Chapter 6
“Oh, my God,” she utters sickly, turning her head away to stare at her own face in the mirror behind the bar. Kara almost doesn’t recognize how pale she’s become, like all the blood has rushed out of her face in a wash.
This can’t be reality.
Kara feels bile rush up her esophagus, burning. She holds it in, gagging, coughing. Takes a quick sip of alcohol to wash it down. It tastes like battery acid. Or death. There’s that, too.
She inhales hard, feels faint, ridiculously, like she’s had ten martinis instead of one and a half. Like she’s been knocked in the head with a two-by-four. Inhale. Exhale . It feels like suffocating, she can’t get enough air and this room feels far too small now that’s she confronted with an awful truth.
“Don’t make a scene,” he drawls from beside her, sounding oh so far away now. “Let’s be civilized.”
Excuse me? Like a creepy animatronic, Kara cranes her head to the left slowly, eyes wide and probably a tad bit murderous. Maybe even crazed. “ Civilized? Oh, yes , by all means,” she snarls loudly, causing other patrons of the bar to turn in their direction.
Vaguely, she imagines eviscerating him.
He’s saying something in that smooth voice of his, but it’s all a wash in her head. She’s too focused on how wronged she feels, how vile and ridiculous it all is. Violated . Her fingers are burning to wrap around his throat and distantly she hears glass shattering.
There’s a flash of pain and Kara blinks, feeling the aura of red finally begin to clear from her vision.
Calais sets his wineglass down with a twist of his lips, eyes flashing, hissing Christ under his breath. The next thing Kara knows, he’s reaching for her with a handful of napkins, grabbing her by the wrist. His hand feels strong, gripping her small bones, and Kara feels her heart try to escape out her throat. “Don’t touch me!” She tries to pull away, only then seeing all the blood on her hand.
“Stop,” he commands softly, booking no room for argument with his tone, prying open her palm. “Deep inhale, slow.”
Kara didn’t even realize that she’d begun hyperventilating. Surprised by the calm order, she inhales slow and long, gasping when he pulls something out of her palm quickly. Calais gestures to the bartender and leans over the bar to drop a piece of glass into the garbage.
The bartender grabs a med kit and pulls out a large band-aid, handing it over to Calais before Kara can protest.
Her palm stings. With her breathing somewhat back under control, Kara sees the bartender cleaning away her martini glass, now not quite a glass anymore. Broken. She twists her palm over and notices a few minor cuts and one deeper slice, most likely where the glass shard had been lodged.
Her hand shakes and she blinks, feeling too hot, too cold all over. It doesn’t appear too deep, it doesn’t likely need a trip to get stitches, she rationalizes. “I have to clean this,” she utters numbly, staring as the crimson drips onto the bar, staining the napkins.
Without giving anyone another glance, Kara slips out of her seat and tears off towards the restrooms, clutching at her hand, high heels clicking loudly in time to the beat of her heart. She hears Calais say something after her, but her mind is already elsewhere.
Got to get clean, got to wash it away, can’t be seen with a torn-up hand, have to be perfect…
The ladies restroom is large, with five stalls, a few chairs, nice perfume and lovely lotions available for use. An upscale bar deserves an upscale restroom. The attendant gives her a concerned look, but Kara waves her away with her good hand. Kara doesn’t give a care for any of it, making a beeline for the sink. Turning on the water, she pushes her bleeding hand into the cold spray and winces.
Blood mixes with water in the white porcelain sink and Kara briefly resents that she let her anger get away with her in such a manner. Breaking a glass in her hand in public? Childish. Embarrassing. In front of-
Her fingers clench and she groans at the pain. He’s done this to her. He took advantage of her when she least expected it. No doubt he thought she was a hooker working the street. What a joke. A guy like him? He could have had anyone . Well, not anyone. A good girl knows trouble when they see it. There isn’t anything nice about the man.
That aloof attitude, paired with arrogance. Like he can’t be bothered to notice those squealing under his boot heel.
The voice of the bathroom attendant jerks Kara out of her thoughts. “Mister, you cannot be in here-!”
A smooth voice cuts her off, a hint of authority in the dark undertone. “Take a smoke break, come back in ten.”
