seat and sofa, angled toward an LCD TV in an entertainment center in the corner. The apartment smells faintly of cigarettes. I hate the smell. It reminds me of my mother.

  “Do you smoke?” I ask, frowning.

  “Nah. My roommates do. Sorry about that. You want anything to drink?” he asks. When I shake my head with a queasy smile, he offers, “How about something for your head?”

  “All right.”

  My head is throbbing. Those drinks I had at the sports bar were much stronger than I realized or requested. That bartender must have been new to the job or something.

  Christian opens a bottle from one of the faded cupboards and returns to my side, handing me a pill and a glass of water. I take the pill without a second thought, start to drink.

  “I’ve been waiting to get to know you.” Christian strokes my hair. “You’re older than the girls I usually go for. I like that.”

  My cheeks flush. The liquor—or whatever caused my disorientation before—is starting to wear off a little, and his comment irritates me on multiple levels. I smirk as I lower my glass of water. “You’re a player or something?”

  He waves a hand. “Nah, nothing like that. I’m just… on a journey, is all.”

  I have to consider this. “I guess everyone is.”

  He nods. His eyes are locked on me in a way that makes me vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m looking for a soul mate, you know? The perfect mother to bear my child. A mother like you.”

  My legs feel wobbly again. He says the strangest things, yet I like it.

  “Come on,” he waves. “Let’s go to my room. I’ll put a movie on.”

  Heart pounding, I let him lead me by the hand down the narrow hallway, toward a closed door at the back of the apartment. Walking at his side feels so right, like tonight is a prelude to something big, some new destiny.

  He meets my eyes as he pushes open the bedroom door. His smile starts a wildfire somewhere deep inside me. I can barely catch my breath.

  In contrast to the living room, Christian’s little bedroom is Spartan, immaculate. His bed is queen size, filling most of the room. The dark bed sheets are neatly made, unslept in. In the corner across from the bed is a small particleboard dresser, the surface entirely empty save one neat metal desk lamp and a small, flat screen TV. A cheap black shelving unit holds a few sparse trinkets—a solved Rubik’s cube, a few business textbooks, a row of unlabeled CDs. It all feels anonymous somehow, like props on a movie set.

  “Wow,” I whisper. “You’re so… neat.”

  He gestures at the bed. “Have a seat, Meredith.” He opens the mirrored doors of a closet that looks empty save for a handful of hanging clothes, and slides out of his suit jacket, tucks it inside on a hanger. I can see the lean muscles of his chest flex against his well-fitted business shirt, and my heart flutters faster. I slide down on the edge of the bed, watching him.

  “How long did you say you’ve been living here?” I ask.

  Christian doesn’t answer as he loosens his tie and slides it over his neck, adding it to the hanger with his jacket. I look around the walls, empty of decoration. The absence of any personal touch lies ominously over the room.

  It’s almost like no one lives here at all.

  Some distant, uneasy voice whispers at me nervously—what do you really know about this guy?

  He moves, and my eyes are drawn back to him irresistibly. He’s unbuttoned his business shirt, and the white t-shirt underneath contours to his body like a second skin. My fears and reluctance drift back beneath the surface as I watch him cross the small room with sinuous, animal grace.

  He crouches and slides a small cardboard box out from under the bed. For a moment, I watch in wide-eyed appre
hension, unsure what to expect—part of me expects a collection of toys, perhaps some strange and secret fetish.

  Another part of me fears something worse. Like a butcher knife or a gun.

  But when Christian unfolds the box, the contents are completely unexpected: it’s stacked to the top with black VHS cassettes. Small labels are taped to the sides, though I can’t make out the illegible writing.

  “This’ll do.” He chooses a tape, then slides the box back under the bed and clamors to the dresser, where he inserts the tape into the ancient VCR underneath the little flat-screen television. Then he pushes play.

  The video starts with a countdown from ten over a scratchy, flickering background, like an old silent film.

  Christian comes and joins me, sprawling back on the bed with a sigh. He kicks off his boots, then slides deeper into the bed, propping his back against the pillows. He pats the dark bedspread beside him, his smile beckoning. “Come on. You’re gonna like this, Meredith.”

