Killing Kate (6 page)

Devin cringes.  “I’d be lying if I
said I didn’t want to move to Jack’s house with you because I wasn’t worried.”

“I know,” I say.  “And I do love
you for it, but you have to let me be a little bit annoyed about it, too.”

Now he grins.  “Fair enough.”

We pay the bill and he walks me to
my apartment where his bike is parked out front.  “Let me know what happens
after you talk to Drake,” he says.  “And seriously, if you need me to call for
you, I will.”

“I know you will,” I say.  “But let
me handle this.”  Devin nods.  We hug and I watch him get on his bike.  As a
final act of stubbornness he waits for me to get inside instead of letting me
watch him drive away.  I watch him take off from my front room window.  When
he’s gone, I take Drake’s card out of my purse and dial him on the phone.  He
answers on the second ring.

“Jenna,” he purrs.  “So nice to
hear from you.”

“Devin and I want to move into
Jack’s house,” I say.  “Can we meet to discuss the details about property
transfer of ownership or whatever.”

“Sure,” he says.  My heart flips
around in my chest and practically climbs up my throat.  Who knew his voice
could turn me on?  “I’ll pick you up tonight at 8:00.  Wear a dress. 
Preferably a nicer one than you wore the other night.”  He hangs up
immediately.  I am completely taken aback but flattered and excited.  He
doesn’t ask for my address or anything, but I suppose since he’s a lawyer
handling my father’s estate he would have that information and don’t think much
of it.

I’m wearing a dress as ordered. 
It’s yellow, short, strapless, and transparent to the point where I have to
change my underwear four times in order to get it to where you can’t see my
panty lines because of the way the material clings to my skin.  On my left
thigh is a spray of pink embroidered flowers and that is pretty much the entire
design of the dress.  It’s definitely one of my more expensive pieces of
clothing.  I blew nearly an entire paycheck on it at a little boutique in one
of the nicer Chicago neighborhoods where there’s a Starbucks on every corner
where blonde girls triple park their VW Jettas to run in but they always take
their dog that fits perfectly inside of their purse.  That’s the kind of girl I
imagine Drake Carroll taking out to dinner, not me, so at least I can look the
part for tonight, minus the blonde hair.  It’s nearly 90 degrees outside and
the sun is down.  I won’t freeze despite my lack of material to cover me up. 
My shoes are an afterthought, which are gold strappy four inch heels that I can
barely walk in.  I intend to carry them most of the evening if I have to, but
they match and I find a gold purse that I happened to buy the exact same day in
case of emergency.  I’d deem tonight an emergency.

Kate is taking a nap.  I think
she’s hung over.  I am extra quiet so I don’t wake her, because I want to be on
my own tonight.  I apply makeup precariously.  Green and gold eye shadow, thick
black eyeliner and mascara and my eyes are unrecognizable as my own.  A touch
of peach colored lipstick completes the look.  I don’t need any foundation or blush,
since the little time I spend outside has already given me a natural flush. 
Besides, upon inspection in the mirror, I can see that I’m glowing.  It’s
because I want this date to happen.  I’ve been anticipating it all day long.  I
called off work for the night, telling Alicia I have a headache and couldn’t
make it in.  She knows that means hangover, but I rarely call off so she
assumes I’m not lying and doesn’t give me any shit, though she should in this
instance.

Drake calls me when he arrives and
I hobble outside to meet him, wishing I’d practiced in the heels a bit longer. 
He smells like cinnamon, I notice upon entering his car.  It’s the same black
Mercedes he drove away in when I met him at Jack’s funeral.  Everything inside
of the car is black as well and the dash is intimidatingly lit up with red and
blue lights.  Music with loud bass is turned down low.  I note he drives a
stick shift and watch in fascination the way he handles it as we coast down
Lake Shore Drive toward the city lights, Lake Michigan on our left.

“I thought we could discuss
creating a declaration of property tax transfer over dinner at Crimson,” Drake
says.  “I’ll keep it very non-technical for you and just explain what you’re
signing before you sign it, and then we can enjoy our meal and some drinks.”

