by Aven Jayce
“I don’t doubt that, from either of you, but not in the way she needs to be handled.” He releases me and takes the knife, stabbing an apple slice and placing it in his mouth. He chews while walking up to her, his wet swim trunks leaving a trail of water drops along the way.
“Lay one finger on me and I’m calling your dad.”
“Is that a threat?” He lifts his bandaged finger to her face. “How ‘bout if I lay half a finger on you?”
He taps her forehead, sliding the wet dressing along her nose, over her lips, and down her neck, disappearing inside her shirt. The shape of his hand can be seen through her sheer blouse, fastening onto her breast, his one finger remaining straight. She turns her head in disgust, getting tugged to the kitchen island by her tit.
“What are doing? Stop!” she shouts.
He removes his hand and slams her face onto the countertop. The scraps of food are shoved away and her hand’s held on top of the cutting board.
“Jack!” she shrieks.
He strikes downward like he’s spearing a fish, the blade lodging between two fingers and sticking into the board. It stays upright as she screams.
Just like that, same as Trent.
No hesitation.
No fear when he attacks.
“Lay one finger on me... one finger...” he mocks.
She falls to the floor in a heap, shocked to see her trembling fingers intact.
He steps over her and heads for the fridge, in complete control and unsympathetic, removing a large silver platter with a white cake covered in strawberries and drizzled in red syrup. “I already said Quinn and Addie belong to me. They’re part of my team, so you better think long and hard before you fuck with my property.”
“They’re not knickknacks you can keep on a shelf,” she says.
“Beg your pardon?” He glares at her, holding the cake in one hand while taking three forks from a drawer. “I’ll skip cutting off your finger and go straight for your tongue if you interrupt me again.” He gets her attention with a high-pitched whistle. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Look at me, you listening?”
She stands, still inspecting her shaky fingers.
“Roxanne, you’ve got two choices. You can get your ass to the front and join me in the office, or take a shovel from the barn and start digging your grave. And what I mean by that is pack your bags and head back to your death on the streets of Vegas.”
“Huh.” I gasp. “You were homeless, too? I can’t believe it.”
He puts the cake on the island and sits with his back to her, openly provoking an attack from behind. “Lots of my uncle’s former porn stars from Jameson Industries got fat and ugly and fell victim to the streets. Don’t feel bad for her, it’s not uncommon.”
“I-I don’t feel bad, I’m ticked off. She called Quinn garbage weeks ago, that first night I was here, garbage because he was homeless. Yet she was, too. What a crock of shit.”
“Sweetheart,” she steps closer, “who else could run a place like this? I know what men and women want; I know how to train these kids to be professional and erotic when they fuck. Why do you think they always start in my bed first?” I’m poked in the chest as she speaks.
“Because you’re sick, that’s why.”
“No, they need to be tested and trained. Even the women...”
“Roxanne,” Jack warns.
“The fresh meat he brought me today will be sampled.”
“I took care of them. They’re open to anything. Just get ‘em on the schedule,” he says.
She raises her finger and begins poking my collarbone. “And I know what it’s like to be on the streets, hungry, tired, feeling worthless and alone... which means I know how to handle the vagrants who work here. I understand their needs and their fears, making it easy to keep them in line.”
“Just because my dad hooked you up with this gig doesn’t mean I want you here or that you own the place,” he says.
She coughs, trying to clear her throat, sounding like a croaky old toad when she speaks. “Your dad and I go way back. He knows there’s no better manager for a business like this than Roxy Sparks.”
“Sparks?” I laugh. “Did you come up with that whorish name because of all the cigs you smoke? How original. Seriously, I bet you spell it with a triple x at the end, too. Sparxxx.”
Jack and Quinn chuckle, which sets her off even more.
She claws the top of my head and tilts my head until I’m looking into her face. “I’ll have you know that’s my actual name. Too bad your mother didn’t raise you to be a lady.”
“Don’t touch her,” Quinn says, struggling to pry her off.
Jack raises a hand for everyone to halt then points toward the door for Roxanne to get out. “Meet me in the office, I’ll be there soon.”
She releases me, and starts to dawdle out, but hesitates when Jack speaks again.
“You’re wrong about my dad.” He plucks the knife from the cutting board and stabs an apple slice, taking a bite and talking with his mouth full. “He won’t mind one bit if you disappear while I’m here.”
She stops behind him, tracing an FU on his shoulder, once... twice... until his muscles are tense and his knuckles white around the knife. I don’t know if she’s baiting him to fight a woman, or if she truly believes she’s immortal and can do whatever the fuck she wants.
She steps to the side and sashays out, saying under her breath, “And it’s too bad your mother didn’t raise you to be a... a...” She turns back with malicious intent. “It’s just too bad she didn’t raise you, period.”
His arm powers forward, pitching the knife like a whip being cracked. It speeds through the air in a blur, nicking her neck before hitting the cement wall and dropping to the floor in a spin.
Her hand rises and falls over the scratch as she takes deep breaths of caution.
His shoulders rise and fall as he takes deep breaths of authority.
