Ruthless Creatures: Chapter 5

“Itold you he was a widower. It’s the only logical explanation.”

Sloane and I are at lunch. We’ve already dropped the gown at the consignment shop. Now we’re hunched over our salads, replaying my encounter with Kage to try to get it to make sense.

“So you think he saw me in the dress and…”

“Flipped out,” she finishes, nodding. “It reminded him of his dead wife. Shit, this must be recent.” Munching on a mouthful of lettuce, she mulls it over for a moment. “That’s probably why he moved to town. Wherever he was living before reminded him too much of her. God, I wonder how she died?”

“Probably an accident. He’s young—what do you think? Early thirties?”

“To mid at the most. They might not have been married very long.” She makes a sound of sympathy. “Poor guy. It doesn’t seem like he’s taking it well.”

I feel a twinge of dismay at the way I treated him this morning. I was so embarrassed to be caught in my wedding dress, and so surprised to see him instead of Sloane, I’m afraid I was a bit of a bitch.

“So what was in the box he brought over?”

“Painting supplies. Oils and brushes. The weird thing is that I don’t remember ordering them.”

Sloane looks at me with a combination of sympathy and hope. “Does this mean you’re working on a new piece?”

Avoiding her searching eyes, I pick at my salad. “I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it.”

More like I don’t want to make up a lie, but if I tell her that I’m still not painting but I somehow ordered myself art supplies without remembering I did, she’ll drive me straight from lunch to a therapist’s office.

Maybe Diane Myers was right: I’m living in a bubble. A big fuzzy bubble of denial that’s disconnected me from the world. I’m slowly but surely losing touch with real life.

Sloane says, “Oh, babe, I’m so glad! This is great forward progress!”

When I glance up, she’s beaming at me. Now I feel like an asshole. I’ll have to slap some paint on an empty canvas when I get home just so I’m not consumed by guilt.

“And you did so well at the consignment shop, too. Not a tear in sight. I’m very proud.”

“Does this mean I can order another glass of wine?”

“You’re a big girl. You can do whatever you want.”

“Good, because it’s still The Day That Will Not Be Mentioned, and I’m hoping to be blacked out by four o’clock.”

The time I was supposed to be walking down the aisle on this date five years ago.

Thank god it’s a Saturday, or I’d have a lot of explaining to do when I toppled over reeking of booze in the middle of teaching class.

Sloane is distracted from whatever disapproving statement she was about to say by her cell phone chirping. A text has come through.

She digs her phone out of her bag, looks at it, and grins. “Oh, yeah, big boy.”

Then she looks up at me, and her face falls. She shakes her head and starts to type. “I’ll tell him we need to reschedule.”

“Him who? Reschedule what?”

“It’s Stavros. We’re supposed to be going out tonight. I forgot.”

“Stavros? You’re dating a Greek shipping tycoon?”

She stops typing and rolls her eyes. “No, girl, he’s the hottie I’ve been telling you about.”

When I stare at her blankly, she insists, “The one who showed up at my yoga class in tight gray sweatpants with no underwear on so everyone could see a perfect outline of his dick?”

I arch an eyebrow, sure I would have remembered that.

“Oh, c’mon. I’ve told you all about him. He’s got a place right on the lake. Three hundred feet of private beach. The tech guy. Any of this ringing a bell?”

Zero bells are ringing, but I nod anyway. “Right. Stavros. Gray sweatpants. I remember.”

She sighs. “You so don’t.”

We stare at each other across the table until I say, “How early does early-onset Alzheimer’s kick in?”

“Not this early. You’re not even thirty yet.”

“Maybe it’s a brain tumor.”

“It’s not a brain tumor. You’re just kind of…” She winces, not wanting to hurt my feelings. “Checked out.”

So Diane the blabbermouth was right. Groaning, I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You endured a major trauma. You’re still getting over it. There’s no correct timetable for grief.”

If only there was a body, I could move on.

I’m so ashamed by that thought, my face burns. But the ugly truth is that there is no moving on.

The worst thing about a missing person who’s never found is that those they leave behind can’t really mourn. They’re stuck in a perpetual twilight of unknowing. Unable to get closure, unable to properly grieve, they exist in a kind of numb limbo. Like perennials in winter, lying dormant under frozen ground.

