sticky rice #3
Her attitude’s definitely not helping. Lilith is playing it off like she has absolutely zero idea who the hell I am.
“Funny bumping into you here,” I say. Christ, I’m offering up every cliché I can.
Lilith sure does look at me funny. Like she doesn’t recognize me. At all. Not exactly the reaction I was expecting. Truth told, I was hoping she might be excited. Happy, even.
Not this. Whatever this is.
“. . . I’m sorry?” she asks. Very formal. A wall of decorum. Crossed wires, all disconnected. Underneath it all, though, is
that tension that comes from a stranger entering a woman’s personal space. She’s got her guard up. I could be dangerous.
But I’m not. It’s me. Doesn’t she remember me? At all? What the fuck is going on here? “I’ve been wondering where we’d see each other next.”
She shakes her head, her expression going sour. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me,” I say, like such a dumbass. Then to clarify my dumbassness, “Jordan.”
“Sorry,” she dismisses me, ready to move on with her life. “Wrong girl.”
Now I’m really taking offense. “That memorable, huh?”
“Guess not.”
“Look at what you did to me.” I roll up my sleeve, exposing the slope of skin along my forearm. The trenched flesh, still
scabbed. “I’ve barely healed from our little rendezvous.”
“What’s your problem?” one of her girlfriends asks, ready to dive in.
“No problem,” I say. “I just don’t get the cold shoulder. Did I do something wrong?”
“I told you already,” Lilith says, “I don’t know who the hell you are.”
“Lilith, it’s me. Jordan.”
“My name isn’t Lilith, asshole. Now would you please leave me the fuck alone?”
What the hell? I’m positive it’s her. I wasn’t that wasted that I’d get her mixed up with someone else. This is Lilith. So . . . why is she pretending she’s not? Who in the hell is she?
“Is there a problem here?” some shit-heel in a backward ball cap asks, strutting up next to me. This guy’s asking them, the ladies, while keeping his eyes fixed on me. Chin up, just so, like he’s ready to raise fists. Throw a punch. Good thing he’s got
a glass in his hand.
“No problem here, bro,” I say, hands held up in the air.
“Wasn’t asking you, dick.”
I’m starting to see red. Blood everywhere. The room’s blurring a bit. Flooding with arterial spray. The water level’s rising
and I’m ready to get wet. “You the bouncer here?”
“Just keeping the peace,” he says.
“What frat are you from?”
“Alpha Omega, asshole.” This dude is about to step, I feel it, and I’m ready, so ready, so eager to throw fists, just get
it on, get violent, when I feel a hand plant on my shoulder.
The crowd around us constricts. Something about the pressure of people, the bristle of shoulders in such a confined space . . .
I don’t know. It suddenly feels like we’re all inside a stomach, getting digested together. The atmosphere is muggy and everyone’s
flesh melts.
Something inside me twists. A serpent unspooling. I want to rip this guy’s eyeballs right out from his sockets. I want to
tear out his tongue with my bare hand. I want to grab hold of his throat and squeeeeeeze—
“We’re just leaving.” I hear Deak’s voice behind me before I see him. It’s his hand. He starts dragging me back, eager to
defuse this little situation before it gets out of control.
“Bye,” Lilith’s friend offers. Lilith—or whoever the hell she is—won’t even look at me.
So that’s it, then. Case closed.
“The hell is wrong with you?” Deak asks, still tugging me away.
“It’s her,” I keep saying. It’s all I’ve got. “It’s her. It’s Lilith.”
“Who the fuck is Lilith?” Deak asks. Good question. I don’t know anymore.
I never did.
Deak sees this asshole charging before I do. He’s in my rearview mirror. I should’ve known he’d come swinging. Deak pushes me away and takes the hit for me, a roundhouse right in the jaw.
Now I see this guy, baseball cap and all. My hand is a fist before I know it. My knuckles drag over this guy’s nose, raking
skin.
“BINGOOOOO, MOTHERFUCKER!” I call out at the top of my lungs, landing another punch. Everyone cheers, raising the decibels
in this place until I can’t hear myself think.
I don’t want to think anymore, anyway. I just want to hit. Hit this guy so hard.
His flesh feels like Silly Putty under my knuckles. I can knead his face into any shape I want. When I feel something crack,
I’m imagining it’s his nose. His jaw. His fucking skull.
“Jordan,” I hear Deak shout. “Stop it—”
I’m blacking out. Losing myself. Slipping down the black hole at the very center of myself and it feels so fucking good, so
freeing, just let go, let it all out, let it all bleed.
“Jordan, Jesus Christ, stop it, stop—”
Where’s this darkness coming from? Have I been holding onto it? Why do I feel so happy? So free? So wet and red and warm?
I haven’t felt this good—this alive—in ages.
“Jordan, you’re going to kill him!”
If only Lilith could see me now.
She does. Look at her. So horrified.
The crowd presses in, ready to break it up, or maybe throw a few fists themselves, who can tell, and I’m caught in the riptide,
this sea change of bodies, dragged further away.
Away from Lilith. Or whoever the hell she is.
Lost at sea all over again.