by Marta Acosta
I said, “Don’t do that!”
“Do what? I was merely admiring the sumptuous vista.” Ian and his crafty sister, Cornelia, had been hauled around their family’s properties when they were young, and they spoke English with a Continental accent: some words had a clipped British pronunciation and others were rolled luxuriously.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’m going to sew tiny bells onto all your clothes so that I can hear you coming.” I threw the tennis ball in the pool and Rosemary paddled after it.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me back?” Ian took a step toward me, and I suddenly felt both shy and thrilled.
I walked in the other direction, putting the pool between us. “I don’t want to muss your clothes. You dress so flawlessly that I’m abandoning all efforts to keep up with you. I’m going to stay naked from now on.”
“A laudable policy.”
Ian moved toward me, but I kept stepping away. Despite all the times we’d been together, he could still make me feel wary; and, yet, I trusted him implicitly, inexplicably. I trembled with anticipation.
I said, “I only came here to deliver a package from Gigi. It’s on the table. It’s a framed mug shot.”
“How thoughtful. I’d like to have a photo of you now, my raven-haired Venus rising from the waters.”
“I bet you would.”
He feinted a move left and I took a step right.
“Hellooo!” came a woman’s voice.
As I looked to see who was calling, Ian moved swiftly to me and grabbed my wrist. I yanked hard, trying to throw him off balance, but I was distracted by the woman who appeared around the side of the house.
She was a pretty honey blonde with hair below her shoulders and a golden tan. She had the look of the wealthy women here, from her neatly arched brows to her narrow nose to her perfectly polished toenails in chic sandals. She wore a gauzy sleeveless shift and her arms and long legs were toned. She seemed to be about thirty, but it was hard to tell.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said cheerfully.
“Not at all,” Ian said with a smile as he let go of my wrist.
It’s amazing how accurate those dreams of being naked are: you think that if you act normal, no one will notice. I held my hands demurely in front of my hoo-ha.
She said, “I saw your Jag here and thought I’d introduce myself. I live next door.”
Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses and I couldn’t read her expression as she took in my nakedness. I stood straight and pulled my shoulders back, although parts of me continued to point forward. “Do excuse me for being underdressed.” And overfleshed.
“What’s the good of having a pool if you can’t skinny-dip?” she said, and turned her attention to Ian. “I’m Christine Poindexter, but everyone calls me Cricket.”
“Delighted. This lovely young woman is Milagro de Los Santos and I’m Ian Ducharme.”
Cricket tilted her head in a way that her first boyfriend probably told her was adorable. “Lord Ian Ducharme? You’re a friend of Gigi Barton’s, aren’t you?” Her smile broadened, showing lots of straight white teeth.
I said, “Yes, Gigi’s fab. I just came from her place,” but Cricket wasn’t asking me.
“Milagro redesigned Gigi’s garden to reflect her vivid personality,” Ian said, gazing fondly at me. “Milagro has a talent for bringing out one’s essential character.”
I liked that he never left me out of conversations even when he dragged me naked into them.
Cricket gave me another look. “Oh, is that your truck out front? I was wondering why it wasn’t parked in the service lot down the street. I just lost my yard man.”
“I’m a garden designer,” I said, even though I was wild about double-digging and weeding. “I’d be happy to recommend someone to do maintenance.”
“Would you? That would be great.”
My dog dragged his soggy self out of the pool, dropped the tennis ball at my feet, and stared at me. One of the great things about dogs was that they didn’t care what you wore, or didn’t wear.
I said, “Very nice to meet you, Cricket. If you’ll excuse me.” I picked up the ball, aware of my boobies swaying with the movement, threw it in the pool, and my dog and I jumped back in the water.
While we splashed about, Cricket and Ian spoke for a few more minutes. I submerged so I wouldn’t have to hear her giggle and flirt with him. Women were prone to giggle and flirt with Ian, and then they were prone to get prone with him.
