The Woman from Cheshire Avenue Read online

  Of course, it didn’t work out that way. Once Eric got home to his cramped, one-room wreck of an apartment, and stripped, he hopped into the shower and soaped up, sliding his hands over his skin. He rubbed the giant swastika tattoo branded across his chest, and thought of its twin on his back. He soaped it over and over again, trying to draw the usual strength from it.

  But instead, the more he touched himself, the more aware he became of his body and how awake it felt. As he closed his eyes under the running water, he unsuccessfully fought to shut out images of that woman kissing him. He felt her warmth mouth pressed against his, felt her tongue once more. He bit his own bottom lip, pretending it was she. Through it all, he soaped his chest, his arms, and waist, oblivious to the austere chill of the water. Soon, he forgot himself, lost in his fantasies, and it was as though she were there in his cramped shower with him, with her hands running all over him, not his own.

  The cruel torture of his own imagination actually brought tears to his eyes; his body shook under the assault of the water as he gave into what his body wanted. When he sated the fantasy, he rinsed himself off, and stepped out onto his bare bathroom tiles. He dried off quickly and fell naked onto his worn futon and its fading black sheets, weary and defeated by the past few days. At least he’d find refuge in sleep.

  But in dreams, he was even less safe. In dreams, he was surrounded by his own desires and unspoken wishes, all of them suddenly made tangible. The entire dream world, in all its infinite capacity, became reduced to his bedroom—only it was an idealized version. He had a real bed, king-sized, with clean sheets, a coverlet, and a mountain of warm fluffed pillows fresh from the dryer.

  In his dreams, the woman from Cheshire Avenue lay under him, against soft pillows, looking up at him with those dark, mocking eyes as she wrapped her naked legs around his waist.

  Eric’s mind panicked as his heart pounded even harder than it had in the shower.

  I should stop. I should stop this now.

  But dreams don’t always listen to what one should do; usually they focus on what one wants. And whether he felt it was wrong or not, whether he denied these wants or not, he couldn’t stop himself. Everything was so vividly warm in his dreams, so realistically moist with sweat (among other things), so soft and full, lush and firm. In the years since high school, Eric had had a fair share of women, even a long-term girlfriend or two. Never had he experienced anything like this.

  In his dreams, Eric kissed the woman from Cheshire Avenue. This time, he kissed her, his own way, on his own terms, moving in and above her as he pleased. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, he knew that for the next few days at least, he was going to be a man possessed.

  Somewhere, Shoelace must have been having similar dreams. Because at one in the morning he banged on Eric’s door, waking him from his sweaty slumber, and stating simply, “Get dressed. We’re going to Dalliance.”

  Dalliance was run by a sympathizer who only hired blondes for his poles. To hear its patrons talk about it in the street, Dalliance was an exclusive club, catering to a special class of clientele. Not really. Men of all colors could patronize; women of all colors, however, could not perform. Back when the owner only let in white patrons, business had suffered, especially since all the other clubs in Cherrywood offered variety.

  The cover charge was the same for everyone, as was the booze. The room was dark and smoky, and cramped because the owner had had to downsize during hard times. Only the stage and its nine poles were properly lit up. The dark allowed the “staff” to find all kinds of new ways to extra make cash on the side.

  The owner, upon spying Eric and his crew immediately greeted them, and let them in free of charge. He was fat, balding, and reeked of beer, sweat, and cigar smoke. His wife-beater tank was grimy, and his chest hair poured out the top of it.

  “For you,” he clapped Eric on the shoulder, making Eric cringe, “the first lap dance is on the house.” He called over a bouncy young blue-eyed blonde whom Eric recognized immediately, and shoved a fistful of cash down her top. “Take him to the corner, Goldie, and make me proud.”

  “Hey, Eric,” Goldie greeted, taking his hand and leading him towards furthest pole on the stage. She sat him down, relocated the cash to her garter and hopped onto the pole. “How’s Aryan doing? I haven’t seen him in a while; I’m getting worried.”

  “Nursing some broken bones,” Eric shrugged. “Business got rough last week.”

