Page 25 of Vipers & Roses

“Okay,” I nod in understanding.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers, assuming I will leave too.

“Um, I’m going to stay to finish my meal,” I tell him, and disappointment washes across his face.

“Sure,” he says, releasing his grip on me. “Ask security to walk you to your car when you’re ready to leave.”

“Okay, I will,” I smile, touching my swollen lips from where his mouth was a few seconds ago.

His lips find my mouth again before he turns and walks away from me, and I notice a change in him as he walks away. Something about Cormac Bernardi – Irish mother, Italian father- is intriguing. A mystery within a mystery. Because right before my eyes, he transformed from a twenty-year-old swim jock eager to get his tongue down my throat to a mature, taunted man with secrets.

With my tingling lips, I start walking towards the dining hall, squirming at the wetness between my legs, which has made my panties completely sodden. Yep, it’s been a long time since a man got me wet just from a single kiss.

I plant my backside down at the table, imagining my juice escaping onto the seat, and lift my bottom to check. Phew! It’s clear.

“Are you okay?” Lucy asks, wearing an amused expression.

I chuckle, embarrassed as if I’ve been caught doing something naughty. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, glancing at the Lyons’ table to find that Mr. and Mrs. Lyons are observing me. It isn’t until Mrs. Lyons fires an almighty glare at Mr. Lyons that he pulls his eyes away from me.

Creep.

Anyway, I have a plate of food and will not leave until I finish. After all, the mother bird feeds herself first before tending to the chicks, or she’ll lose her strength.

13

When I woke Saturday morning, Cormac sent me a sweet text message, hoping we could catch up when I returned from my parents’ place. I smile, and nerves dance in my chest as I imagine that kiss. His taste lingers on my lips, and a belt of warmth is wrapped around my waist as if his hands were there only a few minutes ago.

After taking a hot shower in my cramped bathroom, I slip on some blue jeans and my Smells Like Team Spirit T-shirt and prepare to handle the handgun. Did Blake say it was already loaded? I can’t remember, but this thought makes me as I open the bottom drawer and carefully take out the hard, cold article. It’s lighter in weight than I imagined, and I keep the rag over it to fool myself into thinking it's less dangerous.

Wrapping my hand around the handle but over the rag, I raise the gun up and then down so my hand becomes accustomed to it. Again, I have no idea if it’s loaded, but I lift the rag slightly to examine its shape and am confused about where exactly I load the bullets.

Footsteps outside my door pull my attention away from the weapon, and I watch the crack under the door for movement. My apartment is at the end of the hall, and the only people who come down this far live in the apartment opposite or when the elevator is broken. Residents are forced to use the emergency exit right outside my door.

The footsteps stop outside my door and shift their weight from one foot to the other. It’s just after 10 a.m., and the only non-family member who knows where I live is Z. There’s no way in hell Z would come over this early on a weekend. Besides, this person’s footsteps are heavier than hers.

Quietly, I step to the door to peer through the peephole, but they walk away just as I reach it. Even though I’m relieved he’s gone, it still doesn’t sit right with me. I wait a few seconds before carefully opening my door, a crack, and poking my head out. Just the elevator pings down the corridor, and a figure of a man disappears from my view into the elevator. Without thinking, I race down the hall to see if I can catch them before they disappear inside, but I’m too late. The doors are closed, and the elevator is going down.

Standing alone down the corridor of closed doors, I can hear babies crying and people laughing, the usual sounds of Saturday morning topped off with the ten-year-old boy playing his trombone. It’s strange how lonely I feel right now, surrounded by people and the sounds of life on the day I visit my family for the first time in months. My stomach bears a scouring sense of emptiness that nothing seems to fill.

Then I look down at my hand and realize I’m still holding my handgun, and the rag has fallen off, and it hits me in cold reality what this is. It's a weapon designed to kill, and I need to respect it. I smirk at my foolishness just as an apartment door squeaks open nearby, and I run back to my secluded pit and slam the door.

As usual, when visiting my parents, I procrastinate and dither in my reluctance to go. The dinner starts at 1 PM, and I’ll arrive late deliberately to shorten the time spent there. However, Mom will ask me to stay over, and I’ll break her heart by saying no.

I’m a horrible daughter who pushes people who love me away. I can’t help it, but I have hope that one day I’ll change, and the restlessness that invades me whenever in their presence will still. One day.

Returning the handgun, wrapped in the rag, to the bottom drawer of my dresser, I grabbed my car keys and Dad’s Scottish Whiskey in my bag, wallet, and phone and headed out the door with a heavy heart. I filled the car with gas yesterday, so I had enough to get me to my destination, but I’ll have to fill her up on the way back.

While alone in the elevator, I checked my wallet for cash that I’d need to pay for gas, and thanks to Smiler, there were still two hundred dollars there. What would I do without Smiler? Not that I’d ever want to meet the man. Z always jokingly said, ‘The day you meet Smiler is the day your life is no more.’ In other words, he’ll only encounter you if he wants to kill you. Such is life.

I chuckle to myself, imagining my mom asking how my job is going, and I’ll answer, “It seems the hitman business is quite profitable. Who would’ve thought?” Oh, but she doesn’t mean that job because I’ll never, in a million years, tell her or another soul about that job. She’ll mean the garden maintenance job.

The elevator doors open in the ground-floor foyer, and an elderly couple steps in, holding hands. We exchange smiles, and I wonder how long they’ve been married.

“I’m going down,” I tell them, “To the parking garage.”

“Oh, do be careful,” the woman says. “A young girl was attacked down there only last week.”

“Really? I didn’t know. That’s terrible,” I exclaim. “I hope she’s okay.”

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