by Sam Mariano
Mia shakes her head, losing her smile. “No, I canceled the appointment.”
He scowls. “Why?”
“Because we can’t afford it, so what’s the point?”
“I told you to go to the goddamn appointment. If you want to go to college, you’re going to college.”
“Honestly, it’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s one year,” she assures him. “Lots of people take one year off. It isn’t a big deal. I’ll take this year, we’ll see what we can set aside, and I’ll reapply next year. It’s totally fine.”
His pride can’t handle Mia wanting something he isn’t in a position to give her and since I’m the person he comes to when he needs money, I don’t need the power to read minds to know I’m in his thoughts now.
He doesn’t speak and neither does she, but since he remains in the kitchen watching her finish her task, the moment grows tense. Vince is steeping himself in unproductive thoughts and Mia is doing the dance of avoidance, occupying herself with kitchen tasks so it doesn’t become uncomfortably clear they’ve stopped speaking to one another.
By the time Mia has loaded every dish, scrubbed the sink, and wiped down the counter and stove top, there’s nothing else she can do. Seeming to realize that, she pauses and glances at Vince, still standing there.
“Did you meet Mateo’s new maid?” he asks.
“Yep,” Mia replies evenly. Desperate for something to do, she grabs a magnetic notepad from the refrigerator and opens a drawer to grab a pen. “Did you need me to add any last minute items to the grocery list?”
Vince ignores her attempt to direct the conversation away from me. “She seemed cool. She’s really pretty.”
Mia shoots him a look. “Don’t start with me; I’ll kick your ass.”
His lips curve up faintly, but he’s too busy brooding to even indulge her. Fucking idiot. She gives him an out and he ignores it to kick up shit. “Not for me, obviously,” he answers. “Mateo seems to like her, though.”
“Great,” she says, leaning over the counter to write something on her list.
“Think so?”
He asks easily enough, but we all know that’s a loaded question. Mia’s tense already, wanting desperately not to talk about this. “Sure.”
So he pushes a little harder. “Yeah, Joey was dicking around during drinks—you know how he is—and he started to flirt with her. Mateo got jealous. Shut him right down.”
The pen drops from Mia’s hand to the countertop and she spins around. “Great. I already said it was great. Fantastic. Wonderful. I’m gloriously happy for them. Is that good? Is that sufficient? Should I help her pick out monogrammed towels, or should I at least wait until he fucks her first? If he’s already head over heels, maybe we should look online and see if they have a gift registry.”
Vince is a little floored by the level of response he got. So am I, actually.
“Jesus Christ. Yeah, you are clearly good with it. This is definitely what ‘good with it’ looks like.”
“Well, you won’t leave me alone,” she blurts, bursting with discomfort. “All I want to do is not talk about this, and you won’t let me. For Christ’s sake, we could talk about literally anything else.”
“Why?” he flings back. “Why can’t we talk about this?”
“Because I don’t care about his love life. I don’t care and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What did he say to you in the kitchen?”
“I already told you, nothing.”
“Nothing?” he repeats, in disbelief. “He storms into the kitchen and says nothing?”
Abandoning her list and the kitchen, she moves past him and back toward the living room. “I’m not fighting with you about this.”
He follows her. “You know, seems to me like you should be happy if he likes someone else. If he likes her, we don’t have to worry anymore.”
“We don’t worry,” she states. “You worry. He isn’t doing anything to us now. I haven’t even been anywhere near him without you in months.”
“Until tonight,” he throws back. “And of course you won’t tell me what was said or what went down. That’s not suspicious behavior at all.”
She turns back to stare at him. “Suspicious? I’m sorry, am I on trial now? Suspicious behavior? What is it I’m suspected of, Vince?”
At least he’s smart enough not to answer that one.
