When I heard Hemming’s howl of pain, I instinctively knew what I had to do. I grabbed a hammer that I had been using to hang up picture frames of me and Billie and stormed out the now-open door. Hemming dodged the boy’s knife with astonishing agility, but deep red stains marked his crisp white shirt where he had unsuccessfully avoided the attacks. As soon as I stepped out of the pool house, the boy turned with a startling sharpness, and a smile much too wide appeared on his stretched face. I faltered for a moment, struck by his disturbing expression.
“Come with me now. It would be so much easier for you,” the boy said, stalking towards me as though he hadn’t eaten in centuries, and I was the most delicious ice cream Sundae he had ever laid eyes on.
I readied myself for his attack, trying to make sense of his nonsense. “Why in the heck would I do that?” I questioned, wondering why the trio of kids was even here in the first place. “Who are you?”
The boy threw his head back and gave a guttural laugh. “We hunt the Fox,” he sprang forward, knife first. I buzzed with energy and easily got out of his way, pushing him to the ground as he lunged past me. I needed to see him bleed. With one fluid motion, I slammed the hammer to his head, like his skull was the most finicky nail I had ever encountered. After a few hacks, bone gave way to a mushy underbelly. When I realized it was the boy’s brain, a fit of laughter shook my body, starting in my gut and working its way up.
One by one, Hemming dragged their little bodies to the side yard, out of the view of the main house and the street. He didn’t speak for a long time but ushered me inside the pool house and locked the door behind us. Together, we scrubbed the floor, wiping away the remains of the black-eyed girl with lemon-scented Spray & Mop. Hemming picked up the skillet with a pair of oven mitts, revealing a brand in the hardwood that no amount of cleaning would remove. I stared out the window into the side-yard, making sure the kids hadn’t magically sprung back to life, but their small frames still lay motionless in the moonlight.
“The bodies will disappear with the sunrise,” Hemming interrupted, peering over my shoulder at the view.
“As in, a woodland elf will slink away with their corpses after joining us for breakfast?” I wouldn’t be surprised if a yeti hopped out of the freezer at this point. “I just killed two children. CHILDREN.” I whispered, my hands shaking.
Hemming stared back, breathing ragged, and eventually settled into the couch, not responding to my outburst. “Are you hurt?” I eyed his bloody shirt. The red patch originating from below his collarbone seemed to be the most severe. I loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button, revealing perfectly intact flesh underneath.
He cleared his throat, wriggling free of my grasp, “Only a scratch. I’m fine, Miss Fox.” He grabbed my hand from exploring more, “I will stay here until dawn to make sure no more intruders burden you. In the meantime, I know you have many questions, but I would prefer if we saved those for another time. Then, I promise to disclose all of my knowledge to you, but for now, I’d greatly appreciate pretending that we didn’t just endure Samhain’s offerings. I’d also like something to drink.”
I had many pressing questions, but my stomach growled with a fierce hunger, so I relented and hobbled into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, surprised to find it fully stocked. Aunt June must’ve taken my sudden hunger seriously, because an assortment of cold cuts, thick steaks, bay scallops, olives, and fancy cheeses were nestled into the first shelf, followed by milk, ginger ale, pomegranate and fresh orange juice on the second. Hemming reached into the pantry, digging out several bottles of what looked like some kind of hooch. Where did that come from? And more importantly, how did he know the bottles were there? Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the pantry, revealing an array of cereals, boxes of rice, cookies, and pasta.
I positioned myself on the counter, watching Hemming stir together an elixir out of scotch, vermouth, Cherry Heering, and orange juice, which he clanked around with spoon and served straight up, no ice, in two tall glasses. “A Blood & Sand for the lady,” he handed me a glass. I took a sip, which was delicious—citrusy and refreshing.
I buzzed with energy and knew keeping my questions to myself would be challenging. Still in my Ariel costume, I noticed the skirt had ripped and one of my shells had fallen off. I climbed up to my bedroom to change into satin sleep shorts, rimmed with lace, and threw on a hoodie over my t-shirt. The feeling of taking off the corset was incredibly satisfying, and I decided to ditch the entire concept of a bra altogether for the night.
