Le Remède

by Densie Webb

  My bottom lip trembled. His passion hadn’t surfaced since—that one incredible night. But hadn’t he just said that he loved me?

  Mack’s interrogation each time I walked in the door, has highlighted how strange his behavior is. “Not even a little tongue?” Mack asked, incredulous. “What is it? One and done? I’m sorry, Andie, but that’s odd,” she said, shaking her head. He’s still on conditional probation, as far as she’s concerned.

  I’ve never been comfortable with casual sex. I tried it once with a guy at Mack’s Christmas party after one too many glasses of champagne. It was quick and mechanical, like having sex with a robot. Not for me. But I’ve never been here before—with a gorgeous guy, who gets my juices flowing, claims we’re fated to be together and who made love to me like I was his lifeline, but hasn’t even hinted at a repeat performance.

  Everything that’s happened since he made a grand entrance into my life flashes across my brain—how he runs lava hot and Arctic cold, how he keeps apologizing for his inexplicable behavior, how he has this unnerving effect on me. If he had stopped calling, it would make more sense. But even when we’re not together, he calls to check how my day is going, to say good morning, to say good night. And he still looks at me like he wants to devour me, yet he’s keeping his distance. And, yes, I’m certain he said he loved me. It makes no sense.

  He’s meeting me after work, as always, but my patience is wearing thin, my insecurities growing, my self-doubt taking over. I can’t stand it anymore. I have to know if I’ve misread all the signals. Could it be, as they say, “he’s just not that into me”? I’m going to find out—the only way I know how.

  Chapter 23

  Vincent

  It’s six-thirty and I’m standing in the lobby of Andie’s office building waiting to accompany her home from work. As much as I want to lay with her, to feel the warmth of her body, I am unsure I can trust myself with her safety again. It’s best if I wait until I take the cure, but I have heard nothing more from Gus. Nor have I had the opportunity to speak with Nicholas for any length of time. His presence at the shop and at home has been scarce.

  Within minutes, weary workers, drained from a day of mind-numbing meetings, pour out from the elevators, buttoning up coats, wrapping scarves, pulling out gloves, before they walk through the two revolving doors, and onto the crowded sidewalk. They bottleneck like a herd of headstrong wildebeest at the Mara River. I was once the crocodile in that river—waiting for my prey. Now, they can safely cross, unharmed and head home to boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, children, pets.

  They’ll eat dinner, spend time together catching up on the events of the day and, eventually, go to bed and fall into a deep, satisfying sleep. Simple pleasures that I live without. I’ve walked through this broken life for so long and yet the detritus of my past hails down on me at the most unexpected moments.

  I learned in the most difficult way imaginable that you can never fully appreciate what you have until it’s taken away. And when the taking is so vile… I spot Andie in the crowd. She looks up from her phone, smiles at me and my dark thoughts are pushed aside.

  When we arrive at her apartment, Andie opens the door and calls out, “Mack?” We’re alone, for the first time since the night we made love. Just the memory of it throws me off balance. I must tell her the truth. But then I imagine her screaming, “Liar!” Spitting in my face. “Liar!

  She heads straight to the kitchen, returns with a bottle of vodka and pours me a glass. I let the clear liquid burn its way down my throat, a reminder of another kind of burn. She does the same, but shakes her head in disgust, and I laugh.

  She’s standing closer now; the energy that runs between us, always tugging at me, drawing me inexorably to her is demanding my attention. I feel her desire, stronger than ever. She connects me to a part of myself that I didn’t even know still existed. I put her beautiful face in my hands and kiss her softly. But a voice in my head, the one that’s struggling to be heard over the crashing waves of passion, whispers a warning. Leave her. Now!

  She presses her breasts to my chest, her breathing heavy. She seductively leans away, her arms locked around my neck. “Mack won’t be back until late.” I’m slipping away. I feel the tide within me surging, the fierce winds blowing, my internal barometer dropping, the creation of a perfect storm, a confluence of factors destined to topple my willpower. I have to stop this while I still can. I grab her arms and pry them from my neck. “Andie, we need to talk.”