It’s the unanswered questions that get you. The terrible what-ifs that gnaw at your soul with hungry teeth at night.

Is he dead? If so, how did it happen? Did he suffer? For how long?

Did he join a cult? Get abducted? Start a new life somewhere else?

Is he alone out in the woods, living off the land?

Did he hit his head and forget his identity?

Is he ever coming back?

The list is endless. A one-sided, open-ended Q&A that repeats on a loop every waking hour, except you’re only talking to yourself and the answers never come.

For people like me, there are no answers. There is only life in suspended animation. There is only the slow and steady calcification of your heart.

But I’ll be damned if I’ll let my best friend calcify with me.

I raise my head and say firmly, “You’re going on that date with gray sweatpants.”

“Nat—”

“There’s no reason both of us should be miserable. End of discussion.”

She gazes at me with narrowed eyes for a moment, until she sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t like this.”

“Tough. Now text your boy toy that your date is on and finish your lunch.”

I make a show of polishing off my salad as if I’ve got the appetite of a farm animal, because Sloane’s like a grandmother: it always makes her feel better when she sees me eat.

Watching me, she says drily, “I know what you’re doing.”

I answer through a mouthful of salad. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Looking heavenward, she draws a slow breath. Then she deletes whatever she had been typing on her cell and starts over. She sends the message and drops her phone back into her purse. “Happy?”

“Yes. And I want a full report in the morning.”

Sounding like the head of the gestapo, she demands, “What are you going to do tonight if you’re not with me?”

I think fast. “Treat myself to dinner at Michael’s.”

Michael’s is a small, upscale casino on the Nevada side of the lake where wealthy tourists go to gamble and blow their money. The steakhouse sits above the casino floor so you can look down on everyone playing craps and blackjack while you stuff your face with overpriced filet mignon. I can’t really afford it on my salary, but the minute it’s out of my mouth, I’m looking forward to it.

If watching me eat makes Sloane feel better, for me it’s watching other people make bad decisions.

She says, “Alone? The only people who eat alone are psychopaths.”

“Thanks for that. Any other little gems of encouragement you’d like to share?”

She purses her lips in disapproval but stays silent, so I know I’m off the hook.

Now I just have to figure out what to wear.

When I walk into Michael’s at six o’clock, I’ve already got a pleasant buzz going.

I took a cab over so I wouldn’t have to drive, because my plan for this evening is to order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu—screw it, I’ll put it on a credit card—and get properly shit-faced.

Without the wedding dress in the house, I feel lighter. Like I’ve let go of something heavy I’ve been holding on to for too long. I dug around in the back of my closet and pulled out another dress I never wear, but one that doesn’t have so much baggage attached to it. It’s a red silk body-skimming sheath that manages to flatter my figure without looking like it’s trying too hard.

I’ve paired it with strappy gold heels, an armful of slim gold bangles, and a sloppy updo for what I hope is a sort of boho-chic look. A swipe of Sweet Poison on my lips completes the look.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll hit it off with someone I meet at the bar.

I laugh at that thought because it’s so ridiculous.

The maître d’ seats me at a nice table in a corner of the room. There’s an enormous fish tank behind me and the casino floor below me on the right. I’ve got a clear view of the rest of the restaurant, too, which is mostly populated with older couples and a few young people who look like they’re on first dates.

I order champagne and settle into my chair, satisfied that this was a good idea. I can’t be as morose in public as I’d be at home, sharing mac and cheese with Mojo and weeping over my old engagement photos.

I’m satisfied for all of two minutes before I see him, sitting across the restaurant alone at a table, smoking a cigar and nursing a glass of whiskey.

I mutter, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

As if he heard me speak, Kage looks up and catches my eye.

Whoa. That was my stomach dropping.

I send him a tight smile and look away, squirming. I wish I knew why making eye contact with the man feels so visceral. It’s like every time I meet his gaze, he’s reaching into my stomach to squeeze my guts in his big fist.

I neglected to tell Sloane about his comment. The “you are beautiful” one that I’ve been trying not to think about all day. The one accompanied by a gruff tone of voice and that look in his eye that I’m quickly becoming familiar with. That strange mix of intensity and hostility, warmed with what I’d think was curiosity if I didn’t know better.

