Stronger

by Misty Provencher

  "Maybe."

  "That'd be great..." He presses a wet kiss beneath my ear. "What is your name again?"

  "God, Eric..." I laugh and sigh at the same time. This guy might be an annoying choice for the night, but it's getting on toward closing time, and what's left in the bar looks as appetizing as week-old Chinese food. I stab my straw between the ice cubes in my empty glass. "Relax on the name thing, okay? You're you and I'm me. That's all we need, isn't it?"

  He ticks back his head, squinting down his nose at me. "What's the big deal? Are you wanted or something?"

  "Of course not."

  He smiles then, nuzzling my ear with his wet lips. He's going to give me a rash. "Just tell me then. No big deal, right?"

  If it wasn't 1:45 in the morning, I would just get up and leave, but Eric here has me in a tough spot. The shadows have been hanging around the edges of the Kissing Corner all night and when I go home, I'm going to need help keeping them away. Not to mention, I need to make enough noise for Aidan to hear what's happening; to let him know that we're not happening anymore.

  I look back at Eric. I've been trying to pretend he's Aidan all night, but it's not working. He runs his palm up the back of my neck, gripping it the way a dog latches on to it's puppy's scruff.

  "I need your name," he breathes into my ear.

  "Lydia!" I say. "For Christ's sake, it's Lydia!"

  He pulls back his head, his expression joyful. Or, blissfully drunk.

  "Okay, baby. Good," he says.

  <<<<>>>>

  We're in the elevator, going up to my apartment, when I tear away from Eric's mediocre kiss and ask why he was so dead set on getting my name. It's been nudging my brain since we left Modo's, but the moment to ask him about it hasn't come up and wasn't going to, without my intervention, as far as I can tell.

  "I had to be sure it was you," he says, diving for my lips again. I pull back, a cold drizzle of anxiety running down my spine.

  "Sure? Who do you think I am?"

  "Lydia Strong," he says, his smile crooked. The drizzle turns to ice and I am frozen in place. I've been waiting for this stiletto to drop from the moment Des said Claudia hadn't even mentioned a prenup. I knew that sooner or later, Claudia would get wise to Des and send her detectives snooping, to figure out what's really going on.

  'Detective' doesn't really seem to fit this guy, but I've never seen him around Modo's before either. Tonight, he slid in with a bunch of frat-boy leftovers--the guys too old to be working through college, but still trying to squeeze out the last, dehydrated drops of their glory days. If they're all detectives, they're the very best kind, because they really just looked like a bunch of useless guys getting drunk.

  Eric's still crammed into my personal space, flashing me his jacked-up smile. If he's not a detective, then Rule Number One in the How-to-Handle-Psychos Book (by Lydia Strong) clearly states that calm is the only way to escape psycho. It might be the only way to escape a detective too.

  "How do you know me?" I ask, tossing back my head with my own sly smile. As if I'm not filled to my teeth with panic at what he might say.

  "Let's just say, I was waiting my turn."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "C'mon, Lydia, you know what you are," he says, ducking in to plaster another juicy kiss on me. I let him, but the sour taste of old tobacco blankets his beer-soaked tongue. It dissolves most of the buzz I've got going. I still laugh a little, to keep things calm and friendly.

  "Fill me in," I say. "What am I?"

  He snorts as if it's too obvious to ask about. He slides his hand around the back of my neck instead, urging me toward him with rigid fingers. It takes effort, but I manage to hold my ground. The elevator doors roll open to my floor.

  "What am I?" I ask again. I'd be fine with shoving him back into the elevator and making a break for my door if I have to, but Eric softens. He lets go of my neck.

  "You're Modo's Trophy Girl," he says with a wide grin. "Your name isn't just on the bathroom wall. The whole thing is dedicated to you, like a shrine. Up for anything and the best at it. You're the hottest thing in that bar and everybody knows it, so I didn't mind waiting for my turn."

  What the fuck? I know a lot of guys at Modo's and no one's ever said a word about my name, or my shrine, in the bathroom. No one's ever said there was a line with tear-tickets to get with me either.

