Page 4 of King of Hearts

Jason

The woman before me looks nothing like the photos I saw online: more like the ghost of the woman that used to reside inside of the history magazines and online articles I had perused the day before. As she walks towards my desk, I take her in: the frizzy hair matted on one side, the slight puff to her face, the red around her eyes: she doesn’t have to say a word for me to deduce that she had overslept and rushed herself here. And her dress….

Does she know her dress is inside out?

Eve pulls out the chair before me and takes her seat: I keep my chin resting on my hands as she mimics my pose, bringing her own elbows to my desk and putting her head on her hands with a slight smile. It’s almost as if she’s mocking me, and before I can say a word, she begins to speak in the most rushed, erratic tone I’ve ever heard.

“Hi Mr. Grant, I’m Eve. I spoke with you on the phone regarding my father. He died and I wanted to look into your cremation services: I don’t need a funeral or service, he was a simple man, a claustrophobic one, so a casket doesn’t make sense, and besides, this damn town has no more burial plots available, you’d think in a town this big there’d be another ceme—”

I can’t take the rambling anymore; I raise my hand to cut her off. She abruptly stops speaking, and looks at me with a dangerous glint in her eyes, the dark green glowing with electricity. She doesn’t seem one to enjoy getting interrupted or cut off.

Unfortunately for her, that’s not my problem.

“Ms. O’Hara” I put emphasis on her last name. “I’m not going to ask why you were late. Nor am I going to ask why your clothing is inside out, or why you felt like it necessary to take such intense sleeping medication the night before you knew you had a meeting. I’m a punctual individual, and yours isn’t the only engagement I have this evening. So if you don’t mind, let’s get through this quickly so you can be on your way, and I can be on mine.”

Her hands slowly drop to the table before me, her mouth slightly agape as she stares at me in disbelief: her eyes meet mine again, but this time as if she’s searching for something. As her gaze flits back and forth across my face, I remain fixated on hers, studying the micromovements of her jaw as she clenches it slightly, the corners of her eyes narrowing slightly as she digs for whatever it is she’s looking for.

The words that follow are nowhere near as rushed as before: they sound as if she’s tiptoeing around me, trying to find the right way to ask the question that’s finally made its way to the tip of her tongue.

“Mr. Grant…sleeping meds? What makes you think I took sleeping meds? How could you possibly tell that from sitting with me for a minute?”

A deep chuckle escapes my lips as I lower my hands to the desk, resting them just inches away from hers. I can’t tell her how it is that I have extensive knowledge in sleeping pills, tranquilizers, and paralytics. I can’t tell her the real reason why it is that I can see from her skin texture, from the red in her eyes or the speed of her speech that she’s coming down from a strong, STRONG sleep aid.

So I lie.

“Sometimes when you wake suddenly from oversleeping, your brain will fire neurons at rapid speed: your nervous system will be on edge, and you’ll be in a state of panic…like the panic you probably felt when realizing you were late for our meeting today,” I smirked.

A small smile tugs at Eve’s mouth as she hangs her head slightly and shakes her head, her red hair falling around her face and framing her shoulders.

It really is the most beautiful shade of red.

“I apologize,” she says. “I thought I grabbed my bottle of pain meds, but the label had been worn off and I must’ve taken the wrong ones.”

Her expression softens, a change which alters her entire appearance. With her face relaxed, she looks more like herself. I feel my eyes trail slightly downward, my eyes caressing her features before settling on her lips. So full, so soft, with a pout that would make anyone beg to kiss her, if even for a moment.

“Hey Mr. Grant? My eyes are up here.”

I look back up at her, nearly embarrassed at the momentary crack in my professionalism; for a moment she and I stare at each other like we are teenagers that just got caught fucking in the back of our car. Our eyes slightly widen, as if begging the other to speak first and break the tension.

Eve must sense it, because a slow smile spreads across her face: one I can’t help but to mirror, and within seconds we are both laughing together.

Laughter. Genuine laughter. An action so foreign to me, it’s as if I’m experiencing it for the first time.

I straighten my tie and Eve brushes her hair back away from her face, exposing her long, elegant neck.

I swear to God she knows exactly what she’s doing…and it’s working.

As her laugh begins to die down, I follow her hand as it moves from her hair to her shoulder, dropping back onto the table before me. Although this time, it isn’t the sensuality of her movements that have me fixated…rather it’s the giant gash she has on the middle of her palm, and how it’s starting to shine with the promise of a fresh bleed.

“Ms. O’Hara, your hand…”

She glances down at her palm, a short gasp escaping from her lips as she turns to look behind her, her neck craning as if searching for something she had dropped.

