Want You

by Frederick, Jen

  I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.

  Change of plans. Will be a long night. Don’t wait up.

  She gets off her cleaning shift at two. I’ll have to send a car for her. I don’t trust cabs this late at night. Having taken care of Bitsy the best I can, I pull off my suit coat and drop it around Camella’s bare shoulders. I wish she’d start wearing more than a couple of Band-Aids. It’s winter and the girl has got to be cold. I can’t tell whether half of the stream of air flowing from Camella’s lips is condensation or smoke from her joint.

  “Need a ride somewhere?” Mason should be somewhere inside. “Why don’t I call Mason to take you home. Your dad’s gonna be here for a while.”

  She shakes her head with enough force to set her large hoop earrings swinging. “No.”

  This is another girl who should be far away from Cesaro’s clutches. I try once more. “You want some cake from Magnolia’s?” Bitsy and I waited in line for like two hours the other day for the newest creation. The cake really wasn’t worth it, but Bit’s euphoric delight over it was.

  “Don’t wanna,” she mumbles as she clutches the lapels of my jacket tight with one hand.

  “Let me know.” I tuck my phone in my back pocket and enter the stockroom to find Beefer looming over our chef.

  “What’s he doing here?” I demand.

  The man doesn’t look up from the stove as he answers. “There’s a shipment of rocket launchers and AK47s being moved up to the north. A Korean group is funding this, and word on the street the Tongs are going to try to move on it. Big nationalist rivalry or some shit. Cesaro wants to make sure we don’t fuck this up. It could mean more money in the future. Don’t turn it over yet.” Beefer grabs Justin’s arm to prevent him from touching the smoking meat. “Cesaro likes his cow dead.”

  I peek out the window and see Cesaro camped in the corner annoying the fuck out of the rest of the patrons with his loud voice and non-stop cigar smoke. The few patrons that are left are finishing quickly. Soon, the place will be empty of everyone but Cesaro and his four bodyguards. Three are new and one is Arturo’s favorite, Sterno.

  The last one is a surprise to me. Since Arturo’s death, Cesaro’s wiped out most of the old guard. During the previous visits, there was a different fourth—an Eastern European with a heavy accent. Laszio or something close to that.

  “What happened to the Hungarian?”

  “Dead. He made a move on Cesaro’s daughter, so the boss cut his dick off and fed it to his dogs.”

  I hadn’t heard that. “When’d this happen?”

  “Just a few days ago. Sterno’s part of Helen’s guard. He’s just filling in.”

  Helen’s Arturo’s widow and Cesaro’s aunt by marriage.

  “Did Cesaro bring any more than what’s in the kitchen?”

  “Four more at the hotel.”

  Beefer’s answers are terse. His shoulders are tight and he’s got a furrow in his forehead deep enough to plant a couple trees.

  I make a guess as what’s bothering him. “Your daughter’s outside.”

  “I know. Goddammit.” He thrusts a hand through his thinning hair and turns. “That fool girl thinks she’s going to be the next Mrs. Cesaro. I tried to tell her that he’s already got a wife and three kids, and while he might fuck pieces on the side, he’s not going to divorce the wife. You never divorce the wife. Besides, Cammy’s all used up now. She’s not the marrying kind. Sooner she understands that, the happier she’ll be.”

  Camella hasn’t been happy since Cesaro raped her, but Beefer’s blind to this. It’s the way he copes, I guess, otherwise the guilt would drive him to either kill Cesaro or himself.

  “When’s the drop?”

  “Two days from now.”

  That’s not so bad. I can buy Bitsy a three-day spa retreat. She needs the pampering after all the hard work she’s been doing. I grab my phone and start searching. I need to get her the fuck out of town.

  33

  Bitsy

  “You should visit a friend,” Leka tells me after I answer his call.

  “No. I’m working.” I can’t believe he’s still trying to get rid of me.

  “It would only be for a week. I’ll pay for everything.” In the background, I hear someone ask for the address to the dungeon.

