CHAPTER SEVEN
Wardrobe Malfunction
Saturday arrived. It was just another day, but it was another day Karou had survived.
Immersed in the illusion of being washed in warm summer rain, the bright bathroom light illuminated her eyelids in sunshine orange while she contemplated her predicament. By some miracle, she had landed on her feet. Initially, that made her nervous; it seemed too good to be true, but she was determined to remain positive. Keeping everything in perspective was the only way to get to the other side of whatever this was, but it was no stretch to conclude that she'd never had it so good! Right now, her circumstances felt like a vacation.
Wrapped in the largest and fluffiest towel she'd ever encountered, Karou sat on Warren's queen-size bed, processing her stroke of luck. Sure, she had no idea who the man she found herself cohabitating with was, but so far, he hadn't hurt her—and he'd had four days of opportunity. It begged belief that she didn't sense that the tall, dark, and handsome stranger was a threat. In the silence, she savoured the solace.
Mr. Howard went about his daily business so quietly that sometimes Karou questioned whether he walked or levitated—she hadn't attuned to his near-inaudible footfalls. He never lingered long in the living spaces. From what she'd glimpsed through the door on the far side of the lounge, she surmised that the room he disappeared into every morning was an office. Oh, boy, was this guy a workaholic! When he'd explained to her that his work consumed most of his time, she hadn't understood to what extent. Some days, he would be cooped up in there for more than twelve hours—she'd counted.
While he worked, she had free reign, but of course, she couldn't leave the unit. Her host had insisted she eat what she liked from the kitchen, between the two square meals he prepared for her and was left to choose what to watch on the television every evening. Apparently, he didn't mind, as long as he could relax on the couch with a glass of scotch and smoke to 'unwind' before he passed out. All the niceties came at a price, though, because she had to endure his chilly demeanour and bluntness should she dare to speak to him.
Pulling off the towel she had wrapped around her hair, it pleased her how pleasant it smelled. Quite generously, all manner of toiletries had been provided for her by the Friday after she'd arrived. Warren had made all manner of accommodations to help her feel at home yet went about it with a begrudging air. It wasn't devastating since she'd never felt welcome in the household into which she'd been born, either, but she wasn't some unfeeling thing, so the inconsistencies in Warren's mood were annoying.
Karou wasn't one to complain; she lived by the motto that complaining never did anyone any good. However, once she was ready to get dressed, her face pinched—she discovered her underwear and socks were still damp. Since she had no other clothes save for what she had arrived in, she'd been washing her delicates in the bathroom sink and putting them on the heated towel rail to dry every day. Her jeans, top, and sweatshirt were overdue for a wash, but they were too bulky to do the same.
I'll have to ask Warren if there's a laundry room, Karou was distracted in her thoughts, ambling towards the kitchen. It's so strange having his name in my head. Warren. Warren Howard. Mister Warren Howard.
"Good morning, or should I say afternoon?" The very person on her mind greeted her. Breakfast time had long passed. Karou was prone to getting up late, whereas Warren was an early bird. Oddly, he was taking a lunch break—odd because he didn't often remember to. Indeed, Karou was surprised to find him sitting at the kitchen island with a newspaper—it was a broadsheet—one with a title she'd never heard of before: 'In Guardianus'. "Don't forget to eat." It had become a habit to remind her, he'd already picked up on Karou's custom of only drinking coffee for breakfast. If she was going to stay, she might as well be healthy. It wasn't so much a kindness as he thought a healthy Mortal was less likely to cause him trouble.
While she poured coffee into her cup, Karou sensed his cool gaze on the back of her neck. Often, the way Warren looked at her made the tiny hairs all over her body stand on end. It got her thinking; her cohabitee was of so few words that most of the things she'd learned about him were merely observations. Anything she knew was actually just speculative. Since he hadn't verbally told Karou what species of Mythical he was, she could only go on the small clues his appearance indicated. His eyes would periodically change colour, from a breathtaking shade of crystal blue through shades of sapphire to onyx, and then periodically return to blue.
Sipping her coffee, she turned to face him and caught him staring, but when he looked away so quickly, she couldn't be sure her eyes hadn't tricked her.