  Swallowing, I lean down to unbuckle my heels and slide my feet free, clad in dark pantyhose. Then I scoot back on the bed, feeling oddly light-headed, my cheeks slightly tingling. Christian holds out his arm and I slide under it, almost without thinking.

  “What’s it about?” I ask.

  He strokes my shoulder. “I don’t want to spoil it.”

  The light from the TV looks strange, almost surreal. I start to feel a little disoriented again, a little light-headed. Am I still drunk?

  “Where’d you study film? Was that at Wayne State, too?”

  “Shh,” he whispers, squeezing my arm. “Pay attention. It’s about to begin.”

  I look back at the screen, at the final seconds of the countdown. The situation is starting to make me nervous. It occurs to me that he’s been dodging every question I ask all night, especially about himself or his past. Instead, he speaks in poetry, or changes the subject, or quotes some line from a movie, almost defensively. I thought he was just being coy, cocky.

  But what do I really know about this intern, except that he’s so damn beautiful?

  How did he talk me into coming here in the first place? I haven’t done anything this rash since college, certainly not since Troy was born. What on Earth convinced me to go home with this perfect stranger?

  The countdown ends and the movie begins.

  A red portal into hell opens on the screen.

  Images flash across my eyes, too fast for my mind to follow—scenes of bodies strewn on an empty highway, carrion birds circling overhead. Waves breaking on rocky shores, the water tinted red by photo effects. Old refrigerators and meat hooks and abandoned buildings, caked with rust and decay.

  Glimpses of human forms, naked and coupled, writhing in red darkness, their faces tight with pleasure or pain.

  A looming figure at the end of a corridor, faceless under a domed white gas mask, a man in one frame, a child in the next.

  A soothing voice speaks over the scenes: “Listen to the sound of my voice. Feel the warmth of submission filling you up. It feels good to submit.”

  “Christian…”

  “Don’t talk,” he whispers. “Just listen. It feels good to listen, doesn’t it?”

  When I look over, Christian is peeling out of his undershirt, revealing the sharp angles of his hard, lean body. From his broad shoulders, his torso narrows to a thin waist in a pleasing V-shape. His musculature is in perfect proportion, not bulky, but sleek and chiseled, like a swimmer or a gymnast. Still, I can see the subtle flexing of his abs with every movement, hinting at unseen power.

  His skin, to my surprise, is laced with scars of varying shapes and sizes, from the delicate licks of a razor to deep, thick indentations in his muscles, as if the skin were scooped away. There’s even a brown, circular divot in his shoulder that—if I didn’t know better—I’d think was an old bullet wound.

  My eyes widen as I look down at him. He smiles knowingly.

  “I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “Sometimes I have to vent the pain.”

  “You did this?” I’m not sure I believe it.

  He only looks back at me, his blue eyes untouched by his smile, dark and unknowable as the sea.

  Despite myself, I reach out and touch him, tracing the long line of a scar above his nipple. The droning sound and flashing lights of the movie fade to the background, become subliminal. There’s only me, and Christian, and I can’t help but touch him.

  I can feel the pain, mapped out on his skin. It makes me ache for him.

  “Poor thing,” I whisper, feeling no pity—only this curious, exhilarating mix of fear and excitement.

  Behind us, the slow, mesmerizing voice on the TV intones, “Feel the warmth pulling you, deeper and deeper…”

  Christian reaches up and caresses my long, red hair, pushing it back over my ear. I find myself easing down, closer to him, falling into his bright blue eyes, his soft, sad smile. His lips part for mine. I taste him.

  “Deeper and deeper, down and down, that’s good…”

  Next thing I know he’s rolling over on top of me, pinning me, his tongue lancing into my mouth. His hand finds my breast, squeezing through my dress. I moan softly into his kiss as his hand slides down further, pushing up my skirt, pressing my panties to the growing wetness between my legs.

  “…a warm, relaxing sleep,” says the voice on the TV, “where you are free to dream…”

  “Shh.” Christian’s fingers find the buttons of my dress, unloosing them one by one, baring my full breasts. He smirks, his eyes hidden under his long hair in the low, pulsing light. “You are strong, aren’t you? Just give it up already.”

