Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  She rinsed the Seine’s stink from her hair and her skin and prepared for a night of dancing with Serge and a couple of his friends. She slipped on a red chiffon dress with a deep V-neck and a flowing skirt that opened wide for twirling. She completed the ensemble with gold heels. The light and energy that emanated from Serge warmed her insides like smoldering embers. A bright red lipstick served as a tangible reminder of the passion that Serge evoked and her longing for the touch of his lips. She yearned to seduce him, but she was secretly afraid to lure him in. A spritz of expensive French perfume, and she was out the door.

  She met Serge and two of his male comrades at a restaurant that stayed open late into the night and featured a jazz band until five a.m. They danced and drank wine and danced some more. Alexa twirled, and her skirt flew high, teasing the onlookers enjoying their late night cocktails. Luscious long tanned legs and exposed thighs, Alexa watched with pleasure as the eyes of the male patrons widened. I have never behaved this provocatively. It feels amazing! She watched Serge’s finesse on the dance floor and mimicked his encompassing rhythm. His hips vibrated with the music. He locked his hands on her hips, not at her waist in a gentlemanly fashion, but low on her iliac crests and pulled her pelvis close to his. He moved her body with his, as she grew accustomed to the choreography he possessed.

  As she learned spins, lifts, and steps that worked together harmoniously, she learned to breathe in the music and open her heart to possibilities. With so much energy pulsating through me, I feel alive again! She embraced the feeling, and the dancing came naturally.

  Serge dropped down to his knees and eased her leg over his shoulder; he stroked her thigh to the music. His hands fell to her lower back, and he scooped her body off the floor. Her other leg wrapped around Serge’s other shoulder, her crotch hovering inches from his lips. Serge spun Alexa around in circles while her skirt fell loose and covered her face. Her entire lower body was exposed; her lace white panties became a spectacle for all to see. Goosebumps of excitement rippled across her skin. To be in the center of such an erotic and provocative scene — how invigorating! Serge swung her torso to the side, and within minutes, she was in his arms.

  The song ended. The phenomenal applause turned Alexa’s face crimson. So many eyes locked on her. Serge grabbed her hand and led Alexa outside into the street. She anticipated a late night make-out session in the alley, but she was mistaken.

  “What happen to your leg?”

  “Wh-a-at?” She stammered.

  “You have scar. There on your thigh.” Without hesitation, Serge lifted Alexa’s dress and revealed the long scar across her left upper thigh.

  The scar from Jamar’s knife. “It’s nothing. A scar. That’s all.”

  “What happen to you?” he questioned in his imperfect English.

  “An accident. A long time ago.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Does not look old.” He traced the scar with his index finger, following it all the way up toward her crotch. Even when he touches that painful place, I tingle down to my toes. She couldn’t resist the urge any longer. She wanted to give in to Serge completely — let him seduce her. Let him caress her body and make love to her. She had only given in completely to one person, Britt Anderson. But she needed to be touched by a man again. She wanted it to be Serge. She wanted to somehow take his energy and passion for life from him as he took a piece of her innocence.

  One of Serge’s friends interrupted Alexa’s moment of intimacy. His hand pulled away, and her dress dropped to her knees; the two men walked away from her. They spoke French together for a good five minutes before she marched over and grabbed Serge’s arm from behind.

  “Hey!” she remarked jokingly. “Forgetting someone?” She tried hard to sound coy. She wanted to remind him of the passion they shared.

  But Serge’s attention rested on the new male friend. The man casually slipped his hand into the side pocket of Serge’s fitted white slacks. This man’s attempt to seduce Serge appeared stronger than hers. She watched his fingers outline the contours of Serge’s package. Her mouth gaped as she stared at the spectacle. Without missing a beat, Serge put his finger to her chin in an attempt to close her open mouth.

  “Victor and I will go have some fun at my place. What you think? Want to have fun? You join us?” While Serge’s questioning eyebrow intrigued her, Victor’s stone face negated Serge’s invitation. She tossed aside her desire for a romantic tryst with Serge, shook her head, and turned away.

  “Another night, then?” he questioned from behind.

