Set in Stone (1)

A Katherine Kavanaugh Story

Chapter 1

Friday night, the bar was full of men in business suits pretending they wanted to hang out with each other while constantly scanning the room for a woman who might be willing to bang them then take a taxi home. As if such a creature exists outside the fantasies of twenty-something douchebags. The drinks were two for one for ladies, which explained the groups of them clustered about, fully aware of the Neanderthal urges of the suits, and generally disinclined to play, but willing to get drunk on someone else’s dime. I didn’t blame them. The deck is stacked against women, for the most part. Might as well get free drinks with your inevitable harassment.

                I wasn’t looking for the same sort of deal as the button-down types, but I can’t say my motives were any better.  See, I steal stories right out of people’s mouths, twist them around a bit, stew them in a thin plot and season with salacious details. Then I pawn them off as original works of art. No one ever calls me on it, partly because there’s fuck-all they can do, but mostly because the sorts of things you tell a strange guy in a bar aren’t the kind of tales you want to repeat in front of God and everyone. Besides, it’s almost impossible to make a living as a writer, even a good one, which I’ve never claimed to be, so we’re hardly worth suing over a few pilfered memories.

                The girl I wanted sat in the corner, nursing a mixed drink that looked more serious than fruity, not toying with her straw or eating cherries, and not accepting any drinks sent to her by various men. I’m sure they were all disappointed, since this girl reeked of money without trying. Her chocolate brown sweater revealed nothing, if you didn’t recognize cashmere or the silk collar of the shirt barely peeking out. Her pearls were real and perfectly matched, but not overwhelming in size or volume. The slacks she wore were off the rack, but the shoes might as well have been dipped in gold. That didn’t stop her from wrapping her feet in the rung of the bar stool. She couldn’t quite manage a slump, though she was trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Not easy, considering her hair shone like a damned shampoo commercial. Her make-up was precise, understated, and completely unnecessary. That sort of presentation is learned from birth. People like her had no place being in a bar like this, even though it tried so hard to be upscale. Yet there she was.

                I waited until the pretty little round girl, wearing a skirt two inches shorter than a whore would consider proper, hopped off the stool next to Rich Girl and teetered toward the bathroom on unsteady heels. I nudged the schlub in front of me and told him that plump little bird looked promising. He followed, probably because I didn't reveal that signs pointed to the tart being a mafia baby, too.  Did I mention I’m not a nice guy?

Still, you never know. They could fall in love, run away from the lives they’d envisioned, and live happily ever after, despite coming from different worlds and having nothing in common. What? It could happen. And you could win the lottery, too. Go buy a ticket. You never know.

Rich Girl didn’t look at me when I sat down, which might have hurt my feelings once upon a time, but probably not. I didn’t look at her, either. That, she found surprising. I suppressed a smile at how easily some people are caught. Good thing all I wanted was her stories. I was betting she’d have doozies, maybe even some with names worth dropping. I could branch out to tell-alls if the angle was right.

“Bourbon, neat,” I said when the bartender looked my way, “and whatever she’s having, give her another.” I still didn’t turn my head.

“I don’t…” Rich Girl protested.

“Care,” I finished for her. “I know. I don’t actually give a damn if you drink it, either.”

“Then why buy it for me?”

“Because I may be the only guy in this bar who has zero interest in fucking you, with the possible exception of that ponce in the corner. He needs a better tailor if he’s going to get one of these jokers to hop the fence – or admit to being on his team.”

                “That’s a shallow assessment,” she sniffed.

                “But accurate. Appearances are bait in a place like this, which makes me wonder why you stopped in, when you’ve made it obvious you aren’t fishing.”

                “And yet, here you are, trying to get all friendly with me while feeding me bullshit lines about how you wouldn’t have sex with me if I offered.” She took the drink I’d bought her.

                “Never said that, love.” I gave her a tiny smile. “What I said was that I don’t want to fuck you, which I don’t. Seems to me that would be a waste of time and effort on both our parts, seeing as how it wouldn’t satisfy in the least. A woman like you deserves more than that.”