“I appreciate that,” I say.  I
sincerely hope this is one of those dates where the man pays, because I
definitely can’t afford Crimson.  It’s one of those fusion places with two
different types of cuisine that really have no business being together, but for
some reason it works and everyone loves it.  I think it’s Thai and Italian or
something.  It’s a place for people who actually care about what they’re eating
and survive on more than ramen noodles and cheap whiskey.  Lucky for me, my
diet keeps me thin, and I think to myself about how people who can afford to
eat well probably have to spend their spare time working it off while I get to
lie around drunk.  What a treat.  It takes about fifteen minutes to drive
downtown tonight and Drake tells me a bit about himself while I listen and
stare at pretty the dash in hypnotic awe.  He and his brother grew up not too
far from where I did in Elmwood and didn’t have much money, but their mother
said she’d scrub toilets to make sure they had a good education.  His father
died when he was ten.  His first apartment was on the south east side, which
even I won’t live in, even though the rent is cheaper than where I live now. 
He went to University of Chicago in Hyde Park and worked as a mechanic through
college and law school.  I learn more about Drake than I have ever shared with
myself with any guy in a fifteen minute drive.  He pulls his car up to the
entrance and a valet attendant immediately runs up and opens my door for me.  I
precariously attempt to not give him a crotch shot and gracefully step out of
the car while balancing on my heels.  It’s not as easy as I make it look and I
feel relieved, as though if I pass that small test the rest of the evening will
be a piece of cake.

Everything inside Crimson looks
like a palace and is, of course, entirely done in red.  I heard something once
a few years ago when it opened that the owner had paid four million dollars
just for the décor and had entire walls flown over from Tunisia or Morocco or
some other exotic country I’ll never make it to.  Crimson is as close as I’ll
get, so I decide to really enjoy it and pretend I’ve been whisked off to some
faraway land.  We are led by a gorgeous hostess to cushy chairs that are low to
the ground where you lounge while you eat.  It probably isn’t conducive to
digestion, but it gives you the impression that you’re being pampered and
relaxed.  Our table is privately shielded with gauzy gold curtains that are
draped from the ceiling to surround us in a personal cove.  I feel like I’m in
an opium den, but it’s cozy.  I tuck my legs beneath me and open the gold
leather menu and bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping at the prices. 
Everything sounds rich and expensive, from the coconut cumin lobster ravioli to
the braised truffle chili duck confit.  I’m way out of my league, but Kate
would be too, and I am holding her within me so hard I’m trembling.  We order
some $14 cocktails that are stronger than they taste and thankfully I relax a
bit.  Mine is a dark violent orange color and tastes like how I would imagine
Hawaii does.  I find myself nibbling on parmesan edamame and peanut-coconut
olives.  It’s all strange and wonderful.  The flavors and alcohol are intoxicating
me like nothing I’ve ever had before.  I think to myself about how if I eat
this way more often I probably wouldn’t be as drunk and oversexed as I am.  A
life of cheap food and liquor will leave you feeling empty, I suppose.  I am on
my second fancy martini when our meal comes, and I forget what I even ordered. 
There’s a hunk of meat in front of me that looks like something Fred Flintstone
would eat.  I am suddenly starving and can’t really remember the last time I
actually ate a meal.  A can of soup before bed doesn’t count.  It was very
likely after Jack’s funeral.  The effect of actual food is mildly sobering and
it’s a new feeling for me, and suddenly I realize I’m getting a strange and
curious stare from my dinner companion.  I completely forgot he was there. 
“What?”  Having to pause between bites is killing me.

“You’re eating with your hands,” he
says.  I look down.  So I am.  There’s also a trail of grease running down my
arm.  Oh yes, I ordered the lamb shank.  I femininely lick the grease off my
arm from elbow to wrist with a mild attempt to be seductive yet humorous and
note the way Drake is looking at me.  I realize the effect was intended to
intoxicate him with my charms but I feel myself getting slightly aroused.  Dammit,
what was his crazy effect on me?  I can’t remember the last time a guy made me
feel this way, and I’m terrified and thrilled.  I rest a bit on the cushion so
I am closer to Drake under the low table and lean back against the pillows
behind me.  I decide I’m full and likely to explode if I consume more of the
dead flesh that was my meal.