When I came up for air, she was gone and Ian was standing at the edge of the pool.
“You stayed under for a very long time,” he said.
“I’ve been practicing holding my breath in case anyone tries to drown me.”
Ian was a member of the quasi-governmental Vampire Council, and my only ally in the secretive organization. Throughout my life, people had frequently wished I was dead, but only the Vampire Council and my mother Regina had ever taken the initiative to do anything about it.
“Why don’t you learn self-defense, Milagro? I can recommend an excellent instructor.”
“He’d probably tell me to shoot anyone who looks at me sideways. I’ll manage on my own, thank you.”
“And yet you thought you needed to attend university to read novels,” Ian said. “I invited Cricket for drinks later.”
“Cricket,” I sneered. “Letting her see me naked was hilarious. Ha, ha, and ha.”
“You could have jumped in the pool, or run into the house, or hidden behind me if you were so concerned.”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, Nancy told me that naked is the new black,” I said, referring to my friend from F.U.
“I have long considered Nancy Carrington to be one of the great thinkers of our time. Come inside. I have something for you.”
“Is it in your pants?”
He laughed and strolled toward the door at the back of the house.
I threw the tennis ball for Rosemary for a little longer, but curiosity won over and I got out of the pool.
Ian had placed thick Egyptian cotton towels on a chair. I dried off, wrapped a towel around me, and gave Rosemary a vigorous rub. His short fur was shiny and smooth, the color of semisweet chocolate, and he had a snowy white chest. We’d found each other on a city street and been together ever since.
I left my Rosemary lolling in the sun and went inside to the not-so-great room. The orangey brick floor and brick oven of the kitchen carried on the misguided Tuscan theme. On the other side of the room, a mirror ball hung over a varnished parquet dance floor. Oversized turquoise leather furniture had come with the house.
Ian was in the master bedroom, which had beige “texturized” walls, ridiculous white marble columns, and an ostentatious stone fireplace. I perched on the king-sized bed and watched Ian unpack his accessories from an overnight case.
“I am still baffled that you actually bought this house,” I said. “It’s beyond hideous.”
“You like the disco ball.”
“Well, that is fabulous. Who wouldn’t want a disco ball in their house? No one worth knowing. However, one could easily buy a disco ball and install it in a less hideous house, or even in an attractive house.”
“The location suited me. There’s room enough for you to live here.”
“I am happy, ensconced as I am in the City.”
“My invitation is open.” Ian took out a small brown cardboard box. “This is for you.”
My mother Regina had ignored my birthday every year except my eighteenth, when she told me she had fulfilled her legal duties to me, and I was still excited by gifts. I opened the box and lifted a bit of crumpled tissue to see small plastic mirrored globes dangling on silver-tone chains.
“Disco ball earrings, how fabulous! Thank you.” I put them on and looked up to catch my reflection in the ornate mirror on the ceiling.
“I saw them at a market stall and thought of you.”
“A market stall in Marrak
esh, Paris, Florence, New York, Shanghai?”
“Yes,” he answered with a grin.
“I can never find presents for you. I can’t give you anything that you can’t buy for yourself, and better.”
“Yes, you can, querida,” Ian said, and in a moment he was on me, pressing me back against the bed, and I could smell his cologne, spice and leather and wood smoke. His warm mouth was on mine and all my wariness vanished because his touch was enough to bring out the instincts that I kept hidden from the rest of the world.
He was strong and I was strong.
Ian’s well-tailored clothes hid a powerfully built body. I couldn’t remember the moment when I’d begun to see him as beautiful, but now he was beautiful to me. I loved his broad chest and muscled legs, his jawline, his strong hands, the curve of his ass.
I impatiently pulled off his shirt and scraped my teeth over his shoulder as I fumbled with his belt buckle. He snatched away my towel and then reached for the gold penknife that he kept on the bed table.