“Let me ask you one question,” I mumbled, pulling on fuzzy socks. “Only one for tonight, then I swear to take a vow of silence.”
“Just one, Miss Fox, and I mean it. I can’t answer any more tonight,” he relented, going through the cabinets, searching for a snack.
“You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”
“That is a very complex question we shall save for another time.”
“The answer is yes, then?”
“Yes, I am aware of your current…affliction,” Hemming answered, handing me three oatmeal cream pies wrapped in crinkly plastic. “I will elaborate more later, but it is essential to keep your blood sugar levels elevated by the hour, otherwise you will feel ill.” He started unwrapping a pie for himself, devouring it in two bites. “Hypoglycemia presents with extreme hunger, sweating, and a racing heartbeat. You are symptomatic. Your heartbeat has always been irregular, but the pace has heightened in the past few weeks.”
“How do you know that? Did you strap a heart monitor to me when I wasn’t looking?” I didn’t pause for an answer. “You’re telling me that the only thing wrong with me is I have diabetes?”
Hemming almost spat out his cocktail. “No, Miss Fox, I know your heartbeat because I can hear it, even from standing over here. I own an ice cream shop, not a physician’s practice. I am in no position to medically diagnose you. However, I can tell you that your condition predates medical practice, perhaps even Pangaea.” I opened my mouth to ask Hemming what he meant about hearing my heartbeat from across the room, but he cut me off. “You’ve exceeded your question limit,” Hemming interrupted, and I flung myself on the couch with a big huff of irritation. Hemming joined me, but placed himself on the opposite side and flicked on the television. I had already finished my oatmeal pies, but I heard him opening his last one and snatched it from his hand before the pie met his mouth.
“Murder and thievery in one night?” he asked, one side of his lip twitching.
I shrugged and spoke through a mouthful of oatmeal cream pie, “I need my strength to endure the impending hours of your oppressive silence.”
“What was that?” he asked, but I was certain he understood me perfectly fine.
“Something something, diabetes? Can you hear my diabetes from over there? Can you smell my blood pressure?” I teased, smacking him hard with a throw pillow. He countered my attack by pulling off one of my fuzzy socks and tossing it across the room.
“You’ll pay for that,” I promised through gritted teeth as I stood, “Your punishment will be just but fair,” I added, suppressing a giggle.
Long fingers gripped around my wrist, pulling me off balance in my slightly inebriated state. The alcohol played a role, but I was intoxicated by the moment and the lingering adrenaline from a fresh kill. I landed next to Hemming on the couch, so close that our thighs brushed. I longed to touch him, to sweep a single finger across his shadowed jaw. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe in his scent. I needed to run my hands across his broad shoulders, feeling the curvature of his powerful arms and journeying downward to…
“Your intimidation tactics lack finesse,” Hemming intersected my fantasy, poking my side, making me buckle over in a fit of ticklish laughter. “First off, don’t threaten unless you intend to follow through. Otherwise, you’re about as frightening as a baby platypus drinking milk from its mother’s teat.”
“Platypuses don’t have nipples,” I shot back, “Not to m
ention they’re venomous. They can produce enough venom to kill a dog. You can Google it.”
“I’ll—mmm— take your word for it,” Hemming replied with a raised brow. “Back to what I was saying, if you wish to be truly intimidating, you mustn’t be so predictable. You lack the element of surprise.” He dodged an incoming pillow, “And quite frankly, subtlety.”