I busy myself with staring down at the casino floor until the maître d’ returns, smiling.

“Miss, the gentleman at the table against the wall requests that you join him for dinner.”

He gestures to where Kage sits watching me like a hunter peering at a doe through the sights of a rifle.

My heart thumping, I hesitate, unsure what to do. It would be rude to refuse, but I hardly know the man. What I do know of him is confusing, to say the least.

And tonight. Why did I have to run into him again tonight?

The maître d’ smiles wider. “Yes, he said you’d be reluctant, but he promises to be on his best behavior.”

His best behavior? What would that look like?

Before I can imagine, the maître d’ is helping me out of my chair and leading me by the elbow across the restaurant. Apparently, I don’t have a choice in the matter.

We arrive at Kage’s tableside. I’m surprised to find him standing. He doesn’t seem like someone who’d bother with such formalities.

The maître d’ pulls out the chair opposite his, bows, and retreats, leaving me standing there awkwardly as Kage stares at me with burning eyes.

“Please, sit.”

It’s the “please” that finally does it. I sink into the chair, swallowing because my mouth is suddenly so dry.

He sits also. After a moment, he says, “That dress.”

I glance up at him, bracing myself for another insult about my fussy wedding gown, but he’s gazing with lowered lids at the dress I’m currently wearing. He probably thinks this one is hideous, too.

Self-conscious, I fiddle with one of the spaghetti straps. “It’s old. Simple.”

His dark eyes flash up to meet mine. He says hotly, “Simple is better on you. Perfection doesn’t need any embellishment.”

It’s a good thing I’m not holding a glass, because I’d drop it.

Stunned, I stare at him. He stares right back, looking like he’d like to punch himself in the face.

It’s obvious he doesn’t like it when he gives me compliments. Also obvious is that he never intends to, they just come out.

Less obvious is why he gets so angry with himself when it happens.

My cheeks burning, I say, “Thank you. That’s…probably the nicest compliment I’ve ever been given.”

He grinds his molars for a while, then takes a long swig of his whiskey. He sets the glass back down on the tabletop with such force, I jump.

He’s regretting the invitation. Time to let him off the hook.

“It was very nice of you to invite me over, but I can see you’d rather be alone. So thank you for—”

“Stay.”

It comes out as a barked command. When I blink, startled, he softens it with a murmured, “Please.”

“Okay, but only if you take your meds.”

He murmurs to himself, “She’s funny, too. How inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient for who?”

He simply gazes at me without answering.

What is it with this guy?

The maître d’ returns holding the bottle of champagne I ordered, along with two flutes.

Thank god. I was just about to start gnawing on my arm. I can’t remember the last time I was this uncomfortable.

Oh, wait. Sure I can. It was last night, when Prince Charmless so elegantly rejected my request for a ride home. Or was it this morning, when he saw me in my wedding dress and looked as if he was about to throw up?

I’m sure if I give it five more minutes, I’ll have another example to choose from.

Kage and I are silent as the maître d’ uncorks the bottle and pours. He informs us our waiter will be over soon, then disappears as I’m shooting my champagne like I’m in a competition for an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.

When I set my empty glass down, Kage says, “You always drink so much?”

Ah, yes. He saw me boozing it up last night, too. Right before I wobbled over to his table. No wonder he looks at me with such…whatever it is.

“No, actually,” I say, trying to look ladylike as I blot my lips on my napkin. “Only on two days a year.”

He cocks a brow, waiting for an explanation. In an ashtray next to his left elbow, his cigar sends up lazy whorls of smoke into the air.

Are you even allowed to smoke in here?

As if that would stop him.

I glance away from the dark pull of his eyes. “It’s a long story.”

Even though I’m not looking at him, his attention is a force I can physically feel on my body. In my stomach. On my skin. I close my eyes and slowly exhale, trying to steady my nerves.

Then—blame it on the buzz—I jump off the cliff in front of me. “Today was supposed to be my wedding day.”

After an oddly tense pause, he prompts, “Supposed to be?”

I clear my throat, knowing that my cheeks are red, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “My fiancé disappeared. That was five years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

What the hell, he’d find out from someone soon enough anyway. Diane Myers has probably already mailed him a handwritten essay about the whole thing.