                “I suppose you think you’re the one to give it to me,” she scoffed.

                “Not at all. I’m not right for you. I’m too rough – unpolished, if you will – too blunt and honest. You want someone who can give you smooth lies and smooth rides on expensive sheets and reward you with a pretty sports car at Christmastime.”

                She shook her head. “You got all that from sitting down next to me?”

                “No, I got that from observing you from across the room, which is admittedly a bit creepy but one of the hazards of my trade.” I looked over at her. “The bag is Prada, but not the latest. You’ve had it for a while and you carry it because you like it, not because you give a shit about the name. You have a diamond ring on your finger, but it’s not yours. I’m going to guess it belonged to your mum, or maybe it’s been in the family longer. You got a manicure earlier in the week, and you threw on a pedicure at the last minute.”

                “Yep, that qualifies as creepy.”

                “It’s a curse. I have an eidetic memory, and I spent way too many hours in hospital waiting rooms reading fashion magazines and staring at people who were also marking time until someone they loved died. So don’t take it personally, peach. My ability to catalog your life through sartorial choices is just a party trick.”

                She lifted her glass to me. “Then it’s a pretty damned good one. Thanks for showing it to me.” She started to gather up her things.

                “Don’t leave in a snit. I’ll stop telling you about yourself and leave you to drink away your guilt over… whatever it is.”

                “I’m going to regret asking this, but what makes you think I’m feeling guilty?”

                “Because it’s true. I can practically smell it on you. You picked this bar because you’re unlikely to run into anyone you know. They either frequent classier joints or grubbier ones, the latter being the prowling grounds of your friends from university. For some reason, you don’t want to hang out with either crowd, and that, my girl, is very interesting indeed.”

                “What difference does it make to you?”

                “Personally? None at all. But I’m going to be completely honest with you. I think you have a story you want to tell someone, and you can’t bring yourself to tell it to anyone you already know. So, why not unburden your soul to a total stranger with a slightly appealing accent and nothing better to do with the next several hours than listen to your confession?”

                “You are very strange,” she said into her glass.  I liked the way it modified her voice.

                “True.”

                “You’re lonely, too.” It was cute when they tried to play my game.

                “On occasion, but we’ve established that you don’t care, and I’m not your type.”

                She raised perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Did we, or did you  make random guesses, despite knowing nothing about me?”

                “Fair enough. Was I wrong about most of it?”

                She laughed. “Not entirely. You totally hit the mark about this place being a mistake.”

                I waited. It couldn’t be this easy to get her out of the increasingly loud bar.

                It was.

                “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so before I drink more and start to find you charming, let’s get some dinner.”

                “Aren’t you worried about going somewhere with a strange, irritating man you don’t know?” I asked.

                She held out her hand. “Katherine Kavanaugh. And you are?”

                Buggered. I shoved that thought aside and kissed the back of her hand. “Michael Stone.”

                “Well, Michael Stone who knows everything with a glance, let’s get out of here.”

                “You sure? I could be some mad, creepy stalker.”

                She gave me a dazzling smile and patted her bag. “And I could have a nine millimeter Glock in my purse with an extra clip in case you get really frisky. You never know.”

                She slapped a fifty on the bar and led the way out, the sea of inadequate men parting before her and one poor sod trailing behind, wondering if maybe this time, I'd made a mistake.

Dangling

The cord strained my arms, back, legs. Even the boulder bracing me groaned as I pulled. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

“Let go,” a bittersweet plea. Liam had never believed in my strength. Even now, he doubted my resolve.

I tugged harder. He scrabbled for purchase, hindered by slick stone, ice forming in crevices, pebbling on my skin, turning fingers brittle.

The rope slipped. Liam’s gasp echoed off the canyon wall. Woven length wrapped around my hand, cutting off feeling, I turned around and heaved.

He scrambled over the top, tears frozen.