"Uh, yeah… Good morning." She heard herself utter timidly. It made her cringe and internally scold herself. Oh God, Karou, pull yourself together! She cleared her throat to speak, this time with a little more conviction."Have anything interesting plan—"
"Your clothes," he cut in. Over the rim of his reading glasses, his eyes bore into her; such scrutiny made her swallow hard, and her gusto to speak up vanished. "You've been wearing the same for days."
Pristine seemed the only fitting description of Warren's hygienic state, but beyond that, he dressed impeccably. So it was no surprise that he'd noticed how scruffy and homeless she looked in comparison.
Warren set down his newspaper, took off his spectacles, and picked up his cell phone without waiting for a response. "Hello, Ms. Finch. I have a job that requires your attention. Miss. Morgan needs new clothes." He paused, and Karou heard a muffled female voice reply. "Yes, the girl." Another pause, "Yes, everything—head to toe." And then, another reply, "Mhmm. An entirely new wardrobe."
Suddenly, he held out the device for Karou to take. Gingerly, she did so while Warren was mindful that their hands didn't touch. That aside, he continued his instruction; "Tell Ms. Finch your sizes and style preferences, and she'll see to it that you get a delivery of new clothing."
"Wait. I—" Flustered, she looked between Warren and the phone until she heard Ms. Finch trying to initiate conversation, "Uh, yes, hello—"
Karou struggled with what to say beyond her dress and shoe size. She merely blinked, mouth agape, at some of Ms. Finch's questions. Fortunately, Karou's silence on the matter eventually prompted the woman to entrust the process to her. Politely, Karou uttered her thanks, relieved that the ordeal was over, and handed Warren his phone back. He tucked it into his pants pocket and stated that she was welcome without so much as looking up from his newspaper.
"Uh, Mr. Howard, I don't have any money to pay for new clothes."
"Just Warren and that isn't an issue."
"What? Why?"
"Because I haven't asked you to pay for them." Warren looked at Karou briefly over his reading glasses as he pushed them back on and turning the page of his broadsheet. "If it means so much to you, you don't have to wear them. You can walk around naked."
How the girl's cheeks flushed a pretty shade of peach wasn't lost on Warren as he smirked deviously from behind the sheet of black print, but inevitably, the indecency of what he'd said dawned on him. "Ahem, I should be back at work." Warren excused him and retreated to his office at lightning speed.
Good God! Why on Earth did you say that!? She's a child! Haunted, he chastised himself, crashing down into his office chair.
Hmm, but you've already imagined her without clothes during our little blood-letting fantasy. One devious whisperer mused.
Warren shuddered; he couldn't deny that it was true. Disgusted, whatever remained of his human conscience retorted, You're a sick man!
At least they both agreed on something.
✷✷✷
Eight o'clock had rolled around when Warren reappeared. Exiting his office, he saw Karou had snuggled up on the couch and was around three-quarters of the way through a movie. He'd gotten over the shame of his earlier comment and went about his usual clocking-off ritual as if she weren't there.
First, he removed his tie, then buttoned down his dress shirt two or three buttons, and finally removed his cuff links to roll his sleeves to his elbows. Once he'd poured a generous glass of scotch, he lit a cigarette and was primed to spend the rest of his evening doing as little as possible.
Warren's idea of personal space was more vast than most, so he sat around four feet away from Karou. At his comfortable distance, he lounged and stretched his arm down the back of the cushions—bringing his right hand back toward him every once in a while either to sip his scotch or take a drag from his cigarette.
Meanwhile, Karou said nothing but secretly watched as he sat in the adjacent corner of the U-shaped couch. When he brought the liquor glass to his lips, his eyes closed as he tipped back his head to drink, and Karou couldn't restrain herself from peering more intrusively. The TV was no longer of interest because the angle at which Warren held back his head meant that his neck came to be on full display. That in itself wasn't interesting, but the texture of his skin, which was layered with faded and smooth-looking scars in a mottled pattern of circular marks, drew her eye. Karou had noticed them before, but the opportunity to examine them hadn't arisen until now. Mostly, she wanted to confirm that she hadn't imagined them like any of the other odd details she'd witnessed about his person. Dare she ask what they were? Seeing as he mostly spent his evenings in silence and only broke it to bid her goodnight, Karou didn't dare broach that subject. Also, because of its highly personal nature, she thought that maybe she'd never know. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the flickering images on the flatscreen. Absentmindedly, she reached for the remote sat between them on the angular glass coffee table.