I leaned forward to whisper in his ear, but stopped short to meet his lips with mine. His lips were soft, warm and deeply satisfying; his body radiated heat, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on a cold night. Our kiss was hesitant, more like a question than a declaration. Feeling daring, I lifted a hand to graze the prickly stubble on his jaw and run my fingers through his thick hair, but he didn’t return my touch. I opened my eyes and pulled back to examine his expression, which seemed conflicted. The lights flickered on and off in the background. The corner of Hemming’s mouth twitched as he studied my face, moving his gaze down my body, all the way to my remaining sock, and glanced away. His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed and smoothed invisible wrinkles from his slacks. The only thing I was conflicted about was the decision to retreat into the depths of my embarrassment or to climb into Hemming’s lap. When several moments passed without a word, I burned with humiliation and scooted away from him. Wasn’t he flirting with me? Had I misread him? I heard Hemming clear his throat but didn’t bother meeting his gaze. All of the blood in my body rushed to my cheeks, and I was sure I looked like a shamed tomato.
“Look at me, Miss Fox,” Hemming warned, and I reluctantly did as he said. “I feel nothing, all the time. It’s part of my curse. Do not fool yourself into thinking I could ever feel an iota of emotion towards you. I am your boss. You are my employee, not even a woman, but a girl. I am helping you, not because it’s how I choose to spend my free time, but because I am obligated. Any time you waste thinking otherwise will result in precious moments of your life you will never get back. Do you comprehend?” His expression was cold and stern, but faltered slightly in the dim light. The pain that seeped through reminded me of my own; the same pain that reflected back at me each morning while I tried to camouflage it with foundation and mascara.
“I understand,” I whispered in surrender and went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. All I saw was the back of his head. He stared at the television, but he wasn’t really watching the program. “Whatever happened to you—I want you to know I’m sorry.” He turned his head toward my voice without glancing at me. He gave me a curt nod. I moved in front of him, grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. I wanted his full attention. “But you’re wrong about me. A couple of months ago, I was a girl. I let people tell me what to do and how to feel. I never questioned anything, because when I did, there were consequences. I was always scared of making the wrong move or displeasing my stupid foster mother, Joy. They wanted me to feel ashamed for wanting things, like cake and college and the freedom of short sleeves. They should be the ones ashamed, though. Their words and beliefs were poison. I will never be that girl again. She is a stranger to me. I hate frosting-less Pop Tarts, wearing long sleeves in summer, and Brushy Fork, Kentucky. Whatever is happening to me, like this evening’s events, it’s happening to me because I allow it—I refuse to ignore what’s right in front of me. Which is why I know you’re full of malarkey. Good night.”
8
Pastries & Curses
I rose with the sun the following morning, scurrying to the window overlooking the side yard, where the remains of last night’s events were discarded. A glance through the window left me in a panic. The bodies of the black-eyed children were no longer sprawled out, lifeless in the grass. Instead, only a shadow of their forms remained amongst the greenery. I descended down the loft ladder and into the living room with such haste that my socks couldn’t catch any traction when they met the wooden floorboards. Feet overhead, I hit the creaky floor with a loud thud.
“Where are they?” I shouted into the kitchen, but Hemming was gone.
Billie slumped into the pool house wearing sunglasses sometime later and mumbled that we should go grab breakfast. We ended up at Café con Leche, whose brick front was nestled between a couple of cute shops I had yet to explore. Lured by the smell of potent, fresh coffee, Billie and I hurried in. The interior of the café was quirky: all of the walls were different bright colors and none of the tables or chairs matched. We ordered at the counter, adorned with pastry and cake displays in front of a menu written in chalk.
Billie and I claimed a table by the window and discussed last night’s events as we waited on our breakfast. She insisted I relay my happenings prior to her own briefing. Of course, I omitted the killing black-eyed children portion, saying that Hemming had walked me home and I laid the moves on him. I drifted over every signal he dropped, the play fighting, and his insistence on staying the night. I rounded off the long-winded elaboration with Hemming’s rejection.
“What the fuck?” Billie blurted out, removing her sunglasses, ignoring the waitress who brought our steaming coffee and pastries over. I mouthed ‘thank you’ to her as she shot a worried look between Billie and me. “But he was hard, right?”
“Hard?” I asked through a mouthful of monkey bread.
“Sorry, I forget you’re unfamiliar with the male anatomy,” Billie took a sip of frothy coffee. “Did he have an erection? Was his penis at attention? Was there a tent in his pants?” she rattled off a little too loudly, and I shuddered.
