Sinning Again

by Heidi Lowe

  "I think she has a crush on me. Kept bringing me stuff to eat, asking me if I wanted anything, you know, that sort of stuff."

  "What, you mean like doing her job?"

  We took a shortcut through the park. The evening air was warm and mystical, like anything could happen tonight. We passed a bench, and Petr picked up a newspaper. There was a picture of a man on the front, mid-sixties, with the sort of debonair, noble air about him that made him look like part of the aristocracy.

  "Have you seen this? I read it today. Guy got platted yesterday afternoon in his sleep. One of the town's oldest, most prominent vampires."

  We stopped to read it under a dimming streetlamp, now that the sun had set.

  "It says he was born in 1846. That would make him one hundred and seventy years old. Wow, and I thought my girlfriend was old."

  "She's practically a kindergartner compared to him."

  "What's platting?" The small print was simply too hard to see in this lighting, and I gave up trying.

  "Come on, Lissa. I thought you were up on your vampire lore. It's considered the most brutal death for them. It's when platinum powder is poured over the head of a vampire. The heat from their brains frying is said to be so hot, it melts the platinum. Apparently, they actually wake up for a few seconds while it's happening, something that's supposed to be impossible in daylight. Hence the "most brutal” classification."

  I shuddered. "That's horrible. Why would anyone do something like that?"

  "For the same reason they do anything to vampires. They're bigoted humans who can't stand when people are different."

  As we neared the manor, a queasy feeling attacked my stomach. A regular occurrence. My legs became wobbly, like I'd only just learned to walk. I groaned.

  "Maybe try not to treat your girlfriend like she's the evil stepmother out of a Disney movie," Petr said when he looked at me.

  "Well, technically she kinda is my evil stepmother..."

  "Hmm, I see what you mean."

  We were joking about it. The wounds were still so fresh, the pain not yet laid to rest, but we were making irreverent jokes already. A sign of healing? Or was this simply a band-aid, a temporary fix that would cease to work once Pete returned to Lox Ridge?

  Robyn's voice was the first thing I heard when I let myself in. That had become a fact of life, one I'd had to accept quite early on. Like Mary and her lamb from the nursery rhyme, wherever Jean went, Robyn followed. I probably would have objected much more strongly had she been given a room in our house. That was where I drew the line.

  "Finished washing dogs and cleaning cat litter?" she said smugly, when she and Jean met us in the hall.

  "Robyn!" Jean scolded, shooting her a reprimanding look.

  I forced a smile. "I don't know. I think there's still one bitch that needs washing..."

  I heard the faintest "oooo” behind me, coming from Petr. Even I had to admit the comeback was one of my finest.

  "Lissa!" Now it was my turn to be scolded. "Why can't you two get along?" She kissed me on the cheek, rather hesitantly. I'd let her do it the night before, before retiring to bed. We were getting there. Slowly, but getting there all the same. And I simply couldn't deny those soft lips, or that delicious smell. If I'd told her to take me to bed there and then, she wouldn't have thought twice, no matter who was in the house.

  "Nadine's expecting us. We should get going," a disgruntled Robyn said.

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  "To the restaurant. I'm going to introduce myself to the staff, take a look around." Then her eyes widened, and a huge smile settled on her lips. "Why don't you two come with us? Have you eaten?"

  "Great," Robyn mumbled. "Tag-alongs. I'll go ahead, meet you there." She left the house.

  "What do you think, Pete? You like Caribbean food, don't you?"

  It would be mine and Jean's first outing together since our first night in town. A chance to be that normal couple I'd always wanted to be.

  "Sure, I eat anything."

  I hurried up the stairs, two at a time, to shower and change as quickly as I could.

  Mellow reggae music played as we entered Island Spice Restaurant and Bar. I wanted to say the crooner was Bob Marley, though that would have been pure guesswork, him being the only reggae artist I knew. The clientele was a mixed crowd of old and new, couples and families. The atmosphere was mellow, calm.