“Oh I’m so sorry, I had cut my hand last night and wrapped it before bed: I’m not sure where the bandage went, or if I even left the house with it on at all. It’s why I took the pain meds before bed. Or at least what I THOUGHT were pain meds.” She sighs heavily. “Jesus, it's been a hell of a week.”

She turns back to face me, and scans the large desk between us, looking for what I assume is a napkin or tissue of sorts. Her eyes peruse the large wooden surface, scanning over my belongings until settling on my briefcase resting precariously on the edge.

OH SHIT.

I rise abruptly and grasp the case off of the table with a sense of urgency: Eve’s brow furrows as she follows the case with her eyes, watching me walk across the room and setting it back down against the far wall behind me. I move over to the cabinets that line the far side of the room, filled with urns and display booklets, and search until I find the first aid kit. I turn to walk back to the desk, Eve’s eyes still fixated on the case and oblivious to the fact that her wound is now beginning to bleed freely.

I clear my throat as I resume my seat at the desk, opening the first aid kit and reaching forward with my hand, palm-up.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

Eve tears her eyes away from the case and looks at me with a bit of a blank stare, before shaking her head briskly as if to wake herself from a dream.

“Of course…thank you so much.” Her voice is appreciative, but I can tell she is still distracted: trying with all her might not to look back over at the case behind me.

She extends her arm and places her hand in mine: her skin is warm, the blood leaking from her palm now working its way through the crevices of her fingers. I can feel her pulse through her skin, her heartbeat fast and so very, very strong.

Pulling a gauze cloth from the first aid box, I clean up our hands, until the blood is gone and the wound exposed: it is deep, much deeper than I had thought at first glance, and at the rate her heart is pumping I have probably a good few seconds before it starts to bleed again.

I hold the used cloth in my mouth–ignoring the fact that it’s soaked with her blood–as I reach for alcohol, iodine, and a pack of butterfly closures. I’ll be damned if I get any more blood on my expensive-ass desk, and as I open the alcohol wipe, the taste of copper tints my mouth.

No matter. I’m no stranger to blood, its presence or taste. God knows I’ve had my hands drenched in my share of it.

I proceed to cleanse her wound, her eyes fixated on me. They drift from the fabric resting between my lips, to my hand holding hers, then back to my face. No questions, no words, no wincing in pain as the alcohol does its job.

She’s a trooper, that’s for sure.

I press the butterfly closures to her palm, tugging at the edges and slowly pulling the flesh together. The edges of the skin aren’t jagged, but smooth, as if cut by a knife or glass: I’m tempted to ask her, but as I glance down at my computer to check the time, I see that it’s already nearly 6pm.

Shit, I need to start getting ready for my client meeting at Clover.

As I finish dressing her hand, I hear a knock at the door, followed by Maya’s head peeking around the corner.

“Mr. Grant? Derek called, he said to remind you of your prior engagement for tonight.”

Just as quickly as she came, Maya disappears behind the door as it closes behind her. I smile to myself: she only ever calls me by my last name when we have clients, trying to keep up professional appearances. It’s endearing. What ISN’T endearing is the glare I can feel from the red-headed feral cat across the desk from me, her jaw tensing at my interaction with my Maya.

It takes three closures to secure the cut on her palm: I gather the empty wrappers, remove the cloth from my mouth and toss everything in the trash can near the corner of my desk. Eve turns her hand over in front of her, assessing my handiwork, before folding her arms in front of her and leaning back in her seat.

“Are you a nurse or EMT or something? Where did you learn to do that, and so quickly? And I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from your ‘date’.”

The sound of jealousy peppers her words and has me struggling to hold in a laugh. A slight smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I straighten up and turn my attention to my computer, opening a cremation file and starting on her paperwork.

“Derek isn’t my…partner,” I say with a smirk. “Although I can see how–considering how Maya phrased that–you would think so. No, he is a friend I work with from time to time.” I lift my leg and rest my ankle on my other knee, leaning back to stretch. “As for my medical knowledge, my adopted father knew a lot about the human body: he insisted I learned the ins and outs of administering aid, regardless of the injury.”

I mean, it’s not a lie. Not completely.

Eve nods slightly as she leans forward and reaches out to grasp the picture frame on my desk, flipping it around so she can see what is inside. I glance away from my computer for a second, watching her movements out of the corner of my eye, and as she turns the frame around, a puzzled look washes over her face.

“A playing card? What’s so special about a playing card?”

My chair squeaks slightly as I pivot to face her, taking a breath before crafting an answer. Something inside me wants to be as honest with Eve as possible, but I know that there is no way I can tell her the honest truth. A truth that would have her running in fear, calling the cops, and result in me being strapped to an electric chair.

“My father and his friends were part of a club.” I make sure to choose my words extremely carefully. “Each member had a nickname based on a playing card, and his was left for me as a memento.”

