Wetwork

by Andrew, Nikolai

  And then I met Stringer. And I knew I’d never be the same.

  Even at sixteen years old, I knew the feelings I had for him weren’t right and the subsequent guilt had me pushing Stringer away every time he tried to do anything kind for me.

  That didn’t stop me from thinking about him when I was lying in my bed at night, rubbing my fingers between my legs as I imagined what it would be like to have a man like that—I knew it was wrong but my body had its own agenda.

  I found myself sneaking around, watching him when he wasn’t looking. I noticed little things like the way the sunlight glinted off his gold watch. I wondered why he wore these perfect suits like he was going to a board meeting every Monday, Thursday and Friday, even when he was just relaxing at home. I dreamed about the flecks of gray in his dark hair and stubbly beard. I forgot how to breathe when he looked at me with those bright blue eyes I wanted to dive into and never surface.

  I did everything I could to make Stringer dislike me, but none of it ever seemed to work. It didn’t even seem like he was tolerating me, it was more like he enjoyed having me around. And then, a couple of months after my mom passed away last year, I bumped into him coming out of his shower wrapped in only a towel, and I couldn’t help noticing the way the towel lifted when he saw me.

  Soon after that, I decided to do as he’d been suggesting and go back to finish school.

  Something inside me let me make peace with the fact that I wanted to please him.

  I loved it when he praised me about getting good grades, telling me he liked what I’d done with my hair or that he was impressed with the soft toys I knitted.

  The morning light streams across the book of patterns and balls of brightly colored wool on my bedside table that he bought me for my birthday. The thoughtfulness that went into buying me that present is worth more than any amount of money. I just can’t expect to live here in Stringer’s golden cocoon forever.

  The world isn’t a safe place.

  Suddenly, the events of last night come back to me all at once in a series of still images like someone’s showing slides on a projector. Being held down, fighting…. The fear makes my stomach clench, then I shiver at the image of Stringer raising his gun.

  He killed them.

  Jesus, he killed them. For me. To save me. And I told him I’d call the police.

  No wonder he’s gone, he’s probably furious with me. How could I threaten to betray him like that, when all he was doing was protecting me?

  I’d never, ever do that to him.

  Moving my hands down over my body, feeling for any hurt, I realize I’m still in just my bra and panties from last night.

  With a deep breath, I push myself off the bed and head for my shower. Every one of the bedrooms in this sprawling house has its own bathroom. At my dad’s, we had one small bathroom in his trailer, and if I wanted it cleaned I had to do it myself, whenever the stink of piss and cigarette butts got too much to handle. Here, Stringer cleans and I do now as well. I like things neat, orderly and in control.

  When I finish showering, I throw on a camisole top and a black skirt, then head for the kitchen, still thinking about Stringer. And me. Us. Whatever that means.

  Until I was twelve, I lived with my mom here in Green River. My dad had been a one-night stand, and never really wanted anything to do with me until I was ten, but once I was no longer a little kid he agreed to have me stay. My mom wanted me to know him, to have a relationship with him, I don’t think she ever expected me to enjoy my trips to see him so much I wanted to stay there. Not that I didn’t like living with her, or that my dad did anything exciting with me, but being the child of an undocumented parent meant that I had to be careful what I said around other people.

  Whereas my dad let me do whatever I wanted, so long as I didn’t bother him too much.

  Sometimes I’ve wondered what it would be like if my mom had met Stringer earlier and I’d been brought up here, or wherever he lived before he moved here, but it’s useless to think about. That didn’t happen, and I barely even saw the two of them happy together before my mom found out she was sick.

  The thought of that makes me suddenly sad, like I missed out on a whole part of her life because I decided I’d rather live with the parent who didn’t care about me than the one who did. I wonder what life was like for her and Stringer before I was back in her life, told by my dad that I needed to get out of town before his gang found out what he’d done to them.

  Curiosity about their relationship eats at me as I stare at my bowl of Fruit Loops. I glance across at the fridge, to where Stringer’s left a note for me. Had to go out to deal with a few things. Be back soon. Eat something. Those last two words, underlined hard like he really meant them make me smile, but I really don’t want the cereal. What I want is to find out more about him.

  So, I do something I’ve never done before. I go snooping.

  Leaving the bowl on the kitchen counter, I head upstairs and through the rabbit warren of corridors that take me from my bedroom to his. When I came to live here I asked if I could have that room because it kept me as far away as possible from Stringer’s proximity, knowing how being too close to him all night would affect my dreams and also I hated the thought of hearing them in their own passion. Mom and Stringer said I could have any room I wanted, so that was settled. Now I wish my room was right next door to his.

  Sneaking into his private space feels wrong. I haven’t been except a few quick in and outs before my mom moved into a main floor suite so we could care for her better as her illness took over.

  I find one of his shirts dumped in his laundry hamper and take a deep breath of him. There’s a faint smell of those cigars he likes, along with the scent of him, that dark earthiness. There are no photographs of my mom in here, and I realize there are no photographs of them together anywhere in the house. But for that matter, there are no photographs of Stringer either. Or anyone.

