The Dark of You by S.M. Shade
Chapter Sixteen
Reeve doesn’t leave my side for more than a couple of hours at a time during the weeks after the night in the shed. Every day, I expect to hear a news report that the senator has gone missing, but so far there hasn’t been a word. As tempting as it is, there’s no way I’m searching on the internet for news about him. Doing anything like that may draw attention and be used against me later. He’s bound to have been missed by now, but they clearly don’t want that getting out to the public. Reeve reassures me there’s no connection between us, and he’ll never be found. Apparently, Miller had multiple mistresses. It’s probably being assumed he ran off with one.
I watched a man die. Gave my approval for him to be murdered in front of me. It’s hard to believe how easy it was, that we just got away with it. An evil man was removed from the world in a blink. Poof. Gone. No more girls will suffer because of him. Instead of fear or regret, something else grows inside of me.
I had a friend warn me once that getting a tattoo could be addicting. That before the ink is even set on your first, you’ll want another. And another. It was true for her. The last time I saw her both arms were sleeved in colorful designs. I remember wondering how something painful could leave you wanting more.
Now I understand. For all the terror of that night, and all the fear of being caught, there’s a stronger emotion at work. Satisfaction. And a desire to do it again. To make them pay. All the people who go through life destroying everyone in their path for their own benefit. All the abusers who steal something from us we never get back.
These urges have me questioning myself. Not about what’s right or wrong, but what I might be capable of that I’ve never considered. Could my hand hold the knife that slices a throat? It’s true I stabbed a man, but it was in a moment of panic, to save myself. Not in retribution.
Am I strong enough for that?
All of this lives in my head while we go through exceedingly ordinary days. It’s wonderful to have Reeve with me so much of the time. Curled up on the couch, watching movies, swimming in my pool, laughing together, fucking on every available surface in my house until I’m sore and spent.
He doesn’t tell me he loves me, but he’s there. He’s always there.
Time passes in spurts while I’m wrapped up in him. Everything else falls by the wayside. My phone goes unanswered, messages not returned. The only thing I’ve felt other than desire for him is a familiar compulsion. The urge to write. A story forms in my head against my will of two lovers on a killing spree, taking out the worst of the worst. A crime fiction written from the point of view of the serial killers.
I’ve resisted because I can’t bear it right now. Things are going too well to torture myself by sitting down and freezing up again once that little blinking cursor is in front of me. I’m happier not even trying. Maybe later, I tell myself. After more of the story has materialized. When I’m confident I can transfer what’s in my head to a page. Not now. Not today.
Reeve must sense my anxiety because he comes up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist. He runs his lips up my neck and kisses just behind my ear. While I love the ruthless way he takes me sometimes, these moments when his affection is tender are just as devastating. “You’re restless. Do you want to walk today?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
“Just don’t wear yourself out. You’re going to be on your knees when we get back.”
There’s the Reeve I know. His eyes meet mine when I glance back over my shoulder. “Who says I’ll wait until we get back?”
The expression he gets when his gaze sweeps over my body will never fail to amaze me. No one has ever been as into me as he is, sexually or otherwise. It doesn’t hurt my self-esteem, that’s for sure. Walk. That’s what we’re doing today. Plenty of time later to screw his brains out.
It’s been a while since I’ve spent the day walking, and it feels good to get out in the sunshine. What was an escape before, a distraction from loneliness and anxiety, is now a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. All because of the man who walks along beside me.
My need to write is forgotten. The jittery feeling it brought fades by the time we’ve made it to the far side of town where a small park that consists of some rundown playground equipment and a few shabby picnic tables stands empty. The swings clink softly together in the breeze as we sit on a bench that’s covered in years of graffiti. Our conversation has been light until now, discussions about an album coming out soon from my favorite band, and how they’ll be coming near enough to see them in concert.
After mostly having him at my house and in my bed, it’s nice to know we can make plans that take place in public too. It’s a strange, exciting feeling, knowing the things we’ve done. Like we’re undercover or something, living one life that the world sees and another that lives in the darkness beneath.
