Lovely Vicious (15 page)

No wonder Wren’s got a crush! Look at her! She’s a perfect goddess! But Wren’s a good guy so I’m sure it’s not all tits and ass with him. He sees how smart she is. Um. Smart at things that aren’t school! Like, lipstick! I’ve seen her identify a lipstick just by smelling it! And she can touch her tongue to her elbow, and she makes incredible brownies, but honestly the only thing you need to know how to make when you look like that is pee and carbon monoxide –

“Ma’am,” I feel a light tap on my shoulder. My waitress smiles at me, pained. “You’re, uh, disturbing the other customers.”

An old couple and a family is glaring at me. Kayla and Jack are on the other side of the room, and they aren’t looking back, so I’m okay, but I quickly whisper.

“Wow sorry, I was fabulously thinking aloud again, I do that a lot, look, could you get me the noodles? This noodle thingy right here?” I point at the menu. “Thanks, wow. Sorry. But it was probably fabulous so I’m not really sorry though, but still, sorry.”

The waitress scuttles away, and I make a shooing motion at the old couple who’re still glaring.

“Don’t you have something to better to work on?” I hiss. “Like golfing or eating prunes or dying?”

The old lady looks shocked.

“Okay, sorry, not dying. But seriously, prunes are good for you.”

I peer at Kayla through the leaves. I can see the side of her face, and it’s practically glowing. They’ve ordered, and while they wait they stir their drinks and Jack asks her questions. Kayla talks excitedly, using her hands, and Jack watches with an intense concentration so unlike his usual boredom. He smiles gently when she says something funny and when she falls silent or talks slower, his expression is kind and caring. Sometimes he interjects slyly and Kayla laughs. It’s like a totally different soul has taken over his grotesquely good-looking body. He’s all business, and business means making women happy. He’s totally capable of it, as long as the money’s there.

Does Sophia know, I wonder? Her letter said she knows he works, but has he told her he escorts? He obviously gives the money he makes to the hospital for Sophia’s bills, which makes me think her parents aren’t in the picture at all, and I know for a fact government funding for sick minors is tight. He’s so good at being…well…good. He’s done this escorting thing for a long time. If Sophia knew where the money was coming from, I’m sure she’d make him stop. But he can’t afford to stop, can he? Her sickness is bad, and according to Avery, only getting worse. Jack wants to provide her with the best care. He really likes her. Loves her.

The food arrives, and they eat and talk. My own food comes shortly after and I shovel noodles into my mouth while watching them. Kayla’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. Jack is being patient and humorous and gentle, everything Kayla wants him to be. He’s mirroring her. It’s not the real him, but she’s so in love with it she can’t see that.

It’s sad.

Maybe that’s why Jack’s eyes look a little sad.

Or maybe he’s thinking of Sophia, how much he wishes it was her across the table instead.
 

After dinner, they order dessert. Jack gets up to use the bathroom, and shoots a meaningful glance at me. He wants me to follow. I wait a few minutes, then get up and slink behind the mottled glass so Kayla can’t see me. I push the door to the men’s room open, praying no one sees. Jack leans on the sink, arms folded over his chest and all wisps of the gentleness he had been with Kayla gone. It’s back to cold Jackass.
 

“So?” He asks.

“It’s good.” I nod. “You’re doing good. It’s a little disturbing how good you’re doing, actually.”

“I told you not to doubt me.”
  
 

“Never did. I just know you don’t respect people.”

“I do. If they pay me.”

I laugh. “Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”

“And you’re not? I’ve never met a more stubborn, jaded, cynical girl in my life.”

“It’s true. I’m very special.”

He scoffs, but something in his eyes eases. For a split second, he’s the gentle, patient Jack as he says;

“You are.”

And then he’s leaning in, mint and shaving cream and coconut milk from whatever he ate, and he brushes his thumb over my stunned lips. He looks up into my eyes, and freezes, like he realizes what he’s doing. He pulls away.

