BitterSuites

The phone was an old black candle-stick like you’d see in a movie from the twenties. It even had a rotary dial. Jean grimaced at it. It was sitting on the top of the registration desk, mocking her. The old woman behind the desk was sturdy in the way old ethnic women always seemed to be. She was thick from neck to knees and wearing a muumuu of red and orange that dropped straight from her shoulders with an offensively large ruffle. Her hair was pulled back into a braid of grey. Her eyes were dark and emotionless.

“Thanks,” Jean muttered. She picked up the earpiece that way she’d always seen it done and was surprised to hear the dial tone. She pushed at the numbers, but they didn’t beep.

The old woman rolled her eyes. She reached over and dialed a one. “There. Either hang up or call.”

Jean finished dialing her husband’s cell-phone. There was static when he picked up. “Who is this?” he yelled into the phone.

“It’s your wife!” she said clearly. “I’m at the old hotel up on Creek Street. My phone is dead.”

“You’re wearing red?”

“My. Phone. Is. Dead.” She nearly touched the mouthpiece. Her fingers grabbed around the stick part automatically.

“Creek Street. Right. I’ll come find you.” He hung up on her.

“That man,” she muttered.

The old woman snorted. “It only gets worse. Go sit down. I’ll get you some coffee. Cream?”

“Please. And sugar if you have any?”

“No worries. Go sit by the fire. Dry out.” The old woman puttered into the back room. Jean collapsed onto a dusty red leather chair. She’d have preferred the velvet, but she was soaked to the skin. Maybe her phone would work when it dried out. She ran a hand through her short hair. It clung to her fingers and neck. The sound of the storm echoed around the room. It battered at the skylights and the doors.

The old hotel was called the Rochester. She didn’t know why and didn’t really care. When she’d seen the flickering light of an oil lamp in the front window, she’d simply thanked whatever spirits were looking after her for antiques. The oil lamp was one of five that were scattered around the room. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, even though it was spring. The room was dusty. There were leaves in the corners of the rooms. Jean mentally cursed whatever help had walked out on the old woman at the end of the season.

She shivered. “Here you are.” The old woman put down a tray. “I’m Helen. Call if you need me.” She went back to the desk and settled behind it with an old leather-bound book.

Jean sipped the coffee. It was warm and sweet and perfect. She moaned in appreciation. “Thank you, Helen,” she called over. The coffee warmed her from the inside. The fire warmed her from the outside. Her eyes slipped closed and she rested her head on the back of the chair for just a minute. She didn’t remember closing her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, the fire was gone and her husband was shaking her. “Come on. Before the water gets any higher. We need to get going.”

She looked around. There were no lights in the windows. There were no lights at all, except for the illumination from the lightening bolts. Sitting next to her chair, however, was the dregs of a cup of coffee in an old white mug.

“Thank you, Helen,” she murmured as she gathered up her coat. She followed her husband out into the lashing rain. When she looked back over her shoulder, there was a light in the front window.

She smiled.

Lily pulled the down comforter over her head. She would not get up. No matter what sounds she thought she heard tonight. No matter when the alarm clock went off in the morning. No, this would be the best night of sleep she had ever gotten. The pillow was perfect. The comforter was freshly cleaned and smelled of lavender.

She had valerian under the pillow. She had her meditation tape set to go on in three hours. The crashing waves of the white noise machine were on. She took deep breaths and tried to sink into the mattress.

The little whimper that escaped as her back loosened reminded her how much tension she’d been carrying. She had the day off tomorrow. She didn’t have to do anything.

She drifted towards sleep.

The whining moans didn’t puncture the bubble of sound and safety she’d created for herself. She couldn’t smell the coppery tang from the other room. She couldn’t even hear the sounds of chains. She smiled.

Finally, a good night’s sleep.

The other side of the bed dipped. “Sweetie?” a soft voice said. “Are you asleep?”

Yes, she thought. I am asleep, go away.

He sighed. “I added gags. They should be quiet tonight.” He patted her hip. “Sleep well.” Then, he laid down.

