PRESENT DAY
Nora
There are days I wish I’d never been born. What is the point? The second we enter the world, we’re dying. No matter how much money you have; you can't buy another moment when your ticket is up.
Rotting. Decaying. Slowly. Bit by bit. Year by year.
Joints. Brains. Muscles. All give up. They all give in.
Everything we experience is a lead-in to death. If the goal of a life well-lived is death—what is the point? These are macabre thoughts, even for me, but my mind wanders as I watch people standing in front of me waiting for their prescriptions. I cross my arms over my chest. I fail at life—at real life. My anxiety starts, the doubts, the pressures and worries that every person on the planet deals with, yet somehow, I cannot handle. Nothing changes instantaneously, it is gradual and likewise, my anxiety problem arrived. I felt safer when Holden was out there. Alive. Knowing he is dead has jumbled my brain. Anxiety riddles me more now than before. What a queer turn of events but my truth nonetheless. I step up to the counter and give the clerk my name and date of birth. I watch as she rifles through the bags to find mine. There has to be something more than this to life. I carry the small white Rite Aid bag, receipt stapled over the top, and start to wonder how many people will notice and try to figure out what medicine I’m on when they take in the tell-tale prescription bag. It is bizarre really, that I want to shield my purchase from the public—though most people take something these days. I am about to tuck the bag beneath my arm, when my right shoelace snaps. I stop and glare at my traitorous foot.
I set the Rite Aid bag down and kneel. I try to figure out how to fix the lace so my sneaker will stay on. From the corner of my eye, I see people staring at me as they pass by. Does it have something to do with the prescription bag? Am I hunched over because I need help? I have a moment of anxiety, unfounded and irrational and think, screw my sneaker. Standing, as white hot heat spreads across my chest, I race across the parking lot to the path that cuts through the park. I should have driven. I contemplate taking one of my little white pills to stop this but I like to pretend I am stronger than I am.
It takes ten minutes to settle again. To catch my breath and feel at ease. Calm. Tilting my head to the sky, thick with fluffy white clouds, I inhale, hold it, and then let it out slowly. The river rushes over stone and clay to my right. The sound is soothing. Vines grow up and around the trees, the leaves fat and wide like elephant ears. White bits of dandelions float in the air. They settle atop pine needles littered across the ground, forming cotton-like batting. It reminds me of the mountain. Of Holden. The river runs wild from the recent rain. It slides over rocks, a ruddy brown color from the clay riverbed. The path forks and I stay left. Sun filters through the canopy of trees that arch over the smooth path along the water. I inhale deeply.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Daisy.
The name plaque is nailed to a tree next to a rock that juts out over the roaring water. It is ceramic, her name engraved into it. It hangs on a nail pounded into the flesh of the tree. The perfect place to sit and just be. Every time I see it, it makes my brain swirl with questions. I wonder if Daisy ever felt the way I do. If she battled demons. If she went through the push and pull of therapy. Probably not. I bet Daisy was the happiest girl in town. She was probably raised in a house that smelled like blueberry cake, with parents who nurtured her and doled out hugs frequently. I follow the path and remind myself to breathe. I remind myself the world doesn't revolve around me.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Fucking Daisy.
I squeeze the prescription bottle through the paper bag, letting its presence calm me. I breathe in another lungful of crisp air and recap my pathetic life. About the way I wasted two hours reading a women’s magazine earlier because apparently, I want to punish myself. I was overwhelmed by all the dieting gimmicks. Juicing, smoothies, pills, calorie cycling. Who has time for that? Who wants to crap red for a week, simply because they are on an all beet juice cleanse to lose a measly ten pounds? Instead of learning any useful information, I sat with my Jack Russell, Burt, spread across my lap, stuffing my hand into a bag of salt and vinegar chips, wondering why I have an extra ten pounds on me since being home. Since leaving the cabin.
Since leaving Holden.
