Cursed (7 page)

CHAPTER
Twenty-six

An hour later, Max had finished accepting his deliveries at Jobman's and was busy polishing the bar. He went at the task with a little more force than necessary, muttering to himself about a stubborn, pain-in-the-ass woman.

He'd thought about going to the local boxing gym and working off his frustration by punching a few people in the face, but in the end he'd decided that fixing the bar after last night's incident held sway. Never mind that Halloween was coming and the place was sure to get trashed that night, too.

He heard the keys in the door but didn't bother to look up. He knew who it was.

John strolled in, bringing with him the smell of sunshine and salt air. Max continued to rub lemon oil polish into the old wood his uncle had brought over from Ireland.

John took a seat at one of the stools and waited, patiently, as he always did.

Max held out for a good five minutes before he finally muttered, “She's no' going to come after me, is she?”

“Is that what you're hoping, that she'll come chasing you down?”

Max shrugged. He'd never wanted anyone the way he wanted Lille, but he wasn't going to beg. A man had his pride.

“She's made her choice, then,” he told himself.

The door opened again, and Kim, her camera around her neck, strolled in, looking around as she always did, as if she were Alice and the world was new and strange. Jordan followed behind her, his face apologetic.

Max curled his lip. Eejit was in love with this bizarre girl. Today she was wearing a blue sailor dress, yellow rain boots, and a spiked collar. She looked insane.

Her boots squeaked a little as she made her way down the hallway. She ignored Max and John, turning to film the mess that was left from Lille's encounter with her ex the night before.

Jordan took a seat next to John, but he continued to watch Kim over his shoulder.

Max hoped he himself wasn't quite that pathetic.

Kim wandered over to the jukebox and pressed buttons; her first selection, Lorde's “Bravado,” felt directed at Max. It could be a song about Lille.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jordan?”

Jordan finally turned to look at him. “Kim wanted to film the empty bar—said it would be cool to see it during the day.”

“And you just let her do whatever she wants?” Max asked.

Jordan grinned. “She promised to sleep with me.”

Max grunted. He couldn't blame the kid, then.

Jordan looked over at John. “The girls are getting wraps and massages before the Halloween party at Carl's gallery. Lille . . . ” Jordan paused and cast a quick glance at Max.

Max turned away to wipe down the back of the bar.

“ . . . is still bringing a date,” he finished.

Max grunted.

“If you love her, why don't you tell her?” John suggested.

Max spun around. “Love? Who said anything about love?”

“You did this morning,” Kim pointed out, still over by the center of the bar, turned away from them and panning her camera lens over the debris.

“I did not.”

“Okay,” she said with a shrug, as if she didn't give a shit one way or the other.

Max gripped the edge of the bar and took a deep breath. “What would it matter if I did? She doesn't want anyone to love her.”

“You don't love her, anyway,” Kim argued. “You'd want her to be sweet and well-behaved and to dress appropriately and not go on film whipping pale white boys. You'd want her to change.”

“I'm not after changing anyone, but—”

“But nothing,” Kim cut him off.

“Now, just you wait. Who's to say she wants to do those things, anyway?”

“She
is
doing them. If she stays, she'll keep doing them. She knows the business, and business is good. You wouldn't be able to handle it.”

“I would,” he growled. “If that's what she wants, then I would handle it. Which is not to say I wouldn't beat the fuck out of anyone who dared to touch her, but—”

“But what?” Kim dared him to say it, pointing the camera at his face.

“I've never met anyone in my life like her. She may hide or run or fight, but she's a survivor, Lille. She would never just give up.”

“Isn't that what she's doing now? Thinking of giving up on us?”

Max shook his head. “She thinks she's cursed, the self-pitying brat. She thinks that we'd be safer without her—” He stopped. “Why am I defending her?”

“'Cause you love her,” Jordan suggested, sticking his lower lip out and raising his eyebrows.

Max shook his head. “Well, fuck me runnin'. And what good has that ever done a poor fool?”

“You could tell her,” Kim suggested.

“Tell her I love her?” Max sneered. “And that will solve everything. Woman's probably been told ‘I love you' by some man every day of her life.”

“They weren't you,” John said.

“And that would matter how?”

“You've been told ‘I love you' by hundreds of women, haven't you?” John pointed out. “Would it matter if you heard those words from Lille?”

Max pushed off from the bar and turned away, his shoulders bunching. “Yes, it would.”

“So tell her, then.”

Max glanced back, forgetting that Kim was there, filming. “I can tell her. I can tell her that I'd like to sit with her every day and read books and run by the ocean, that I'd like to pick her up in one of her ridiculous outfits and let her torture the eejits at the bar, that I'd like to spend every last waking moment wondering just what she'll do next, but I can't make her believe me,” he said, and left the bar, slamming the pass-through down with a crash and a curse.

Kim climbed onto the stool. “I think our work here is done. Anyone want a drink before we go back to the Box?”

Jordan grinned at her. “It's barely noon.”

“So?”

Over at a
day spa in Fort Lauderdale,
Lille was lying like a mummy in a lavender body wrap with cucumber slices over her eyes. Mary, lying next to her, was annoyingly silent on the subject Lille was talking about.

“How is Max different?” Lille asked, and then clarified, “Why do I care that he's upset with me? Why am I tempted to take a chance with him?”

Mary chuckled. “If you don't know the answer to that, I'm not going to tell you.”

“You suck, darling.”

“Uh-huh,” Mary agreed.

