The Lost Night

by Megan Maguire

  “Something happened between them, but I don’t have all the details. Some ongoing feud.” She exhales a second breath and speaks slower. “The mayor said not to touch him. He just wanted the car back for his wife. Then a few weeks back he changed his mind and wanted him dead. I heard Trevor hit her.”

  “Great, not only did he steal the mayor’s car, but he hit the mayor’s wife? And the mayor wanted him dead? What a bunch of winners.” I open one eye. “And he was after you because you took a car back that he stole? You’re not telling me everything.”

  “I am. That’s it.” She stands, looks down at me. “Stay awake. I have to rinse the washcloth.”

  I want to get up and follow her, but I can’t stand. I’m still dizzy. And shaky. And dazed. But I need to get off the floor. I need to do something. I need to walk to know that I still can.

  “Dylan, just lie still for now.” She scurries back from the kitchen and rolls me on my side, washing the blood off my face. “A nosebleed can look worse than a murder scene.” She pinches and holds my nostrils closed, just below the hard bone. “But once it stops and the blood is gone, you’ll never even know you were hit. As long as it’s not broken.”

  “It’s not broken. My head hurts more than my nose.” I reach for my coat, taking the smooshed stick of butter from the pocket, placing it next to her leg.

  “That should be the last thing on your mind.”

  “No.”

  “No? Why no, Dylan?”

  “Because I like thinking about you. You’re the best thing to have on my mind.”

  She sits cross-legged at my side, gathering her nightshirt between her legs in an attempt at modesty. The repetitive motion of her wiping my face, along with the Vicodin kicking in, eases the sharp, throbbing pains.

  “You’re so handsome.” She traces the shape of my lips with her pinky. “And clean. Almost good as new.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Dylan, you’re going to be okay.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “How do you know?” I whisper back.

  “Because you’ve lost yourself in me.”

  My laughter becomes a wince, my muscles tensing up. “Conceited much?” I say.

  “Always.” She winks.

  “Well”—I prop myself up on my elbow—“I’d much rather be lost in you than feel so incredibly lonely being lost in myself.” The urge to kiss her is overwhelming. “I need something.” Holding her side, I steal a soft kiss. Her lips part, welcoming my advance, but then she quickly shies away.

  “You were totally determined to see me tonight.” She blushes, trying to hide a smile. “I love your stubbornness.”

  The door buzzer interrupts my longing. She rushes away and buzzes someone inside. There’s a knock on the door a minute later. The peephole is checked. The door opens.

  “Autumn Black?”

  She nods. “He’s there.” She points at me, locking the door behind a heavyset older man with a croaky voice.

  “How ya doin’, son?” His creaky knees settle next to me, a strong stench of liquor on his breath. He drops a black satchel that looks like it’s from the Victorian era, digs inside, and takes out a needle. It’s thrust into my arm before I can object.

  “Ow! What the hell is that?”

  “It’ll ease the pain.” He yanks it out.

  I was floating a second ago, relaxed from the pill, everything serene with just Autumn and me. Now my heart is beating like a ferocious beast.

  “I gave him Vicodin,” Autumn says.

  “Hmm … I suppose you should’ve mentioned that when I walked in.”

  I twist on the floor. “I need to get up. My heart’s blowing up inside my chest. I can feel it pushing against my ribs. Something’s smothering me. I can’t breathe!”

  “Don’t panic.” He flashes a light into my eyes. “I asked how you’re doin’. You know your name? You remember what happened?”

  “Yeah, I know my name. Dylan Marzley. I got hit in the back of my head a bunch of times and got cut.” I lift my hand. “But I don’t want stitches.”

  “He’s got a stab wound on his back,” Autumn says.

  “No stitches.” I shake my head. “Do you know this guy?” I ask her. “Who is he?”

  Autumn shrugs. “I was told to ask if I ever needed help and they’d send someone over.”

  “Who’re they?” I ask.

  She shrugs again.

  The guy turns me on my stomach. “Don’t look,” he says.

  “Don’t look at what?” I cry out as he sticks the tip of his finger into my stab wound, prying it open. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I was talking to her,” he says. “Autumn, don’t look.”

