Chapter 22
Hunter
then
Spence asked Gerald to take me home, which isn’t unusual. I’ve grown fond of our conversations during car rides around the city.
Gerald has lived in London his whole life, and he’s worked for Spence’s family since he was a teenager. He speaks of Spence so fondly, as if he’s speaking of a beloved relative.
“Ya sure this is all right, Miss St. Clair?” he asks in his thick cockney accent.
“Yes, this is perfect.”
He’s pulled over a few blocks away from my flat.
Last weekend I discovered an adorable little grocer that sells local produce, like a farmers’ market.
The setup is simple and a bit rustic, but I bought the most delicious carton of strawberries, and the farmer assured me he’d be back again this week.
I can practically taste the sweet, bright berries on my tongue already. They were much smaller than what I’m used to, but the flavor was unmatched.
Gerald opens the door for me. “Mr. Spencer indicated I’ll be picking you up tomorrow night,” he says as I straighten on the sidewalk beside him. “What time would you like me to arrive, ma’am?”
I’m sure I’m not the only woman Spence entertains. Gerald has probably escorted plenty. Yet I’ve truly grown fond of the older man.
“Seven thirty will be perfect. Thank you,” I tell him with a sincere smile.
Slowly, he rounds the hood back to the driver’s side. “You’re sure I can’t wait for you?”
“No, no,” I insist. “I’m going to pick up a few things, and I could use a bit of a walk before I head home.”
He tips his hat. “You have my number if you change your mind.”
I don’t know whether that’s common for Spence’s acquaintances, but I appreciate the gesture. If I really did need a ride, I wouldn’t hesitate to call on him.
“See you tomorrow night, ma’am.”
As Gerald drives away, I scan the outdoor booths. I practically squeal with delight when I see the same vendor from last week.
Our flat doesn’t have a real kitchen, so I can’t bake or do much with the fruit I purchase. Even so, I still plan to pick up triple the number of strawberries I did last week. They were that good.
I take my time walking home, enjoying the brisk fall breeze and the way the leaves on many of the trees have started to change.
Fall used to be my favorite season. Now, the idea of the changing seasons makes me sad.
Every step I take serves as a reminder of what I left behind.
I think of the way the colors change in North Carolina in the fall.
About football season.
About midterms and hoodie weather. About what LCU’s campus looks like this time of year.
My thoughts scatter, hopping from one topic to another, but nothing I land on feels safe.
I swipe at a stray tear, admonishing myself for the massive mood swing. I was giddy about strawberries less than an hour ago. Now all my energy has been sapped, and all I want to do is sit in the middle of the sidewalk and sob.
Thankfully, I reach our flat before I lose it.
Once inside, I shuffle through the quiet apartment and into the kitchen so I can put away a few of the items I purchased.
When I’m done, I go in search of my friend. “Louie?” I knock and check her room, but she’s not there.
“Hey, are you home?” I call out.
Louie worked last night, so she may be sleeping. Or it’s possible that she hasn’t returned yet.
The bathroom door’s open, but she’s not in there either.
I check my phone. No texts. There’s no note in the kitchen either.
It’s a bummer, really, the way our schedules have worked out. I work tonight, and she works tomorrow. This is how our weekends tend to go. I’ve never had a roommate until now, but it’s so much lonelier than I ever imagined.
I toe off my shoes, then, knowing I’ll be too lazy to do it after work tonight, I wash all the strawberries.
Once that’s done and I’ve sampled half a dozen to confirm they’re just as delicious as last week, I head to my bedroom. I’m mentally hyping myself up to take an everything shower, then I plan to read for a bit before work.
When I open my bedroom door, I’m hit with a musty, putrid smell. It’s as if an animal has curled up and died and has already started to decompose.
I flip the switch to turn on the single lamp. When I catch sight of a man lying in the center of the bed, I scream and practically jump out of my skin.
He’s face down, turned away from me, and from what I can see, naked.
What the actual fuck?
I’m frozen in place, my heart pounding out of my chest for several seconds before I get my wits about me and run out of the room.
I shut the door quietly, then grab the knife I just washed in the kitchen and hurry back. With my weapon in one hand and my heart practically hammering out of my chest, I pull out my phone and dial Louie’s number.
It rings and rings, but she doesn’t answer.
I try her again with no success.
After a few minutes, I crack open the door and squint across the room. The guy is still asleep, or maybe dead, based on the smell that’s taken over.
