Vivian
It was obvious. I had felt it.
Landon Lockhart had been about to kiss me.
When I was touching him and he grabbed my hand, it was painful and terrifying. I knew I had gone too far, and I swore he was going to kill me.
But although he still kept my hand locked hard in his, he eased up somewhat, and the look on his face…
I could see it. The lust, the intense sexual hunger.
All for me. Gawky, geeky, mousy little Vivian Grayson.
And I wanted it. Welcomed it, even.
I could feel every pore of my being opening for him. I could feel myself growing hot and wet for him, an ache throbbing between my legs. And one word beat a tattoo in my head.
Please.
Please, Landon. Kiss me, I had wanted to beg him.
And so much more.
Please, Landon. Kiss me. Take me.
Fuck me. Make me yours.
What the hell is happening to me?
And when my father called, jarring me back to reality…I had grown nauseous at the shame and self-loathing I felt. How could I even think about doing such a thing? How could I betray my father like this? After all he has done for me in my life…
But during that moment with Landon, it wasn’t as if I was in control. My body was.
And now I don’t trust myself anymore. I know if it happens again I won’t be able to resist Landon Lockhart. It’s like my very blood obeys him.
When he had pulled out his gun, I was terrified, but I think I was more scared of myself than of him.
Landon Lockhart with a gun. Nothing had ever seemed more powerful or more erotic.
Now I couldn’t stop thinking of him when I was talking to Robin.
“Watch out. Close your mouth. You’re drooling,” she’d said to me.
I lowered my head, embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she said softly, taking my hand in hers. “I was just kidding. Besides, I think you’ve got good taste.” Robin smirked.
She turned around to look over at Landon and Blade at the pool table.
“You know, the feeling might be mutual. Every time I look over my shoulder he’s watching you like a hawk.”
I looked over at Landon. He turned his head away quickly.
“Hey, chickadee,” Robin said. “You got any hot water? I got the good stuff.” She removed two white pouches from her jeans pocket.
“Is that…” I trailed off nervously, biting my lip. “I mean, did you bring something?” I narrow my eyes, feeling like an idiot. “Did you bring drugs?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “Hot cocoa. I’ve been clean for years, babe.”
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Let me go boil some water and get some mugs from the pantry.”
I came back with two large cups of steaming water and two spoons. Robin was like an excited child, opening the packets and stirring the contents of each into the two cups. I saw little white pieces floating on the surface of the cocoa.
“Marshmallows,” Robin explained. “Gotta have ‘em.”
I took my cup of cocoa from her and smiled. It suddenly seemed like a good idea, drinking cocoa and making a new friend. The hideout seemed warm and cozy and impenetrable against the cold outside. I felt a sudden strange sense of completion. As if I could remain in the hideout for months on end and feel as if it was the place I was supposed to be.
I listened to Robin talk colorfully about the goings-on of the motorcycle club. It was a fascinating-sounding world of danger, intrigue, and loyalty like not many people know. I liked her frankness and her sense of humor. She was the kind of person who was a natural around other people. The kind of girl people gravitate towards.
Not like me.
A thought popped into my head. Had she and Landon ever hooked up? My mouth went dry. They’d known each other for years, after all. Even if it hadn’t meant anything, I found that I was still upset at the thought of something transpiring between the two of them.
Another storm of jealousy raged in my heart, but I managed to shake it off.
“So what’s it like being a biker’s…” I trailed off.
“Old lady?” Robin finished for me.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad. There are a lot of moments when I think why I did this for Blade. Why I chose this sort of existence. It’s hard. People think being in an MC is glamorous, but it’s tough and dangerous and tries your patience. You’ve got to learn to submit and that a woman’s place is always in the background. But Blade’s worth it. He’s the love of my life. I’m hoping we marry someday.”
I looked down at her leather riding vest. “Your patch…It says ‘Property of.’ What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it says. I’m Blade’s girl, his property. He basically owns me.”
“Does that kind of thing anger you?”
“It did in the beginning. But I got used to it. It’s just the way life is in an MC.”
“Oh, okay.”
She looked at me intently. “Wow, your dad really protected you from the life. You really don’t know much about it all, do you?”
