by Sunniva Dee
I catch my DJ’s eye. Robin pushes out of his booth. Leans an ear into me.
“Who is she?” I ask, tipping my chin in her direction.
“Marla something. A transfer to the University of Deepsilver,” he yells.
“Odd name.”
He laughs, in agreement with me.
“Set her up, will you?”
Robin’s on it. He’s often involved in my baby steps when I test out a new woman. I watch the spring in his step as he hops down the one tread to her level. She covers her mouth, shocked at him talking to her. He bends in, explaining. Then, he points at me.
A slight turn of her head, and Marla’s mouth drops open. I’m encouraged by the way she can’t hold my stare. Now, she lifts a hand to her cheek. She’s warm—embarrassed. Nice.
Robin retreats, flaunting a dimpled grin before he returns to the DJ house. Marla can’t seem to remove her hand from her face. My cue.
I stand. Take the three steps to the lip of the podium and look down from my vantage point above her. She’s got the heaving bosom thing going that I like, so I lift two fingers and waggle them. Marla giggles behind her palm.
Lazily, I advance until I’m by her stool. “Marla?” I say, like I’ve done dozens of times before. It’s a fucking repeat. Predictable. Always fucking the same. So easy. So—
Fuck.
At the bar, Christian serves up a beverage for his girlfriend Shannon. A couple of college football heroes bob their heads offbeat in front of the counter while they wait for Arriane.
Marla’s nod is subtle. She’s agreeing that I got her name right. I read these chicks easily, and this one’s already flustered.
“Haven’t seen you here before. First time at Smother?” I curl my upper lip in a half-smile, waiting for her reply.
My focus revisits the bar where Arriane smiles to the football thugs, lashes lowered as she passes them the beers they’ve ordered. It’s not a flirty smile, no—it’s friendly. This is genuine, real Arriane who deserves every penny of the pay raises I insist on.
I let my gaze glide over Arriane’s slender frame while I introduce myself to Marla. Arriane inhales deeply, her black bartender shirt tightening over her chest. Even at this distance, I catch the gleam of a brass button in the spotlight. The way it strains to pop open in the middle. Worried, I imagine the black lace she probably wears beneath, how it could spring free for everyone’s viewing pleasure.
Marla waits shyly for my next move. I lift my drink, sipping slowly. Shift it into my left hand and sink my nose into my right. Huff Arriane’s scent again.
In front of me, Arriane’s face contracts in worry lines before she turns away from the counter. She leans on the bottle shelf behind her for a few seconds. And incredulous, I watch her sink to the floor.
I run past the dancers. Nod to Christian who spins to the source of my attention, but I get there before him.
When I arrive, she’s got the fridge door open to our champagne reserve below the back counter.
She’s fine. She’s fine.
Someone must have asked for a bottle, and she lost her balance.
Only, she’s not removing anything from the shelves. She just sits there, holding on to the half-open door. I’m on my haunches, and she jumps when I put a hand on her shoulder.
Arriane is my most trusted employee next to Christian. With her bouts of illness over the last weeks, maybe months for all I know, I’m concerned. “Arriane,” I say, “are you okay?”
“Yeah, I—I got vertigo is all.”
“Have you been to the doctor?” I start.
“Why would I need a doctor?” she snaps, surprising me. I feel my eyebrows cinch while I read her expression. Frustration. Maybe even anger. In the years she’s been part of my staff, Arriane hasn’t shown a temperamental side before.
“What’s going on?” I say, a command more than a question. My staff, hell, people, answer me.
“Nothing,” she says, gets up, and shuns the bar. I meet Christian’s what-the-hell look before I press past him and go after her.
I know better than to call out through the music. It’s too loud—she wouldn’t hear me—so I follow her past the office, through the corridor to the kitchen. I give a shoulder-pat to Mario, who’s manning the food pans, on my way outside.
In the back alley, I find her leaning against the brick wall. She hurries to remove her hands from her face. She’s delusional thinking I didn’t notice. Nothing in my bar escapes me, and whatever’s up with Arriane, I’m not a fan.
