Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  “No message,” he said. “I just couldn’t stop. It’s that simple.”

  She laughed, bitterly, and pressed her hand to her leaky nose, longing for a tissue. “Simple, my ass. You’re anything but simple.”

  He sighed. “Jesus, Viv. This is hell. What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to believe me when I say I love you,” she said.

  He was silent for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “Marry me, then.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Ah…what?”

  “You heard me.”

  She stared at his inscrutable silhouette, then got up and turned on the lamp on the table by the couch. His face was hard, as if he were bracing himself for a blow. She exhaled, slowly. “Jack,” she said.

  “We’re already working on making a baby, right? So let’s go all the way. Tomorrow, we go to town. We’ll get our documents in order.”

  “You bastard,” she whispered.

  “Yes or no, Vivi,” he said. “It’s a simple question.”

  Vivi chose her words carefully. “It’s not a simple question. It’s not a real marriage proposal. It’s a rocket grenade attack. You’re setting me up. And jerking me around.”

  He grunted. “That sounds suspiciously like a no.”

  “That sounds like an it depends,” she said. “If I said yes now, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. Not in the state you’re in.”

  She put her hand against his chest. He stepped back. Her hand dropped. “But since you haven’t said yes, we’ll never know, will we?”

  Dread twisted in Vivi’s stomach. “I need for you to believe me,” she said. “I can’t keep trying to convince you. You’re exhausting me.”

  “So get it over with. Dump me, Viv. I can’t stand the suspense.”

  Vivi pressed her hand against her trembling mouth. “Dump you? How can I? That would imply that we were involved in a relationship. But we never were, according to you. You never let me get that close. You just wanted to fuck me, remember? And stay in the moment. So that’s where I’ve been living, Jack. For weeks, now. The moment.”

  He was silent for a moment. “The moment’s over.”

  “Yeah. I see.” She mopped angrily at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Party’s over, huh? Everybody out of the pool.”

  “Time for you to move on to the next big adventure. No regrets.”

  Vivi put both hands over her face to block out the sight of him.

  “You can stay up in the apartment for as long as you need to, of course,” he added, stiffly. “I’m not throwing you out to the wolves.”

  A derisive laugh jerked out of her. “As if I would. Don’t worry. I’m convinced. I’ll be gone as soon as I can pack.”

  She wiped her hands on her skirt and started to walk past him toward the door. As if she were walking the plank.

  One sign from him, the slightest softening, and she’d fall over backward. Marry him. Have his children. Weld herself to him. She stopped moving when she passed in front of him. Waited. Hoping.

  “Better sooner than later,” was all he had to say.

  Well, then. She walked on outside, as stiff as an automaton.

  She went up to the apartment, began to pack. She hadn’t bought much stuff since she’d been there, just a set of Miraben’s plates. She’d been sprawled all over Jack’s life. Eating off his dishes, using his soap, sleeping in his bed. Too busy madly boinking to think of how she was going to feel when it all came crashing down on her head.

  As she’d known it would. Goddamn it, she’d known. She was so pissed at herself.

  She filled her arms with shopping bags, and staggered to the van. Soldier on, she told herself. You’ve been through worse.

  But she didn’t feel strong. Why bother soldiering on? To where? She was going nowhere. Her life sucked. The Fiend was welcome to it.

  Well, then again. Maybe she wouldn’t go quite that far.

  Several of her new Miraben dishes broke as she tossed the box down onto the floor of the van. She didn’t bother to check how many.

  Chapter

  10

  John waited until the last few people came out of the Wilder Gallery. An hour or so ago there had been an exodus of well-dressed buttheads flooding out of the big opening for some hotshot new artist. The ones trickling out now were the employees of the gallery itself.

  He shrank back into the shadows behind a Dumpster as the skinny foreign slut came out. Her tits were shoved up into a glittering silver tube dress, her lips shiny with hot-red lipstick, and her black hair was freshly bobbed with cruelly short bangs, like a dominatrix. Wilder’s assistant, Damiana.