“No, I guess I don’t. I’m not sure why he felt the need to protect me from it, but he did.” I couldn’t help it then. My gaze fell to the cuts on her arms.
She sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think we spend our lives trying to make it back to all the ones who fucked us up. You know, it really all comes down to how far you’re willing to go for the man you love.”
My eyes locked with hers.
Love?
No, I thought. She was totally mistaken.
I don’t love Landon Lockhart. He’s the last man in the world I could ever love.
“Admit it, Vivian. Anything is possible, right?”
I didn’t want to be rude, so I just sipped on my cocoa in silence.
But the rest of that afternoon I found myself really enjoying talking to Robin. I realized two girls like us from two opposite facets of life would probably never have had the chance to talk if it hadn’t been for the circumstances. Just like the relationship between Lindsay and myself.
And now I’m back in the present, sitting at my desk in the hideout. Blade and Robin have long ago left. I’m staring down at my book, pretending as if I’m studying again. But the words are all a blur.
Out of my peripheral vision I see Landon stand up from the sofa he had occupied when our guests had gone.
Oh no, I think. Perhaps he’s still angry because I tried to touch him.
He’s finally going to hurt me now. Maybe even rape me. Then kill me.
But instead he walks to the jukebox.
“Would music bother you?” he asks.
I shake my head no.
He proceeds to put on the harshest music I’ve ever heard in my life. I know it’s some kind of heavy metal. Maybe what they call death metal?
Landon closes his eyes, fully absorbing the music. It’s like he’s in some sort of trance.
Locked in hell
A dead thing come alive
Skies are turning crimson
We murder the laws set in stone
The spirits of my betrayed hours
My life bleeds out
From a knife-bled sky
Nothing can save me from the truth
Now I will rule the world in death
“Blade loves this song,” he intones. “It’s kind of his theme song.”
“You two are pretty close,” I offer above the din.
He looks at me. “Yeah, I guess so.”
After a while I’m wincing and rubbing my temples from the music’s pulsing bass and screaming voices. But I respect all kinds of artistic expression. Music is beautiful and comes from the heart. It comes in many different forms and is created by many different individuals.
So I try to keep an open mind. The genre is definitely a raw, sexy form of expression that demands attention. But my nerves are so on edge that I can’t take it after a while.
“Um, I’m sorry, but would it be okay if we listened to something a little, I dunno. Softer?”
Landon looks at me as if I’m some alien presence.
“I guess it might be a little too hard for your taste,” he says, with an almost a bitter tone to his voice.
I feel strangely disappointed. Earlier it had seemed like we were really bonding. Like he wanted to screw my brains out. Now it seems he’s just realizing again that he can’t stand me.
“It’s not that…I love music, all music. It’s a divine product of the human soul. It’s just that…I guess it’s hard to concentrate while listening to metal. At least for me.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Maybe because it’s so passionate. So intense and urgent. So much feeling.”
He turns away and stares at the jukebox. The song clicks off. After a while I hear him flipping through the CD’s.
Again, I’m totally taken off guard when he asks, “So what do you listen to? At least when you study?”
I pause warily. I know when I answer him I’ll feel totally stupid.
“Um, I like Chopin a lot. His nocturnes. They’re so sad and romantic. He was in love with a brilliant French writer when he wrote them.”
Again, I want to slap myself.
He turns to face me. A flash of what I had seen when it seemed he was about to kiss me appears in his eyes, but only briefly.
“I don’t think there’s any music like that in this box,” he says seriously.
“I would imagine not,” I reply. “But I have some on my phone. Would you like to hear one of the pieces?”
He simply nods his head.
The opening sad, desolate chords of Chopin’s posthumous nocturne in C sharp minor can be heard from my phone. I look over at Landon, who is seriously listening to the music. It’s almost funny to see him in all his biker gear, contemplating a classical composition.
“The nocturnes are night pieces,” I try to explain gently. “Chopin was very physically sick near the end of his lifetime. I feel like his illness and suffering reflect in these pieces. The unsureness, the pain. This is a nocturne he wrote that was published after his death. I love how dark and morbid it sounds. Yet still so pleading and wistful and tender. One composer said the music sounded to him like the moon rising over a corpse.”
