Beyond the Pale Motel

by Francesca Lia Block

  “Just take care of yourself. The way you do with everyone else. He’ll come back or he won’t, but either way you’ll have you. Which beats the alternative.”

  He was right. Why hadn’t I learned that? I thought of my mother, then, drinking too much, taking diet pills, not coming home until dawn, out on another date. While I lay awake in her bed that smelled of cigarettes, watching late-night TV, eating cornflakes for dinner. Telling myself, You’ll never be this kind of mother. Never going to be any kind of mother, now. But I had Skylar. I needed to “have me” for him.

  Cyan rubbed his eyes again and yawned. “Damn, I’m about to pass out. Can I just take a catnap on your couch for, like, ten minutes before I go?”

  “Of course.” I said. It was comforting to have him around anyway.

  An hour later he was still fast asleep, with Sasha sitting on his chest as if she were trying to get him to stay there forever, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake him. His feet hung off the edge of the couch, vulnerable in very clean white socks, his boots placed neatly beside him. I covered him with a blanket, studying the hard, symmetrical angles of his face. You were the best thing that ever happened to him. Was it possible that Cyan…? No. Impossible. He had called me his sister. He just cared about me. Why couldn’t I just let a man care and not try to turn it into more?

  I got in bed with my laptop, feeling a little dejected without my cat, and googled Cyan Berns.

  I’d seen his shots of Dash’s band, of course, and Dash had showed me his brother’s website a long time ago, but I hadn’t thought about it much, except to agree that it would be great if he could photograph our wedding. Now the images looked different to me—clues into the mind of the photographer. Moody shots of run-down motels and abandoned fairgrounds that infused the rotting structures with a beauty they’d never had before. Close-up, color shots of flowers that had been soaked in liquid nitrogen and shattered into fragments. Black-and-white portraits of musicians and models. I couldn’t help it; I looked for Dash. And there he was—an old shot, when he was thinner and still drinking and using. Growling into the mic, his face contorted with shadows. Was she there in the audience—“her”? Had she been watching him, waiting all this time? Of course not. If she’d wanted him, she’d have had him. And she was too young; she probably wasn’t old enough to get into a club back then. I clicked back to the models. Their eyes looked preternaturally big, limbs deerlike, their mouths slightly open, long, wet hair streaming down over their chests. They were thin and perfect. I was an idiot.

  * * *

  I woke a few hours later to a loud sound outside, like someone crashing into a metal trash can. Before I knew what I was doing, I had bolted from the bed and was creeping to the living room. Cyan stood at the window in the dark, looking out. A tall silhouette against the dark leaf patterns beyond the glass. Relief at seeing him was like liquor in my blood. If I had been alone, whom would I have called? Who would have come if I just said I’d heard a noise?

  He turned to me, his finger to his lips, and relief became embarrassment mixed with a tingling feeling in my nipples; I wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Do you have an alarm?” he asked me, looking back outside. His voice was only a whisper.

  “It’s not working. Dash didn’t think we needed it anymore.”

  “I think you should get it working,” he said.

  “What was that sound?” I shivered and my feet cringed against the wooden floorboards.

  “I’m going to go look.”

  “Maybe we should call the cops,” I said, alarmed by the weight of his voice.

  “I’ll just look around a little.”

  Cyan shoved on his boots without sitting down and opened the glass doors. “Lock this behind me, okay?”

  I did as I was told. Stayed in the same place, gripping the edge of the couch where Cyan had slept, listening to my heartbeat exposed bralessly under the thin, vintage Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt. Felt like I waited forever. I heard Cyan hissing at something and the sound of twigs breaking and scuttling leaves.

  When he came back in, I forgot to cover my chest at first. “So, it was a cat?” I asked. Or maybe a coyote?

  “Get an alarm,” Cyan evenly said.

  I got back in bed but couldn’t sleep so I jammed my hand between my thighs and tried to rub away the tension of the night as I thought of Skylar’s hot baseball coach licking me. Cyan’s face appeared in my mind just as I came. I slept fitfully after that.

  * * *

  Cyan had to hit the road the next morning, after a cup of green tea and a promise to send me the pictures of Palm Latitudes for Love Monster; he had some photography jobs in Santa Barbara.