Across the narrow street is a laundromat where an interesting mix of people wait for their clothes to wash and dry. The glass doors are propped open, displaying the lack of air conditioning, and it must be sweltering because everyone who goes in with a basket of clothes retreats soon after. Some sit on the shady benches placed across the front of the large, plate glass windows. Others loiter by the two soft drink machines, or around the side of the brick building.
Laundromats are a fascinating place to people watch because it attracts different walks of life, with one thing in common. Being too poor to own a washer, or living in an apartment without an available hookup. In the better neighborhoods, you can also expect a few middle class women who just need an oversize washer for something that won’t fit in their own. This isn’t a good neighborhood.
“You like watching people,” Reeve says, drawing my attention back to him.
“Says the stalker,” I snort.
His arm darts around me, and he pulls me against his side. He presses his lips to my ear. “Call me that again and your ass will pay for it.”
My heart leaps forward. The next words out of my mouth prove I have no self-preservation when it comes to this man. “Yeah?” I taunt. “You going to spank me? Might not work if I like it.”
His voice comes out low and gravelly. “No, I’m going to bend you over and fuck your ass like I’ve wanted to since I first saw you.”
My reply doesn’t come out with the conviction I’d hoped. “Not happening.”
His laugh says otherwise, and I shiver at the thought because I know the truth. There’s nothing I won’t let him do. “Watching people became a habit to help my descriptions when I was a writer.”
“You’re still a writer.” Am I? He scratches at the back of my scalp, turning me to putty in his hands. “Tell me what you see over there.”
It’s hard to put into words because it’s the details that paint a picture. Two women who look well into their sixties, but probably haven’t said farewell to their fifties yet sit on one corner of the bench, cigarettes in hand. One is dressed in what looks like a long nightshirt that’s seen too many trips through the wash. She’s pulled it up to her knees to circumvent the heat which must be hard on someone of her size. Thin hair lays lank and greasy, stopping just past her jowls that wobble when she laughs with her friend.
Her friend wears tiny shorts, a tank top, and flip flops. Fluffy blond hair is chopped off short at her chin and small glasses perched on her nose give her a birdlike quality. Her lightly graying skin and extremely thin body scream of a serious illness.
A young woman a few feet away picks up her wailing toddler, exhaustion written on the apologetic glance she gives the people around her. A few teenage boys toss quarters at the brick wall, no doubt wagering money they were sent with to wash clothes. A couple pull in and start unloading trash bags out of the back of a pickup truck, dragging them inside.
What do I see?
“Struggle,” I finally reply. “And tenacity in the face of it. Hopelessness steeped in strength.” I watch as the two women laugh loudly about something, and one of the teenagers hoots in celebration while he scoops up his winnings. “Life. It amazes me sometimes. How some people can find happiness no matter their situation.”
Reeve grins and shakes his head. “You know, most people would only see a grungy laundromat. Writing isn’t a choice for you. The words are there, in your head, whether you let them out or not. You’re a writer.”
“Last time I tried, I almost killed myself.”
He pinches my chin and turns my head until we’re eye to eye. “I won’t let that happen.”
All I can do is nod and drag my gaze away. Across the street, two little girls emerge from the laundromat with a plastic wagon between them. It’s piled high with wet clothes, and they do their best to balance the load without letting anything touch the ground. The bigger girl—who might be six at most—gets behind the wagon and calls to the other one to grab the handle.
“You steer, JJ, and I’ll push. Don’t go into the road!”
“Are they alone?” I mumble to myself.
“Looks like it,” Reeve replies.
Once they get the wagon moving, they do okay, but it’s obviously a struggle. One of the women at the laundromat waves at them, and the girl in the back waves back. It must be a common occurrence here since no one seems to be disturbed by it. Maybe they live right around the corner. Still, they’re awfully young to be out alone and tasked with such a chore.
