Dying for Revenge (34 page)

Twenty-seven

psycho

Yacht owners
and islanders partied across the road at the Last Lemming, a Falmouth Harbour party that started at sundown, music so thunderous the din echoed like they were jamming in the next room. Pop music, reggae music. Songs by Lionel Richie and the Beatles.

It was midnight and it sounded like the party was just kicking into full swing. Prime time for mosquitoes, twelve bites on her tender legs, bites on her elbows and ankles, between her toes, three little swellings on her forehead. She was vexed. And afraid. Licking her lips as envy rose from within.

Matthew hadn’t come back since he had stormed out this morning, disappointment and resentment and chastising anger in his voice, his come seeping from between her legs, her caveman husband.

She had called him; no answer, his calls going straight to voice mail.

She had sent text messages; no response.

She was tempted to drive to Hodges Bay, look for that bitch from Detroit.

The honeymoon was over, had gone from nonstop sex to never-ending anger overnight.

She knew that part of her needed a man like him, a man who could control her, yet she resented him because he gave her what she needed, what no other man had been able to give her. He was younger and yet he was more mature, some sort of a father figure, the first man who didn’t bend to her every want, the one who made her do what she should do, what she was unable to do, the one she battled constantly, the man who gave her that high only drama could bring, that drama being another addiction.

She turned the air conditioner to twenty degrees Celsius, whatever that was, laid towels across the bottom of the two French doors that led to the balcony, and put another towel across the front door. The little vampires were already inside. The room needed to get sprayed.

In the Dockyard the music kept calling, begging her to stop worrying and leave for a while.

She sprayed her arm and legs with OFF!, dressed in linen pants and Blahniks, a pair she had never worn, fresh from Nordstrom, Italian shoes designed with camouflage patent leather, gold-tone hardware, buckled strap, open toe, three-and-a-half-inch covered heel. Dressed, she sprayed the bathroom and bedroom and kitchen area with Baygon, sprayed the screens that were on all the windows, sprayed so much Baygon the room looked like she had been inside smoking trees with Bob Marley. Then she changed her mind about her shoes. Took off the camouflage Blahniks. Opened her suitcase, coughed as she inhaled the bug spray, and found another new pair. Leopard-print haircalf, brown patent leather trim. Buckle strap at vamp and ankle. Open toe. With a four-inch heel. She changed Blahniks and hurried out of the room, closed the door to keep the clouds inside, and moved through the warmth of the night. She decided to stop battling mosquitoes and music; better to join the party than fight the celebration that was rocking the harbor. She went down the brick walkway, frogs and birds singing along with the band, waved at the male guard on duty as she exited Antigua Yacht Club, crossed the nameless road, went past a security bar, walked across gravel and dirt, passed by a donkey tied to a tree, walked past two Rastas drinking beers, and went inside the restaurant, a quaint seaside eatery that had low ceilings, a pool table, and a bar, a place filled with islanders and snowy faces. They were dancing, shooting pool, laughing, liming the night away, the quartet sounding as powerful as an orchestra.

She didn’t stay long, walked away thinking about the boy she had left dead behind Sandals.

And the men outside the bar were chattering about the sailor and the men who had been killed up the road.

More music came from down Dockside Drive; she headed that way. People were congregated at the Mad Mongoose, the same next door at the Cockpit, all the energy like Las Vegas at night, English Harbour a real live party zone. She walked around the corner, followed a crowd of people walking up the road, cars heading into the Dockyard, droves of islanders and people who looked like AUA students, all heading to another place called Abracadabra, a disco bar, chill-out garden, Mediterranean café, and southern Italian restaurant rolled into one, soca and reggae setting the night on fire.

It looked like every Antiguan was there, each paying twenty E.C. dollars to cross the velvet rope.

Acres of beautiful swarthiness. This was like stumbling across a little corner of heaven.

Then her stomach growled. She craved sauerbraten with red cabbage and bratwurst.

Which was strange.

She’d never eaten sauerbraten with red cabbage and bratwurst.