  “Audie’s with her grandmother in Connecticut. It’s the only family she really loves and so I’m not going to bother her.”

  “Then a solo trip.” He sounds desperate, which means he’s close to breaking. If I leave now, he’ll rebuild his defenses. I haven’t put all this time and effort to have it be demolished by going away—particularly by myself. I’m tired of being alone.

  “That sounds as much fun as getting an enema. No.”

  “Please, Bitsy, I need you to go. It’s for your own safety.”

  I scowl at the phone. “Of course it is. It is always for my safety. What’s wrong now? Mary doesn’t like the way the new chef is cooking her steak? I’ll stay away from Marjory’s, don’t worry.”

  “It’s not Mary.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s…look, can’t you just go?”

  “No. Either tell me what the danger is and let me weigh my own consequences or leave me alone.” I can’t always run away every time Leka thinks that there is a problem in our world.

  “Can’t you do as I ask just this one time?”

  “No. Because it’s never this one time. It’s every time and I’m tired of it, Leka.” I hang up because I don’t want to hear his excuses any longer. This whole process of him avoiding me is getting tiresome. And I’m running out of ideas. None of the internet articles I’ve read have had any success. Really, the only thing I have left to try is to make him jealous, which is a card I’ve avoided playing because I didn’t want to bring some innocent party into this awful struggle Leka and I are engaged in.

  But what else can I do? The random lingerie around the apartment didn’t work. The stripper workout was a big fail. The walking around half-nude, stretching in front of the fireplace, and rubbing my breasts against him every breakfast were also non-starters. My limited bag of tricks is empty.

  I slump down in the kitchen and stare at the granite countertops, willing an idea to spring up. I pick up my phone and search the dungeon. The top hit is an advertisement for a new club downtown that promises a boundary blurring experience. I tap the phone against my bottom lip.

  Is this the “work” that Leka is doing tonight? Is he watching cage dancers, flirting with bar hoppers, and downing expensive, silly drinks while I’m sitting in this apartment decked out in three-year-old leggings and a holey T-shirt prematurely aging?

  I get up and go down to my bedroom to take an inventory of my closet. I don’t really have club gear. My closet consists of my school uniforms, the ugly skirt I bought to wear to dinner with Leka at that French restaurant, a bunch of designer coats, and a handful of lingerie—still with the tags on. I push the hangers back and forth, rejecting item after item. Nothing here is going to get me past a bouncer at a hip nightclub. Unless…my hand hovers over my school uniform. When I was paging through the porn selections to find the right one to “work out to” there were several featuring the bad schoolgirl.

  I unclip my plaid skirt from the hanger and hold it up to my waist. It hangs down to my knees, but if I cut the hem off at the thigh, I’d look just like those sexy schoolgirls. It takes me an hour to wrestle my hair into braids, slap on enough makeup so that I don’t look like I’m actually a schoolgirl, but rather a grown-up woman playing a role. I trim off the hem of the skirt and search for a top. I come up empty. My white polos are not going to look sexy enough, no matter how much fabric I chop off.

  Another thought springs into my head. I raid Leka’s closet and return to my bedroom with a white button down. It’s too big, but that’s the whole idea. One of my unused lingerie items is a black lace see-through bra. I put that on and then shrug into Leka’s shirt.

  I roll up the sl
eeves several times and then knot the front shirttails around my belly. Knee-high white socks and the stupid black pumps complete the outfit. The full-length mirror on the back of my door says I look cheap and slutty. I love it. I cover myself up with a long puffy coat and grab a roll full of cash. I don’t have a fake ID, so I’m going to have to flirt and buy my way in.

  At the lobby desk, the night doorman, Pete, eyes me suspiciously. “Do you need a taxi Ms. Moore?”

  “Nope. I’m going to the drugstore. I forgot I was getting my period and my bathroom looks like a crime scene. There are so many clots—”

  “Okay. Just wondering. Have a nice evening,” Pete says with a wave of his hand. The poor guy looks ready to throw up.