  “After,” she whispers, as she cradles my face in her hands and when she raises up to kiss me I hear the flutter of her heart, the rush of blood reddening her cheeks. She smells of fresh rain and roses.

  Her lips are pressed against mine, her tongue hungry for me. I’m standing inches from the equator and I feel as if I might burst into flames. She reaches for my belt. I close my eyes and look at the ceiling as I remind myself of the consequences if I lose control. But I need this. I need Andie, I need to be inside her, to get lost in her, to erase everything, except the present.

  In this moment, I convince myself that we are lovers like any other, taking refuge in each other’s arms. That nothing untoward could happen. As her clothes fall to the floor, I slide my hands down her breasts, her nipples, the soft skin of her belly. Love and lust flood through me.

  I begin to lead her to the bedroom, but she points to the sofa and whispers, “Here.” She’s standing over me, her eyes at half mast, her hair wild, her lips parted. She lowers herself onto me. The instant I’m inside of her, my mistake is confirmed. Even as I realize my terrible error in judgment, I want to breathe inside her, for there to be no separation—no her, no me, only us. She moans and the sound is the kindling, my passion the flint that creates the deadly spark. I am thirst and need. Nothing else.

  I grab her waist and pull her in, going deeper. My movements are frenzied and the rumbling in my chest grows louder. I grab a handful of her hair, jerking her head back as we move our hips in unison. We are all mouths, tongues, fingers, and slippery skin. My control is nowhere to be found, as if it’s a living, breathing thing that has simply walked out and slammed the door, abandoning me.

  An insatiable hunger waits in its stead.

  I push up inside her, my lips on her neck and I pierce her luscious skin—swords through silk. Only her screams pull me from my trance. I release her and she frantically pushes away, slapping her palm to her neck. Her face is painted with fear and revulsion, every bit as intense as the love and desire in her eyes just moments ago. She grabs her coat from the floor, desperate to cover her naked body.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She backs away, holding the coat with one hand, and examining the other, disbelieving. Blood is smeared across her palm, dripping from her fingers. “Vincent, what the hell?” Her voice trembles.

  I fight my way to the surface of the undertow threatening to pull me under. My inability to bend her will, to silence her, is the only thing that has saved her.

  She is yelling at me, suffocating under the weight of disappointment, in her grief over what she believed she had and has now lost. I tell her that I can explain, but she is cursing at me, demanding that I leave and never return. She is beyond explanation.

  I’m filled with shame. If only I could simply wave it away. But nothing can change the bleak reality of the situation. I dress quickly, as she shrinks in the corner, trembling, clutching her coat like a life preserver. Blood is smeared across her hand. I smell it—her blood. I can still taste it on my tongue. Even in my crushing regret, there is this damning desire.

  I take a step back but try once more. “Andie, please, calm yourself. I can explain. Please.”

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Be calm? I’m bleeding for fuck’s sake!” She holds out her trembling, bloody hand to show me. Blood still drips from her neck onto her bare shoulder. I have to turn away. “There’s nothing to explain. Just get the fuck out of here!”

  She is frantic. For now, leaving is best. I step int
o the hall and turn as she slams the door in my face, to cut me out of her life, to rid herself of me.

  But she will learn soon enough that she will never be free of me.

  Nor I of her.

  Chapter 24

  Andie

  My hands tremble and my knees threaten to buckle as I slide the deadbolt in place, locking myself inside, a barricade against the unrelenting, illogical, yet undeniable pull I still feel toward him. His exit is an emotional amputation and I’m certain the pain will haunt me like a phantom limb.

  He must have sensed my weakness, because he made a last desperate attempt to convince me that I was wrong, that I had misunderstood, that he could explain everything. Against all reason, I wanted to believe there was an explanation—more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  But I didn’t believe him. I don’t believe him.

