Chapter 3: Poison Ivy

(The Rolling Stones)

The bar is a prime example of sleazy. It’s the furthest from the hotel and the only one Blaire hasn’t been in yet. Stevie Wonder’s You don’t bring me flowers anymore, plays loud enough to make talking a chore, and robs the song of any romantic ambience. This isn’t a problem though, because it seems most people come here for the drinking, or the slow dancing. Both are a way to connect to a one-night stand, or a quickie in the parking lot. Neither of these is the main reason for Blaire’s visit. The hotel room felt too tight for her tonight. Or for her memories, at least.

And too red. The light from the sign outside her window felt like sandpaper scraping on her soul. No, not sandpaper, more like a glove covered in needles and pins. She closed the curtains, turning her back to the window, but the throbbing zing sound remained. And slithers of red light shone through the thin opening between wall and curtain. She fought the urge to leave until around ten, and then showered, dressed and grabbed her purse.

The clientele inside the bar are local, and the moment she steps through the door, all attention focuses on her for at least a minute. She pulls her shoulders back, lifts her chin, and carefully scans the room from one side to the other, looking for familiar faces, or troublesome situations. One brave soul, whom she can’t identify behind the gray smoke curtain, whistles. A few catcalls follow. She is not amused. Not at all. In all of her life, she’s never met a woman who was actually turned on by either whistles or catcalls.

“Why the fuck have men not figured this shit out yet?” she whispers to herself. “My gawd, how many generations has it been?”

The unwanted attention rubs her the wrong way, almost spoiling the entire night. For a moment Blaire hovers on the brink of turning around and leaving, or staying. In the end, the idea of another night alone in her red hotel room pushes her forward. She needs a serious distraction from her own mental state, or she won’t make it through to morning. She’ll either go mad and attack the room, or kill herself.

Blaire finds an empty chair at the bar counter. Most people are in booths or at one of the six round tables. She keeps her head low until the barman makes his way towards her. There are only two other people at the counter, and they are all sitting far apart.

“Whiskey,” she orders. “On the rocks.”

He nods, grabbing a glass and filling it halfway with large ice cubes. The bartender moves towards the wall behind him, where liquor bottles lined glass shelves. He reaches for a bottle on the bottom shelf. The song ends, and the first notes of You’re still the one pierces her mind before Shania’s voice fills the room.

“Not that shit,” she tells the barman.

“The song or the bottle?” he asks.

She shakes her head, fighting back a smile. “Both.”

He flashes her a quick smile. He is tall, slender, but the leg muscles in his tight black leather pants declared he worked out. He has blue eyes and long eyelashes that sweep his cheeks each time he blinks. He has a lacy white shirt that ends halfway down his thighs. Added to this is a light dusting of foundation, eyeliner, pinkish lip balm and purple nail-polish. There is something about him that makes her feel at ease, despite the fact that he obviously was only visiting town. Or maybe because of it. Neither of them belonged here.

“I love the ring,” he says when he returns to place the glass in front of her.

She looks down at her hands, trying to figure out which of the three rings he was talking about. He reaches over to touch the ring on her left middle finger. It is a family heirloom and the only piece of jewellery she took from home that she didn’t sell. She recalls at least three times removing it with the intention to do just that, but always turned away with it tightly clutched in the palm of her hand.

It is a special piece, designed by Red King for his thirtieth wedding anniversary. Grandma Sophia gave it to her when her son was born. She couldn’t let it go. The ring is a snake, curled around her finger twice, with two small rubies for eyes. These are Grandma Sophia’s, and her son Gavin’s, birth month gemstones. It has an Emerald tongue, celebrating her grandparent’s anniversary month.

“My grandfather designed it for my grandmother,” she says, caressing the silver snake. “It was for their anniversary.”

“It’s not something I’ve seen before,” he says. “And I see a lot of rings in my profession.”

She sneers, making a show of looking through the half empty bar.

“Sure,” he says. “But I’ll have you know I’ve worked in large cities and in bars that entertained three to four thousand patrons per hour in a single night. This,” he sweeps his manicured hand across the room, “this is like a vacation to me.”

“Vacation, cover or asylum?” she asks abruptly.

A chill runs down her spine. She lifts the glass to take a sip. He lifts an eyebrow at her, completely unfazed by her demanding interrogation. He’s obviously been around the block more than once too. The hunted recognises each other, she’s learned on her journey.

“Ditto,” he answers.

Blaire tilts her head sideways with a smile. “Touché.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

A rowdy bunch of construction workers enters, and the barman, Dominique according to his name badge, nods at her. Without waiting for their order, he places seven beer mugs on the counter and fills them one after the other. Blaire watches as he tilts the glass mugs at a perfect angle, and then sweeps off the head with a piece of wood that looks older than time itself. He is old-school trained. Red King would have loved him. He loved the old ways.