  She was usually the last one to go, apart from Wilder himself. Probably stayed behind to suck the boss’s dick.

  And there was Wilder, a few minutes later, stepping out the door. Last one to go. Bastard didn’t trust anyone else to close for him. First he armed the alarm with his remote, punching in a code. Then he got to work on all the locks and bolts. After came the rolldown metal door.

  John sauntered over while he was still working on the locks. “Evening, Mr. Wilder.”

  The guy jerked back, hit the door, and dropped his keys. “What?”

  John smiled, toothily. “Good evening,” he repeated.

  “What are you doing here?” Wilder’s forehead was already shiny.

  “I’m here to discuss the phone call we had a couple of hours ago.”

  “What’s there to discuss? I already told you everything I managed to learn. Rafael Siebling was here tonight at the opening. He ran into D’Onofrio yesterday, in Oregon. Some place called Pebble River. She’s opening a shop there. That’s what I was told, and that’s absolutely all I know. I did not speak with her, or get her number. I cannot help you any more than that, so…so, uh, good night.”

  Wilder gave him a smile that said, Alrighty, then, you big inconvenient asshole, you’re dismissed. John waited until that smile started to quiver, and unravel itself. Into the raw components of fear.

  “How about Rafael Siebling’s address?” John asked softly.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have it. It really shouldn’t be all that hard to find. His gallery is very ‘in’ these days, though I can’t imagine why. He has no taste. All flash, no content. I don’t have his number in my cell phone because he’s the last person I would ever call. I don’t even know why he came in here tonight. To gloat, I suppose.”

  “Gloat?” John cut off the guy’s babbling. “Why would he gloat?”

  Wilder made an impatient sound. “Oh, he and Viv are old friends,” he said. “I think he wanted to rub it in about her new boyfriend. As if I gave a shit who she fucks. She could do dogs and pigs for all I care.”

  New boyfriend? A hot, red glow began to obscure John’s vision. His hands clenched. Boyfriend. So, it was true. Vivien, too. A slut, just like her slut sisters. He pictured her writhing and begging, taking it in every hole. And, all the while, laughing at him. Mocking at him.

  Brian had shrunk back against the door, hands up, and his voice was a constant breathless babble that John cut off.

  “What’s the name of the new boyfriend?”

  “Like I care,” Wilder said. “Some big redneck farmer clod.”

  John immediately pictured the raw-boned, thick-necked guy, naked but for a John Deere cap, fucking Vivien from behind. She was bent over a bale of hay, squealing with delight at each poke, and looking up at John, that pink mouth open and panting, eyes bright with lust and malicious glee. Calling John a tub of lard. A big, dumb fuck.

  Punish. He had to punish someone. Had to calm the screaming inside him. The wild hurricane wind. It wanted something. Tidal waves, atom bombs rigged to blow, hammers crushing. Had to be appeased.

  Punish. Now.

  “You must have Siebling’s number in your office files,” he said.

  Wilder looked blank. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re not sure, hmm?” John picked up the bunch of keys, and shoved them into Wilder’
s limp hand. “Let’s go check.”

  “I really…uh…I don’t think that would be a good—”

  “Let’s…go…check.” John hissed the last word, a sharp, silibant punch that made Wilder cringe against the door.

  “Ah, um, whatever,” he muttered. He unlocked the door with hands that shook. “But I’m sure it’s useless.”

  “We’ll see,” John said. Blood roared in his ears.

  The place was dark, but Wilder flipped an all the big hanging banks of lights that hung from the high ceiling. He muttered as John followed him through the main gallery. They passed tables, one of which had several bottles half full of white and red wine, and trays of food with silver brocade cloth napkins flung over them.

  Wilder’s nervous prattle came briefly into focus, like a radio tuning into an elusive frequency. “…useless cunt didn’t even finish cleaning up the food,” he said. “I’m kicking her scrawny little Italian ass tomorrow. If we get rats, it’s her fault.”

  He started up the staircase, shooting nervous little looks over his shoulder. As if he thought John was going to play grab-ass with him.