  She smiled broadly, showing of a small charming gap in her two front teeth, while she no doubt dreamt heroic thoughts of her man. “Poor baby. He must miss me. I should stop by the safehouse and try to make him feel better.” She unhooked her top slowly, tauntingly, and slid the silvery mesh down to reveal her perky breasts.

  Normally, Eric would’ve said no to this woman. He would have said no when the club owner first called her over. He would’ve said no when she reached for his hand and led him into the dark. But not today. Today, Eric was pissed at Aryan and feeling rebellious.

  Goldie, a lithe, golden-haired, nineteen-year-old former meth addict, was the latest in Aryan’s long string of “concubines.” Aryan was very possessive of his women, at least until they got pregnant or entered their mid-twenties. Then he got bored and wanted something newer, something fresher, someone dumber.

  Goldie, quite naturally, was a perfect fit. Covered in glitter, smelling like fruit candy, wearing a pink vinyl thong and not having two brain cells to rub together, she embodied Aryan’s ideal.

  As she did her little routine to a song by Poison, Eric’s thoughts grew steadily angrier as he recalled the meeting with Aryan yesterday.

  Son, I’m hanging onto the money a little longer. When that Michael slope comes a-calling, just tell him it’s still with me.

  Aryan, Eric had argued, trying to screw over a heavily armed and well-connected family is definitely going to spell death for someone, maybe even a lot of someones. Fucking Derek-the-Unibrow Hirsh had chuckled at that argument which, by the way, didn’t sway Aryan.

  Eric, I’m sure you can hold your own. I saw what you did to that one skinny slope the last time they tried to fuck with our crew. But I need to hang onto the cash.

  And if Michael wants to know where you are? Eric had demanded. What the fuck do I tell him then?

  Aryan’s voice got stern; his gaze narrowed. Do not even think about giving up this location. Only the crew and its women know where this place is. To tell anyone else could get us all killed. Just give Derek the stuff when he comes tomorrow night, and keep a cut for yourself so you can support the boys at home. Don’t take too big a cut, though! Derek laughed his annoying laugh again, confident he was to be Aryan’s new right-hand man.

  So. There it was. Eric’s oldest sneaking suspicion was finally confirmed. Aryan intended to protect himself at any cost, even if it meant placing Eric and the rest of the crew directly in the line of fire. No wonder Derek was staying outside the city, steadfastly by Aryan’s side. He’d known this all long.

  Eric wasn’t forgetting this. He wasn’t forgetting this any time soon. As Goldie slipped off the pole and came to give him the promised lap dance, Eric suddenly saw a rare and priceless opportunity.

  Getting her back to his apartment around was easier than he thought it would be. Around four that morning, he casually extended the invite and she practically jumped at the offer. The next thing he knew, Goldie grabbed her coat, let down her hair, and followed him out of the club. When they got to his place, they both immediately stripped themselves naked, dropping their clothes onto the ragged carpeting. The harsh light of the street poured in through the blinds and pooled on the cheap wood paneling of his living room walls. Eric fleetingly mused that he might as well have taken her to a seedy motel.

  At first, Goldie giggled a bit too much for his taste, but he was willing to ignore that in the name of fulfilling this particular taboo. First he dodged her numerous attempts to kiss him. Kissing had brought him enough trouble within the last day. Instead, he s
imply pushed her onto her back and slipped between her thighs.

  The entry felt forced, uncomfortable, and clumsy. His approach must have been equally awkward for her, because her giggling turned into talking, making his satisfaction even more elusive.

  “We can’t ever tell Aryan about this,” she was tittered nervously. “He’d have us both killed.”

  Eric didn’t reply; he just kept moving, focusing on staying aroused and getting the job done. For every soldier who’d ever bled or died for Aryan, he was doing this. For everyone who’d committed crime after crime after crime to make the money Aryan was so comfortably sitting on, and had had to endure the subsequent nightmares, Eric was doing this.

  “You know, I’ve always had a crush on you,” Goldie said shyly, when the silence lagged, broken only every few moments by a tight creak of the bed. “I always thought you were the hottest guy in the crew. Aryan always talked about how smart you are. And yes, we actually talk. He and I have the best conversations.”