  “Get an alarm,” he said again before he left. “I’ll check in to make sure you do, okay?”

  At work I told Bree about the sound I’d heard in the night. I didn’t mention that Cyan had stayed over.

  “So you’re not sure what it was?” she said.

  “Maybe an animal. It really freaked me out, though.” Stu had come in for his buzz and was watching us so I lowered my voice. “With those killings, and Dash gone … I guess I’m more jumpy than usual. I called the alarm company. Maybe I’ll finally get another dog.” But the guilt was too much. Pinkie would have protected me to the death. And I had basically killed her.

  “Do you want to stay with us tonight?” Bree asked.

  “No. I’ll be okay. You should get an alarm system, too, though.” Bree and Skylar only lived a short distance from me.

  “Excuse me, ladies, I don’t want to interrupt your convo, but I have a meeting at noon in the Valley,” Stu said, cracking his knuckles. I guess he had heard me after all. “And I’m the one who’s obsessed with that serial killer?”

  #5

  A week later Stu was back. “Where’s Bree?” he said, not looking at me.

  “She called in sick. Didn’t she let you know?”

  “Aw, fuck.” He spun on his heel. Then he turned back around and ran a hand over his scalp. His arms were too short but his hands were big and dangled from his wrists. “You want to give it a shot?”

  While I was buzzing him, Stu told me about a new show he was producing called Hook Up, where the audience got to choose which contestants would sleep together.

  “Bree should come on it,” he said. “That woman is so hot. Must be tough, huh? You must hear it all the time.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Although maybe there are some guys who aren’t into skinny women with big tits and flawless skin.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The news was on. Stu picked up the remote and hit the volume. A solemn female newscaster with a dimpled baby face and a deep voice was standing in front of the HOLLYWOOD sign as words appeared on the screen: Hollywood Serial Killer’s Third Strike?

  “This is the third mutilated female body that’s been found in this area. Police still have no leads.…”

  When I’d heard about the ones before, I’d had hope to distract me—my husband, my desire for a child. That day I had only pain from which to be distracted.

  How could someone kill and mutilate? As if these women were things? Pieces of bloody trash. I felt that way myself. I didn’t want to admit it, it sounded self-important, narcissistic. What Dash had done to me was nothing like this. But somehow it brought up that tossed-aside-ness, that vicious severing.

  “I wonder what he did to this one?” Stu’s said. His voice sounded like he was biting the inside of his lip. “Arms, legs. Maybe head this time?” It was like I wasn’t there. Then I wondered if I’d imagined him saying it?

  The chill that went from the nape of my neck down my arms to my hands was not just from the cold air blasting out of the vent. In spite of it the armpits of my T-shirt were soaked through with sweat. A girl’s face appeared on the screen. Wide-eyed, tan, and full-mouthed like the others.

  “The victim has been identified as Michelle Babcock, an aspiring actress and model. She was from Indiana and had come to L
os Angeles to pursue her career while attending USC. She had last been seen after class leaving the USC campus, where she was studying library science.”

  It was my neighbor Skipper.

  Library science? I hadn’t even asked her what her name was.

  It’s not easy to fuck up a buzz cut, but I did it, nicking Stu’s brick-shaped head. His hand whipped out at me and I stepped back so he didn’t make contact.

  “Bitch. What the hell?”

  “Sorry.” Fuckface. Mascara-tainted tears stung my eyes.

  “They should fire your ass. What’s wrong with you? If Bree wasn’t working here, no one would even come around.” He got up and walked out without paying me.

  I, or someone who had hijacked my body, shouted after him, “Good luck with Bree. She wouldn’t fuck you to save her life.”

  I wanted to walk down to the corner liquor store and bring back a bottle of Jack; I could almost taste the burn. Instead I called Bree and our sponsor, Shana, but they didn’t pick up. When I got home, there was a message from Dash, who had heard about Michelle Babcock. I erased the message before it was over; I couldn’t hear his voice. Not when I was alone in the night in what had once been our home, not after what had happened to Michelle. So I called Bree again and this time she answered.

