K. Bromberg - Bend

“I’m ready, motherfuckers,” I bark into the speaker. “Come get me if you know so much.”

“What?”

I sit upright as the voice of the beautiful man registers. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m the only one who’s coming, Harper.”

I press end on the phone and page through my missed calls. All him! That stupid asshole! They were all him! I go to the messages and begin reading.

‘Dinner’s at eight.’

‘Beach tacos or fancy view?’

‘Harper, I do not like to be ignored.’

‘I’ll just come over, I’m just down the street.’

That message was five minute ago. Before the call.

My phone rings again and I answer. “What do you want?”

“I asked you a question, I expect an answer,” he growls into the phone. I absently log the sound of people, cars, a siren that I can hear both inside my apartment as it leaks in from outside, and through the phone. He’s close by. Just outside my building, probably.

Is he one of them? I’m not sure. “I’m confused,” I confess, the anti-anxiety drug kicking into full force now, making me slur my words. My body falls back into the covers. My head is spinning and my eyes are heavy. “I’m so confused…”

“Harper?” Beautiful demands from my phone on the blankets. I reach down, fingertips feeling for it. My vision blurs as I bring it to my face and stare at the fuzzy keypad.

“Go away, Beautiful,” I whisper to the fading light. “You can’t see me. I’m invisible. You don’t want to know me. Because I’m no one. I’m zero.”

Her words stop me. I’m walking into her building, and her words stop me. Beautiful? And then the call ends with three quick beeps and I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it. She took those pills. Her words were slurring. I scared the fuck out of her and she took those pills.

I grab the key I had made and open her door. The place is quiet except for the mechanical hum of the air conditioning. I close the door and walk over to her bed. She’s curled up in a ball, clutching her pillow. Most nights this is how she sleeps. But it’s not night and she’s not asleep. She’s passed out.

I grab the bottle from the bathroom and count the pills. Seven missing. Fourteen milligrams. Not great, but could be worse. These pills are not easy to overdose on. I know this shit. Pharmacology is my specialty. My calling card when I need to take care of business. The poison I use tells my superiors what kind of job it was. Anti-anxiety drugs are worthless for killing people, so she’s not gonna die, but she’s gonna be out of it for a while.

I pull the covers back and she moans. Her clothes are soaking wet, she smells like salt, and her head is still seeping blood. “Harper?” I pull her to a sitting position and grab her face. “Harper?”

Her eyes roll a little as she slurs out an incomprehensible word.

I let her lie back and then reach down to unbutton her shorts. They are stuck to her skin, so I have to tug them to get them over her curvy hips. Her underwear drags down with them. They’re black, like her sports bra, and for a moment I imagine her in lingerie.

My dick is hard immediately.

Her pussy is covered in fine blonde hair. Trimmed and neat. It stops my heart for a second. God. I’ve wanted this girl for months. I’ve imagined her spread out on this bed naked so many times, this is like reliving a dream. I pull her shorts and panties over her ankles and then lift her to sitting again. “Hold still,” I whisper as she moans. I tug the bra over her head and toss it down on the floor next to the shorts. And then I lift her up in my arms and hold her close. Her breasts press against me and then her arms encircle my neck and she leans in, pushing her face into my shoulder like she’s snuggling.

Fuck. I want her so bad.

She is mine. She feels like mine. I have an overwhelming desire to touch every part of her toned and tanned body. I want to push her up against the wall and take her from behind. I want to fuck her mouth with my cock and her pussy and ass with my fingers.

I’ve dreamed of this for months.

Oh, God. The headache. I turn over in bed and smell… what’s that smell?

My sheets smell delicious. Like a summer meadow. Fresh.

I inhale and then remember why I passed out in the first place and sit upright, my heart once again beating wildly. I don’t smell like the ocean and my clothes do not stink of salt, even though I jumped off a pier. And my bed is not littered with sand. I look around, trying to assess what’s happening.

Or what happened. When I fell asleep.

My head is so foggy from the Ativan. I look over at my bedside table and spy the bottle. How many did I take? Three? Four? More?

Too many after so many months clean. Enough to mess with my memory. But I only took them because I was freaked out. I thought…

What did I think?

I try to remember back. The pier. I jumped off a pier. Hit my head… my fingertips go to my left temple where the throbbing is. There’s no blood, just a scab and… stitches? I flick my finger back and forth across the tiny knots and there’s a jolt of pain as this pulls the tender skin.

Someone stitched my head.

I withdraw the hand.

Beautiful saved me. He stitched me back up.

No, no, no! Oh my God! That’s not what’s happening here, Harper! He’s working for them! He has to be, how else would he get my phone number? And why was he following me in the first place?

I silence the inner voice. I can’t stand it right now. It needs to just go away and let me react. Things need to be simple. If ever there was a time to rely on instincts, this is it.

And the simple truth is, that guy attacked me, kissed me, and insinuated he was going to have sex with me. He works for them. I know this. I’m certain of this. I’m not sure what kind of game he’s playing, but I’ve met a few of the hunters growing up. He’s definitely one of them. All cocky, charismatic, and calm. He seemed very sure of himself.

Didn’t he?