Lille listened to the trickle of one of those little fountains and Zen music playing on the sound system and thought of Max: Max singing to her in the pub, Max drawing pints, Max catching his dog in his arms, Max quoting poetry, Max reading, Max yelling at her this morning.

And then she thought about what life would be like if she stayed, if she continued to be the Fetish Queen. Even if nothing terrible happened, even if she just continued to make videos and blog about sex toys, she would still attract plenty of attention, most of it unwanted. Maybe Max would grow tired of her, tired of having to share her with half the world, tired of her putting herself on display. Men hated that, hated sharing, and eventually they would hate her; it was their nature. It was what always happened.

“He hates that I dress up and put myself on video every day.”

“He does,” Mary agreed.

Lille felt secure as the Fetish Queen; she felt safe knowing that she was playing a character who was never afraid, never doubtful. She felt powerful even as she worried about the attention it gathered. It was working—the store was more successful than ever.

“So stay,” Mary said.

“What would that mean? If I stayed?”

“Only you can say, Lille,” Mary told her gently.

“Like I said, darling. You suck.”

Three hours
and two mimosas later, Mary was
painting something in the office at the Box and Lille was looking for a costume for Carl's Halloween party in the depths of Mandy's closet. She was quiet, thinking.

An hour ago, she'd called the home where her mother was being cared for and asked to speak to her. Her mother had answered, her voice hoarse and uncertain: “Hello?”

“Mom, it's me. It's Sarah.” Lille stumbled a little over the name. She hadn't called herself that in so long.

“Sarah?” Her mother sounded confused. “My Sarah died a long time ago.”

“No, I didn't, Mom. I ran away.”

“I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong number.”

“No, Mom. Don't hang up. It's me. It's your daughter, Sarah.”

“I don't have a daughter. My daughter died.”

“I didn't. I ran away.”

“No.” Her mom sounded agitated. “Sarah died. She became somebody new. She became Lille.”

“Mom.”

“Good-bye,” her mother had told her, then hung up the phone.

Lille had set the receiver for the phone back on its cradle.

Mary had tugged her out of the chair. “Come on, Lille, let's find something for the party.”

Lille hadn't
wanted to think about the party
the following night, much less try on costumes, but they'd closed the store to customers this morning after the events of yesterday, and she couldn't decide on anything else she wanted to do, so here she was, once again in the office closet, where Mary's mother had stored the majority of her clothing. She couldn't help but shudder every time she thought about the man who had broken into her office, about Paul.

They'd heard from the police twenty minutes ago. He was being charged with aggravated assault but had been let out on a $200,000 bond into the care of his parents, who'd flown out from San Francisco. They'd never liked her much.

“I swear this place is like Mary Poppins's bag,” Lille muttered. “Your mom sure knew how to use her space.”

Mary snickered.

“Gross. I don't see why you get away with being Miss Hannigan,” Lille called out from the closet, where she was trying to wrestle her way into a gauzy nude-colored body suit with Carl's help. It was skin-tight and delicate at the same time.

“I saw it first,” Mary argued back. The costume was supposed to be Miss Hannigan in the bathtub scene, wearing garters and with bows in her hair. A little skimpy, but Mary thought John would love the garters.

Mary and Carl had another costume in mind for Lille. Mary had had it commissioned, actually, with Carl's help, a local artist.

The idea was something along the lines of Pris from
Blade Runner
. Eighties makeup, slicked-back hair, nude body suit with strategically placed crystals, and, of course, a snake, or, rather, many. Mary had created a modern-day Medusa for her friend.

The headpiece was a work of art in itself. Snakes, made from wire and papier-mâché and covered with thousands of tiny foil and acrylic flakes to make them look real, writhed and dripped from the cap that would fit over Lille's head and be secured with a clear plastic strap under her chin. More snakes, these made of fabric, would be draped over her shoulders.

Lille wasn't going to know about the snakes, though, at least not until tomorrow. Mary wanted to surprise her.

“What the hell I am wearing?”

“You look awesome.”

“That's not what I asked, Carl. What's this costume supposed to be?”

“It's a surprise,” Mary called back to her. “We just wanted to make sure the body suit fit. Other than needing to add a few more crystals in strategic places, I think we're good.”

“Will you just tell me what the costume is supposed to be?” Lille demanded, coming into the office area. “You know I hate surprises.”

Mary turned to look at her, impressed by how gorgeous her friend looked. Naked, but not. Max was going to have kittens. “Surprises are good for you sometimes,” Mary argued, but she relented, a little, under Lille's glare. “It's Pris, from
Blade Runner
.”

“Oh.” Lille sounded intrigued. “Fucking cool.”

“I thought so,” Mary agreed smugly.

Carl tried to look innocent. “You're going to be the hit of the party, Lille. I'm excited to meet this date of yours. How did you meet him again?”

Right. Lille had almost forgotten about Benson. She didn't see any reason to back out of her date with him, even after Max's argument that she should take a chance on him. Going out with Benson would finish whatever feelings Max had for her; she was sure of it.
And that's a good thing,
she assured herself, but she didn't like to think of Max hurting, didn't really believe that he could be hurt.

“I met him when he came into the store.”

“How much do you know about him?” Carl asked, jumping into big-sister mode.

Lille rolled her eyes. “He's a JetBlue pilot.”

“What's his name?”

Lille shook her head. “No, Carl. I checked him out, okay? I don't need you to sic a private investigator or a SWAT team or anything on him. We're going on one date, and that's it. You'll all be there, right?”