Season Vining: Beautiful Addictions

A rhombus of light slanted across her floor from the window, blazing yellow-gold. Dust particles floated in and out of the beam, and when Josie moved, they swirled frantically, like a shaken snow globe. She found herself entranced by them, jealous of their carefree and aimless existence.

Tristan, her mind repeated again. She now had a name to go with the seraph’s face. She smirked, realizing that the things she wanted to do to him were quite devilish. Josie wanted to explore and conquer that man, like no one before him. She wanted to mark his skin and exchange breaths while whispering sexual promises. Before letting the fantasy run freely, she focused her attention back on her sketch.

There was more now, more than a carnal desire for the taste of his flesh. Josie wanted to memorize him, inside and out. She wanted to dissect the memories he possessed and reenact each one to make them concrete. She wanted to give herself over to Tristan and ask him to mold her into something better than she was. But when had she ever gotten what she wanted?

A pounding sounded against her door. She ignored it. Instead, Josie focused on recreating the needle-made art of Tristan’s left shoulder. She glanced at the clear plastic grab bag of pills sitting on her table. They seemed to be calling to her. Eat me. Feel good. Forget everything. She sketched the shapes of Tristan’s tattoo, filling them with gray. What a disservice to the original art, she thought. They should be red and violet and deep-water blue. She hadn’t used color on paper in years. She didn’t even own the tools to do so.

The pummeling sounded again, startling her from her drawing. Josie looked at her rattling door, the secured chain swinging from the force. As much as she loved her isolation, she knew she’d have to answer.

Freeing the chain and twisting two dead bolts, Josie swung the door open to find a smiling Alex, dimples on display. His hulking form dwarfed her as he beamed his most charming smile and waited to be invited in. She moved aside and secured the door behind him.

“You know you don’t have to lock that when I’m here, Jo. I got you.” He winked and flexed his huge arms in her direction.

Josie was not impressed.

Alexander Hernandez was a beast of a man, a giant in reputation and size. He’d been raised in the roughest part of the city, tainted with crime and violence, and he’d never left. This metropolis and its pollutants flowed through his veins, more important to survival than his Hispanic blood. He was a sinner and a mortal, and he knew in the end that meant he’d smolder in the fiery pits of hell. He was okay with that. Acceptance was apparently the key to inner peace.

Alex knew misdeeds and narcotics and only one way of life. He had been in and out of juvenile detention as a teenager, eventually landing in jail for an eight-month stint. There had been no deprogramming and no reform behind those bars. He’d emerged ten times worse than when he’d went in, only his allegiances had changed.

As a young man, he’d held no authority there. However, his loyalty and willingness to do dirty work quickly earned him respect in the ranks. His incarceration was more of a training exercise than a punishment. Lessons that could be taught only by experience were now ingrained. Never trust anyone, never turn your back on the enemy, and never share personal information. One newbie had let his girl’s name slip from his lips in casual conversation in the yard. Six weeks later, she was dead. That’s the thing about jail, your enemies inside were your enemies outside. A security fence and state-mandated freedom changed nothing.

When Josie moved into the dilapidated building, he’d been surprised that she lived alone. He’d tried to hit on her when they passed in the hall, but his efforts always fell short.

“Hey, mamacita. You’re new so I’mma help you out. I’m Alex.”

“Josie.”

“You need anything, come see me.”

“Anything?”

He smiled and grabbed onto the doorframe above his head, flexing his biceps. His eyes shined with victory.

“Anything.”

“Nah. I’m good, thanks,” Josie had replied as she retreated to her apartment.

“I bet you are,” Alex answered.

Six weeks later, things changed. He’d come straight home after having to teach one of his lackeys a lesson. The man’s blood stained his clothes in a speckled pattern and Alex knew his message had been delivered. A few beers later, he’d come down from his adrenaline high. While he was showering, the power had gone out. It wasn’t five minutes later that Josie came knocking. Her face, while trying to portray sexual prowess, showed nothing but fear.

“I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Shut up,” she’d demanded before pushing him inside the apartment.

Shrouded in darkness, he took Josie bent over his kitchen table and again in his bed, never questioning her sudden change of heart. He realized later that she’d done it only to have company during the blackest of nights. She was a girl too afraid to admit fear, opting for security in the arms of a stranger.

Since then, he kept an eye on her as best he could. He installed three locks on her door and insisted that she use them. He brought her food a few times a week; otherwise she’d forget to eat. Recognizing her need for companionship and protection, Alex began to take a more platonic interest in Josie. All the other neighbors insisted that she was bizarre, but he knew better. She was defensive and hurting and completely alone. Perhaps Josie could be his one good deed. Not that she could ever redeem him from a lifetime of wrongdoings. Alex was damned regardless.

Before taking a seat, Alex slid the pistol from his waistband and laid it on the table in front of him. He tossed the paper bag to Josie and assumed his usual position on the sofa, relaxed with legs splayed like a sexual lure. His large form took up her entire couch, but she never minded, keeping to her favorite spot on the floor. He brought her food and stayed until she ate. There was little dialogue, sometimes none at all. It wasn’t because she was shy or rude, just uninterested in forced conversation. Though, through all of their time spent together she had told him her story, shared just enough pieces for Alex to fill in the gaps.

“Eat, Josie,” he demanded when she sat staring into the blinding light of the open window.

“I’ll eat if you bring me some more of that coke. The good stuff. Not the crap you sell.”

“I told you I’m not supplying you anymore. Eat. And stop buying this shit.”

He gave her a threatening look that said everything in the arch of his eyebrow and purse of his lips. He held up the bag of pills that were so varied in color and shape they looked like candy. She didn’t answer or acknowledge his request, insisting that she was an adult and could take care of herself. She’d been doing it for so long now.

Josie knew she’d never win this contest of wills. He would stay until she ate, no matter how long that took. She refocused her attention on the paper, shading the petals of each flower just so.

She liked that Alex didn’t feel the need to ask about her well-being. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she knew that if asked, she’d give him what he wanted to hear. She’d tell the lie she’d told a thousand times, “I’m fine.” Alex looked after her; she didn’t understand why. If she had just an ounce of self-preservation, she would thank him.

From what he could gather, Josie’s story sounded like one of the tragic mystery programs Alex’s mother favored on late afternoons. While she drank her Café Bustelo and prepared dinner, she’d watch the tiny black-and-white television mounted to the kitchen counter. Even through the static, she clung desperately to the sordid lives of the unfortunate men and women. Many days, Alex had come home from school to find his mother cursing in Spanish at the blurry picture. At dinner, she would warn him and his brothers about whatever danger had befallen that day’s victims.