  When Jean had mentioned that the business was struggling to keep the lights on, I'd built up a mental image of the place. Light fixtures ripped from the ceiling, exposed wires, generally an insalubrious place to eat. Not this. It was a relatively upmarket joint, well-maintained, and the mouth-watering smells wafting from the kitchen made my stomach growl.

  A pretty black lady in a suit made a beeline for us, Robyn beside her.

  "Jean, hi. Good to see you again." She shook Jean's hand.

  Robyn cut me a filthy look, about ten seconds away from baring her teeth and snarling. (There was something about working around so many dogs that made me see the inner beast in everyone).

  "Nadine, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Lissa, and her friend, Petr."

  Nadine's radiant smile was almost blinding, her handshake firm. Her long eyelashes were set around the most stunning hazel eyes.

  "Lissa, this is Nadine. She's the owner of this establishment."

  "So nice to meet you. Will you be dining here tonight? We just added a couple of new dishes to the menu, if you want to try?"

  Happy to be guinea pigs, Petr and I were shown to a table and left to browse the menu while the adults talked business.

  "Everything sounds so delicious," Petr said, his eyes glued to the menu. I think I even saw him lick his lips! "I wanna order everything." He started reading the choices out loud, and the small prints about what exactly they meant. I was supposed to be listening, I'm sure, but my mind had wandered.

  From where I was sitting, I had a good view of the bar. Particularly the people behind it. Jean, Nadine and Robyn to be precise. And despite the distance, and the music to conceal it, I could hear Jean's laugh. Could see the overly friendly touches she gave to Nadine's arm. I didn't like any of it one iota.

  "–and I was on the toilet for two hours! Lissa, are you listening?"

  "Huh? What?"

  Petr tutted. "I take that as a no. What is it now? What have you seen?" He twisted around to see what I was looking at, then turned back to me, face perplexed. "What?"

  "Nothing. I just... Do they seem a little too friendly, or is it just me?"

  "Who, Jean and Nadine? It's just you," he said with an air of finality. "You're not really trying to insinuate that there's something going on between them?"

  "Look how Jean touches her arm. And the eye contact. I'm sorry, but they don't look like just business partners."

  Petr sighed, spun around to see again. He shook his head. "Honestly, Lissa, you can't just be happy for yourself, can you? I see nothing suspicious going on there. It's all in your head."

  He was probably right, but it didn't make me feel any less insecure. We were just finally starting to heal, taking the steps to get back to where we were. Was this Nadine character going to pose a threat to an already fragile union?

  "And make up your mind already. Only a few days ago you were talking about coming back to Lox Ridge with me. Now you've gone all Single White Female on me."

  "Be quiet," I mumbled, and buried my head in my menu, not liking the bunny boiler reference.

  My relationship with Jean was far too complicated to put into words. He would never understand how fiercely protective I was over it, despite everything that had happened. Any threat, perceived or real, put me on edge. I wasn't too far gone, though, to realize that this wasn't just love, but obsession. An unhealthy obsession that had driven virtually every decision I'd ever made since meeting her.

  We ordered our meals, went a little crazy with it (seeing as Jean was footing the bill), and stuffed our faces. The food, as suspected, was divine. Seeing
Jean and Nadine together hadn't completely destroyed my appetite.

  "I'm pretty sure I can't get up right now," Petr said, flopped against his chair, rubbing his stomach. "I've never eaten so much food before. It will take a week of cardio to work it off."

  I wasn't much better. My top felt a lot tighter than it had when I'd put it on.

  "Well, you two look satiated," Nadine said, appearing out of nowhere. "How was the food?"

  "Amazing," Petr said. "I'm actually glad I don't live out here, otherwise I would be here every night, and I'd be broke."

  She laughed her perfect laugh, with her perfect mouth, on her perfect face. I hated her already! Irrationally. Having only known her a couple of hours, I could read her like a book. She was the type of person everyone loved and never had a bad word to say about. Made the best wife, mother, and whatever else. Was it all an act? Possibly. But the happier she seemed, the more miserable I felt. She smiled way too much for someone who'd come close to losing everything.