She took deep breaths. Focus. Sleep, Lily, she told herself.

Sleep.

“Touch the Thin Mints and I’ll cut you,” JoAnna hissed. She was curled up on the couch with a heating pad, a blanket, three books and a box of Thin Mints. She’d eaten half of one column with her tea. Her hair was stringy, her nose was red, and her eyes were bleary.

Bobbi considered her chances. The blanket would slow her down and she wasn’t wearing her glasses so there was a chance that she’d miss any preparations. That was the last box of Thin Mints in the house and the little girls from downstairs said that they didn’t have anymore. It might be worth the risk of a bloody stump.

“My cookies,” JoAnna added with slow deliberation. “I paid for them. I found them when all the other booth sales were done. You ate all of yours.”

“Just one?” Bobbi pleaded. She needed chocolate. She needed it now. “I’m going into withdrawal. And I’ll be starting my period tomorrow.”

“No shit.” JoAnna snorted. It was disturbingly wet and she reached for a tissue to blow her nose. She’d caved and purchased the ones with Aloe because of this cold; plague really. That was a concern. The cookies that were open were already contaminated with germs. Bobbi zeroed in on the box. One column was pristine, just sitting in the box, mocking her. “Did you think that this cold thing was going to stop me from starting on the same day? We’ve been in sync for half a year, bimbo.”

“Hey, now,” Bobbi held up a warning finger. “We don’t hold with that sort of talk.” Bobbi ran a hand over her short-cropped platinum blonde hair. “It’s not like it’s natural.”

“The bleach has eaten into your brain. Go get some cookies elsewhere.”

“But it’s not Thin Mints.”

“So go get some ducking ice cream or something. I think it’s Eddy’s that has the Thin Mint ice cream.”

“What? Seriously?” Bobbi sat up straight. “Thin Mints and ice cream? That’s better than Nutella from the jar.”

“Mmmmm. Nutella,” JoAnna murmured. “I have cash. Bring me my purse and go forth for Nutella and soft, squishy white bread to transport it to my mouth.”

Bobbi laughed. “And you’ll buy the ice cream too?”

JoAnna sighed. “Yes, just to protect my cookies. Not because I like you or anything.”

Right. Four years as friends. Two as roommates. They hated each other all right.

“Deal.”

FIN

Joey turned over the shot glass and slammed it onto the counter. “Nineteen.” He picked up the next one, slammed back the tequila and slammed down the glass. The liquid didn’t burn anymore. It was hot and filled his stomach with bravado and sex-appeal. His little, fading voice of self-preservation begged him to stop and go to the bathroom to throw it all up, but he couldn’t. Not when he was surrounded by his entire frat.

“Twenty-one,” the crowd announced and cheered. “Happy Birthday, Joey!”

The bar broke into a jumbled, off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

He waved to his new fans. He tried to stay very still on the barstool. He felt the liquid hate in his stomach trying to eat him from the inside out. He clenched his jaw in a pasted on smile as people took pictures of him with their phones. One smart-ass even had a digital camera to record his every move. Spidy was an asshole. He documented everything with that damned camera of his. Joey made sure to make rabbit ears behind his “big brother” Bobby and his “little sister” Tanya from their sister sorority. They had different meanings, of course, because he was totally going to get into Tanya’s pants one of these days.

She was a heavenly person – patience of a saint and the curves of a sinner. She was smart and funny and so out of his league that he shouldn’t even bother.

She was also his best friend.

He leaned on her shoulder. She laughed at him, musical and carefree. She was one-hundred percent sober. He pulled her into a loose hug and didn’t let go.

“Come on, birthday boy, let’s get you home.” She tugged on his arm. The other boys from the frat made kissy noises and cheered them on. She rolled her eyes and fished her keys out of the bowl at the end of the table. He followed her like she were his lodestone leading him north.

“You’re the best thing about this place,” he told her. At least he hoped that the words came out properly. She seems to flex and bend in his sight. “Tequila sucks.”

“Oh, sweetie, you have no idea.”

