Perhaps acting solely out of spite was not the best way to get through life. Although, according to Dr. Melanie Thompson, resident at Roper St. Francis, not senior attending, Lee's ultimate goal was to drink and work herself to death before she turned thirty.
Lee remembered quite well how her slightly older friend had acted on her thirtieth birthday, and now Mel was a married mother of one leading an unbelievably dull life. Getting hacked up by a deranged psycho killer would be a quick way to avoid getting old, and much less stressful than the alcoholic, workaholic plan.
She paused and subconsciously chewed on the end of her pen, an old habit still present from her school girl days. Where had she put her Talking Heads CD?
She continued signing and initialing documents, her chicken scratch handwriting utterly illegible. It was probably in her Ford. She found it somehow fitting to listen to classic music in a classic car.
Not that she was really anywhere near thirty. But for some reason Mel, Mel's parents, and the entire universe thought that a woman in her mid-twenties should gage the worthiness of her existence on her significant other, or, as in Lee's case, the lack thereof.
If not married with a kid in tow by thirty, well, then one was too late, and had to suffer the consequences of a lifetime of being the third wheel. Or fifth wheel, but why argue semantics?
Lee Jones didn't need a man in her life. She did just fine on her own, and besides, she'd tried that whole shin-dig before; it hadn't worked out.
And kids? Lee hated kids. She never knew what they really wanted, and tended to give in to their every demand just so they'd shut up.
She also had a habit of referring to a child, not by name, or by sex, but by the highly impersonal, and even degrading, pronoun, "it". In essence Lee was completely lacking in any maternal instinct what-so-ever. She knew it, and based on countless screaming children, they knew it.
"What do I do to get my car back?" She glanced at him, taking in the sight without letting him know it.
The man knew how to dress. Nip/Tuck Christian Troy slacks, button down, and jacket, all a perfect fit. Ridiculously expensive, and more attractive than was safe.
Lee loved when men left the top buttons undone, and black was certainly his color.
He was tall too, about ole Julian's height, maybe shorter, but younger. It was hard to tell, stress tended to make people old before their time; she was guessing thirty-two.
Thirty for a man was much different than thirty for a woman.
"I'll take you down to the impound tomorrow." She waved off any protests. "It's not on the peninsula; you won't know how to get there. Besides, you're staying with me. I know; I know; you can't possibly accept, blah, blah, blah, let's just get the hell out of here."
Over the years she had found that simply speaking as quickly as possible and acting on her words immediately left people too dumbfounded to protest.
"Don't you think it's highly inappropriate for me to stay with you? And, all that aside, what if you are a rapist, homicidal maniac?"
"Then, being a bit suicidal, you should be more than willing to enthusiastically accept my offer. Erotic asphyxiation, a much better way to go than plain old asphyxiation; don't you agree?"
"Damn."
"In deed. Now, really, let's get out of here before Melanie sees us." They exited in silence; she was surprised that he actually followed her.
It took forever to find her truck. Lee was constantly forgetting the location of parking spaces.
The search commenced, and concluded in uncomfortable silence, an awkwardness which only grew when they got into the car.
It still had that new car smell. The black, Chevy Silverado 1500, short bed, black leather interior, sun roof, seat warmers, and everything else completely unnecessary but entirely nifty, was an intimidating vehicle, and not at all convenient for down town Charleston. Not that Lee cared.
She turned on the radio, trying not to steal glances at him as she drove, but it was so damn hard with those buttons being undone.
"This is my last resort…Suffocation…" Life really did have such an ironic sense of humor. She turned the radio off and pressed the CD button, not bothering to check which CD was in the deck.
Long lost blues melodies flooded the cab. "Who is this?"
"Phil Woods." She had been instructed by a private teacher, many, many years prior, to listen to Phil Woods as much as humanly possible. It'd paid off.
"Are you a musician?"
So the masked man had an inquisitive side. "Piano and sax, alto, I dabble with the others."
"Do you sing?" He was cautious about asking it, like he didn't really want to know the answer.
"Oh hell no, I'm horrible." She watched him nod out of the corner of her eyes; he seemed…relieved. "You're not going to kill yourself in my house, are you?"
"That'd be rather impolite."
"Glad to hear it."
Her house was safely nestled between Meeting and East Bay, a good part of town; he'd looked at a condo on the very same street. And why the hell was he going along with her?
Simple, his car; he needed his car back and she could most likely get it out of impound for free. Not that the money was a problem, but he could endure one night.
Erik studied the house carefully. The wood siding was old, a gray-blue color; it was very large, three stories with a two story porch, and black shutters pulled it all together.
The yard was small, like all yards in Charleston, but well kept, with simple, yet pleasant, landscaping.
Of course, he was really just lying to himself. The truth of the matter was, and he loathed it admit it, but the girl, woman, intrigued him to no end. Beautiful, fearless, intelligent, and full of wit, a deadly combination, and apparently she was a hell of a shot.
He frowned. Christine had about one of those qualities, but she could sing. Christ could she sing. Like an angel bearing salvation, she had harkened to him, and naturally, he couldn't help but fall in love.
A shiver went down his spine at the thought; the familiar, cold dread filling his gut.
They bypassed the ground floor, going up a staircase on the first story porch. As they reached the top and came to the top porch he took inventory. A heavy punching bag by the stairs, rocking chairs close by, farther down a hammock, and at the far end a swing; in the middle of it all was a black door.
She opened the door muttering quietly. "Welcome to my humble abode." He dragged his suitcase behind him, and the dog walked eagerly by his side.