“What the – ” He murmurs, looking at his hands like they don’t belong to him. “Forget what I just did. Just – just forget it. You had something on your lip.”

I watch in miraculous horror as Jack Hunter, Ice Prince of East Summit High, turns a soft shade of red, his cheeks blossoming with it.

“Are you…are you blushing?” I whisper.

“No! Can’t you feel the air temperature? It’s ridiculously hot!” He snaps. “I’m leaving and finishing the job. Stay and watch if you want, I don’t care.”

He’s angry. And it’s not cold anger – it’s hot and instant and boils up and over his icy eyes and marble-perfect lips. He shoves out the door and stalks back to the table. I wait a few minutes, and then go back to mine. He’s smiling again, but his face is still a little red, and his laughter is louder and more savage than it was. Kayla doesn’t seem to mind, though. They go through almond ice cream with some kind of cookie in it. Kayla tries to feed him, but he refuses and shoots a look at my table that says ‘if you make me eat that from her fingers it will cost more’. I shake my head and he goes back to politely rejecting it.

Save for the little tantrum he threw in the bathroom, (Jack Hunter! Tantrum! The words are opposites!) everything’s been going great. Kayla hasn’t cried or ran away once. And as Jack pays the bill and offers Kayla his arm and she laces hers in his, I get the distinct feeling it’s been the best night of her life. I pay my bill and wait, watching them out the window. They stand on the sidewalk, immersed in the golden glow of a lamppost above. Kayla is leaning into his arm, and she looks up and asks him something. He goes still, pauses, and then leans down to kiss her. It’s slow and soft, and she melts into him. They look perfect – two beautiful people on a date, kissing beautifully. Usually people look like pigs half-mashed into each other, all slobber and tongue, but Jack and Kayla are too pretty for that. It looks like a movie. It looks like they’ll walk off into the sunset to live happily ever after.

And I feel…jealous?

I put my napkin around my throat and experimentally pull. It would be a great noose. Feeling jealous of love? Since when did that happen? When did I even care about it at all? I don’t. It’s a false promise, a fool’s gold tale, something that doesn’t happen to people like me. And yet here I am, jealous. Not of Jack, no. Of Kayla. I’m jealous of the sweet love that shines in her eyes. She can still feel love. She still thinks it’s some wonderful, ascendant, pure thing. Even if it’s naïve, it’s still a better way to look at it than the poisonous, to-be-avoided-at-all-costs bog I see love as.

I’m not fourteen anymore. I can’t go back to that pure love vision. It’s gone. Forever.

I’m jealous of Kayla, and how she’s never been hurt.

Sure, Jackass has insulted her a few times with his extreme, tell-it-like-it-is rationality. Maybe Avery told her he’s got a sick girlfriend in the hospital, and that hurt her. But she hasn’t been torn apart from the inside out. She hasn’t been laughed at, pulled at, pushed into.

She’s still pure.

I let the napkin drop from my neck and slap my hand over my mouth to stop the sudden rise of vomit in my throat. It hurts. The wound is open and it’s hurting again, and I have to get home. I have to find a dark room and curl up there and try to forget. I stagger out of the door, the bell over it tinkling behind me. I only hear it faintly. Everything is blurry and I can’t breathe. I try to inhale but fire bursts in my lungs, rips through my body. I’m shivering. Maybe I’m dying. That’d kinda suck to die over nothing at all. To die over something as stupid and idiotic as love. Here Lies A Stupid Little Girl, Who Collapsed Into A Casual Ball Of Panic And Pitiful Sobs At The Idea Of Love. P.S. Cupid Won This Round, Sucka. That would be my gravestone, and pigeons would poop on it and teenagers would have sex on it, and when the world floods from global warming it’ll flood and my pathetic fetal-position bones will float up and I’ll wander as a ghost and wail in couples’ ears -
    

“ - You,” A voice cuts through my nausea. “Are you alright?”