“Next time, wear the goddamned safety harness.”

Traditions

Marla stirred methodically, humming a lullaby familiar as my own name. I picked seeds from piles of pungent leaves, making a pyramid of possibility on splattered harvesting canvas. The kitchen smelled as it always had on brewing days: sweat, herbs, roses, and the stink of clarifying fat.

Marla sang with the same cadence as grandma had. Mama had skipped out on this part of her duty. On us, too.

I joined Marla, my fists filled with crushing green sweetness. “Told you Charlie Wright was good for something.”

“Bones woulda been optimal,” Marla said. “Still, it’s gonna be a fine gravy.”

Anniversary

Falling in layers, falling apart, rotting silk conveys in scent the enormity of what I’ve lost. One day. One happy day. Maybe a week. Two? Not a whole month. Never a year.

He loved me. I remember that. It was his undoing.

She was ruthless, his ex. Never laid a hand on us. Never showed her face. Just systematically destroyed his reputation, his credit, his faith. Then he started looking sideways at me.

Watery sunlight strikes remnants of a gown that was to herald a new chapter. It did that, if not as intended. He hanged himself with my veil.

Impact

Garnet pulled a loose thread, widening the ladder in the sweater her mother had knit. She tried to remember mum’s blonde curls bouncing as she laughed at a joke. Garnet had been funny, then. But the image would not come, supplanted by cornflower blue eyes wide with fear, body tilting at sickening angles as the car spun on grease-slicked road, rolling over and over, filling with smells of piss and blood and smoke.

Garnet had crawled from the crumpled wreckage of her life, just inches from the cliff. Freed from the hospital at last, it was time to go over.

Esprit

Deft fingers turning ancient dial, quiet clicks echoed in Malcolm’s head.

“Hurry up!” Sal hissed.

“One shouldn’t rush delicate work.” The last tumbler fell into place, satisfying need for perfection.

“Cops could show at any minute.”

“Then you won’t have done your job.”

“Fucking ponce.”

Malcolm opened the safe and laconically placed stacks of bills into Sal’s shaking hands. The younger man zipped it up and turned away, anticipating dissipation.

Thin wire across delicate throat, pink bubbles erupting from surprised lips, Sal fell.

Bonds tucked into his inside jacket pocket, Malcolm stepped over the body and into a finer world.

Cold

Brady held court, a golden prince with a scarred wooden chair for a throne. Beautiful women drew close, vying for attention, as usual.

Behind the bar, Jackson frowned, first at Brady, then at me. “That doesn’t bug you?”

“No need to be hateful for what happened.” I sipped my wine.

“I’d have beaten him to death with the nearest branch. Still could, if you want.”

“That’s sweet, in a murderous way.” I slid him a five. “But I have this covered.”

On my way out, I nodded to the women I’d hired, every last one infected with a virulent pox.

Cause and Effect

Standing at the door, Linda felt time slow, ensuring she bore witness to every moment:

Drake, splayed across the bed, arms at odd angles.
Drake, bathed in sweat, streaked with blood.
Drake, eyes glazed, staring heavenward.
Drake, undone by the whip and the woman riding him.

Closing her eyes, she saw it all again, a travesty caught in the amber of memory:

Drake, raging at his own nature.
Drake, mouthing promises.
Drake, on his knees, begging.
Drake, undone, first by her resistance, then the snub-nose revolver he’d insisted would keep her safe.

Funny how right he was in the end.

Breakthrough

My fingers flew over the keyboard, creating entire worlds with complex code. Matthew looked over my shoulder, eyes flicking rapidly, as he, too, saw the scenarios.

"I can't believe Sasha gave you this cherry assignment."

I shrugged, not bothering to look him in the eye. Or, more accurately, not daring. His blond hair fell over one eye, and no amount of finger-raking would ever keep it in place. Didn’t stop him, though. He leaned closer, giving me a whiff of bergamot, amber, and something sharp I couldn’t identify. The mixture was an intoxicating addition to an already irresistible package… Yeah, not thinking about the package at all. Code. That was what I needed. More and more code.

