by Stacey Longo
She came out of the small kitchen at the sound of the door closing. She wore his pajama pants, rolled up quite a bit at the waist and still huge on her, and a white t-shirt, which billowed around her.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m still here. I made dinner,” she said. Her smile was hopeful, and she waited for a response before taking a breath or moving towards him.
“I was hoping you’d still be here.” He took a few steps towards her, then stopped. “What did you make? It smells like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. It smells amazing.”
“I had to work with what you had, which wasn’t all that much.”
Billy smiled and shrugged.
“I was going to make something impressive…filet mignon with a port wine demi-glace reduction or something like that….”
“I don’t have filet mignon,” he interrupted.
She looked at him, a falsely stern expression on her face. “So I noticed.”
Billy took the two steps to be right in front of her and pulled her up against him. He kissed her, quickly, with the sort of fleeting passion usually reserved for couples very much in love but very accustomed to each other’s presence.
Billy noticed this, his comfort with her, and wondered if it was simple infatuation or something more.
“So I decided that a man, who’s been at work all day, toiling in the fields and whatnot, doesn’t need impressive food; he needs something wholesome, something to fill him up. So I made Shepherd’s pie, without the lamb, because you didn’t have any.”
“Ooh, I love Shepherd’s pie. Don’t like lamb though. That’s why I don’t have any. But if that tastes as good as it smells…”
It tasted better actually.
And it did not end there by any means. She stayed again that night, and the next day he came home to a life that tempted him with its simplicity, its offer of bliss, its room to dream.
He spent the weekend with her, at her hotel room, since, as she’d said, “I’m paying for it, let’s use it a bit.”
Things were moving fast, fast enough that Billy felt he should be apprehensive, but so directly towards a desired destination that he couldn’t help but feel like he was just making good time.
After coming home from work a little over a week after they’d first met, he asked her, “What exactly are we doing here?”
She looked at him with eyes that were big and glossy, the eyes of fear. “What do you mean?”
“What are we doing? Is this some sort of fling, where we’ll have a little romance and then you’ll leave as suddenly as you came?”
“Is that what you want it to be?” Her eyes hadn’t changed.
“It’s up to you, really. I can’t hold you captive here if you decide you’re going to leave. But if you do intend to pack up and go in a little while, I don’t want to let myself get too attached. There’s no point in setting myself up for pain.”
And then the emotion in her eyes dropped away from fear, hurtled right past relief, and settled into happiness. She sighed.
“That’s not what I thought you meant.” She lifted her hand to his cheek, caressed it for a moment, and said, “I didn’t have a plan when I came here. No timeline. It’s not a fling that I want. You know that. You can let yourself get attached; I already am.”
He smiled. “Are you?”
She held up her hand, her thumb and index finger separated by a centimeter. “Just a little.”
***
Days flowed by like hours. As the trickle of time became a brook and then a stream, so their affinity for one another grew in intensity.
Billy found himself awed by Keiana, who seemed to know about everything and at least dabble in every possible field of study and practice.
She made her living as a painter, an artist who could even make Billy, not usually one to appreciate art, stare in open-mouthed amazement at her work.
Her vision of the world was dark and beautiful. She composed scenes of night in ways that no one else ever had, as, it seemed, she saw it as no other could.
Her pieces captured hues and shadows, auras and minute details that were often lost to observers after the twilight. She took a midnight scene and helped the viewer to know the light that they didn’t realize was there: the yellows, oranges, reds, and deep blues of the night sky, the lush indigos and violets of what is white in sunlight, shades of black that human eye cannot see without using her artwork as a lens.
Keiana presented the nocturnal world through feline eyes that reflected light back out into it even as she took it all in. In her, the mystery and splendor of the dark were both realized and reconciled.
She rented out a warehouse, a small one, but more than adequate for her purposes, and began selling her work.
She had formal parties where the wealthy drank and pretended to understand her paintings and made sure they were seen by the other social elite. Most importantly, they spent fortune’s buying her work, as a larger price meant a greater symbol of status.
The warehouse had a New York vibe, with high ceilings, exposed pipes, and walls painted glossy white without variation, which helped the rich Texans feel fashionable and avant-garde.
Billy was happy, happier than he’d been with Emily, even in the beginning, and much happier than during his trysts with Susan Walker. Keiana reminded Billy that there remained in the world the essence of something special and vaguely attainable, something for a cowboy to fight for if he actually looked for it.
***
Billy’s days were spent at work and his nights were owned by Keiana. He never questioned her nocturnal lifestyle, always assuming that artists were simply different, running on biorhythms opposite of everyone else.
He spent the few hours between the workday’s end and sundown in deepest thought, an abyss of introspection. He was in love. He was sure of that and sure she felt the same. The problem he encountered lay where his feelings for her intersected with their practical application. Should he propose? Would that turn her away? Perhaps she would think he was rushing things? Maybe he actually was rushing things. But then there was always…
He longed, not only for something to fight for, but also to fight against. His daddy always said that a good man is at his most noble during a struggle, and Billy felt like a struggle would help him to clarify things, to make the hieroglyph that is woman, and this female enigma especially, decipherable. He needed his Rosetta Stone.
