by Eros, Marata
Nope. Right there, waiting.
“What the fuck do we have here?” the loser asks. His black eyes scan Chet.
I feel his gaze and shiver in the dark.
The ringleader stomps the homeless guy in the stomach, and he howls, trying to crawl away.
I swallow, hiding in a jog out along the wall. Shadows claim most of me.
I hope.
“Some slick pretty boy,” his buddy says.
I look from one to the other of them. Gang colors.
Hispanic.
Black.
White.
A goddamned motley crew.
Some have tattooed teardrops underneath their eyes.
Kills.
Some have a scattering of inked tears, some an avalanche.
“Chet, let's go,” I whisper.
Maybe we can get to the street another way. My look down one end of the alley, then the other. It's very dark. Seattle’s budget for light poles is for the streets, not the alley.
Fuck.
“No,” Chet answers softly.
My eyes follow his body as he moves toward the men. His suit coat has been tossed on the pavement. Bits of old cobblestones peek through the pebbled asphalt like forgotten wounds. My eyes flick up from the damp ground.
“Would you look at this fag boy ballsy mother fucker, nice bling you got.”
His cufflinks.
They glitter darkly from Chet's wrists.
My extremities tingle, my palms growing damp.
Chet calmly rolls up his sleeves after pocketing the cufflinks.
“No, hand over the shit,” another says. Then his eyes find me in the shadows. I shrink into the brick wall.
“Ooh... not so much of a gay boy as I thought. Nope, he likes the pussy. Look at that fine ass behind him.”
Five sets of eyes find me.
I cringe, trying to become one with the wall.
No, please, not again, never again. Panic settles into my chest like a bird come to roost.
“Stay there, Kandace,” Chet's voice comes through as though it's traveling underwater.
He doesn't glance behind to check on me.
I don't move.
“We're gonna have us a piece of the Kandace pie. She be thinking banginʼ your rich ass is all she needs? Nah, brother. She needs what I got.” He wraps his hand around his crank and squeezes, his blond hair spiking erratically underneath his patterned bandana.
I breathe through my mouth, trying to stifle the urge to puke.
Chet says nothing. His hands are loose at his sides. He moves with grace as the first one comes at him.
A fist launches at Chet's jaw, and he snaps the elbow as it locks for a blow that never connects. He uses the attacker's momentum to twist the joint as he throws the man behind him.
The man wails, elbow canted at an unnatural angle.
I scoot farther along the wall as he writhes only ten feet in front of me.
Two men grab Chet's arms, and a third pounds his flat stomach.
A little sound slips out of me, and I want to crush my voicebox. I'm so scared my tongue tastes metal.
The fifth comes toward me.
No—swaggers.
Kiki doesn't take rape. I'll die first.
I can't stand the thought of this man touching me where Chet's just been.
“Take your shit off and bend over, baby. I got some love for you,” he says as if I've been waiting my whole life for him to utter those words.
“Fuck you,” I say in a low voice of authority I don't feel.
He gives a manic chuckle. “I'll be fucking you, all right.”
I glance at Chet.
Two men are beside him like fallen bowling pins, and the one who hit him just got his nose flattened like a flesh pancake. It's a splatter of cartilage and blood as he staggers around screaming for his homeboys.
Nobody's answering.
Broken Elbow is mewling on the ground, and Chet steps over him with purpose. Our eyes meet over the shoulder of the man who has wrapped his hand around my breast.
I hit the man’s arm, but he flings my hand away and squeezes.
I whimper at the pain. It's not pain I want.
Then Chet's there.
He puts his face next to the man's. The man's hand tightens on my tit, and I whimper.
Murder fills Chet's eyes, now glacial ice chips.
“Take your hands off my lady, or I'll kill you.”
“Fuck off, dickhead.”
I gasp as Chet tears him off his feet. My palms slap the rough brick.
Chet lands him on top of Broken Elbow then lifts him by his shirt. He throws a punch that rocks the wannabe rapist's head back.
Then another.
Five hard punches later, I come to my senses.
I walk shakily toward Chet as he beats the fucker.
“Chet.” I touch his back.
His fist pounds.
Something cracks. An eyesocket? Cheekbone?
Oh. My. God. “Chet!” I yell, hitting his back with my fist.
He whirls, suddenly an inch from my face, his fist raised.
The skin on his knuckles is gone, and every muscle strains his torn shirt.
He blinks, his arm taut and trembling.
“Kandace?”
“Don't hit me.” It takes everything in me to stand there and not run.
“No,” he says, but his arm remains raised.
I look at it, and he seems to realize his fist is up, ready to punch something, but I’m the only one there.
He lowers his arm slowly as his chest heaves. Seconds slip by, and his breathing slows to something resembling normal.
His eyes skip to the open street. “Let's go.”
I shake my head. I'm fucking beyond freaked. This guy I dig, who sexes me perfectly and was beginning to make me feel—I don't know—loved? He's a fucking violent rager.
Like the other men.
A frustrated sigh slides out of Chet. He grabs my hand and strides down the alley. As he passes the homeless man, he stops and I plow into his back.
