Sin Eater (2 page)

He watched her enter a door next to a closed bakery, and he imagined she was going up the stairs to an apartment above. Sure enough, after a moment, a light came on in the front of the building. He watched her approach the window, pouring water out of one of those stainless steel bottles into a sad pile of green next to the window. Some kind of house plant, who knew what it was supposed to be.  You didn’t have to be a Sin Eater to know it wasn’t much longer for this world.

Her mouth was moving, and as he watched, she seemed to be talking to someone. Husband, boyfriend, he assumed. Then she bopped her head twice to one side, and kept talking, pausing only to bop her head again.
She’s singing
, he realized, and he smiled … but lost it almost as quickly as it appeared. Normally he could touch a person’s mind and find out their entire history with one glance.

But this one … she was a blank page. He read nothing from her … except the smell of jasmine and vanilla. So. Damn.
Pure
.

“So,” Iola breathed. “What’s everyone up to tonight? It’s Saturday, after all.  Tell me you’re with someone you care about, please. And if not, at least pretend. Here’s a song to get you a bit closer. Let me give you a word of advice, fellas. Whatever you do, however badly you
want
to, do
not
kiss her. Touch her softly, hold her lightly, and sway to the music but do
not
kiss her.” Iola started the next song, using the intro under her continuing narrative. “Let her do the work.
Trust
me on this.”

Iola used the slider to bring up the level of the music and cut her mic. Dylan’s voice came through the speakers and she leaned back, contemplating how odd it was to be the only person in a workplace at night. Like an informal guest, but she was definitely supposed to be there.

She was lonesome … well, maybe. Perhaps she was lonesome. After all, she worked the weirdest shift a person could. Eight pm to two am, on air the whole time. The news room shifted once during her stay, some roving reporter coming and going, chasing fire trucks and ambulances. But she sat there in her dim control room the whole time, helping people set the mood. Get romantic. Get some loving.

What a sad fraud that was. She didn’t even really have friends anymore. She was going to work when they were cleaning up the supper dishes. She was going to bed when they were running to the bathroom because they’d been woken up by a full bladder. And they were getting up just after she finally was able to fall asleep.  Yeah, that sounded pretty lonesome when she thought about it more.

At least she was popular with listeners. She had more fan mail than any other disc jockey at the station. She had women writing letters saying they found her music comforting and soothing, very contemplative. Not that she picked all the songs, she just maybe had a bit more say than the morning and five o’clock drive guys, the peak hours. But she liked that people were listening and appreciated listening to
her
. She also got marriage proposals, indecent photographs, and the odd male caller that just wanted to … chat with her. Usually not in a PG manner, but still … she had a wide variety of listeners. And she appreciated all of them, even the perverts. It meant she got a cheque, after all.

One love in her life:
a poetic songwriter. Beyond vocal abilities, a song’s performance should always ring authentic and true. If there was one artist that had the most entries on her “mood music” playlist, it was Mr. Dylan.

It would be gre
at to find a guy that was as into mood music as she was. She loved the atmosphere of a song more than anything else. One of her private fantasies was to be made love to while listening to all the perfect love songs the world had known. Why weren’t men into that kind of thing? Why was it all about spontaneity and visual appeal and … well, just the sex?

Well, she wasn’t going to unlock all the mysteries of men with one little brain work out; that was for sure.

She rubbed her forehead, looking ahead to the next song on her play list. Ah yes, a jazz trio. Another good one. This was a day where she just loved her job.

As
the trailing guitar tune wound down, she brought her mic back up and let the music fade out. “Okay, now if you’ve got her kissing you after that, good job. And if not, don’t worry about it. It’s still early, and I’m here until two. I’ll get you through this. So now we’ll switch to jazz, and before you start whining at me, just shut up and listen. This is soulful, and if you just feel it and listen to it and …
love
it, you
will
get it. Eventually. You’re listening to KLCD Late Night with Iola Day.”

