Nightlord: Sunset

Nightlord

Sunset

Copyright © 2006 by Garon Whited.

Cover Art: “Bronze” by Rachel C. Beaconsfield

Library of Congress Number: 2005907016

ISBN:
              Hardcover               1-59926-305-X

Softcover
              1-59926-304-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Thanks and appreciation to:

Those who read, proofed, and—most importantly—complained:

Aubree Pham

Deborah Turpin

Johanna Gribble

I’d still be tweaking if you hadn’t told me to shut up and publish.

More acknowledgements to:

Everyone at Elfwood!

(
http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se
)

Thanks for continuously demanding more.

and Haley

DISCLAIMER

I started this with the intent to keep a diary.  As I have written it, it serves me well; it recorded my thoughts and feelings at the time I wrote it, and in that regard is certainly a success.  Nevertheless, it fails to tell the whole of the story.  It is only my own point of view, and I was woefully ignorant of a number of things while they were happening.  Therefore, while it is of interest to
me
, it is less so to anyone else who reads it.

Within this work are places where you will see I have done some unforgivably stupid things; here I can say only that I am not perfect.  Throw stones if you must, but have a care for your own house!  I also offer a part-excuse, part-explanation:  I am subject to influences from my most recent meals.  I have not edited those parts to make myself seem better than I am; they stand as they were written.

I am what I am, for better or for worse.  I find it instructive to observe how I changed over time, even in so short a time as this work covers.  “You are what you eat” is more of a truism for my kind than I ever expected.  Nevertheless, not all of the changes can be attributed to things I have eaten, perhaps not even most.  I like to think I have grown, but I may flatter myself.  I am certain you will have your own opinion; decide for yourself.

I suppose I could have edited the entries for brevity; perhaps even should have.  Instead, I have left them as they are.  Keep in mind that, originally, these were my personal thoughts recorded in diary fashion; this was not something for others to read, and never
intended
as an actual story. 

That said, one must keep in mind this is, of course, a work of pure fiction with no bearing whatever on anything real, provided you have a firm grasp on your personal reality.

It’s just a story.

—right?

SATURDAY, JUNE 11
TH

E
verything has to start somewhere.  For me, it was at a bar. 

Normally, I’m the clean and sober person in the bunch—I often find myself in the role of the tolerant, understanding uncle. I party with students, drive them home, pour them into their houses, and shake my head at the senseless slaughter of brain cells in their prime
. Drinking is
not
something I do.

Or didn’t. Or did, depending on how you want to look at things.

              The actual beginning was on Friday night.  My friends did their best to get me plastered.  They had good reason.  Travis was buying mixed drinks, Hutch was setting me up with vodka shots, and I already had myself on the outside of a Scotch on the rocks.  At least I now know I’m not a cheap drunk, so the night wasn’t entirely wasted, unlike myself.

             
Which brings me up to the present, in a roundabout way.  The last thing I recall was the bottom of a glass, and that was none too clear.  Now, I was keenly aware of a vicious pounding noise.  The intervening period was a blank.

             
If I could have rolled over and gone to sleep, I would have, but the sadist with the hammers kept up a steady beat.  I could feel the throbbing in my
teeth
.  I’m told that’s a sign of a Grade-A hangover.

I opened my eyes under a pile of blankets and tried to sit up.  I felt like I was buried, which did my hangover no good at all.  So I shoved them out of the way and blinked at the dim light; even that seemed to drive nails into my head.  Even through the eye-watering agony, I noticed a few details.  The bed was larger than I recalled.  The room was larger, too.  There was a window—presumably—behind some frilly pink curtains.

My brain eventually reached the conclusion I was not in my own bedroom.  I checked for company, discovered I was alone.  I’m still not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

All of this was secondary to the fact I was stark naked.  My clothes weren’t even scattered in a trail leading to the bed.  Not a garment in sight.

I hate that.  It’s only happened the once, but I’m already sure of it.

So I lay there, groaned, and tried to breathe deeply without making my head explode.  It seemed to help, at least.  After a while, I didn’t think I’d suffer an aneurism from standing.  I stood.  Either I swayed, or the room rocked.  I’m betting on me swaying.  I grabbed a sheet, wrapped it around me like a toga—being the sober guy at a frat party teaches you things—and headed out to find something to drink, preferably without alcohol.  And to deal with a
very
urgent need before it became an embarrassment.

The door wouldn’t open.

