Deeper into Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  “Should I lie?”

  Aidan huffs, clearly not falling for my shenanigans. But I walk toward him, still naked and not dried off at all, soaking the floor, trying another tactic.

  This, he’s more susceptible to.

  “Look,” I say. And he looks to the ceiling instead of at my body or my eyes, the ghost of a twitch in his jaw as he tries to resist. “I’m always careful. You know that. I was careful this morning.” His head snaps back down, and he wrinkles his nose, starting to turn from me. “You didn’t even wake up when I left. Or when I got back. I’m that good, you know it. And I couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t like waiting for what I want.”

  Wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing myself into him so we’re contoured together, I know I don’t play fair. He licks his lips, closing his eyes before mimicking my movements. My hands take hold of his shape, my fingers tracing circles on his back and drawing attention to the fact that he’s still wearing clothing (and I’m not). Aidan sighs, his arms, and other parts of him, pressing into me, and I know I’ve won. He hardens against me as the fabric of his clothes acts as my towel.

  He blinks, slowly, and it’s my cue. Leading the way, I walk deliberately, triumphant and trying to make him forget he was just mad at me. This is why he never stays angry for long, not even when I killed twice in the same day a couple months ago toward the beginning of this frustrating hiatus.

  Lying back, I sink into the experience as Aidan crawls over me, the electricity already crackling over my skin. No more thoughts, at least not coherent ones, will form for me until I come back down to earth.

  But for a moment, just a short one, I’m pulled to the idea burrowing into the very back of my skull. Twice in a day…that’s worth coming back to.

  I’m already wet and my body’s pulsing, aching for what I know is coming.

  Deliberately, I trail my fingers up my thigh, following the very edge of fabric on my dress where it splits, high enough to graze my hipbone. Black, velvet, vintage but altered—this dress is another upcycled (read: stolen) and updated piece from Aidan, and it’s one that gives me more confidence than anything else I own.

  It’s sexy, it’s daring; it’s everything I need to be when on a rendezvous.

  And it’s working.

  The hotel bar is oozing class, moodily lit with crystal chandeliers sending glitter everywhere. Upscale and romantic, it’s packed too, with bodies bumping into each other no matter how stealthy they weave through the crowd. The music is low enough to only be heard as beats and notes, without any discernable words. It’s a dreamy setting, not pushy or frantic but slow and seductive.

  “So where’re you from?” The question falls from my dark, matte lips with a practiced and slow twang, as if it’s wrapped in honeysuckle and moonlit breezes. I add a flick of my fingers at the deep v of my neckline, sheer lace peeking between velvet, bringing attention back where I want it. Back to the soft skin flashing my confidence like neon. Blink, blink, look at me, blink, blink. Back to the gap between lose fabric, moving just enough to keep attention trained and waiting, hoping.

  “Here, but I can tell you’re not.” The reply comes without eye contact.

  I shake my head, slow enough to keep my eyes locked on the gray ones, once they finally return, atop the stool in front of me. My sleek, black wig grazes my chin in the process and something like lightning zips up from my belly button to my chest, sending ripples outward.

  How could I possibly wait for this?

  I can’t; I wouldn’t. Sorry, Aidan.

  As long as I’m careful.

  What he doesn’t know won’t kill him, either.

  “Another planet, practically,” I drawl, breathy enough to need a lean inward, sounding like I’ve smoked for years, well below the Mason–Dixon, as I inch closer. The movement gives a deeper look down my neckline, which is taken advantage of, making it impossible not to smile.

  This part always feels so good, the seduction. The game I play, back and forth—no one ever realizing the spun web is so close behind, sticky and inescapable, set up long before. No one knows what they’re backing into, what I’m capable of or how much they underestimate me, until there’s no time to run.

  “Tell me more about it, about you.” The deep voice floating across is tentative, not as sure as I’d like. I’d thought we were farther along in this choreographed dance tonight. As I start to wonder if attention is waning, frustration creeps, flaring, into my veins for just a moment before I’m able to replace it with determination.