  "It was fine," I mumbled, shrugging. I felt Petr kick me under the table, while still wearing his shit-eating grin for Nadine. "Ouch. I mean, it was one of the best meals I've ever had."

  She chuckled. "I'm so glad you liked it. I'll let the chef know. Can we get you anything else?"

  "No, we're good... Thanks." I added the last part to avoid being kicked a second time.

  "Don't be such a bitch, Lissa," he said, once she'd left us. "It's not cool."

  "I know," I sulked. "But I'm not going to play nice with the woman who's sleeping with my girlfriend."

  "She's not sleeping with anyone!" A couple from the table next to us looked our way at Petr's loud retort. He apologized, blushed, then glared at me and said through gritted teeth, "Now you've got me making a scene."

  "Let's just get out of here. I need to drink. To dance. To let loose."

  He burped loudly and indecorously. "Hello! I've just eaten my weight in food. I won't be able to walk, let alone dance. Besides, you said the clubs around here are crap."

  "I thought we could go to Brady Creek. It's about twenty miles from here. The nightlife is supposed to be good."

  Convincing him to party was like getting a starving man to eat a sandwich – it didn't take much persuading. I didn't even have to play my trump card, i.e., the fact that Brady Creek was the current home to werewolves. I planned on surprising him with that information once we were already there.

  "Aren't you going to tell Jean that we're leaving now?" he asked several minutes later, having finally conjured the strength to get up.

  "No. She'll realize we're gone soon enough, if she can pull herself away from her new business partner," I said bitterly.

  It was like I could hear myself falling into old habits, being the immature girl I'd always been in relationships. I simply couldn't help it. I was living out the lost years of adolescent tantrums I'd been unable to throw in order to piss off my parents. When you threw tantrums in the group home, you were ignored, or sometimes put in a room with no furniture, for hours on end. With Jean, just as it would have been with my parents, I knew I could get a rise out of her.

  EIGHT

  They say that first impressions are important. They're the lasting impressions. Clearly Brady Creek hadn't paid attention to that saying. As soon as we stepped out of the taxi, we were met with the lovely sight of a scantily clad woman vomiting on the sidewalk!

  All along the street, bright lights and loud music abounded from the door to door bars and clubs. Rowdy, raucous crowds of people waited in line to be allowed entry. It was like Amsterdam on crack! Short skirts, tight tops, the type of gritty city atmosphere that made you feel filthy just looking at it. A place where nightmares went to die, or get high and wander off home with the most convenient piece of ass they could find. A true mecca of sin. And I'd only been there a couple of minutes!

  "Wow, you weren't lying about this place. It looks like something out of a Tarantino movie," Petr commented, gawking with glee. "I love it already."

  It wasn't exactly my scene, but I was in the mood to get a little crazy tonight.

  "Where should we go first?"

  Petr pointed at a club with the shortest line. "Devil's Highway. With a name like that we can't go wrong."

  I wasn't so sure, but went along anyway.

  Our wait wasn't long. Once inside, we wasted no time shoving through the mass of drunk, sweaty twenty-somethings to the bar. Eighties and early-nineties music blared from the surrounding sound systems, as blinding colors poured from strobe lights.

  "Hilarie would have had a heart attack if I ever brought her to a place like this," I shouted into Petr's ear once we had our drinks. It was the first time I could remember mentioning my ex-girlfriend in months. I chuckled to myself just imagining her face.

  "Oh, that reminds me. I saw her the other day, just before I came here. She was leaving the optician's."

  "No way!" I burst into laughter. "Doctor Hilarie needs glasses? She'll hate that." It was totally petty of me to react this way, but the irony was hilarious. Hilarie had been adamant that she would never date anyone with glasses, like bad eyesight was an STI or something. For no reason other than she always felt inferior around people who wore them.

  "Maybe she was picking them up for someone else."

  "I doubt that. How did she look?"

  He shrugged. "The same. Overworked, in a hurry. Do you miss her?"