Tearing his wallet out of his pants pocket, Chet plucks out several hundred-dollar bills.
They float down to land on the stunned guy's chest.
“Thanks!” Then he coughs into a clenched fist full of cash.
“My pleasure,” Chet answers more to himself than anyone.
The Cheesecake Factory sign glows softly.
I turn away before I can puke.
EIGHTEEN
Kiki
Shadows and light pool, alternating Chet's expression to hidden then open. He stays on his side of the limo. I am opposite him, as far as I can get.
The limo was waiting when we left the destruction of the alley.
Chet never asked if I still wanted cheesecake. One look at my face was enough.
“Why do I feel like I have to apologize for what happened?” he asks.
A streetlamp illuminates his expression. It's unforgiving.
I look at my hands instead of that unreadable expression. “I—it's what I grew up with. Sudden violence. The promise of harm was always just around the corner.” I give a helpless shrug.
My eyes flash to his in the gloom. “And this”—I jerk my thumb toward from where we came from—“is such a déjà vu it's not even funny.”
“They would have raped you for sport, Kandace.” His hand falls to my knee.
Chet touching me feels so right that I don't notice for several seconds. Instead, my mind turns over his words.
“I know. And…” I look at him again. Somehow, he's moved nearer. “I'm so glad you dusted his ass. Even though I'm horrified.”
Neither one of us clarifies who he is.
He holds a stray piece of my hair and rubs it sensuously then moves it behind my shoulder. Chet's fingertips brush my collarbone, and a sigh of pure contentment slips out of my mouth.
“I couldn't let them hurt you,” he says simply.
“Did you have to break the g
uy's arm?” My mind flashes to the memory of the torqued joint, the howls of agony.
His fingers circle my throat, his thumb traveling lightly up and down.
“Yes.”
I swallow, and his thumb rides the movement. His eyes flick to mine. “I would do even more.”
“Would you have killed them?”
His eyes never leave mine. His hand is warm on my neck.
“I think you can answer that.”
I search his eyes, his face.
“Yeah. Yeah you would.”
His face doesn't change. His mouth lowers until I feel the heat of his lips hovering above my own.
“Yes. I would.”
I shiver.
“I'm scared.”
“Of me?” he asks, his lips still suspended.
Truth time. “Yeah.”
He kisses me. It’s not a light press but a devouring of my mouth. I don't respond at first.
Then my mouth becomes a traitor and moves under his. I groan, pulling his face to mine.
I smell blood, sweat, and the sweet scent of Chet.
It's still home.
But it might not be a place I want to live.
*
Chet doesn't come inside, and I don't ask. He hangs off the top of the doorjamb, his long dexterous fingers clutching the top. He swings his body forward and kisses me. I grab his lapel and kiss him back.
His face says he wants to say more, but he's quiet.
Chet retreats a step, folding his arms. His knuckles are a raw disaster, and I look away.
“Do you have the cell I gave you?”
I look at the kitchen table where it lays. “Yeah. I didn't bring it tonight because we were together.”
He grins. “Yes. Very together.”
I think of him hugging me after he made love to me in the theater.
It was somehow a tender cherry dropped on a volatile cake.
So Chet.
So us.
“Carry it with you—everywhere.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing I can't give him up. But I should. A small part of me shrieking to get out while I can.
He backs away, and I close the door when all I see is his back when he enters the elevator.
My purse survived the alley, and I pluck my cell out of it. My hands shake slightly as I cruise through my messages.
There's one from Ax.
It has a pin on a location on Google Maps.
I smile, widening the perspective.
A neon sign centers on the cell screen:
The Crawl.
It's a picture of a crab standing on two legs like a person. Blue eyes glow out of a human-looking face. I smile.
Three words: See ya soon.
I think of Chet’s violence against the men and the kind I like when we're together.
He's not healthy for me.
Just because I want him doesn't mean it's right.
I might have to protect myself—
I don't know.
One thing I do know is I need a shower. I can't stand knowing that creep's hand was on me. I feel as if the filth of his fingertips remains.
I'm in there until the hot water grows lukewarm.
I know I'll have nightmares.
But I don't.
I'm dreamless.
*
I make my way to the Black Rose.
My dirty money is there. I figure with my final paycheck, I’ll have enough to live on for three months. Then it's student loans and back to the grind.
I sigh as I cram the Fiat into a parking space too small for most cars.
Loving on that city ride.
I bob my head at the last note of an awesome song and reluctantly shut off the car.
I get out of the Fiat and walk up to the BR. I’m glad to my toes I don't have to strip anymore.
No more envisioning all the pathetic wieners in the audience as Ronald McDonald’s clowns.
I snort as I click up the steps.
I'm truckinʼ along, keeping my head down and lost in my thoughts.
“Hello, Miss King.”
My face lifts as my high heel hits the top step and my eyes hit on someone at the base of the stairs I just climbed. I shield my eyes from the glare of bright winter sun. A tall woman—she’s well-preserved but in her early forties—wears a plastic smile like a mask.