  “Oh my God. Your neighbor. Are you okay? Do you want to stay with us for a while?” I could imagine her twisting her lilac-streaked hair around her fingers the way she did when she was anxious, trying to soothe herself.

  “I’m okay. Stu didn’t help, though.”

  “What a fucker. Don’t listen to him.”

  She asked me again if I wanted to stay there, at least for one night, but I told her no. I didn’t want to leave the house again. When she hung up, I googled Michelle Babcock to see if there was anything about her that might explain why this had happened. The only thing I could see was that she looked a little like the other two women and that they were all model/actresses. Why hadn’t I gotten to know her? Did she have friends in LA? A boyfriend? I’d never seen her jogging with anyone. How alone had she been? What had she felt when that man, whoever he was, had clamped his hands onto her in the dark?

  When I couldn’t think about it anymore, I checked my Facebook page. There was a message from Jarell Hardin. His profile revealed the team he’d played for in the minors, that he was male and single. That he was interested in baseball, music, poetry, yoga, meditation. There were pictures of him coaching, scowling in a hoodie, smiling in a suit, playing baseball, cheering at a Dodgers game, holding a baby, hugging the same child a few years later, both of them serious, staring with round, brown eyes.

  How did anyone hook up before the Internet? Especially if you didn’t go to bars and get wasted. It was so easy online.

  Thanks for making my day with your smile and your Jordans, he had written.

  Thank you for being so cool to Skylar.

  He responded right away. He’s a great kid. With a hot godmother.

  My body contracted gently. And a very, very hot coach, Coach.

  Nice, he messaged.

  Truth, I messaged back.

  Hey, we need some face time soon. I’d like to get to know you better.

  Sounds good.

  Even Bree, who slept with a lot of guys, would not have approved. I hardly knew him at all. And he was Skylar’s coach. But I told myself that made him a good guy, probably, and Little League was a better and safer reference than FU Cupid, especially with what was going on out there in the streets. Besides, I knew how to keep my relationships with men separate from my love for Skylar. And Jarell had come into my life at exactly the right time.

  At that point even if I thought he was dangerous, I might have decided it was worth it. The possibility dangled by that monster, Love, was better than the slow agony of psychologically hemorrhaging to death alone. And now that Cyan was gone and my neighbor was dead, I’d probably be safer with Jarell in my bed than without him anyway.

  Not to mention, I needed all the comfort I could get. And sex was comfort. Short of drinking, which I knew I couldn’t do, it was the quickest way I knew to feel better, at least for a while.

  * * *

  Jarell looked even taller in my house. He probably had at least three inches on Dash and was much leaner, but I was used to seeing Dash crammed in there. Jarell—everything about him was big: eyes, nose, lips, hands, feet. He bent down to hug me lightly. He smelled like weed and, maybe, shea butter? Some expensive and natural cream. I did not believe at all in the sending of angels, but if I did, I would have thought he was one.

  I offered him some sparkling water, which I brought in and poured in the best wineglasses with the gold rims. He sat on the couch, which looked like playhouse furnishing.

  I joined him and we clinked and sipped the water. Up this close he resembled a movie star; his features were so symmetrical it made me uneasy.

  “I hope you don’t mind just having water.”

  “No, that’s cool. That’s cool.”

  “So Skylar’s doing okay so far?” I asked.

  Jarell leaned forward, legs spread, elbows on knees, and looked at me sideways. “Yeah, he’s doing good. He’s a good kid. A little hard on himself, but, yeah.”

  “He really loves baseball. It’s this total passion.”

  “Yeah. It’s a tough road, though. You know, I was in the minors. It was all I thought about, all I did. Well, almost.” His gaze was predatory.

  There were more things I had wanted to ask him—about his career, his childhood, the interests listed on his Facebook page, his son, Skylar—but everything had flown out of my head.

  “Is this your mala?” Jarell pointed out my beads in a gauze bag. I’d moved them into the living room one day but hadn’t actually used them. “Do you meditate?”

  “I should more often,” I said. To be honest I hadn’t meditated since the morning after I’d read about Darcy London’s baby. In spite of my early interest in rosaries, I guess maybe it was Dash who’d been the spiritual one in the family. Or at least he knew how to appear that way. “Do you?” Of course I knew the answer from stalking Jarell’s Facebook page.