  But Wilder’s ass did not appeal to him. And it would take a lot more than that to calm the screaming, the pounding inside him.

  He followed Wilder all the way around the upper balcony level of the gallery, to the lavish office in the back. Wilder unlocked the door, and pushed it open, blocking the door with his body. “Ah, one moment,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll check that address for you.”

  Not in this universe, you little squeaking shitbird. John smiled and followed him in. Wilder rolled his eyes and scurried to his desk. He powered up the laptop and thumbed through his desk Rolodex. He clicked and tapped on the laptop, and shook his head.

  “Sorry, no Rafael Siebling here,” he sang out. “Can’t help you.”

  “Then why don’t you just do a search for me, on your computer?”

  The guy looked miffed. As if he were way too important to perform such a basic, simple favor for John. As if he were better than John.

  Giving him that look. The look that said, “You big, dumb fuck.”

  John began walking toward the desk. Wilder turned gray, and scrambled to punch Siebling’s name into the search engine.

  “Hey!” His voice was passionately relieved. “Here’s his gallery’s home site. I’ll just print out this page for you.” The printer’s buttons lit up. It hummed, and spat out a sheet of paper. Wilder grabbed it and handed it to John with a big, fake smile. “See? Address, phone number, e-mail, and website address. So glad to help. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment that I’m already late for.”

  John glanced at his watch. 2:39 A.M. “At this hour?”

  Wilder yanked the door open. “Don’t want to keep her waiting. You know. Women.” That genial tone, that world weary-smile irritated the shit out of John. Condescending to him. You big, dumb fuck.

  The mocking words echoed in his head as he followed Brian out the door onto the gallery walkway. Wilder began walking faster. John lengthened his stride, closed the gap. Wilder began to trot.

  Enough. John leaped, took him down. Wilder’s shoulder hit, with a brutal crunch, against the iron balcony rail. Wilder started to scream.

  It hurt John’s head. There was already too much screaming inside, that constant screaming, driving him crazy. He grabbed the guy by his collar and his belt, lifted, swung, heaved him over the rail….

  The screaming stopped.

  Ah. He could breathe again, in the sweet, calm silence. John panted there for a moment, enjoying a sensation of intense relief, and began to stroll the entire perimeter of the balcony. It gave him an opportunity to enjoy the effect of his handiwork from every angle.

  He was feeling much better. His vision had cleared, his breathing deepened, his heartbeat normalized. He was even feeling…nibblish.

  He stopped at the table next to the enormous Waylan Winthrop bronze that held pride of place in the center of the gallery. The one he’d been so fascinated with a few weeks before. The one entitled Teeth.

  He grabbed one of the napkins, and loaded it up with water crackers, mini caviar sandwiches, chunks of cheese, artichoke tarts. And a couple of juicy pineapple chunks from the remains of the fruit bowl. He’d be wise to tank up on food. There would be no time for a meal. He’d need to race to whatever airport had the earliest flight to Portland, Oregon. That old turd Haupt would insist on going, too, but at least John had finally gotten a lead. Maybe it would earn a break from the scolding. Lucky, that he’d been able to unload some bad energy.

  He stuffed his face with tasty tidbits as he gazed up at the new, revised version of Teeth. Dark drops of blood plopped heavily down, dangerously close to his shoes. He moved his feet out of range and ate another couple of juicy chunks of pineapple as he gazed up, admiring the effect. He dug out his cell, framed the shot, snapped a few pictures.

  He’d gotten a feeling, weeks ago, when he first saw those sharp, spiky teeth pointing straight up into the air, that the sculpture was missing something. It lacked that extra little thing, some color, some interest, that would really make it pop.

  It was perfect, now.

  The gophers were eating the Asiatic lilies again. He was going to have to rotate the bulbs to another field. The idea exhausted him.

  Jack rocked back on his heels and stared at the big, spotted orange lilies, struggling to remember what the fuck he was doing. Bucket. Lilies. Clippers, in his hand. Yes, it would seem that he was cutting them. Then, haul them to the cooler. Before dawn, he had to drive them into Portland.