In the mirror, Kara can see Calais holding out a stack of bills between his pointer and middle finger to the bathroom attendant. In other words; a lotta freaking dough. The woman glances over at Kara, as if she feels nervous about taking the money and leaving her alone with this strange man.
Kara gives her a hard look in the mirror; the woman doesn’t owe her anything and if she wants to take that filthy goddamn money, that’s on her.
And the woman takes the money with an accusing look at Calais, glancing at the stack of bills before walking right out the door. It’s most laughable how unsurprising Kara finds it. With her nerves on fire, Kara turns her stare towards him in the mirror. Calais is like an ominous, suited shape, standing close to the door, the shadows hugging him in the dim light of the room. Kara tries to ignore the feeling of vulnerability that washes over her; she’s alone with him now. “So, you just treat all women like whores then, is that it? You’re charming.”
He turns his gaze from the door back to Kara, pinning her with that dark, ominous blue. “She took the money, didn’t she? Left you alone in here, with me. What does that say about her?”
Lips pulling into a snarl, Kara turns to face him, leaving the water running loudly behind her. “What does that say about you ?”
His face remains emotionless, that blank canvas that he wore when he first walked into court. That blank face that speaks of a person that can’t be fucked to care about others, serene and egotistical. Closed off and uninterested. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m wasn’t finished talking to you earlier and hiding in here isn’t going to change anything.”
Baring her teeth, clenching her hands, relishing in the feel of her sticky blood as it wells again in her palm, Kara hisses, “You’re not here to talk. You’re here to gloat . I bet you find it funny. Watching me in court, knowing what you did. Like a freaking serial killer with a trophy on display.”
Calais leans his back against the door, looking at her from under lowered lashes. “None of it was personal, if that makes you feel better. The connection is incorrect. I’d already forgotten you. I didn’t even recognize you until you gave me that look.”
“ What look ?” It’s hard to keep herself in check. Kara has to force herself to unclench her injured hand; the pain only spurs her fury.
And she doesn’t wear anger well.
Or, perhaps she wears it too well . She wears it like a second skin that she’s at home in, a scarred costume flesh suit that shows all her battle wounds on display.
A slow smirk shapes his lips as he tilts his head back with lazy appeal, unconcerned by her display of aggression. “The one on your face right now.”
Wrath, she supposes. A sort of flame in her eyes. Her foggy memories of that night tell Kara that she certainly didn’t act like a sweet girl or a wilting flower waiting to be crushed; more like a snapping tiger. She can imagine the appeal from a distance, she supposes, though most of her past boyfriends quailed in the face of it.
Not that they were cowards, no. Yet even Kara knows what is acceptable behavior and what isn’t. Treating someone like a punching bag is tiring for the person putting up with it. It isn’t right, she’s no saint. She’s under no impression that her prior relationships failed because of the men in question.
No, they failed because of her and her alone. That, and her unending trail of baggage.
It feels strange, to hear that someone recognizes, even likes how she looks when she’s spitting fire. She swallows thickly, looking away from him briefly. He didn’t…even remember her? It was a completely meaningless event to him? The gravity of it hits her like a truck. To be fair, she didn’t remember him, but she’d been wandering around high on something and he’d chosen her .
He’d picked her like she was a piece of candy in a shop.
It makes her feel even more trashy and worthless, just knowing that she was just another face in the blur to him. Just another night cruising town with his buddies, paying girls to entertain them. He viewed her as no different. He’d thought she was a whore and he’d treated her like one.
Refusing to let him see how terribly his words affect her, how down they make her feel, she gives him an ugly look. “You like having your dick sucked by someone who is trying to bite it off? Risqué. Fucked up. But, risqué.”
Though the restroom is dimly lit for an atmospheric effect, Kara can still see the way he watches her carefully, his facial expression shifting not an inch despite her words. Calais shifts in the silence and digs something out of his pocket, holding it out to her. The giant-sized band-aid that the bartender had given him just before Kara had run off. “You might want this,” he says airily.