Warren barely noticed Karou move while consumed with reaching relaxation. Still, the TV was a little too loud and was disturbing his wind-down. He leaned forward to set down the scotch glass and reached for the remote.
Their hands touched.
Two pairs of bewildered eyes beheld one another.
No sooner had Warren's hand grazed hers than it was gone—he retracted at such phenomenal speed as if her Mortal warmth had scolded him. Karou was left confused and mildly offended but didn't know why. Did her curiosity about him extend to wanting Warren to be comfortable enough to touch her in these small, innocuous ways? That way, could they become casual around each other and eventually, maybe, become friends?
The accidental touch had confirmed that his skin was as ice-cold as she recalled. Honestly, it hadn't bothered her, but that was precisely what had frightened Warren away. Unpredictable as ever, Karou overlooked the obvious. What she focused on was more curious than his body temperature; the atmosphere Warren held an inch from his form that created a barrier between himself and the outside world. Warren was guarded, not just emotionally but physically, too. It gave the illusion that he was even more unattainable but only inspired a more profound interest in Karou. Just as Warren wanted to puzzle out Karou, Karou also wanted to decipher the enigma that was Warren Howard. Somehow, Karou had picked up on a detail about him that was just an undercurrent—his aero-kinetic armour. Despite the uncomfortable sensation it left on her skin, it was worth it to know that once his skin contacted hers, he let down his subconscious shield.
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Out of nowhere, Karou giggled. Amused? Nervous? She didn't know, but Warren, the mechanical and externally immaculate man, appeared flustered and… shy. Her Mortal temperature had warmed his chilly exterior enough to make him jump and coaxed an unrehearsed, 'human' reaction from him. It was startling in contrast to how he usually held himself.
Alas, his façade did him no favours in appearing 'normal'— it was enough to put a person off him, but like everything else, it only piqued Karou's interest. There had to be a reason he was like that. Was the trait abnormal enough to add to her list of characteristics?—the ones she was collecting and planning to use to decipher what Warren was?
Along with the changeable shade of his eyes, there was a fragment of a memory from their first encounter that she couldn't shake—the image of this striking stranger's smile, illuminated by her flashlight. What his friendly expression revealed to her hadn't frightened her, but she was sure he had fangs. The image and other clues combined into something so cliché that she didn't dare speak it into reality. Perhaps if she tiptoed around the topic, Warren would simply confirm it in that blunt, semi-annoyed way. But the anticipation felt like an unreachable itch. She'd been about to bite the bullet and ask him when a series of knocks tapped off the door.
Warren flitted off the couch and to the door like a man on fire. Craning her neck to see who was calling so late, Karou recognised the woman Warren was talking to. It was the receptionist from the night of her capture. So that must be Ms. Finch. Along with her was a boy who seemed to be struggling to keep the large duffle bag he was lumbered with elevated. The exchange she watched was formal and short and edging on rude. Then, after a brief and impersonal goodbye, Warren plucked the bag out of the boy's hands as if it were a mere purse and shut the door.
"Your new clothes are here," he announced, marching towards the bedroom. He didn't linger long and left the bag on the foot of the bed, instructing Karou to "Go through it and keep whatever you like." Then he left and resumed his seat on the couch.
In wonder, Karou unpacked item after item. Ordinary pieces of everyday clothing, suitable for the season, and all with her vague and ill-refined fashion sense considered—Ms. Finch had done an excellent job summing up Karou's simple tastes and preferred colour palette with minimal guidance. A radiant grin spread across her face, her eyes aglow with joy. She'd never owned so many clothes! Though, it was inevitable that she couldn't bask in happiness for too long. Karou sighed in despondence, looking over her horde. Self-deprecating thoughts crept closer until her mind spoke vicious words. This is too much. I don't deserve any of this.
