Messalina: Devourer of Men (19 page)

            “Shit, fuck, and damn.” I put my coffee down.

            “Mmm, nice voice.” Ana grins. “Definitely a son of the South. What ’cha gonna do?”

            “I ain’t doing squat,” I say and sit on a barstool for emphasis. “I have a deadly hangover, I’m supposed to help set up for the gallery exhibit at Daddy’s store—and now this.”

            “Welcome to the wonderful world of relationships, Eva! Speaking of which, I have a husband waiting for me at home.”

            “Oh, no. You’re not leaving me now, Ana-Marie Benedetto.”

            But she has her purse and one hand on the doorknob. She looks so fresh and moves so fast, no one would guess she helped kill two bottles of Chablis and a bottle of Jack. She gives me a warm, big-sisterly smile.

            “And you, Evadne Louise Cavell, are a big girl.”

            She’s out the door before I can protest.

            “Coward!” But I’m the only one to hear my reply as it reverberates in my head.

I need a bath. Taking my coffee and grabbing a bag of saltines, I go to the bathroom and prepare for a long soak. I must’ve dozed off, because the security buzzer going off beside my front door wakes me. I glance at the bathroom clock. He’s punctual, once again. Wrapping a towel around me, I go to answer the buzzer.

“What!” I bark.

“Eva?” There’s a pause before he says, “It’s Jared. Did you get my message?”

“Yes. Did you get
my
message?”

“What message?”

“The one I left with Sarah.”

Silence. Then, softly, he asks, “Can I come in?”

“Listen, I have a headache and I’m in no mood to—shit!” Instead of pressing the “talk” button, I pressed “open” and can hear Jared opening the security door through the speaker.

“God
damn
it!” I rush to the bathroom to let the water out of the tub. The doorbell rings as I tie a knot in my purple silk robe. Taking a deep breath, I answer the door.

He stands in faded blue jeans and a black polo shirt emphasizing his athletic frame, looking very handsome and together. I want to slap the white off him, but cross my arms over my chest.

“Hello, Eva.”

“What? No flowers?”

“May I?” He smiles and takes a step forward.

“If you must.”

His eyes turn cold for a moment, but I don’t care. He enters the living room where the remains of last night greet him.

“Wild party last night?”

“Yes. Too bad you and Sarah couldn’t make it.”

“You have a way with sarcasm.”

“What do you want, Jared?”

“To see you.” He takes a seat on the barstool I had occupied not too long before. “Thanks for the card,” he says with a smile. “It was the first thing I read.”

I glare at him. “You’re welcome.”

He takes me in with those damn violet eyes. I fear my determination may give, but I brace myself. He’s nonchalant and looks around as if killing time, not offering any information about Sarah.

“Who’s Sarah?”

“My girlfriend.”

Case closed. In that instant, my blood pressure spikes and a rosy pink haze clouds my vision. It really is possible to see red when you’re enraged..

“Why the hell are you here, Jared? I have no intention of being your spare.”

“You’re not my spare,” he says, the sharpness in his voice matching mine.

“So Sarah’s your spare, whatever. I hate to tell you this, but I
am
the jealous type.” And I bet I made a fierce-looking sight, too, with my mussed, slightly damp hair, smudged eye makeup, and deathbed pallor. I walk the few steps from the door and into the kitchen. I’m aware that the front of my robe flashes a bit of flesh and fans the light, lavender scent of my bath soap. It gains his attention and I see him inhale deeply.

I refill my coffee mug, then the hostess in me gestures, offering him a cup. He accepts. When I push the mug his way and look at him, his face is soft with amusement.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re cute when you sulk.”

“Why, you son of a—get the fuck out of my house! If you think you can come here after balling your girlfriend and expect me to fall all over you, you’re fishing up the wrong tree.”

He laughs. “There’d be something wrong with me if I’m looking for fish up a tree. Some English prof you are, butchering metaphors like that.”

