Devour, p.6
Devour, page 6
Twenty minutes later, they were still laughing at shared stories of most awkward dates. Since his dating life was more than twenty years ago, he had to dig deep to recall them. Pre-Kathryn—as he called it—was hit and miss. She shared several mishaps that involved too much alcohol, while his stories included experiences with one or two psychos.
Then came the obvious question: Why had she never married?
She explained she had gotten close twice. The first time was in college. He was an athlete and their difference in intellectual stimulation was the demise. The second was while she was managing a start-up restaurant in Beverly Hills. The owner wanted more of a statue on his arm rather than a partner in his life. And while he was nice enough, and certainly more than rich enough, he was not passionate enough for her tastes.
“Passion is key,” she quietly said, circling the rim of her wine glass with a single finger. “More than just sex; it’s intimacy on an entirely different level.”
“Agreed,” he smiled. “An unspoken agreement shared only with one other and on a genuine heart level.”
She looked up with an intense expression, “Exactly!”
Her date had yet to arrive, the bottle was empty, and unless it was Michael’s imagination, the temperature in the room had risen a degree or five. It was clearly time to leave.
“I think I’ve pushed my time too far,” he said, checking his watch. “Oh, shit. It’s later than I thought. I’ve got to—”
Jasmine was closer now, her hand was on his arm. The smell of her perfume mixed with the flush of the wine pulled them within inches of one another’s face.
“I should probably…” he said, inching closer.
“Yeah, you probably should,” she said, moving closer and looking at his mouth.
“Nat’s gonna be…” he whispered, two inches from her face.
“Yeah, she’s gonna be so…”
He leaned in and kissed her lips gently as though any more force may break the spell they were under.
She moaned quietly in the back of her throat, breathing in the musk of him.
His hands reached for her waist, pulling her closer, and feeling her warmth.
Her hands slowly inched up his back.
The kiss became intense as tongues flicked one another in passionate play.
He pulled her closer, inhaling her exotic perfume, enjoying the taste of wine on her mouth.
Seconds turned to minutes.
Suddenly, the phone in his pocket vibrated with a rapid S-O-S pattern. He did not want to burst the bubble they were in, but he knew he should. Pulling away, he checked the phone.
“Natalie,” he whispered.
Leaning back and straightening up, she took a deep breath before letting out a long, slow exhale. “You should get that,” she said, playfully backing away and going to the kitchen.
“Hi, Nattie, I know I’m late…”
“Are you okay? It’s late…and not like you to—”
“Angel, I’m fine. Just running behind. Should’ve texted. I’m walking out now. Be there in less than 10. Promise.”
“Everyone’s gone. So, how about this? There’s a Blue Bottle Coffee a few blocks away. I’ll meet you there. Jackson & Fillmore?”
“I know it.”
“Okay, see you in ten?”
“Yes. See you in ten. Worst case, eleven.”
He hoped their mutual appreciation for a Spinal Tap reference would ease her angst. And when she chuckled, he felt better and rang off.
“Here, maybe this’ll cool things off a bit,” she grinned, handing him a glass of water.
“Yeah, good idea,” he sipped, before stepping closer. “And truthfully, I’ve been pondering that. Lately.”
She raised her eyebrows and grinned. “And I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind…” she took a drink. “More than once.”
“Good,” he exhaled.
“Or ten times.”
They laughed.
Patting his pockets for his keys, he set down the glass. “Okay, well, I should be making my—”
“Michael?” She stepped closer. “Tell me it isn’t crazy.”
“What?”
“How, um, freakin’ awesome that was?”
He leaned over, pulling her tight against his body and whispered, “Like…totally.”
They kissed again. But this time, it felt more like old lovers.
When they stopped, she pulled away, then took the phone from his hand and swiped the screen. A photo of Kathryn and Natalie appeared. “This screen has been the same for as long as I’ve known you, which is what now, nearly 4 years? So tell me, why now? Right on the cusp of a new guy in my life. Potential, anyway.”
He shook his head and shrugged.
“And especially since I’ve been sending you signals for I don’t know how long.”
“I’m not sure,” he faked a frown.
“Aren’t you?
“No.”
“Really?”
He chuckled. “You sound like my daughter. We just had this knock down drag out—”
“Well, perhaps you should’ve listened.”
“I did!”
“Did you?”
He stared at her—his knitted brow loosening, causing a smile to grow on his face.
Shaking her head, she leaned in and kissed him. And for a moment, they were caught up until her phone pinged. It was her date. The message read: 5 minutes away.
“Shit,” she whispered.
“Truly.”
“Okay, let’s, uh—”
“Forget it happened? Move forward tomorrow as though it’s another day?”
A frown blinked across her face. “Is that what you want?”
He grinned. “Not really.”
“Okay,” she half-grinned. “And I know, you’re married, we work together. Geez, could it be any more—”
“Cliche?”
They laughed.
“Yeah, cliche,” she said, walking him to the door. “But for now, just one more.”
They kissed again and it was nearly as good as the first time.