  “Quit it!” I shout.

  “It’s not terribly deep,” he says.

  He sets a brown bottle and gauze at my side. “This will sting,” he says, and it does, “and this will hurt,” he says, and it does. He stitches my back, and that frickin’ hurts more than anything. I hate needles more than I hate hospitals and doctors.

  Autumn hovers, supervising. I try to focus on her feet instead of the pain, cursing over, and over, and over again.

  “You finished yet?” I complain.

  “That part is,” he says.

  “Only four stitches, Dylan. You’re okay,” Autumn says.

  “No. No, I’m not okay. What did this guy shoot me up with?”

  “A powerful painkiller,” he answers while examining my palm. “And yes, you’re fine. Don’t panic.”

  “I’m not panicking!” I am panicking. “Ow! Stop poking me with needles. What was that?”

  “A sedative.”

  “I don’t need that. I don’t need any more drugs!”

  Everything is happening so fast. I need a second to breathe. I need time to comprehend what’s going on. I try to sit up, but the room spins whenever I lift my head.

  “I don’t care about the cut, or the hole in my back, or my bloody nose. What’s painful is my…” Blackness creeps into my vision, either from the drugs or the knocks to my head. “… pain … my head…”

  Someone catches me before I hit the floor, but I wasn’t upright, so I don’t know how I could collapse. My eyelids are leaden with sleep, unable to be pried open. My shoes, socks, and jeans are taken off. I float out of the room and fall onto a bed where a fleecy blanket covers my cold body.

  Autumn talks to me underwater. I can’t answer. She moves in closer, whispering in my ear with a soothing click of her tongue and soft lips against my ear. “It sounds weird, Dylan, but that’s how I feel …” I reach for her, only to catch hold of the blanket. She tucks it under my chin, her soft voice lulling. “Tender, warm, and safe,” she says. “Yes. Just relaaax.”

  I don’t want to move or ever wake up. I’m in a drugged half-sleep, having a one-sided conversation, hearing Autumn’s words and never my own. I must be answering because she pauses to listen, but her exchanges back are unclear, my brain picking up what it wants and tossing the rest aside.

  “I’ll get your knife.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “I will. Breathe, babe. In … and out. Yesss. Close your eyes.” She rubs the back of my legs. “Massage oil. Relaaax. Breeeathe.”

  It’s lucid dreaming, except I’m awake.

  “No,” she whispers. “What song? No, no, no, we can’t have that.”

  Instead of my aggravated response to repetitive sounds, her flow of whispered clicks brings relaxing pleasure.

  “Yes. Tell me about him,” she says. “I’ll take care of you. I’m right here for you. Gentle kiss. Gentle touch. Gentle kiss.” Her voice is paralyzing. “One more kiss … A Long December.”

  I flop over and moan.

  “Relaaax. Relaaax.”

  “Dylan!”

  My eyes flicker open. I sit up, hearing my name, but find that I’m alone in an unfamiliar room.

  “Heather?”

/>   15

  There’s a state between wakefulness and sleep when my thoughts warp and I think Jake’s still alive. And there’s a state between sleep and wakefulness when I think Heather’s next to me, but my mind is powerless to stay in the dream. Within seconds, I’m back in waking life and Heather is dead, her hand no longer in mine.

  I look around Autumn’s bedroom. Her blinds are drawn and the loft is deafeningly quiet. A haze of natural light penetrates the doorway, cast back from the front windows in the living room.

  Must be morning. My mouth is dryer than stale bread.

  An excruciating headache lowers my eyes to mere slits. There’s a bandage on my palm and a razor-sharp pain in my back. I ease off the bed and stagger to the living room in my boxers, blinking when the bright light burns my eyes.

  My clothes are washed and neatly folded on the kitchen counter. The potent scent of lavender laundry detergent makes me queasy. Over the lavender scent is a hint of cigarette smoke and a trace of cinnamon, the latter on my greasy skin. I touch my arm and sniff my fingers, then rub my thumb and forefinger together, deducing it’s massage oil.

  “Autumn?” I listen.