***
Liam
Watching Nora has been easy. She’s a creature of habit. For the last three months, I’ve kept my eye on her. My father would be angry to learn what I'm doing but I just can’t let it go. My brother was alive with her. He touched her. Spoke to her. Hurt her the way he did me so many years ago. She knew him. She, presumably, got to know him better than I did. A little bubble of jealousy formed in my gut after that visit to my father. I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to understand what Holden saw in her. There was a time, a long, long time ago, when I looked up to my big brother. When I wanted to be just like him. That morphed and changed when he started passing Ma’s abuse on to me, but still, what about this woman captivated him? I need to know. It started out innocent enough. I googled Nora. Found out what I could about her through the internet. But that just didn't do it for me. It didn't satisfy what I need.
I hired one of my father's guys from The Black to gather more intimate information for me. Home address, a remote login to her computer and email password. The Black is full of seedy men waiting to get paid for their particular skill sets. It wasn't hard and I didn't have to wait long. Reading her emails sent a thrill through me at first but then I needed more.
I am distracted at work. It no longer holds my interest and that is unsatisfactory. My father will certainly take notice soon. I need to focus. I have a job to do. I have people who can’t know about the methods it takes to get me off. Or even who it takes. Sweat drips off my assistant Mara’s forehead, she grabs a tissue from her bag and tutting with irritation at herself, scrubs her face dry. I watch as she goes about her duties. She’s a good employee and she’s been carrying more than her share of the load recently.
I stare at my monitor and will myself to pay attention to the charts and graphs on it.
It is after seven p.m. when the phone rings. I managed to dig into work after hours in the quiet of the office.
“Lockwood,” I answer.
“Liam.” I hold my sigh in.
“Dad,” I say.
“I’m at The Black with some potential investors. I want you here.” I scrub my palm over my face and stifle a groan.
“Yes, sir. Give me,” I look at the clock, “thirty minutes? I’m just wrapping up contracts for the Harrington deal.”
“Twenty.” His tone is stern. I open my mouth to speak but the line is already dead.
The Black is a gentlemen’s club. You must be a member to enter. It is a collection of the most powerful men in the area. Dangerous men. White collar criminals. Men with dubious proclivities. Before Nora was on my radar, before I stumbled across that damn magazine article, it is where I spent most of my evenings. Tonight, however, I am less than excited to go.
The woman I frequent there normally, isn't doing it for me lately. I am hooked on Nora. I crave her. Obsession is a tricky thing. I check my side mirror and pull in the flow of traffic.
I am late. My father will not be pleased. I crank the music and roll my shoulders as I drive. I’m tense. When I pull up to The Black, I take a deep breath. I toss my keys to the valet and continue into the club. It is dimly lit and smells of cigar smoke. A hand in the far corner raises. It is my father’s. I make my way to him.
“Ah, Liam, my boy. There you are,” he says. He is pink-cheeked from too many bourbons and too nice in the face of guests. He was once fit; he is now round. Many women still consider him handsome but I can’t see it. All I see is a ghost of what once seemed like a great, virile man. He is aging poorly. I attribute it to his copious drinking and cigar smoking.
“Here I am,” I say. He shoots me a look. The kind only passed between a parent and child. The kind that says I better behave. Introductions are passed out as I take my seat at the circular wood table. I shake hands. I down two gin and tonics. I laugh at crude jokes. I tell some of my own. We talk deals and cash and how to make sure certain things stay under the radar and all the while, I am wishing that I was watching Nora.
When the girls are brought to the table, it is a welcome distraction. Yuri and his partner, Gregor, smack asses and have devilish grins on their faces. My father sits preening in the corner with his own girl tittering over him. He is confident he has sealed this deal.
The girls pretend their crude comments and gestures turn them on and soon, two-by-two, they disappear into the back of the club. I know better. I don’t want pretend. I want ... different things from women.
“Come on, stud,” Candy whispers in my ear. I smirk out of habit.