When he remains silent, I glance over at him. He’s sitting perfectly still in his chair, his gaze steady on mine. His expression reveals nothing, but there’s a new tension in his body. A new hardness in his already stony jaw.

Which is when I remember that he’s a recent widower. I’ve just stuck my foot in my mouth.

Hand over my heart, I breathe, “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

His brows draw together in a quizzical frown. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what I mean.

“Because of your…situation.”

He sits forward in his chair, folds his arms on the tabletop, and leans closer to me. Eyes glittering, he says quietly, “Which situation is that?”

God, this guy is scary. Big, hot, and really scary. But mostly hot. No, scary.

Shit, I think I’m drunk.

“Maybe I’m wrong. I just assumed—”

“Assumed what?”

“That when you saw me in my wedding dress…that you’re new in town and you seem very, um, a little, how should I say? Not angry, exactly, but more like upset? That perhaps, you were, ah, maybe suffering from a recent loss…”

Feeling pathetic, I trail off into silence.

His stare is so hard and searching, it might as well be an interrogation spotlight. Then his expression clears, and he sits back into his chair. “You thought I was married.”

There’s a definite a hint of laughter in his tone.

“Yes. Specifically, a widower.”

“I’ve never been married. Never been divorced. Don’t have a dead wife.”

“I see.”

I don’t see, not one bit, but what else can I say? So sorry my best friend and I are conspiracy theorists and spent an entire lunch obsessing over you?

No. I definitely can’t say that.

Also on the list of prohibited topics: if you don’t have a dead wife, why did you freak out when you saw me in my wedding dress? Why do you look at me like you want to run me over with your car but turn around and give me such beautiful compliments? Then hate yourself for giving them?

Last but not least, what’s up with the punching bag?

At a loss for what else to do or say, I pat my lips with my napkin again. “Well. I apologize. It’s none of my business anyway.”

Very softly, Kage says, “Isn’t it?”

His tone suggests that it is. Now I’m even more flustered. “I mean…no?”

“Is that a question?” A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth. His eyes have warmed, and there are tiny crinkle lines around them.

Wait—is he mocking me?

I say icily, “I’m not in the mood to play games.”

Still with that low, suggestive tone, he says, “I am.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. He sinks his teeth into his full lower lip.

In a wave, heat rushes up my neck to my ears where it settles, throbbing.

I grab the champagne bottle and attempt to pour champagne into my glass. My hands are shaking so badly, however, it spills down the sides of the flute and onto the tablecloth.

Kage removes the bottle from my hand, takes the glass, and finishes pouring, all the while wearing an expression very close to a smirk.

It’s not a real smirk, mind you, because that would require smiling.

He hands me the champagne flute. I say breathlessly, “Thank you,” and toss it back.

When I set the empty glass back on the table, he turns businesslike. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.”

Oh, look, he’s being reasonable. I wonder which personality this is?

He sticks out his baseball mitt of a hand. “Hi. I’m Kage. Nice to meet you.”

Feeling like I’m in an alternate universe, I slip my hand into his, then doubt I’ll ever get it back because it’s lost somewhere inside his warm, rough, gargantuan palm.

What would it be like to have those hands on my naked body?

“Kage?” I repeat faintly, struck by the vivid mental image of him running his huge hands all over my naked flesh. I flush all the way down to my toes. “Is that your first name or your last name?”

“Both.”

“Of course it is. Hi, Kage. I’m Natalie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Natalie. May I call you Nat?”

He’s breaking out the manners, I see. And he still hasn’t let go of my hand. And I still can’t banish that image of him fondling me everywhere as I writhe and moan and beg him for more. “Of course.”

Please don’t let him notice that my nipples are hard. Please, please, don’t let him notice. Why the hell didn’t I wear a bra?

He says pleasantly, “So what do you do for a living, Nat?”

“I’m a teacher. Of art. At a middle school.”

I could also be an escapee from a mental institution. I’ll let you know in a minute, right after the throbbing between my legs settles down and the blood returns to my head.

What is wrong with me? I don’t even like this guy!

“And you?”

“I’m a collector.”

That surprises me. He could’ve said “contract killer” and I would’ve just nodded. “Oh. Like antiques or something?”

His pressure on my hand is firm and steady. His gaze is also steady as he looks into my eyes and answers.

“No. Like debts.”