Reckoning by Shana Figueroa (11)

What were the chances Aaron suggested this place at lunch, knowing Max had previously owned it? Relatively low; the media never mentioned the Red Raven, and he’d taken precautions to hide his connection to the club. And Aaron didn’t seem like a mind games kind of guy. Most likely an interesting coincidence.

Or invisible puppeteers pulling his strings again.

Screw it, a coincidence was what it was. He should go somewhere else.

Well, what did it hurt to take a look? Have a beer, check out the new drapes. In any case, he needed a drink. His hands still shook from his fight with Val.

After he handed his car off to a valet, he stood in front of the door for a moment. It was still painted red, though a neon sign announcing the bar’s name replaced the single lightbulb that’d been there before. His gut told him to try the back entrance he used when he owned the place, but of course, that was absurd. If the club’s latest owners had turned the Red Raven into an upscale bar as Aaron claimed, then being seen there shouldn’t raise eyebrows. Nor should the barrier to entry be as daunting. He turned the handle; the door swung open, no invitation necessary. Okay.

The hallway that served as the preamble to the club was better lit than he remembered, less a tunnel to dark desires than a primer for relaxation after a hard day’s work. Smooth jazz and cigar smoke wafted down the hallway, growing stronger until he reached the second threshold that led into the main seating area. The layout looked about the same as his old club. An expansive bar stocked with nearly every kind of alcohol known to man, classily displayed on backlit glass shelving, flanked clusters of tables. The motif, however, eschewed bold reds and blacks for warm browns and burgundies.

The place was busy, but not packed. He caught a few stares as he walked to the bar and ordered a vodka on the rocks, though people had the manners to smile politely and look away when he noticed, as opposed to openly gawking. It was an upscale crowd, after all. He shotgunned his drink, ordered another, then sipped it as he walked the periphery of the room, passing by the corridor that used to lead to the erotic stage show. Now he heard live jazz music, ostensibly performed by fully clothed musicians. He would have checked had he not been more intrigued by the second corridor off the bar. An ornate oak door blocked that part of the club. Abutting the door, a man big enough to be a bouncer yet dressed in a manager’s suit stood waiting behind a counter.

“Happy holidays,” the bouncer said when Max approached. “Members only beyond this point, sir.”

Max eyed the door, a sliver of dim light peeking through from underneath. “What’s back there?”

“Private rooms with individualized hosting services.”

“Any available now?”

The bouncer poked at a tablet computer with his thick finger. “Yes, sir. But you have to be a member. There’s a vetting process, and a fee.”

“Do you know who I am?”

With a slight smile, the bouncer said, “Yes, Mr. Carressa.”

“So bill me.”

The big man’s smile widened and he beckoned Max forward. “Right this way, sir.”

Max followed him through the oak door and into what used to be the hallway to his private sex rooms, now private lounges. Could be they still served the same purpose; one never knew in these kinds of places. He’d find out soon enough, though he didn’t intend to partake of anything salacious. His curiosity needed sating. Above all, he needed a distraction from his racing thoughts.

The new owners had removed the windows that allowed visual access into each room, turning the hallway into a mosaic of glass tile bricks. Oak doors broke up the hallway, each leading to a private lounge. Some of the doors stood cracked open a bit, and though Max would soon have a room of his own, he glanced in the ones he passed and noticed different themes—French colonial, Japanese contemporary, ancient Chinese. He slowed as they passed one room dedicated to imperialist Russia, wondering if the books he spotted on a shelf in the corner could be early editions from the Golden Age of Russian literature. He stepped as close as he could without sticking his head completely into someone else’s private room, almost able to discern the book titles—

“You made it.”

Max’s gaze cut to the source of the words—Aaron Zephyr. The analyst lounged in an oversized leather loveseat, a highball in hand, his coat and tie tossed over the back of a matching leather couch a couple feet away. At Aaron’s side, a beautiful woman in a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse sat on the thick arm of the loveseat, pale yellow hair falling across her shoulders in carefully controlled waves. The tips of her stiletto shoes grazed the shag rug as her bare legs dangled off the side, her lips in a slight curl that was almost a smile, but not quite. Even though the two weren’t touching, Max got the distinct feeling he’d stumbled upon something he shouldn’t be seeing.

“I’m sorry,” Max said, “I didn’t realize…I’ll be leaving—”

“No, come in, come in!” Aaron waved Max inside. He cocked his head at the woman. “We were just talking. She’s my hostess. Max, Eleanor; Eleanor, Max.”