Unbeknownst to her, Warren had only alluded that she had a modicum of privacy by leaving the room, but he could still see into the bedroom from the couch. He watched every minute detail of her face, how it changed, how her body moved in response to her feelings. 'Feeling' was something Karou seemed to have in abundance. He'd become fascinated by this one of the girl's attributes in particular—how expressive her eyes and face were. Whether her eyes twinkled with a smile plumping her rosy cheeks or glittered, welled with tears, he was drawn in—looking away felt impossible.
Where usually his chest was an empty cavern, where the steady beat of his heart echoed, a cool and crushing coil of 'something' ensnared his lungs, stalling his breath. The peculiar physical phenomenon that he was experiencing was similar in nature to that of some of his other urges: lust, thirst, greed, desire—the wanting feelings. When they arose,, he gratified them as quickly as possible, for they were so consuming that he struggled to function until he was rid of their distraction. This wanting feeling wasn't quite the same, and he wasn't sure how to quench it. The palpable sensation caused an alien thought to twist and writhe in his mind: could he ever possess what she had—that freedom of feeling? How could he have it for his own?
Lifting the next item out of the bag, Karou found a kind of garment, the like of which she'd always wanted to own but had never found amongst the thrift store clothes her mom supplied her. She gasped and clutched the cloth to her chest gleefully. Glancing around the room, she spied a floor-length mirror in the hallway. With the dress hung down her front, Karou beheld her reflection, and for a moment, she dared to feel pretty. It was bittersweet and made her eyes sting.
Something this pretty wasn't made for someone plain like me.
It didn't take much to trigger her these days. After years of drunken, esteem-destroying monologues from her mother, she had started to believe the cruel words. Out of spite and jealousy, her mother told her how disappointing and unremarkable she was. Karou had learned long ago that there was no use in crying; she ignored her more when she cried.
Now, despite the tear that rolled down her freckled cheek, Karou allowed herself one more moment to bask in the present. Although her situation was fragile, at least she had finally escaped her mother's clutches. For better or worse, she would never look back.
Wandering back into the bedroom, Karou wiped the tears from her cheeks, moved on from her moment of catharsis and continued digging through the duffle bag. So far, there had been very few items she wasn't keen on…
"Oh, my God!" Karou exclaimed, gawping, astounded.
"Is there a problem?" Warren called.
"Well, no... B-but why did M-Ms. Finch, get me this?" Karou was suddenly in the hallway and came face to face with Warren sooner than expected—he'd gotten up to see what the commotion was. To make her point, Karou displayed the skimpy silk and lace garment and waited for his reaction.
"It's... a... night-dress?" And incidentally, the kind that I rather like... A devious internal voice appraised without a filter.
"No, it's not!" Karou contested, the blush on her cheeks growing more opaque. "It's a n-negligee."
"Don't girls like that sort of thing?"
How quickly Karou had become flustered by a mere item of clothing was a testament to her innocence, and it both amused Warren and troubled his conscience. Again, the little devil that sat on his shoulder illustrated possible scenarios in which Karou might wear such a garment and how she might look in it. With ardour, he fought to ignore his seedier thoughts, determined to remain gentlemanly. While he was by no means an angel, the little character that sat upon his other shoulder shook his head in disapproval. Pervert! He cried. Indeed, Warren agreed with himself.
"Women." Karou corrected without a second's pause.
"Uh, yes—Women like that sort of thing." Feeling that he was digging a hole and slightly hot under the collar, Warren turned on the spot and promptly returned to the lounge.
"Wait. Just out of curiosity, how old do you think I am?" Karou retorted, following him to where the hallway opened into the space between the kitchen and the lounge in an artificial corridor, hand on her hip.
"I haven't given it much thought," Liar... His mind's minions chided in unison. Indeed, Warren had said it rather too quickly to be convincing. "I—I didn't mean to imply that you weren't a woman." He hoped she would turn around and leave it there, but of course, the feisty little thing had more to say.
"I'm eighteen. Actually, in a few days, I'll be nineteen. So, I'm not exactly 'a girl'."
