Complementary Colors (18 page)

“Alice, why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

She gave me her back as she shut the door. “Would you like some ice?”

“No. It’s fine.” I put my drink on the counter and took her hand. She didn’t resist when I turned her around.

She wouldn’t look at me. “Daddy didn’t understand that all boys weren’t bad. I tried to tell him, but he said…I really should get going.” She fluttered her hands. “I have shopping to do, and I need to pick up your blue suit.”

“Alice?”

Her lip trembled. “Daddy said Andrew didn’t love us. That’s why he ran away.” Alice snapped her mouth shut. “I need to go. I have to get up early…” She fled in the direction of the door.

“Alice, who was Andrew?”

“Your suit. If I don’t pick it up, they’ll charge extra. Or worse, they might lose it again.”

“Alice…”

She grabbed up her purse and coat.

“Alice, please tell me…”

She spun around. Tears streaked her crimson cheeks, but she kept her gaze on the floor. “Whore. That’s what he called Andrew. A whore. A dirty filthy whore who was nothing but a liar.”

“Filthy little whore.”

My feet became too heavy for me to pick up.

Alice straightened her shoulders. One quick swipe of her manicured fingers under her eyes removed most of the tears. “If you need me, just call. I have to get up early. There’s the shopping and…”

“You need to pick up my suit.”

The hammer glistened black in the light of the bare bulb. My father pointed a finger at me.

“I do.” She nodded. “If I don’t they’ll charge—”

“Extra.”

“This is your fault. All your fault. You made me do this.”

“Yes, exactly.” Alice hurried to the lift.

The cold burrowing into my skin was replaced by a familiar dread.

I ran to the kitchen. After I downed one mixed drink, I made another. More vodka than juice. I blamed it on the fact my hands were shaking, and I sloshed half of the juice out of the carton instead of in the glass.

My sinuses burned with every swallow. In order to cool the fire in my face, I lay my cheek against the fridge door. The throbbing in my head backed off.

“Get it together.” I rubbed my temple. “Get it together, or you’ll wind up in a room wearing a white coat with really long arms.” I laughed even though there was nothing funny about what I said. If anything, I should have been more terrified because it had already happened.

The lift dinged.

“Alice?” I walked to the end of the partition. The foyer was empty. I took a few more steps, putting myself near the front of my studio.

The elevator doors were closed.

A flash of white scurried behind the sofa.

Bare feet slapped against the tile. I dropped my glass, and a star-shaped mess of orange juice spread over the floor.

There was nothing but darkness around the stairs, and the door leading into the laundry room was closed. Same with the bathroom.

I backed into the edge of one of my workbenches.

The heavy sigh came from the walls rather from any particular direction. A breath of air colder than ice. It passed through my body. It lapped at my soul. Then a cacophony of screams filled up my head.

“No!” I pressed my hands over my ears, but it didn’t muffle the sound. “Shut up. For the love of God, shut up!” The noise would wake it up.

Canvases sat on the easels stacked against the wall. I grabbed one and dropped it on the floor.

Alice had organized my paints in a divider tray. I grabbed a tube, tossed aside the cap and reached for a brush. They were miles away on the table, so I squeezed a glob of paint onto the canvas and used my thumb to move it around.

Poor lighting stripped away the vibrant color. With nothing to hold down the horrible image, it popped from the canvas on a monochrome field.

The dread festered into fear, and the fear into hate. It crawled out of its black pit…

No, not a pit.

A well.

Dust and copper. Sour skin and death.

“I’m painting, goddamn it.” Dirt coated the back of my throat. “Please, just give me more time.”

I grabbed another tube and lost the cap somewhere between the box and the canvas. The pigment made oily slugs that became angry slashes.

Teeth. I think they were supposed to be teeth.

I dug furrows through rivers of paint with my fingernails. Tears in the flesh. The blur of white moved closer.

I tried to find the tube of red, but my fingerprints covered the labels. I grabbed orange out of the box. If I used it right, it would be toxic enough.

No. I needed the red. I had to have the red.