Ian flicked the knife open and took my hand in his. My blood rose toward him, wanting release. Although I felt the blade slice into my palm, it never hurt when he cut me. Ian licked at the blood that spilled from the cut, and the prodding of his tongue sent delicious tremors into the gash and through me.
A few seconds later, my skin had healed and was smooth again.
I took the knife and pressed the tip against his chest, forcing the cut to stay open long enough for a crimson rivulet of blood to run down through the dark hair toward his firm belly, and then I was licking and sucking, intoxicated by the incredible taste, pleasure thrumming through me, every nerve alive to the slightest touch of his fingers, lips, body.
He painted a line on my skin with blood, his tongue and lips following it until pleasure grabbed me like a riptide, dragging me so deep that I thought I wouldn’t surface again, and when I finally did, I had bitten deep into the flesh on Ian’s leg.
And then things got fiercer. A chair was broken and sheets were flecked with scarlet. Feathers from a torn pillow floated in the air and stuck to our bodies.
We fell back on the floor, our sweaty limbs intertwined, and let our wounds heal and our heartbeats slow to normal.
Ian said, “We should be able to rid ourselves of all the furniture this way.” He turned on his side toward me and leaned over to lick a last drop of blood from the hollow of my neck.
“You could just donate everything to the Goodwill.”
“I wouldn’t wish such ugliness on anyone.”
I ran my hand over his thigh before I slipped my arm around his waist, pulling closer to him. I had a smooth pink scar on my inner arm from the time I’d been slashed and he’d transfused his blood into the wound to save me, and now it throbbed warm in response to his skin. I said,
“‘Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.’”
Ian kissed my temple and said, “You were the one being coy, mistress.”
Pleased that he’d recognized the Andrew Marvell verse, I said, “Have you used that poem to seduce virgins?”
“Generally a limerick will suffice.” He grinned and stood, then offered me a hand up. “I’m happy to be with you again, Young Lady.”
Young Lady was my nickname with his family and my ex-fiancé’s family. Hearing it made me feel nostalgic for the Grants and for Oswald’s wine-country ranch, which had been my home for almost two years. “I’m happy to be with you, too. What time is Cricket coming? Do you think she was named after the sport or the insect?”
“The latter, I should think. She has something of a voracious crop-devouring quality. She’s bringing her husband.”
“He’ll probably drone endlessly about cars or technology or the stock market. Promise to prop me upright if I begin to list.”
“Perhaps he’ll be a handsome gigolo and you’ll exchange erotic innuendos.”
“Oh, Ian, why must you get my hopes up?”
“We’ve just time for a shower.”
“That shower is the only good thing about this house. And the disco ball. And the view. And Rosemary likes the pool.”
After we showered, I massaged multispectrum sunblock all over Ian’s body, and was getting distracted again when he asked about my newsletter.
“The latest brouhaha is between the pit bull people and the Chihuahua people. They’re waging a bitter nature-versus-nurture battle and submitting dozens of frothing-at-the-mouth letters and columns. Circulation has tripled.”
“I’m very proud of you, but I hope you’ll have time for your own writing.”
“All I get are rejections from agents,” I said with a sigh. “I can’t tell myself anymore that the literary world isn’t ready for my stories. It’s me they don’t want. They want a crafty little bastard like Don Pedro.”
I’d ghostwritten a bestselling book, a fantastical memoir of a man who claimed to be a shape-shifter. I’d been paid a pittance and Don Pedro was internationally lauded as a spiritual leader.
“Is it the money or the fame you desire?”
“I want to be taken seriously for my craft.”
Ian tweaked my nipple and said, “I take you seriously. Now, if you don’t want Cricket to think you’re predictable, you may want to wear clothes.”
“Cricket. It’s onomatopoeic, isn’t it? Cricket, cricket, cricket.”
“I’m looking forward to your veiled insults already, darling.”