I glanced around the café, making sure no one else had heard her. “Good god, ask the entire neighborhood, why don’t you?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I needed to keep an eye out. Does that kind of thing happen often to men?” I wondered, then slurped the whipped cream off my coffee.
“Well, yeah. That’s typically what happens when they become aroused.”
“Did you and Caper have…” I gulped. Embarrassed, I lowered my voice, “…sex last night?” I had been holding back the question, because I thought it was an unsavory topic for breakfast.
“Duh,” Billie replied, plunging her fork into a piece of crumbly coffee cake. She had my full attention now. I’d never met someone willing to discuss casual sex.
“And…?” I prompted, wishing she would elaborate.
“And what? What do you wanna know? His penis has an odd curve to it, kind of like a bana—”
“That’s not what I meant!” I blushed. “I meant, do you feel any different, since you, you know…lost your virginity?”
Billie nearly spat her coffee on me. She put down her cup and smoothed out her blouse before speaking. “You’re not serious, right?”
“Well, I heard that once a woman loses her virginity, she changes. It’s like, a noticeable change. She’s different from then on,” I explained, summarizing W.H.O.R.E.’s sex education course. “Did it hurt?”
Billie shook with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. Everyone in the shop was staring at us now. “Let’s get out of here,” she said when she finally caught her breath. I nodded, and we hopped into her jeep that was parallel parked in front of the cafe.
“Where are we going?” I questioned when Billie drove past our house.
“Think of this as ‘Sex ed. Saturday,’” Billie replied cheerily, lowering the volume on the radio. She peered over at me squirming uncomfortably in the seat, and I stared out the window. “I can tell that what I’m about to say is going to be hard for you to wrap your mind around…It might even be earth-shattering for you. So, just for today, I want you to forget everything you’ve been told about sex and listen to me. And if you don’t mention the Bible all day then I’ll—” she thought for a moment, pursing her lips, “I’ll buy us hamburgers and fries for lunch, from my favorite place. Deal?”
Sure, my compliance could be bought with greasy junk food. “Deal,” I agreed.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she grinned and tapped excitedly on her zebra print steering wheel. “Now, first lesson: like men, women have sex before mar
riage. Perfectly normal, perfectly natural. The future of my father’s farm isn’t reliant on my maidenhood—he’s not trading my hand in marriage for a herd of cattle.”
She paused, waiting for me to say something, and when I didn’t, she pressed on, “Alright, good. I can see that you’re processing what I’ve said. Let’s move on to lesson number two: I don’t know why people use losing-your-virginity-scare tactics. They’re totally not true. But let me go on record and say: my first time didn’t hurt. There was no popping of anything. The only thing worth relaying about my first time was that it lasted all of about 45-seconds behind a kayak rack at summer camp before the start of eleventh grade.”
Ever since I got my period, I had been told that sex was not enjoyable, especially not the first time, since losing your virginity meant breaking your hymen, which was, apparently, a flappy thing inside of a woman. Horror stories of bloody wedding-night sheets were told in Charms class by Mrs. Miller. “Virginity is the one thing a woman’s got to offer a man. Without it, she’s nothin’,” she’d tell the class as we clung to her every word, making notes on the dry erase board.
Billie went over the details of her sex life. She’d only had one serious boyfriend, Ryan, sophomore year of college, and six lovers before that. She felt compelled to break up with her boyfriend because the sex was boring, and sexual compatibility was a deal-breaker for her. After Ryan, Billie participated in a few flings here and there.
We pulled up to “TOYS ‘N’ THINGS” in Port St. Joe a while later, which was attached to a gas station. The store’s windows were blacked out, which I found intimidating and odd.
“Are we at a s-s-sex shop?” I asked, mortified. Billie unbuckled her seatbelt and strolled out of the jeep without answering. When I didn’t move, she stalked to the passenger side door, unbuckled my seatbelt, and jerked me out of the seat and into the sketchy shop of horrors.
Kate Fox & The Three Kings Page 13