  The refrigerator hums, cars drive past, a door closes in the corridor of her building, but there’s no response from her. She might be at work. I haven’t a clue what she does for a living, other than nosing around for the cops.

  I poke my thumb through the slit in the back of my flannel shirt before setting it back on the counter. Memories from last night come flooding back. The fight. The cops. Trevor. Blood everywhere. I look around, finding no evidence that anything occurred in this room. Autumn’s loft is immaculate. Hospital clean. Everything in here is impeccably organized as if staged for a magazine shoot. There’s even a cookbook on her kitchen counter open to a cookie recipe, bringing the butter to mind. My knife is next to it, and a bottle of Vicodin. I ingest a pill with a gulp of orange juice from the fridge, take a second drink, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Autumn, you here?”

  I catch another whiff of cigarette smoke and follow the scent to the bedroom. Then track the sounds of splashing water to her bathroom, finding her in all her glory, naked in a bubble bath, a foot bouncing on the edge of the tub and a cigarette between two fingers. Her eyes are shut, lips moving to whatever song is playing on her iPhone.

  “Luscious, drop-dead diva,” I say, filching the cigarette out of her hand. She sits up and places her earbuds on the floor, her breasts cresting the water.

  “Hi.” She smiles.

  “Did I score?” I ask, taking a drag of her smoke before handing it back.

  She laughs. “Dylan, I said hello.”

  “Hey, gorgeous. Did you take advantage of me while I was knocked out? I’m sore from head to toe.” I look in the mirror. The bridge of my nose is the color of a beet, matching my bloodshot eyes, and my hair is flat on one side.

  “Is that what you think happened?” she asks. “We did the deed?”

  I rub my morning stubble while looking down at her. “Nah. I’d remember.” I grin. “I’m glad we didn’t. I wanna be alive our first time. Not all drugged up. You deserve the best after saving my life last night.”

  A nipple peeks out from the bubbles, baiting me to come over and kiss it. “I gave you a relaxing massage last night. I touched you everywhere, except for there.” She points at my crotch. “It was magnificent. Sorry you missed it.”

  “Me too. I need to take a piss.”

  “Nice changeover. Kiss me first,” she says. I put my hand on the edge of the tub and give her an affectionate kiss. She licks her lips. “You taste like oranges.” She licks them again. “And smoke.”

  “Good combo. Can I go while you’re in here?”

  “Yep.” She gestures to the toilet and closes her eyes. “I won’t watch.”

  “Doesn’t matter, you’ve seen it.” I stand over the toilet, trying to relax, but can’t get a stream going.

  “It’s the painkillers and the sedative,” she says.

  “Must be,” I speak in short sentences, my brain in need of a jump-start after such a rough night. “Slow stream,” I say, casting a side-eye onto the navel ring emerging underneath the popping bubbles. “Amazing.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “This. You. Me. What we’ve been through and the way we’ve touched without having sex. It’s strange. I mean, comfortable. Don’t you think?”

  She smiles and smokes. I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.

  “Do I sound like a nerd? Too soft?” Still, she doesn’t answer. “What, Autumn? What?”

  “You sound like you like me. Now I think I have less of a chance of becoming a ‘tap-that-ass’ girl like the drunk guys at the party wanted.”

  “I’m not like them.” I flush and wash my hands, fixing my hair with my wet fingers.

  “No? I have a sneaking suspicion that you are. Once I give it up, I’ll never see you again. That’s kinda sad, don’t you think? But maybe I’m wrong.”

  She can’t think that’s true at this point. Not after the way I obsess over her.

  “Come over to me,” she says. “I took the day off for you.”

  “From where?”

  “From doing stuff. From life.”

  “Being secretive again?” I straddle the tub, one foot in the water and the other on the floor.

  She hands me a washcloth and puts her leg on my thigh. “Wipe, please,” she says, lowering into the tub, the water level with her chin.

  “What do you do?” I wet the cloth and wipe her leg, working up her thigh and back down. “I thought maybe you were a poet.”

  “No.” She laughs. “Why’d you think that?”

  “The poem you gave me. It was clever.”