I want to say more. I want to tell Landon that the piece is something I would always listen to as a teenager; I would turn off the lights in my room and light candles and dream that a dark, beautiful, tormented man was playing it just for me.
I feel a little thrill deep inside. I think I can tell that Landon is trying to hide his interest, but something about his face looks like his curiosity is piqued.
“Pretty interesting,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“It’s soft, yet still sinister.”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
A silence ensues.
What Landon does next is the most shocking yet fascinating experience of my life.
He begins to take off individual items of his clothing. His leather jacket, his vest. Then he reaches up and lifts his black shirt over his head.
I’m staring at the chest of a god. Biker Adonis stands radiant before me. The hard lines and planes of mouth-watering muscle dizzy me. I suddenly realize his tattoos aren’t snakes. Instead, they seem to be vines or stems curling from an intricate flower drawn above his pectorals.
“Is that a lotus flower?” I ask tentatively.
He seems surprised. “Yes, it is.”
“What does your tattoo symbolize?”
He looks wary of me. But he keeps on talking.
“Well, the lotus flower actually rises up from the muck and muddy waters. It blooms from wretchedness. I guess that’s the story of my life,” he laughs, though it sounds bitter. “And the white lotus, like I have on my chest, symbolizes great mental and spiritual growth, something I aim to accomplish over the span of my lifetime.”
I’m impressed. “Wow, that’s pretty cool.”
He seems hard-pressed to speak the next word.
“Thanks.”
I suddenly realize it’s grown late. The nocturne had been an apt choice to listen to it seems, for night has already fallen. I can see darkness licking at the edges of the windows. I feel suddenly very weary, as if the day has been really stressful, which I suppose it has been. I ache for a hot bath and a clean, fresh bed to slip into.
“Um, I suppose I’m kind of tired. I’d like to take a shower.”
“Go for it. Fresh towels are in the cabinet.”
“Thanks.”
I think I can feel his eyes on me as I walk slowly into the bedroom. I proceed to close and lock the door, turn on the water, then slip out of my clothes. The hot, soothing water courses over my body like a heated waterfall. It feels so good.
When I emerge later in a luxurious white terry cloth robe I’ve found hanging in the cabinet, his gaze is heavy on me.
“Did you enjoy your shower?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you. I feel like myself again. I guess I’m off to bed now.”
“Well,” he responds. “Good night.”
“Night.”
When I go to sleep, I always remember what Sylvia Plath once wrote in her diaries. She’s another of my favorite writers. Unfortunately, now she’s mostly known for being really depressed and committing suicide. But she was brilliant. In her happier moments she had claimed to feel so restored when she took a bath then tucked herself into a fresh bed. She likened it to feeling like a blank sheet of paper slipping into a clean white envelope.
I’m more tired than I had realized. I doze off immediately.
I sit up suddenly and look around. I find I’m not in my bed but standing in the middle of an empty parking lot. A man in black clothes and a black mask is slowly walking up towards me. A knife glints in his hand and I know without question he’s going to kill me. I turn and start to run away from him. But it’s like my feet are caught in some heavy, thick muck. I can barely even move.
At some point I feel his hot breath at my neck. He presses the knife to my throat. “It’s over, bitch,” he spits into my ear. “Now you’re going to die.”
And when he turns me around to face him, his mask is gone.
It’s Landon. I open my mouth wide to scream.
# # #
Landon is shaking me with his big, strong hands. Suddenly the parking lot melts away, and I’m staring at the ceiling of Blacktop Chaos’s hideout.
“Wh-what?” I stutter. “What happened?”
“You were having a nightmare,” Landon says. His face looks concerned and very serious. I blink, unable to believe that he’s actually worried about me.
“Oh,” I say, relieved that it wasn’t real. “Wow, it felt so real. That guy in the mask was about to slice me open like a fish.”
He continues to look down at me. I can’t read his face this time.
“Well, you’re safe now. You can go back to sleep.”
But I don’t go back to sleep. I just keep staring up at him.
Landon’s hand suddenly lifts towards my face. I think he’s going to strike me when instead he takes a finger and pushes an errant curl away from my forehead.
I hold my breath. Please, I think again.
“Landon…” I breathe.
He leans his head towards mine. His fingers come to rest at the sides of my face, and I can feel him pulling me towards him.