  To his horror, Eric felt himself starting to shrink, to weaken. If this got out, along with his other humiliation, he would never live it down.

  What’s wrong Eric? You only get turned on by frog lips? Is that why we rarely see you with a woman?

  “You know, I kind of feel bad about this,” Goldie rambled on, sensing his growing discomfort. “Eric, this is really wrong. Maybe we should stop. Aryan means a lot to me. He’s done so much for me.”

  “Can you believe this bitch?”

  Eric instinctively turned to his right, where a vision of the mysterious black woman stood. She wore a dark red strapless dress to match the dye in her hair, and she carried a little silver purse which matched her shoes. Altogether, she looked horribly out of place in his rundown apartment.

  “I mean,” the vision went on, “the bitch got paid to make you happy. Then you brought her back here so you could make her happy, yet all she can do is talk about some other guy.” The apparition suddenly lit up a cigarette without asking permission, and languorously puffed away.

  At the sight of her, Eric felt his arousal returning, and he quickly regained control.

  “You know, I’m not a whore or anything,” Goldie kept talking, as she tensely reached for his hands on her hips. In a futile attempt, she tried to pry Eric’s hands off her. “The niggers and spics who come into the club try to buy some off me, but I never give ‘em any. I care about my relationship with Aryan.”

  “Relationship?” the apparition chortled. “God, Eric; you know some seriously delusional people. ‘Relationship’? You know as well as I do that Aryan doesn’t have a real relationship with anyone but himself. For Christ’s sake, he turned you into a paltry thief and made you steal for him.”

  Eric noticed his hips speeding up of their own volition. He began to feel actual pleasure; it came over him in growing waves, making his eyes roll back into his head. Wanting to make sure he could see this through, he quickly flipped Goldie onto all fours before he continued. He was dimly aware of Goldie’s stiffening in his grasp.

  “I know you don’t think our love is real,” the stripper was saying, her breath coming faster, “but it is. I love Aryan.”

  “He got you to kill for him,” the apparition rasped venomously, leaning in so that her lips barely brushed his ear. Eric found himself pounding even harder, not knowing where the strength or desire came from. “How many of us have you shot?” came the poisonous whisper, spurring him on.

  A bizarre noise ripped itself from the deepest recesses of Eric’s throat; he was losing control, sinking further and further into this dysfunctional threesome. He began to drown in his own cries and the gasping protests of the woman beneath him. In the back of his mind, Eric kept thinking about how only a very sick man could actually perform in this situation.

  Meanwhile, the apparition continued to hiss in his ear like a seductive serpent.

  “How many of us have you bludgeoned?” it asked.

  Another sound wrenched itself from him, and this time it came from deep within his branded chest.

  “Strangled?”

  “I love Aryan, Eric! Do you hear me? Fucking stop!”

  “How many of us have you gutted?” the apparition demanded mercilessly, and suddenly, her perfume wasn’t the only scent filling the room. Blood, sweat, urine…the colognes of his many victims mixed and bloomed from the center of the room, spreading to the shadowy corners. When Eric’s eyes rolled to his right, he saw them all standing behind the woman in red. With their blackened eyes, slit throats, stabbed chests, bullet wounds, and colorless clothing, they stood like a ghoulish army of zombies and stared at him, whispered at him, demanding to know how many and why.

  “Eric!” Goldie screamed.

  “We’re always here, Eric,” the apparition in red promised. “We’ll always be here, and nothing you can do will ever make us go away.” She leaned in to rasp in his right ear once more. “I’ll always be here, Eric.”

  What happened next could only be described as a new level of orgasm; it was completely mind-numbing and deafening as blood roared in his ears, and he felt a sting in the back of his eyes. It was like being lain waste to, as though he were enduring some sort of pleasurable devastation. Eric was himself, and yet he wasn’t. He was there, stuck behind Goldie, and yet he was apart, standing beside the specter in red and watching himself with Goldie. He ascended to someplace else, unable to hear, speak, or think. Only when Goldie was crumpled on the edge of his bed, weeping and shakily reaching for her clothes, did he come back to earth and face what he’d done.