“Hey,” I say.
“Why are you chasing me? Can I not get a minute to myself? I’ll be inside soon. I just—” She swears softly under her breath. “I need air.”
I don’t know this woman. She’s different to what I’m used to. Straight-laced, always dependable, loyal, no-bullshit Arriane.
“What the hell is going on?” Again, I’m not asking. I’m demanding.
“Don’t,” she replies. “Just don’t.”
Who knew Arriane, of all people, had it in her to frustrate me? “Don’t what?”
“Patronize me.”
What?
I’m in an alternate reality. Arriane is fucking rebelling. Against me, her boss, and while I’m worrying about her wellbeing?
“You’re pale,” I insist, keeping my calm. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s that.
“So are you.” She glowers at me. Arriane suppresses the way her upper body wants to double forward, but her hands don’t lie and they cover her stomach.
“I swear, Arriane,” I say, simply.
“You sure do,” she mumbles.
I remember her closer than this. The feel of her in my hands. Scarlet, warm. Smooth against me. “You smell good,” I say, and she instantly realizes how I’m not referring to her flowery perfume.
“You should wash up, Leon. God!”
I take a step into her. “Yeah? What’s the fun in that? You wouldn’t be on my hands, then.”
Her eyes. That lavender glare storms at me, mortified and furious at once.
“You’re a… a…” She stops herself before she loses her last thread of professionalism. Confusion and regret flow over her features before she hangs her head, slithering coils of silky black hair obstructing my view.
“I—I’m sorry, boss. Please, deduct the time from my paycheck. I’ll be right inside.” When her stare meets mine, she’s my staff member again. The loyal, sweet employee who never says “no” to a task. The one who covers for everyone else and picks up the slack.
I’m not ready to slide back into our routine yet, so I brush the back of my hand over a smooth cheek and watch her lip tremble. She’s a secret-keeper tonight. Not willing to share with me. On impulse, I tip her head up. Give her the lightest kiss on her lips. Dry and gentle. Then, I nod.
“No hurry. And forget about pay deductions. Promise me you’ll go to a doctor?” This time I’m asking, wanting her to agree instead of following my command.
A slight girl has slipped a ballet flat off and curves her foot around the leg of a barstool. She’s got a jet-black pixie cut and short bangs covering the hand that supports her forehead. She’s utterly feminine in a non-curvy way. My own boobs throb at the painful reminder of curves. And secrets.
I’ve arrived unannounced to the club, earlier than Leon expects, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to run into porcelain princesses in his abode, but my hand still finds my heart and presses inward. Like that helps when he slides an arm around her waist and brings her to his chest. He leans his chin on top of her head, not noticing me in the doorway.
The familiar nausea rises in me. Sometimes I wonder if it’s psychological more than a physical reaction to my intruder. Maybe I wouldn’t get sick if I could afford to work at a club that isn’t Leon’s. If I weren’t around him all the time.
The Blood Bank for instance. It’s a great bar—I have several friends who work there, but Leon pays better than anyone else, and if I’m ever going to finish this business degree�
�
I can pull off another year of this. Of having my heart twisted and wrung.
After all, since New Year’s Eve, I haven’t seen any broken girls around Leon. I’m spoiled. Which must be why I die a little when his hand follows the girl’s spine and moves into her hair in reassuring caresses.
My purse.
It slides off my shoulder and hits the floor. In slow motion, Leon rotates to me, and the lightest of summer blues lock my stare. Pained, I swallow, and he frowns.
“Arriane, you’re early.” He doesn’t remove his arms from around the girl. She turns her head so her cheek rests against him. “Are you okay?” he asks me—me—and wouldn’t it be nice, just for once, to scream at the top of my lungs that no, I am not okay.
“Yep, hey guys,” I say and walk toward them. Thank God the girl sits up. Frees herself from Leon’s embrace. I’d never do that.