Mia turns away, shaking her head and pacing across the living room. She has no direction but she wants to escape. With nowhere to go, she drops onto the couch and curls her legs beneath her. She stares ahead at the television, at the camera, at me. She looks lonely, and I hate it. I know what it’s like to be lonely in the presence of others. I want to go steal her away from her house and bring her back here. I never want her to look lonely and unhappy in Vince’s company again.
Not for the first time, I consider just killing the bastard. It wouldn’t have to be obviously me. We aren’t fighting over anything right now. I could certainly convince Mia it was a sad accident. Hell, I could feign some regret over how I treated him in life, get her comforting me in the wake of his death.
I really, really like the idea of his death, because it almost certainly means I get Mia.
I’m harder pressed to envision a scenario where Vince dies and I don’t get Mia.
Of course, that didn’t go so well last time. I had her to myself for less than a week and nearly drove the poor girl out of her mind.
She has some sort of draw to me, of course, but she can’t handle the reality of me.
That brings my mood back down. Now mine matches Mia’s. Now her loneliness is contagious. I know we could cure that feeling—did, during the course of those days we spent together—but too much damage has been done and it’s not sustainable. My fault. I sit alone in my security room watching her life with someone else, she sits in her own house with an imbecile who doesn’t understand her, and it’s all my fault.
This was supposed to make her happy. He is supposed to make her happy.
Vince walks into the room. The smart thing for him to do after that would be to let it go. I’m already the five ton elephant sitting in the center of their living room, taking up every inch of comfortable space. He should drop it and move along to something more enjoyable. Relax with her, seduce her—anything.
Of course, he doesn’t.
“All I’m saying is, you’re acting like you’re jealous.”
“No, I’m not,” she states. She’s annoyed, but she keeps her tone even, clearly not wanting to escalate things. “I’m acting like I don’t care—because I don’t. Why should I?”
“This is not what it looks like when you don’t care,” he states. “I’m not an idiot, Mia. If he really raped you, why would you be jealous that he’s—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. My jaw even drops a few inches.
Mia stares at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, for a full minute before screeching, “If he raped me? If he really raped me? Did you just say if he raped me?”
It’s far too late now, but Vince wisely does not repeat the stupid thing he just said.
“Fuck you, Vince. Fuck you.” She nods her head decisively, like she wants to double down and she dares him to argue.
“Yeah, ‘fuck me’ is pretty much how it feels,” he finally says.
My head falls back against my chair in utter disbelief. This fucking kid.
Mia stares at him, eyes still wide, then she gets up off the couch and walks back into the kitchen. I have to switch cameras but I keep the living room on in the corner so I can keep an eye on him. Unease prickles through me and I grab my phone, shooting a quick text to Adrian to see what he’s doing in case I need him.
“What are you doing?” Vince demands.
“Leaving,” she states.
My gaze snaps back to the screen.
“Are you texting him?” Vince demands.
He knows she doesn’t have my phone
number. Why does he have to pile stupid on top of stupid?
“I’m texting my mom. I would rather go there than be here with you,” she states.
He heads into the kitchen and I check my phone again. Come on, Adrian; be by your fucking phone.
Since he’s not answering (and he’s here) I scroll down to Dante’s number. I don’t want to call him, especially about this, but he lives near Vince and Mia; he could get there before I could.
Vince grabs Mia’s phone out of her hand. “You’re not going to your mom’s.”
“I didn’t ask your permission,” she flings back, reaching for the phone he holds out of her reach. “Give me my goddamn phone.”
“Who pays for it? I think it’s my phone.”
“Really?” she demands, glaring at him.
This is going to get ugly. I open a text message and ask Dante if he’s home.
Since Vince is being a dick, I’m anticipating he’ll escalate things. Normally when they fight, Mia is the peacekeeper. Whether she’s just fatigued by the same old unfair argument, or tonight was hard on her emotionally and her tolerance is worn down, I’m not quite sure.
I do not expect Vince to say, “I’m sorry, that was—that was a dick thing to say.”
