Riot Street

by Tyler King

  “I had a wonderful night,” he says.

  It’s best when it’s new. That bursting, overwhelming need to be closer. To become part of him.

  He places my hand on his chest and pulls my leg across his hips. When it’s new, you don’t want space. Doesn’t matter that you’ll wake up with a stiff neck and your arm numb.

  “Me, too.”

  After a moment of silence and listening to Ethan’s heart beat a steady, strong rhythm, something occurs to me.

  “What do we tell people?”

  “Nothing, if you don’t want to. Or the truth: you’re mine and I’m not giving you back.”

  “And what are you?”

  “Infatuated.”

  14

  The Absent Host

  Sunlight warms my face as I lie in bed. Blinking, I open my eyes, for a moment confused by my surroundings until I become aware of Ethan’s arm draped over my stomach and his body pressed against my back. The night filters through my head, a little hazy and out of order. What I remember most, though, is the high. The elated, terrifying weightlessness of leaving my own body. That’s how it feels when Ethan kisses me. A little scary—like taking your hands off the wheel driving down a long dark road at ninety miles an hour. And a lot like walking away from the wreck.

  Though I’m still not certain any of this was a good idea, I can’t deny that, right now, right here, is exactly where I want to be.

  “You’re awake.” His hand flexes against my stomach to hold me closer as he kisses my shoulder. “Sleep well?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I roll over to face him. “Time is it?”

  “Almost eleven. I wanted to let you rest.”

  He’s been awake for some time, eyes clear and bright. His hair’s still bed-messed, though. Wild and erratic. I reach up and run my fingers through it, fascinated. Ethan closes his eyes and exhales.

  “I’ve wanted to do this for a while now,” I say.

  “Don’t stop.”

  He grabs the back of my knee and hitches my leg over his hip. His hand slides down my calf and back up to my thigh. With just the lightest touch, every nerve in my body wakes and blood rushes hot through my veins.

  “What’s this?” Ethan’s fingers trace the scar on the back of my calf. Around the stippled, disfigured skin that is nearly invisible but for the indentation beneath it.

  “It’s, um, from the night we left,” I say, tracing my fingers across his collarbone.

  “You were shot?”

  “No, uh, not exactly.”

  Faint freckles dot Ethan’s shoulders. Barely there. Forming constellations across his skin. I draw shapes in their patterns.

  “The first four, you know, died in bed. He stood in the room and shot them, one after the other. They never had time to react. But the others, he chased them. Nobody knew where to go, where the shots were coming from.”

  You can’t imagine how dark it gets in the middle of nowhere when you’re terrified and running. He picked them off, as they were scattered and screaming.

  “He saw us. My mother and me. All I could think was Keep running and don’t look back. Then something hot stung my leg. I think I was so scared, so much adrenaline pumping, I didn’t understand what happened until later when I looked at it and saw all the blood. Doctor at the hospital said it was probably a ricochet.”

  “See.” Ethan covers my scar with his hand, massaging my leg. “I learn something exceptional about you every day.”

  “There’s nothing exceptional about sort of getting shot.”

  “Face it, ace, you’re a badass.” He leans in, lips brushing against mine, gentle and teasing. His hand slides up the back of my thigh as my fingers trail down his chest, the ridges of his stomach. His muscles clench beneath my touch.

  “Christ,” he hisses. “You were right. This is never going to work.”

  “What? Why?”

  His eyes peel open, barely seeing me through thick lashes. “How am I supposed to spend all day sitting beside you in an office and get any work done?”

  Charming men who know they’re charming are the worst.

  “I guess you’ll just have to suffer through it.”

  “You know…” Ethan brings his hand up to wrap behind my neck, running his thumb along the bottom of my jaw. “There are rooms in that building where no one ever goes.”

  “Yeah, I’m actually trying to avoid the label of office slut. So maybe we keep this confined to appropriate spaces.”

  “Hey…” He rolls onto his back, bringing me with him to lay my head on his shoulder. “There’s no shame in your game. When a woman wants some D—”

  “Shut up.” Laughing, I smother his mouth with my hand.

  Teeth nip at my fingers as he pries my hand away.

  “Come on.” He tilts my chin up to give me a kiss, brief and sweet. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “Out of curiosity,” I say as we both climb out of bed. “What’s the plan? We are going home today, right?”

  On the other side of the bed, Ethan stands shirtless, scratching his hand through his hair.

  “Well, I was going to mention this after breakfast…”

  “What, that you’ve actually kidnapped me, told Kumi I’m dead, and plan to keep me locked in this house forever? Wait, is this even your house? Did we break into some random celebrity’s summer home last night? I don’t want to end up on TMZ.”

  “Fuck, what gave me away?”

  I follow him out to the kitchen and take a seat on a stool at the island.

  “Seriously, though. Clue me in.”

  He goes to the refrigerator and pulls out fruit, milk, and a tub of butter.

  “Actually, my parents will be here later this afternoon.”

  “What?” I say too loudly. Then, lowering my voice, “Your parents are coming?”

  “They’re having an anniversary party tonight.”

  Ethan goes to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread and a bag of powdered sugar.