  I'd continue to question him, but the whole purpose of bringing Eric home is to show Aidan that he's not the only game I've got going. Now that I'm only steps away from my apartment door and moments away from accomplishing my goal, I'm no longer sure that I want to do it with a guy who thinks it's okay to tell me I'm a slut before he's even gotten any.

  "That's funny that you've heard about me," I say as Eric follows me out of the elevator, "because I've heard about you before too."

  He leans in with another heady smile. "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah, I've heard a few people say you have a microscopic dick." The smile melts off his face, but just so I don't lose him, I lean in and peck him on the lips. "Why don't we go see if they're right about either of us?"

  His bravado comes charging back in the form of rage. He grabs my hand and drags me down the hall, his mouth set in a grim line.

  "Which of these is yours?" he growls, jabbing his mitt at the apartment doors.

  "This one," I say, when we're coming up on Aidan's door. I motion to his, even though I could easily argue that I am pointing to mine. Eric does what I hope he will and grabs my keys, trying to jam them in the lock as he twists the knob.

  "They're not working," he says. I hear footsteps crossing the floor inside Aidan's apartment.

  "Oh, whoops." I giggle. "It's not this one, it's the next one."

  We scoot over to my door and Eric pops it open like a pro. I hear Aidan's door knob twisting, but Eric grabs my wrist and drags me inside my apartment too quick. The best I can do is let out my best attempt at an excited squeal.

  Still, it hardly seems worth it when Eric slams my door shut and flattens me against the wall inside so hard that it knocks the digital clock off the wall shelf beside us. He grunts like a horny gorilla and breathes stale booze against my cheek.

  "My turn," he mumbles in my ear. "Now I'm going to show you just how big my dick is. You're going to choke on it, cunt. This is my turn and we're going to do this my way--"

  He reaches up and clamps one hand on my throat. I lock eyes with him as he squeezes. Hard. I wasn't expecting this, but the one sick thought I have is that I need to stay focused and try to take pleasure in how loud and rough this is going to be, because Aidan is going to hear it all.

  But I can't swallow and I can hardly breathe. I claw at Eric's fingers as he yanks down the zipper on his jeans. I can't scream. Finally, I just close my eyes.

  <<<<>>>>

  There is making love, there is having sex, and then there is fucking. This was none of those.

  Eric fucks me until I pass out. He might have even kept going. The last thing I remember is how he jabbed a finger into one of the blistered patches that Des left behind, while keeping his hand on my throat the whole time.

  "I like how your face does that," he said. He dragged me into my bedroom, too far from the thin walls where I could've screamed for Aidan's help, if I could've gotten the air to do it. Eric was on a mission to prove that he had enough power under his belt to grind me to sawdust.

  The whole event was full of hair pulling and hard thrusts, murmurs of you bitch and other forget-me-nots that weren't nearly as pleasant. And then, there was a bright dot in the middle of his face that kept spreading as he choked me, until it was larger than anything else I could see. It swallowed my apartment. I think that's when I passed out.

  I'm confused when I come to, but grateful when Eric jumps into his pants and says he has to go.

  He pauses at the door and turns back, glancing at me over his shoulder.

  "It wasn't rape," he murmurs. "You invited me here. And you have sex with everybody, righ
t?"

  "Sure," I say, my throat aching as I force out the words. He nods. I stay on the bed as he slams the door behind him.

  The shadows emerge the second he's gone, but this time, I welcome them, rather than Eric's company.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I stand up to go to the bathroom and whimper at how raw it feels between my legs. The burns are the least of my problems now. I catch a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror. My shirt hangs off one shoulder, my right breast dangling like a limp flag of surrender. Long threads hang down where buttons were yanked free. My nipple is blood red. I recall Eric chewing it like an angry wolverine. The closer I get to my reflection, the clearer I can see Eric's fingerprints painted on my neck in pale blue bruises. I look away. My skull aches.

  The satisfaction of having made my point to Aidan has vanished. The only point I've proven is that I am a slut and even sluts can be raped.