  Breathless, heart-pounding, and dripping with sweat, Eric frantically looked around the room for the phantom of Cheshire Avenue, whether for comfort or for a scapegoat, but he found he was alone.

  “F-fucking piece of shit,” Goldie sobbed, as she tried to gather the shreds of her dignity. “You think you’re so tough because you’re A-Aryan’s l-little g-gopher. Well, f-fuck you, Eric! We’ll see how t-tough you are when Aryan’s k-killing you!”

  Eric was amazed at how calm he was as he reached for his pants and slid them on with ease. His voice was low, almost tranquil when he spoke.

  “I can understand how you must feel right now,” he told her. He barely recognized his voice. It was extraordinarily posh and proper, as though he were channeling Michael Hirosawa.

  “Fuck you!” Goldie barked. “You kept screwing me after I told you to stop!”

  “And your man keeps screwing us after I’ve warned him to stop,” Eric replied softly, slowly walking towards her. “So please believe me when I say this isn’t personal.”

  The Woman from Cheshire Avenue

  When Lilith got home and crossed the spacious, well-lit living room of her west end high-rise, she found her grandmother’s dress draped across her loveseat, just as her father had said. It was a beautiful white silk gown with long, slightly bell-shaped sleeves and silver embroidery at the waist. She was going to have to wear her highest pair of heels with this.

  Smiling broadly, unable to deny the growing excitement of attending one of her father’s balls, she practically skipped down the hall into her bedroom to audition shoes. She tossed them casually onto the red velveteen coverlet of her queen-sized bed, vetoing her black, silver, turquoise, and golden pairs of shoes. In the end, she settled on a burgundy pair which, coincidentally, perfectly matched her hair.

  Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was going to meet someone tonight. There were going to be scholars, scientists, and aspiring politicians present tonight. Her father was man of the hour; so naturally, Lilith had the advantage over the other young women in attendance. Every man would want to have at least one dance with the Chancellor’s daughter.

  Then again, Kendra might steal the show. She was probably having her human hair micro-braids styled, and had no doubt gone jewelry-shopping. Kendra was a better flirt, a more comfortable conversationalist, and overall superior fashionista. Lilith could very well be setting herself up for another night bitter disappointment.
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  She tried to ignore the familiar growing pangs of self-doubt. In the end, these were what did her in, not Kendra. The men she would meet tonight weren’t going to want some pampered trophy wife, and that’s exactly the type of wife Kendra would be: a spoiled child incapable of doing anything for herself or anyone else. When they lived at home with their parents as children, and their mother first started wasting away, Kendra had resented all the attention her mother was getting, and so shirked her chores in retaliation. When their mother finally died and their father sent to them St. Tatiana’s school for girls, Kendra never did any homework or laundry, and was constantly skipping class to go smoke in the girls’ bathroom.

  And when Kendra started college, she partied nonstop, shopped nonstop and skipped class nonstop. She expected her father to fix any trouble she caused, and expected Lilith to support all her decisions.

  Well, not anymore. Lilith was feeling young again for the first time in many months, and she wasn’t ready to go back to being a the tightly responsible, overly self-conscious zombie that, in some ways, she’d always been. As young girl, Lilith had done everything to be the upstanding older child, the shining example, the apple of her father’s eye, and quite frankly she was sick of it.

  How many parties had she missed out on? How many lovers? How many friendships had she sacrificed for the sake of maintaining her father’s image of her? Aside for an empty apartment, boring job, and nonexistent sex life, what did she have to show for all her years of being the Good Girl?

  Energized at the thought of doing things her way from now on, Lilith called her director and left a voicemail explaining her why she’d be absent from work tomorrow. Next, she dipped into her stash of expensive hair care products, and began setting her hair in rollers. She slathered on a thick mask, and while it dried, she patiently sat down to shave her legs.

  Just as with her trips to the salon and spa, the grooming made her feel more optimistic about life. She rediscovered the youthful suppleness in her clear brown skin; she noticed, as though for the first time, the sensual curve of her smile.