He checked his watch. She checked her phone. They nodded in agreement, then kissed once more just before he opened the door.
Walking to his car, he could not help but smile—the thoughts of their serendipitous time rushed through his entire body like an electrical charge. However, while being fully present with the lightness he felt, he did not notice the black SUV parked across the street just outside his range of sight, further masked with dark-tinted glass, intense eyes following his every move.
10
Pinky Promise
Eleven minutes later, Michael arrived at Blue Bottle Coffee at the corner of Jackson & Fillmore. It was in the former Shumate’s Pharmacy where marred tiles embedded in the floor for decades still greeted customers. In fact, it was the only remains of the early twentieth-century chain. Now, well into the 21st, the establishment was offering an entirely different sort of medicine: caffeine. With drip coffees, espressos, and locally-grown treats, the corner spot was a haven for hipsters, moms-with-toddlers, business suits, and working-class people, all with an unquenchable thirst for truly superb beans. With a 1970s modern-inspired interior, the space featured amber-hued quartz countertops and white oak surfaces and was decked out with a vintage Pioneer sound system, making the very popular hangout all the more groovy. Thanks to parking karma—as Michael called it—he snagged a spot right in front.
Spotting her father ignited a big smile and Natalie grabbed her things in a flurry and nearly ran from the shop. She threw her things in the trunk, then plopped and buckled into her seat in one continuous move. Kissing his cheek, she said, “Hiya, Popsadoodle!”
“Hey, Angel. How was your day?”
She tilted her head and frowned, watching him from the corner of her eye.
With a nervous chuckle, he asked, “What?”
Letting out a deep breath, she said, “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he sighed. “Just been a really long day.”
“They’re all long days.”
“This one…more than others,” he said, pulling into traffic.
“Why?”
The light turned red and he stopped to look at her. “A second restaurant? And an upcoming graduation to plan for?”
“Okay, true,” she said, leaning close to sniff him. “So, anyway.”
“Yes?”
“About our earlier convo.”
As the light turned green, he pulled into traffic. “What about it?”
“Given it any more thought?”
“Of course. I’m always eager to discuss whatever you’d like to discuss.”
“Excellent. Then, let’s start.”
“Okay, you first.”
Turning toward the Presidio, he would take them onto Richardson, past the Palace of Fine Arts, and onto the 101 in no time. However, getting them across the bridge and into Tiburon quickly would be an entirely different matter.
“If you’ll recall, you were sharing with me that your hand had been f’d up since childhood.”
He nodded.
“And that your brother cut it with an axe.”
Another nod.
“And yet, when I ask Mom…”
She hesitated on purpose as he cut her a glance. “Yes?”
“Well, she always says the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“Ask your father,” they said simultaneously, breaking into laughter.
She straightened up. “Dad, you know I love you more than anything in the world, and can’t imagine life without you…”
She paused. He waited.
“Nattie, just spit it out. I’ve told you, you’ve asked your mother, then I’ve told you again.”
“Is that your final answer?”
Shaking his head, he said, “Yes. And what is it you want me to say?”
“First, say you love me. Then show me…by being there for me.”
Whipping his head to her, he snapped, “What? Are you joking?”
She looked embarrassed. “Okay, I’m being silly. Why wouldn’t I take you at your word. After all, we don’t lie to one another, do we?” She raised a curled pinky finger.
“Right! We don’t lie,” he grinned, extending his curled pinky.
Interlocking them, they said, “Pinky Promise.”
“Okay. I’ll let it go. Too much other shit going on to be distracted by nothing.”
Michael was halfway across the Golden Gate and looking up through his sunroof when his mind drifted toward Jasmine and the smell of her neck. Taking in the vista, he smiled, patting Natalie’s knee. They continued riding in silence until Sausalito was on their right and the Marin Headlands to their left.
Natalie broke the quiet. “And one more thing?”
“Yes, Baby.”
“As cliche as it sounds—especially in this neighborhood—but you may want to wipe the lipstick from your neck.”
Shocked, he blurted, “Shit!”
“I’d say so.”
Shaking his head, he felt his whole body flush with embarrassment.
“Jasmine?”
“What?”
She slowly turned toward him. “You heard me.”
He was silent before pulling in a long, deep breath, and letting it out slowly.
“You can tell me. Pinky promise, remember?”
He could not hide the grin, nor did he want to. This will be a line in the sand, he thought. “Yes. But it’s—”
“Not what it looks like? C’mon, Dad, you can do better than that!”
“Shit.”
“So lame.”
“Natalie, stop!”
Holding up both hands, “Okay, okay?”
He looked from the stream of red lights ahead to the reflected glow on her cheeks. With a straight face, she whispered, “Too soon?”
That got a hearty laugh. “Sorry. And I’m going waaaaay out on a limb here, but—”
He shook his head in shame. “What is it now?”
“I’m guessing Mom does not know. Right?”
Silence.
“Okay, I’ll stop busting your chops.”
“Thank you. But she will. Know soon, I mean.”