And, of course, he got one, but not in the way he’d expected.
***
Billy and Keiana had agreed to meet at Johnny Ringo’s at dusk, to have a drink or two and listen to a few songs before going home.
Billy got there early. He was tired of pondering his inability to take action. Instead he cut his confusing meditation short and went to the bar.
He hadn’t been going there nearly as often in the few months since Keiana had walked into the bar and, subsequently, his life, but he still went often enough, usually in her company.
It was Friday, so he knew that Morgan Dunn would be tending the bar. He walked in and sat at what was still his usual spot.
“How you doing, stranger? Your visits are getting less and less frequent,” Morgan said as she made her way towards him. She got to the interior edge of the bar, and he started leaning over it before her hands had begun to beckon him.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and said, “Just been especially busy.” He slid himself back onto his barstool.
“She taking good care of you?”
“Better than I deserve, probably,” he said.
“Good. You look happy, Billy. And I’m happy to see it.” She paused. “What are you drinking tonight?”
“I’ll have a Guinness…thanks, Morgan.”
She looked at him before walking away, and in a brief and silent moment, they had a long conversation, and both understood that they were appreciated. She walked to the taps and started pouring his drink.
“So where is she tonight, anyway?” Morgan hollered over the taps
.
“She’ll be here in a little bit,” he said. “She was going over a few paintings, but she’s probably just about wrapping up.”
The door to the bar opened, letting in a crack of light, the orange hues of a blossoming sunset.
Billy smiled, his eyes locked on the door.
Susan Walker entered, and damned if she didn’t look right over at Billy, catching him before he’d even had a chance to stop smiling.
Morgan placed the pint down in front of Billy and went to another customer.
Susan made her way around the bar with a bounce in her step that was only noticeable in her breasts.
Don’t you dare come over here and sour my mood, Billy thought.
But of course she did.
“Hi, Billy. Where’s your new girlfriend?” she asked as she stopped at the stool next to his.
“She’ll be here. What do you want, Susan?” He took a big gulp of Guinness and held the slightly bitter taste in his mouth before swallowing it.
“Why did you never give us a chance? After the mess, I mean, when we actually could have had one?” She sat down on the stool.
Damn it, just leave me alone! “Because I didn’t want to,” he said.
“But why? I thought maybe there was something there between us.”
“There was. Adultery.”
She stood again, pouted her lips a bit, and tried to stab at Billy’s soul with the blueness of her eyes, but they proved not to be quite piercing enough, and without that important factor, her seductive pout made her look childish, like a bratty little girl who’s not getting what she wants. “There was more than that. We had fun together. I made you happy.” She started to touch his shoulder, only a bit at first, but then began to slip her hand over the muscles in his upper back.
“What the hell are you doing?” Billy asked. He stood up and took a step back.
Then something at the door caught Susan’s eye, and just as Billy thought to turn to see what, she threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around him and trying to kiss his mouth, but only getting the very corner of it.
Billy pushed her off and turned to the door, just in time to see the first shimmer of tears yet to be cried in Keiana’s eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Billy screamed at Susan.
Keiana turned and rushed out the door. Billy followed, sprinting around the bar and almost slipping at the turn.
“Billy, wait,” Susan said before following close behind.
Billy plowed through the door and caught Keiana by the shoulder. “Please, wait. That wasn’t what it looked like. She’s a psycho.”
“No bullshit, Billy. No games. I’m so tired of them,” she said. She began to cry, the tears flowing freely as she sobbed in between her words. “What were you doing? Just toying with me?”
Then Susan Walker burst through the door and stopped short.
There was a silent moment of triangular tension, a brief eternity in which they formed a small geometric universe, outside of which nothing existed, while inside the future was on the verge of exploding into being.
Billy looked from Keiana to Susan and back. Keiana’s tear streaked face had changed when he looked back to it. Her sadness was gone, and rage had replaced it. Her mouth twisted into a sneer, and, Billy saw with incredulity, her fangs glistened in the purple light of dusk.
She moved, viciously fast, and was at Susan’s back, her right hand over Susan’s mouth, pulling up her chin and exposing her throat. Keiana was there before Susan had time to register that she’d moved.
“You’ve got a choice to make. Me or the whore who keeps trying to ruin your life. You can only have one. My game now. You know where to find me once you’ve decided,” Keiana said. Her lips pulled back and, like a wolf, like a monster, she bared her fangs at him.
Susan’s eyes widened. The immensity of what was occurring was only gradually setting in, fading slowly into her understanding so as not to overload her sanity.
Keiana tightened her grip over Susan’s mouth to smother the scream that was still building in her diaphragm. Her left arm slid around Susan’s waste.
Keiana lowered herself slightly, her knees bending almost imperceptibly.
“Keiana.” Billy took a step towards her.