I look up. A blurry Jack hovers over me.

I gracefully vomit on his shoes.

***

It takes me a casual ten minutes of puking in front of my mortal enemy to realize he’s helped me into his car and actually what I’m puking off of isn’t a curb but the passenger side of his black sedan. He sits in the driver’s seat and taps on his phone the entire time. When there’s a brief pause in my retching, he looks up.

“Are you done?” He asks.

I immediately try to bolt out of the car and run to my own so I can shove my head into the exhaust pipe and mercifully die, but he pulls my shirt and yanks me back in.

“Just let me die!” I wail.

“Not quite yet. I have uses for you.”

“You’re so creepy! You’re so creepy and I’m so vomity and I mildly hate everything in this conceivable universe!”

“Kayla included?”

I stop wailing to glower at him. “Since I just paid you two hundred moolah to make her happy, obviously no, she is the one thing I do not hate. Her and like, pastries. And small kittens. But everything else can roast in Satan’s left armpit!” I whip my head around wildly. “Speaking of, where is she?”

“Went home.”

“You…you should go home too.” I inch my foot slowly out of the car door. “I’ll just –”

I lunge to run away and drown myself in the nearby puddle of homeless person piss, but Jack yanks me back again, reaches over me, and slams the door shut. I pull on the handle.

“You child-locked it!” I gasp.

“Stay here until you feel better,” He grunts.

“I feel fine! I’m at least sixteen fines,” I assure him. “Look! I can breathe! I can use my legs!” I do bicycle motions in the seat. “I can headbang!”

I bang my head twice and Jack has the fortuitous intuition to roll down the window seconds before I vomit out of it. When I empty my stomach of the last remnants of my noodles, I gasp and pull my head back inside.

“What? Do you get off on watching my fantastic gastrointestinal fireworks? Is that why you’re keeping me against my will?”

“You aren’t well,” He insists stonily. “Sit and relax until you do.”

“Relax! Please, tell me, how the hell I can relax when the world’s biggest snowman is sitting next to me, talking like he has a heart? It’s out of character! It’s….it’s disgusting! You aren’t Jack! You’re some fucked-up alien from Zabadoo here to take his body back for your beautiful specimen collection, aren’t you?”

Jack starts the car. I yank at the door handle twice as hard.

“C’mon, you piece of baby-proof shit! I’m sure babies have actually shit themselves trying to open you, but I won’t! I just puked the next twenty-four hours worth of shit out! I’ll get you open, I swear I will, or I won’t and then I’ll be captured by extraterrestrials and, well, it was nice knowing you but really I think whoever invented you made a huge error in judgment since they didn’t take Zabadoobians trapping a fabulous teenage girl in their car into consideration -”

Jack takes a sharp left turn and the momentum squashes my face against the window. I quickly put my seatbelt on.
 

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I’m taking you on a date.”

I immediately regret ever hiring him for tonight. And also living. Jack must see my panic, because he sighs.

“It’s your first date, right?”

“Uh, yes? But, you don’t really have to do that? Considering it’s not something you want to do? And I don’t really need one, or like, even really want one? Dates are for people in love and that’s never going to happen for me again so I really don’t think it’s necessary –”

“It’s an apology. For how I acted yesterday. Nothing personal, and nothing romantic.”

“Oh.” I brighten, but some buried part of me sinks. I punt the feeling out of this universe along with the last of Zabadoobians. “Right. An apology. Okay.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I think you might be crazy. I am the opposite of disappointed. I am oppopointed. Disaposite. There is nothing I would like more than to go on a not-date with my worst enemy who just went on a date with my friend, which, by the way, I paid him to do -”

“You’re also babbling.”

“And I’m babbling! How cool is that! Just drive so we can get this over with, you alien!”

He smirks and steps on the gas.
 
