Supernatural Noir

If it ain’t love, it’s the purest lust I’ve ever experienced.

——

Months pass blissfully, and then this guy, this total asshole, appears. Walks right into the club like he owns the joint. Maybe he does. Not like I know things like that. I just come to see Shelly, and I can feel her bristle the second he enters the place.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she says, but her voice is flat, far away.

I fix my eyes on the guy and try to burn holes through him. He wears a leather jacket that shines in the dim light. Long, black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and the only thing distracting from his deep, shadowed eyes is a scar that travels a jagged path from his hairline to his chin. When he jabs a cigar into his teeth and lights it, I see fire dance off a collection of silver rings. The musky smoke from his cigar fills the club, and it smells like money. The kind of cash that comes with a whole lot of power.

I feel Shelly’s hands tighten around my arm as I watch the man sit. A drink appears at his hand the instant his ass hits leather, a nervous-looking waitress giving him her best smile. He waves her off with two fingers and then knocks back the entire drink in a single swallow. The smile his eyes give me over the rim of the glass makes me want to crush his throat. One by one, my muscles harden.

“Don’t,” Shelly whispers in my ear, and for the first time I can remember, she sounds scared. “He’s dangerous.”

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Michael.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m not sure. Deals art or something. I just know he’s dangerous.”

“So am I, babe.”

“Not like he is.”

I shoot Shelly a glance, and I see her watching Michael, her eyes narrow and worried. Another blister rises, and I know I hate this man. This man I don’t even know, I despise him with everything I have.

A waitress I know as Liz approaches. She looks scared, like a child afraid to tell her parents about the awful thing she’s done. Shelly’s hands ratchet tighter on my arm.

“Michael wants to see you, Ivy,” Liz says.

“I’m with somebody,” Shelly replies.

“He wants to see you now.”

“She doesn’t want to see him,” I say, standing before I even realize I’m doing it. Shelly pulls at my arm, dragging me back to my seat.

“Don’t.” There’s a begging note in her voice, and one of the blisters deep inside my chest pops.

“Who the hell is that guy? He bad news? Has he hurt you or something?”

She shakes her head. “Just go home. I’ll call you later.”

I stare at her for what feels like forever. Really? Like I can’t handle it? I know what she does here. My brain twists and tumbles, and I try to sort out what the hell’s going on, but eventually all I can say is, “I’m staying. Do what you have to.”

“Baby . . .”

“Just do what you need,” I say, making sure to phrase it in a way that hurts. Petty, but I don’t really care. My leaking heart wants me to be a child for a moment.

“Okay.” Shelly nods, and the look on her face is more than a shiv. It’s a Christmas tree, a jagged, barbed hunk of metal that rips out your guts when a con yanks it out of you. Without another word, she kisses me on the cheek and then leaves, the sex absent from her walk. She looks defeated, lost. Looking past her, I catch Michael smiling at me.

“Let me grab you a beer,” Liz says. Then she’s gone, and I’m left to sit there and stew.

Michael kisses Shelly’s hand when she greets him, and I see the shiver run through her body. She’s sad and terrified, and he doesn’t even care. Another wave of his fingers, and a fresh drink appears at the table, along with a flute of champagne. Michael lets Shelly take a single, faltering sip, and then he makes a great show of reaching down and unzipping his pants.

Shelly shoots another look my way, an apology. I don’t give any sign that I’ve noticed. Instead, as Liz places a cold bottle on my table, I tell myself this is all part of the game. I’ve seen Shelly tug on men before. This is just another Joe, another dollar. He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t mean a damn thing to her. She loves me.

Then, Shelly’s head disappears under the table, and Michael leans his head back and gives me the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.

Rage flares inside me like a black fire. It surrounds my heart, helping it to blister faster, and I pour beer down my throat as though it might douse the flames.

Michael sees this, and somehow his grin widens. I want to walk over there and rip his face off with my nails, but the sight of Shelly’s head cresting the plane of the table and diving back down again reminds me I’m not the only person involved.

My eyes flick back to Michael’s face, to that grin. It’s still spreading, and I wonder if the guy’s face is made out of rubber. But then the skin splits at the corners of his mouth. It cracks and peels away like old leather or something, blood trickling past exposed teeth. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I sense a terrible glee in them, and still the guy’s mug is splitting in half, the bleeding ruptures in his skin almost back to his ears, the tendons of his jaw now visible. The club’s lights flicker. No, they vibrate, everything feeling like an earthquake for a few seconds. I can’t tell if anybody else notices. Shelly doesn’t stop, so maybe it’s just me. Right now, I’m not sure I care if anybody else feels it. Michael has my attention. Blood trickles from his ears; a tear of red leaves his eye and traces his scar down to the rip in his face.

Then, the world blinks, and he’s just Michael again. Sitting there. Smiling at me. My woman’s head in his lap.

Liz appears. “You okay?”

“You see any of that?”

“Any of what?”

“That shit with Michael.”

“Not . . . No, I didn’t.” Her voice is thick with terror.

“Somebody needs to shut that guy down.”

Her hand touches my shoulder. “You should go.”

The words finally pull my eyes away from Michael. “What? Like hell.”

“You’ll make things worse for her, if you stay. He likes to make examples.”

No shit.

“I’ll make sure she calls as soon as she can.”

“Fine.” I climb out of my seat and start walking, but I keep my eyes on Michael’s, letting him know I’m not backing down. I’ve told more obvious lies. Hell, I even believe this one right up until I hear the man’s laughter chase me out of the club.

——

Shelly doesn’t call. Instead, she comes by late, just after I put the sixth hole through my wall. Her eyes are red and wet, and she breaks into sobs when she sees the blood on my knuckles.

I wrap her in my arms and tell her it will be all right, even as I hope she can’t feel the hate inside me. As she weeps against my chest, I imagine my hands around Michael’s neck. I wonder if he’d smile as his face turned from red to purple.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay.” I press my lips to hers and taste mouthwash alongside cigarettes. It makes me feel a little sick. Then she kisses me with more force, with a desperate hunger, and I’m hooked again. I want her and need her. She’s everything in the world to this big idiot.

Before I realize it, my own hunger’s kicked in, hard. My arms tighten around her, my hands roaming. Shelly moans. I slide my kisses down to her neck, and soon my fingers pull at her clothes.

Her moans stop. Her hands grab at mine. “No.”

“What?”

“Just . . . not now. Not for a few days.”

I stare at her for a moment, and shame clouds her eyes.

“What did he do?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she turns away, her hands rubbing at her arms.

“Michael, right? What did he do to you?”

“Leave it.”

“Tell me!”

She sobs again, and my heart scrapes hard against my ribs. Shelly doesn’t say anything, but instead peels off her clothes.

My breath catches in my throat like a cork in a dusty bottle.