Sinning Again

by Heidi Lowe

  "What is wrong with you? Don't you ever look where you're going?"

  "Hey, you should be thanking me. It's actually improved your shirt."

  My mouth sprung open in outrage, but no words came out. Shock had rendered me speechless. I clenched my fist, my hands itching to throw a punch and wipe that smug look off her face. I'd never wanted to hit someone so hard in my life.

  But she walked away before I could say or do anything.

  "Hey, this one's on the house," the barman said, and slid a freshly poured glass of the same rosé to me, accompanied by a sympathetic smile. "You really don't want to go picking fights with that crew."

  I thanked him, but was so furious I couldn't enjoy my free drink. Add to that my soaking wet blouse, that was now clinging to my flesh and making me feel yucky.

  I drained the glass anyway, every gulp done in anger, and then stormed to the ladies' room to see what could be done about my top.

  The bathroom attendant took one look at my shirt, nodded knowingly, then pointed stoically to the dryer. This type of thing must have been a nightly occurrence for her.

  I took off my previously cream blouse, and held it under the dryer while inebriated women passed in and out of the stalls behind me. I cursed out loud, my swearing drowned out by the sound of the dryer.

  "You're gonna be there for ever, you know," came a voice behind me. I didn't turn around to see who it was, because I didn't care. But then she moved into view, leaned on the wall, beside the dryer, watched me with folded arms and a mischievous smirk. "But by all means, continue. I'm kinda enjoying the view." She looked me up and down, all over. Was I shivering because I was half-naked, or because of her look?

  "Go away," I said through gritted teeth.

  "I could do that, or I could get you another top. Your choice."

  "I don't want anything from you," I spat. If looks could kill...

  She chuckled. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot."

  "What, you mean after you tried to knock me down on your motorcycle, or after you insulted my top?"

  She threw up her hands in surrender, still smirking. "If I say I'm sorry will you let me buy you another drink?"

  I was glaring into the most unusual eyes I'd ever seen – a blue-gray shade, like stone, something I didn't even know was possible, set around thick black eyeliner. She had a beauty spot just above her lips. A curious, somewhat garish necklace hung from her, composed of odd-looking stones of different sizes and shades of gray. It didn't seem to fit her outfit or cool exterior.

  "No," I said, pulling myself out of my trance.

  "What, just no? Don't I even get a reason?"

  "You need one? I try not to accept drinks from people who try to kill me! You know, it's sort of my thing."

  This was all a source of amusement to her. She never once showed any signs of being insulted or annoyed – in contrast to me, who was both.

  "I'm Dallas by the way."

  "I don't care."

  "Ouch. You're actually cute, in a feisty teenager sort of way."

  "I'm twenty-four!" Did she just call me cute?

  "So am I. We have that in common. If you let me buy you a drink, I'm sure we'll find some other things we have in common."

  Was she really trying to flirt with me? After what she'd done? She must have been insane.

  "No, thanks."

  Suddenly a blonde girl burst into the room, and grabbed her arm. "Dallas, we gotta go. Sara got into a fight with some guys, and now she wants to go after them."

  Girls fighting guys? Who were these people? Certainly no one I wanted to associate with. The barman was right – I didn't want to go picking a fight with them.

  "Maybe we'll see each other again," Dallas said as she made her way to the door.

  "I hope not."

  She only laughed, then hurried out with her friend. I was left shaking my head in wonderment and slight amusement, while the dryer continued to blast my sodden top.

  "Dallas." I tutted. "I mean, what sort of name is that anyway? And I'm pretty sure she only wanted me to say yes just so she could say 'psych!' or whatever." It was a little after three and our cab was approaching the manor. The ride back to Greenfields had sobered me up. Or was it my nonstop jabber? I didn't know.

  "So you didn't say yes to the drink? I thought you said you got a replacement."

  I sighed. "No, I did, but not from her. The barman gave it to me. I told you."

  "Oh, right. So what's the problem?" Petr yawned, his voice heavy with sleep.

