by Liz K. Lorde
“What?” I ask.
“Well—“ he laughs nervously, “I mean you’re not like a whore or anything are you?”
“Excuse me?!” I feel my eyes round, “do I dress like one to you?”
“Well!” He says rather loudly, “you’re pretty enough to be one, I don’t know. God. I just don’t want to have to come home and see you crawling over some mountain man or biker or gee oh dee knows what else.”
I fully turn to face him now, and lift my legs onto the comfort of the couch. It only just registers to me how good it feels to have a place to rest my butt for once, instead of the usual uncomfortable places. “Unreal,” I say.
“What?”
“I’m not a whore!” I tell him cross, “I shouldn’t even have to tell you that. And thanks for the back handed compliment, I guess?” He did call me pretty. Usually that simple pat on the head was for the actually pretty girls.
Belle’s sweet smile flashes through my mind, and so too, does a flicker of stupid guilt.
Ray chuckles, “Those are my specialty.”
“Backhanded compliments?”
“Mm-hmm,” he says with exaggeration, taking a swig of his beverage.
“Righttt,” I drawl, “you know it’s only 11AM, right?”
“Honey do you see these bags under my eyes?” He point to the soft shade of drooping purple just below his messily applied eye liner. “They’re my permission slips to be bad.”
I smile at him, and a thought like lightning strikes through my mind. You don’t have to have permission to do bad, you just have to have the need. That need to self destruct, I feel, I feel like it’s always there. Lurking beneath my skin, crawling inside of my bones – pumping like black sludge through my wicked heart. Sadness circles me like starving buzzards eying a fresh meal. I bring my hand to my mouth and clear my throat, “So, why—“
“Did my boyfriend leave me?” A couple of drops from Ray’s rum and coke spill onto the couch, “tits!” He says it like a curse. Ray wets his thumb with his mouth and rubs his finger against the stain.
“No,” I say. It’s clear he wants to talk about that. “Why haven’t you had someone else move in yet? Like, I saw your ad on craigslist. It’s pretty old now.”
Ray sucks air in through his teeth, “Yeah, me and people don’t get along so well.” He gives a very airy laugh, “I’m a control freak. So they say,” the lines of his face straighten out and his blue eyes drift towards the glass coffee table; he brings his gaze back to me, “but you kind of have to be! When you’re in my line of work.”
“Let me guess,” I close my eyes and bring my hand up to my forehead, pretending to be psychic. “ You brew illegal moonshine in the bathtub and peddle it on the black market.”
“Well, no,” Ray starts and narrows his eyes, the lines of his forehead creasing, “but damn if that’s not a half bad idea, girl. I work the courthouse on the corner of 12th and Lions.”
I feel my jaw drop a bit, “You’re a lawyer?”
“Oh honey,” he starts with a chuckle, “I’m so, so much more than that. I’m a public defender.”
SO TWO MONTHS AFTER MEETING with Ray Palmer, and the struggle of finding my way in a city looking to eat me alive has eased, if only just a little. Ray wasn’t the easiest to get along with, but we did make each other laugh, and at least together we’re able to keep a roof over one another’s head.
I’ll take his sassy mouth and melodrama any day over having to fall asleep to the sound of cars passing overhead at night. It’d taken a while, but with his help he actually was able to get me a few gigs babysitting some of the clients that he would end up defending. Some of the clients of Chaos that Ray ended up defending were like, really, really out there. One of them, if I recall, was a single father working as a professional clown. Yeah, you heard that right. Apparently he was dealing OxyContins on the side to the adults when he wasn’t entertaining all of the kiddos.
I’m on my way right now—right after I meet with Waingro—to go and see my next client. Mr. Morgenstern. Honestly I’m not too interested in this Mr. Morgenstern, he’ll just be another gig for me. Now, Waingro, the guy who was selling hats out in the projects? I know that Charles had told me several times to keep away, but I couldn’t resist myself. Maybe I just had a problem with someone telling me ‘no’.