I wiped the labels clean on my slacks as I dug through the pile of mutilated tubes. I found the red and filled my palm. “It will go back to sleep.” It would. It had to. “That was our deal. You leave me alone, and I paint.” Crimson turned a shade close to black in the shadow of the workbench.

Figures reached for me from the oils fighting on the canvas, begging for help and pleading with frightened eyes.

“I’m painting, goddamn it.” I held out my hands to show them. “I’m doing everything I can. Just let me work. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell all of them.”

“Por favor, why do you lie? Tell me where is mi hijo? You know. I know you do.”

“Shut up!” I pointed at the boy’s mother. “Just shut up and let me work.”

“Tell me.”

The demand stabbed me in the temple. “I don’t know!”

“Por favor, por favor, le suplico.”

“I said I don’t know!”

My tears made it impossible to see. But I didn’t need my eyes to paint these images because they bled from my fingertips, pulling my hands where they needed to be. Using me to bring the nightmare to life, exposing what I was.

Wet leaves, old dirt, and copper tainted the air.

The boy whose name I couldn’t remember stared at me with dead eyes. Dirt turned the right one it into a gritty orb.

“You’re nothing but a filthy whore.
My father loomed over me.
“You made me do this.”

“No!” I clawed the canvas. “Stop saying that.”

“It’s the truth, and you know. I see how you look at me. How you walk. How you flaunt.”

“I don’t.” I slapped a glob of blue between two ruddy lines. They might have been red, or orange, or some muted shade of yellow. Whatever hue, it was sick and pockmarked with rot. “I don’t do any of that.”

“You’re a whore, Paris, and that’s what whores do.”

The boy’s mother petted my cheek. “
Help me por favor.”

Julia knocked me in the shoulder.
“You better not say a word, or I’ll break every bone in your pathetic body”.

I covered my ears.

“…whore…”

“…why do you lie…”

“…keep your mouth shut, Paris…”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!” I threw the plastic tray at them. It caught the edge of the workbench and the remaining tubes of paint scattered all over the floor.

“And you!” I chucked a tube of paint at the pair of black button eyes staring at me from the shadows next to the shelves. “You go back down the hole and leave me the fuck alone.”

I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt and returned to the canvas. Swatches of color to close the wounds. Lines to tie it down. Layers upon layers, until the sound of their voices formed a hum.

I painted to silence them.

I painted to tell the truth.

I painted to free the boy whose name I couldn’t remember.

The lights on the veranda highlighted the veins of water on the street and peppered the hoods of various luxury cars on the backs of melting snowflakes.

A line for the valet filled the front of the parking lot so I had the cabby drop me off at the corner. Lorna’s was always busy this time of night no matter the day of the week. Good food, strong drinks, people with money and others looking to spend it.

If you were close to the owner, he’d take you into a back room where the millionaires club gathered to dine on salmon eggs from the endangered species list. If he liked you, he might even invite you into his private office to share a line. If he really liked you, he’d fuck you over his desk.

I pulled up the collar of my coat and dipped my chin behind the fold of my scarf. Even under layers of expensive clothes, the cold found me. I darted between the line of waiting cars, passing two identical Jaguars parked side by side.

Roy was a monolith in the loose crowd of patrons gathered at the front.

He smiled at me when I walked up. “Where’s your coat?”

“I left it at home. It didn’t exactly go with the suit.” He tugged at the sleeves, but they were inches above his wrists.

“Someone needs to have a conversation with your tailor.”

“I think that’s the problem. These are off the shelf.”

“Your suit rental friend?”

“Yeah. He says I’m out of the standard size range.”

I grazed a look down to his crotch and back up. “He has no idea.”

The ruddy color in Roy’s cheeks spread over the rest of his face.

“You’re too easy, Roy. Too easy.” I closed the distance between us, and his exhale mixed with mine, floating away into the night. “Did you miss me?” His eyes darkened. I brushed my lips against his ear. “Did you think of your dick in my ass when you jacked yourself?” Roy swallowed, and his throat clicked. “How many times did you come? How many times did you cream the palm of your hand with my name on your lips?” The scent of his clean skin mingled with my cologne.