 
 
 

3 Years

17 Weeks

5 Days

We drive forever. Fiveever. Sixever. Sevenhundredever. We wind past decrepit buildings skinned with age and scabbed with graffiti. A murder of crows fight over a loaf of bread a homeless person scatters about. Huge neon signs in Korean and Chinese blare in all colors of the rainbow, the smell of fried chicken and sesame seeds pouring in. It’s the exact opposite of the clean, fancy area of town I was vomiting all over.

“Are you taking me to a black-market butcher to sell me for body parts?” I politely inquire. Jack pulls into a parking space and takes the keys from the ignition.

“Get out. It’s a bit of a walk.”

He gets out and I follow his stride down the dark sidewalk.

“You know, if you wanted my liver, all you’d have to do is ask nicely. I’m sure we could work something out. With my fist in your face.”

“Body parts aren’t on the menu with you. Tonight, or any night in the future.”

“Oho! Was that a double-entendre? Thanks, but when you’re as fantastic as I am you can’t afford to sleep with nerds.”

He suddenly veers right, into a tiny alleyway. So this is where I meet my end – in an alley of Chinatown, chopped up into little pieces and shipped to China to replace some old businessman’s cirrhosis-infested liver. My eyes widen when he pushes open a tiny door and walks three or so steps down into a restaurant. A counter sits in the middle, glass cases holding gleaming ruby slabs of tuna and pale swathes of yellowtail. Sushi chefs expertly slice and dice and mash rice. Only a few people are at the bar, and the hostess, a short Japanese woman with a dimpled face, quickly darts to us.

“Jack!”

“Fujiwara-san,” He inclines his head. She reaches up and, to my utter shock, pinches his cheeks like he’s a child.

“Look at you! All bones, no fat! You haven’t been eating!”

“I eat well enough.” Jack insists, not even trying to push her away as she straightens his shirt collar for him. Her dark eyes lock onto me, and she smiles.

“Who is this? A friend? You’ve never brought any of your friends before. Was beginning to think you didn’t have any!”

“She’s not my fr - ” He starts, then gives up. “Fujiwara-san, this is Isis Blake.”

“Ahh, Isis-chan!” Fujiwara bows, and I bow back and almost take down the tiny bamboo plant on the counter. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say. Fujiwara turns to Jack.

“Usual?”

He nods. “Please.”

“Right this way!” She crows. She totters in traditional wooden sandals over to the bar, seating us at two stools. She’s quick with the drinks – two cups of bitter, yet refreshing green tea. She hands us the menus and pats my back, black eyes gleaming into mine.

“Please enjoy.”

“I will. Um. Thank you.”

Jack peruses the menu in silence. The Asian couple next to us eats and laughs, talking with their sushi chef in Japanese.

“How did you find this place?” I whisper.

“Fujiwara’s daughter was a client of mine,” He says. “She took me here once. It’s got the best sushi in Ohio.”

“And…what about the client?”

“She left. Got married, actually, to an American businessman, and went back to Japan.” He opens his wallet and pulls out a picture of a fat, happy Japanese baby in a Santa hat, showing it to me. “She sends me pictures of their son.”

“Do they all do that?”

He puts the photo back. “No. Yukiko was special. She...understood me more than most do. She was the only client of mine who was held my interest for more than five seconds. So we keep in touch.”

“That’s actually pretty cool, that you got to meet so many different people.”

He shrugs. The sushi chef says something to him in Japanese, and he talks back in surprisingly smooth-sounding Japanese. He looks to me.

“Do you know what you want?”

“This thing.” I stab at the menu. “Whatever that is, I want two of it.”

He snickers and says something to the chef, who nods and starts chopping fish and taking out rice. We watch him work, since I don’t know what to say and Jack is quiet.

“They spend years washing rice,” He says finally.

“What?”

“To be a sushi chef, you spend years washing rice. Two, at cheap sushi places. Ten at the expensive, traditional ones.”

