Under My Skin

  I let out another long-suffering sigh just as I hear keys in the door turn.

  “Liz!” Sophie calls.

  “I’m here.” My voice is flat and toneless, which is the same it’s sounded since I left Mark.

  “Clarabelle wants to go to Dunbar’s tonight. Are you in?”

  “Nope.”

  She comes around the couch and sits down in the small about of space left next to my feet. “Want me to move?” I mumble.

  “No, honey, you’re fine,” she says softly.

  She doesn’t say anything else, and right there in that moment is exactly why I love Sophie Harlow. She just fucking gets me. When I came home after the hospital, she took one look at my face and without a word pulled me into her arms. We barely talked that night, we just uncorked more and more bottles of wine and watched marathon episodes of The Simpsons and South Park. It actually worked out well because my hangover the next day was so hardcore, I ended up staying in bed the entire day, sleeping it off instead of thinking about everything that happened.

  We still haven’t really talked about it, and honestly, we don’t need to. She always knows how I feel about everything, and besides, my brain and heart are talking so much, I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone else. Our conversations go something like this:

  Heart: He’ll call you. It’s not possible that this is really over. It’s not possible to feel that much and let it slip away.

  Me: Heart, shut the fuck up. Why are you even talking, aren’t you torn to pieces right now? Why does something that’s shredded still hurt like a motherfucking bitch, and talk?

  Heart: Because you’re hurt. Because even though I’m broken, I still exist.

  And that’s where our conversations tend to stop because I don’t have a good response. All I remember is that crippling, paralyzing fear that Mark had been taken down and feeling like someone was taking a meat cleaver to my soul.

  Even though being in a relationship terrified me, I knew we were on a journey of fights and make-ups. Amazing sex and even more amazing sex, growing closer on a spiritual level, more fights and makeup sex and our final destination ended with a Craftsman style house in the ‘burbs with two point five kids and still hopefully lots of sex.

  I’m a strong bitch, but every bitch has her Achilles heel, and he is mine.

  “I got you something,” Sophie says. I can tell she’s trying not to be too bright about it.

  “Vodka?” I ask hopefully.

  Her mouth twists to the side. “No,” she tells me reprovingly. “We need to drink less. I got you some, um, toys.”

  And then my best friend turns the deepest shade of red I have ever seen her.

  Intrigued, I sit up and take the box she’s holding out. It’s medium size, just a nondescript, plain, cardboard box.

  I rip off the packing tape before flipping the lids to the side.

  “What in the ever-loving hell?”

  Her face is fire engine red as she stares at the assortment of vibrators, dildos, furry handcuffs, and lingerie. I think there’s even lube in there.

  Jesus.

  “I was doing you a favor,” she cries defensively. “I knew you probably used your toys with Mark and now things are over, you’re probably getting rid of them and you’d need new ones, so I got them for you.”

  “Oh my sweet lord,” I breathe before breaking out into hysterical laughter. “Please tell me you ordered them online.” I can’t conjure the image of my prude best friend walking into a sex store and picking up the things she’s got in this box. I didn’t even have half of what she bought.

  She shakes her head miserably. “No,” she whispers.

  “Wait, you went to a sex store?”

  “The Adult Emporium in Manhattan. I didn’t want to risk anyone from here seeing me get that stuff.”

  I’m laughing again. “Soph, I think there’s some overkill here. I can’t believe you took the train into the city to buy me a plethora of sex toys. Why didn’t you just order them online if you thought I needed some so bad?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Because, Elizabeth, in order to purchase something online, you need a credit card. I have a credit card but it just so happens to have my name on it. What if I decide to run for city council or DA one day and they dig this stuff up?”

  I roll my eyes right back. “You are definitely overthinking this Inspector Gadget. But I love you for it. This was the best present if only because it was thoughtful and picturing you in a trench and sunglasses hunting around the Adult Emporium for sex toys is the most cheerful thought I’ve had since…well, you know.” At her sympathetic smile, I give her a small smile of my own. “But you know, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble. We’ll have to return them and don’t worry, your public image will remain untarnished throughout eternity.”

  Her brows draw together. I admire their delicate shape for a moment and remind myself that I need to schedule an appointment to get mine done. “Why do we need to return them?”

  “Because I’m not using them. I’m never having sex again. Not even with myself.”

  She stares at me blankly. “Huh?”

  I know the words are hard to believe because, well, they’re coming from me and it’s a perfectly good waste of a pretty damn good vagina and body (at least while I’m still in my youth), but I’ve come to my decision after thorough deliberation.

  Wine or alcohol wasn’t even involved, although I did have an accomplice in Ben and Jerry.

  Sophie still stares at me disbelievingly, so I decide to enlighten her. I know I’ve shocked her.

  “So it’s like this. I can’t have sex with anyone after Mark. It’s like eating the caviar off of sushi once you’ve had the really good Russian shit they sell for millions. Just not the same. No one is ever going to live up to what he did to my body, not even the battery-operated variety. Think about it like this. Let’s say you dine every night at Ruth Chris, and every night you get the finest cuts of meat. Dinner is divine. Consistently. Then, let’s say circumstances change and you lose your dining budget. Now you’re eating off of the dollar menu at McDonald’s and it doesn’t matter how often you’re mixing and matching, switching it up between a chicken sandwich or a burger, it’s just not the same.” By the time I finish, I’m crying. Big, huge, and ugly sobs that rack my body which is now pressed against Sophie after she pulled me into her arms.