  “The kind of sleep where you are free to submit. To submit to my words and to my voice, in this magical bed where you can sleep… sleep…”

  His fingers circle my thick nipple, making it hard before he bends to suck. I arch my back, toes curling, my fingers twining in his hair. I can no longer tell if I’m trying to pull him away or hold him down.

  “It feels good to submit.”

  Christian kisses his way down to my flat stomach, my belly button, the indentation of my hip—and as his hands start to peel my white cotton panties down my thighs, the last remnant of my resistance melts in the heat of desire. I want this. Want him.

  “Hurry,” I whisper, helping him wriggle me out of my underwear. He flings the panties on the floor and spreads my legs open by the ankles, kissing up my inner thigh. When he reaches my lower lips, I shudder with pleasure. “Yes. Oh, God, Christian…”

  He lifts his shining face, licking his lips. As he straightens, I can see the shape of his erection, pressing through his trousers. His hungry eyes meet mine. He races to unbuckle his belt, kick out of his boots, shimmy out of his pants.

  I can’t wait. Chewing my lip as I watch him, I reach down between my open legs and start to touch myself.

  Christian steps out of his clothes and lunges for me on the bed, practically impaling me with little prelude. I don’t care. I’m more than ready for him. With a soft moan, I wrap my fingers in his hair as he bends to kiss my neck and starts to thrust into me. The boundaries of the flesh break down and I lose myself in him, in his sweet smell of sandalwood cologne.

  “Good girl,” he breathes against my neck. “My good girl.”

  My heart swells at the words. “Yes,” I whisper back. “Yes.”

  He knows exactly what he’s doing, hits the perfect rhythm, and once again I wonder—how old is Christian, really? How old am I? I feel so young with him, like I’m not a mother and a widow in my thirties, like I’m someone else entirely.

  Like I get a chance to start over.

  I want it to last forever, and for a moment it seems like it might.

  Then I feel Christian’s hard, striated thighs spasm and he groans. I don’t think to push him away or keep him from finishing inside me. Instead I wrap my legs around him, finishing myself off. He collapses on top of me as I grind out the last of my orgasm, and we lie together, gasping and sweaty. />
  Across the room, the movie continues on the television, playing some soundtrack of low, garbled voices. Colors swirl against the barren walls. I lie in a daze, near comatose.

  Christian kisses my cheek. “Good girl. Did you like that?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”

  “You’re the one, Meredith. My chosen one.”

  “Huh?”

  He smiles, squeezes my breast. “Shh. You did good. Just relax, honey.”

  His voice is strangely soothing. Hypnotic, like the voice on the movie. Impossible to resist. I turn toward him, cuddle against him in a fetal position, and close my eyes as the gentle sounds wash over me.

  After a moment, he wraps his arm around me, with a small, contented breath. I haven’t slept in the arms of a man in two years. Only now do I realize how much I’ve missed it.

  “Good girl,” he says. “Sleep now. That’s good. Just relax and go to sleep.”

  I obey without difficulty, slipping out of consciousness. I dream of coming home.

  Sometime later, I awake with a start, from some nightmare I only vaguely remember. Christian springs to alertness in the bed beside me. “What is it? You shouldn’t be awake yet.”

  “I had a nightmare,” I croak. My voice is very dry. I feel strangely weak, sweaty and exhausted, and my head is throbbing again. “My son… he was crying.”

  Christian moves closer to me under the wrinkled sheets. “Shh. Just go back to sleep. It’s all right.” He rolls off the bed. “You know what helps me sleep? Some background noise.”

  He turns on the television, and puts his strange videotape back in the VCR.

  As the movie starts to play again, I shake my head. “Christian. Why is my mouth so dry?” My voice sounds thick, sluggish. Almost drugged. I barely remember how I got here.

  “You had too much to drink.” He stands over me, naked, lit in the dim light of the movie. “You just need to go to sleep. Listen to the movie. Watch it if you want. And go to sleep, all right?”

  “Listen to the sound of my voice…” says the television, through the soft techno beat.

  My head feels cloudy again, but I refuse to lie back down. “Please, Christian. Can you get me a drink?”

  For a moment, he drops his mask—I see a flash of anger before he dons a cool, thin smile. “Sure. That might be a good idea. I’ve got some special wine in the kitchen—”

  “No,” I say quickly, clutching my head. “Just water, thanks.”

