Page 9 of Heathens
I don’t recognize myself at all.
It’s like I’m staring at a stranger.
The driver—a man with a graying goatee and biceps the size of my thighs—drags me quickly to room 710. My heels are muffled on the carpet, sinking deep into the beige fabric.
“This is a special client. Be on your best behavior,” the driver commands, letting me go. Those are Auguste’s words, I know it. “I’ll wait for you here until the hour’s up.”
Clearing my throat, I reach up to knock on the designated door, but instead, it swings open on its own accord.
“Hi,” I say, working my face into a sexy smile. The way Auguste wants me to. Instinct kicks in and I grab the door frame, sashaying my hips and barely registering the face before me.
Tall, blond, somewhat handsome if I squint.
It could be worse.
Frankincense and Myrrh
Lily
Present
Priest. The man from last week occupies my thoughts once again as I pace my apartment, smoking. He will be here any minute now, having left a voicemail last night. I texted him the address and time, and he replied with just a smiley face.
He was different than anyone I’d ever met. He moved with intention, confidence, and kindness. His face, while handsome, was also mysterious, guarded... I sit down on my old, tufted leather couch and cross my legs and arms, petting Jekyll as he purrs. Salem watched me with interest, but not in the way I was used to—the way anyone who recognized me watched me. There was no pity in his glances. Instead, he was... inquisitive, thoughtful. And he’d known exactly what to say in order to see me again.
I’d skipped church today. I didn’t know if I could face him—if I could bear the thought of seeing him again in a place like that, knowing what he was... whatIwas. Together, we were a clashing juxtaposition. So, this week I went to the smaller church near my apartment. I still needed that reprieve—that two hours and five minutes—alone, quiet, with only my thoughts. The only time I didn’t let myself think of Evelyn, of where she might be, of what she might be forced to do. For those two hours—for those precious one-hundred and twenty-five minutes, I could pretend I was just a girl living in Paris. That I wasn’t a human with a black soul, wracked with guilt, with a taste for bloodlust and vengeance.
The buzzer sounds and I let him up, suddenly fidgeting with the chain lock before putting my cigarette out in the ashtray in the small foyer. When I hear his footsteps on the other side of my door, I smooth my long, black dress and pull my chambray button-up shirt tighter. I wish I’d done something with my hair. Instead, I’d just thrown it up into a bun, and I suddenly feel way too casual. My heart pounds in my chest as a knock sounds—three, clear raps.
I swing the door open.
“Hi,” I say, taking him in.
“Hi,” Salem replies, looking just as unsure as I feel.
“Hot damn,” Rosemary says from behind Salem. When I look past him, I see her fanning herself again in her lookout chair. She must be perpetually in the midst of a hot flash. “His jaw must have been chiseled by Michelangelo himself.”
“Ignore her,” I whisper as he smiles. “Have a good day, Rosemary,” I yell.
“You kids behave yourselves,” she barks.
I hold the door open and he brushes past me, reaching his hand out and gently touching my arm as he walks through the door. I hold my breath as the hair raises where he made contact.
“Welcome,” I joke, closing the door and gesturing to the small space. I’m suddenly so warm, and the scent of frankincense and myrrh doesn't help. I rake my eyes over him, finally allowing myself to study him fully. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and the same black trousers he was wearing that night in the Marais. I wonder if he came straight from the church.
“Thanks for having me,” he responds, his voice genuine. “Your neighbor is a hoot.”
“She’s entertaining, that’s for sure.”
I have the sudden urge to fidget, so instead, I pull another cigarette out of the small metal case in my pocket. I haven’t moved from the door. My knees feel weak. I pop the Parliament into my mouth and flick the lighter, sucking until the embers burn orange. Inhaling deeply, my eyes meet his.
He walks over to the couch and sits down, his presence commanding. He reaches out to pet Jekyll, but Jekyll hisses and arches his back.
“Sorry, he doesn’t like people,” I say, my voice apologetic. I trail my eyes over the apartment. I should’ve cleaned it better. Old tea mugs sit on my desk, and there’s certainly enough black cat hair on the couch and rug to knit a sweater.
“What’s its name?” He tries again, and this time, Jekyll growls and jumps down, scurrying to hide under the bed in the other room.
“His name is Jekyll.” I smile, glancing to where the black cat stares at us from the shadows.
