Chapter 30
Balthazar
Every morning, I woke with a single, unshakable purpose—to get close to Alina. But with each passing day and no progress to show for it, failure sank deeper into my bones. I was drowning in a pit of frustration so deep I could barely see the light anymore.
Every time I caught sight of her, it hit me like a punch to the gut—a wave of pain so fierce it nearly stole my breath. Why couldn’t I reach her? Why did she keep slipping through my grasp? The helplessness curdled into rage.
Out of options and seething, I returned to Scarlett’s apartment. Maybe she could still be useful.
Just as I lifted my hand to knock, the door swung open.
“Oh!” Scarlett gasped, clearly startled. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she fiddled nervously with a lock of hair, unable to meet my eyes. “I was just heading to class.”
“Hello, Scarlett,” I said, trying to mask my storming thoughts. “How are you?”
“I’m doing okay,” she said, voice gentle. “Did you find Alina?”
I exhaled and shook my head. “Still nothing. I can’t get through to her.”
Scarlett’s shoulders slumped. “I was hoping you’d come back.
I’ve been trying to help. I looked her up in the phone book.
I’ve tried talking to her—told her she’s smart, asked about her classes, tried to make conversation…
but she always walks away. Still, I think I’m wearing her down.
I’ll invite her over. We’ll have pizza and beer—keep it casual. That way, you can finally talk to her.”
Her offer stunned me into silence for a moment. Then I gave her a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Scarlett. That would help a lot.”
She looked up at me shyly. “Would you… Like to come in?”
I raised a brow. “Didn’t you say you had a class?”
She gave a sheepish grin. “It’s Economics 101. I can blow it off.”
I pictured her holding a dandelion by the stem, blowing, its seeds scattering to the wind. Blow it off. These phrases from the 1990s were baffling. But I nodded as though I understood.
“Yes, please. I’d like that,” I said.
Scarlett stepped aside, and I entered, dragging my failures and frustrations behind me.
Something was different.
“Did you get a new sofa?” I asked, eyeing the low wooden frame in the corner, its single off-white cushion, clean lines, and the unmistakable aura of cheapness.
“Yes!” she chirped, her eyes gleaming. “Well—new to me. A friend was getting rid of her futon. It turns into a bed, see?”
With too much enthusiasm, she grabbed the backrest and yanked it forward. It crashed to the floor with a deafening thud, revealing a threadbare, suspiciously stained mattress that seemed to exhale a puff of dust and regret.
“I hoped you might come back,” she added quickly. Her words flew out like something she’d been dying to say but didn’t dare until now. “And I thought if you did… maybe you’d feel more comfortable having your own bed.”
“I see,” I said warily, my eyes fixed on the mattress like it might crawl away on its own. I reached out and tentatively patted it. The padding was wafer-thin, the fabric worn to threads. It smelled faintly of mildew and ancient secrets. The very idea of lying on it made my stomach churn.
Scarlett caught my grimace.
“It stinks, doesn’t it?” she blurted. “Don’t worry—I got this fabric freshener!”
She zipped into the kitchen and returned with a small silver canister. The label read Wonder Spray, promising miracles it couldn’t possibly deliver.
She popped the lid and jabbed the white knob with the force of a battlefield command, and a deafening hiss erupted. A heavy, chemically sweet fragrance fog devoured the room like a dying floral beast. The scent clawed at my throat, a choking blend of cheap perfume and synthetic despair.
I coughed into my sleeve, recoiling. “Good lord, what have you done?”
“It’s a deodorizer,” Scarlett said proudly, fanning the air like she was taming a wildfire. “I think it smells better, don’t you?”
I moved away from the stench, muttering something unintelligible.
“Sit,” she chirped. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
As she darted back into the kitchenette with the Wonder Spray still clutched in her hand, I perched uneasily on the futon’s wooden arm. There was no way in hell I was lowering myself onto that cursed mattress.
My frustration boiled just beneath the surface, ready to erupt.
I had come so close to Alina, yet every time I approached her, my body betrayed me.
Pain like a thousand barbed needles pierced my veins, paralyzing me.
That gray-eyed phantom from the campus… he had to be behind it.
I didn’t know what he was, but his interference felt unnatural.
Scarlett returned, holding two frosty bottles. She shoved one into my hand with such enthusiasm that some liquid sloshed onto my skin. I downed half of it without a word. The bitterness was unfamiliar but welcome.