  I made a face. "No! Why would I? It took me a while to realize I didn't even like her as a person. I'm still surprised we lasted as long as we did."

  "I'm not. You would have stayed with her at least another year if you hadn't fallen in love for real. Because that's who you are. You don't know how to be happy."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I cut him a look.

  He threw his hands up in defense. "All I'm saying is you were always complaining about how miserable you were, but you never did anything about it. I just think you don't know what happiness is. You'll endure a terrible relationship just...because."

  I pondered it for a moment, as Prince's Kiss came on and the club went wild. Had that been my problem all along? That I didn't know how to be happy? I'd been miserable for so long, after losing my whole family, that misery had just become a part of my life. Since the age of twelve, and possibly even before that. I found the thought troubling. If I didn't know what happiness looked like, how would I ever know when to go after it? Or, how would I know if it was already there, and not to take it for granted?

  I threw back my drink, suddenly depressed.

  My phone vibrated in my purse. I took it out and looked at it even though I knew who was calling. This was the fourth time she'd tried, my devoted girlfriend. Twice in the taxi, and once while we were in line for the club.

  "Lissa, answer the damn phone and put her out of her misery!" Petr scolded when he peeked at the screen. Only he could dance, drink and glare at me simultaneously. He had it down to an art.

  "I don't want to." I slipped it back in my purse, and proceeded to dance all my troubles away, feeling pleased with myself for distressing Jean with my disappearing act.

  We completely let loose after the second drink. The old me never could dance in front of others, because I knew I was terrible at it. Add alcohol to the equation, and I started to forget that I wasn't alone, jiving around the living room. Which was precisely what happened that night. I knew that I would cringe hard the next day at how ridiculous I looked, but when a suitable song came on (and, I'm ashamed to admit, even when an unsuitable one came on) Petr and I started twerking with each other. A party of gay men were suddenly cheering us on, clapping and wolf-whistling, and drawing more attention to us. And when a bunch of people more intoxicated than yourself start cheering, you know you've gone too far.

  "Now that's a girl who knows how to party," Petr shouted above the music. He gestured with his head at two girls making out. Like, really making out. The brunette was practically having her face eaten by the blonde in the leather biker
jacket. And then they came up for air, and I got a glimpse of their faces.

  "Wait, I know that girl. The blonde. Yeah, she's the bitch who almost ran me over." It was her. The same jacket, the same messy blonde bob.

  "What, her? No."

  "I think I'd remember the person who almost took my life, Pete."

  "She's hot."

  I glowered at him. "Sure, if you find women who hit and run sexy."

  He looked at me with a cheeky smile. "I didn't say sexy, you said sexy..."

  Well, it couldn't be denied. That whole leather jacket, messy out of bed hair, and the tight black jeans that looked plastered on, clinging to a pert butt, what wasn't sexy about that? Bad girls had never been my thing; I found the whole thing a bit of a cliche. I liked stability in my relationships, and outlaws, however hot they were, could never provide that.

  I turned away quickly when I noticed I was staring. Through my peripheral vision, Petr's grin only widened.

  "You're a class act, Lissa."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said haughtily, a sign that I did indeed know what he was talking about. Girl tried to knock me over, I found her attractive. It must have been an illness.

  "Come on, let's get another drink. It's my round."

  We hung at the bar while we drank, thankful for the rest. And then a human Ken doll with the cheesiest smile approached Petr and asked him for a dance.

  "Are you gonna be all right by yourself?" he said, already walking off. It wouldn't have mattered what I said.

  "Sure. I'll be here when you get back." I waved them off and tried not to look like a loser standing all alone in a packed out club.

  It's all right, I've got you. You won't desert me, I mentally communicated to my glass of rosé. I went to take a sip.

  Someone barged into me just as the rim went to my lips, and the whole thing spilled over my top.

  "What the hell?" I screamed, dripping wet, my chest now freezing. And then I looked up to see the culprit. My eyes narrowed to slits of hatred. "You!"

  Biker chick stood before me, looking far from contrite, with the most obvious little smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "Oops."