A name Edgar Allan Poe could appreciate. Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore. The way she perched beside Aaron, though, she might have been the raven, there to pronounce his fate. Max had always been partial to ravens.

He nodded at Eleanor but didn’t smile. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. She didn’t smile at him, either; her lips stayed locked in that almost-smile, as if she worked to hold back some secret mirth. Instead, she regarded him with a mysterious intensity that made it impossible for him not to stare back.

“I have to admit I didn’t expect you to come,” Aaron said. “I hope you didn’t feel obligated.”

“No, not that.” Max took a small step inside. “I wanted to go somewhere…comfortable. I haven’t been here in a long time.”

Eleanor rose and walked to him, silent and graceful like a Gothic ghost. He didn’t think the tight skirt she wore had pockets, but she produced a marijuana cigarette from somewhere and gave it to him without a word. She knew what he wanted somehow. A lighter came next, and she fired up the joint as he held it to his lips, flames licking the tip as he took a long drag. All the while her emerald eyes never left his, and he caught himself wondering how many women he’d met in his life who were as beautiful as the creature in front of him. Kitty, wherever she was, Abby probably, and Val—of course Val.

He shouldn’t be thinking this. He took a step back, putting some distance between himself and Eleanor. He’d walked farther into the room than he thought. This weed must be the good stuff; already he felt a little light-headed.

“This is my new favorite place,” Aaron said as Eleanor returned to her perch on the loveseat’s arm. She rested a hand on the back of his neck and began massaging his muscles in slow circles. He closed his eyes and let his shoulders drop in quiet ecstasy. “Pricey, but you can’t beat the service. Lots of the guys come here after work. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it.”

“I’ve been avoiding this area of town.”

“It’s Seattle’s best-kept secret.” He opened his eyes to slits and glanced at the couch, head still bowed as Eleanor caressed his skin. “Wanna sit down?”

Max shook his head.

“You sure? She gives killer back rubs.”

He shook his head again. Just the idea of her touching him made his neck itch, as if her hands were already there. He moved his gaze to the books in the corner, but still felt her eyes on him even as she serviced Aaron. Why did she keep staring at him? What did she want? Surely she had access to lots of wealthy men. Max wasn’t special in that regard.

For that matter, what did he want? What was he doing there? He’d already satisfied his curiosity over what had become of his old haunt, yet there he still stood, rooted to the floor of someone else’s private room, spacy and sullen, vodka in one hand and a joint in the other.

Survivor’s guilt, they called it. Someone would say that.

A trill sounded from Aaron’s pant leg. He stirred from the lethargy Eleanor’s neck rub had put him in, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“Shit, Lacy.” He sighed and stood, looking back and forth between Max and Eleanor, not wanting an audience for his imminent argument with his wife. But as Max turned to leave, he said, “No, no, you stay here, relax when you feel like it. This’ll only take a minute.” He snorted on his way out the door. “Now she cares if I’m alive…”

For a moment Max watched the empty spot in the doorway Aaron had disappeared through, unable to will himself to leave despite having no good reason to stay. He would finish his drink and his joint, then leave—if he felt sober enough to drive. If not, he’d have no choice but to hang around a little longer. Sure, he could always call a cab, but he didn’t want to leave his car…

When he turned away from the door, he found Eleanor standing in front of him again, her svelte body only a couple feet from his, on the cusp of too close.

“You were at the Thornton Building when the bomb went off,” she said.

Exactly what he didn’t want to talk about. He puffed on his cigarette, trying to ease his nerves. “The police don’t know yet if it was a bomb. Could have been a gas leak.”

“The news reports keep mentioning a bomb. I guess they think it makes a better story than an accident.” She cocked her head. “Did you find it disturbing?”

Did he what? “Why would you ask me that?”

“You’ve been through a lot, according to your biographies.”

“Unauthorized biographies.”

One corner of her deep-red lips turned up, that perpetual grin she’d been fending off finally breaking through. “I see now there’s some truth in them.”

He let out a mirthless laugh as he blew smoke in the air. “After speaking fifty-two words to me in your entire life, you can tell I’m heartless and unconcerned with the suffering of others?”

“Of course not. I meant the opposite. Death and mayhem follow you around. It can harden a person, make them cynical and uncaring. But you’re not like that.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I do. Let me show you.”

She took a step closer—definitely too close now—and shifted her weight so the curve of her body from her shoulders to her ankles made a smooth arc. A glint of gold brought his attention to a tiny cross suspended from a thin necklace nestled between her breasts. The heat of arousal rose up his neck, along with anger. What was she—a hooker? A modern-day courtesan? Simply an opportunistic waitress? This woman could have any man she wanted. Hell, she already had Aaron. Why was she messing with him?