  “I can’t, can’t buh-lieve this,” I manage to speak in shuddering gasps. “Soph, it hurts so much, and I can’t make it stop.”

  She rubs my back in soothing circles. “I know sweetheart. I’m sorry you’re going through this, but he’s a huge jerk. If he hadn’t already gotten shot, I’d shoot him!” Her mouth is screwed into a tight scowl, her pretty face flushed with anger.

  My pathetic laugh hiccups its way out of my mouth. “I know you would.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “Once his body’s healed, we’ll get him back. Your ex-lax brownies are going to look like child’s play.”

  Six Weeks and Five Days Later

  Mark

  “You’re going down asshole.”

  I narrow my eyes and turn a seemingly abandoned corner. A small splash of red spreads over the screen where my foot is, and I realize I’ve been hit by a sniper. I plaster myself against the nearby brick wall to buy time and re-strategize. Seconds later, I toss my grenade in the opposite direction of the sniper before rounding the corner. It’s easy to take him down with his attention on the cloud of fire and smoke and not on me. He falls first, and then I open rapid fire on the asshole crouched behind an abandoned tanker.

  “You were saying? Who’s the asshole now?” I turn to my brother and laugh when he drops his controller and flips me the bird on each hand.

  “It’s still you. I only let you win because your ass is still in sorry shape,” he mutters, getting to his feet. “Want a beer?”

  I shake my head no, and he stalks off to my kitchen, presumably to get one.

  I’m actually in p
retty decent shape, all things considered. The two bullets that hit me got me on the right side of my chest, missing my heart. No damage to my lungs and the scars from the bullets have healed nicely. Although I still get a sharp pang every now and then, I’m not sore anymore.

  Everyone tells me I’m remarkably lucky, but nothing could be further than the truth.

  It’s been six weeks and five days since her dimpled smile has tugged at my heart.

  Six weeks and five days since she’s made me laugh so hard, I have to wipe away tears from my hand.

  Six weeks and five days since she’s yelled at me for leaving her toilet seat up, made me watch a chick flick, used my razor because she forgot hers, or railed on me for thinking I can boss her around.

  Six weeks and five days since I looked into her stunned tearful aquamarine eyes, like liquid pools of water from the clearest of beaches, and sentenced myself to this hell I’m living in now.

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all, but I don’t buy it. That’s bullshit people feed to other people to make them feel better instead of facing the stark reality that they once had something beautiful, something magical, something larger than life—and then they fucking lost it. Whether it was taken from them or they threw it away, it’s gone.

  And when it’s gone, it takes a piece of you with it.

  The world which was filled with vibrant colors, tantalizing smells, melodic sounds is now dull, tasteless, and trite.

  “You’re pathetic.”

  It takes me a second to realize that it’s not me talking to myself. It’s Brant, who’s entered the room while I’ve been busy wallowing in my murky pool of self-pity.

  I shrug.

  “See, you’re so pathetic you can’t even defend yourself. You know you’re being a world-class douchebag.” He takes a swig of Sam Adams and lets out a loud belch. When I shoot him a dirty look, he flips me the bird again. “Look asshole, me indulging my body’s natural functions that may be accompanied by rude noises has absolutely nothing on what you’re doing right now.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I say between clenched teeth, suddenly wishing I was anywhere but here. I know Brant means well, but between him, Grams, and Charlotte, I feel like I’m under constant surveillance. I’m supposed to return to work after this weekend, and the clock can’t tick fast enough.

  “Exactly dickweed. Call her.”

  Temples pounding, blood rushing, I inhale and exhale a few times before responding. “Look, you see what I am. You see what I do. Not only is the job dangerous to begin with, but I got shot off duty. I was one hour away from going to pick her up. One fucking hour, Brant,” I say, the words clogging my throat. “What if I’d already picked her up? What if they’d taken their shot then, when she was with me? What if she got hurt? What if she got fucking dead?” The last question ends on a shout.

  Brant looks at me with steady, understanding eyes. We have the same eyes, but I know right now mine are tortured and wild. “But she didn’t,” he says slowly. “And if she was in any danger at all, you’d give your life for her.”

  I drop my head in my hands. “I can’t talk about this anymore. Heart to heart’s over. Take your tampons with you.”

  ***

  I’ve just settled in with a beer, Sports Center, and a few takeout menus when I hear a fist banging at my door. Brant had left less than five minutes ago after “borrowing” a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, my cologne, and telling me not to expect him back for the night.

  “I thought you said you were going out to troll for pussy. Why the hell are you back at my place?” I thunder as I move toward the front door. “Asshole, what’s the point of me giving you a key when—”

  I stop abruptly when I swing the door open and see Chief Connor standing in my doorway.

  He squints at me hard. “You kiss your grandma with that mouth boy?”