“Hold on,” he said. His voice vibrated, setting of a series of shivers I prayed he didn’t notice.

My hands stilled. “Did I screw up?”

“No, not exactly. In fact, I think you just did something brilliant.”

My heart beat faster. Matthew did not praise lightly.

“Jax, come look at this.”

“Working!” Jax snarled. He was ever so pretty, but a complete troll.

“Yeah, well, stop for a second. You need to see what Mickey’s done.”

With heavy sigh, Jax rolled his chair next to mine. For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened. “Okay, I’ve seen. No big.”

Matthew chuckled. “You’re just jealous. That, right there? That’s bank.” Without warning, he kissed me on the cheek. “I’m off to tell Sasha her wonder girl just changed the face of gaming.”

Confession

“Is there something wrong?” 

I ticked off salient points. “We’re in Las Vegas, which in and of itself was an abominable decision. You hit on possibly the only woman in the bar who shouldn’t go anywhere with you, much less to your room for a quickie. Which you did after losing your part of the travel fund attempting to impress her.”

He interrupted. “She has a name.”

I opened my arms. “Look at all the fucks I don’t give. Why? Because you didn’t check to see if her name came with a ‘missus’ in front of it before you played tonsil hockey by the elevators!”

“She wasn’t wearing a ring.” A weak protest, best ignored.

“No, she was dripping with diamonds, including sewn into her goddamned dress. Was that not a clue?”

“Sexist of you. She could have bought those herself.”

I snorted. “Women are generally smart enough to invest their money elsewhere, because they know how to show themselves off with more class and less danger. Jewels are bought by their very well-connected husbands, should they be lucky enough – or un – to have such.”

“You’re just jealous.”

I took a deep breath.
Two.
Didn’t help.
Another.
Slightly better.
I let it out slowly.

“No, you fucking moron. I’m pissed off that you put me in this situation.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.


And that, officer, is why I shot my brother in the ass.  I did not, however, shoot the guy in the bathtub. I just borrowed his gun.

_______________
Written for the Thursday Threads challenge. Check out the other entries, too!

ETA: And it won!

Fox and Hound

“He acts like a lord taking stock of his vassals,” the woman beside me huffed. Flawless makeup hid much, but she’d been used often and badly.

“I think of him more as a shepherd looking over his flock.”

“You mean they’d follow him anywhere?”

“I mean if they scattered, he’d never get them back.”

Not that I blamed Val for having no control over those in attendance. Young, rich, and frequently bored, they waited for someone to break their social code, so they could turn on the heretic.

I sat at the bar, not so out of place as to be obvious, but someone was bound to notice I didn’t belong. Lucky me, that person was Val. He gave me a crooked smile and approached, all perfect lines and animal grace. I’d waited years for this moment, not that he knew it.

“Catalina,” he purred. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Percival Weatherstone.”

“How might I serve you?” He gave a mock bow, complete with flourish.

“I think it’s my turn.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a letter, and slapped it on his chest. “Consider yourself served.”

He tossed it aside. “After all we meant to each other, how could you treat me as a job?”

“It was just sex, Val.” Spectacular sex, actually. “I’m a constable, and tonight you are my job. Good luck.”

I left him, mouth agape, and smiled all the way home. He never could stand his charms being ignored.

The chase was on.

________________________
Written for the Thursday Threads challenge.

Spotlight

Mick looked out over the crowd. Well, as far as he could see with the lights in his face. She was out there somewhere, watching. Not much he could do about it. She’d paid to get in, just like everyone else. Still, it made his skin crawl.

