Page 23 of Vipers & Roses

“Sorry, Rae, my dad likes to talk a lot,” he says, then takes a sip of his Coke.

“About what?” I ask, trying to catch him out on a lie. Was it his father he was speaking to or Black/Blake?

He shrugs those broad shoulders as his chocolate eyebrows drop low over his eyes. He’s already a serial frowner with a vibe that makes him older than his nineteen or twenty years, helped by that frown set hard on his face. “I’ll tell you later.”

And that’s it. The conversation ends, and I dive back into my meal, stabbing a fleeting look at Lyons to see if he’s forgotten about me. Only to find that he’s forgotten about his wife again. She’s sitting there alone but not alone, head down, with no interest in her food, while he’s speaking to one of the other men at the table.

In my colorful imagination, I walk up to her and tell her all her grievances will be over in three, two…I raise the handgun and point it at his head…one Boom.

There once was a girl called Rae,

who became The Four’s prey

She slipped on lie,

poked him in the eye

To never be seen again

Smile, Rae, smile.

Fuck off.

I bet Mrs. Lyons knows what he gets up to when she’s not around. I bet her nostrils flare when she catches the scent of other women…girls on him. Late-night training. Early morning starts. Strawberry lip gloss on his collar, sudden interest in his fitness and wearing cologne, shiny stains on his shorts, loss in sexual appetite.

I wrap my hand around my glass and hold it up in a toast. Here’s to you, Mrs. Lyons. Here’s to the forgotten wives of the men who rape. Speak now or forever; hold your peace.

I sip my Sprite on behalf of Mrs. Lyons, wishing it was something harder, but I’m under 21, so Sprite it is. Lucy catches my eye again. She’s watching me closely, possibly because I just made an invisible toast to an invisible person. Yeah, I probably look like I’m losing my mind, seeing ghosts.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell Cormac as the sudden urge becomes apparent.

“Sure,” he says cautiously and then drops his fork. “You’ll come back, right?”

As I stand over him, I gaze into his green eyes and find another fleck of a revelation that there’s more to this man than meets the eye. Perhaps he’s concerned that I’ll make him look like a dick if I don’t return. The thought had crossed my mind, but I didn’t hate the man enough to humiliate him. I don’t hate him at all.

“Of course,” I answer reassuringly and smile warmly.

As I walk away from him, his voice follows me as I weave around the table: “I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

My body tenses at the grave tone of his voice, which has an edge of danger to it, as if he’s threatening me. I glanced back at him to read his face, expecting a fun smile, but something else was hidden behind those eyes. I can’t lie; Cormac’s insightfulness intrigues me, and this new added spice to his personality makes him more appealing. A new layer beneath the skin to explore on another day when I’m brave enough. Perhaps he’s a man I could wrestle under the sheets with when I’m ready to open up to him.

I whip my orange skirt up, slide my panties down, and sigh when I land on the toilet seat, pleased to have a moment alone. Images of handguns dance across the cubicle door as I urinate into the bowl, and weirdly, I’m starting to become accustomed to the very weapon that I was too afraid to touch not that long ago. Perhaps getting used to the gun in my hand is wise, like a second skin. After all, there are four men that I must shoot, but it’s Lyons that I’ll cut my teeth on. The first kill must be the hardest; after that, it’ll be like second nature. Animals kill for need in the wild all the time. I’m just another animal.

I hear the bathroom door pushed open and high heels tapping on the tiles, and I wait for them to step into a cubicle before I flush and leave. Silence follows, and I can’t sense where they’ve gone or what they’re doing. I don’t usually listen to other people in the bathroom, but it seems weird that I can’t hear them peeing.

Stepping out of the cubicle, I stumble to find someone standing at the mirror touching up their blood-red lipstick, and her eyes flick to me.

“Hi,” I flick Mrs. Lyons a small wave, hoping she has a bad memory and forgot that I pretended to shoot her husband in the head.

She graces me with a forced smile, then snaps the lid on her lipstick and tosses it in her handbag. Mrs. Lyons is from an old-style class, and I wonder why she married that creep.

Walking past her, I approach the basin and turn the faucet on. I expect her to leave at this point because she doesn’t seem to want to use the toilet, and her make-up is perfect. So, what other purpose is there for her to be here?

“Are you in the swim team?” she asks in an unfriendly posh accent, sweeping back her hair.

“No,” I crack a smile to lighten the intense atmosphere. “I’m the date of a member of the swim team.”

“Ah,” she flares her nostrils, looking me over in the mirror for several beats before asking. “What were you doing before?”

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