“As you wish,” I return. She hooks her arm at my elbow and escorts me down the long hallway, into the bowels of the club. My gait is clipped as we walk. Candy squeezes my forearm but it does nothing to abate my tension.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” she muses, as the door clicks shut behind us.
“I’ve been busy.” And I have, watching Nora Robertson. I am only tolerating Candy because my father is here and watching and I don't want to listen to his inquisition if I pass on Candy.
She stands before me and narrows her eyes. “Take off your suit.”
I do as I am told. My movements feel robotic. I wonder if Candy can tell? She slowly circles me as I undress. The room is warm or maybe it’s just the gin taking effect in my bloodstream. A bed resides in the corner, simply made. A wall of toys rests across from it. There is an assortment of whips and paddles. Ball-gags and bondage items. A shiver of anticipation courses through me. With Candy, I don’t have to think. She knows what I like. She knows and keeps my secrets. She is the only girl I see here for pleasure. Of course, I know the others, but Candy is the one I usually limit myself to. Her hands grasp my shoulders and massage.
“Tense. That’s unlike you,” she says rounding me.
“It’s been a while. You know how I get.”
She bites her bottom lip. She takes the belt from her silk robe and uses it to blindfold me. As soon as the blackness creeps in, a chill climbs my spine. The sight of her still glows on the insides of my eyelids. Before I can fully adjust to the moment, a cattail cracks against my skin.
“Breathe, Liam.” Her words cut through the pain. “You’re going to be punished tonight.” I inhale sharply as the whip hits again. This is only the warm up. Part of me already feels guilty. Like I am cheating on my counterfeit girlfriend. I push Nora from my thoughts as the whip cracks against my skin again. My teeth gritted, an exhale leaves me in a hissing sound. Candy circles me. I can feel her presence. The slight breeze her body creates moving around mine. I want to pretend it’s Nora inflicting pain.
***
It’s black outside. Midnight velvet. It makes everything more bearable. I’m at ease. The stars litter the sky with small bits of light. Candy gave me just what I needed to make it through another week. I hadn’t realized how pent up I was. How focused on Nora I’d been. How good the release would feel.
Here she comes. Ponytail swinging back and forth like a pendulum as she jogs. I wonder when she put her hair up. She’s a vision. She shouldn’t be out here alone. Not at this time of night. Where has she been? She’s too pretty. Too young. Too naive. I want to give her everything but I stand in awe of superficial things. I like money. I like control. I like things and pain. Hunger and greed leak from my eyes, my pores—for her. She’s a dark temptation. My temptation. Temptation comes in many guises. It’s been known to provoke lust, incite jealousy or even unleash fury. Her sneakers make little sound on the pavement as she walks. I want to step out from my spot and say something but I don’t. I hope she has a safety net because I intend to drag her over my dark edge. I love the game. I’m well practiced in the art of deception.
Forceful as the wind gusts, I’m certain she’ll be swinging blind, punch drunk, when I reveal myself. My palms are clammy. My heart stutters in my chest. I’m wrapped up in excitement for what’s to come. Her natural milky complexion is smooth, and dark lashes frame deep blue eyes. She’s beautiful. I want to hold her, taste her. Instead, I hold my breath as my slacks grow ever more constrictive at my groin. She bounces down the street in running pants and a sweatshirt. I am mesmerized by the way she moves. Breasts bouncing. Mouth open. Muscles contracting as she jogs. Too soon, she is at her house, bounding up the steps. The front door spills warm light from inside as she opens it.
In she goes.
I work hard, everyone around me works hard, and for what? I refocus my thoughts. I’m excited. She is at the kitchen sink filling a glass with water. She is staring right at me. My breathing picks up as I stare back. My cock stiffens at the thought of her noticing me. I wonder about this sustained, distorting euphoria I get from my time with Nora. It’s thrilling knowing she doesn’t realize we’re spending time together. The anticipation of what it will be like when we finally meet, makes me buzz with energy.
I simply watch her.
For now.