They stare at one another, a woman who’s come to believe she’s the queen of this retreat at war with a man who’s come to believe he’s the king of all things. The power struggle’s evident, even to an outsider like me.
“Get,” he says. “Get the fuck out.”
She rubs her neck and disappears into the dark dining area.
“You two, sit and eat some cake.” He taps the countertop.
“Did you dye your hair? It looks brown,” I ask.
“It was time.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” No, it doesn’t. What does he mean by that? “It’s close to the same color as mine. When did you do it?”
“When do you think? How about when you were asleep for twelve fucking hours, now sit down.”
I tighten the towel around my waist as Quinn picks the toppled stool off the floor and pulls the other one out for me. I take a seat next to him and begin finger combing the back of his head, needing physical contact, to be connected to him in both hand and heart. It’s what gets me through all the other crap we keep encountering.
Jack picks up the knife and tosses it in the sink, then finds a stack of plates in a cabinet and sets three on the island.
“For now, keep your heads down if you pass any guests while you’re out of the suite, and don’t tell anyone your names.”
He slides a clean knife from the block and holds it out to Quinn, who’s eager to take it from his hand.
“We know,” I respond. “Can I use my cell? I want to read the news and I need to talk to my aunt and uncle before they decide to drive out here.”
“They’re not coming,” he says, scrolling through his cell while keeping mine in his other hand. He appears straight and sober for once. No redness to his eyes and no playfulness or spirit in his appearance. Aside from the wet swim trunks, he’s all business.
“How do you know? Did you talk to them? What did you say? Why don’t you give me my cell?” I hold out my hand with desperation. “Let me check my messages. Did you text them?”
“It’s taken care of, now slice me a piece of that cake and let’s talk about something else.”
“No, tell me. Are people looking for us?”
He places his arm over the stool’s back and flaunts his muscular chest, waiting for me to shut up.
“I know, I know,” I bob my head, “I talk too much. But we need to know. Once we find out what’s going on, we might be able to leave.”
“Leave? And go where?”
“Home,” Quinn says.
“To a tent?”
“Yeah, that’s where I live, in a tent. Not everyone has rich parents to take care of them, like you.”
“Hold up.” He raises his hand, looking at Quinn. “What are getting so defensive about? I’m the one who should be pissed that the two of you decided it would be fun to beat the shit out of me. Look at me.” He waves his hand in front of face. “Just look at my puffy nose and swollen lip and missing flesh. I look like a goddamn pug. How could you treat your best friend this way?”
Quinn turns to me and I shake my head. What an ass. Not to mention a flaming narcissist. He’s admiring his reflection in his phone, patting his puckered lips. Is he really starting this crap again?
“Fine, let’s talk about the attempted hanging,” I say.
“No.” Quinn groans, tilting his head to look at the ceiling. “Damn it, here we go.”
“Was what you did to me about your dad?”
“What?” He looks up from his cell. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m just wondering.”
Quinn passes him a piece of cake and hurries to cut another, sliding it in front of me, hoping I’ll stuff my face and be quiet.
“Fill that mouth of yours with sugar and spice and everything nice for once.” Jack swings his fork in my direction. “Let it overpower the usual muck you hurl. You remind me of a chimp tossing feces at people.” He takes a mammoth bite and leans back. “Damn, my taste buds are exploding, that’s some good strawberry shit from heaven.”
Quinn can’t help but let out a snorting laugh.
“What?” Jack asks.
“Nothing.” He takes a bite and closes his eyes in agreement with the luscious flavor of the dessert. “I thought it was strange you used ‘shit’ and ‘heaven’ in the same sentence, except you’re right, it’s been some time since we’ve had anything this good around here.”
“Answer my question,” I cut in, looking down at my plate and swirling my fork in the strawberry glaze. “Why do you talk to your dad like you hate his guts, even though you say you love him? What’s the deal? Do you two ever get along, or is every conversation with him like the one in the car? Did you hang me, thinking you were getting back at him for something? What were you thinking when you did that? Do you hate me, or him? Did you picture it was him and not me? I don’t think you would’ve done it unless he was involved somehow. Just a guess... so when did the two of you start having problems? Was there a specific moment, or several? Is it why you’re so fucked up? Personally, I think you have some serious issues with the guy. So what happened?”
I look up, seeing Quinn and Jack staring at me like I’m out of my mind... but also amusing and captivating, if I do say so myself.
“So... so it was a moment then? Are you like this from one traumatic experience? Or have you always been this way? But... y-you know, I can’t picture a young kid throwing knives at people, so something must’ve happened to you later in life... maybe... I would assume so. Am I right?”
His mouth twists, trying not to smile as he leans closer to Quinn, covering his mouth to fake a whisper. “This is why you love her, isn’t it?”
“One of many reasons,” he replies.
“From what I could hear, she sounds like a good fuck, so that must be another.” He leans back and eats more cake.
“Why?” I complain about his comment. “Why do you have to act like a child and say such things?”
“Why the fuck do you ask a million useless questions like a child?”
“Alright, alright.” Quinn raises his hands for us to stop. “Everyone just cool it and eat your strawberry shit cake from heaven.”