  “Caterers and whatnot will start showing up at one.”

  “You didn’t think to mention this earlier? I can’t meet your parents like this. I don’t have any clothes. You’re going to introduce me to your mother while I’m wearing your underwear?”

  He turns around, hands braced on the counter as he surveys me with a crooked grin.

  “I don’t know, Avery, you look adorable as hell.”

  “Stop it. Be serious.”

  Stepping away from the counter, he comes to stand behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach.

  “I was up at eight this morning. I’ve already washed our clothes and made sure your shoes were dry. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll drive you home. If you do,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple, “and I hope you will, we can go find a shop in town and get you something to wear.”

  I don’t know what’s gotten into Ethan, or if this is his normal resting position and everything until last night was a passing phase, but I think I like it.

  “You’re nuts, you know that?” I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Like, you need adult supervision.”

  He kisses my forehead. “And now I have you.”

  * * *

  Ethan figures out pretty quickly that I hate shopping for clothes. A few miles west of his parents’ house, near the tip of the island, we stop in a busy shopping district full of boutique stores and little mom-and-pop restaurants. After watching me wander aimlessly through the clothing racks at first one and then a second shop, Ethan takes over. With the same sort of commanding, impatient efficiency he applies to most tasks, he whips through the store grabbing dresses and piles them up in my arms. Five try-ons later, we fight over who gets to pay until I look at the price tag of the navy linen wrap dress and give up the argument. Throw in a pair of sandals on top of that, and I’m going to need a second job to pay him back.

  “It’s a gift,” he insists as he hands the clerk his credit card. “I’m the one who kidnapped you and talked you into staying for this party. A
t least make me pay for it.”

  I’d like to say I have too much pride to accept expensive presents the morning after spending the night in a man’s bed, but I’m poor. If it makes Ethan feel better to blow his money on a dress, so be it.

  We wander the town for a while, then visit the Montauk Point Lighthouse and the state park at the tip of the island. There’s a gorgeous view from the high grassy hill. Nothing but ocean and clouds straight out to the horizon. The wind kicks up, lashing my hair around my face as I watch seagulls hang suspended in the air.

  “I’ve always wanted to do something,” he tells me as we make our way to the lighthouse museum.

  The museum is the old keeper’s house, essentially. Three bedrooms and a parlor that connect to the communications and oil rooms through a hallway.

  “Do what?”

  The answer requires we climb 128 steps, 86 feet, to the top of the tower. There, in front of the big lantern and half a dozen other tourists with their children, he grabs me in his arms and dips me halfway to the floor. Deep and assertive, he kisses me like a man who’s just found out he’s got a week left to live. Finishes with a big, dumb smile as he pulls me upright.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” I tell him, laughing and shielding my face from the confused spectators.

  “No.” He stares into my eyes and brushes his fingers along my temple to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’ve only just found it.”

  But there’s something wanting in his voice. Something subtle hiding in his inflection. Desperate to show me yet terrified to reveal himself. It’s a puzzle that occupies me for much of the day.

  Around four that afternoon, we arrive at the house to find a convoy of box trucks and cargo vans parked in the circular driveway. I also spot a black Range Rover, which I guess to be his parents’. Several platoons uniformed in black-and-white formal wear pass us going back and forth through the front door. Caterers with coolers and big rolling racks, decorators rearranging furniture and carrying tall cocktail tables to the backyard. So many people running around in so many different directions, it’s like the house itself is alive and moving.

  “This is going to be some party,” I say to Ethan as we stand in the living room dodging traffic.

  “It’s their thirtieth anniversary. And my dad likes to go big.”

  A hint of disapproval tinges his voice as he surveys the activity. I don’t know if it’s parties that put him off, or his parents in general. He seemed happy enough to support them in celebrating this milestone, but in telling me the story of his brother, he expressed some resentment toward them. As with most families, I suppose it’s complicated.

  “Dad?” he calls into the void.

  A voice answers back from the kitchen. “In here.”

  We find Ethan’s father standing at the island, making a sandwich, among several men and women in chefs’ coats all unpacking bins and containers to spread out on the counter. In khakis and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, Ethan’s father is the spitting image of his son. Or the other way around. Shorter hair, a distinguished level of salt-and-pepper, and a longer nose, but he’s Ethan thirty years older.

  “You just getting in?” his dad asks, not looking up from the cutting board, where he rips leaves of lettuce and slices tomato.

  “We drove up last night.”

  Ethan puts his arm around my shoulder. It’s the we part that catches his dad’s attention. He looks up, first to his son. Then his gray-blue eyes slide to me. If you’ve ever met someone and known in an instant that they already despised you, before you even opened your mouth, then you can understand how I feel at the bitter contempt that flashes across this man’s face. It’s quite subtle and only lasts a second, but the look is potent and unmistakable. He puts down the knife and wipes his hands on a dishrag, taking a moment to appraise me, if only to confirm his initial reaction.

  “Who’s this?” he asks.

  “This is Avery. She writes for the magazine. Avery,” Ethan says, voice tight and attention fixed on his dad, “this is my father, Paul.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. Happy anniversary.”