“Shall we talk business?” I ask
him.  Drake raises one eyebrow, shrugs, and reaches into his briefcase.  He
pulls out the stack of paperwork and slides it over toward me across the table. 
I reach for it and jump as I feel his hand clench around my ankle.  His hold
loosens gradually and I feel his hand slide up and around my leg, stroking my
calf.

“This is a declaration of property
tax transfer,” Drake says.  His left hand is to my knee now and I see he is
calmly sipping his martini with his right hand.  “Basically it indicates that
all taxes paid on 10133 S. Menard Avenue will be in your name and in Devin’s
name.  He will need to sign as well.”

“What about mortgage?” I ask.  I feel
his hand graze over my knee and onto my thigh.  The hem of my dress is hiked up
pretty far.  Any farther and it becomes a shirt, though some might argue that
it already was before Drake did anything to it.

Drake pulls my leg so that I am
practically lying down at the table.  Lucky for us there are curtains.  I
wonder how much can be seen as the curtains aren’t exactly opaque, and the
thought intrigues and excites me.  I feel his hand slide against the edge of my
panties which are officially soaked.  He takes his hand and pushes his fingers
onto my clit.  My lips part and I gasp and am about to moan, but he puts his
drink down and puts his finger on his lips and says “Shhh.”  I comply and smile
slightly.

“The house is paid off already. 
The taxes are about six thousand per year, give or take.  We can appeal those
since they just raised them.  But other than maintenance and property tax, you
don’t owe anything.”

His thumb slides inside of me and the
knuckle of his middle finger presses on my clit.  I grip the pillow on either
side of me as though I might float away.  I realize I’m holding my breath and
it enhances what I’m feeling below my waist.  The waves of pleasure mount
within me and I close my eyes and imagine how I want Drake to be mounting me
later on when we get out of this place.  I am close.  Suddenly my orgasm comes in
an electric surge and I hear a demure voice say, “Would you care for another
drink?” I shoot to a sitting position, bang both of my knees under the table
and tip my drink directly into my lap.  Chaos ensues.  Drake obviously has to
disengage his hand which is soaked, and thankfully everything is masked with
the smell of my orange blossom martini.  Napkins are shoved in my direction. 
Apologies are barked at me.  All I can do is sit and allow myself to be blotted
and consoled because I am completely and utterly numb.  Drake is laughing
somewhat maniacally, and even the dirty look I shoot his way doesn’t suppress
his ability to find the situation ridiculous.

Our waitress discounts our drinks
because she feels guilty about how I spilled everything all over myself.  I
actually consider it my fault, but keep my mouth shut.  It’s as though I
contributed to the bill in some way – drinks on me!  Literally.  My dress is
still somewhat damp from the drink and my legs are somewhat damp from what
Drake did to me over dinner.  We stand and wait for the valet to bring Drake’s Mercedes. 
Drake looks at me and chews on the tip of his thumb and grins while I smoke.  I
flush from cheeks to chest and decide that if I wanted him before, I wanted him
ten times more right now.  Kate isn’t here to do the dirty work for me, and for
once I’m truly grateful.

In his car Drake drives fast and is
silent, unlike the ride to Crimson.  I don’t know where we are going and don’t
really care.  “Take your dress off,” he tells me, watching me twisting the damp
hem in an attempt to dry it off.  “We can find you something dry at my place.” 
I comply, pulling the once-soft yellow fabric over my head and toss the ruined
thing on the floor.  I didn’t wear a bra.  It’s odd that I’m not self-conscious
in front of a man I barely know, but he did just finger me in a restaurant and
I dance in a cage for a living, so I guess it makes a little bit of sense.

Drake pulls into a parking garage
and parks between a Mini Cooper and a Porsche.  He shrugs out of his light
jacket and hands it to me.   “Wear this in case anyone else might be in the
elevator.”  I nod and slip on the jacket.  It smells like the restaurant we
just left, and a bit like a spicy musk that gives me a flash of familiarity,
but it’s quickly gone.  He leads me over to the elevator and presses the button
to go up, and then inside he presses another button to go to the eighteenth
floor.  No one else is in there, but Drake doesn’t touch me, and we don’t say
anything to each other, and I wonder if he is upset about something or what he
might be thinking.  The doors open on eighteen.  I step out and let him pass
me, and then follow him down a long hallway to a door that says 1806 in brass
numbers.  He lets me in to his place.