My stomach twists with anxiety and indecision.
Should I run? Where the hell would I even go? Would it be possible to sneak back in and grab a few things?
As I crack the door open wider, the hinges creak.
The man stirs. “Hey, babe,” he calls out, his voice groggy, gravelly. “Come back to bed so I can do a line off your tits.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“Um, no thanks. I’ll just grab my stuff and go.” I blindly snatch my cell charger while weighing the pros and cons of getting closer so I can retrieve my second phone.
“Louie, what’s wrong?”
My heart stutters. Louie… seriously?
If he thinks I’m her, that means the stranger in my bed requesting to do hard drugs off my breasts isn’t some rando or an intruder. He’s a damn guest of my roommate.
Flovely.
More pissed off than scared now, I plant my hands on my hips, turn to look at the man, and take a deep breath for courage. Just as I open my mouth, ready to tell him off, I realize he’s fallen back asleep.
In my bed.
Ugh. So gross.
At least now I don’t have to deal with him.
I snag my makeup bag from the bookshelf, then retrieve my extra phone and Kindle from the nightstand.
Quickly, I grab a little black dress and a pair of heels—I have a clean set of street clothes in my bag since I’ve stayed at Spence’s so much this week—then I stumble out the door without a backward glance.
Eyes closed, I shudder. Ew. Ew, ew, ew.
What was Louie thinking, leaving a man in our flat? Letting him sleep in my bed?
I consider calling her again, but in the end choose to put some space between myself and the gross man in my room. So I double-check that I have the essentials, grab one of the cartons of strawberries, and quickly exit the flat.
I lock the door behind me, which feels ridiculous. Then I sit on my stoop and eat the entire carton of berries while I ponder what to do next.
It’s been a strange night.
Actually, this whole day has been bizarre.
I feel like I’m watching a movie of myself. Hovering above. Judging every microexpression. Fighting back tears each time I remember what happened at the flat earlier.
I feel fuzzy, almost as if I’ve been drugged.
Words are too quiet; lights are too bright.
The club is as busy as always, and yet there’s a softness around the edges of all my interactions.
Like I’ve had too much to drink or accidentally doubled up on cold medicine.
Only, I’m completely sober.
In fact, all I’ve had today is a carton of strawberries and a glass of water. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I haven’t eaten enough.
Or maybe I just need to let loose. To let go.
I’m even more disoriented when the front of house manager, Crystal, comes by to give me a break around midnight. I look at the clock, then I look at it again. The numbers are clearly displayed on the digital screen, and yet they don’t fully register. How is it already midnight?
As I step away from the hostess stand, it feels like I’m floating. Walking on clouds.
Usually, I play on my phone in the back while I take my break.
Tonight, I want to dance.
I have thirty minutes.
Does the employee handbook explicitly forbid dancing during breaks? I don’t think so. Straightening my shoulders, I weave my way through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor. As I approach, the bass sets the rhythm of my heart.
My pulse thrums in time to the music.
I thrash about, letting the music and the movements of the crowd take me this way and that. Like a rag doll being tossed around. In no time, I’ve worked up a sweat.
I’m drenched. But I don’t want to stop dancing. I can’t. I have to move.
After four or five songs, I figure I better cool down and freshen up. It won’t be long before I have to make my way back to the podium for the rest of my shift.
After I’ve used the restroom, I wash my hands, ignoring my reflection in the mirror.
I know I’m a hot mess. I don’t need visual confirmation. Sweat’s trickling down my back, and my breath is still coming quickly, but I’m still restless. Wild. Desperate for more.
I pull my phone out and check the time. Eight more minutes until my break is over.
Instead of making my way back early, I stumble out of the bathroom and walk down the long hallway toward the break room.
Rather than lead me inside, my feet continue on until I bypass the door and end up inside the walk-in cooler.
Splice doesn’t have a full kitchen, but we go through enough fruit and cocktails to require a walk-in fridge. Some of the alcohol is stored back here, too.
The space is no bigger than a generous walk-in closet, but I close myself in anyway.
Leaning against the doorframe to catch my breath, I shutter my eyes closed and savor the cool blasts of air as they chill each droplet of sweat against my heated flesh.
After a few slow breaths, I open my eyes, look around, and note the variety of tropical fruits perfectly sorted against one wall.
On the other side of the space, there’s an icebox.
A chest freezer.