The car ride was nauseating. “Stop,” he managed. She pulled over instantly and reached across him to open the door. He emptied his stomach into the gutter. He spat once, then twice. She handed him a paper towel. They made two more stops before they made it to his house. She walked him to his room. She filled a glass of water.

“Drink,” she ordered.

“Bed,” Joey replied.

“Drink first.”

He pouted, but drank up the water. Then, he collapsed backwards. “You’re still the best thing in this place.”

“Love you too, jerkwad.” She pulled off his shoes. “And that is as much of you as I’m going to uncover. You want to be comfortable, you need to figure out how to do it yourself.”

“So, so mean.” He struggled with his jeans and then conceded victory to the belt. “Still love you.”

“Sleep well. There’s ibuprofen on the side table for when you wake up and I’ll leave more water.” She brushed a kiss across his forehead.

He didn’t think he’d imagined it. He gave her a sleepy smile. Maybe she wasn’t out of his league after all.

FIN

The rage builds up in my body, tingling down my palms into my fingers. They curl into claws. I fight to keep the heat from my face. I force my eyes to stay open and accepting. My breathing threatens to speed, but I deepen the breaths and count them into even spaces. I will not pant. I know my chest is heaving now, but I am not panting.

The bile churns in my stomach and I can almost taste it in the back of my throat. I stand, feet shoulder-width apart, hands curled at my side and don’t scream the words that want to leap from my throat and lash the woman with the shoulder-length hair.

Her hair curls at the ends and the curls bob as she laughs. It’s a vile, hateful sound that grates on my ears. She tosses her hair over her shoulder with a practiced move that leaves a tracer to my eyes. Her “perfect” grace makes me want to rend her fingers from her hands. She rests her hand on the top of her purse. It’s an expensive thing – Coach or Prada or some overly-charged piece of crap like that. Perfect, like her hair, the length of her wheat colored skirt and her charming chocolate jacket.

Her skin is flawless, just waiting for me to paint it with purple and green. Her fingernails are glossy with fresh enamel. Her shoes are just the right height for the current fashion. Brown croc-leather with little gold buckles on the front. As though she were a model in an office-wear catalog. She has a little hoop earrings in her ears. And there’s a silk scarf around her throat. That’s good. The silk won’t break when I wrap it around her wrists after I throw her to the ground and ruin her perfect suit.

I track her motion as she and her girlfriends part ways. She has her keys out and is heading for the car park. I make my feet move now. Slowly, carefully, don’t make any noise. I reach for the rag in its Ziploc bag. She’ll regret her stupid heels any minute now.

I hold the rag over her mouth, smearing her perfect lipstick. She struggles and manages to connect with my sternum, trying to steal my air. I press harder against her mouth and nose. She slumps into my arms.

That hit will leave a bruise!

God damn, I hate this bitch.

Belle shifted in her spot. Her jeans were well-worn. She picked at the fraying near her knee until her father glared at her. “This is very important, sweetie,” her father chided.

“I know.” She rolled her kohl-rimmed blue eyes. “Get to the good part already.” What thirteen year old can sit still for a full half-hour? Seriously.

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“And patience is a virtue,” she finished his favorite chide. Her father was a whippet of a man with a full head of brown hair that had the merest traces of grey. He was in his fifties, but still ran marathons. He ran his hands over his instrument. It was warm wood tones with silver inlays. He’d had it for years and his loving care kept it in perfect condition. He laid it against his chin.

He took one breath, then another. Belle quivered with excitement. She loved seeing him work. This was only the third time he’d shown her how to use his instrument when it was just the two of them. She’d be a full apprentice soon.

He tilted his head.

“Whump.”

The report from the gun was muffled, but still loud. Belle put the binoculars up to her eyes.

The man in the shiny grey suit lay dead, blood seeping through the hole in his neck onto the pavement.

Her father slide his rifle into its instrument case. She tucked her binoculars into her totebag. They wandered out onto the street hand in hand. She tugged a little on his hand. “Come on, we’re going to be late,” she whined.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he reminded her.

“And patience is a virtue.” She sighed and fell into step. “I just can’t wait until I get to do it all by myself.”

FIN