  One side of the bed is clearly his, one of his science fiction novels cast on the bedside table, along with a notepad that’s got a few random numbers scribbled on it.

  I’m not sure what I’m looking for as I step around and pull open the drawer on the nightstand that flanks the other side of the bed, but sure enough I find hairbrushes and a few makeup items: lipsticks and nail polish. Strange to keep them here, especially as none of them seem to be used, but I’m pretty sure they’re not Stringer’s.

  I pull the drawer open completely, and there nestled in the back is a little diary. I open it to the first entry and read.

  And my heart stops, certain words jumping out at me.

  Everything I ever wanted in a man.

  When we made love for the first time, I thought I was going to be split in two.

  Stringer made me feel like a real woman for the first time in my life.

  I turn over a few pages at once.

  He’s asked me to marry him. Can you believe it? One woman shouldn’t ever have this kind of luck. I love him.

  Feeling sick, I flick through a few more pages, reading how her wedding was everything she hoped it would be. Just them and a couple of friends, on the beach. How excited she was.

  I let my mom’s husband touch me, kiss me, sleep next to me, the only man it seems like she ever loved. It’s not just wrong. It’s sick. It’s evil. My mom, who died after just a few short years of happiness with him, would hate me if she knew.

  The diary drops from my hand, landing heavily in the drawer like it’s made of lead. Feeling faint, I slam the drawer closed and step back, wanting to be away from it, away from here. I need to get out.

  Not even sure where I’m going, I bolt out of the door, falling against the wall as I make my way for the nearest staircase heading down. I need to be outside. I need fresh air. I need to get away from myself, my disgusting, ugly, evil self.

  But it’s then that I hear a car pulling up and my heart is in my throat.

  6

  Stringer

  “Raven?”


  My words ring hollow in the house, and something makes me pause. I’ve learned to trust my instincts more than my senses, and something feels hinky. A flash of worry that the fourth guy from last night found this place but that’s impossible.

  He has no way to know who I am let alone find this place because it’s not even in my name. I keep everything, all my assets, in a trust with a different address. Besides, my security system would have notified me if there was any entry on the property or the house.

  So, what is this tension that’s spinning in my gut.

  “Raven?” I call out again as I glance into the kitchen and see a bowl of cereal discarded on the counter. An odd chill catches me as I clench my jaw and my hand drifts to the holster under my left arm.

  “Where are you, little feather?” I ask, absently using the nickname I’ve only ever said inside my head before now. The thoughts of what happened between us last night still pulse inside of me and my fear that she thinks I’m a monster for touching her the way I did has my head throbbing and an abject fear blankets me.

  If she’s gone, I’ll bring her back. Whatever it takes, she will be here with me from now on.

  Heading up the front staircase, I glance into her room but it’s empty. The humidity in the air tells me the shower was on recently, and there’s no indication that she’s snuck out. Why isn’t she answering me?

  The ranch is big, but she should still hear me calling her name, even if she was on the other side of the house.

  When I reach my own room, I know something’s amiss. The door is open, when I always leave it closed, ever since that time she happened to be walking past when I was coming out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Then there’s the fact that the laundry hamper has been disturbed. And the drawer on the other side of the bed where some of Raven’s mother’s things are still inside is open slightly.

  I stop to listen, when I hear the three beeps, one long, two short, and that tells me someone just opened the back door that leads off the kitchen and at the same time, the alarm on my phone sounds telling me the tracker in her locket has left the premises.

  I lurch toward the window of my room that looks out the back and I see her, running barefoot across the yard toward the woods that border the back of the property and my heart nearly ramrods through my chest as I take the stairs down, three at a time, and barrel out the back door in pursuit.

  “Raven, stop!” I shout, losing sight of her. I might be a big motherfucker, but my wrecked knee is a bastard when it comes to my on-foot speed.

  “Leave me alone!” I hear her scream. She’s not far, and I change course to follow the sound of her voice.

  “Why are you running? What happened?”

  “I’m a terrible daughter, that’s what happened! My mom was better off without me. You’re better off without me.”

  What’s she talking about? “That’s not true. Your mom loved you. Every day she told me something about you, how you’d make her laugh when you were little, how you were so clever. How beautiful you are. It wasn’t until I met you I—”

  My cry rings out through the woods as I step into a fucking animal hole of some kind, my bad knee twisting as I come crashing down onto the dry leaves in a barrage of curse words. A branch grazes my head then flaps into my eyes, sending sparks across my vision, but I don’t care about that. I don’t care if I’ve broken something, if I’ve got a concussion or lost a god-damned eye. All I care about is her.

  With a grunt of effort, I shift, pushing up against the ground. My grunts are met with calm, peaceful twittering from the birds around, incongruous and ill-fitting. I lean for a moment against the nearest tree, catching my breath, listening, then hobble forward, bolts of pain radiating from my knee with every step.