  “Another night,” she mumbled without turning to face him.

  She sulked as she walked the few short blocks back to her hotel. How was I so misled? I don’t understand Serge at all. She dissected the events of the evening. The men in the café were fixated on Alexa’s lace panties, except Serge, who eyed the scar on her thigh. Did Serge dance to gather the attention of the onlookers, rather than his partner? Was Serge’s dance to seduce Victor, not Alexa? Is Serge bi-sexual? He seems so comfortable with his sexuality, more than I could ever comprehend. It’s the same energy that drew me to him. She furrowed he brow with the new information, and realized she was completely out of her element.

  She decided to vault her lustful thoughts somewhere deep in her heart, where they belonged. Her first and last sexual encounter was with her darling Britt Anderson. It would stay that way indefinitely. She put a hand to her chest in attempt to soothe the ache for Britt that lurked within.

  When she reached her hotel room, she placed her room key on the nightstand next to the handwritten business card the Czech man had given her. A new identity was a way to move on from Britt Anderson, a way to put away the past and move toward a new future. Her eyes scrutinized the writing on the card. The tops of the letters angled to the left, a characteristic of penmanship of left-handed writers. Britt was left-handed. She clenched her teeth together tightly. Stop it! she scolded. She didn’t want to forget him, but the memories hurt, so she tried to box him away somewhere in the back of her mind.

  With the sun about to rise, she popped a couple of sleep aids and rolled into bed.

  Her dreams were tormented by portions of the day’s escapade entwined by guest appearances by Jamar and Portia. She relived the cab crashing into the concrete guard and splashing into the water. She tried to escape the car. She felt a hand on her arm — Portia’s hand. The child tried to keep Alexa in the car in order to drown them both. Alexa kicked. She screamed. She grabbed Portia’s face, wrapped her fingers around the child’s head, and knocked it against the other window until the water in the car turned red.

  Jamar took over where Portia left off. He thrust her head underwater. His strong hands and arms kept her there. He was drowning her.

  Alexa woke sputtering and gasping for air — as usual. Her anguish quickly turned to tears. “No! I won’t lose to him!” she yelled. She fought back the tears and followed Britt’s advice once more. She closed her eyes and visualized the dream taking a turn where she could again be the victor. She sat in the back of the cab. Jamar drove. The car swerved hard, and into the river they went. Bodies bounced around in the car, and they both found themselves in the water. Splashes came toward Alexa. It was Jamar. She swam to the bank first. He pursued her, but she beat him to the water’s edge. I’m faster than you, Jamar.

  He tried to emerge from the river, both of his hands on the concrete edge of the canal. He lifted his body from the water, his head even with the pavement. With both hands and all of her weight, she thrust Jamar’s forehead into the concrete. I’m stronger than you, Jamar.

  When his body started to slip back into the water, she grasped his head and thrust it hard into the concrete. She heard his skull break. His body turned limp, and an indentation formed in the front of his head.

  Alexa lay in bed a while longer, still unable to sleep. This time she planned to kill him before he entered her nightmares. She envisioned the entire event. She waited for Jamar by the library where he stalked Kensie. She
packed her handgun into a vintage black Chanel clutch and sat on a bus stop bench across the street.

  The man with the yellow eyes smoked a cigarette and drank from a brown paper bag on the sidewalk next to the library. He didn’t see her. He stooped down by a tall hedge and stowed the paper bag and its contents in the bushes.

  Alexa stood and crossed the street. She drew her gun when twenty feet away. His eyes locked on hers, and he turned to run. She shot his right shoulder. He stumbled forward. She came after him and pushed him to the ground, landing on top of him. He rolled over to face her.

  “Bitch!” he yelled, and spit at her.

  Alexa thrust the barrel of the gun under Jamar’s chin and pulled the trigger fast. I’m the victor, Jamar. Then she imagined the course of the bullet traveling through Jamar’s submental region, severing his tongue base, passing through his oropharynx, filling his prevertebral space with blood, and shattering his odontoid — sending bone fragments and bullet fragments into his brainstem. She put two fingers to his carotid and waited for his pulse to stop. She imagined the events once more. It brought her a sense of strength and security. Finally, Alexa slept.