“Three.”

“Only three?”

“Five if I count the ones this morning.”

I pressed my chest against his. “And to think, we could be at your place right now making every one of those fantasies come true.”

Roy collected my hand. The heat of his bare skin saturated the leather of my gloves. “I promised you dinner.”

“Break your promise.”

He collected my other hand. “I never break my promises.”

“Never?”

“Not if I have any control over the situation.” A water droplet fell from his bangs, into a gap of my scarf, and trickled down my neck.

“Well then.” I flicked away some of the snow trying to gather on his shoulder. “I guess we better go in before they run out of the good wine.”

I pushed through the crowd.

“Excuse me.” Roy squeezed between two elderly couples exchanging the moth-eaten details of their lives. He bumped into a fat man wearing a toupee. “I’m sorry…I just need to…” Roy caught up to me. “It didn’t look crowded standing on the sidewalk.”

“It isn’t crowded.” I took him by the elbow. “You’re just the only one with concern for other people’s personal space.”

A woman in a fur coat tried to cut in front of me. I stopped her with my arm and herded Roy through the gap. He brushed against her. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

“Quit apologizing, no one cares.” I found the line and claimed a spot between people. Roy lingered at my shoulder so I pulled him in front of me and behind a blond who wore more jewelry than his girlfriend.

To him, Roy said, “Is this the end of the line?” If it wasn’t the end before, it was now.

The man gave Roy a onceover and turned away.

“Told you,” I said.

“It didn’t hurt to make sure.”

“No, but it was a waste of seven words the asshole didn’t appreciate.” Said asshole glanced back in my direction. I smiled. He didn’t.

“Is it always like this?” Roy scanned the crowd.

“Usually.”

“The food must be really good.”

“It’s not the food that brings people here, it’s the atmosphere. Rubbing shoulders with some of the wealthiest people this city has to offer.”

Roy pressed his lips together.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh.

“What are you counting?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing.”

“Five,” I said. Roy gave me a look. “You’ve only fucked me five times. Eight if you count my mouth. Sorry Roy, hand jobs don’t get a place on the score card.”

Several couples in front of us glanced back. Roy rubbed the back of his neck and looked away.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so red.” I massaged Roy’s ass through his slacks.

“You probably shouldn’t—”

I moved down until my fingers were between his legs. “I shouldn’t what?”

Roy stepped to the side, breaking the contact. “Be good.”

“What are you going to do if I’m not?”

The people in front of us moved, and we followed. Inside, the light clogging the air was broken by gaudy crystal chandeliers. Silverware made delicate scrapes against fine china, adding grit to the liquid hum of voices. Somewhere among the crowded tables, a patron tapped their wine glass and made a toast. Closer to the front of the restaurant, a woman laughed.

Roy stopped beside the small desk. I’d seen the host almost every time I came here, but I’d never bothered to learn his name. He skimmed his gaze over Roy’s suit. “I’m sorry, sir. To eat here, you have to have a reservation.”

“I do.”

The host wrinkled his nose. “Name?”

“Callahan.”

He flipped a piece of paper. “Sorry, I don’t have a Callahan listed.”

“I made it this morning.”

“Maybe you called the wrong number?” He cocked his mouth to the side. “Happens all the time.”

“Will you please check again?”

Our host made more of a show with his search. Flipping papers, checking his black book.

To me, Roy said, “I did make a reservation.”

“I believe you.”

“No, sorry. I don’t have a Callahan listed anywhere. If you like, I could put you down for next week. But I can’t promise—” I stepped around Roy. “Mr. Duvoe.” And just like that, Roy became invisible. “Would you like your usual table?”

“I would, but unfortunately, it seems you’ve lost our reservation.”

“I’m sorry?”

“
Our
reservation.”

He flicked a look at Roy, then me, and then back. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” His hands shook as he rifled through the pages of his book.

“Callahan.”

“Six o’clock?”

“That’s what they said.”

“You’re a bit early. No wonder I missed it.” He struggled to smile. “Robert will show you to your seat.”

“I’d like a private table,” I said. Robert paused mid-step.