“Well you can take your conceited smart ass and get the hell out of my face.”

Instead, he sips his coffee as if I hadn’t spoke. “Listen, Eva. I know I’m about as welcome as an outhouse breeze at the moment, but I’m not as bad as you think.”

I raise an eyebrow. Outhouse breeze? I shake my head, not wanting his creative Tex-speak to distract me. “Oh, really? I’ll reserve judgement on that.” Taking my cup, I exit the kitchen. “I must make my own assessment of Mr. Libido.”

He turns in his seat. “What did you call me?”

“Mr. Libido. Don’t you know your
nom de guerre
? Seems your reputation precedes you.”

“Who calls me that?”

I shrug and carefully step over empty bottles to go sit on the couch. Thankfully, the blinds are down over the balcony doors, because I can’t deal with sunlight now. “My friend Tony Lobos told me that the other day. Apparently he knows of your prowess through a few of your conquests.”

“I’ll be damned.”

He’s beside me now. Close. I can smell his coffee and his aftershave—Perry Ellis, this time.

“Be flattered,” I say with a scowl. “Obviously, the crowd you hang with gave you your title.”

“Our crowds must mingle.” He looks at me. “Tony Lobos. Didn’t he host that theatre benefit and cast party for
A Doll’s House
not long ago?”

I nod. “I was there.” Now it’s my turn to look at him. “Met Sarah too.”

He grins. “We could’ve met that night, Eva.”

“No, I would’ve remembered.” I turn away to drink my coffee, cursing myself for letting him think he’s so special. His gaze burns into my profile. I know I shouldn’t, but I try to make polite conversation. “How was the rest of your trip?”

“Very boring. Eva, why are we talking like this? Will you look at me, please?”

He takes my coffee away and makes me face him.

“I have a hangover, Jared.”

“Let me cure it.”

“Don’t touch me.”

Maybe it’s the tone of my voice, my choice of words, or a combination, but for the first time since his arrival, he loses his composure—briefly. For a split second, his self-assured attitude disappears and his shoulders slump as if my words hurt him. For a moment, I’m sorry, too, but he recovers and so does my defense. Does he really expect pity?

“Evadne, what can I do? What can I say to make you understand how I feel about you?”

“Talk is cheap. I am not a harem member here for your convenience.”

“Should’ve thought of that before coming with me to Dallas.”

I turn on him like a viper about to strike and his face registers his surprise. “Hold it, asshole. I wouldn’t have if I knew you were taken.”

“I was joking.” 

            “Don’t.”

            He lowers his head and sighs. When he raises it again, his expression is serious. “I don’t find your disappointment out of place or unreasonable. Would I be here if I thought they might? Eva,” he says, taking my hand in both of his. “Eva?”

            I let my head fall back into the cushions and close my eyes. I can’t deal with this right now. Correction: I don’t want to deal with this now. I want to wait until I’m collected and strong with no chance of his breaking my will.

            “Evadne?” his voice is soft and smooth and he raises my hand until my fingertips encounter the softness of his lips. He moves his head from side to side, making my fingers stroke the outline of his mouth. I turn my head away and the shape of his lips burn inside my mind’s eye.

            “Eva, after you left I could not believe the void it created.” His arm goes around my shoulders and he pulls me close. “I know it’s selfish, but when you’re near me . . .” He sighs and his breath warm against my ear. “It’s like I feed on your spirit. You open me. You inspire me.”

Still, I won’t look at him. He presses his lips to the side of my neck. “Jared, don’t,” I say, but he knows my plea is a weak bluff. His mouth is beside my ear.

“I want to learn everything about you.” He squeezes me tighter. “I need to know every inch and curve of you. Please. I am sorry, Evadne. Will you look at me?”

            I keep my eyes closed tight, not wanting to face the dilemma he has put me in: whether or not to forgive a man who cheated on me.

            But did he cheat? Whirlwind trip aside, not once did Jared “claim” me to be his. Then again, I never bothered to ask if he were free for me to take.