  "The problem is that she thought, after everything she'd done to me – the motorcycle, spilling my drink all over me – that she could just say a few cheesy things and I would be putty in her hands."

  "Okay, but you've been talking about her literally the whole journey home, so..."

  "Yeah, only because I wanted to convey how much of a jerk she was. I can't believe she ever thought I would find that whole detached bad girl act cool or sexy."

  "You're using that word again, Lissa."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but the cab stopped.

  "This the address? You guys live here?" the driver asked, incredulously, peering out of his window into the lit up grounds of Canterbury Manor. I didn't blame him for asking. He must have thought we were two drunk college students playing a prank on him.

  I stuffed some notes into his hand, said thanks, and dragged Petr out of the car with me.

  "What are you implying?" I fished out my keys. Behind us, the cab driver waited and watched, likely out of curiosity, to see if we did actually live there.

  "I don't know anymore, Lissa. Just open the door."

  I opened the door, looked back at the driver, gave him a smug smile, then closed the door behind us.

  "I'm going to sleep like the dead tonight," Petr went on, and started up the stairs like a zombie.

  I hung back, checking my phone. Twenty missed calls, three voice messages, all from Jean. Crap, I was in trouble.

  As soon as I got to the top of the stairs, and Petr closed his door behind him, I saw her waiting outside her bedroom, arms crossed, face unreadable.

  I braced myself for the lecture I was about to receive, breathed in more oxygen especially for it. I'd really screwed up this time. Worst thing of all, I was too sober to not give a damn.

  She just stood there looking at me, saying nothing. It freaked me out. What was she thinking? Why wasn't she shouting at me?

  So I decided to go first. "Look, I was at a club and I didn't hear my phone going off. I'm sorry I missed your calls." For some reason I sensed that she knew I was lying to her. Her face didn't change; she stayed silent, barely even breathing. So pale and beautiful and elegant in her nightgown. Always the same. Why did she have to be so perfect, and as a result make me feel much worse than I already did?

  She cleared her throat a little, and I thought she would say something, but...more silence.

  "I should have called to let you know where I was, that I was okay. I know that."

  "I didn't even think you noticed I'd left the restaurant. You were so caught up in your work, with Nadine..." I tried my best to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice, but it was obvious. I couldn't even say Nadine's name without having an attitude about it.

  "But I'm all right. Look, I'm here now. In one piece. Completely safe. God, say something, Jean," I said shrilly, desperately.

  And she did. Very simply, without any emotion at all. "Goodnight, Lissa." Then she turned and entered her room, closing me out.

  I stood on the cold, lonely landing, perplexed, mouth agape. Goodnight, Lissa? Good-fucking-night, Lissa? What sort of reaction was that? Twenty missed calls and all I got was a dispassionate goodnight?

  I tore across the hallway and charged into her room. She was already back in bed with her book, and she didn't even do me the courtesy of looking up.

  "What the hell was that?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You called me a million times, and
now that I'm here you don't have anything to say other than goodnight?"

  "What else would you like me to say?" Her eyes were fixed on the pages of her stupid book.

  "I don't know, but not goodnight."

  She carried on reading until I ripped the book from her hands. And then she looked at me, her expression impossible to read.

  "May I have my book back?"

  "No. We're talking." I slammed the book on the chest of drawers, away from her, like a spoiled kid trying to annoy their parent.

  "I think I've said all I had to say tonight. It would be best if you went to your room and slept it off."

  "I'm not going anywhere. Or had you forgotten that this is my room too. That's what you said when we first moved here."

  She stood up. "I'm not going to fight with you, so if that's what you came here for, you're wasting your time."

  I narrowed my eyes at her, wanting to kiss her so badly, but instead stepped around her and climbed into the bed. I scooted down to the other side, leaving her space free. It may have been in my head, but I thought I saw a smirk just as she turned around to look at me.

  "So now you're sleeping in here?"

  "For tonight at least. Got a problem with that?"