He’s a strange character, that’s for sure. He’s 46 years of age and let me know that he used to be a heavy drug user, which I guess isn’t too surprising from the way that he looks. But you want to know the crazy part? When I approached him a few weeks ago, and I asked him about my mother? He told me that he knew her.
Yeah.
I couldn’t sleep for two days straight after that. Hunger didn’t even phase me. Ray was thinking that I’d taken something because I couldn’t stop smiling. I was happy for once. For just one brief moment, hearing Waingro talk about my Mom and how beautiful she was?
There was nothing like it. And I couldn’t understand why Dad never wanted to talk about her. If she was as smart and beautiful as the man had said, why did Dad never tell me about her? It hurt me to think about all those times I asked about her when I was a kid, and he just never said anything. When I pull up to the projects in which he and Charles hang; Waingro is still out there hustling like usual, putting red and feathered hats on anyone that walks by. He’s trying to sell them for five bucks a piece, letting them know in no uncertain terms how ‘spiffy’ it makes them look. Even for all the addled looks of his person, Waingro had one thing going for him – he worked a good smile, and he kept a good attitude.
Alright, two things. Whatever.
Walking over towards him, Waingro lugs his black garbage bag of hats over his back and cranes his head, smiling brightly when he sees me. “Vee!” He calls out to me. I smile back at him and we close the distance between us, the setting sun bathing the projects in dying orange and gold; casting long and ominous shadows over all.
“Hi Wain, you got anything for me today?” The man didn’t have a phone, so it was a bit harder to keep in touch with him.
“Sorry princess,” he says, a frown walking along the lines of his face, “I don’t got nothing for you today. ‘Less you want a cool new hat to go with that pretty head?”
I raise up a hand, “No I’m good,” I chuckle, “I don’t think a hat will do my body any favors.”
“It takes a real woman to wear a hat, sweetheart.”
“I guess I’m not a real woman, then, now am I?” I shrug my shoulders, “but seriously I’ve been posting all around town, and I’ve had my friend Slim Charles—“
Waingro immediately looks away from me and makes a noise of disgust, “That guy ain’t your friend, what’s he done for you lately?”
“He helps me plenty,” I say in his defense, a rush of anger twisting up my legs and to my stomach. “He was there for me before anyone else, I don’t know why you guys hate each other so much.” Charles had warned me a number of times to stay away from Waingro. His name on the streets—at least according to Charles—was ‘No Good’ Waingro Jones. And even though Charles has explicitly told me that the man does drugs, I simply couldn’t believe that. Not after spending time with him and hearing him talk about my mother. I mean, the man was out here every day – sure he wasn’t employed in the strictest sense – but he was sweating beneath the sun trying to sell a product. If he was still a user, wouldn’t be he dealing drugs or something instead?
Waingro breathes in through his nose, “We got bad history, you know. People don’t like to get along so much, people like to cling on to the things that they hate.” Waingro explains, turning his head to look at a young black woman in a low cut, red top. He brings his gaze back to me, “you know how it is,” he says, “they’re all quick to judge. They were quick to judge your Mom, too. That is until she started making good money tending bars and stripping down at The Silver Fox.”
I know what you’re thinking. That I should go there and see if they have any leads on her.
&nb
sp; But I did that already. And I got a big fat ‘nope, sorry, haven’t seen in her in ages.’ Apparently the management is way different now, so I guess they lost whatever records they had on her.
“Are your friends still keeping their eyes and ears peeled?” I ask him.
He nods excitedly, “Oh yeah, yeah. Damon and Jim? Course,” he replies. Those were a couple of men that I’d met. Friends of Waingro’s. Damon was the tall and slender of the two, and Jim was a rather fat, portly little man – the both of them worked as local movers, so they had a bit of muscle to their persons. “I have them ask every time they get a new job,” Waingro smiles and shows me some of his missing teeth, which, yeah, it’s a little repulsive. Little gross. But if this city has taught me anything, it’s that no matter how hard it beats you down, that you can always come back if you’re willing to bet on the right horse.
That horse? It’s me.
I reach into my torn and faded stonewash jeans, pulling out a crumpled five dollar bill that I’d gotten ready before leaving, and I hand it to him. “Take that for your troubles,” I say.