  I skip out delightedly and hail a taxi a block away.

  Once downtown, I shrug out of my coat, leaving it in the back of the cab. “Give it to your wife or your girlfriend. I barely wore it,” I tell the surprised driver.

  He nods happily and speeds away.

  The Dungeon turns out to be a popular place, or so the long line of people suggests. A handful of bouncers mill about the front door behind a short velvet rope. They’re checking IDs. I wonder if there’s a backdoor I could slip through.

  “You lost, honey?” says a voice behind me.

  I swing around to see an older man—probably in his late thirties—dressed in a dark suit and a dark shirt unbuttoned one fastening too far. Around his wrist is a heavy, expensive watch. Four men spread out behind him.

  “No.” I wish I’d kept my coat.

  The dark-haired man gives me a thorough once-over. “How old are you?”

  I stiffen. “Old enough.”

  “Sure you are,” he says quietly. “Come with me. I’ll get you in.” He curves an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to his side. “What did you say your name was?”

  We both know I hadn’t said any such thing. Warning bells are ringing wildly in my head. “Actually, I’m waiting for my girlfriend. We’re going to mass tonight.”

  “I can give you a holy communion,” the man jokes. “It won’t be round, though. It’ll be long and thick.”

  Three of his four men laugh loud and long.

  “I suggest you let me go,” I tell him. “I’m not the kind of girl to play around with.”

  “Really?” he drawls. “Because you’re playing dress up and that’s exactly the kind of girl I like.”

  The door opens and a blast of sound hits us. “Cesaro, the VIP room is all set up—”

  Leka pulls up short and his jaw drops. I want to sink into the ground. I know what he’s thinking. Worse, I’ve played into his fears—that the city’s dangers had finally gotten to me. The thing is, though, at least I’m in a public place. There are the bouncers at the door and the people in the line. If I make a scene, this guy is bound to get scared off.

  “Hi Leka,” I say, trying to be proactive. I move out from under the man’s arms.

  “What in the fuck are you doing here?”

  “You two know each other?” The man, Cesaro, waves a finger between us.

  “Yeah. She’s going home. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” This isn’t the place to argue. “I’m going home.”

  “No. Stay. We’re going to have some fun.” Cesaro reaches for me again, but Leka darts forward, moving me out of the way.

  “Sorry. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” Leka snaps his fingers. A young, pretty man hurries forward. “Mason, take Cesaro and his men to the VIP room. Get them whatever they want. You—” Leka’s fingers curl into my arm. “You’re coming with me.”

  Those are the last words he says to me until we arrive home.

  “Of all the idiotic, childish things you could’ve come up with, this takes the cake!” Leka roars the moment I cross over our threshold. He must’ve been saving it up.

  “It wouldn’t have happened if you had been honest with me. Instead of giving me some vague warning about it being dangerous, you should’ve said that there was specifically someone you didn’t want me to see!”

  “I want to keep you away from that. Have you ever thought of that? That I was doing it for your own good?”

  “How hard is it for you to give an explanation? That’s all I needed.”

  “Oh really.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “If I’d told you that a gang leader was in town that liked to fuck virgins, you’d have just stayed away?”

  “Yes, I would have.” At least, I’d like to think I had enough smarts to stay home instead of following Leka around. I have a momentary pang of doubt, which Leka sees.

  “You’d have followed anyway.” He’s lost his anger and replaced it with that damned blank mask that he wears when he’s with everyone but me.

  “No.” I shake my head because I can see him shutting me out, shutting his feelings down. “No.” I have to stop him. “No. Stop assuming the worst. I made a mistake and so did you. We learn from this. We—”

  “We go our separate ways. This…” He waves his hand between us. “Whatever this was, it’s over now. It’s too dangerous.”

  Feeling helpless, I lash out. “You think everything in your life is dangerous!”

  “Because it is! That’s why I sent you away. That’s why I don’t want you here now!”

  I stumble back as if he struck me. Those words are cruel and he knows it. “That was low,” I say through the hurt clogging my throat.