  She shrugged. "You can do whatever you want. You always do."

  If she knew how much I wanted her, how powerful the throbbing between my legs was, it probably would have frightened her. The feeling only worsened after she retrieved her book and climbed in beside me. Dallas became a distant memory, just like everyone did when Jean was around.

  Her leg was lightly touching mine, and I snuggled a little closer to her so that we were really touching. She didn't object, nor did she move. I highly doubted she was reading her book.

  "Goodnight," I said.

  "Goodnight, Lissa." The same words that had moments earlier infuriated me, now soothed me. They no longer carried the same connotations. The tone had changed completely.

  I wanted to believe that as soon as I fell asleep she put her book aside and cuddled me until the sun started coming up. That was what she used to do, and I would wake up in the middle of the night and feel her arms around me.

  It was crazy how much those little things still meant to me.

  NINE

  Wednesday afternoons were always dead at the shelter. Usually I didn't mind, and I'd spend the five hours of my shift playing with the animals, trying in vain to teach them new tricks. To which I would receive confused looks from the dogs, and somewhat contemptuous looks from the felines in the place, as though I was beneath them. Me and cats had never gotten along.

  But the animals didn't seem up to it today, and once my tasks were completed – feeding, grooming, cleaning, I busied myself flicking through the local newspaper while I drank lukewarm coffee.

  I felt Camille hovering over my shoulder, trying to read what I was circling.

  "Cozy studio in friendly building. You know that's code for tiny hovel with loud, nosy and unruly neighbors, right?"

  "But it's cheap."

  "Of course it's cheap. Lissa, have you never house-hunted before?"

  "Actually, no." I didn't care to elaborate on the fact that, since leaving the group home, I'd moved in with all of my girlfriends, avoiding the need to rent my own place. I got the strange feeling that these people already thought I was pathetic; telling them this would have confirmed their opinion of me.

  "Wow, then count yourself lucky. So you're really thinking of moving? What's wrong, mansion too big for you?" she teased. "Too much space? Closet too big? Oh no, I've got it: you keep getting lost every time you try to find your bedroom! That's a problem I'd like to have." She chuckled to herself.

  "It's not my place, I've said that a million times."

  "Sure it is. But for whatever reason you're still at odds with your girlfriend, and you want to show her that you don't need her. I know exactly what this is."

  Was it that obvious? Was I that easy to read?

  "If it were up to me, though, I'd take the manor over..." she leaned over and read from the listing, "an up-and-coming area within walking distance of the town center. Translated: Rough, underdeveloped neighborhood, at least three quarters of an hour outside of town."

  I groaned, folded the paper, then pushed it away. My search had only been going for five minutes, and already I was sick of it.

  Camille put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Why are you so keen to move? Still not working out between you guys? Fallen out of love?"

  I didn't want to talk about it, not with her, not with anyone. Because I wasn't even sure how Jean and I were getting along.

  "It's complicated," I said. Hey, if it worked for Facebook...

  "I hate to break it to you, but that pretty much sums up life. You'll learn." She looked at her watch. "Is your friend still in town?"

  "Petr? Yeah. Why?"

  "No use you sticking around here. Go, have fun."

  "Are you sure? Won't Diane mind?"

  "No. Now get out of here. See you tomorrow." She pushed me away from the desk playfully. Guess I didn't really have a choice.

  The heat hit me the moment I stepped outside. A sweltering heat with no sign of breeze to lessen its effects. I thought about heading right back into the shelter, to take advantage of the air conditioning. But the thunderous sound of a motorcycle speeding down the street stopped me.

  When the rider pulled to a stop right beside me, I felt the fluttering and tingling of butterflies in my stomach. The bike, the jacket, the helmet. I'd seen them all before.

  It was her.

  Dallas pulled off her helmet and shook out her dirty-blonde hair like she was shooting a commercial. And I stood there, watching, mesmerized by her coolness.

  I hadn't noticed her one, solitary, faint dimple back at the club a few days prior, but I saw it now when she grinned at me.