  Sobbing in gasps, I stumble to the bathroom, my hand skimming the textured wall, a tactile reminder of the here and now. It all happened so fast, I’m already questioning my perception. My sanity? His sanity? I flip on the harsh light in the bathroom, open the faucet, cupping my hands to collect the water, and I close my eyes tight, gasping as the icy cold hits my face. The cold water tempers the revulsion, the fear and, yes, the sadness, I feel twisting into an ugly knot.

  I lean against the porcelain bowl sink and stare blankly at my mottled reflection in the bathroom mirror, the water still dripping from my blotchy face—my red, swollen eyes, my cheeks a sloppy mix of tears and snot. I touch my bruised lips and hesitate, before turning my head slowly. Pulling my hair back, I crane my neck. Unsure of my own reflection, I grab a washcloth, wipe the blood away and lean in for a closer look. I stop breathing.

  What the hell has he done to me?

  I mindlessly stumble back to the living room and pace the floor as I mumble to myself. Berate myself. Hate myself. I obsessively run my fingers over my neck, repeatedly going back to the bathroom to check my reflection in the mirror. I drink more vodka. I try to remember if Mack has any weed stashed in her room. Instead, I find a pack of cigarettes and light one, but it sends me into a coughing fit. I toss it in the toilet. I find a few Xanax in her room and pop one in my mouth. I stare at the bottle of vodka before picking it back up to wash the Xanax down with a gag-worthy swig.

  I shower, desperate to wash him off me. Both hands placed flat against the tile wall, I let the hot water beat down, the water turns pink and my tears circle the drain. This is so messed up. He’s sick, twisted. And yet…and yet… I refuse to even allow myself to finish that thought.

  My head is a weight impossible to hold upright. Afraid I could slip into unconsciousness and literally drown in my tears, I step out, dry off. I check my neck in the mirror. Again. All it takes is a glimpse to confirm that it still looks bad. Really bad. I’ve read that human bites are even more likely to get infected than dog bites. If it doesn’t look any better by tomorrow, I’ll have to go to the ER after work.

  I finally crawl under the covers around one a.m. and stare at the ceiling. The throbbing in my neck keeps time with my pulse. But there’s another dimension to my pain; it’s the sting of my heart cut open.

  I’m confused. And unspeakably sad. Is Vincent a sadist? A fetishist? Some fucked up Fifty-Shades-of-Grey weirdo? He likes to bite? I wonder what else he’s into. I stop myself. That’s not my problem. Not anymore. That’s my last conscious thought before everything fades to black.

  I wake up to a deafening sound—a fire alarm, an ambulance? No, it’s my phone alarm. Coming out of the haze of Xanax and vodka is like pulling myself out of a deep, dark well with no foothold. But the squawking tells me in no uncertain terms that, regardless of what happened in my little corner of the world last night, life goes on and if I want to keep my job, I have to go on as well. I open my eyes, but the morning light is an assault on my senses.

  I want to curl up in the fetal position, pull the covers over my head and wait for the pain to go away. Now, with the morning sun invading my room, last night feels like some ghoulish nightmare—the look in his eyes, the way he grabbed my hair and jerked my head back. I reach up and gingerly touch my neck. Shit!

  With all the will I can muster, I drag myself from the warm comfort of my bed and head to the kitchen. I pass Mack’s room. Her door is open. She either never came home or she got up and left early.

  In the bathroom, I stand motionless in front of the mirror, staring at my bare feet on the Travertine tile floor. I convince myself that when I look up, my neck will be smooth, unmarked. I take a couple of deep breaths and quickly pull my hair back and lean in. I suck in air. It’s hideous—swollen, red, bruised—infected?

  My stomach churns and I turn to the toilet just in time to lose the contents of my stomach, which isn’t much. I feel like shit. I wipe my mouth, splash water on my face, make coffee, force myself to eat some dry toast and put on makeup. But makeup won’t hide the damage on my neck. I’ll have to wear a strategically placed scarf.

  I dress and sit at the kitchen island drinking the last few sips of my coffee, trying to force my thoughts away from last night’s debacle and focus on today’s work when my phone rings. I hesitate before fishing the phone out of my purse. It’s Vincent. Does he seriously think all he has to do is call and apologize?