  “All right.” He forces a smile. “You sit tight.” He jabs a finger at the TV. “And keep watching! That’s my girl.”

  Sliding into his trousers, he opens the door and pads barefoot down the hallway. I hear him throwing open cabinets in the dingy kitchenette. Swallowing, I pull my panties back up and glance briefly at the television throwing bright colors and strange scenes at me. As soon as I start watching, I find I can’t look away. Staring at the screen, my willpower leaves me and I can no longer hold myself upright.

  As I sag down onto the bed, my elbow hits the remote and the TV goes to mute.

  When the sound cuts out, a weight leaves my chest and I can breathe again. My head clears a little. I have to force myself not to look at the muted video.

  What on Earth is happening here? Is Christian… hypnotizing me?

  “You want ice?” he shouts from the kitchenette.

  I try to stand up, but my legs don’t cooperate and I spill against the cheap particleboard dresser by the bed, gasping. The force of my impact shakes open a loose drawer beside me.

  “Meredith?” he sings. “Ice?”

  I hear him scooping crushed ice and whistling some haunting melody.

  “Um. Yeah,” I answer absently. “Okay.”

  Breathing hard, I pull the drawer open further, inspecting the contents in the gloomy blue light.

  There’s only one item of clothing in the drawer—a red baseball cap with the letters WSU above the bill. A few other scattered trinkets roll around the bottom of the drawer. They look like girls’ things.

  A pair of eye glasses, frames dotted in pink.

  A single ripped stocking.

  A strip of torn fabric, tied around a silver ring, like a bow.

  A tube of lipstick, a hair band, a set of keys on a pink rabbit’s foot key ring, and half a dozen panties in different shapes and styles.

  Why are these things here? A sobering chill runs through me. Adrenaline shakes me out of my fog.

  These must be trophies. Things he took to remember girls from his past.

  What happened to those girls, I wonder?

  Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe this shit belongs to one of his roommates, or to some other girl he’s seeing on the side. Hell, maybe Christian’s a cross-dresser, for all I know. And even if these are trophies, it wouldn’t have to be sinister. Maybe he’s just… sentimental.

  But none of that rings true, and all my senses are screaming now, screaming to run away, to bolt naked out of this apartment without a second thought, running, shrieking, banging on doors for help like a scene from a movie.

  But I have to be sure.

  I can see part of a name, written in permanent marker, on the inside brim of the baseball cap. My heart pounding, I reach for it, navigating around the wrinkled panties.

  My breath catches in my throat when I pull out the red hat and read the name:

  YVETTE M.

  A girl’s name, but not just that—why is the name so familiar? The fog is so thick over my memories that it takes me a moment to remember. My eyes widen slowly.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  I stuff the hat back in the drawer and close it, whirling. Christian stands in the doorway, naked from the waist up, watching me. In one hand he holds a glass of water. The dim light from the kitchen at the end of the narrow hallway reduces him to a silhouette. I can’t see his features, but his voice is low and tight, like a coiled spring.

  “It must be more interesting than my movie,” he adds.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my back to the dresser. The movie, muted, still flashes colors behind me. The walls of the room seem to pulse, like the guts of a monster, slowly digesting me.

  The flashing light illuminates the lower half of his face, his tight, forced smile. “I’m surprised you can keep from watching, even muted. You are strong, aren’t you? Perhaps I’ll tie you down.”

  He’s trying to joke with me—isn’t he? I force a desperate smile. There must be some explanation for the hat, something I’m not seeing. It simply can’t be what it seems.

  He can’t have anything to do with that missing college girl we saw on the news.

  Before I can speak, he takes another step closer. I shrink before him, but he only holds out my glass of water. I take it tentatively.

  His smile dies. “Drink.”

  It takes every ounce of willpower to resist his command. “Christian. The stuff in this drawer…”

  He sniffs in dry amusement. “That’s none of your business, Meredith. Such a willful girl.” His smile returns at last. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

  I chew my lip. “The hat. It says Yvette M.”

  “Yeah, so?” He waves casually. “My sister’s name is Yvette.”

  “So, all that stuff in there is… your sister’s?”

  He tilts his head, studying me with a smile in the low blue light of the TV. “Meredith. Drink your water.”