            “Evadne?” He gives me a squeeze, pressing me harder against him. His skin is warm. I reach up with my free hand and feel his throat. His pulse is racing. He moans at my first responsive touch and holds my head as his lips crush mine. We slide back. As he covers my face with kisses, I have to spread my legs to accommodate us on the couch, forgetting I’m nude and damp beneath my robe. When I feel the rough denim of his pants and the way his cock tents them, I moan. He presses his hips into me and sighs.

My mind races back to how we were exactly one week ago.

            “Oh, Eva,” his voice strains, “before we go any further, please say you forgive me.” He lifts his head to look at me. “But I’m not going to force you.”

            I open my eyes and see his grim expression, his lips pressed in a thin line. His nostrils are flared as he tries to control both his breathing and his excitement. I could be a real bitch and push him off me, leaving him to deal with a painful erection, as well as rejection. But, if I’m really honest, it’s not entirely his fault. I focus on his eyes and I see—what? Passion? Definitely. Love? Possibly. Sincerity?

I sit up making him move off me. He falls back on the sofa, stretches his arms out, and sighs. I look at him staring blankly at the ceiling.

            “I don’t blame you, girl. I just wish I could—”

            “Jared,” I interrupt and when I touch his hand he immediately sits up and faces me. Before he can speak I say, “We need to talk, but not now.” His quizzical look makes me add, “I have to be somewhere tonight.”

            He nods, but I’m sure he thinks I’m blowing him off. He takes both of my hands in his and looks me in the eyes. “Just tell me when.”

            “Tomorrow?” I shrug.

            Jared reaches up and strokes my hair. “Be ready at six o’clock.”

* * * *

            My father, Preston Cavell, after twenty years of being a successful CPA, cashed it all in and renovated a two-storey, four-thousand square-foot warehouse into a combination bookstore, coffeehouse, music hall, and community theatre.  Officially, it’s called “Preston’s Place,” but to the literati and the terminally hip, it’s simply “Preston’s” and it’s located on the outskirts of lower downtown Denver, not far from the Platte River.

            Dad’s bookstore is the quickest way to understand the “spring from whence I sprang.”

My parents, Preston and Ivory, met in 1960 at a sit-in in Montgomery, Alabama. They witnessed the civil rights turmoil firsthand and used to get the occasional personal greeting from “Miss Coretta.” But despite everything, my parents’ love has prevailed. I’m jealous, really. Considering my track record with men, will I ever be so lucky?

Then there’s us—the siblings.

Brother Theo was born the day after Malcolm X was assassinated, and Sister Beverly was born the day MLK was shot. I, however, was born a few years after The Beatles split. Sometimes I think the events surrounding our births had some kind of cosmic effect on our lives. Theo, although not militant, is definitely opinionated. “You’d think the dashiki was invented especially for him,” his wife, LaRue, would tease.

Beverly
, on the other hand, is the peacemaker in the family, which comes in handy while teaching art in elementary school and dealing with her twin boys, Delius and Darien.

Then, you get to me. I was born with a general sense of confusion and left to wonder: What happens now? Probably similar to what Beatles fans felt after their break up. I dabbled in art and music and literature, only to discover I’m more competent studying their intrinsic value rather than creating them.

Among the three of us, you have in stair-step fashion, Theo the idealist, Beverly the artist, and me—the realist. Personally, I would’ve opted for one of the other two, but my parents tracked me and picked my course. They already have a son who can charm and do business, an artistic, beautiful elder daughter, so why not have the baby grow up to be a bookworm?

            Tonight, I’ve promised to help set up for an exhibit featuring work of several young artists from the local after-school program designed to keep teens off the street. When I get to the store and park across the street, I see the caliber of the work already sampled in the front windows. I’m awestruck. These kids have talent. Some show a preference for classical conventions of form, subject, and technique, while others are inspired by modern influences and being totally different.