She danced alone. Reggae by Dennis Brown. Third World. Gar-nett Silk. Aswad. Maxi Priest. Dancehall music kicked in, kicked in strong, like hip-hop with a Jamaican patois, the crowd chanting along with Vybez Kartel, Aidonia, Busy Signal, Serani, Munga Honourable, Mr. Vegas, Beenie Man, Bounty Killer, the rhymes as strong as the electronic drums, everyone in the room, every nationality, united underneath the same umbrella and chanting at the speed of thought, every dancer getting raunchy, infected with a different kind of holy spirit. Abracadabra was transformed into the Church of Shabba Ranks. When a young man came up on her smiling, his hips gyrating, she returned the smile. Her hips gyrated to the same rhythm, in the same motion, and she danced with him, wining up on a foreign man who danced the dance of sex, lost herself in the music and the madness, moved like the island girls, pushed her ass back into the man, who was grinding on her backside, his genitals practically resting in the crack of her ass. She glanced over her shoulder, gave him a look that dared him to keep up with her, moved her hips and butt like the Jamaican Patra, wukking up like the Bajan Rihanna, moving like the Wadadli songbird Shermain Jeremy. Surrounded by island girls, African girls, Spanish girls, European girls from London and the Netherlands. Every woman danced the same way, lost in the music, uninhibited and free, grinding against the men. They stood against the walls and leaned against wooden railings, some men holding on, some women grinding and wining so hard the men could barely keep their balance. Some men held the girls’ waists and gave it as good as they were getting it, following the sweet moves of the asses as they dropped down to the floor. Beat thumping. Hundreds of people on the grounds of the restaurant. All doing the mating dance. Sweat rising like heated desire being fueled by movements of the body. Facial expressions a combination of sexual and spiritual intoxication.

She danced.

With every wine of her hips, every movement by her dance partner reciprocated, the thickness of his dick grew up against her ass like he had had his Irish Moss. Her partner danced, massaged her ass with a growing thickness, her every movement in sync with his as his grinding fired up her mons, created a wonderful tingling, made her wet, made her close her eyes and swallow little moan after little moan, his arousal sliding against her and creating erotic flashes. The music thumped, sent an echo of the beat through her body. The beat was strong and steady, felt like a Caribbean vibrator.

The dancing, the grinding, the sweating, and the freedom made her miss being a single woman. Her only wish was for this life, this seductive moment, to never end.

Dancing in fine linen and Blahniks, the primal smell of sweat, the scent of testosterone filling the night air, the intense dancing, the reggae, the way she joined the women who gave men rhythmic access to their bodies, the dancing a promise of carnal knowledge yet to come, she didn’t want this to end.

As she wiped the sweat from her eyes she looked up, startled.

She saw him. It was the boy from the beach. The young boy she had been with at Siboney. Her dead lover was looking at her. His photo was large, his grin wide. She gazed around the room. Saw his youthful photos were all around. It took her a moment to realize what was going on.

This outpouring, this party, was a benefit for the murdered boy from the village named Swetes.

The boy had lived on Matthews Road. Matthews Road. Another Matthew.

She closed her eyes, lost in the music, grinding against a stranger’s erection.

In her mind she wasn’t dancing with her virile partner, she was riding him. Fucking him on the beach. The salty waves moving back and forth with the flow of their bodies, sand sticking to their sweaty skin, her body wining like she was sitting on top of him, a gentle breeze struggling to blow across her heated body, wanting to feel his strong hands cup her soft breasts, her pussy so hot and so wet.

Her dance-floor lover held her waist, his grind as strong and as stimulating as his grip.

Her stomach growled again, that craving for sauerbraten with red cabbage and bratwurst.

She opened her eyes, saw a group of girls on a raised stage, dancing in the spotlight.

Standing in the dense crowd, beer in hand, underneath one of the photos of the boy from Swetes, she caught a glimpse of a man with red hair. Then as the crowd moved she saw his face. His jaw tight. Her husband was there. Matthew was inside the club watching her. El Matador had resurfaced.