“Kat, this is Arriane who I’ve told you so much about. She’s my left hand—the one in charge of all this.” He points at the strings of cowboy hats, sombreros, and fireman helmets I didn’t take down yesterday. It’s why I came early, to straighten this place out for a regular bar night.
Despite her paleness and Leon’s tall stature next to her tiny one, they complement each other. Where Leon’s features are a dazzling blend of races, hers are distinctly Asian. She’s simply beautiful, and the two of them look striking together… which makes my heart shrink.
The girl grabs my hand in a delicate clasp. Her eyes are a soft brown. Mauve-colored lips, the shape of a half-open rosebud, draw up at the corners in a smile. “Nice to meet you, Arriane,” she says, voice low.
This one, she’s a sad girl, controlling her voice from quivering. Since I haven’t seen her before, my guess is he only recently made her his, Leon-style, but—is she already grieving him? His women aren’t sad until his interest cools. The closeness they share confuses me too. It doesn’t support how recent this thing between them must be.
“Arriane, this is my sister Katsu. She’s visiting from San Francisco.”
Yes.
The nausea is psychological and not only when I’m upset. It title-waves relief in over me until I stutter out a “nice to meet you too.”
Then, I take off to the bathroom.
I’ve missed my brother so much—I hope the next time I’ll be here just for him. Unfortunately, at the moment, I’m in Deepsilver for the old man I call “the sperm donor.”
I’ve got my work cut out for me; I want Leon to come to the hospital. My brother’s façade is hard as steel and smooth as marble, but inside hides a boy who blames himself for everything that happened to me. He wishes, wishes—
I wish too.
I don’t let our childhood hamper my life, though. Our father is a monster who should be processed like porridge and passed like bowel movements on laxatives.
For the most part, I’ve come to terms with what we went through. My brother, my Shishi, has not, so the last thing he needs is for our father to die. The sperm donor isn’t worthy of anyone’s bitterness, and the boy inside Shishi would exceed bitterness and plunge into indigestible guilt if he doesn’t face the past.
I look up at Leon. This girl, Arriane—she unsettles him. I’m not sure what’s going on between them, but there’s definitely something; she barely coughed out a greeting before she ran to the restroom. I know my brother—he’s a bit on the loose side. More than one woman has screamed “son of a bitch” at him in my presence. Now, Shishi stands, ready to go after her, but I hold him back.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Gonna check if she’s okay.”
I love him, but he’s so clueless. I wonder how he manages without me.
“Are you sleeping with her?” I push a lock of hair out of his face as his gaze slides back to the door she disappeared behind.
His eyes dart from the bathroom to me. “Hmm? Ah, no, Kat. Like I said, Arriane has worked here for years, and I worry about her. She’s getting sick a lot lately.”
“Well, you can’t invade her privacy if ‘employee’ is all she is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my club, and the space needs to be set for opening hours, including—”
A minute ago, I was overwhelmed by the situation with the sperm donor, but my brother is all action no thinking right now. He makes me smile. “Nope, stay clear of the little girls’ room,” I say.
I stray to his innate talent for diverting my attention. From inside a chaos no child should experience, my older brother was there, changing the chemistry of my mind a few words at a time.
Shishi’s eyes flick to me, their color even lighter than our father’s. He hates the reminder of any similarities between the two of them, so I don’t mention it.
“Well, then—you go to her. Whatever Arriane needs,” he finishes. I understand.
“’Kay, Bro,” I say, because the expression annoys the hell out of him. Nothing wrong in pressing some brotherly buttons.
In the bathroom, Arriane stoops in toward her reflection. The water taps into the sink in front of her, and she dries her face with a paper towel, avoiding the deep kohl framing her eyes.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
She focuses on me in the mirror, gaze softening with apologies. “Ah, no, I’m fine now. Thanks, though. And sorry, I didn’t mean to run off, Kat… su?”
“Yeah, our mother named me. It’s in homage to our Japanese ancestry. Our biological father chose Leon’s name since he was a boy.” I sniff primly like it makes sense, causing the girl to smile. “You can call me Kat,” I add.