“I must find Alina,” I said, trying to calm my voice. “The truth is… I knew her parents. They died recently and left her a considerable inheritance. The government will seize it all if she doesn’t claim it soon.”
Scarlett’s eyes widened with sympathy. “That’s so sad. And fuck the government. Don’t worry, I’ll help you find her.”
She took a long gulp from her bottle, then glanced sideways at me with a mischievous grin. “You look tense, Balthazar. You need to let off some steam. What do you say we smoke a joint?”
“A… joint?”
“You know. Reefer. Weed. Mary Jane. The good shit.”
Before I could answer, she sprang to her feet and vanished into the other room. Moments later, she returned triumphantly, waving a small plastic bag filled with shriveled greenish leaves.
“This stuff is legit,” she said, eyes gleaming with pride. “Scored it from the same friend who gave me the futon.”
I stared at the crumpled leaves in silence, wondering if this was, perhaps, the final sign that the world had truly gone mad.
Without hesitation, Scarlett plopped onto the futon, grabbed a glossy magazine from the side table, and tapped out a mound of bright-green buds onto its cover.
Her fingers worked deftly, tearing a strip of paper and tucking the crushed leaves inside, massaging it into an even roll.
She twisted the ends, licked the seam, and struck a match.
The pungent scent hit me like a punch to the face—skunky, earthy, thick with something strange. It mixed with the lingering reek of that cursed floral spray, creating a vile aroma that could only exist in this bizarre century.
She inhaled, held it, then exhaled a lazy plume toward the ceiling. “Here you go,” she said, holding the joint out. “Have a hit.”
“No, thank you.” I waved it away like smoke from a battlefield fire and raised my ale. “I’m fine with this.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, taking another pull. With a blissful sigh, she sank into the futon and set the joint in a chipped ashtray. Her eyes drifted shut briefly before she looked at me again, voice syrupy.
“I could give you a massage, you know.”
She rolled onto her side, propped herself up on an elbow, and flexed her fingers like she was about to cast a spell.
“I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“No, thank you,” I repeated, more firmly.
“Oh, come on, dude,” she giggled. “You’re tense from all this Alina stuff. Let me help you regroup. Take a load off. Find your inner bliss.”
Her eyelids drooped as she stared at me, the last of the smoke curling from her lips like lazy incantations.
“What would it entail?” I asked, more curious than cautious.
“You, shirtless. I have hands everywhere. Loosening you up. Doesn’t that sound amazing?” Her voice floated somewhere between seduction and stupor.
It had been a long time since I had sex. And Scarlett was attractive. Soft in all the places I remembered warmth could live.
“Fine,” I said at last. “But not in here.”
She grinned, snagged the joint again, and pushed herself upright in a cloud of haze. “No problem. I just changed the sheets.”
She extended her hand and led me to the bedroom.
Scarlett’s room was simple, almost bare—just a double bed, a scratched-up dresser, and a narrow bookshelf lined with dog-eared novels, an old dictionary, and mismatched trinkets. A faded quilt covered the bed, patterned with swirling flowers that had long lost their vibrancy.
“Take off your shirt and lie down,” she said, tugging her long-sleeved tee over her head.
My breath caught.
A snake tattoo curled up her arm, its ink vivid against her pale skin.
My gaze traveled from the coiled serpent to the rest of her—every inch covered in ink, like pages of a story only she could tell.
But it was her breasts that made my mouth go dry—round, heavy, and bare, swaying with each subtle movement like ripe temptation.
Desire stirred deep inside me as I removed my linen shirt, letting it fall to the floor. I stood before her, muscles taut, every inch of me humming with restrained power. I watched her eyes move over me. Her tongue flicked across her bottom lip as if tasting a thought she couldn’t say aloud.
She climbed onto the bed and patted the mattress with a smirk. “Right here, big boy. On your stomach.”
I crawled across the bed in measured movements, like a predator surrendering to a trap he secretly wanted to fall into. I stretched out on my stomach, then propped myself on my elbows and cast her a look over my shoulder.
Scarlett straddled my hips and grabbed a small amber bottle from the nightstand. She poured a slick stream of oil into her palms, rubbing them together until the scent of lavender and spice filled the room—soothing, sinful, intoxicating.
Her voice dropped into a smoky whisper. “Relax, baby. I don’t bite.
A low, wicked laugh curled from her lips as I melted into the mattress beneath her.
Her hands glided over my back—firm and knowing. She worked her fingers into the knots of my muscles like she owned me, like she was carving her name into my body with every touch.