“I will be the epitome of charmishness,” I said as I went to the walk-in closet where I kept a few of my things. I dressed in a tiered lavender silk flapper dress and silver metallic flats, brushed out my hair, and stroked on shadow, mascara, and lip gloss before going to the kitchen.
I sloshed together a pitcher of martinis and put out Fra’ Mani salametto, Humboldt Fog cheese, pears, almonds, and a baguette. I hoped the sausage wouldn’t give Cricket ideas.
I heard the doorbell ring, and a minute later Ian escorted his neighbor and a younger man into the not-so-great room.
Cricket had changed into a black-and-white polka-dot skirt and a little white lace-trimmed cotton blouse that rode up to show the diamond that glinted on a hoop through her navel. Very sexy soccer mom.
Her husband was young and gawky, his manner at odds with his well-shaded auburn hair and professional tan. His nose looked as if it had been broken at least once, and his hands and feet were too large for his skinny frame.
“Milagro, this is Ford Poindexter,” Ian said. “Ford, my friend Milagro de Los Santos.”
Ford reached out to shake my hand. His grip was firm and slightly damp, and I got a nice warm zizz from the contact. He grinned. “Milagro de Los Santos? Does that mean anything?”
“Miracle of the Saints,” I said. “Ridiculous, I know.”
He laughed a nice laugh. “People ask if I’m named after the car, or related to Henry.”
“Or Ford Maddox Ford,”
“Close, well, not really,” he said. “Ford Prefect.”
“From Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! Seriously?”
“Seriously. My father’s a sci-fi freak.”
Ian poured the martinis and handed one to Cricket, who said, “Really, Ford, you make him sound like a geek. He’s a genius, a visionary.”
“Does he write science fiction?” I asked.
“Good God, no,” Cricket said with a laugh. “He works on research projects, whatever inspires him.”
Ford said, “He’s got multiple degrees in bioscience, physics, chemistry, and engineering, and the corporation that employs him lets him do whatever he wants.”
“I’m impressed. I tried to go to grad school for a teaching credential, but got detoured to the landscaping department.”
Cricket turned back to Ian. “Where is your family home, Lord Ian?”
“I’m a citizen of the world, Cricket,” he said, which was his usual
cagey vampire response.
I ignored the flirty way she was smiling at him, and I asked Ford, “Does your father work on any fun projects?”
“I’m not sure. He’s very secretive about his work and my mom kicked him out of the house because he ‘accidentally’ ran over her cat. She’s the only person he listens to, and she says he can’t come back until he clones it and brings her a robot maid, too.”
“Color me fascinated. Could your father clone a cat?”
“He said cloning is for schoolchildren,” Ford said. “He took Señor Pickles’s body and went to his lab eight months ago. We haven’t seen him since.”
“You haven’t seen your father or the dead cat?”
“Either of them. It’s not unusual. He works for this military contractor and it’s all top secret,” he said. “I can tell by your expression that you don’t approve.”
“I’ve had a few unpleasant experiences with groups more interested in profit and power than ethics,” I said. “But if your dad’s a sci-fi fan, I’m sure he’s pro-humanity. Sci-fi is all about the individual’s ability to overcome adversity, particularly fascistic forces.”
Cricket rolled her eyes to indicate that she was officially over me at this point. Which was fine, since I was over her the moment we met.
She looked around the room. “This house looks exactly the way I imagined it. You know about the previous owner? He was a cocaine kingpin.”
“He was a real estate developer,” Ford said.
“He was supplying three counties,” Cricket continued. “At the time, everyone thought it was cool to be friends with a drug distributor, and he was so generous with his merchandise that they let him build this eyesore.”
“Cricket, some people may like this house,” Ford said politely. “It’s all subjective.”
“We think it’s gruesome, too,” I said, sure that Cricket would attribute any tackiness to me. As I nodded my head, I felt the plastic mirror-ball earrings bobbing against my cheek. I tossed my hair just to feel them swing again.
