Page 27 of Spiders in the Grove

I look up, joining Cesara in gazing expectantly at him, waiting for the rest, but that seems to be all of it.

Cesara nods a few times. “And”—she draws the word out—“what is it that you do in New Hampshire, United States, Dante?” She’s toying with him.

He laughs tensely, realizing. “Oh, well I don’t, I-I don’t live there anymore. I’ve been in Boston for about ten years now. Great city. You’d like it there.”

Cesara sips from her glass, probably because it’s the only thing keeping her from saying something she shouldn’t.

Dante’s smile slips right off his face. He sighs, his shoulders falling into a defeated slump, and suddenly it’s as if the real Dante has taken over for the failing one.

“Look, I’m not good at this kind of shit,” he says, and we both look right up at him. “A guy—my boss—sent me here to look for someone; paid me a lot of money. I’ve never done anything like this before. And it’s all really”—he looks around the room—“well, it’s really fucking weird. And”—he laughs lightly—“I’ve been into heavy-weird shit, so that’s saying a lot.”

He has both of our attention now; Cesara and I simultaneously lean forward with great interest; my instincts are kicking-in again, but I’m not sure why.

“He sent you here to look for who, exactly?” Cesara asks suspiciously.

“Who is your boss?” I ask, holding my breath.

Something blinks on inside Dante’s head, and suddenly, he looks as though our interest is on the verge of overwhelming his tiny brain. I should’ve just kept playing idiot Dante, his face reads.

“I’m an assistant, too,” he says, glancing at me. “To Mr. Amell Schreiber”—(Where have I heard that name before?)—"He’s a very private man; has social anxiety issues, if yah know what I mean. I pretty much do everything for him that involves having to go out in public: shopping, sitting in for him during meetings, stuff like that. It’s hard because I was knee-deep in a heroin addiction when I met him, and as far away from knowing anything about that stuff as I know about”—he waves a hand at the stage—“any of this.”

“And he sent you here to find who?” Cesara repeats, because that’s mostly what she cares about.

“Twenty to twenty-two,” Dante begins, “dark hair, blue eyes, small breasts; the girl I purchased—your girl—I think is perfect, but I’m going to hang around and see the others, just in case; maybe I’ll take him back a few so he has choices.” He straightens his tie; he’s still nervous I can tell, but since it’s his first time, I guess that’s expected.

I practically melt into a puddle of relief—I thought he was here for me. Wow, do I have a big head or what? I shake it off.

I believe Cesara was thinking along the same lines, though not that he was looking for me, but that he was an implant here looking for a particular girl who had been kidnapped. I glance over at her, and witness how quickly she loses interest in him again; she sighs, and gets comfortable in the chair.

Sensing he’s overstayed his welcome at our table, Dante straightens his tie again, and then bows halfway at the waist, which is also strange and embarrassing. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he says.

“Oh, you too,” Cesara says with a big, forced smile; she even reaches out her hand to him for added effect. “I hope you find the perfect girl for your…awesome boss.”

Dante catches that jab; a twinge of humiliation flickers in his eyes for a moment, but he smiles, sucks it up, bends to kiss Cesara’s hand, and leaves us, giving me only a nod on his way.

“Always be on the lookout for infiltrators,” Cesara warns in a lowered voice. “It’s not easy to get into these auctions—we go to great lengths to make sure every attendee is who they claim to be—but you never know what kind of spiders might be lurking in our midst.”

Deadly ones, Cesara. Deadly ones. I smile, lean toward her, and kiss her red lips for added effect.

Izabel

Day Three – Mid-Morning

I can actually feel something in the air; I feel it in my bones, in my uneven heartbeat, in my sweating palms. This night will be much different than any night I’ve spent here since arriving with my wrists and ankles bound and my hair and face bloodied. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s here, waiting in the shadows, somewhere.

I lay amid the cool sheets with Cesara in her giant pillared bed, surrounded by painted stucco walls and a wide wall-less space in front of us that allows the Mexico breeze and sunshine into the room; Spanish tile floors stretch many feet out in every direction; the only thing the room lacks is an ocean view.

Cesara’s girl waits near the open wall; mine, Sabine, sits on the floor near the bed.

The heat of Cesara’s naked body curls around mine, her leg draped over my waist. I comb her soft hair through my fingers.

“Are you ever going to tell me, Lydia,” she says, “why you really hate men as fiercely as you do?” Her fingertips walk along my hipbone, inching toward my inner thighs, and then back up again.

“Men are the cancer of this earth,” I tell her. “I think I was born hating them.”

“Yes, but something had to happen for you to feel that way, something other than the man you killed. It takes more than one man, one incident, to turn out like you did.” She raises her head from my stomach, and looks at me. “You can tell me anything—I want you to.”

“Why?”

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