She brought the music up just as the velvet of
the female’s singer’s voice was rolling out. Iola sighed and took a look at the next few songs. The next one was going to pick up the pace quite a bit. So she got up to go get a cup of coffee because she still had two and a half minutes before this song ended.

Iola grabbed her mug and hot-footed to the coffee room, grabbed a cup of the coffee she’d started before she’d gone on the air, then bolted back to her booth with time to spare. She set the coffee on the table behind the chair she sat in, well away from the board and computer.
The city lights were visible through the control room window and over the partitions in the newsroom bullpen.

Iola shivered, remembering the previous night and the psycho that had followed her off the subway. Tonight she’d brought pepper spray, and she made sure her cell phone was charged before she even left her apartment. Still, the thought of riding the subway home tonight (or tomorrow?) was making her nervous.

The phone rang, and she snatched it up quickly. “KLCD Late Night.”

“Iola? I just called to say I’m the president of your fan club.”

She smiled into the receiver and leaned back in her chair. “Jasper … what are you doing?”

“I’m bored. I’m sitting at home, listening to the radio, and this chick keeps playing the most boring songs I’ve ever heard.”

“Jasper, just one minute. I’ve got to switch it over.”

She put him on hold and then brought up her mic again as the song faded. “Well, I’ve just had a caller requesting something with a bit more … energy. So, in honour of getting close, here’s a tune that means you can maybe squeeze her a little bit tighter.”
She hit the slider just as the vocals started.

Then she picked up the phone again, just in time to hear Jasper laughing. “Okay Jasper, is that better?”

“Man, I
love
this song.”

“Well, good.” She was surprised. She didn’t know he liked anything other than the current Top 40. “Is there anything else you’d like me to play?”

“Nah. This is a good one. I just … I just thought I’d call.”

“Man, you must be bored. It’s your night off. You should really be out doing something.”

“Well, I keep asking this girl out and she keeps shooting me down. It’s pretty bad for my self-esteem.”

Iola laughed, but he didn’t. She stopped, and the music was the only sound for a moment.
“Jasper, I told you - ”

“Yeah, I know. Co-workers shouldn’t date. But the thing is … there’s no one else I
want
to date. Even casually. You … you’re it for me, Iola.”

Her breath caught and her panic mode set in. She absently wondered if he had been drinking. “Jasper, maybe you should sleep on it before you say anything else.”

“When I’m around you, I can’t say what I want. For some reason I just become this schmuck … but maybe that’s how you want me to be. Maybe I’d make you uncomfortable otherwise. I don’t know. I don’t what the fuck I’m saying. I’ve had … some beers.”

Bingo
. “Jasper, I have to go. We can … we can talk about this another time.”

“Really?”

“Sure. But … I’m working here, right? So I’ll say good bye now and we’ll talk another time.” Then she waited.

“All right. It’s a date.”

“Jasper - ”

“I know, I know. Co-workers. See you, Iola.” A click sounded as he hung up.

She felt terrible. She knew how much he liked her, and the flirting was nice, it really was. But … it had been a long time since she’d dated. She wasn’t even sure she liked Jasper in that way, at all. How would she even know? Well, she wouldn’t know unless she tried it.

There was the rub. If it doesn’t work out, there goes one of the few people she might actually count as a friend.

She flicked her mic on at the end of the song. “You’re listening to KLCD Late Night and I’m Iola Day. I’ve got a very kind email here from Larry, and Larry’s written that he enjoys the late night programming here on KLCD because he says it puts his girlfriend
in the mood
. Well, you’re welcome Larry, and let’s hope right now you are with your girlfriend. Here’s a good one to help you out, because Larry, I’m your wingman.”

As the pian
o riff began she closed her eyes. God, she did not want to see Jasper again next Wednesday.

Jasper looked down at the coffee table in front of him, counting seven dead beer cans that he’d gotten the better of. The phone was in his hand, and he stared at it next, wondering if he’d really just called Iola drunk off his ass and revealed he was insanely into her.