The guys had teased him when the first letter arrived, delivered by a waitress who was not impressed by the middle band on the bill. There were times when Mick missed being the unknown opener. Not that he had complaints about their incremental success. It was better than his last two bands had managed. They made enough to pay bills and buy groceries – or whatever else his band mates might consider important. Mick liked to eat well. They teased him about that, too, though he wasn’t the one with a gut hanging over his belt. Maybe that’s why the girl had fixated on him. He had no illusions of being studly, but he was in pretty good shape, and he’d been told he had a nice smile. He smiled a lot on stage. Nothing made him happier than bouncing around with his bass, like Tigger on his springy tail.


“Aw, you have a fan.” Greg ruffled Mick’s hair. “Your first groupie.”

“The first with you lot, anyway.” Mick said.

David tore his attention away from the mirror. “Probably some lonely, fat chick.”

“Jealousy is an ugly emotion.” Mick smiled. “I like a woman who gives me something to hold onto. Those coked-out anorexics you prefer have no stamina at all.”

“Have a good time with that,” Greg said. “Just don’t let her follow you home. It’s hard to get them to leave once you let them in.”

Chela slapped Greg on the back of the head. “You’re the one who followed me, asshole.”

“See what happens when you get lost in the fog of lust? You wake up six months later and find out you stole the keyboard player from another band and married her.” Greg kissed his wife on the cheek and went out to do a last sound check.

“Don’t listen to them. It took courage for that girl to write you.” Chela smiled. “Relationships have started in stranger ways.”

Of course, that had only been the first letter. He’d received one at every show for the past year. His gut clenched whenever someone walked into the dressing room. The band insisting that nothing be brought backstage had not helped. The letters appeared on the stairs or the edge of the stage. Sometimes, they slid under the door. If he was lucky, he didn’t find them until the end of the night.

No one teased him now, and Chela definitely didn’t think it was romantic. Of all his band mates, she understood best. At least she had been able to identify her stalker, take steps to keep him away from her. Mick had no idea what the girl looked like, how old she was, where she was from.

She knew plenty about him, though. It was creepy as hell. It also made it impossible for him to date any of the women who expressed an interest in him. If a woman wore a scarf, he wondered if she was the one who’d written about tying him up. Multiple piercings had also lost their appeal, much as he tried to forget that particular letter. He couldn’t even go to the salon after the lavish description of how she would wash his hair. After one letter was delivered to his flat, Greg had rented an apartment and sublet it to him. Chela picked up his mail at a PO Box. One good thing had come from it. The landlord let him keep a dog. He curled up next to Thor every night. The big shepherd was fiercely protective of the man who’d rescued him from the shelter. It had taken a month before he could have friends over, but the loss of a social life was nothing compared to the sense of security Thor provided.

The one thing he wouldn’t let his stalker steal from him was his music. He threw himself into it with more dedication than he’d had since trying to convince his dad it was not just a lark. Several bands had tried to woo him away, but there was no way he’d accept. Even if Epic Stasis had not continued to be successful, in part due to the band trying to keep up with Mick’s increased skill, he would never leave the people who supported him through this ordeal.

A steady drumbeat brought him back to the moment. The audience clapped in time. Mick added the bass line. Chela built up to a crescendo, and David bounded out, his charisma brighter than any stage light. The music took Mick, fingers flying without thought, everything falling away until there was nothing but sound, a moment of pure joy.

After the first song, David looked out over the crowd. “This is our last show for a couple of months.” Boos greeted his announcement. “Don’t be like that,” he chided. “We’re cutting our first album for Tangier Records!” The crowd roared. “Enjoy whatever illicit thing you have in your pocket tonight. The next gig will be an arena with lots of security. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, folks.” The audience laughed.

Mick leaned into the microphone. “This next song is for my biggest fan. I wrote it just for you. So if you’re out there, sweetheart, come on up. It’s about time you got your due.”

The crowd looked around as the band began playing. A ripple formed as they moved aside, a sea parting for the prophet of doom. She was almost pretty, blonde, a little curvy, average, no one who would stand out in a crowd. She stared up at Mick with feverish intensity. He pointed at her and smiled. As David sang the first lines of Gone Away Fear, the officer at the bar nodded and stood.