“Funny,” Arriane says. “My twin brother and I were the same way. Mom named me, and Dad him. We’re from two different cultures too, so I have an American name and he an Indian one.”
“What’s his name?”
She laughs, twisting long hair over a shoulder. “Chahel.”
“Strong name,” I offer. “Hmm. Somehow reminds me of Superman.”
“Ah!” Arriane huffs, widening her eyes in fake surprise. “My brother is super!”
When we return, Shishi is still by the bar, an elbow resting on the counter. His gaze trails over Arriane. As always, his expression is guarded, but I know him and catch the glitter of concern in his irises.
“She’s okay,” I tell him even though she’s next to me and could have told him herself. I wrap my fingers around her shoulder and squeeze a little. “Done hurling her guts out.”
“It wasn’t bad,” she objects, and a shadow of a smile touches my brother’s mouth.
On my first morning in Deepsilver, I stare down at the unconscious form of the man who gave me life. Such a beautiful thing, isn’t it, to give someone life. I should be grieving in his presence, but thanks to all this sperm donor did to us, I am not. Funny how the miracle of life expires in the face of abuse.
Rice-paper white, his face droops on one side. Thin, dull lips—so different to the ones that used to scream threats at my brother—sag at the corners, saliva gleaming beneath a thick tube.
The cocktail of emotions I experience now will be nothing compared to Shishi’s if our sperm donor dies. I might only be twenty, six years my brother’s junior, but he’s not always wiser.
A fold of skin camouflages the weak pulse at my father’s neck. I want it to stop. I will the machine to quit helping him breathe, and yet I’m scared shitless that he’ll die before I’m ready, before my brother has said his goodbyes, giving him the absolution he deserves.
When my father sighs from within his coma, my own pulse rattles and pumps frightened adrenaline into my veins. It’s been ten years, but my body can’t fathom how he won’t be jumping off the bed to punish me for waking him up.
From since I can remember, my brother and I have hated this person. Even as children, we knew that hating him meant strength and survival.
A gurgling sound surges from my dad, so I ring for the nurse. There’s a sob stuck in my throat, over the love and nurturing you’re supposed to receive from a
father, over what we didn’t get. I don’t hate him anymore. I’ve digested a lot in the years I’ve been away, but this lingering bitterness? I want it gone so badly.
And Shishi…
I was a little forceful before I threw in the towel and came here without him. The glassy waters of his surface rippled the tiniest bit each time he told me “no.”
“Everything all right, Miss Stonewell?” the nurse asks as she answers my alarm.
“I don’t know. He sounded like he was choking for a second.”
I head to the door while the nurse checks tubes and accommodates my father against the pillows. She sends me a puzzled glance, probably wondering why I don’t wait for her assessment. She wouldn’t understand that I’ve seen enough of him. Plus, I’m on their speed dial for changes in him anyway.
I’m leaving.
Back in my brother’s car, I’m surprised at how calm I am. I sit for a minute, reveling in the hospital visit being over.
I’ve always been caring, empathetic. I used to believe my father’s cruelty hadn’t influenced me as a person, but today I’m not so sure.
They say women are strong. If that’s what they’d deem me right now, they must be mistaken. Because I? I feel like I’m callous.
I contain my frustration until Kat has left for the hospital. Then, I barge into the Bag Room and swing against the biggest punching bag as fast and hard as I can. The smooth texture of the leather absorbs my hits. Taking it, taking it, taking it.
Like I did from my father after Mom split. Taking it—until Kat was big enough to be tossed around too. That’s when I stopped taking it.
I don’t get why she cares. Why she insists on me accompanying her to the hospital. She needs to leave well enough alone. I rarely think about him anymore. I haven’t for a decade, since I put Kat on the plane to San Francisco in a last ditch effort to keep her safe.
“Please, Shishi—I want to be with you!” she’d cried at the gate.
“Mom will come meet you at the airport,” I whispered. “You’ll get a pretty, new room. A new school with new friends. Dad will never hurt you again.”