And instantly my cell phone goes off..
Landon rises abruptly and begins pacing the room. I roam my hand over the nightstand and find my phone.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Pumpkin, are you alright?” my father asks worriedly.
“Y-yes. Yes, Dad. I’m okay. Is anything wrong?”
“No, sweetheart. I was about to tuck in for the night and I just got this feeling that I needed to call and check up on you. How’s everything going?”
“Fine. I just woke up from some silly nightmare—”
“A nightmare?” my father exclaims. “What happened, baby?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Dad. Just a dream. I’m going back to sleep. Will you be okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep but call me when you wake up in the morning.”
“Alright. Will do.”
“Listen, baby. I don’t want you to worry about what happened last night. We’ll catch the person behind this. You’re going to be fine.”
“I know, Dad. I trust you. I love you.”
“Love you too, sport.”
When I hang up, I realize Landon has left the room. I feel suddenly empty and bereft inside. I can hear the soft sounds of the TV in the other room.
I settle back into bed again, a strange yearning to cry churning inside me.
# # #
It’s morning. When I first wake up, I call my dad to let him know things are going okay. Then I get dressed and saunter into the living room.
Landon’s still asleep on the couch. His lips are parted and he’s snoring softly. I’m arrested by his physical presence again. I feel wet and heated between my legs. But I resist my urge to touch him again, and instead go into the kitchen area and open the pantry. There’s a new box of butter crunch cereal on the top shelf. I take the container of milk out of the fridge and a bowl and spoon from the pantry and sit down to the table.
I eat my breakfast as quietly as possible. Landon shifts once in his sleep, but it seems like he’s out cold.
Suddenly I feel so lonely. What the hell am I doing here? I think.
It’s as if I’ve just contracted an intense case of cabin fever. It’s only been a day and a night, but I’ve got to get out.
Besides, what harm could a simple drive do?
Letting myself out of the hideout, I hold my shoes in my hand and tiptoe outside. Soon I find myself behind the wheel of my beloved little Saturn.
The cool, early morning air feels fresh and crisp and the early sun rays are warm on my skin. I drive, feeling free and elated. This is just what I needed, I think. Just a little bit of time to myself.
I drive a few miles when I see a small shopping center with a grocery store. Suddenly the idea of fresh fruit for breakfast appeals to me.
I park the car in the first space in the empty parking lot. There aren’t really many people here at all yet. Dust flies and settles into the shadows.
In the store, I buy some eggs and bacon, and some fresh kiwi, mangoes, and strawberries. A fruit salad sounds divine. I like the idea of cooking a meal for Landon.
As I’m walking back to my car, they both come at me seemingly out of nowhere.
Two men this time, both wearing the same black masks.
I feel their hands upon me and I think it’s finally the end. Because no one’s that lucky twice.
But this time, instead of my life flashing before my eyes, I see Landon’s beautiful face in front of me. How sad I never got to kiss him like I wanted to, I think from somewhere far off. I feel a soft pang of regret.
“Dumb bitch,” one of the men hisses. I recognize his voice. “You got away from me last time. But not this time. Your little ass is mine.”
And once again, I hear it. The roaring sound of a motorcycle.
I see the incongruous, cherubic blond hair, and I realize in awe Landon’s here to save me again. I can’t believe it. An overwhelming sense of relief courses through me. He struggles with the men as I manage to stumble away from their grip.
Somehow, in the struggle, I watch as Landon manages to unmask one of them. The guy’s got some sort of large, dark red birthmark on his cheek. He’s surprisingly lithe on his feet. At some point he outwits Landon and punches my messiah in the face. To my horror Landon sinks to the ground.
My heart lurches in my chest. No, I think desperately.
“We gotta get out of here,” the other man says worriedly. “It’s not safe.”
The man with the birthmark turns and looks me in the eye. “This is your second round of good luck. Next time, you’ll be out of luck. Next time I’ll put your tight little ass in your grave. You have no idea how big this is.”
They hop into the black Honda Civic and drive away.
I’m relieved to see Landon is still alive. I scamper towards him. He turns to look up at me, the look in his eyes one of pure hatred.
One of his big, strong hands comes to clamp down hard on my arm.