  I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that I’m redder than a Maine lobster right now.

  “Chief,” I croak awkwardly.

  “I thought we talked about that ‘chief’ nonsense already. You going to keep me standing here in your hallway all day?”

  I shake my head no and move aside to let him in. I lead the way into the living area, and he follows behind. I wonder if that’s such a good idea because if the man wanted to shoot me, he could easily finish the job off from where he’s at.

  This whole thing would be laughable if seeing him didn’t make me feel so goddamn raw inside.

  “Please feel free to have a seat. Can I get you something to drink, ch—James?”

  “I’ll take a coke if you have it. Not the diet shit, but the real kind with real sugar.”

  I want to laugh because the Chief’s battle with his wife over his dietary choices is a sitcom unto itself, but laughing would make this visit feel normal, when it’s not. I’m not a part of his department, I don’t live in Sheffield, and I’m no longer dating his daughter. The irony that none of that should have felt normal because most of it—with the exception of Liz— was a lie is not lost on me.

  I return with a can of non-diet Coke and take the seat across from him. He pops the can, takes a swig, and lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

  “That’s some good shit. You just don’t know how good it is until you can’t have it anymore. Funny how that works.” He looks at me closely, and something tells me he isn’t just talking about diet versus real cola any more. I don’t have anything to say to that, so I’m thankful when he saves me from having to respond. “Who’s out trolling for pussy?”

  Ah, shit.

  “I was just being crass. My brother was visiting earlier, and he made plans to go out in the city tonight.”

  He shakes his head. “Makes me glad I just have one daughter. Don’t know what I’d do if I had more. Probably end up on the other side of bars.”

  I grow increasingly more uncomfortable with our discussion, and the light in his eyes tells me this is not something he minds too much.

  I have to clear my throat a few times before I’m sure I can speak clearly. “James, what can I do for you?” And then a darker thought crosses my mind. “Is everything okay with Liz?”

  My worry grows when the light fades from his eyes. “Well, that depends on how you look at it.”

  Why is he speaking in riddles?

  “Look at what?” I bite out sharply.

  And then something strange happens. The light starts to flicker again.

  “You look like shit, son. You’re moving around good, and it’s probably because you’re young, but your face, your eyes. You look like shit. You want to talk about why that is?”

  He’s off his rocker. That has to be it, I decide. “What’s the matter with Liz?”

  “She looks like shit, too.”

  The meaning of his words hits me like a ton of bricks, but I don’t have time to think too much because he keeps talking. “Her face, her eyes…I love all my kids, but she’s my only girl. She’ll always be my little girl, and sometimes I forget that because she’s so damn headstrong, smart, capable—I could go on, but the point is, it’s easy to forget that she’s got a sensitive soul under all that spit and fire.”

  I close my eyes and lean back against the chair. I need the support to hold my body up because in these weeks since I’ve been without her, all I’ve been able to think about is her. Her smile, her laugh, her propensity for the crazy…but I’ve been a selfish bastard, because I was only able to think about her before. I wasn’t able to think about her after. Despite the devastation on her face the last time I saw her, I didn’t want to think about her hurt, or in pain, or crying.

  “I did it because I needed to protect her. I don’t want her in this life.”

  “You did it because you’re scared,” he counters.

  “I thought you’d be glad. Is this why you came over?”

  “Mostly. First, I wanted to thank you for the work you did. I still can’t believe Martin…” he trails off and shakes his head
sadly. “I hired him myself. It’s hard to believe someone could do something like that when you’ve known them so long…when you think you know them.”

  “People do desperate things when they’re desperate. For what it’s worth, when he recruited me, he told me he’d gotten into it because he still had alimony payments to make, and his new wife had just had a baby. I think they got to him when he was at his most vulnerable, and once he was in, he couldn’t get out.”

  He looks at me with pained eyes. “It’s a good town. Good people. I have a lot of good cops on the force, and to think about that filth taking place on our turf much less having one of my own involved.” He blinks back the moisture in his eyes and then shakes his head quickly. “But I don’t want to dwell too much on that.”

  I brace myself for what’s coming. I don’t know the full context, but I don’t need to know that to know I’m not going to like what’s coming.

  “I told myself I wasn’t going to interfere, but after six weeks of my daughter giving out fake ass smiles, I decided it was enough. Your grandmother would be here too, but she had some quilting thing going on, so she gave me her proxy to kick your ass if need be.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up a hand and looks at me hard. “This isn’t going to be a conversation because the act of conversing requires an exchange of words or ideas between two or more individuals. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen, and while I may be grateful to you for your service, I’m not speaking to you as the chief of police for Sheffield, Connecticut. I’m speaking to you as the father of the girl whose heart you hold in your hands—a father, I might add, that has a very healthy collection of guns and an even more impressive collection of ammunition. It’s a useful hobby to be a collector of such things, especially when one finds himself in a position like this. So I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. We clear?”

  I nod. The movement is short and jerky, not out of fear, but because I want to get this over with. James Connor can threaten me all he wants—he can even make good on those threats and because of what I’ve done and what I’ve seen, it doesn’t scare me.