  He stares impassively at me as if he doesn’t care.

  “Take it back.”

  He folds his arms across his chest and says nothing.

  I fought before because I thought I could win, but if he can say those words with sincerity, then I don’t believe I want to win. Not this fight. Not this war.

  “Why did you save me if you won’t let me live?”

  34

  Leka

  I don’t know how long I stand in the kitchen after she leaves. Her last words ring in my ears.

  Going into the bedroom is a huge mistake, I discover minutes later. No. Scratch that. Renting an apartment with only one bath is where I went wrong. She’s so close. Her stifled cries are easy to hear even over the running water.

  I lean my arm against the wall separating us and rest my head in the crook of my elbow. I try to remember all the reasons I shouldn't be in that bathroom on my knees worshiping her, but my mind draws a blank.

  A moan whispers between the walls. My hands fist. This is torture, more painful, more excruciating than any punishment Beefer or I could've ever thought up.

  "I can hear you breathing," she says. "I know you're there."

  When did these walls become so thin?

  "I want you, Leka. I want you so bad that my hands are shaking. I'm having a hard time eating and sleeping. I've tried everything that I know of to tear down that wall you have built up. I've tried everything but begging, but I'll do that. I'll do that if that's what it will take."

  Her voice cracks at the end, and the iron will I've been trying to exercise melts in an instant. Shame and self-loathing make my gut churn.

  The cruel, untrue words I bashed in her face careen around in my head like a bowling ball tossed by the Hulk. I’ve been successful in this stupid, wrong life of mine mostly because when I make a decision, I don’t waver. That certainty has made me reliable. Beefer knows that when he orders something to be done, it’s done and done correctly. The men in the crew I work with can depend on me to have thought out the contingencies and eventualities so that they’re safe when they execute the tasks they’ve been given.

  The decisions I made with Bitsy—to keep her and then send her away—kept her safe. All I need to do is to stay away from her until I can find her a new home.

  Where she will be all alone again.

  Where there is no one to dry her tears.

  Where she will be with no one to love her.

  I think of her tiny and afraid. I think of her sick. I think of the time seven-year old her beat up a boy older and bigger than her. I think of her mi
schievous smile after she smashed a bag of rotten eggs and fish to the punk-ass kid at the bus stop who’d been harassing her. I think of her awkward pre-teen years when I begged Mrs. M to help me out with the woman stuff that I barely understood myself and would’ve rather poked daggers in my eyes than talk to Bitsy about them.

  I think of her fifteen-year old self coming out of the dressing room in that blue dress looking like a goddess had floated down from heaven to grace us mortals with her presence.

  I think of her, only a few steps away, crying in the bathroom because she loves me and she’s hurting and it’s my fault.

  I don’t know what the right path is any more. It’s clouded—by her tears and my longing. I don’t want to let her go because…I love her. My heart formed when I found her. She created it with her trust. She nurtured it with her hope. She protected it with her love.

  She asks so little in return. She asks not to be hurt again. She asks not to be abandoned again. She asks to be loved.

  I swing out of my room and into the bathroom to find her sitting on the counter, legs tented over the sink and head tucked into the corner of the wall. Her face is blotchy and her eyelashes are wet from her tears.

  My heart caves in. I saved her all those years ago so that she could have an ordinary life, but we never lived like regular people. I wear a jacket every day of the year, no matter how hot, because I’m almost always packing. I left her at night while I was out doing things I knew that were wrong. My justification was that the money was going toward making Bitsy safe, but while I may have been protecting her physically, I was damaging her sweet heart.

  What’s really keeping me back? Is it that I fear for her safety, or is it more that I fear for mine? Is it because, like she said before, that I’m a coward? That I’m afraid she’s going to wake up one day, look at all blood on my hands, see the darkness in my heart and run screaming into the arms of one of those suit-clad bankers who cheats on his wife and snorts his millions up his nose? Is that the bolt that keeps my feet rooted to the floor?