by Eros, Marata
A body is on the floor.
Caucasian male, early thirties, two hundred... six feet tall. The assessment is automatic.
I sink to a crouch and check the pulse at his carotid artery.
Steady, but out cold.
I stand.
Simone is just standing there.
Early shock.
I scan her body for wounds. There's a red mark at her sternum in the deep vee of her leotard. Solid hit.
Rage surfaces inside me at the thought of anyone touching her in violence.
A second thought hits me. Someone already has, and not just today.
Simone is no stranger to violence.
My eyes slide from the fresh wound to her hand. She's holding that small metal baton. I blink at the solid stainless rod. It's shaped like a dowel, maybe half a foot in length, half inch in diameter.
It's coated with blood.
My gaze lands on the perp at her feet.
He's gone.
He's got the look. There's something about a body without life. It doesn't look asleep; it lacks animation.
Our eyes meet. She seems to sway. Her eyes talk what her mouth can't.
Simone looks at me with need.
I realize I need her more.
I hold out my hand to her. It's the bravest thing I've ever done. The body between separates us in death.
Our lives stand at either side, but strangely parallel. I wish I'd seen it earlier.
But Thorn is a master at denial.
My palm floats in the air, disembodied and adrift.
The seconds tick past. It's forever. A lifetime.
My chest grows heavy with shame. Her rejection is more than my fragile little secret set of emotions can stand.
I didn't realize I had any left.
I'm naked before Simone.
I'm naked without her.
Her hand sliding into mine is like cool water, and that knot of pain releases and becomes warm.
I pull her over the corpse and into my arms.
I want to cry for the first time since I was that eight-year-old boy watching my natural father beat my drugged mother.
Then Simone does, and I don't have to.
She cries for us both.
“Thorn's here,” I say softly, holding her against me and folding all that kinky black hair into my fist as though it's a rope that tethers us.
It's so soft in my hand.
14
Simone
I'm so full of shame I think it leaks onto Thorn.
I can't stop holding his hand.
He hasn't let go of me since he pulled me out of that shithole.
Thorn scooped up my duffel bag and dragged me out of my bedroom.
When I hesitated over the glass on the kitchen floor, he tucked me under his arm like a football and carried me as if I weighed nothing.
I held onto his arm as he did, and closed my eyes, pressing my head into his side. He set me down carefully and, without a word, hauled me up the stairs of my apartment.
He slings the duffel one-handed into the tiny trunk of his red sports car and goes to his side.
I still can’t let him go.
“Hey, baby,” he says in French.
I cry harder.
“Okay, okay. Come 'ere.”
Football again.
When we get to his side, he folds me into his car. I scoot across the seat. He looks at our linked hands and shuts the door with his left. Depressing the clutch, he shifts with my hand tied with his.
Somehow, we get to Kiki’s in one piece.
*
A chain rattles then the door tears open. The air from the velocity of the door swinging causes Kiki’s hair to lift.
“What on God's green earth?” She takes in the disaster of our clothes, our faces.
“Kik,” Thorn prompts.
She does a little jump. “No problem, guys, come right in. Kiki takes all comers, ne’er do wells, stray cats...”
“Kiki, shut up.” He sounds tired.
Kiki whacks Thorn on the back of the head. “No. Be nice or leave.”
Thorn turns on a dime, looming over Kiki, and I think they'll come to blows.
Kiki drives her finger into his chest. “I'm sorry that you’re glued to Simone and pissed about it.”
My stomach drops at her words.
“And that some French dude is sniffing around your girl.”
His girl. A flutter of excitement develops where churning was.
“But! That doesn't”—poke—“give ya the right”—stab—“to treat Kiki like shit!”
Thorn looks at our laced hands, and I let him go.
He grabs me and shoves my body against his.
I hide my smile against the flat planes of his chest.
Thorn sighs, absently stroking my hair. “I'm sorry, Kik. It's been a day.”
Kiki vigorously nods. “Yeah, first Chet then that weirdo Shepard...”
Thorn puts a finger under my chin. “We gotta talk.”
I knew this would come.
I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “Anything I say will put you in jeopardy.”
Kiki rolls her eyes. “Jesus, ya assholes, I kinda want to know what the hell you're saying.”
I feel my face grow hot.
“I'm sorry. I just... When I get stressed out, English doesn't come first.”
“What did you say?” Kiki asks.
I glance at Thorn then at her. “I don't want to be responsible for your life.”
“Moi?” Kiki asks. Thorn and I cringe. She makes a face at our expressions. “Piss off, elitists.”
I watch the fine wheels of her mind turn. Her eyes flick to Thorn, then gravitate to mine. “You mean my death?”
I nod.
“Well—fuck me.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“I need to get my drunk on to deal with these revelations,” Kiki says, moving into the kitchen.
Clanking and muttering, including the occasional colorful word, reaches us.
Thorn's lips twitch.
“She's quite a character,” I observe.
“Loyal as hell,” he adds.
The way he says it makes me give him a sidelong glance.
“Like you?”