She paused and looked at him, and he found himself wanting for something to say, unable to vocalize the multitude of thoughts and emotions that had overwhelmed him.
Keiana jumped, taking Susan, who outweighed her by at least ten pounds, into the air. They never descended. They shot up into the darkness above and were gone.
***
Billy drove home in a daze. What the hell had just happened? Goddamn Susan Walker was like a cancer that kept appearing to destroy him, even after he thought he was in remission; she lurked amidst the cellular structure of his life, waiting to mutate his happiness.
But Keiana was what? A vampire? The impossible? The stuff of nightmares and horror stories?
Billy felt like Anne Rice was God and she was typing out his existence for her next best seller, to be read by people who wondered when the hell Lestat was going to show up in this story.
He skidded to a stop in front of his apartment.
The unreality of his situation prevented him from choosing a course of action.
You’ve got a choice to make. Her words echoed among his thoughts.
He walked into his apartment.
Billy went immediately to the kitchen, got a shot glass and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, and poured himself a drink.
The small glass felt heavy in his hand, as if there was so much more to it than booze. He held it up, not yet drinking, hoping that the burn of it and the numbness of it would help him to think more clearly.
It was to be the first drop of whiskey Billy’d had in months.
His grip relaxed, the pressure of his fingers against the glass eased, and the shot fell to the floor, shattering and spraying sharp slivers of whiskey around his feet.
Billy grabbed the neck of the bottle, turned, and, with a snarl, threw it to the ground to break against the cheap tile.
He’d gone that route once before, and he knew that it didn’t take him anywhere. It was no time to slip into old habits, especially not that one.
What would Daddy do? Billy asked himself. What’s right, he answered.
The vampire was unnatural; it was evil. That was what legends older than Billy could fully appreciate had been saying since stories were passed down orally from one generation to the next, by the light of a fire, around which children heard for the first time about the evil ones, the vampires who fed off the life of others to perpetuate their own.
He’d been raised to realize that sometimes what was right and what you wanted didn’t line up, and to know that on those occasions you had to do what was right, no matter how difficult or painful, no matter what you sacrificed.
It was a situation that called for a hero, Billy decided. Although he loved her, Keiana was not the good, was not the thing to fight for. He was to struggle, and through that, his world would become clear.
He went and got his daddy’s hat and jacket, his daddy’s boots. Then he loaded his daddy’s guns and holstered them. He stood for a moment before the photo of his father and a younger form of himself.
Time to play the hero.
***
Billy had started to drive towards Keiana’s hotel before he realized that she would not have gone there. He turned and headed towards her warehouse.
He got there quickly but approached the door slowly.
He didn’t know what she was capable of doing. He also didn’t know his own capabilities. Legends told of the power of holy water and garlic, silver and sunlight. He only had his six-shooters, though, so they would have to suffice.
He mustered up his courage and walked through the door. Nearly all of the lights were off, the exception being a few spotlights that highlighted certain pieces. In front of one knelt Susan. She was gagged and her hands and ankles were
bound behind her with the thin twine that Keiana used to wrap pieces that had been sold.
Then he heard a noise, coming from the darkness that concealed the ceiling. He looked, and as his eyes adjusted, he could distinguish Keiana’s form, crawling along the ceiling, moving like a spider on a web, her limbs never pausing to grip, her rhythm smooth and uninterrupted.
Then she let go and dropped to the floor, landing as if the forty plus foot drop had been mere inches.
She looked him up and down: the hat, the protuberances of his pistols beneath his jacket.
“Well howdy, gunslinger,” she said, faking a Texan’s twang. Her fangs were still out, but the rage had left her face. She looked uncertain.
She took one step towards Billy, and he had a gun out quicker than Doc Holiday ever could have. He held it in his right hand, barrel pointed straight at her.
“So you’ve decided, then?” she asked. Tears welled up in her eyes again. She took another step towards him.
He twitched but didn’t shoot.
“How do you decide which side the good is, Billy?”
She ran at him, and he fired three times.
The first bullet hit her in the face, grazed along her cheek, and tore away skin and muscle to expose the bone.
Before the second bullet had struck, her face was already reconstructing itself. Muscle stitched and knit together over the exposed bone; skin spread across fresh muscle like liquid and solidified, unblemished.
The second bullet hit her in the stomach, and the third in the shoulder.
Then she stopped, just in front of him. Tears rolled down the newly formed skin on her cheek.
“I thought maybe you really loved me,” she said. The bullet fell out of her stomach and onto the floor. Then the bullet in her shoulder did the same, forced out by her body’s regeneration.
“I do love you,” Billy said. He let his hand fall to his side; the gun wasn’t doing anything anyway.
“Then why choose her?” Keiana asked. She stopped crying and furrowed her brow.
“I’m not. I don’t want her, haven’t since before I met you. But…you’re evil.”
“I’m evil? Me? Not the trash you cheated on your wife with, the one who wants you again only because you’re taken again? She lives off misery. That’s evil.”