I tried the knob again.  It turned, and my hypersensitive ears—or hypersensitive skull—could hear the scrape of the bolt even through the thudding of my pulse, but the door still wouldn’t budge.  Since the door had one of those antique keyhole locks, I knelt down and looked through that.

No key stuck in the outside.  A tiny slice of hallway.  Floral wallpaper.

Something moved through my line of vision.  Then my view went black.

When the lock scraped and clicked, I caught on.  I stood up and stepped back.  The door opened and a woman entered, carrying a tray.

Even in my rather fuddled state, I could appreciate her.  She was beautiful.  Dark hair tumbled in loose waves down over her shoulders—that look takes hours and an expensive stylist to get right.  Her face was an oval, with full lips—no lipstick, or a type that made itself look natural—and wide, dark eyes.  Her complexion, as far as I could tell, was perfect.  Venturing lower, I encountered a nicely packed halter top, a smooth expanse of taut tummy, and a waist that flared into full hips contained in a pair of athletic shorts.  Long legs, bare feet…

…and a
tray.
  It looked antique.  What was on it managed—barely—to distract my attention from her.  There was water, milk, juice, bacon, eggs, diced potatoes, and toast.  I looked at breakfast with a combination of longing and terror; the hangover was overwhelming.

“Do you want to get out of the way, or should I just stand here while you eat?” she asked.

I got out of her way.  It gave me a chance to watch her move and to get some distance from the delightfully nauseating odors of the food.  (If you’ve ever had a
real
hangover, you know what I mean.)  She set the tray down on the nightstand, by the bed.

“The only convenient way to eat is to get back in bed.  The tray doesn’t have much point, otherwise.”

“Actually, I need to do something first.”

She nodded.  “Out the door, to your right, first door on the right.”

I nodded back and walked quickly.  I found the bathroom and took care of the problem.

Minutes later, I was back in bed—under a sheet, for modesty’s sake—and was slowly working on breakfast.  I understand it to be an axiom that hangovers destroy your appetite; my hangover made breakfast a hesitant, careful love affair with the food, but my appetite was strong.  The breakfast, combined with a few pills—vitamins and analgesics, I was told—contrived to make the headache shrink even further.  Either the food or the medicine or both helped to settle my stomach.  I felt much more human.

She never said a word while I ate.  She just sat on the foot of that huge bed and watched me, her expression as unreadable as the sphinx, though prettier.

When I was done, “Thank you,” were my first words.  “May I have my clothes, please?” were my next.

She smiled so hard she dimpled.  “You didn’t seem so eager to have them last night.”

Pause. 

Let us consider the implications and potential ramifications of that statement.

What was just implied, from expression, tone, and body language, was we spent the night in wild debauchery.  Considering the muzzy haze that set in around the same time
Burton was urging me to have yet
another
drink, this could well have been the case.

While it’s possible I just got sick and she arranged for me to be cleaned up and cared for—much as I do, or did, for my undergraduate friends—I have no idea why she might benefact me thus.  I don’t have a lot of faith in the milk of human kindness; it’s generally been left out too long.  Then again, I also didn’t see why she might spend a night in drunken revels with
me
, either.  I’m no prize, unless you count door prizes.

Well, whatever revels there were, my half was drunken.  She looked bright and cheery right then, without a trace of the lingering hangover that slithered around my frame like an over-friendly snake chasing a spider.

So what, I wondered, is the protocol for asking for an introduction?  How does one admit that one does not remember having the time of one’s life?

This, I reflected, could be sticky.

Unpause.

“Well, that was last night,” I replied.  “Today, I’m going to need them.”

“True.  We have a wedding to go to.”

Okay, now, she did
not
say it was
my
wedding, but my blood decided to dive for my guts to lubricate the ones that just tried to seize up.  This resulted in a severe shortage in my head and made me dizzy.

“Oh,” was all I could think to say.

“Of course, you’ll have to wear something besides the jeans.”

“Of course,” I heard myself reply.

“But they’ll do wonderfully for horseback riding.  Let’s do that, instead; weddings make me green with envy.  Come on, get up.”  She held out her hand and stood, waiting.

I set the tray aside, carefully, and wrapped my toga about me with what dignity I could muster.  Not a lot, in other words.  She watched me, not with the leer I half expected, nor with the bright disposition she demonstrated earlier.  Instead she looked curious—just that.  Curious.

Just as I was wondering why, she asked, “Why are you wearing a blanket?”