“Thanks Vee,” he takes the bill from my hand and quickly stuffs it in his paint spattered white pants. “Hey, uh, can I actually get another five though?” He asks, and before I even have the chance to respond he goes: “Been working real hard today man, but you know how it goes, just cause you go hard don’t mean you get paid hard.”
I don’t have a lot of money to just give out right now, but I mean, he’s the closest thing that I’ve gotten to a lead, to get to Mom. “Uhm,” I fidget unsure of myself now, going for my wallet in the other pocket of my pants. “Sure, I guess, just make sure you keep asking around for me.”
“Course Vee, course,” he says practically bouncing with excitement now, and he sniffs the air around us hard. “You’re the best, you know. Just like your mom,” he laughs, “just like your momma.”
It warms my chest to hear him say that, and I let a private smile grace my face. “Here,” I say, giving him another five, “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll be back to check on you in a week or something.”
“Cool,” he says, “hey be safe okay? Don’t let people go around and take advantage, because I know your moms had a great big heart.” He takes my money, stuffs it in that same pocket. And starts back on trying to sell his hats. He shouts for me to take care one last time before I get back in my truck, and I punch in the directions on my phone to my next destination: Mr. Morgenstern’s.
CHAPTER 5
CONNIFER
CHRIST I WISH THESE THINGS came with instructions; the baby Morgana cries in my arms, so very, very unhappy with the way I’m holding her. “Now now,” I shush her in as soothing a voice as I can muster, “don’t cry, come on.” Taking a swig of rum straight from the bottle, I can’t help but feel the weight of the babe’s eyes on me. Judging me for this nasty habit I’d never been able to quit. You’d think that there wasn’t a secret to holding a baby properly, but there definitely is, and even after all of this time I still haven’t gotten it figured out yet.
Her mother and my cousin, Helena, was forced into rehab – and It’s not like I’m happy about having to take care of the little tike – but family’s family.
Thinking on that, a stab of guilt finds my heart.
Family. Something that I didn’t have left, aside from Leo. Every woman in my life was nothing but a quick, beautiful fuck to me. Sure there are talented and fantastic girls out there, but none of them can take me – I’m a force of nature. And I have to be, because of my line of work. The baby’s crying continues as I try to rock her in her purple blanket. “Hey it’s okay, Morgana,” I hope that calling her name might somehow make the fussing stop, but for some reason it only makes things worse. “Do you need a bottle? Huh?” I ask her as if she’ll be able to tell me: ‘Yes, stupid. I could really go for some tit milk right about now, happen to know where my mother is?’
I pull my lips into what I hope is a friendly smile, “Right, lets get you a bottle.”
Morgana does not like this face that I make. How do I know? Well she stops crying as I glide through my lavish apartment, but she’s making this upset scowl.
Now I know my handsome smile didn’t make ya stop cryin girly. What’s the deal?
And where the hell is that damn girl? She was supposed to be here near half an hour ago, and I’ve got places that I have to be.
I feel something warm in my hands, and I move over to the kitchen, setting down my partially filled bottle of rum. I squint my eyes as I slowly come to the realization that the very displeased Morgana is urinating in her diaper. Crap. “Oh that’s great,” I tell her, “that’s real well. You like that don’t ya? You’re gonna be such trouble when you’re older.” I carry the babe with me to my private master bedroom and place her down on the bed where she coos.
There’s a ring at the door, and all of my senses pull to that sound. Like electricity working through me, I bring my gaze towards the front door.
Must be that damn girl. Impeccable timing. I turn around and give Morgana my best ‘smile’ and say, “Now you don’t get into any trouble, or pee anymore for that matter, for about fifteen seconds, okay?”
The baby just waves her hand at me, opening and closing it while she makes incoherent noises.
Turning on my heel, I make long strides towards the front door. I’m wearing tight fitting, athletic black jeans, and I have my leather wallet bulging inside of my pocket. It’s looped through with a silver chain along one of my belt loops. Never leave home without my wallet or belt, for one you never know when you’re going to need to choke a man – so it’s good to have that. For two, it makes a fine tool for punishing a girl if they start acting naughty.