The door led into a large living room; it was a light shade of brown, almost olive, and very open, running straight into the dining room. The floors were wooden, old, and dark; the furniture was modern but obviously well made; she had good taste.
"You entertain many guests?" He asked, pointing to the monstrous dining room table.
"Occasionally I invite a few friends over for diner." There was a particular cadence to her speech that he found pleasing. "Living room, don't you love that flat screen TV? Dining room," she led him through the area. "Kitchen."
The kitchen was also very large and open. He could tell that several walls had been knocked down, and from all the arches, they had probably been load bearing walls. Instead of wood the kitchen floor was tile; the countertops looked like granite; the appliances were all stainless steel, and very nice.
So the girl, Lee, had some money.
She led him down the hallway and opened a door. "You can sleep in here." It was obviously not a guest room. The walls were a striking shade of blue, made even more so by the white trim. Again, the floor was wood and dark, and the room was almost unusually large. "There's a bathroom through there."
He glanced to the door she pointed at, noting the unique comforter on the king sized bed. It was a greycliff paisley pattern containing various shades of blue, red, silver, gold, and that olive color on her living and dining room walls.
The bed looked perfectly made; the room overall impeccably clean. Dark mahogany furniture was spread about carefully. There was a fireplace on the wall across from the bed, the mantle scattered with a few picture frames, above it was another flat screen television.
She took his suitcase and set it on top of the bed. "Tour's almost over." A chuckle followed this. "You know, I used to actually give tours in college. Ghost tours and carriage tours; tourists will believe anything."
He followed her back out into the hallway. She opened another door along the way. "Another bathroom." They kept walking, the door at the end of the hall their apparent destination.
The room was smaller than the others, but still spacious. The walls were a shade of gray, not completely unlike his eyes; there was a large desk, littered with papers and a lap top. In the far corner was a spiral stair case. "This is my office that I never really use and up here," they climbed the steps carefully. "Is my library."
The entire third floor was just a huge, open space. Wood floors, books lining the walls; on one end was a baby grand piano, on the other, a pool table, couch, and television. "Mi casa es su casa. Or something along those lines. I need a shower, so if you could please refrain from killing yourself, I won't be long. There's probably some food in the kitchen, if not, then there's plenty of liquor."
She hadn't been joking about the liquor. Her cabinets were…well stocked. He stood out on the porch, looking down at Laurens Street. There was a lot for Erik to think about; he needed to get his shit straight.
So killing himself hadn't worked, and he didn't think he could muster up the guts to try again. He wasn't even sure if he really wanted to die anymore.
It was a beautiful town. He could settle down there, start composing again, just enough to make ends meet, nothing fancy, and hide away from the world in a gorgeous Southern mansion.
The life of a recluse really wasn't that bad. He'd been comfortable, though malcontent, before. It wasn't until his angel came along that things had gotten so bad.
No, it wasn't until that blue-eyed imbecile came along; then things had gotten bad.
He walked across the porch and took a seat in one of the dark red rocking chairs. The breeze blew the sweet smell of unnamed blossoms; he closed his eyes and took it in sensuously, blocking out the sounds of traffic on East Bay.
The sound of a door shutting brought him back. His unneeded rescuer handed him a glass of ice and red liquid; she kept one for herself and sat down on the swing. "It's a Scarlet O'Hara."
He nodded and sipped it carefully. The drink was sweet and sour; a warming combination of cranberry juice, lime, and a liquor unknown to him.
He turned his gaze in her direction. She rocked gently back and forth; her wet curls, now free from their prison, were impossibly tighter than before, and Erik had the sudden urge to pull one of the unruly tendrils.
She looked out over the porch, her attention seemingly held by thin air. He marveled at just how dark her eyes really were. "Hungry? I can go grab something from somewhere; the grocery store is about a block away. And of course I can always get some take out; everything is close, just tell me what you want."
"Lee Jones." The voice had a heavy accent, the likes of which he'd never heard before. "You damn well better introduce me to your guest." He turned his head; a black woman stood by the stairs. She looked to be about fifty.
Lee rose quickly. "Sorry, I seem to be forgetting my manners."
"You're damn right you are. Child, where are we?"
"In Charleston."
"And Charleston is?"
"The closest place to heaven on Earth?"
"And?"
"And the best mannered city in the nation eleven years running. Chrissy, this is Erik; Erik this is Chrysanthemum Wilson."
The woman walked over; he stood slowly and they shook hands rigorously. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Erik."
"Likewise." The exchange between Lee and Chrissy had been curious, almost, mother-daughterly.
"I live downstairs, so if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Have y'all eaten?"
"We were just discussing that. You?"
"No, child. You know I'm waiting for Ramon to get off work."
"I'm craving some oysters. Think I'll ride out to Anchor Line. What do you want?"
"Calm strips, don't forget to ask your guest."
He had no idea what the Anchor Line was, or what kind of food they served. "Um…" Oysters were good. "Oysters?"
They were making him feel very normal. In fact, it was probably the most normal conversation he'd ever had. "Would you like to ride with me?"
He looked straight at her, trying to find some kind of ulterior motive in her eyes, but they were dead, emotionless, and her face seemed completely sincere. "Ok."
"Great. Flounder for Ramon?"
"You know he won't eat shell fish."
"More for me."
Erik followed her down the stairs, unable to keep from noticing how flattering her blue jeans were.
Talking Heads album 77 has a song on it called Psycho Killer, ironically, parts of it are in French.