  I shower, scrubbing him from my tender skin, and when I'm finished, I ease myself down onto the edge of my bed so I don't have to touch the sheets that touched him. I drag on a dirty pair of yoga pants that were lying on the floor. I pull my knees to my chest.

  As I stare out the window at the moonless night, the shadows grow in number. I have nothing left in me to defend myself. The shadows press in with the truths that I've staved off for years--

  I work my way through lovers like a box of Kleenex.

  I am the Kleenex, not them.

  All the men who love and admire me down at Modo's--they are waiting their turn. And I am everything they say about me as they stand in line.

  I stare at the wall that separates my apartment from Aidan's. He was right about me too. I can't make it through a whole day without a drink anymore, or ten. My body is a constant earthquake and a stiff shot can't always smooth out the Richter scale in my hands.

  I can't stop.

  I've tried.

  I've tried only drinking on weekends, only drinking beer, only drinking when people are around, only drinking when people aren't around. Nothing works.

  Aidan was right and I chased him away. I had to. I can't stop.

  I bury my face in my pillow.

  I can't stop.

  The shadows gather around the edge of my bed, but for once, they don't continue to advance. They seem to know too--I can't take any more.

  I can't take it and I can't stop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SALT IN THE WOUND

  The shadows don't leave, even with the morning light. I spend the night doing less sleeping and more twisting myself up in the sheets, trying to figure out how to handle what's just happened. Every trip to the bathroom, I glimpse the greenish spots on my neck and it punctuates how unmanageable my entire life has become.

  I make deals with myself, to prove that I'm not as bad off as I seem.

  That I'm not really a drunk.

  Not a whore.

  If I could just remember the first night with Aidan--

  Or any of the men's names, besides Eric--

  I should know names of at least a few of the men I've brought home over the past couple of years. The shadows linger and the only thing that comes to me is bottles, clinking together in my brain as if the shadows are hosting some sick celebration over my demise.

  And just when it seems like it can't get worse, my phone rings. I pull myself out of my bed to find the thing and answer with a grumble.

  "Lyddle, I'm outside your door," Des says on the other end. "I've been out here knocking for the last five minutes. What the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm sick. Can you come back some other time?"

  His tone turns to cold steel. "Is there someone in there with you?"

  "No."

  "Then open up. You're fine," he says. "Hurry, before that kook across the hall comes out here and rapes me."

  Of all mornings to say that. I straighten up what I can of his shirt that I'm still wearing, wrap myself in a blanket that covers my neck, and pull open the door. He's standing out there with the phone still at his ear.

  "You don't have to worry about Mrs. Lowt. She doesn't want you. She doesn't even like you."

  Des, dressed in a dove-gray business suit, gives me a tolerant grin as he clicks off his phone and slides it into his coat pocket. He adjusts his lavender tie as he inventories the entire mess of me.

  "Everyone wants me," he says, as he strolls in. I throw the door shut behind him.

  "What do you want?"

  He pulls back from craning his neck to peek into my bedroom and cocks a brow at me instead. He's got a thing about me speaking disrespectfully to him. He stares, waiting for an apology. I'm too tired and tangled up in the after-effects of last night's shadows to give a damn about apologies. He finally gives up, even though his back stays stiff as he tucks his hands in his front pockets.

  "I came to see my wife. Is that okay?"

  I used to melt when he called me his wife. Now, I just ease down onto the couch and wait for him to tell me what he wants. I feel him walk behind me and the hair on my neck stands on end. My throat goes too dry to swallow.

  Des comes around the side of the couch and sits beside me. "What's wrong with you?"

  He reaches out and moves closer, his eyelids drooping as if he's going to caress me, kiss me. His fingertips travel down my neck and I go rigid. He glances down and his eyes bulge. He pushes back the blanket I've got hooded around me.

  "Who the hell did this to you?" he seethes. I'm silent. Des clutches my jaw, twisting my face to look at him. His eyes slice into my dull gaze. "Was it that son of a bitch next door?"