She’s bleeding again, the drip drop of the crimson on the floor beside her. With a nervous movement that tells how anxious she is in his presence, on top of the anger, she quickly snatches it out of his hand, stepping backwards quickly. Putting space between them.
He’s still standing in front of the door. There’s nowhere for her to go.
Dabbing her hand dry with a paper towel, she applies the band-aid under his watchful gaze, his eyes like a brand on her skin. There’s an uncomfortable silence until Kara gets the band-aid applied, staunching the flow of blood.
“You’ve talked,” she says to him finally, feeling drained. Pathetic. “You’ve had your laugh. May I go now? Please?”
He lifts his chin, looking down his nose at her. “We’re not quite done.”
Exasperated, Kara cries out, “What do you want from me?!”
“I want your silence. Forget…this little…accident happened. It shouldn’t have been you. But it was. So, here we are. I have money. You’re likely recently out of law school and have bills to pay. Quid pro quo.”
Is he actually for real? Does he think giving her a couple hundred more will wipe the slate clean? What a world he must live in. Oh, sure. It probably works on some women, but not Kara. Being paid off feels like failure and failure is something she doesn’t accept. “If you think five hundred more dollars is going to cut a deal, think again, big boy. It doesn’t buy you anything. I can’t be bought and I won’t just forget you. I mean, what you did.”
If he notices her slip on the last bit, he doesn’t mention it. “I’m not giving you cash out of my wallet. I’m talking about stroking a check,” he drawls coolly, like she doesn’t understand how much he’s offering.
Maybe she doesn’t understand. Maybe he does have a freakish amount of money that could open even the tightest butthole in town. That’s grossly beside the point. “I’m not taking your dirty hooker money. You can’t just pay a girl and expect everything to disappear like it never happened.”
She can’t forget, the scent of him is burned into her.
He gives her an emotionless look. It’s truly a business transaction to him. He doesn’t care how he made her feel, he doesn’t care that his body makes her feel nervous, trapped in this bathroom with him guarding the only viable exit. His voice is empty when he says, “Perhaps not, but it certainly closes lips. What do you want? What is your pride worth to you?”
She’s not going to dignify that with an answer. He can’t afford her pride. No one can. It isn’t for sale.
Lifting her chin, Kara sneers, “What if I just tell the cops?”
Using his body as intimidation, Calais draws himself up, prowling over to her. It’s then that she notices that he has her tote bag with him. What a gentleman, at least he made sure she didn’t get robbed by leaving it in the bar by itself. He stands over her, using one of his hands to grip the counter behind her, boxing Kara in as he leans forward to whisper, “You see, you can do that, but you won’t be able to prove what happened in that limo. You know how ‘he said, she said’ cases go. And, I happen to be a very good lawyer; the holes I’d poke in your story would ruin your standing at Benson that it happened or that she wasn’t aware enough to participate and claw his face open, dig her fingernails so deep into his thighs that he’d think twice before doing something so screwed up again.
She’s thirsty and not for water. She wants to be numb.
There’s a liquor store around the corner and she finds her feet moving towards it, heels clicking on the sidewalk. It isn’t a nice place, not exactly. She probably looks like a closet degenerate in her tight skirt and nice blouse, salivating for a drink. Kara pauses outside, staring up at the neon lights in the darkness. They bathe her face in a strange red as she stares at the words. OPEN. It’s like the holy grail. But, not.
You shouldn’t.
But, you deserve this, don’t you?
How will you sleep tonight if you don’t? You threw all your pills away.
You haven’t done this in years. You’re stronger than this.
With an angry snarl shaping her lips, Kara walks into the liquor store and grabs the first vodka her hand touches. She doesn’t care so much about quality or brand; she isn’t here for the taste. She’s here for a solution .
Girl, your solutions are bad news .
The cashier gives Kara a pitying look, eyes hovering about her lips. No doubt her makeup washed away with the alcohol from the bar, leaving her split lip no longer disguised. The girl probably thinks Kara is an abused housewife.
Oh, yeah. Kara knows all about those.
As she walks home from the store, her shoulders are tight, as if she feels like someone might be shadowing her steps. Whenever she turns around, she’s alone. This is ridiculous.