I suck in air. “Jesus! Just making rice? The entire ten years?”

He nods. I look at the rice with a newfound admiration. It’s gotta be some damn good rice.

I sip tea and nervously realize I’m on a date with Jack Hunter. I gulp tea and scald my voice box. I gasp, and Jack cordially hits me on the back a few times to make sure I’m not choking. The chef gives me a concerned look, but Jack waves it off.

“Why?” I gasp.

“Why what?” Jack looks to me, icy eyes piercing.

“Why did you take me here?”

“You’ve never been on a date.” He says it like a fact, not a question. I glower.

“Duh.”

“So. This is your first date. Consider it a learning experience.”

“What am I supposed to do? Talk about my hair? Ask you about your job? My hair is flawless and I already know what your job is!”

“Normally, a male and a female on a date will talk about whatever comes up naturally.”

“Uh, right, but you and I ain’t exactly natural.”

“An immovable object meeting an unstoppable force,” Jack says lightly.

“Two unstoppable forces
crashing and careening off a cliff to their untimely deaths
,” I correct.

“Oil and water.”

“Oil and
firebombs
.”

He raises an eyebrow in partial agreement and takes a sip of his tea. The sushi arrives, and octopus and eel and tuna melts in my mouth. Everything is so fresh and delicious I can barely stand it. I wiggle my butt and make contented humming noises. Jack looks at me.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m happy! It tastes awesome.”

“So you squirm and make tuneless little noises when you’re happy?”

I frown and become conscious of it. I eat with more decorum, but Jack scoffs.

“I didn’t mean – it’s fine. It’s just…interesting of you. Almost cute.”

I feel an electric surge crawl up my spine and settle in my brain, buzzing.
Cute. Cute.
Jack just called me –

“In a deranged puppy way.” He adds. The electricity leaves and I realize how stupid I was for thinking anyone would willingly call me cute. I’m not cute. Loud, sure. Rude, yup. Not cute. Never cute.

The sushi goes quickly, so we order seconds and wait.

“So, I mean,” I start. “How did you get into, um. You know.”

Jack sips tea thoughtfully, then puts the cup down.

“There’s a surgery. It’s expensive, and experimental. But it’s got a decent success rate and it would give Sophia years to live. Maybe even get rid of the thing for good. I’ve been taking on double shifts to make the down payment on it, and I’ve almost got enough. The two hundred you gave me for Kayla will put a nice dent in what’s left.”

“That’s…great. That’s really great news.”

He sighs and leans back. “I used to work tables. Waiting at a French restaurant in Columbus. It was good money, and it kept her bills afloat, but then Sophia started getting worse. The surgery came from Sweden. My money was good, but not enough to pay for that. And then one night, I waited the table of the founder of the Rose Club. Blanche Morailles. She gave me a much better option, with higher pay. High enough to make the money for the surgery in a year and a half. I didn’t know if Sophia would last that long, so I –”

Jack shakes his head. “She’s been doing well so far. I’ve got another month to go, and then I’ll have enough. She just has to hold on for another month.”

I stir my drink, and Jack frowns.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Doubtful,” I say.

“You think I shouldn’t escort. You think it’s bad, or unlawful, or whatever.”

“You…you have to
sleep
with people –”

“Sleeping with people is easy,” He says tersely. “It means nothing. It’s a simple, mechanical action. It requires nothing of me I am hesitant to give. The women are usually considerate, and well-spoken, and gracious. Sometimes they’re difficult, or into darker things, but I adapt.”

“They use you.”

“And I agree to it. So they don’t really use me. If anything, I am using them equally. It’s not all one-sided. It’s a mutual agreement. And as far as escorting businesses go, it’s a good one. No men. Blanche doesn’t make me take male clients, and for that I’m grateful. It’s a good deal. A good, easy job that can save Sophia. So I’ll keep doing it, for however long it takes.”