I swirl the syrup and crack a smile, noticing Jack doing the same, while Quinn bites his top lip and tries to keep it together. We’re able to hold back for only a split second before the three of us start to laugh.
“I think I feel a sugar rush coming on,” I say, gorging on another delicious forkful.
We eat greedily, Jack spinning his cell on the table and Quinn admiring his tats. I don’t know if being cordial with Jack is a step in the right direction, or a step into Hell... maybe a little of both.
“What did you guys think you’d be when you grew up?” I ask.
“I knew you wouldn’t last five minutes before asking another question,” Jack says.
“I’m making conversation.”
“I like it, keep talking.” Quinn pulls my stool closer and rubs my back. “Sometimes I’d walk the streets for days without talking to anyone. The isolation drove me mad. With Addie by my side, I never have to worry about feeling lonely.”
“Yeah, try to be nice to me, okay?” I say to Jack then turn to Quinn. “What about you? What did you want to be?”
“A cop, only my dad beat that outta me pretty quick. Then I had a dream of being a professional baseball player. Even playing in the minor leagues would’ve been great. There’s no money on the lower end, but being on the field was awesome. I’d give up the money just for that, just to be able to play.”
“Were you any good?” Jack asks.
“I could’ve gotten a scholarship, except I hit the streets instead. Things happen.” He shrugs.
“That was dumb. You took the easy way out.”
He pokes his cake, sounding offended when he says, “No, I took the hard way out.”
“Whatever.”
“Well what about you, Jack?” I ask. “Was it your life-long dream to be a dirty pimp?”
“Yes, and it still is. Maybe someday that dream will come true,” he says with a straight face.
“Oh, come on. Are you being sarcastic?” I ask.
“I don’t know, am I? Could be I’m tired, or just annoyed by all these questions.” He nudges Quinn. “Does she have an on/off switch?”
Trying to divert my attention from that remark, Quinn takes my hand and asks, “Have you always wanted to help people?”
“Yep, always. Even when I was little I helped my mom serve meals at our church to people in need. It made me... it grew my heart. That’s how she explained it when I was a kid. And I always volunteered places when I was a teenager.”
“It’s a great quality to have,” Quinn says.
“I really enjoyed it. We didn’t have much, but I didn’t need much either. I’m pretty basic in my needs and wants... love and conversation make me happy. Conversation,” I repeat to Jack. “I guess freedom, too. That’s why I don’t always feel in tune with my aunt and uncle. I love them, but...”
“But they don’t understand you, not in the same way your mom did,” Jack says.
“That’s exactly right. My mom and I had our differences, but that type of maternal love is different than any other. Then there’s this sex love... sexual love... whatever you want to call it.”
“Fucking,” Jack says.
“No, sensual love. It’s more than fucking. I can’t believe how intense it feels... every moment I spend with Quinn leads to a deeper connection. The more I get to know him, the more I don’t want to be apart from him. It’s freaky because my heart’s all fluttery and my head’s in a whirl. It’s more than lust this time, for Quinn, too. Have you felt it? Ever been in love?”
Jack massages his temples in frustration. “What is this, a fucking slumber party? Am I in Hell? I just wanted some strawberry heaven whatever shit cake.”
“You’re afraid to answer.”
“No, I don’t have a pussy, so I don’t sit around talki
ng about this kind of girly bile.”
“Yes or no?”
“No comment, let’s talk about guns or something important, like if you could have one superpower, what would it be.”
“I’m down with that,” Quinn says. “Mine would be teleportation.”
“Really? Not super-strength? What about invisibility?”
“I promise it will be my last question if you answer me,” I say.
“Bullshit. You can never stop asking questions.”
“Pleeease.”
“Alright, what was the question? Why are you in love with me? I don’t know why, you tell me,” Jack teases.
My lip curls in disgust. “Ha, you’re such a comedian... and not my type, now answer me, have you ever been in love?”
“People who fall in love have too much to lose.”
“That’s your answer?”
“That’s it.”
“So who hurt you?”
“Stop the questions,” Quinn says. “That was the last one.”
“But I don’t like his answer.”
They place their elbows on the table and rub their foreheads in unison.
“Eh, fine. I’ll stop.”
Quinn and I share a second piece of cake while Jack picks up his cell and scrolls through messages and online sites, not searching for anything specific, just pretending to be busy.
We sit in silence as he continues flipping through his cell, acting uninterested in talking to us, even though I can tell he’s been enjoying it.
“Oh man, bro, you should see your pic on the news.” Dylan struts in, full of vivacity. “You look like a douche, a fucking mushroom-headed douche.”
“What?” I stand.
“Dylan,” Jack raises his hand, “don’t say too much ‘til we know more.”
“Why?” He gives him his usual dopey look. “So bro... this woman, Connie I think her name is... she worked with some sketch artist.” He laughs so hard he can’t breathe. “Your chest is like a twig... and all covered in Star Wars tats... and she didn’t give you any hair. You’re bald—a skinhead. Your head’s a mega potato-looking thing. You look like a deformed dick.” His laughter’s uncontrollable. “A fucking dick!”
“They’ve got my name?”