  I yank out of his grip. "Of course not."

  "Who then? Tell me who did that to you, Lydia!" He jumps up, his eyes wide and crazy. "No one lays a hand on my wife! I'm going to kill the bastard!"

  Fury wells in my throat, burning away the pain that's already there. My words bubble up and burst out of my mouth.

  "Stop it! Just stop it, Desmond! You do the same thing to me all the time, just in different places!"

  "I have never choked you like that! That is what happened, isn't it? I can see the sick, son of a bitch's hands, for Christ's sake!"

  I yank the blanket back up around my neck.

  "So it's the location of the bruises that matter..." I sneer. His nostrils flare and I know to back off. "Just tell me why you're here and what you want, so I can get back to dealing with my own life, okay?"

  The skin jumps in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. I've never called him out on what he's done to me, especially not with such pure and focused anger. It takes him a moment to regroup, finally standing tall and plucking at the front of his suit coat.

  "You expect me to just stand by and take it when someone disrespects what is mine?"

  "C'mon Des..." I whisper. "I stopped being yours a long time ago."

  He swoops down on me so suddenly, I press my back into the couch. The tip of his nose nearly touches mine.

  "Watch your mouth, Lyddle," he growls. "You are mine, got it? You always have been and always will be. I will let this slip once. Do you understand me? Once. If I see so much as a scratch on you ever again, I will hunt down the man that did it and I will kill him."

  He backs off an inch, but still hovers over me, and it kills me that I do little more than cower in the shadow he casts. I'm so sick and tired of it all, but I'm too exhausted to stand my ground right now.

  "I came here to give you your Christmas present and I was going to spend the afternoon with you, Lyddle, but I don't think you deserve it now." All I can do is glare up at him, but my hatred for him has finally caught spark inside me. I hope he can feel the flames of it, licking at him through my eyes.

  His brow jumps, as if what he's sees on my face startles him. He takes a bigger step back.

  "Don't you dare forget who you belong to, Lydia," he says, but his tone has thinned. He clears his throat. "Claudia and I are going on a cruise to Belize for the holiday. We'll be returning after the New Year. I expect you to get yourself st
raightened out by then. Oh, and have a very merry Christmas."

  He turns to go, pausing at the wobbly little table near my front door. He removes something from his breast pocket and throws it down on the table top. He yanks open the door and he's gone with a slam.

  I'm left sitting on the couch, unsure if I just won or lost that battle, but fairly certain I've just started a war to knock all other wars right out of our history books.

  <<<<>>>>

  It's not until the afternoon that I finally pick up the fat envelope that Des left on the table beside the door. Of course, it's money, but what I didn't see coming is how much that is in there. Twenty thousand dollars. It takes me a few minutes to count it out to be sure, but there it is, in cash. Big bills. There is a note tucked in the front of the envelope, but it's not in Des's writing. It's in Claudia's.

  Merry Christmas, Lydia. You've made our house a home. Our dreams would have been nothing without you. Happy Holidays and have a drink on us!

  I crumple the note in my hand.

  Their dreams.

  Have a drink on us. My entire body is raked with nausea. I am flooded with visions of every time I've seen Des with his arm around Claudia, playing the good husband. She has no idea what he's doing to her. My ears want to close out every lie he's whispered to me. My hands want to throw away the feeling of his skin on mine and my mouth on--

  I run to the toilet, throw open the lid. I heave and the bitterness in my mouth burns. The acid Des has tried to leave in me is the kind that slowly dissolves a woman, until there is nothing left of his crime against her.

  The worst part of Claudia's note is that anything I'd buy with her money wouldn't be for just my pleasure, but her husband's. Des will be expecting some lingerie, some new, leather accessories out of my little windfall.

  No, the deception isn't the worst part. It is the last part. Have a drink on us. In lieu of everything that's happened, that line is the one that sticks in my head like an ice pick. I imagine Claudia repeating the line, with her emotionlessly-Botoxed brow and her surgically, Jolene'd lips forming a smile.