She swings around on the high barstool, allowing the watchers full view of a perfectly formed leg as the skirt’s split falls open. She glances at the unruly bunch of men and then moves her eyes to the rest of the room. Finally, she faces the group again, taking her own sweet time in looking directly at each one sitting at their table. Maybe having a conversation with them will take her mind off of the darkness of the past. Or at least quiet her memories for a few hours. Maybe one of them can relieve the darkness that has been ebbing from her core since she got to this lazy town. She shakes her head. No, it’s not since she got to this town, it’s since she realized the anniversary of the most terrible day of her life is coming soon. And it’s been ten years.

Although she can’t see anyone directly watching her, she can feel their eyes on her, measuring her proportions. Wondering how she’ll fit in their arms, in their beds, or the backseat of their cars. Wondering if she’ll be willing, or if she needs to be soaked in alcohol to be made malleable. Suddenly, the entire idea seems just too much work for a little reward. She doesn’t have the emotional capacity for any of it, really.

She turns back to face the barman, straightening her back to deflect the heat of their hungry eyes. It is the wrong kind of heat. That is what she misses the most about her marriage: the way Luka looked at her. He had the magic. Could make her squirm in a seat and drip in the panties. The touch of his eyes ignited fires that burnt down all resistance.

By the time his fingers caressed her skin, goose-bumps rose, nipples pulled tight, knees grew weak, and every cell of her being cried out in need. Even now, here in this strange bar, her body reacts just at the memory of his touch. She clutches the glass between her palms, swirling the ice. It isn’t enough to distract her from the waves of lust coursing through her.

Blaire closes her eyes, casting her senses out like a net, searching for something to drag her back from the past. She leans back, lifts the glass and drains all the amber liquid in one gulp.

“Fuck, look at that,” someone whispers. A male. Sounds youngish. “She may be a MILF, but I’ll hit that, for sure.”

Blaire stiffens, feeling herself plonking back into the moment. The speaker tries to disguise it as a whisper, but obviously says it loud enough for her to hear. Hoping she’ll hear and take him up on the idea. Afterwards, he’ll tell everyone that she was the one initiating sex. That he just went along because who wouldn’t want to bang a hot chick.

Someone snickers.

“What?” the young voice asks. “Any man here who says he doesn’t want her is a fucking liar.”

“Just don’t, boy,” someone answers.

Blaire clings to the glass, her eyes stuck on the bottle of whisky on the third shelf.

“What? Are you too scared to shoot your shot?” The young man continues calling out his colleagues.

“A woman like that,” someone else says, “she doesn’t come cheap. All the good things in the world come at a price, lad. The better it looks, the higher the price”

“She’s not…”

Nobody finishes the boy’s partial thought.

“Well, she’s not … you know… a lady of the night,” he says, sounding unsure for the first time.

“No, she’s not,” several of the men respond.

“Listen,” this voice sounds like boulders rumbling down a mountainside. “You can look at her, sure. Appreciate her, go right ahead. But don’t even think about touching. She’ll eat you alive. Trust me.”

Blaire thumps the glass on the counter. Once, twice, thrice. Dominique appears as if he’s a ghost being summoned by the devil himself. He is already holding up the bottle, waiting for her permission. She nods, feeling her body turn from hot to ice at the words of the man behind her.

A few giggles rise above the song and she sighs softly.

“Don’t give any credence to them,” the barman says. “They are small town trash.”

She smiles at him. “I’ve heard worse. Faced worse, too.”

Blaire pulls at her jacket, slipping a shoulder out of the material to show the scar of a knife attack.

“That might be true,” he says as she covers herself again. “But by the look of it, you are not at your best right now.”

It seems that he too can read between the lines. His eyes can read her for who she is: a broken woman clinging to a glass of whiskey as if it will somehow restore the courage she lost somewhere between the last full moon and this dark night.

“Just so you know,” the conversation behind her continues. “Even if you don’t take her home, she’ll follow you anyway. Tonight, as we lay in bed, she’ll be in our thoughts and dreams, doing something hellish and delicious that will haunt us for weeks.”

Blaire takes a slow sip from the glass, making up her mind to leave as soon as she finishes. The men did in fact manage to clear her mind of the past. Maybe she’ll even be able to sleep tonight.

“Months,” the deep voice says. “She’ll creep up like poison ivy, taking control of your mind, poisoning your fantasies with impossible scenarios. No woman will ever be able to dethrone her.”

“She looks as pretty as a daisy,” the young man says. “Just look at her, man.”

“A rose,” someone says. “With thorns. She’ll hurt you. She’ll make you bleed. She’ll get under your skin and taint your flesh and bones.”

“Want me to talk to them?” Dominique asks.

Blaire shakes her head. “That will just make it worse, but thank you for offering.”

Lionel Richie coons to Diana Ross about endless love. Meanwhile, here in this Midwest town, Blaire is still stuck. Stuck in this room. Stuck in her head. Stuck in her memories. And it feels as if she’ll never get out.

“That woman is trouble on two legs,” one of the construction workers says.

Blaire locks eyes with Dominique. There is no sign of pity there, though she expects it. This wipes away all the words of the men talking behind her back. Suddenly she feels stronger, more capable.

“There you are,” he says, smiling at her while jutting out his chin. “Let me welcome your backbone to this bar.”

She chuckles at his words. “Well, thank you for recognising the shape my courage.”