  “Being clever may be the only thing I’m good at.”

  “You a student?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m a woman who loves a great adventure.” She pauses, dips her head underwater, resurfacing with her hair slicked back. “Don’t tell me that’s cliché. It’s the joy of life, Dylan. Live each day as if you’re on a fantastic never-ending road trip, following your heart and not your foolish brain.” She ashes into a metal incense burner on the edge of the tub, her pinky finger sticking out, smoke trails lingering overhead. “Remember what I told you. Thinking’s bad. It will kill you.” She points at me. “Let up and let go, see what happens then. Maybe you’ll be free from whatever’s causing you to cry out in your sleep.”

  “Oh.” I shrink back, taken off guard by that comment. “I…I didn’t know—” I stop short and decide to change the subject. “How do you make enough money to afford this place?”

  “Who in our generation makes enough money to afford anything?”

  “I do okay.”

  “Why is that?”

  “What do you mean, why? Because I work.”

  “But is it because you don’t have people breathing down your neck? No boss? No one above you to control your life?”

  “The bar’s not mine. Not yet anyway.” I dunk the washcloth and take her other leg, wiping from knee to ankle.

  “By the way, how do you feel today?” she asks.

  “Like I got stabbed.” I steal the cigarette from her, letting it hang off the side of my mouth as I wash her feet. She leans back and scoops handfuls of bubbles over her chest.

  A gray tiled shelf built into the wall above her head has a supply of rolled washcloths and a bottle of strawberry-scented bubble bath. Must be the source of her Kool-Aid scent.

  I feel the silk shower curtain and dig my toenails into the plush bathmat. “I should fix my place up. It’s a dump compared to yours.”

  She looks around. “My parents bought this loft as an investment. I’ve been renting it since college.”

  “Ah. So it’s not yours.”

  “No, but I’m not a freeloader. Besides my rent, I pay the utilities,
taxes, and building fees. My parents won’t find a better tenant, and they like the fact that I’m so close to my dad’s office. You know, so he can keep an eye on me, even when we’re not talking.”

  “You still haven’t said how you afford this place.”

  Her ringing cell cuts into the conversation. She grabs it off the floor before I can see the caller’s name. “My dad.” She groans and drops it back down. “I’m sure a rumor from last night spread to his office today.”

  “About the fight?”

  “No. About the ‘suspicious man’ in my life.” She wiggles her toes for me to wash them. “I’m just a baby to him. Twenty-three, right? And unless I’m married, men shouldn’t be at my place.” She shakes her head. “He sent me a text earlier, warning me not to embarrass him. He wants me to start acting more like a lady. What’s the exact definition of a lady anyway?” She picks up her cell and taps the screen. “Let’s see … a lady is ‘a woman of sophistication and gentle manners.’ Well hell, I guess that means I shouldn’t be killing drug dealers.” She drops the cell on the floor and plunges underwater, staying down longer this time, breaking the surface with a gulp of air. “Damn.” She slides a hand down her face and sits back. “My dad wears me out, always on my case. Have you noticed how exhausted people our age are? We’re too young to feel this way. Are you as tired as me?”

  I nod.

  “Why is that, Dylan? Why are we exhausted in our twenties?”

  “Because we have conversations like this way too early in the morning.”

  “Yeah. Funny.” She gives me a cheeky smile. “Keep pampering me.”

  I laugh. “No problem. I owe you for taking care of me last night.”

  I hand her the cigarette then load the washcloth full of soap, slinking forward on the tub to wipe her shoulders and neck. She hunches over, resting her forehead on my leg.

  “I lucked out,” I say. “My parents have always been supportive.”

  “Mine too. But my dad’s conformist routine of going to school, then working every day, every week, all year, from the time I’m eighteen until the day that I die will destroy me. I believe somewhere in that span I should be allowed to live. His generation’s existence is all about staying busy, letting society own them until it’s over and they’re too old to walk. But that’s death in and of itself. I’m more about taking my retirement in my twenties, letting my heart thrive while I’m young. How can anyone enjoy having time off when they’re old? Sounds boring and ass-backward to me.”