He turns toward me. His palm goes to his chest as though he thinks I've asked the wrong person.
I put my hand over his. His heart beats beneath our hands.
I nod. “Like you.”
He stares at me for a second, his hard eyes edged with softness.
“Don't tell no one about Thorn.”
I shake my head. “Never.”
The secret of his still waters running deep is safe with me. I would never bring a drought to that.
Thorn guards his goodness so well it would take someone seasoned to see it.
For what I have to say, he'll need it.
*
Kiki slurps the last of her drink, a Sex on the Driveway, and stands. She totters on her heels. “I'm getting another. Any takers?”
“Ya don't need another one, Kik,” Thorn says in a dry tone.
I have to agree, but since I'm a guest in her house, I stay silent.
Her eyes laser on Thorn.
“Just sayin',” he says.
“Yeah…?” Her eyebrows pop. “Don't.”
Thorn's hands dangle between his knees. A muscular leg like a tree trunk presses against mine as we sit on her couch.
“Fine!” Kiki throws up her hands then looks at me. “Spill.”
I take a deep breath. Thorn lays his hand on my thigh then lifts it.
Go ahead, his gesture says.
“I don't want you to die,” I begin.
They stare at me. Kiki's eyes are round, and Thorn's are thoughtful.
She gives a little laugh. “Girl, Kiki doesn't want to die either.”
I nod quickly, blinking often. I wring my raw hands. I’ve washed them three times, scrubbed off what I've done.
But my soul remembers: them
or me.
“La foule Français.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Kiki taps her chin with a nail tip. “Frenchie?”
I glance at my clenching hands and nod. “Yes. Shepard.”
I lift my chin.
“I am their mule.”
Thorn gives me a sharp look. I feel he might withdraw from me.
My bravery balances along a tight wire.
“What—a donkey?” Kiki asks, and Thorn hangs his head.
I meet Kiki's eyes. “No, I smuggle drugs to foreign countries and provide... comfort for gentlemen of the trade.”
Comfort comes out something like criminal.
I let it stand. My remorse hangs in the air like the smell of rain before it falls.
“So…” Kiki's eyes train on me with compassion. “You know I love ya, right?”
I understand the American vernacular well enough to know she means she holds great affection for me.
I nod.
“So you put smack in your sweet spot, and then after it's delivered, you screw the men.”
I close my eyes for a long second. That's not a perfect translation, but it’s close enough.
I own it, though I am a prisoner. Was.
“Yes.”
“How?” Thorn clips. His word is like a painful slap.
I struggle not to become defensive.
“The mechanics of it, or why I would do it?”
Kiki looks from me to Thorn.
“Holy shit… both, Simone,” he exclaims.
I search his face. I find many emotions there, including the one I hope for: faith.
Thorn has faith there's a good reason for what I've done. That he can put it somewhere in his mind that makes sense.
I start at the beginning. “My grandmother is Nigerian.”
“I knew you were a sista!” Kiki says, palm up.
I've never felt less like high-fiving, but I slap her hand anyway.
Thorn's eyes move over my features. I know that a little bit of my ancestry peeks out around the edges, but generally, people aren’t sharp enough to guess it. They merely lump everyone of color into the same dim category: black.
I am Simone.
Actually, I’m Juliette Marcel, and I consider myself French.
15
Thorn
“I know a little about the drug trade,” I say carefully. I watch her face. Shame, remorse, and some other slice of bad hangs around her features, smearing them until I want to wipe away those feelings.
Her eyes snap to mine. “What?”
I sigh. This isn't very undercover of me, but basically, my goose is fucking cooked. If my DNA is found at her apartment, I'm linked to those murders. I'm obligated to come forward.
It's my duty.
But I can't. If I do, they'll stick a microscope up Simone's ass and never let up.
She's the victim here. I haven't heard her words yet, but I know it.
The real story's probably worse than my speculations.
I scrub my head, slowly letting out the air in my lungs. I think about how she never noticed the cherry on the hood of my car.
“I'm an undercover cop.”
Simone shoots up from the couch like a rocket. Kiki gives a little yelp and stands up too, knocking her empty cup over on the coffee table.
Remnants of Blue Curaçao dribbles over the side and beats a dripping rhythm on the wood floor.
“Shit!” Simone says in a strangled word, making her way for the door.
I try to remain calm when every fiber of me wants to freak out. “Simone,” I keep my voice low and steady, “where the fuck do you think you're gonna go?”
I rise from the couch and move to her. I'm not letting her go out and run into what's-his-nuts.
She looks so lush standing by the door, her misery like the pull of a magnet. Instead of adding to it like the dysfunctional Thorn of before, I want to erase it. A first.
I stand in front of her. My hand goes to her nape, and I pull her toward me until our faces align. When a paper can't slide between our lips, I suck at hers. Not gently either, sipping, pecking, and bruising her full mouth.
I want Simone. Murderess. Drug smuggler. Whore for the French mob.
My words are the shit, but my body shows her what it's really about.
“God damn,” Kiki says. “I've got a guest room for all that.” Her palm swings behind her.