  "Hey," she said. "We gotta stop meeting like this."

  I rolled my eyes, tutted with disinterest. All an act.

  "What do you want?"

  "World peace. A beach house in The Hamptons. And a bevy of beautiful gals to keep me company. But if I can't have that, I'd settle for you hopping on and letting me take you for a ride."

  I laughed to myself at the flagrant audacity. "Oh, well when you put it so nicely... Hell no."

  "Oh, come on. You look like a girl who's never ridden a motorcycle before."

  "And I'd like to keep it that way."

  "Ah, so you're afraid of the big, bad bikey," she said in a mocking baby voice.

  I knew I should have known better, shouldn't have let her get to me. But she was so damn smug, sitting confidently and sexily on that bike, I wanted to prove her wrong. Never mind the fact that I wasn't a fan of motorcycles, that to me they were two-wheeled killing machines only crazy people used.

  She must have noticed the inner dialog I was having with myself, trying to convince myself, because she lifted the seat of her bike and pulled out another helmet.

  "I always come prepared." She winked, I swooned, and took it from her. Was I really doing this? Riding a motorcycle with this girl (and a pretty mean one at that) I didn't know?

  The adrenaline pumped through my veins. I put on the helmet, then straddled the bike behind her, before hesitantly placing my arms around her waist.

  "Hold on tighter than that, unless you want to fall off," she said, her voice heavy with amusement.

  Oh my God, this is such a bad idea! There's still time to get off and keep your life! No rational thoughts presented themselves at that point, as I prayed to whatever spiritual being would listen to me. Is this how I'm going to die?

  She put on her helmet, then kicked the bike into power. It started on the second try, and we were away like the wind.

  The town became a blur of colors and shapes as we whizzed past, and the once non-present wind slapped my body, over and over. I wasn't expecting to suddenly feel so cold, having gone from one extreme to the next in seconds.

  I squeezed Dallas tighter, he
ld on for dear life as we tore threw the air at a million miles per hour. At first, the realization that no one would survive a crash at this speed terrified me. But after a few minutes, once we'd turned down a lengthy country lane, the adrenaline really hit me. You see, you can enjoy life so much more when you're not constantly thinking of self-preservation. If these were to be my last moments on Earth, I was going to enjoy them.

  I heard screams of joy, and didn't realize immediately that they were coming from my own lips.

  We rode for about twenty minutes, and by the time we stopped, my throat was sore from all the screaming.

  "Now, I'm no expert, but I'd say those sounded like screams of pleasure," she said, once she'd removed her helmet and dismounted.

  I got off too, removed mine. We were in a part of town that I'd never visited before. An idyllic creek, with a still, freshwater lake. A tranquil setting, complete with birdsong and those pleasant sounds of nature you get when man has steered clear of a place.

  "So what if they were?" I said with attitude.

  She laughed. "Just admit it, you had fun."

  "I'll do no such thing." I set the helmet on the ground, following her lead. "Where are we?"

  "A little-known place I like to come to sometimes. No one comes out here usually. It's quiet, I like that."

  I could see why. With the naked sun beaming down on it, mostly unshielded by trees, and the untouched greenery, the place was postcard ready. Inside, for the first time in months, my muse stirred, grew restless. My hand itched for a paintbrush.

  I trod across the fallen leaves, taking the place in; its beauty, its fresh, piney scent. It reminded me of Lox Ridge, of the creek there. My old home. Now that I had left it behind, I could remember it without the heartache, without the loss. Nostalgia is funny like that.

  "I guess I should tell you that my name's Lissa," I said.

  When I spun around to find her, my eyes nearly popped from their sockets. Around her feet lay her entire leather biker suit. Her golden skin shone beneath the sunlight. I gulped, praying that the sports bra and boxers weren't about to follow the rest of her garments, exposing even more of her toned flesh. That strange necklace remained in place. I wondered if the rough stones didn't irritate and scratch her skin.