  “Raven, talk to me. You can tell me anything.” I wince and crash against another tree trunk, wondering how I’m ever going to catch up with her like this.

  I stop, my pulse raging in my ears so loud my head feels like it’s spinning. I take a breath, telling myself this is my fault. Feeding her my cum last night, I’m a monster doing that with my own stepdaughter. Of course she’s running from me.

  Wondering what I’ll make her do next…

  And it’s then that I hear her voice beside me.

  “Are you all right?”

  I turn my head and see her standing, half hidden, behind a century-old Oak tree, staring at me. She’s dressed in a thin white camisole top and a flowy black skirt, and the sight of her sends my blood south. The memory of her humming around my fingers last night bolting through me like hot lava as I nod. “No, I’m not alright because you’re fucking running away from me.”

  She stares, chewing on her bottom lip, assessing me like I’ve watched her do since she came into my house two years ago. I see the little girl still inside the young woman, the wariness in her eyes, the doubt and questions, and I vow to make sure she never has to look at me like that ever again.

  “Just my knee.” I see her gaze shoot to the top of my head, and reach up to feel where the branch hit me. There’s a little blood on my fingers when I bring them back down. “It’s nothing. I don’t care about me, it wasn’t until I met you—” I stop myself and regroup. “Are you running because of last night?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “What were you going to say?” Her eyes narrow at me as she looks like a fierce forest nymph about to unleash some evil magic on me if I don’t tell her the truth. “You started to say, It wasn’t until you met me…what?”

  My heart races, my eye twitches. The truth is, I’ve always been an outsider. I used to watch men and women walking hand in hand, or gazing into each other’s eyes, and wondered what it was all about. I’m no virgin, but the few times I’ve had sex it was mechanical, going through the motions, less fun than simply a way to find release. I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell her, but there’s nothing else for it.

  “It wasn’t until I met you I knew what your mom meant. She said you were beautiful, but that doesn’t begin to describe you.”

  “How can you say that? You were her husband.”

  “Because it’s true. I know I’m no sculpted, six-pack, high cheekbones, pretty-boy. I’m a beast, ugly to most, but you’re the only thing I’ve ever seen that deserved the word beauty.”

  Her eyes go wide with shock. “What about my mom?”

  For a moment, I can’t understand what she’s saying. What about her? Then it dawns on me. “Your mom was the only real friend I ever had. She was attractive, sure, and I’m sure most men would have called her beautiful.”

  “But not you?”

  I shrug, not sure I have the right words to make her understand.

  There are tears in her eyes. “How can you do that to her, Stringer? She loved you, you were everything to her, and now you’re standing here telling me she meant nothing?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t say she meant nothing. But it wasn’t the way you think between us.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the way you think. I read her diary. She loved you, thought you hung the fucking moon and that’s not the only hung she referred to.” She narrows her eyes as they flick down to my crotch then back up. “Why are you grinning?”

  “You read her diary? That’s where all this is coming from?” A relief washes over me, remembering the drawer in my room slightly open.

  “Yes, I found it in her nightstand.”

  “If you want to know anything, you don’t have to snoop. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. She was my wife, on paper only. She was my friend in every way that mattered. She was my sister, because she became family.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you want to know why we got married?” She shifts from one foot to the other, looking slightly annoyed but curious. “By marrying me she made sure she wouldn’t be deported. But if they’d investigated, we needed to be able to prove that we were a real couple. There couldn’t be any doubt that the evidence pointed away from it b
eing a marriage of convenience. I told her what to write in those diary entries and she wrote them. I have a similar diary of my own, though I can’t see I’ll ever need it now.”

  “So, you never…you know. Did stuff with her…”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  “What, you were never even tempted?”

  “Your mother was my friend and my family but not my lover. I didn’t want anything more from her but to let me help her. I wanted nothing in return.”

  “Did she want more from you?”

  I shake my head. “No. She always joked about it, she said I wasn’t her type.”

  For a moment, she stands there breathing, her glorious tits moving up and down under the camisole with each breath. Her fingers dance at her sides, like she doesn’t know what to do with them, then she shakes her head. “Sorry, it’s not good enough. The words I read—”

  “Were just words.”

  “No. I should leave. I won’t tell anyone what happened last night. Not with those guys, and not with us. I’ll go stay with Willow.”

  I clamp my teeth together, my hackles rising at the idea. “No.”

  “I’m eighteen. It’s not up to you. You’re not even my legal guardian, you never were.”

  “Raven, I won’t allow it.”

  “You’re hardly in any state to stop me.” She glances down at my knee, then back up to my face. Then she turns and starts walking away.

  And I see red.

  7

  Raven

  I’ve barely taken two steps away from Stringer before I’m whipped around and thrown back. It takes me by surprise, my breath knocked from my lungs as my back is pressed up against a tree and a cacophony of birds squawk in protest from overhead.

  How he moves so quickly sometimes, I’ll never know, but Stringer is up against me and I feel tiny under his gaze as he looks down.