My hand sweeps up from Simone's neck and dives into her hair. The other hand joins the first, and I hold her head, moving my lips over hers in a continuous press of heat. I can't stop. Kiki's comments roll off my back into the blankness of I don't give a shit.
Simone struggles, and my grip tightens for a split second. I need her to know that I want to possess her.
I finally release her, and she steps away. Her hand automatically goes to her swollen, raw lips.
“I'm not fucking you over because I'm the law.” I didn't fully appreciate that I wasn't until just then. “I'm telling you so ya know that what you tell Thorn, stays with Thorn. Maybe, because of the work I do, you know I'll get what you say.”
Simone sinks in a recliner directly behind her, and my hands reluctantly trail off her body. She's not sitting to relax. She perches on the end of the seat like a fragile bird readying for flight.
She lifts a shaky hand to push her heavy black hair out of her face.
“I'm more than a mule.”
Sounds like a confession.
Kiki moves to stand beside me.
“I'm highly trained.” Her eyes bounce to ours then glance away. “Hand-to-hand combat, martial arts, sex. I speak four languages and have a running knowledge of the government in six countries.”
Kiki whistles. “Damn, you're like a spy or something.”
Simone shakes her hands slowly.
I crouch, taking her hands in my own. “Then what are you?”
“Yeah.”
This from Kiki.
“I'm a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I stroke her knuckles.
They're missing skin. She packed some punches against those perps. Like anyone in a fight, she won't feel the abuse she sustained until it's over.
“I was fourteen when I met Shep.” Her words are soft, but her breaths come faster when she talks about that French prick.
I want to kick his ass so bad, I can feel the texture of his blood on my hands.
“What?” Kiki asks. “I won't lie, I'm not diggin' where this is going...”
Me neither.
Simone speaks to the hands I hold. They grow cool within my grasp.
“He's a cherry picker.”
I stiffen, totally connecting the dots for the meaning behind those words.
“He acquires new talent. Young girls who are exotic enough to blend into whatever country they visit, beautiful enough to appeal to many foreign nationals... and smart enough to be taught defense, linguistics, and etiquette.”
“That's not all he does, is it?” Kiki guesses softly.
The first hot splash of tears hits my hand. I gather her into my lap and sit back on my ass.
“How old, Simone?” I ask, not wanting the answer, but needing it.
She sucks in a sobbing breath. “Shep waited until I was sixteen.”
What a dick.
“That fucking perv!” Kiki yells.
I hug Simone tight. Kiki and me—we get it. We were used when we were young too.
Doesn't make it right, but we know.
Simone pulls away, looking deeply into my eyes. My heart.
Soul.
God damn.
“Technically, no,” she says. “In France, sixteen is the age of consent.”
Kiki makes a noise. “Yeah, if a girl that age is even consenting to anything.”
Yeah. “I know what sixteen is... and any girl that age is too young,” I say.
Simone nods. “Shep's considered a 'tender' picker.'” Simone gives a little shiver, and not a good one. �
��Some would have taken my virginity the instant they sealed the deal.”
“Did you have a choice?” In a low voice, I add, “Did you fucking consent, Simone? Or was it just rape?”
Her face tells me, and I pound my fist on the wood floor. Simone hops in my lap from the force.
She waits through my outburst. “I knew what my place was. I didn't know anything about sex, naked men... any of it. He was decent to me, slow... But I didn't want to, of course. I was sixteen and had no one else.”
I open my mouth. Simone presses her finger against my lips.
“Thorn, they owned me.” Her eyes brim, tears slipping onto her face and I catch them before they fall. “I knew the alternative was just someone other than Shepard.”
She shakes her head. “If you knew what some of the other girls go through... My treatment was humane.”
“There's not a goddamned thing humane about some man coercing a young girl to give it up because she feels there’s no other option,” Kiki says loudly.
Simone nods. “You're right.”
“Hell yeah, I am!” Kiki says emphatically.
I exhale in a rush. “What happened?”
“My family sold me.” She says it without flinching, like stating the weather being cold or hot.
I close my eyes.
I know exactly where she's at.
“My grandmother had a debt in Nigeria. They were calling it in. In that country, descendants can be made to pay an elder's debt.” Simone gives a helpless little shrug. “My parents knew that if I did this...”
She clasps her hands harder.
I hug her tighter.
“Then your whole family wouldn't have to pay her debt.”
Simone gives a single miserable nod.
“But why did your French parents not see the atrocity of that?”
“They love me, but my father is half-Nigerian. No matter how much my mother wailed and cried, Shepard got me.”
“Is that the fucker's real name?” Kiki asks.
Simone shakes her head. “No, we all have false identities.”
She trails her hand along my jaw, and I lean into it like a cat for a scratch. “What is your real name, Thorn?”
I smile, and she feels my happiness fill her hand.
“Tyson Marius Simon.”
“Wow,” she breathes. “A mouthful.”
I kiss her palm. I know what I want to put in her mouth. Then I frown. Her story sucks balls, and I'm thinking sex. Balls. Sex. Nice, Thorn.