Since he’s backing down and sounding genuinely remorseful for that particular dig, Mia keeps the mantle of anger. “Everything you’re saying to me right now is bullshit. All of it.”
Ordinarily, Vince is not the one to simmer down, but even he must realize he pushed too far tonight. Probably at the same time I grew alarmed—when she said she was leaving, and he didn’t know if she meant leaving him or just leaving the house for some space.
Now he puts the phone down on the counter behind him and grabs Mia when she tries to go for it. “Come on; don’t go to your mom’s. Please. Stay here with me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
She still glares at him, but as he coaxes her and wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her close, she allows it. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t struggle to get away from him, either.
My phone vibrates and I glance down to see Dante’s response. “Yep. What do you need?”
My gaze flickers back to the screen. Mia could keep the fight going, but she hates to fight, so she doesn’t. Vince can always keep a fight going, but he’s feeling threatened and for once he’s making the smarter choice. He pulls her close, tenderly touching her face and neck, brushing his lips across hers until she’s agreeable.
I type out a brief text to Dante about meeting up with him tomorrow. My gaze drifts back to the screen and now Vince is walking Mia into the living room. He gives her a light shove onto the couch and kneels in the floor in front of her, reaching up under that night shirt and dragging her panties down her legs.
I should’ve brought a drink.
“Vince, you don’t have to,” Mia says, attempting to close her legs, but he’s already between them.
He doesn’t listen anyway. He buries his face between her legs and Mia’s head sinks back against the couch. Her soft moan is music to my ears. I crave all her noises. I miss the firsthand experience, but this is better than their overall absence.
She’s off tonight, though. I get that feeling right away. Mia is an intensely responsive lover, but tonight she’s relatively quiet, her body twisting and writhing. There’s no grasping for purchase as pleasure moves through her, no letting go.
It’s boring. I’m never bored by Mia, so I don’t know if this is my fault or Vince’s, but one of us has her fucked up.
Even Mia seems to get bored. Without getting off, she reaches down to get his attention.
“Want to move this to the bedroom?”
He takes it as interest, but I don’t. Leaning forward, I switch the camera back to the bedroom a few seconds ahead of them. As predicted, Vince doesn’t go back and finish the job he started in the living room. I shake my head in disapproval, but Mia doesn’t seem disappointed, furthering my instinct about where this is headed.
After an aggressively mediocre fuck, Vince gets off and Mia doesn’t. He reaches down to remedy that situation, but Mia catches his hand and guides it away.
“I’m fine,” she assures him.
“You don’t want me to—”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, already pulling a sheet around her body.
“Are you okay? You don’t seem into this tonight.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
Bullshit. Mia can pull off a lively fuck while half-asleep. And no one has ever, in the entire history of my sexual experience, been too tired for an orgasm. That’s just a bullshit excuse.
Vince seems to accept it, though. After a brief pause, he says, “All right. I’m gonna go take this off before it gets itchy.”
Another fake smile and nod.
I run a hand across my jaw, adjusting the zoom so I can see her more closely. I want to zoom more, but I have to work within the limitations of the hidden equipment.
As soon as he’s out of the room, Mia sighs heavily, scrubbing her hands down her face, then running her fingers through her hair. I’m agitated, a faint strain of helplessness snaking through me. It shouldn’t be like this. She shouldn’t be there, relapsing and feeling guilt. She needs someone to keep her on track. Vince can’t even control his own demons, let alone corral hers.
Maybe I do need mind-reading abilities. I don’t know which part of tonight she’s feeling badly about, but I know what Mia looks like when she’s shaming herself. I recognize the lack of responsiveness, but most telling, her desire not to come. Mia only starts denying herself orgasms when her shame is weighing on her, and it angers me that he doesn’t know that. It angers me that she’s feeling that way at all. Especially since it’s probably my fault. Well, his fault for bringing it up, but ultimately my fault for unleashing demons on her in the first place.