  There’s barely a foot of space between us. I can smell his faint musk of sandalwood and whiskey and sweat. His scarred body is erect, tense, barring any exit. The muscles in his torso shift with every slow, deliberate breath.

  A rush of cool sweat breaks out on my own naked skin. I don’t dare resist or provoke him now. I take a sip from the glass in my hand, my eyes never leaving Christian. As far as I can tell, it’s only tap water in the glass. The faint metallic taste doesn’t surprise me from this part of the city.

  “Good.” Christian gestures at the bed. “Now sit.”r />
  I don’t know what choice I have. I sit slowly on the bed. He’s leering at me, and I can see the shape of his erection returning in his trousers. My heart is racing so fast I’m afraid it might explode.

  “Christian…”

  He presses a finger to my lips. “Shh.” He smears my lipstick, looks at his finger, then smiles at me. “I want to see that make-up run when I fuck you this time.”

  His fingers pinch my nipple cruelly, and I gasp.

  “Good girl. This is fate. Your purpose. You were meant to belong to me.”

  It feels good to submit.

  “Wait.” I push his hand back, and force a smile, desperate to distract him. I’m groggy and scared as hell, but I know how to get what I want from a man. I slink back on the bed, touching my lip and studying him. “Let me watch you undress.”

  He smirks, then starts to oblige, unbuttoning his trousers and bending over to shimmy out of them.

  “Christian,” I whisper breathlessly. “The girl on the news. The girl who went missing from your college campus.”

  “What about her?”

  “Her name was Yvette Montana. Yvette M. And she was wearing a red hat in the photo. Just like that one.”

  He pauses, holding his pants around his ankles, looking up at me with a mute expression that tells me everything. We stare at each other for what seems like a long time—so long that the masks seem to slide away, and I know him, as surely as he knows me.

  Then instinct kicks in through the fog.

  Screaming, I hurl my glass of water at his head. He ducks it and lunges for me, stumbling over his own pants. I’m already sliding off the foot of the bed, hitting the dark carpet with a thud on my hands and knees. I clamor to my feet somehow and then I’m through the bedroom door, lurching naked down the hall. The world swims before me and I feel dizzy.

  “Meredith!” he shouts, with a note of desperation. “Wait!”

  I try to run, but the best I can do is stumble across the kitchenette and the dark living room. I hit the front door and reach for the handle—but the door won’t budge. To my slow horror, I realize it’s sealed by a chain. I start to reach for it.

  And Christian slams the door closed, pinning me to it.

  I turn to face him as he looms over me, holding the door shut with one hand. He’s completely naked, now, and his blue eyes bore into me. I’m too shocked and scared to scream.

  “Please,” he whispers. “Stay with me, Meredith. I need you.”

  “Christian…” I croak.

  My legs are wobbling under me and suddenly I can no longer stand. Despite myself, I collapse into him, trembling. He catches me, holds me up easily, his naked body warm against mine.

  “What did you do to me?” I slur drunkenly.

  I don’t think the water was spiked with anything, but what about the pill he gave me when I first got here? The pill he gave me for my head, the one I took without question, trusting him implicitly?

  “Shh.” He hoists me into his arms and I allow it, not resisting. I’m not sure if I can resist, and besides—

  It feels good to submit.

  —so why keep fighting?

  “I’ll take good care of you.” He smiles down at me as he carries me into the bedroom. “You’re the one, Meredith. Not like all the others.”

  In the bedroom, the TV is blaring again, the mad voices jumbled, so I hear them only subconsciously. Blue lights flash inside the room and I try to scream, but my voice is weak. My tongue feels thick, numbed by whatever sedative he’s used to drug me.

  “No,” I groan. “No…”

  Ignoring me, Christian takes me into the darkness.

  Assailed by the video and the drugs, I feel my mind starting to fade. He lies me down on his bed, runs his hand over my body, and smiles as he climbs on top of me. His bright blue eyes are the last thing I see, the touch of his lips the last thing I feel.

  “Just relax, Meredith,” he whispers into his kiss. “That’s right. It feels good to relax, doesn’t it? You’ll be my good girl, now. Now you’re all mine.”

  I lose myself as he speaks. Compelled by some force I don’t understand, I reach up to run my fingers through his hair.

  And the world erupts into white.