Dark City

30.

The next day passed with little conversation between them. Nathan cleaned his silicon sleeve in Tom's laundry room. He guarded the living room, his gun ever present on the coffee table. Lacey didn't come downstairs except once to grab a box of cereal. Nathan had his way with Carl's wine rack, uncorking bottle after bottle as his guard continued. He thought about the blood dripping down Alex's lip. He thought about the whimper she had made as he held her still and searched her dress pockets. He tried watching TV, but everything he saw just made him angry or depressed. He reached into his pocket for his wallet and looked at the photograph of his dead friends. Then he took his Glock and crushed the Xanax with the grip. He snorted the powder and stopped thinking so much.

By dinnertime, he was quite placid. That was when Lacey finally came down the stairs all dressed up for a night out, her hair teased out and wild.

"Where do you think you're going?" Nathan asked.

"You can't keep me here."

"I can. And I will."

"You had a psychotic break yesterday. Are you aware of that?" she asked.

"I was dehydrated. Like you said."

"You can't imprison me. I'll call the police."

"They know me. I'm pretty sure they've never heard of you. I'll tell them I found you and your boyfriend screwing on the dining room table. It's not a lie."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'm protecting Tom's things."

"I'm not a thing!" she cried. "And you're not noble or chivalrous for chasing Liam out of here. You're not entitled to break in here and snort Xannies off the coffee table."

"I'm protecting Tom's things," he said again.

Lacey threw a punch. Nathan caught her arms at the wrists. His reflexes were slowed and she'd nearly had him. "You're psycho!" she spat. "You're a fucking psycho!" Nathan shoved her away. She turned and went upstairs, slamming the door to Tom's bedroom. Nathan heaved a sigh and toppled backwards against the couch. He rolled up his pants and removed his limb, grimacing as he pulled it away. The flesh around the knee was folded in on itself, marred by loose skin and dark lines. Those little red bumps were plumper now and more pronounced. He knew he should shower, but he didn't care. All he wanted was sleep.

#29

When he awoke, it was late in the night. Lacey sat at the other end of the couch watching TV, shrouded in a comforter, her knee socks poking out. She laughed softly to herself at the show, but when she saw Nathan's eyes upon her, that revelry dissipated. She pretended not to notice him waking up.

Nathan propped himself up into a seated position, pulling her blankets away from her. Beneath the blanket she was wearing a sea-foam colored dress shirt.

"Are you cold?" she asked.

"No."

"You don't want me looking at your leg." Lacey gave up some of her blanket so he could cover himself. She extended her legs across his lap. He was too tired to object.

"Nathan," she whispered under the volume of the television. "Can you take my socks off?"

Nathan pulled the socks off her feet and tossed them on the floor. They continued to watch TV, but Nathan couldn't pay attention to it. Was this her attempt at having something to hold over him when Tom came back? He didn't think she could be so conniving or so stupid.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked. She pulled a bottle of Stolichnaya out from under her side of the blanket. Nathan shook his head. He could resist her. Her game of seduction was painfully obvious.

She downed a heavy swig of the stuff. It didn't even make her shiver. She was hard. He could see it in her eyes. It was what drew him to her from the beginning.

"I've seen how you look at me," she said.

"You're barking up the wrong tree," Nathan said. "I used to think you were a good person."

"In the beginning, Tom's favorite thing about me was that I wasn't."

Lacey threw her head back and drank the Stoli like water. Then she came over to his side of the couch, straddled him and trapped him in a kiss that was treacherous, and exactly what he wanted, what he needed. She went to lift his shirt, but he stopped her. Without his prosthesis, he felt vulnerable.

"You've eye-fucked me so many times, I don't even need foreplay," she whispered, her breath tainted with alcohol. She touched the waistband of his pants. He grabbed her hands and gazed into her shiny, inebriated eyes. He wanted her. He wanted to open her shirt and taste her ink.

"You're beautiful. That's why I stare."

He released her hands. She reached for her bottle and finished the last bit of vodka, discarding it to the tiles. It made a loud noise, but didn't break.

She removed her panties and he lost all conviction to resist her as she straddled him again and kissed behind his ear. He felt her up beneath her shirt, exploring her soft skin. She wore nothing but that dress shirt that was too big for her. He had always liked the look of a woman in a men's shirt.

Then it hit him. This was Tom's shirt.

"What's wrong?" Her whisper slithered down his ear canal.

"I can't."

"Tom doesn't care."

"This is different. He would care about this."

"Then he doesn't have to find out."

She ran the tip of her tongue delicately over his lips. Hungry for her taste, he laid siege upon her mouth and lost himself in a haze of maddening thoughts. It had been a long time since he felt the touch of a woman like this, almost two years. He realized he wasn't Gawain after all. He had no honor.

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Music: "Slutgarden" Marilyn Manson