Goddammit.
Was it him questioning whether or not she was raped? Her own confusion about that whole pocket of time, rubbed raw by his question? Is it because of what actually happened, or because he was on her about it?
Is there even a slim chance it’s because some part of her wonders if he’s the one she should be in bed with tonight?
There are too many possible answers and I’ll never know which one it is. I’ll have to keep an eye on things this week and make sure this is a fluke. Periodically, in the months since Mia and Vince moved into the duplex, I’ve caught a fight night where Mia went into orgasm denial mode, but it’s never lasted beyond a night. Hopefully tomorrow she’ll be back to normal. I can’t really step in; if I do, they’ll know I have surveillance on their house. That will obviously render it significantly less effective.
If I can get her alone, I can talk her through it. Make something up—say he mentioned something to Adrian who in turn told me. It’s much easier to use sex to control Mia, but I can figure something out.
Hopefully it’s a fluke. I’ll check back in tomorrow.
As far as tonight, Mia hears Vince on his way back in so she feigns contentment. He hits the lights and climbs into bed. I can’t see them anymore, but I can still hear the rustling of the bedclothes as he settles in behind her. I can’t see them, but I can imagine he’s holding her. I can imagine she’s resting her hand over his, that he craves her the way I do and he can’t keep from dropping several kisses along her shoulder, trailing up her neck.
Caught somewhere between imagination and memory, I conjure the sweet sounds she would make. Feel the precisely perfect weight of her breast in my hand as I massage the full globe. I can feel her heart kick up a couple speeds beneath my ministrations. Hear her shakily indrawn breaths as my hand snakes down her torso, runs down her abdomen, dips between her legs. Her gasp of surprise as her body arches back against mine, as I tease her clit and give her the hit of pleasure he didn’t. There’s no brushing me off. There will be no more “thanks, but no thanks” if it’s my bed she’s in.
There’s no one fucking delusional enough to buy “I’m t
ired” as an excuse, and to quietly curl up without resolving the matter and then falling asleep satisfied.
God, he is wrong for her.
But he’s her choice. It’s a terrible choice, but it’s hers to make. I might regret it sometimes, but I gave her that.
I can’t even claim to be a better one—I’m just a far more fitting kind of terrible for her.
Maybe he didn’t make her come, but he won’t break her mind, either.
There’s nothing more for me to do here tonight, so I remove the headphones, placing them on the desk. I switch the surveillance off Mia and Vince’s house and bring up the regular cameras. A bone deep wariness comes over me, heavy and inescapable.
I don’t know if it’s loneliness or boredom that compels me to bring up the servants’ quarters, to drag over the surveillance of the new maid’s bedroom. She’s not there, anyway, so I check the communal rooms and find her in the kitchen, making herself a sandwich. I guess I did call her away from her night off without warning, so she probably didn’t get a chance to feed herself first. I’ll do it again next week, too. I need her around when Mia and Vince are here; it’s the only way to test my theory.
I wish I felt even half the interest I feel looking at Mia when I look at her. She’s attractive and generally amusing. I’m sure I could have some fun with her. She’s also right here under my roof, ready and willing. I could pop in there now and tell her to go to my room and she would. I could curl up with my own warm body and try to draw Mia’s noises out of a new person.
Every person is different, though. This isn’t Mia. From behind I might be able to convince myself she is, but then she’ll fail to react the way Mia would, her sighs will be different, her body won’t feel the same. I’d leave the whole situation dissatisfied, and then I’d have the inevitable complications to deal with after the fact.
I did that after Beth. A string of meaningless women, each one more disappointing than the last. Granted, I was comparing them to when things were good with Beth, not the unpleasantness at the end. By that point, a pillow would have been a better partner.
Just remembering how dissatisfying all that was turns me right back off the idea. Rebounding may be physically rewarding, but it’s only emotionally cleansing if you’ve let the last person go, and I haven’t.