I smell trouble. I have a nose for it.
I slow in front of the entrance. It's early afternoon and quiet at the Black Rose. The dancers haven’t even arrived for practice yet.
“Yes?” I ask, though I know I don't want to know this broad.
“We haven't met yet.”
“No.” Right, I often get accosted at my former place of work. I fight a telltale hard eye roll. I keep my distance. Miss Coolness notices my not-so-subtle bubble and smiles.
She reminds me of Chloe somehow.
“No,” I repeat somewhat stupidly. I want to kick my own ass. Come on, Kik!
“I'm Clarice Sinclair.”
Some relative of Chet's? Her eyes look at my face then travel to my spiky scarlet pumps. Slowly they move to my hands, taking in my nails and the wide sterling band on my middle finger. She checks out the ta-tas shoved in my favorite bra and the fine sterling chain encircling my throat. My trademark thin-as-paper hoops swing from my lobes. My mop of hair is piled high.
I cross my arms, defensive. This twit acts as if I'm on the auction block. “Okay.”
I give her nothing, letting the silence lengthen. It’s a little trick Faren taught me, and it's highly effective.
But not with old Clarice.
She's lithe, and so pale she should have red hair. Platinum hair with a bit of red is in a simple knot at her nape, and her deep blue eyes regard me like a gnat. Slim fingers lace in front of her. A blinding diamond graces her left ring finger.
Married. Too young to be Chet's mom.
My confusion deepens. I don't know who she is but why she's here is the bigger question.
“You're not his usual type,” Clarice comments almost to herself.
“Listen, doll. I'd like to say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance or some similar shit, but since that's not ever going to happen it's been real.” I flutter my fingers at her reddening face.
“I am Chet's mother, Miss King, and I have come to warn you.”
I turn, taking in her insincere face. “No. You're here about you. I can tell that from the three hundred seconds you've been standing here.”
We stare at each other.
“Fine.” She crosses her arms. “You're not right for Chet.”
Knew it. “So you what? Stalk my ass, come to where I used to work to beg me not to see him? Who is Chet to you?”
“He's my son.”
I snort. “Not likely.”
Not unless she had him at twelve.
“Stepson.”
“That's more like it.”
“You're very sure of yourself, Miss King.”
“You don't bother me. Or anyone like you. You don't know anything about me. Your speculations don't count.”
She smirks, her face one of artful control. “The facts are, you come from a dubious upbringing of mixed origin.”
Tactful prejudice. Still insulting.
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “You're a former stripper and, how can I delicately put this?”
“Don't bother,” I grate.
“Your social interaction leaves much to be desired.”
God. This bitch raised Chet? He'd have to wear armor to survive her.
I cross my arms. “What do you want?”
“Don't see Chet. It's really quite simple.”
I smile. “Nobody tells Chet what to do. I would think you might have figured that out by now, but maybe you're a dim bulb.”
Clarice bares her teeth and steps toward me, looking me straight in the eye.
I know she wants to hit me, but she probably doesn't want to sully her perfection with my perceived lack of it.
/>
“I am not dim. But I will not stand by and let Chet ruin his engagement.”
“What?” I ask, feeling a sucker punch to the gut.
Her lips curl cruelly.
“You didn't know? Why Chloe and Chet have been engaged since time immemorial.”
I retreat from her.
Someone is crushing my chest—I can't breathe.
She saunters closer, hips swaying as she moves in for the kill. She flicks her eyes down me again and smirks. “He'll fuck you, Kandace King, but it is Chloe he will marry.”
She turns away from me as I use the wall to hold me up.
At the bottom step, she turns. A wool jacket is buttoned tight at her chest, and the bottom lifts in the breeze that kicks up.
Like a witch's cape.
I viciously strike down the hysterical bubble of laughter before it can escape.
“Chloe mentioned the misfortune of making your acquaintance. You already know who is right for Chet, Miss King.” Her smirk flattens into a satisfied smile. “Good-bye for now.” Clarice turns gracefully and walks toward a limo that I notice is double parked.
Horns blare, but the blonde queen ignores her rudeness as though it doesn't exist.
I stare long after the limo departs.
I take two cells out of my pocket.
One goes in the all-black garbage can outside the entrance of the Black Rose.
The other I open and send a text to someone who can help me forget.
Everything.
It isn't until I'm home and packing my bag that I realize I forgot to pick up my pay.
NINETEEN
Chet
“Stop shouting!” Mick says loudly.
I control my breathing, trying for calm.
That’s pretty fucking difficult when Kandace has been missing for three days and even Faren doesn't know where she is.
I hold her cell. “This is the last place she was. I find her cell in the BR trash can and, forgive me—it's goddamned damning.”
“Isn't that like a double verb or something?” Mick says, attempting humor.
But mine has vanished. Not that I ever had much to begin with.
“Let me just say it's a little out there that you tracked Kiki's cell,” he says.
I toss the cell on Mick's desk and stalk away. I throw my hands on my head, lace my fingers, and pace. “It was a safety thing.”