  They can’t all be so easy. Where would the fun be then?

  So I pull my stool closer, until my knee finds the warmth between both legs of this stranger. Delicious and exciting, then I’m calmed again. This is the fun part, the back and forth while still knowing I’ll win. The heat caresses against me and pushes me onward.

  “Me?” I ask, pressing my hand into an even warmer thigh, getting leverage to lean the rest of the way over. As my lips graze the soft skin of an ear, I exhale first, adding a hint of a moan along with the warm air. My own seduction intoxicating me. “I’m just boring li’l me. Nothing much to talk about.” I lick my lips before going on, drawing out the anticipation. “I want to know about you—what you want…” I can feel the skin of my chest cooling as my neckline dips even farther, down to our laps. “Do you want me?”

  And then I get my answer.

  A sharp intake of breath rushes past my skin, past parted lips, and I try not to stare at them when I lean back. But I do look briefly, seeing teeth pinching tender skin; that sound, those wide eyes, it’s all the answer I need.

  The reaction sends my heart racing, beats tripping over one another to be the first in line. Touching my tongue to my top teeth, I use the silence to my advantage and consider next steps. While my fingers play with the lace of my bra, moving my dress and its folds of velvet from one side to the other and then aside again just enough to show how see-through everything beneath is, I raise my eyebrows in a silent reiteration of my question. Do you want me? Suddenly I’m not the only one experiencing shallower breaths, ready for what’s next.

  So ready.

  As beads of sweat start to form along the hairline across from me, I push the half-gone whisky drink over to drumming fingers.

  “Need this?” I ask.

  Again there’s no verbal reply, only a nod and then ice clinking on enamel as the liquid is consumed in just one swallow.

  “Will you excuse me, I just need to…”

  “Of course,” I say, watching fingers as they point to the restrooms.

  And then I’m alone, giving me a moment to sink back into my plan, a moment to cool my skin from the fire rising within. A delicious fire, a welcome fire, but a fire that needs slowing to stop it from burning out too soon.

  Grabbing an ice cube from the otherwise empty glass, I breathe in deeply then hold it a beat before exhaling. As my heartbeat slows, I rub the ice along my left wrist, letting it melt a little on my skin. Then I do the same to the other wrist, until there’s nothing left to hold, cube returned to water, now sliding over the edge of the bar. And it works, the haze of overexcitement is cleared, my focus sharpened.

  “Two more, please,” I say to the bartender, who smiles in response.

  Looking around, the room is even more full. Waitstaff weave with trays held high above the guests’ heads. Drinks slide into bloodstreams, aiding in the subtle movement of hemlines and necklines, cheeks flushing, and words flowing easier.

  A sudden pulse in my lap sends sparks down my legs and up my spine, but I don’t grab my phone right away. If it’s Aidan…if he woke up alone, it won’t be a good call. So I let the ringer continue, vibrations stacking on top of one another, until it finally goes still. He’ll be pissed, but really he should have guessed.

  I could leave it. My head needs to be focused, distraction left at home. There’s no room for mistakes—as long as I’m careful. Though, my resolve fades when one last blip shocks my lap, and I open my purse to ch
eck quickly. If I know, if I confirm it’s Aidan, then I can stop thinking about it.

  But it’s not him. Instead, it’s a number I don’t recognize, which means the voice mail isn’t from anyone important or even worth calling back.

  When the new glasses are set in front of me by the bartender, the empties cleared, I pull a twenty from my clutch, and replace the phone. Setting the money on the counter, there’s a clink of glass against marble that I feel instead of hear, more than just bills beneath my fingers. “All yours,” I add.

  The bartender whisks it away with a wink, off to fill more orders.

  ***

  I pick up both glasses as my friend returns, and I feel a clink once more, glass on glass, one drink a little fuller than the other.

  The room feels dimmer than before as a faster song starts playing, but that’s fine with me. It’s a perfect mood, picking up the pace and excitement.