  “It helps me stay cool. But the room’s heating up right now.” He finished his water, held out his glass, and I refilled it.

  “If I knew this morning that the hottest man I’d ever seen was coming over, I’d have picked up something else besides Perrier.”

  “The hottest?” He frowned at me. “Who you talking about?”

  I shook my hair out of my eyes (it still smelled vaguely like hot metal from the flatiron) and met his. “Who do you think?”

  He flashed his best head-shot smile. “Okay, well, I hope you’re telling me the truth because otherwise none of it matters.”

  “Okay, maybe not the hottest ever, but the hottest I’ve seen up this close.“

  “Now that I’ll take.” Jarell leaned over and kissed me on the lips. His were twice the size of mine. “How’s that?” he asked.

  I grabbed his face and pulled him into me. We were mad kissing, or I was; his mouth was slow, not urgent. I felt his hands on my waist and I only had a second to worry about the flesh there before he had hoisted me onto his lap, his hands on my ass. The way he did that wasn’t slow or calm at all, though his mouth seemed almost lazy. I felt his hardness pressing up against me, and it made me shiver so much it was a convulsion.

  “You like the feel of that?” he whispered.

  He moved me aside slightly and unzipped his shorts, took out his cock. It was huge and I stopped kissing him to stare at it. Perfect. No wonder his last name was Hardin. I got down on my knees on the wooden floor and put my hands on his inner thighs.

  “You like that?” he asked.

  I nodded dumbly and my mind stuttered. I put my lips softly on him and he shuddered. I bent my head and took just the tip in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the groove, starting to suck. I wondered how much of him I could fit inside me.

  “Slow down, Kitty Cat. If you�
��re not careful with that juicy mouth, I might come right into it.”

  I looked up at him, through my lashes. “Don’t you want to?”

  “Not yet.” He adjusted himself and hauled me up so my legs were straddling his cock. My panties were thinner from dampness and I could feel him pressing into me. Damn.

  “I don’t have a condom,” he whispered. “I didn’t think this would happen when I came over. I don’t want you to think—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “But neither do I.”

  “Then I’m getting one.” He moved me off of him and stood up, zipping his shorts. He leaned over and kissed me once on the lips. “Don’t move from there. I’ll be right back.”

  When Jarell returned from the store and kissed me again, in that same lazy way, his mouth tasted of weed, good weed.

  He put his hands on my hips. “Where are we going to do this?”

  I turned and he followed me to the bedroom, the mattress I’d bought new when Dash and I met. I hadn’t slept with anyone else on it. My body was tensing up as I looked at that bed and I was thinking of the smell of the weed. The taste, too; it was still on my mouth.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Jarell asked, taking out a joint. I lit candles while he fired up. “Want some?”

  Maybe one puff wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t a drug addict anyway; alcohol had always been my thing. It had never led to drinking, had it? They were very different sensations. Weed just made me sleepy normally. It had been a long time. I wanted the ease and grace I imagined it could give me, like Jarell’s grace.

  No, Catt. Maybe a contact high, though. Shit. You need to call Shana in the morning.

  I politely declined the weed, but told him he was welcome to smoke. Then I fell back on the pillows. Rihanna was singing and I closed my eyes to disappear into her voice as he fell on top of me.

  “Your pussy’s so wide-open.” There was a reverence in his voice but it also made me feel a little sick, as if he thought something wasn’t quite right about that, not quite normal. Too easy.

  I tried to stroke his head but the gesture felt overly intimate, as if I were holding his brain, so I put my hands on his shoulders. They were more delicate-feeling than they appeared, though broad. Compared to Dash, Jarell’s whole body was fine, not bulky. But his cock was both long and thick and it pressed against the engorged place inside of me while his pelvic bones massaged my clit. As I came, first from outside, in small, tight spurts of pleasure, and then deep and convulsively from within, I floated up out of my body and watched us fucking below. I wondered if that was the perspective you achieved right before you died. Had Michelle Babcock seen her body this way after she left it?