Yep. It appeared that way.

Well done, fantastic work. Next you can put your balls in a blender. The night can only get better than this.

He put the phone on the table, knocking over an empty can. He’d always been a lightweight when it came to drinking, but this much beer on an empty stomach was a disaster looking for a place to party.

He groaned and flopped back on to the sofa, listening to the song on the radio. The singer was talking about being stripped naked and vulnerable.

Well he was sure as shit naked now. When would he see her next? Wednesday? And it was only Saturday now. Maybe she’d forget it by then.

That was
another
drunk delusion right there. Holy shit. The way her voice had sounded; like he’d creeped her right out. What a frickin’ idiot.

Maybe he should just go out and get laid. Maybe that’s what he needed, someone completely the
opposite
of Iola; someone fake and primped to the point of being ridiculous. Maybe she smacked her gum with her mouth open and asked the most retarded questions he’d ever heard. And he’d answer just to get her into bed. But he’d been
there
before, too. And he didn’t want to go back to that. Plus he was already a slobbering mess that even the skankiest blow doll wouldn’t come near.

This is when he needed a pal. An honest-to-God
male
friend to kick him in the nuts and call him a moron. Just to teach him a lesson, because he still knew he hadn’t learned anything from this.

The beer was churning his stomach and the ceiling above him tilted like he was on a carnival ride. He closed his eyes again, commanding himself to breathe easy.

Iola was cool, he rationalized. She wouldn’t make a big deal of this, and she wouldn’t try to make him feel like a complete loser, it just wasn’t her way.

And man, if that wouldn’t make him feel like a bigger ass, what
would
?

The Sin Eater was at a restaurant, sitting at a patio table. The late night traffic was heavy, since this was the first truly warm night of spring and a Saturday besides. Show offs cruised the streets with car stereos pumping loudly. Groups of loudly giggling girls were looking to be looked at, trolling for bars and people to notice how short their skirts were and how long their list of “dos” was compared to their “do nots.”

He was in an expensive suit again, a dark brown Ford this time minus the tie, pretending to read a paper while watching the human horde coming and going past him. No one was evil, but everyone was horny. It was amazing how the warmer weather brought it out in them.

Women smelled of chocolate when they saw a man or woman they desired. Men gave off an aroma of cinnamon or cloves or some other dark, exotic spice. Every time a pair got together around him it made him incredibly hungry.

No evil, though. Just everyone walking around smelling like a bakery.

He took a sip of the espresso he had at his elbow, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of a woman walking past, having obviously worked late. She gave off a metallic pang of annoyance, since everyone was in her way, drunk, and keeping her from getting home as quickly as possible. She was harried and exasperated. She’d had a long day. The stress was apparent even without his keen olfactory.

She dressed in a conservative skirt suit, the blazer locking and loading her upper assets in a professional way; a look he’d always liked. And the skirt was of an office-appropriate length. As she passed him she didn’t look over, just continued on her way.

And that’s when he saw her ass, and it made his hand freeze with the espresso halfway to his lips.

Her ass was perfect. In his long life he’d gone through all the male obsessions with the female anatomy, and his present fixation was on the ass. Again. The skirt she wore was snug enough to show its roundness and its firmness. Her coat short enough to courteously allow a full view. As she passed he saw it from behind, her hips curving to her outer thighs in a perfect arc. It was so perfect it pained him … and then he realized his pain was from a throbbing erection punching forward against his fly. This ridiculous human body. Shouldn’t a person have more control over the damn thing?

He put the cup down without looking away from her. He could just imagine running his hand up over the arc of her hip, then dipping it back down to caress just under that muscle that was flexing as she walked. She came to a stop at a cross walk.

Well, he
was
a Sin Eater, capable of accessing someone’s mind and central nervous system on a whim. He found her neuropaths easily, and just by imagining his hand running down her lower back to caress one cheek, he sent the sensation right into her cerebral cortex.