  “Uh-huh,” is his dismissive reply. “Son, may I have a word?”

  I try to step out of his grasp, but Ethan holds me in place.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I want to introduce her to Avery.”

  “She’s resting,” Paul says. He has the same tells as his son. Subtle gestures of his jaw. The inflection of his voice. These men are having an argument in subtext. “Later, perhaps.”

  Conceding, if only for the moment, Ethan looks down at me with a poor approximation of a reassuring smile.

  “Give me a minute,” he says. “I’ll come find you.”

  Ethan follows his dad through the kitchen toward the other side of the house, and I’m left in a beehive of activity buzzing all around. I turn and nearly bump into a woman carrying huge slabs of raw red meat. I turn again and there’s a knife-wielding man in a floppy hat. Drifting through the house, dodging caravans of people carrying tables and linens and pieces of what looks like a dance floor, I’m in someone’s way everywhere I go. It’s too hectic. Anxiety begins to build as a numb sensation in my lips. Then a pulsing electricity through my limbs. This happens sometimes. A response to unfamiliar surroundings or a general feeling of disorientation. I just have to find some room to breathe.

  In an effort to escape, I slip through one of the open sliding glass doors and make my way across the backyard toward the cliff, where I take the steps down to the beach. It doesn’t occur to me until I’m sitting in the sand, counting back from ten with my eyes closed and my hands cramping into fists, that I didn’t take my medication this morning. I don’t have it with me.

  Once a month I meet with a psychiatrist for an hour, read through my stress journal, talk about coping mechanisms and managing trigger scenarios, and stop by the pharmacy to refill my prescriptions for anxiety and depression. After rehab flushed everything out of my system, I attempted the drug-free approach to treating mental illness—exercise, change in diet, and other bullshit homeopathic remedies. Suffice it to say, it didn’t work. So I got a new shrink and began the slow, grueling process of finding a regimen that worked. After nearly a year and more than a few setbacks, we arrived at a happy medium. I still have mild anxiety attacks, still tumble into the occasional bout of depression, but they’re tolerable. They don’t rule my life as they once did.

  So I can do this. It’s only one day. Just grin and bear it.

  A few minutes later, as I’m watching a sailboat cut across the horizon, I hear Ethan walking down the steps behind me.

  “Thought I might find you here,” he says, and sits beside me on the sand. “It’s a good hiding spot, isn’t it?”

  “Your dad doesn’t like me.”

  “My dad’s a prick.”

  He picks up a small rock and chucks it toward the surf.

  “I shouldn’t be here. That’s what you two talked about, right?”

  Ethan inhales a deep breath and runs both hands through his hair, propping his elbows on his knees. He’s reverted. The energy and excitement that brought us here sucked dry. He sits behind an implacable shroud, cold and detached.

  “I want you here. End of story.”

  The muscle in the side of his jaw flexes as he keeps his eyes trained on the waves.

  “I’m just some random girl who spent the night in his house. Someone he’s never heard of and—”

  “Don’t take his side.”

  “I’m not. I’m just saying—”

  “Stop.”

  With one fierce, biting look, he shuts down and shuts me out. The door slams, and I’m left on the other side. This is his boundary. His father, or their friction—it’s his barbwire fence. Now I understand why I’m here. Why Ethan absconded with me in the middle of the night and begged me to stay. He didn’t want to endure this party alone.

  “Hey.” I run my fingers through his h
air, combing along his temple then up the back of his scalp. “I am on your side. Talk to me.”

  Ethan’s head drops forward, and his shoulders relax. He’s quiet awhile, wandering in his own mind. It’s like the day I started at the magazine: Ethan leaning against a wall, angrily typing on his phone, and a ten-pound weight slung around his neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. He gets to me. We haven’t gotten along since I was about thirteen. Frankly, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugs. “My dad’s never understood me, and he doesn’t want to.”

  Trying to imagine Ethan as a child is difficult. The way you can’t see a blowhard politician or corporate CEO as ever having played in puddles or cried over a skinned knee. Some people you meet and it seems they must have come out of the womb a fully formed adult. Or hatched from an egg, in some cases. With Ethan, I can’t envision the boy chasing his brother around in a desperate attempt to be liked. I can’t see him sniffling, holding his breath, eyes red, while a doctor sets his arm in a cast. That the man next to me has ever spent a moment concerned about the opinions of others is almost inconceivable. There are glimpses, though. Of a kind, sensitive kid who every year layered on one more defense until he’d built himself a fortress. We’re all just children, dressed up, walking around in a grown-up suit.

  “Well, look at it this way: at least your father didn’t keep you confined to a two-hundred-acre compound for half your life then murder nearly everyone you’d ever known.”

  Ethan turns his head to look at me.

  “You are dark.”

  “Can’t help it.”

  * * *

  When Ethan works a room, he has an almost unnatural ability to adapt to the energy of each person who enters the conversation. It’s something to marvel at. Like watching it rain on only one side of the street. He switches from one topic to another, pivoting easily. It’s dizzying. We haven’t moved in an hour. We’re stuck in one spot near the living room fireplace. Ethan doesn’t make the rounds—he is the destination.