  I feel the heat of humiliation as I remember how I wanted him so badly; nothing has ever come close to the way I wanted—no, I needed him last night. I got the answer to my question and I made a complete fool of myself in the process.

  I drop the still-ringing phone in my purse and drain the last of the coffee from my mug. Standing in front of the mirror in the hall, I rearrange my scarf at least a dozen times and, filled with an indefinable dread, I head out to face the day.

  Chapter 25

  Vincent

  After a torturous night spent berating myself over my nearly disastrous loss of control, I go to Nicholas’ apartment as soon as the sun rises. He’s lying on the sofa, which is now covered with a sheet, but the scent of blood underneath is impossible to ignore. How can he just lie there? It’s like he is intentionally punishing himself, testing his limits.

  Today’s New York Times lays crumpled on the floor next to him. I walk over and pick it up. Maisie’s photograph jumps out at me. Unaware of her fate, her eyes sparkle with the surety of the young that the future is there for the taking. But who among us knows what the future holds? We all, human and Kindred alike, believe that little will change from the day before to the day after. No one begins the day and thinks “today is the day I die.”

  The story is buried on page six. Police are investigating the “brutal murder” in Riverside Park of twenty-two-year-old Maisie Charles. She is survived by her twin sister, Molly, and her grieving parents, Alison and Donald Charles. She was working on a master’s degree in childhood education at Columbia University. She…I toss the paper back on the floor.

  He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move, despite the sound of the newspaper slapping the floor. The lifting tempo of a live jazz recording fills the air, a painful contrast to the circumstances.

  “So, Vincent, how was your evening?” When I don’t move, don’t answer, he turns his head and looks at me, concern in his voice. “Is Andie okay?”

  “Define okay.”

  “Not dead.”

  “Then, yes, she’s okay.”

  “Brilliant.”

  His sarcasm rankles, but I let it go. I know he’s wrestling with his own demons, trying to understand what it all means for his future, for our friendship. He closes his eyes again and I collapse in the armchair, the same chair I sat in when we performed our sad wake, cleansing and disposing of Maisie’s body. Only the music cuts through the silence.

  His finally sits up, roughly rubs his hands over his cheeks. “So, mate, you going to tell me what happened?”

  “I bit her.”

  He hesitates. “But you didn’t…”

  “No. She is confused.”

  His brow furrows. “And you still didn’
t tell her?”

  “She was in no frame of mind to listen. She desperately wanted me out.”

  “So what did she bloody well think you were doing, giving her a love bite?”

  “She believes I am perverted—a sadist.”

  “I’d say there’s more than a grain of truth to that, wouldn’t you?” He laughs too loudly.

  “I fail to see the humor,” I say.

  “Dark humor, mate. Very dark.”

  He sits up straighter, clearly agitated.

  “Vincent, you need to either tell her or turn her.” He stands, walks over to the bar, takes a cold beer from the refrigerator, and takes a few gulps before setting the bottle down on the bar. Without turning around to look at me, he says, “Best case scenario? You bloody well do both.”

  “I won’t turn her. And I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

  He spins around to face me. “I hope you know what you’re doing, mate. If you muck things up, you won’t get a second chance.”

  I know better than anyone that there are no second chances. Perhaps it has been unrealistic of me to believe that either Nicholas or I could live my way indefinitely. I’ve expected too much of myself, of Nicholas.

  As we walk to the shop, I call Andie repeatedly, but she is ignoring my calls. I leave messages that likely will go unheard.

  “Vincent, give it a rest,” Nicholas says, exasperated, “You’ve hit up her cell phone at least five times since we left.”

  “I’m concerned for her well-being.”

  “Go by her flat after we close the shop. If she won’t buzz you in, just hit all the buttons until someone does. Once you’re in the building, she’ll have to talk to you.”

  I shake my head. “No, I must give it time; she will eventually realize just how much we need one another…”