  “To a night of getting what we want,” he says, sitting down as close as before. This time his hand moves to my leg instead of waiting for me. His hair ruffled, his tie straightened, and his smile wider than before, it’s clear the trip must have also been to collect himself, for a pep talk, for confidence. I like it. And as his fingers slide under the velvet fabric at my hip, my internal fire returns, scorching my bones and simmering where his skin meets mine.

  I could melt the walls around us if I focused the heat outside my body.

  And I smile in return, watching his glass instead of his smile as the last few drops of powder dissolve seamlessly in his whisky. “To a night of getting what we want,” I repeat, “to getting every single thing we want.” My fake accent winds around him, pulling him closer, as I emphasize each word, until I can see the outline of his excitement through his jeans and he parts his legs just an inch on the stool.

  I nudge my glass into his, a cheers to what only I know is coming, before leaning back to slam my entire drink. It burns down my throat, seeming to seep into my chest long before my stomach. When I look back to the face in front of me, he’s doing the same.

  Good boy.

  His cheeks flush deeply when I scoot to the edge of my own stool in one swift movement, pushing his fingers farther up my dress, seeing him hesitate as his newly brazen façade cracks a little already. It didn’t last long. But that’s okay, I can take the lead once more.

  My hands move before he notices what I’m doing, and then they’re tangled in his light curls, pulling his face toward mine. There’s no hesitation then; I can feel him let go and fall into me. This one likes to be told what to do. And his lips are softer than I’d imagined, driving me wilder than I planned for. I can’t help myself when I bite the bottom one. He moans, opening his mouth enough to let me in. As our tongues meet, I use my hand, the one untangled from his hair, on his shoulders to press him into me. The pressure of his chest against mine makes my head spin, just a little, and I’m intoxicated on him, on everything.

  I see red behind my eyelids, not sparks like I expect, but an oozing, sticky liquid churning. Then when his slides his tongue, soft and warm, along my upper teeth, explosions go off, fireworks igniting everything inside. And I know he feels it too with the way he molds himself into me, hands constantly searching, groaning as I kiss him harder than he probably expected.

  In the next moment I pull back, leaving him on the edge with eyes still clamped closed.

  “Hell,” he breathes.

  “Fire and brimstone,” I add, and he laughs. But I don’t elaborate. Letting the silence stretch between us, letting him squirm, I lick my lips. I can still taste his adrenaline, my control. I can taste the longing and the pent-up rage, the juxtaposition.

  And it tastes sweet, like power.

  “I’m Griffin, by the way,” he says, finally no longer able to stand the quiet. He chuckles awkwardly, but it’s endearing, mostly. My handsome new friend, with freckles and thick lips and big puppy-dog eyes, smiles timidly at me, not sure what else to say. His hands fidget, and his eyes won’t stay on me, but I keep stretching time like a rubber band.

  As the warmth in my skin expands, engulfing every cell, I finally reply, “And I’m going to make you see stars, Griffin.” I stand without moving back first, so my body is all but pressed into him. “Ready?”

  “Y—yes,” he stammers out, giving his excitement, his possible trepidation, away. “I’m…I’m ready.”

  “Good.” I grab his hand, leading the way toward the lobby doors. His hand doesn’t sweat in mine like I expect, but it is warm, starting to steam with his eagerness.

  Two sets of shoes click on the tile floor, and the sound is its own music after we’re beyond the noise from the bar. Without looking back as we walk, I can feel that he’s taller than me, but not all that much. And when I do turn, his dress shirt is rumpled—partially askew from pulling at it—and the devilish sight only pushes my feet to go a little faster.

  Then the quiet lobby melts away as fresh air surrounds us.

  “What’s your name?” Griffin starts to lose his balance as he leans on his toes to ask above the noise of the street outside. His eyes move toward the line of taxis, losing a bit of their focus. Imagining the edges graying, moving in, I wonder what he’s seeing. Not that I want to be in his shoes right now, but I’ve always wondered—what does it feel like when the world starts dissolving around you and fear replaces your vision?

  Instead of answering, I slide my empty hand up to his face to cup a cheek. Griffin leans into it, closing his eyes.