  He grabbed the bucket, pushed his way listlessly through the towering stalks of Aconitum columbianum. The royal blue blossoms were about to open. The vivid pink of the Campanula medium hurt his eyes. The Penstemon azureus was about ready. And the Crocosmia ‘Lucifer.’ The gladioli, too. He was behind. Slacking off. He’d been too busy rolling around in bed to keep up with his flowers. He was going to lose money if he didn’t haul ass. That idea exhausted him even more.

  He hauled the bucket across the field and squatted in front of the Physostegia, staring stupidly at the white blossoms. Snip. Put the cut stalk upright into the bucket. Mind on what he was doing. Second by second. Better to get used to it all at once. Much better than to get attached just to have it ripped away again. He’d be okay. He always was.

  But she was everywhere. The cosmos flower reminded him of her posture. Colored yarrow, crimson bee balm made him think of her hair, her lips. His bed seemed as wide as a football field without her curled up in it. And her freckles. Faint constellations on her shoulders and throat. He knew them the way an astronomer knew the night sky.

  He stared at a ladybug that was clambering into the glowing white cavity of a half-open Physostegia blossom, and thought of her skin, her throat. Her red hair, vivid against his pillows.

  He’d never even told her he loved her. Didn’t want to confuse things, complicate things.

  It was raining. He’d hunkered on his haunches so long, his feet had fallen asleep. He staggered to a tree and leaned against it, waiting for the pins and needles to die down. Rain pattering on the pine needles reminded him of the first time he’d seen her. The way her shirt clung.

  He picked up the bucket and slogged toward the house, with the vague notion of making coffee, maybe some lunch, though it was late for lunch. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast. He’d have coffee. See if there was anything edible in the fridge. Didn’t really care if there wasn’t.

  In his kitchen, he was as confused and slow as he had been in the field. Coffee. He unscrewed the pot, moving like an arthritic old man. Grabbed the half-and-half out of the fridge. The carton was empty.

  He stared at it, wondering what he must have been thinking, putting an empty carton back into the fridge. So, he’d drink it black.

  It took a long time to realize that the phone was ringing. Even longer to decide whether or not he cared enough to answer it. Whoever was calling was stubborn to
the point of insanity. His brain kept count. Twenty-two rings, twenty-three, twenty-four.

  Blessed silence. He’d just breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back down again when the fucking thing began to ring again. Jack jerked to his feet with a filthy epithet, and grabbed the thing off the wall. “Yeah! Who the hell is this?”

  There was a nervous pause. “Uh, this is Rafael Siebling. Is Vivi there? Because I really need to—”

  “No, she’s not here, and she’s not going to be in the future. Delete this number from your phone, and call her fucking cell.”

  He slammed the phone down, suppressing a twinge of guilt at having been needlessly rude. The guilt evaporated in an instant when the phone rang again. He snatched it up. “What?” he bellowed.

  “I will overlook what an asshole you are because this is so important,” Rafael said, his voice frigid. “I have to talk to Vivi, and I—”

  “I told you! She’s moved out! Call her cell!”

  “I did, you cretin!” Rafael yelled back. “Her cell’s not working! And I have to get in touch with her, like, now! It’s a matter of life or death!”

  Jack finally registered the fear in the man’s voice. Life or death? A chill gripped him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Well, since you’re so monumentally uninterested in anything having to do with Vivi, I won’t bore you with—”

  “Cut the shit.” Jack’s voice slashed across the other man’s nervous bitching. “Just tell me.”

  “It’s a creepy coincidence.” The other man’s voice shook. “I went to an opening at Brian Wilder’s gallery last night. The man is evil incarnate, but I thought it would be fun to do a little networking at Wilder’s expense and let that nasty dickhead know that Vivi’s happy and thriving, since he tried so hard to destroy her. But of course he didn’t succeed, because she’s a goddess with more talent in her pinkie than—”

  “And the creepy coincidence?” Jack’s guts twisted nastily.