Hat-wearing men were at his side, men she recognized, gum-chewing Americans, mouths opening and closing like grazing cows, some of the men who had come to the island with the Lady from Detroit, a few of the survivors. If Matthew hadn’t been with them, if they hadn’t been chewing gum like it was cud, the stylish summer hats would have been a tell. Selentino. Panizza. Henschel. Borsalino. Dobbs. Angelo. Maybe a Steve Harvey. She saw that she had had an audience. Her mouth opened in surprise, her eyes locked on her husband’s glare, his frown deep and unsettling, a frown that let her know he had been watching her for a while, had seen her dance of ecstasy, the look of until-death-do-we-part in his eyes.

She broke away from her mating dance, the generous erection that had rested in the crack of her ass left on its own, and moved through the dense crowd, searched for her husband, unable to find him.

El Matador was gone.

 

Back at the Antigua Yacht Club.

Matthew grabbed her arm as soon as she stepped in the door, grabbed her and threw her on the bed. She looked up at him, frowned, mouth tight, ready to curse him as he stood over her, a long-bladed knife in his hand. That blade found its way across her angry face, not cutting her, but the look in his jealous eyes made it clear that he was threatening to destroy what he loved. She fought to get up and he shoved her back on the bed, held her down as she squirmed, cut away most of her fine linen pants, cut away her top, cut her blouse, took the knife to what he knew she took pride in, destroyed what she loved, shredded all the expensive clothing she had bought in Beverly Hills and on South Beach, everything she wore being surgically removed. She cursed him, kicked at him, kicked and hit him until he grabbed her legs and jerked her hard, spread her legs. What he was doing repulsed her. And excited her. She grunted in both pain and fear, in anticipation, her body covered in sweat; her skin smelled of swarthy men, her lips pulled in, refusing to protest, refusing to give him anger or give him her moans, staccato breathing caught in her throat as he went inside her, slid inside her with no effort.

He frowned down on her, shivered, moaned, “Why is your pussy so wet?”

She sucked her lips in, struggled to subdue her own moan.

“Why is your pussy so motherfucking wet and wide open?”

He stopped, rolled away.

She heard him take a breath, heard him swallow.

She glanced his way, saw him staring at the ceiling, his jaw still tight, that long-bladed knife in his hand, gritting his teeth like he was struggling to decide whether to fuck her or kill her, held the knife like he still hadn’t decided how to end this night.

She cleared her throat and asked, “Where were you?”

A moment passed.

She repeated, “Where were you? Where did you vanish to?”

He cleared his throat. “Barbados.”

She paused. “Barbados.”

“Did a quick little job.”

“Without me.”

“It was quick.”

“We’re partners.”

“It was little.”

“We’re married and we’re partners.”

“Didn’t need your assistance.”

“Didn’t need me tagging along and messing it up.”

Silence.

She asked, “Where was the job?”

“Just told you.”

“Well, tell me what happened.”

He had left her and flown Liat, had to hurry and get to the Sheraton Centre. Food court. At a table at the restaurant Café Jungles. Contract on a bank worker who always ate lunch in the Centre, was having an affair with a FedEx worker. Café Jungles was their favorite place to eat, their love spot.

“I popped him after he had his mahimahi and pasta.”

“You used a gun.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“In a public place.”

“Parking lot. It’s covered. Let them get in their car first. Walked over with a map, pretended I was a lost tourist. He let the window down, smiled, gave me directions. Had a silencer. Pop, pop.”

“The girl who worked at FedEx?”

“Pop, pop.”

“Where you lose the gun?”

“Atlantic Ocean. Outside the Crane.”

“So it was about him having an affair.”

“Don’t think so. He was in
The Barbados Advocate
and
Daily Nation
. Saw those articles when I was leaving. Protesting the government and the price of chickens and dairy products going up.”

“So you just up and left the island and flew to Barbados.”

“Doesn’t look like you were too lonely.”

Silence.

He asked, “You fuck him?”

“I fucked him, sucked him, and swallowed the evidence.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I don’t even know who he was. We were just dancing.”

“You were practically fucking him on the dance floor.”