"Nineteen—right, well," He swallowed hard, his jaw tensed to keep any expression from his face. As he'd suspected, she was only just 'old enough', making his demons chuckle, rubbing their slimy palms together, speculating all things lustful and depraved. "Yes, well, you don't have to wear it if you don't want—"
Just as she was about to go back to the bedroom, she paused. A golden opportunity had arisen. Be casual, she told herself and asked, "Warren? How old are you?"
"—like I said, if you don't like anything, you don't have to keep it."
"Okay, thank you, but you didn't answer my question…"
Attempting to also act casual, he busied himself by gathering his cigarette packet from the coffee table and went about lighting one. "It's difficult to say." He took a drag to sober him for this conversation.
A pause stretched the silence between them, but Karou's patience didn't waver; she remained, staring him down.
"I haven't physically aged since I was twenty-eight."
At a guess, Karou had ballparked his age at around thirty, but something about how he'd phrased his reply told her that that still wasn't really the answer she was looking for. "How many years has it been since you stopped ageing, then?"
The number wasn't buried too deep into the pit of his mind, "Seventy-eight," though he parted with it after a long pause; all the while, his eyes remained fixated on the glass surface of his geometric coffee table as if the truth were somehow shameful to him.
Across the room, Karou's eyes widened for a second. Then, her head tilted while her brain figured out the maths. "You look good for someone who's over a hundred." Appraising Warren's handsome face one last time before returning to her task in the bedroom, Karou smiled kindly.
The whole affair of marvelling at all the clothes had been kind of an emotional rollercoaster. She was ready for a rest and a good night's sleep. So, Karou picked out what she perceived to be a cute bedtime outfit—a pair of white cotton sleep shorts with a pretty broderie Anglaise edging and a camisole to match and shed her shabby clothes. It was therapeutic to throw away those fragments of her old life.
Tying off the waistband's drawstrings, she padded down the hall and back into the lounge. When Karou clambered back into her seat on the couch, she found Warren snoozing—sat upright with his head flopped back into the cushions. After a long day's work, dozing while the TV played ambient background audio, with only the standard lamp on, was peaceful.
Quietly, she asked, "Can I watch another movie before bed?"
"I don't see why not," he mumbled sleepily, reluctant to open his eyes. When he finally did, they immediately homed in on Karou's profile. She barely looked like the same person. It was pleasing to see her ripped, grimy jeans and moth-bitten shirt gone, but perhaps even more pleasant was how much skin she was showing: her neck and how her supple, pale skin fell off her shoulder and down her slender arms. His gaze had panned down her legs and to her feet—feet he recalled clothed in dirty, holed socks were now bare and as dainty and delicate-looking as her hands. After all the fuss Karou had made about the negligee, he stiffened, failing to see how this attire was any less lewd.
She's taunting me...
Quit being so perverse. She hasn't dressed like that for you! She's just gotten into something more comfortable. His better side reasoned. Don't be uncouth.
There was no way to win the battle his mind had with his body; either way, he'd lose. Defeated, he rose from the couch and went to place his empty scotch glass in the kitchen sink, if only to remove himself from Karou's presence.
While the opening minutes of another movie rolled, Karou peered over her shoulder after Warren as he wandered toward the unit's bedroom. She pondered whether the gift of clothing was his way of bargaining his bedroom back. He didn't need to barter with her, though. She had nothing to bid with, nothing to stake her claim on; everything here was his.
The moment Warren started unbuttoning his shirt, Karou knew looking away was the polite thing to do, but watching him tug the bottom of his shirt from the waistband of his dress pants and peel it back off his broad shoulders felt devious and thrilling and like nothing she'd felt before. Sure, Karou had seen shirtless men before, but seeing a chiselled, touched-up, and plastic-looking person on the front of a magazine was quite different from seeing someone unfiltered in the flesh.
Caught up in her daydreaming, Karou hadn't looked away, and Warren was heading back towards the couch, redressed for bed in a plain white T-shirt and blue pinstripe pyjama pants. Even without his expensive wristwatches and perfectly combed hair, he still managed to look effortlessly suave. Karou expected that he would attract all manner of people, regardless of gender.
"Did you pick out a movie?"
"Uh, no. I'll pick something now." Karou reached for the remote, scrolling through movies and thinking of Warren's hands and his temperature all over again. Tonight, she wouldn't pluck up the courage to ask what he was.