“Because I’m naked,” I answered.  Seemed obvious enough to me.

She looked at me is if to say,
Go on, finish
, and I looked back at her.  At last she shrugged and led the way.

I followed her as she led me down the hall to the stairs, past the first floor, down to the basement.  On the way, I came to realize this was a big house.  A very big house.  The stairs went up from the second floor, as well as down.  The whole basement was done as one of those bomb-shelter things the ’50’s were so fond of.

She pulled my clothes out of the dryer and handed them to me.

“With all the spilled Coke and the ketchup, they needed a wash.”

“Coke and ketchup?”

“The—” she smirked, “—‘accident’ with the squeeze bottle?”

“Oh.  Right,” said I, clueless.

Actually, I did remember something about a ketchup bottle… a plastic one, designed to squeeze a stream of ketchup out.  Something about a food fight…

“I’ll get dressed, now.”

She nodded and didn’t move.  Her latest expression was not one of mild curiosity.  She looked more like she was sizing me up for where best to take a bite.  I didn’t like where she seemed to be favoring.  So I headed back upstairs while she followed.

Now, normally I wouldn’t mind this.  But, normally, I’d be waking up
with
someone and coping with memory.  Waking up with someone who is effectively a stranger to me is
not
a good thing.  Well, it’s an unusual thing.  Makes me edgy and nervous.  So the whole trip back up to the bedroom was spent thinking about how to politely ask her to not stare at me while I dressed.  There were a few thoughts on how to ask what happened, but those were a minority.

As I got to the door, I stopped in it and turned.

“Could you please give me a few minutes alone to dress?”  Direct.  To the point.  Hopefully polite.

She smiled, then.  “Certainly.  I’ll be downstairs.  Your shoes are under the bed.”

I watched her walk off, her hips rotating a bit more than perhaps necessary.  As she went, I reflected that I needed a better liver and faster kidneys—or someone to follow me around with a camcorder while I’m drinking—then ducked into the room and threw my clothes on.

If she was agreeable, I was going to find out what happened.  I was, I admit, very curious.  I’d never had a chunk of memory simply not be there—then again, I’d never gotten seriously plastered out of my mind before, either.  I had good reason, though—a woman.  I may go into that later.  I probably will.  But… let it be later.

Suitably attired once more, I headed downstairs to chat with my hostess.

I opened with, “Hello again,” as I sat down on a stool in the kitchen, at a counter.

“Oh, you remember me now?” she asked, dicing something.  I could hear a smile in her voice.

“Er.  No… I am afraid I don’t.  I was referring to our parting upstairs…?”

She nodded.  “That will do.”

“I would like to remember—I’m fairly sure of it.  Could you refresh me on what happened?  For that matter, could you tell me where I am?”

“Yes.  And yes.”

I waited.  She waited.  We smiled at each other.  She continued cooking.

Finally—I blame the hangover for the hangfire in my head—I said, “Please tell me what happened between us last night.”

She told me, rather bluntly.  I had the grace to blush, and the presence of mind to kick myself for not remembering.  She caught my look, however, and giggled.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” she chided.  “You were wonderful.  Wonderful enough I’ll give you a rematch, now that you’re sober.”

I blinked, I think.  A dozen responses leaped to mind like salmon heading upstream to spawn.

-Great! Turn off the stove!-

-All right.  How does the rest of the morning sound?-

-Only if
I
get to hide
your
clothes, this time.-

-Okay, but you be on top; I’m not feeling well.-

What came out was, “Maybe later; I have a headache.”

She didn’t take offense.  She wasn’t even surprised.  “Tsk.  That’ll be the hangover.  Do you take coffee?”

“Sugar and a little cream.”

She poured and mixed, and I sipped.  It was good stuff, tasted expensive.  The coffee grinder was a clue.  I was surprised she got the sugar and cream just right. 

While I sipped, she cooked, and I realized that the small breakfast she had prepared before, while it had filled at the time, was suddenly very tiny.  My stomach rumbled quietly about this, then made its wants known more audibly.  She glanced at me and opened a waffle iron.

It was a great waffle.  I ate it with syrup and butter and some strawberry jam.

I went on to make an absolute pig of myself.  Sausages, bacon, a one-eyed Texas honeybutter stack, toast, bagels… I would have said there was enough food for a buffet, but only if it was for her and I alone.  She surprised me again, this time by eating like a football team. I wondered how she managed to keep that figure—and what kinds of exercises she did.