They rode in silence past Strawberry Manor and The Cove. When they hit Blackie’s Pasture, Michael quietly said, “I love you, Nattie.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Always have. Always will. More than anything. And more than anyone.”
She took his hand, squeezed it in both of hers, and whispered, “I know.”
Another long beat was followed by an extended exhale when he said, “And I’m going to be honest with your mother. Beginning with the fact how this just happened today. And believe me, nothing like this has happened in our entire marriage. And I don’t know why it happened today. It just did.”
Natalie replied, “I’m hungry,” as they passed Woodlands Market.
Laughing, they both realized nothing else needed to be said.
Picking up the phone, he dialed Kathryn, apologized for running late, and told her they were less than 10 minutes away and to get dressed—they were going out for dinner. She seemed happy and he, oddly enough, was happy to hear her voice. But mostly, he was happy being able to trust his daughter.
Passing the Lodge at Tiburon, Michael became lost in thought, his mind flashing to all the good times his family had hosted there. Approaching the traffic circle, he recalled the hundreds of times he and his girls had grabbed coffee at Cafe Accri after meeting him at the ferry before walking along Shoreline Park to their home at the top of the hill.
Just before turning into their neighborhood, he saw The Caprice up ahead and dialed the restaurant to book their favorite table, the one overlooking Angel Island across the bay. He and the owner were close friends, thus the only way they would get a table of high demand at such late notice.
Turning into the neighborhood, he asked, “This isn’t even a little weird, right?”
With an odd expression, she said, “Why would you say that?”
“Not sure exactly. Just that there’s no other way to explain it—except that I had a really fucked up childhood.”
“Not exactly sure how that has anything to do with this, but I’d love to hear. Besides, I’d say we’ve reached a whole new level of bonding.”
“You’re right,” he said with a deep breath. “Well, it all started in a closet—”
11
Deadly Cocktail
It was late when Dalton pulled into his Murray Park neighbor of Kentfield. It had been a challenging day and he was ready to put it all behind him. His employees were improving although not as quickly as he had hoped, and his inmates were just this side of dog shit and needed to be scraped from the bottom of his shoe. In all the years he worked inside the system, he wondered how there could be so many completely worthless human beings still in existence. He also wondered why the same system spent any money at all to keep them alive—they had, after all, committed heinous crimes and deserved to die in heinous ways.
Dalton liked living on the outskirts. Given he stared at San Francisco through barred windows every day, occasionally socialized in Mill Valley, and shopped in nearby Larkspur, the township of Kentfield was his haven. And what made the enclave a slice of heaven was having a home that backed up to Baltimore Canyon Preserve.
Quiet—no kids screaming in nearby yards.
Secluded—no visitors interrupting his free time.
Private—no eyes watching his every move.
Dalton pulled up the long driveway, parked his truck inside the spotless garage, and went inside his dark and silent house. A single floor lamp illuminated part of the living room and stood next to his favorite chair where he would sit after pouring a brandy.
Tossing his suit coat on the back of the couch, he methodically rolled up his sleeves and loosened his belt before settling into the lounger. Flashing back to bits of the day, he hoped the incoming liquid comfort would help erase the images and let him focus upon other tastier matters. Easing off his brogues was the final step to comfort. Taking a sip, Dalton felt the stout liquid melt away his boredom.
Scanning the alphabetical titles on his bookcase, his eyes fell on a book about Medieval punishment. Setting his drink aside, he took down the book and flipped to a section: “Ten Most Cruel Execution Methods.” Dalton, grinning at his own macabre humor, considered the reading selection a perfect choice to get him in the mood. The volume was complete with sketches of the methods. Number ten was death by a thousand cuts. He grinned at how people used that phrase today; however, according to the picture, it was a barbaric way they killed offenders in the early 1900s in China.
Another one involved a person hanging from their legs spread apart while being sawed in half—completely barbaric. A more popular method and one with religious leanings was crucifixion. Then there was a method in which an offender was strapped to a wheel while all limbs were smashed to bits by a large hammer. Taking another sip, Dalton turned the page. Flaying someone alive came next.
Dalton had seen enough. He preferred simplicity: make it public with no courts, juries, or drawn-out procedures. As far as he was concerned, his inmates all deserved to get exactly what they were incarcerated for: death. He did not care if they were electrocuted, lethally injected, or hanged.
In fact, if he had his way, he would return to one of two Medieval methods not listed in the book: decapitation and burning at the stake. In fact, perhaps they could be decapitated and their remains burned in a pit.
He was nearly finished with his drink—and certainly over his choice of reading material—as he pictured all the idiots at work who wanted something from him. He hated how they watched his every move—giving him grief when things were not just so. Yet, he had the most disciplined group of men and a few women under his direct control. It was by far his best job to date.
The century old prison with all its antiquities and barbaric mindset was in vast disrepair and in dire need of disciplined management. That was the reason he had been hired: to bring order to a world of chaos—exactly what he had done from the first day he stepped on the decrepit campus of misery.
