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Isadora
Present day …
It’s hard to believe a week has passed already, and as I make my way toward the sleek black vehicle parked in the driveway, with the tall, beefy guy I’ve come to learn is Makaio standing beside it, I can’t help but feel a little sadness at having to leave for the weekend.
At the same time, I probably need a break from this place.
I glance back at where a figure stands in the window of Lucian’s office. They turn away, out of view, disappearing into the room beyond.
Him, no doubt. He’s avoided me since the night in his office. Not that I’ve seen much of him, at all, in the last couple of days. Mostly moments like these, when I catch him staring at me, just before he walks away.
Maybe I should regret that kiss, too, but I can’t. Even now, the phantom sensation of his lips against mine still lingers on my skin. The bitter taste of whiskey. The heat of his breath mingling with mine.
Makaio opens the door to the back passenger seat, his lips only halfcocked in a smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and pause mid-climb inside. My God, I’ve never seen the interior of a car so posh as this one. “Holy shit.”
“That’s a Bentley for ya.”
Setting my bag on one of the tan leather seats, I fall into the cushioned one before me, the soft leather like sitting on a cloud. Clean and inviting, the lingering scent of Lucian’s cologne makes for a delicious greeting as I settle in.
Makaio reaches over me, and I shrink at his close proximity, but he merely presses a button on the long center console that divides the two passenger seats. A screen slides up from a slit in the seat in front of me. He presses another button, and something pushes against my heels, as he backs himself out of the car.
Startled, I look down to find a footrest, like that of a recliner, lifting my feet up off the floor.
“I have a cooler with some soda and Perrier water in the front. If you push the button beside you, there’s a foldout table. And you can close the curtains on the window by pressing the button there.” He points to a silvery button on the door panel beside me.
Jesus, I’ve never been in something so luxurious and high-tech in my life.
“I’m, uh. I’m good.” Glancing around, I notice 1 of 25 stitched into the leather seat beside me. “What’s one of twenty-five?”
“This car is one of only twenty-five in the United States.”
“Seriously?” This thing must have cost a fortune. Thousands of dollars on wheels. “I’m surprised Mr. Blackthorne allows it to be used to transport his employees.”
“Not all employees, Miss. Only you. Master Blackthorne insisted that you be comfortable on the ride home.”
He insisted? Why? “I’m very comfortable. Thank you.”
“Good.” He closes the door, shutting me inside, and I glance up at the empty window of Lucian’s office. Devil of Bonesalt.
The ride home seems almost too short, having killed the time watching Ever After on the tablet’s Netflix app. Movies aren’t usually my thing, but it was that, or dodging glances from Makaio in the rearview mirror and having him ask if I needed something every ten minutes. Besides, the movie was fitting for a visit home, as Aunt Midge and I used to love watching it when I was younger.
Admittedly, I’ve kind of missed the crotchety old woman.
We roll to a stop at the curb, and I nab the duffle from beside me and reach for the handle of the car door. It swings open before I can, and Makaio stands waiting to help me out. Out of courtesy, I take his hand, otherwise the gesture feels strange to me.
Once I’m free of the vehicle, he bends forward, slipping his hand through the strap of my duffle, while he closes the door behind me.
“It’s okay. It’s not …”
He swipes up the duffle, leaving me to carry nothing more than my cellphone.
With a huff, I lead the way through the fenced-in lot, toward the broken-down house where I’ve grown up for the last nine years. Empty pots of dead flowers lay tipped on the front porch as we climb the stairs to the entrance, but whereas the gardens at the Blackthorne’s simply look unkempt and neglected, here, they’re just a failed attempt to polish another rundown house on the block.
A swing to the left, old with cracked paint, reminds me of the times Aunt Midge and I would sit out talking for hours, on balmy summer nights. As much as it’s an added eyesore, I can’t imagine it not being there.
The exterior of the house could also use some new paint, but that doesn’t even hold a candle to what the interior needs, so I halt at the door and reach for my bag. “I’m good here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.” I refuse to open the door, seeing as the Blackthorne’s garden shed is in better shape than this place.
“I’ll be back Sunday night to pick you up.”
“You sure? I mean, Aunt Midge can probably drive me.”
“Master Blackthorne insisted I drop you off and pick you up.”
It’s hard to imagine a man like him thinking me important enough to make such a demand. “Okay. If that’s what he insists.”
“It is. Have a nice weekend. Stay out of trouble.”
A curtain of familiarity hits me as I step inside the house and lock the door behind me, as usual. Aunt Midge calls me paranoid for checking locks, the stove, and closing curtains, but growing up half my life in abandoned places taught me not to be so quick to trust my fellow man, because sometimes he takes shit without asking.
The tired and broken-down furniture, which I imagine was probably purchased sometime in the eighties, the ugly brown paneling of the living room, and outdated wallpaper stained with nicotine throughout is still a comfort to me, in spite of its hideous appearance.
“Aunt Midge! You home?” I dump my duffle on the couch and make my way into the kitchen. The overwhelming scent of coffee and cigarettes clings to the air. That’s one thing I appreciate about the Blackthornes: aside from the occasional rich-cigar scent, there isn’t the stale smoky odor that sticks to the back of the throat, the way it does here. “Yo! Aunt Midge!”
The coffee pot is warm, not hot like she used it recently, but not cold like it’s been sitting for too long, either.
I peek inside her bedroom to find it empty, her bed unmade, nightclothes flung onto the floor. Maybe ran to the store, or something, seeing as she told me she took the weekend off, and it’s only just after noon. Too early for The Shoal.
On the way back into the kitchen, I hear a rattling at the door and freeze. The entrance swings open, and in steps Aunt Midge, shoving a cigarette into her mouth as she wriggles the key from the lock.
Behind her stands the one person in the world who could possibly sour the excitement of coming home.
My mother.
It’s been a few months since I saw her hobbling about her little campsite on the freeway. Aunt Midge likes to pop in on her sometimes, to bring her something to eat, or an extra blanket. No idea why she bothers. I stayed inside the car, of course. No sense giving my mother the impression that I give a shit about her after she dumped me on her sister.
The white pallor of her skin only emphasizes the dark circles around her eyes, her sunken cheeks and gaunt figure. Even from here, I can see the scabs and bruises of heroine tracks down her arms.
Anger and disgust roil in my stomach, as I watch her follow Aunt Midge into the house.