He took a step back. “No thank you.”

If anything, he expected an angry outburst at being spurned, not the hearty laugh she gave him instead. He had no idea what was so funny. “God has a purpose for us all, and we must walk that path even when it’s difficult and painful. Some people call it acceptance. Embrace what’s come before and accept what will be.”

Now he knew where Aaron got his psychology lessons, couched in a sermon. “I’ve embraced everything I need, thanks. The rest I’ve let go. If you’ve read my biographies, you’d know that.”

“Then why are you here, at your old club?”

He coughed on his joint, the smoke stuck in his throat for a moment. Shit, she knew. How? She must have told Aaron, or vice versa, to get him there. Why? So she could hit on him, then blackmail him if he took the bait? No, that scenario required too many coincidences to be premeditated. But she knew about him somehow, more than she could have gleaned from an Internet search. An undercover reporter maybe.

The clinking of ice caught his attention, and he looked down to see his hand shaking, rattling the cubes in his glass. Before he could order the tremors to stop, Eleanor cupped his hand in hers, a move so forward, he didn’t know how to react.

“I forgive you,” she said, “for killing your father.”

Max felt the blood leave his face. She didn’t know. She was guessing. Fucking with him. Nobody but Val, and maybe Delilah Barrister, knew the truth. And he didn’t need the forgiveness of someone he’d known for all of ten minutes. Lester Carressa deserved to be thrown off his balcony. He’d been a terrible human being who had earned a much worse fate than what he ultimately got.

Of course, people could say the same thing about Max.

Why was he still there? Why was he still talking to this woman?

Max jerked his hand out of her grasp. He dropped the joint into his glass, the glass onto an end table, and finally stormed out of the room and out of the club like he should have done the second he set foot inside the place. This was why he usually stayed away from the past—demons lurked everywhere.

All was dark and quiet when he returned to the condo a little after midnight. Val was sleeping soundly on her side of the bed, an indistinct hill in the sliver of moon that shone through the blind slats. Without turning on any lights, he shed his clothes, letting them drop to the ground where he stood until nothing remained. He slid into bed next to his wife, inching closer until his chest pressed against her back. He nuzzled her neck; her hair smelled like apples, her skin like cucumbers and melon. Touching his lips to her warm flesh, he tasted the salt of the ocean where they were married, the vanilla of the milk they’d fed their newborn children, the wine they’d drunk to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Everything good in his life was tied to her, an angel fallen from heaven for him, cursed to endure the worst of the world by his side because he couldn’t do it without her.

When he wrapped his arm around her waist, he felt her turn to face him, awake after all.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He ran his fingertips across her cheek, caressing the contours he couldn’t see but knew well, and his lips met hers in a long, deep kiss. Movements heavy and lethargic in the dark, she gave herself to him, surrendering to his needs as he moved around her, slipping off her panties and her T-shirt, until the full length of her bare body pressed up against his. Her legs yielded to him and he pushed inside her, surging in and out like the heartbeat of the ocean against the shore. Their rhythmic breathing, like the breaking of waves, was the only thing he could hear. He wanted to think of nothing but her warmth and wetness, but of course he thought of everything instead—all those poor people who died, more injured in the hospital, Michael’s mangled arm, Val’s insistence on putting herself in danger yet again, his children’s inherited curse, murdering his own father and escaping punishment, Aaron’s mistress who tormented him with her forgiveness. His lips never stopped moving against Val’s mouth, her face, her neck, anywhere he could reach. He tasted the salt of his own tears as they rolled off his cheeks and fell into her hair and across her skin.

God, he loved her. He loved her with everything he had. He’d come close to losing her so many times, every second he touched her, he thought it might be his last.

Any other night he would have pleasured her first, but on this night a selfish desperation seized him, a singular, passionate agony that needed release only she could give. With a final crash, the waves broke through him and his life spilled out—

Max gasped as his mind snapped back to the present. Val lay underneath him, quiet and calm. His head rested on her chest, rising and falling with her deep breathing as her fingers made slow tracks through his hair. Blinking away tears continuing to well in his eyes, he took a haggard breath.

What had happened? Ever since he learned to exert some measure of control over his ability, he’d only seen numbers, and occasionally the red raven.

Now, the yellow hyena. A beast, coming for Val.

For the rest of the night he stared into the darkness and listened to her heartbeat, painfully aware he wasn’t the one who could change the future. What he saw was destiny.