  CHAPTER 15

  She slept away the morning and woke in the early afternoon. She had agreed to meet Serge again that night. He invited her to be his plus one at a private party in Paris. Serge mingled in different social circles, including those of high society. Tonight’s event was a birthday gala for some scandalous Parisian bureaucrat whose mistress was one of Serge’s ex-lovers. Although she gave up on the idea of a romance between Serge and herself, she still enjoyed his company. She planned to treat herself with a spa day and shopping spree before meeting him.

  She went to a fabulous designer boutique on the outskirts of the fashion district. “Bonjour, chérie!” exclaimed the store clerk as Alexa approached. The tall, skinny twenty-something had straight black hair and pale skin. “American?” she questioned with a look of mild disgust.

  “Oui,” Alexa stammered with all the charisma she could muster. She hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the cold shoulder she received from some Europeans. She often felt embarrassed to admit she was an American transplant, but she knew this woman would forgive her once she opened up her pocket book. The money Alexa planned to spend would be enough to make any contemptuous Parisian feign kindness. She glanced around the store as the black-haired woman eyed her up and down. Alexa spotted a silk, white evening gown with a low back and high slit on the thigh. She carefully examined the high slit. It was on the right side of the dress, which meant only her right leg would be wholly exposed, and the scar Jamar put on her left thigh would be carefully hidden.

  “Ah, madam. I can help you. It looks your size. Come with me.” The Parisian lady swooped up the white evening gown and motioned Alexa into a fitting room with a luxurious blue-velvet loveseat, floor to ceiling mirrors, and a crystal chandelier that was clearly too large for the space. The French lady disappeared momentarily and returned with a sparkling glass of mid-level French champagne.

  “The dress is Claude Montana,” the sales woman said with a forced smile. “He is genius.” Her English was fair.

  Alexa stripped down and grabbed the gown. The silky sheer left little to the imagination and left no room for undergarments. The cut was more seductive than most lingerie — perfect for a scandalous political gala. She couldn’t help but stare at herself. The slit on the skirt neared the top of her right thigh. She pulled back the fabric to look at the scar on the other leg. She traced the scar up and down its length. It still had a pinkish-purple hue that showed its newness. Serge had recognized this. She’d spent so many months trying to ignore it or hide it; perhaps she’d have the scar removed altogether. Nonetheless, tonight it would be safely hidden beneath the fabric.

  “Madam!” the French woman yelled in a singsong voice, and then threw back the heavy velvet curtains of the fitting room and burst in on Alexa just as she released the fabric covering her thigh. “I have shoes for you, chérie!”

  A beautiful pair of Casadei gold crisscross platform pumps landed in Alexa’s outstretched hands. Alexa enjoyed two more glasses of champagne before paying for her merchandise with a wad of cash she’d pulled from the ATM using her one remaining debit card.

  Too tipsy from the champagne to sit still for the hair appointment she’d booked, she rode a cab back to her hotel and took a long hot bath and played rock music in the background. She slowly sobered up and managed a proper get-ready on her own. She slipped on the gold platform heels and paired them with tiered, gold chandelier earrings.

  When Serge beckoned, she slid into a cab containing Serge and a friend around ten-thirty at night. Everything started late in Paris, and their destination was another hour away. A red headed voluptuous woman sat in the cab next to Serge. She looked a little older than Alexa, and acted much drunker than her. The woman toted a bottle of Russian vodka, and the cap served as a shot glass. They passed shots of vodka around the car and laughed out loud for reasons Alexa never really understood, but it all seemed hysterical.

  The cab made two more stops along the way, picking up other members of Serge’s entourage. A tall blond man with a square jaw that reminded Alexa of Britt scooted in beside her. He didn’t speak much English, but he kept finding ways to touch Alexa on her back or leg that she found creepy. The other passenger was a blonde girl a few years younger than Alexa, who was short and skinny and wore a red sequined gown with a plunging neckline that went down to her navel. The group exchanged shots and sipped wine out of a bottle the man had brought.