But why didn’t he kill me? Or take me back?

I look around for my phone and spy it on the table next to the pills. I scoot across the bed and grab it so I can search my messages. But when I open the log, there’s nothing there. Empty. Just as it should be. No one ever messages me. No one has this number.

But… he did message me. He asked me… damn. I can’t recall what, but I jumped off the pier when he asked me something and then I walked home, panicked when I got the message—the one that’s not here—and I took the pills and went to bed to ride it out.

But… I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a pink tank top and white boy short underwear. I smell my skin. Nope, no trace of the ocean. I smell like soap. I must’ve taken a shower.

And changed the sheets?

Because there’s no sand in the bed. None between my toes. The shorts and sports bra I was wearing should be on the floor where I usually throw them when I undress, but they’re nowhere to be found.

I laugh as I get up and pad over to the kitchen to start some coffee. “I should get high on Ativan more often. Apparently stoned Harper is a neat freak.”

Or…

Beautiful came in, cleaned me up and stitched my wound, clothed me, changed my sheets, and did the laundry. I laugh at the thought.

Or…

God, I hate the incessant sub-vocalization of my mind. Why can’t it shut up?

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Maybe there was no man on the pier? Maybe I took the pills and all that stuff was nothing more than an over-sedation fugue.

I really need to get out of this house. How long can one person talk to themselves before it’s considered a pathology? I have no idea, but I’m not into finding out. Maybe that guy was a dream, who cares. If he was here to take me back, I’d be back. I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing half naked in my kitchen making coffee.

Screw the coffee. I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. I check the time to see how long I was out and it’s seven thirty. On cue, a rumble erupts from my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day.

I grab a pair of cut-off shorts from my dresser, slip into a fresh bra, and shimmy into a white tank top. Hair is never more than a pony-tail, so I just smooth it over and pull it up.

My feet find my flops by the door, I grab my key and head out.

I stop by the mechanical room to drop off the key and pick up some cash. Just ten bucks. I have about eight hundred left to my name, but it’s hard to care when all I want is ten dollars and my stomach is beginning to hurt.

Since there are only four people who live in this building, the chances of me bumping into them at any particular time are low. I love that, because right now everyone is the enemy. I appreciate people when I need something. Like the guy at the Mexican place where I’m headed now. He gives me food in exchange for money. So I appreciate him for his taco-making skills.

But I don’t want to know his name and I don’t want him to know mine.

I want nothing to do with anyone. I just want to hang out in my strange state of limbo and chill. I’ve never talked to my neighbors. I know what they look like, I keep an eye out for weirdness, things that go against the grain. Different is bad. I like same. Same is good.

Except for the beautiful man.

There was no man. I dreamed that whole thing. Jumped off a pier! Ha. What a stupid move. But dreams are like that. You jump off piers all the time in dreams. And seriously, I will have really fucked up if he is real, because I gave him my name.

I walk down the sidewalk that leads out to Fifth Street, open the gate, and steady myself to join the world.

The restaurant is busy so I just get right in line, pretending to look up at the menu as I wait. I don’t eat here often, it’s too close to home to be a regular. But when I do, I get the same thing every time. Asada tacos, a side of rice, and a tea. Fifteen minutes later I have my greasy bag of food, some napkins and a plastic fork. The tables outside are full, so I head down to the beach to eat on the steps that line Pier Plaza. I pick a space against the wall and get settled. I come here every night for the sunset. The city put in these stadium-like concrete steps for sunset and volleyball-watchers.

Sitting here at sunset and waking up with the sun on the pier, those are the two constants in my life at the moment. The two things I can count on to keep me sane. It’s only eight right now, so I have a little wait for the sun to set.

I scarf the food. Once I start, I can’t stop. It’s like I haven’t eaten in days.

I’m just about to shovel the last forkful of rice in my mouth when my phone vibrates.

My heart thumps. Once. It’s a giant thump that almost sends me into another panic attack, but I calm myself and reach for the phone, a small stream of light leaking out from the screen on the concrete seat next to me.

‘Tacos on the beach. Check.’

I stand up and whirl around, just as the phone vibrates in my hand again. I ignore it, still searching. He’s not here on the steps. I hop up on the concrete barrier that partitions off the various seating sections and scan again.

How would I even know him? I don’t know his build, or his gait, or his height. I know his eyes. And the touch of his lips, the dance of his tongue. And none of that is helpful from a distance.

My phone vibrates again so I jump down and check the screen.

‘You only see me if I want you to.’

‘But you can see me any time you want?’ I text back.

‘I want to know you, and I always get what I want. BTW, I love the shorts, Harp.’

My hand flies to my chest, as if to protect my heart from the immediate hurt that floods me when I read the name. Harp. How dare this man insert himself into my life and pretend like he’s got a right to know me. How dare he interrupt my routine, take me out of the bubble of comfort that I’ve wrapped myself in.

I grab the remains of my dinner, jog back up the steps, and dump it in the trash. Then I jaywalk across PCH, feeling a little like Frogger in the rush-hour traffic, and turn the corner at Fifth to walk home.

See? See, Harper? This is why you stay the fuck inside.