His voice finishes with a hard, determined edge. Our next round of sushi arrives. We eat in total silence.

“Are…are you okay?” I ask.
 

“I’m fine,” He says, face icily passive.

“Yes, well, it’s a little hard to tell considering I’ve seen constipated rocks display more emotion.”

“I don’t need a moron asking how I feel.”

“I’m just trying to be nice! You’re such a fat doodoo shitbaby!”

“Occasionally I have fantasies of intellectual conversation,” He sighs. I’m so angry I start up from my stool only to bump into Fujiwara, who’s behind me carrying a tray of tea. Boiling tea. It spills all over me, drenching my jacket. I yelp and unzip it quickly, throwing it to the ground.

“Oh, Isis-chan, I’m so sorry!” Fujiwara cries. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t see you, it’s my fault –”

“It’s okay!” I assure her. “It’s okay, really, I was the idiot who didn’t look –”

“No, no, it’s all my fault –”

Jack stands, and together the three of us pick up the tea cups and help Fujiwara mop up the mess, even as she refuses help and apologizes in an endless stream. She mumbles something about ‘making up for it’, and disappears into the double-doors of the kitchen. Jack and I sit down, and the bar settles, and it’s only thirty seconds of having my jacket off before I realize what a horrible mistake it is.

The pink blouse. I’d forgotten all about it. It shimmers and quivers with my every movement. My shoulders are exposed. You can practically see through the translucent material to where my polka dot bra is. I look stupid. I can feel everyone looking at me and I know they think I look stupid, and ugly, and that it doesn’t suit me.

Jack’s gone still, frozen halfway between raising his tea cup to his mouth. His eyes are on me, on every part of me as he looks me up and down with a slow, deliberate gaze.

I start to pull my jacket back on, but Jack’s hand stops me.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s not right,” I hiss. “I didn’t mean to – I wasn’t supposed to take it off. It looks stupid on me –”

“No.” He interrupts. “Not at all.”

“Just –” I reach for my jacket.

“It’s beautiful,” He says softly, then clears his throat. “You look…beautiful.”

An iron fist squeezes my heart, my throat, my stomach, and then lets go, a bittersweet burn spreading through my body like fire. I savor it one moment, and then suspect it the next, and then I realize what’s really happening.

“I get it!” I smile. “You’re still in escort mode from all that time with Kayla! It was only a few minutes ago your guys’ date ended, after all.”

“What? No, I –”

“It’s okay, really! You just forgot to flip the switch back from escort you to regular you. Totally understandable. Work and life are hard to compartmentalize. Thanks for the compliment though! I bet I’d have to pay at least ten bucks to hear it if I was a client, huh? But I got it for free. Score!”

“Isis – ”

Jack’s cut off by Fujiwara crowing apologies as she comes between us with a tray of tiny tea cakes, cookies, and a few scoops of green tea ice cream. I pull my jacket on and zip it all the way up to my chin. I chat with Fujiwara excitedly the entire time I eat dessert, talking about how good the sushi was, and where she gets her fish from, asking the best tips for getting green tea stains from jackets, and thanking her for the sweets. Jack’s silent, picking at the cookies, and Fujiwara brings him the bill.

“I’ll pay half,” I offer, leaning over to look at the price tag. My eyes practically bug out. Jack waves the envelope I gave him the money in.

“You already have.”

We drive back to the Red Fern parking lot in silence. I busy myself with my phone, trying not to see the white knuckles Jack has on the steering wheel.

“You must be tired,” I say when he pulls into the parking lot and I get out. “Get some rest, okay? And thanks for the practice date! Not that I’ll ever need to practice, since, you know, it’s never going to happen, but it was a nice thought. I had fun.”

“You’ll have more fun,” Jack says, hands in his pockets and a faintly pained look in his eyes. “You’ll go on more dates, with other guys. And you’ll have fun.”

I shake my head. “I won’t. I told you – that kind of stuff isn’t for me.”