We watch as they slowly make their way up the gravel edge of the road, past a gas station, before pausing in front of a tiny dive bar. I can’t hear the conversation between them, but it appears the older girl cautions the younger one to stay put while she goes inside.
A few minutes later, a man steps out with the older child, stumbling over his own feet before catching his balance. He walks ahead of them, and they resume their places to push and pull the wagon. The girl pushes a little too hard and the pile teeters, knocking a few items into the dirt.
The man looks back and screams at her. She frantically gathers the soiled clothes and shoves them back inside, but it’s too little too late for the drunk asshole. He slaps her on the back of the head hard enough that I can hear it.
Sobbing, she grabs the back of the wagon again, and they continue. Reeve’s eyes mirror the anger I’m feeling, and he nods when I get to my feet and announce, “I want to follow him. They aren’t safe.”
I’m not sure what good I can do. I’m not going to call authorities because CPS only makes things worse. That’s a lesson learned firsthand. There’s no plan in my mind other than to follow them and see what kind of place they’re returning to, if they need help as much as it appears they do. Then we can try to come up with a solution.
We stay a good distance behind them to avoid looking suspicious, but we needn’t have worried. The man never looks back again, only shouts at them to hurry the fuck up. I’m shocked how far they pull that wagon. That poor little girl’s back must be screaming.
They lead us into an area I haven’t explored much. It’s seedy and looks rough. It’s getting dark when we follow them onto a dead end street and down to the last house. The man goes in the front door and it slams shut behind him while the girls continue around the back of the house with the wagon.
There’s a group of overgrown bushes on one edge of their yard, and we stop there. The house looks like a good storm could take it down, and I wonder how bad the conditions are inside. What are those poor girls living in?
We wait for a few minutes to make sure he isn’t coming back out. Reeve grins when I take his hand and creep onto their property. His heart probably isn’t beating out of his chest like mine is, but then again, I’m not the one adept at stalking or trespassing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take good instincts to know those girls are in danger.
Terrified I’ll be seen, I take a deep breath and peek through a window. The thin curtains are easy to see through. The man lies in a recliner with his back to me. There’s no danger of him seeing us since his snores can probably be heard down the street.
My hope that there was a mother waiting on them is dashed. What we see over the next few hours is heartbreaking in many ways. While the father lies passed out, the older girl dries their clothes in a dryer on the rickety back porch. She splits a can of tuna and a pack of crackers with her sister for dinner, then helps to give her a bath. A pile of blankets and pillows lay on the floor of a bedroom that doesn’t hold much else. She spreads them out, making a pallet, then tucks her sister in like a mother would, and lies down beside her.
Their conversation is whispered, but clear through the screen of the open bedroom window. “Kay? I’m hungry. My belly hurts.”
“I know. We can have some more crackers when we wake up.”
“Will Daddy be at work when we wake up?”
“Yeah, he will. Be good and go to sleep. We’ll play school tomorrow in our playhouse.”
“Okay.”
It’s silent for a few more minutes until the little one, JJ, asks, “Do they hit you at school? Like Daddy does?”
“No, there’s no hitting.”
“And there’s food. And toys. And you get to play at the playground. I want to go to school so bad.”
Kay wraps her little arm around her. “In about a month, you’ll go to preschool and I’ll go to first grade. Right now we have to go to sleep before Daddy wakes up.”
“He might get mad and wake us up.”
The matter of fact manner of that statement is almost as hard to hear as the resigned sigh from the child beside her. “I know. But try anyway.”
They both fall asleep, and we retreat back to the tree line where we won’t be seen before talking. “They’re babies.” The words come out in a fierce tone, but tears leak down my face. “She’s trying so hard to take care of her little sister. They’re going hungry, getting hit. We have to do something.”
Reeve’s grin is sinister in the moonlight. “You want me to kill him?”
Yes.
“No, we don’t know enough. Maybe they have a mother they could go to or a relative. Maybe this is a temporary situation.”
“We need to watch,” Reeve says. “Watch and then make a plan.”
He’s right. Guess I’m the stalker now.