  “I’m whoever you want me to be,” I say. “But tonight, you can call me Perfect.” I grin, not because he’s into it, but because after taking a step closer to say the last words, Griffin leans into me, and I have to support him. “Let’s walk.”

  He nods and lets me take the lead once again, away from the street full of cabs, away from the crowds of people walking from one bar to another, but toward the alley. One arm around his waist, I use my other hand to intertwine our fingers, guiding his hand to caress my heated skin with a slow movement of our fingers together.

  The alley behind us falls into still shadows, no longer anywhere near the sounds and lights of the street. And ahead of us is a path already planned, not that Griffin would fight it now. His head rests on my shoulder, his hand almost limp in mine. He’s subdued enough not to hear the can rattling behind us, hitting concrete and brick, singing a tinny farewell lullaby to him.

  I smile, knowing what’s to come, and whistle as we walk.

  There’s a chance I can make it back to Aidan before he wakes. Again. Twice in twenty-four hours; he won’t be happy, though I’m exhilarated. But if I can get back, then maybe he doesn’t have to know.

  Strictly speaking, I don’t lie to Aidan. So if he asks I’m screwed, because then I’ll have to fess up, and Aidan will definitely blow a gasket.

  But if he doesn’t ask…

  And if he does then I guess, maybe, I could still use this to my advantage. If he gets angry enough he might go out for his own little playdate to calm down. He hasn’t had enough lately. And I think it’s starting to get to him, starting to build up in his system, starting to go bad like spoiled milk. He needs something, something he can’t get from me if he still wants me around afterward.

  So I guess either way it should be fine.

  The same can that rattled behind us before rattles in front of me now. Only this time the song it sings is in celebration, congratulations of a job well done. The corner of my mouth pulls up, just one, in a lopsided and satisfied grin as I bring my phone to my ear so I can listen to the voice mail from earlier still waiting for me there.

  “This message is for Beatrice Iverson. This is Detective Harwell….”

  My breath stops flowing.

  My feet stop moving.

  But my heart does the opposite, speeding up after a stutter or two, while everything else about me is still frozen—rooted to the spot like I was born here. Like I’ll die here. As my head starts to build pressure, it’s hard not to think that I just might
.

  Detective.

  Detective with a deep voice, a voice full of intention and power.

  I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing, who I was with earlier, practically can’t remember my own name—except it was just rasped at me across the phone line—or how to spell it. Swallowing, I try to work out if I’ve gone deaf.

  And my hand falls. The only thing unfrozen, the only part of me able to move.

  Why is Aidan’s detective calling me? I mean, he isn’t Aidan’s detective exactly, but he’s the detective Aidan spoke to. Was questioned by. Whatever. Harwell is the detective investigating Eva’s disappearance.

  Aidan’s talked to Harwell a few times, three maybe. It’s been informal every time, or so I’ve been told, but not once had he reached out to me.

  At some point I make it out of the alley; though I don’t remember starting to walk again, I’m back to the street with a cab stopped in front of me. Getting inside, I rattle off Aidan’s address. But then I think better and add, “Stop a block away, please,” knowing I still want to get inside quietly if I can, knowing I may need a minute, an excuse…a plan or an escape.

  “Sure thing,” the driver says. And then we’re moving down the lightening streets.

  My mind starts reeling, back to the reports of Aidan’s unofficial statements, because that was all they were. He was never interrogated, never brought into the station. Harwell met Aidan at work, at the house. And still, never once did the guy have a single question for me.

  My phone’s gone dark. The message long since finished. But it’s still clutched in my hand, my knuckles white from the pressure, and I can’t seem to let go. I can’t bring myself to listen to it again, either. I don’t want to hear his name, don’t want to hear what he has to say to me.

  It can’t be good.

  I recognize that most normal people aren’t terrified, beyond belief and to their core, when a detective calls them. Anxious maybe, but panicked to the point of wanting to run, that’s not a typical reaction, or at least I don’t think it is. Then again most normal people aren’t serial killers.