With shaky fingers, Kara throws herself inside her apartment, eyes wild. It isn’t until she sits down on her couch that she realizes that the bottle is the brand that always sat on the wet bar in her childhood home. Another charming reminder of her father, how he’s always a phone call away.
A reminder that her mother isn’t .
Drinking from the bottle isn’t classy in any social construct, but Kara does it anyway, hating herself the whole way through. She drinks and drinks more, trying to drown out the awful, filthy thing that is her human body. Her skin no longer feels like her own, as if something has happened to it while she wasn’t looking. It’s wrong, it’s absolutely wrong and she has no idea how she’s blocked it out until now.
Then, an hour or so in, her stomach rebels and she’s hovering over the toilet, feeling her esophagus burn as most of the clear liquid comes back up. Faintly, she realizes she never ate dinner and that she’s made a large mistake that she’s going to pay for in the morning.
In the end, the bottle of vodka gives Kara the result that she was chasing. Sleep. A mind silent and drowsy enough that she sinks into bed and passes out, alarm set.
That night, when she dreams, it isn’t about the man that took advantage of her in his fancy stretch limo, while other men probably watched. Or the hookers that had probably looked on with vacant eyes. Oh, no. This night she finds herself back in the past, dreaming of home.
“There’s something wrong with him, you know.” Her mother sits there dabbing a bleeding lip, sitting there with her wild auburn hair and bitter eyes. The sun is setting and she’s sitting on their front porch, staring at the dying horizon. Sitting on their swing, her feet bare.
It’s a visual that’s haunted Kara for some time.
The image in her mind flickers and changes to something more pleasant, an emotion of elation and warmth. A memory of her father, one of the better ones.
Kara presses her head on his chest and sighs when his arms come around her, cuddling her in his lap as he watches the news. She can hear his heart beating steadily, loud and calm. There’s not a better sound in the world, she thinks, listening.
When he laughs at something, probably someone’s misfortune, there’s a rumble in his chest that Kara nearly falls into, feeling warm and safe. She doesn’t focus on the fact that her mother is emitting broken sounds in the kitchen or the fact that her father is the reason for those horrible little noises.
The next morning, she wakes with her mother sitting on the wide ledge of her bay window, staring at her with haunted, empty eyes. A dark, purple bruise circles her left eye, leaving it swollen and puffy.
“You always forgive him,” her mother sneers, her beautiful faced marred by the imperfection.
The dream shifts, becoming something darker, more drenched with red and shadow. Tasting of dread, like a shiver of fear thar she can’t escape. Her father comes home late and Kara doesn’t notice the warning signs, the stiffness to his mouth. In her excitement to tell him how she landed a part in the school play, she doesn’t notice that he’s having one of those days.
She should have known. She should have remembered the rules.
At the top of the stairs, she corners him with a huge smile that he takes in with dead eyes, eyes as dark as her own. She excitedly tells him how well she did, how she landed the lead, hoping for him to congratulate her.
He doesn’t.
Because the achievement of someone else doesn’t mesh with his view of the world.
Instead, his eyes go nearly black as he sneers, “They chose you because they probably didn’t have any other choices, you worthless little parasite.”
Her eyes widen and she knows then that she’s broken the unspoken rule. Never brag to him. Never tell him how successful she is. He doesn’t care, he can’t care, he’s the only one in this house that matters and his ego is the only one that needs to be fed.
Her bladder evacuates, because she knows where this is leading and there’s no escape, no one to help. When the rage strikes him, nothing will stop him.
Her mother is missing (hiding) when he grabs Kara by the hair, dragging her kicking and screaming down the stairs, hissing his cruelties at her as he does.
In the end, he allows her to stay in the play. If only to brag to the other parents that her skill comes from him of course. She didn’t do well on her own. She owes it all to him. She’s an extension of him and his excellence. His object, prized here and there. How easily that can change, how she becomes nothing to him when she’s a disappointment and he forgets how to love her, if he ever really did in the first place. He smiles and grins, pulling all the other parents in with his charm and his stories of his own stint in the theatre as a boy. All lies of course.
But Kara nor her mother will utter a word of correction.
Because ruining his illusion of grandeur will get someone’s face broke in.