  They arrived at a large pier lined with several yachts. A long white carpet lined the walkway and the gangplank of the largest yacht. Strands of lights wrapped around the boat illuminated the blackness of the night. Music filled the air. Luxury cars dropped off passengers for the party. Alexa counted four Mercedes and two Bentleys, and her stomach churned of inadequacy when she exited the cab that dropped them off. The blond man paid the cab fare. Alexa followed Serge up the gangplank onto the ship.

  She eyed the spectacle. She saw women dripping sequins and trimmed in fur and jewels. Men were clad mostly in tuxes without tails with a sprinkling of navy suits, some with open necks bearing chest hair. An ensemble of Arabian musicians filled the air with song, while belly dancers and fire-eaters covered the dance floor. Sushi and caviar floated around the room on little silver trays, along with glasses of champagne and vintage wine. Scantily clad women perused through the ballroom from time to time while marketing themselves to the men in the room.

  Alexa ignored the sex-capades and had another glass of champagne. She mingled with cliques of mixed origins. She spoke with politicians and their wives or mistresses, as well as up-and-coming artists, musicians, and philanthropists. She even met a Parisian fashion designer who once worked under Alexander McQueen.

  She found a dance partner in an English businessman who divided his time between Paris and London. The slightly older gentleman had a bit of a paunch and his skills were no match for Serge. She sighed relief when Serge grabbed her arm from behind and stole her for a dance.

  He moved wildly, and her long blonde hair whipped around and hit his face. He pulled Alexa tight and kissed her up and down her neck, with long wet kisses where his tongue traveled deep into her cleavage.

  When he spun her, she lost her balance and stumbled away from Serge. Another man grasped her from behind. She found herself laughing fervidly when she looked at the man’s face. An Arab man in his forties or early fifties with a small mole under his right eye smiled back at her. A party of bodyguards with stern faces quickly surrounded them.

  Two bodyguards escorted Alexa a safe distance away and returned her to Serge. He took her arm and guided her outside onto the deck.

  “What the hell was that all about?” She sneered through clenched teeth, afraid someone might still be watching them.

  Serge threw his head back and chuckled. “Don’t worry, love. You stumbled into one deadly Arabian . . . how you say . .
. hit man? Maybe that is the wrong word.”

  Alexa’s jaw dropped. “What?” she demanded.

  “You Americans, so high strung. Relax. This is party!” His hips swayed in time to the music inside, and he reached out for Alexa’s hands.

  “Hit man? What are you talking about? Is he some kind of Islamic fanatic who goes around blowing things up?”

  Serge feigned seriousness now to match Alexa’s tone. “Perhaps, something of the sort. He is dangerous man. He bring death to many people — Americans, even. And you — you watch too much CNN, like all Americans. Do not worry about this man. He will not harm you. The way he stare at you tells me he likes you.” Serge’s face beamed with excitement.

  “What? No,” she said. “Islamic radicals hate Americans. They bomb our country and attack our people. Why would you say something like that?”

  He snickered at Alexa’s remark. “Political hate and political prejudice are not lust. He likes you.”

  Alexa recalled the lingering stare she’d received. Yep. This Arabian found her enticing. “Who is he, Serge?”

  He shrugged. “They call him Castro. He likes party. I see him at these things. No big deal.” He shrugged again.

  “Castro? Like Fidel Castro? No. That doesn’t make sense at all,” she pondered out loud.

  “No. It is nate name or something.” His brow furrowed in confusion, but he continued to sway his hips to the music.

  “You mean nickname?” she asked.

  “Ha, ha. Yes. That one.” He grabbed her arm. “Dance with me. Inside.” He led her back to the dance floor.

  Her head spun. She couldn’t stop thinking of the man she’d seen. Afraid to look at him directly, she imagined his face when he grabbed her waist after falling into him. Something about that mole under his right eye seemed familiar. She recalled news broadcasts she had seen. She and Britt used to watch the news religiously. Once Alexa had started making news headlines herself, she couldn’t bear to turn it on or pick up a paper.