And yes I’m talking about the bedroom.
Practically the only place of worship I ever bother to go to anymore.
I’ve had several problems with all the nannies I’ve tried to get, and my boss and best friend, Leonardo Ligotti was insistent that his bride-to-be Tabitha Godric take care of the young Morgana. But I told him no, no, this was not his problem to deal with. It was mine. And I’m a man, and I have my pride, my stubborn, foolish pride. It’s me and my resources that are going to take care of this family issue, not him.
Bastard.
He always was one to try and have his hand in anything and everything.
Guess that’s why I hold love in my heart for him. Still, I’m determined to not sleep with this one – see that’s the issue. All these sitters? Pretty little things. Can’t help myself, really. When I see them flash their smile, and I take in their red lips, I’m a goner. Never hurts when they’re blessed with a real set of gorgeous tits, either.
I have to have them. Long, hard, and as many times as I can.
Call me an addict if you will, but we’ve all got our problems. Mine just happens to be booze and women.
One typically leads to the other.
Stepping to the rich cherrywood door, I place my big hand on the silver handle, unlock the chain of the door, and swing it open with a quick confidence. Just when I’m ready to unload on the woman for being so damnably late, when I open the door, it feels like someone has thrown a blanket of electricity over me.
Damn. She’s the most stunning creature I’ve ever had the luxury of getting myself lost in. Oh, shit. I’m just standing here now.
I think I see her haunting hazel eyes go wide, and she takes a second to get the words out of her attractive mouth, “Hi… Mr. Morgenstern?” Even her voice is sweet as the scent of roses, though I think I hear a touch of her thorns, too. She brings up a lovely pale little hand to go and shake mine, and instantly I feel the need in my bones to touch her.
I’m supposed to be yelling at her for being late. Supposed to be slamming the front door on her like a couple of the last one’s – and those chicks I didn’t even bother with fucking. Course they wouldn’t have even been able to handle what I’m packing. But this black haired, hazel eyed beauty… she just has this pull on me. I le
t my eyes crawl past her short and cutely crooked to the right nose; with it’s light smattering of barely visible freckles, each one a kiss of angels. There’s two silver studs on her nose, giving her a devilish twist. She has a soft chin and a slender, inviting neck. Beyond that, I feel the primal need to press my lips against the exquisite dip of her collarbone.
Finally coming out of my trance I want to shake her lithe hand, but I find the will to resist and instead say, “You can call me Connifer. You know that you’re late, right?”
She makes a bratty face at me, “I’m sorry?” She says, as if she’s not sure she should be apologizing. “I have some things that I had to do,” she lowers her hand.
“Well,” I start, “when I tell you to be here at a certain time,” I don’t want to look away from this beautiful, tardy woman, but I crane my head to look over at my bedroom where the baby Morgana is. “I expect you to be here,” I bring my head back to look at Vivian.“Understood?”
“Okay boss,” she says dryly, “I’ll keep that in mind if you decide to take me on.” Trust me darling, I’d love to take you on. Any time. Any place. Anywhere.
“Cut it with the attitude, lass,” I cut her down a peg with my words, “if you were serious about this, you’d have been here early. Not late.”
“Okay,” she says defensively, “God, I got busy with something important to me. I didn’t realize I was applying for the babysitting Olympics.”
I narrow my eyes at her and step aside from the door’s frame, bringing my hand up and inviting her in silently.
She steps inside and I close the door behind her. “So where is it?” She asks.
“It?”
“The baby.”
“Her name’s Morgana, Ray didn’t even tell you that, did he? That bastard’s more drunk than he is sober,” I inform her, my eyes falling on this brat’s tight little ass. Normal people would be disgusted when they feel their eight inch cock stiffen at the sight of a young woman’s—my new nanny no less—ass, but me? Christ, what can I say to ya. I’m as shameless as they come. “She’s in the master bedroom,” I add with a distracted lilt to my voice.