Still holding the picture frame, Eve cocks her head and looks up at me. Her lips purse for a minute before contorting into a slow, sad smile as she sets the frame down on the table, turning it back to face me.

“You said ‘left to you,’ yeah? Do you mind me asking what happened to your father? Is he still around?”

I tilt my head side to side, my neck cracking loudly as I turn back to the computer, absentmindedly finishing her paperwork while I try to craft a plausible response.

“He’s not around anymore,” I say as my fingers furiously pound away at my keyboard. “One day I came to work, and he was just gone: after a while he was declared dead, and when his will was executed, we saw he had left Everlast to Maya and me: we’ve been running it ever since.”

“Oh,” she replies, her voice filled with empathy. “Leaving it to you makes sense, but why Maya? I saw that she had a card on her desk as well. Were they….together?”

I bark out a laugh, unable to contain myself. The thought of Maya with my mentor was laughable, what with how much disdain she has for men in general. Especially considering what she went through in the past. Still, I can’t tell Eve that. I can’t tell Eve ANYTHING, although something in her eyes makes me feel as if a secret is lurking beneath the surface, beneath the grief and scatterbrained, pill-induced fog that she is recovering from. Her eyes are an endless pool of green, flecked with gold, her pupils dancing around the centers like two bottomless pits. Pits filled with secrets, with mystery, with the truth about who she was. I want to explore those depths, pry into her personality and search her soul for who she truly is.

She is hiding something, too. And I have to know what it is.

Looking back at Eve, I smile and make my eye contact as direct as possible.

“No, but they knew each other for years. They were very good friends and worked closely together. He trusted her completely, and she, him.”

Eve nods, remaining silent. Focused on me.

“In any case,” I continue, my gaze not moving an inch from Eve’s face. “I have the cremation paperwork filled out and ready to go. Would you like to pick an urn while you are here?”

Eve takes a breath and sits up in her chair, folding her arms on the desk before her and leaning forward slightly.

“I don’t think you carry the kind of urn I’m looking for, and to be honest I’m not sure the kind of urn exists at all, really.”

Folding my arms in front of my chest, I lean back in my chair.

“In my line of work, I can procure almost anything. Try me.”

Eve smiles slowly, seductively: as she bites the corner of her lip with a mischievous grin, I find myself licking mine in reply. Everything about her is dripping with sex appeal, from the tousled bed-head hair to the flush in her pale cheeks: as she lets her lip roll out slowly from between her teeth, it takes everything in me from leaning forward and kissing her with ravenous intent.

“I would love an obsidian box. Pure obsidian, not this ‘polished glass’ bullshit. REAL obsidian.”

My brows furrow. Obsidian? I mean, she isn’t wrong: I haven’t heard of many cases of obsidian being used as an urn, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be made. Still, I am SO curious as to why she wants obsidian over anything else.

“That’s definitely one I haven’t heard before,” I reply pensively. “But I HAVE to ask, why obsidian? It’s such an obscure selection, not one that most folks would usually go out of their way to pick.”

“So my father and I are-were-history buffs,” she begins, her eyes slowly drifting from my eyes to my mouth, and I feel the bottom of my stomach tighten. “Me in particular, I became fascinated with the darker side of humanity: as it turns out, obsidian was the material used to forge the daggers that the Aztecs would use to enact certain sacrificial rites. They would cut out the hearts of the victims and add the skulls to a display rack. In any case, my father was my heart, and in a way, his death felt like I had my own heart cut out. The obsidian symbolizes that.”

I stop breathing.

So Eve not only has a fascination with the macabre, but the focus of her fascination is so similar to my own…hobby. It is beyond coincidence.

Inhaling sharply, I nearly break my neck looking over at the time on my computer.

6:20pm. Shit, I need to go.

“Ok, I think I have enough to go off of here. Unfortunately I have that prior engagement in an hour that I absolutely CANNOT miss, so if I have any further questions, I’ll have Maya reach out to you. In the meantime I’ll procure the obsidian urn for you, and keep you updated every step of the way.”

Eve’s eyes narrow dangerously as I rise from my seat and extend my arm across the desk to shake her hand. Her gaze follows me as she shifts her weight and grasps the arms of the chair, pushing herself up and reaching out to take my hand in hers. Her skin is soft, yet her grip is firm: as we shake across the desk, I can feel her eyes piercing mine, as if digging through my soul for some hidden secret. I let her look, doing some digging of my own. It isn’t until I see her eyes narrow ever so slightly that I notice a shine in them that wasn’t there before. Predatory and dangerous. As if for a second, she catches a glimpse of my true nature and is trying to pull it to the surface.

“Alright, well I guess I’ll be in touch,” I grunt as I pull my hand back from hers, breaking the tension and walking around the desk to the door. I can feel her eyes on me while I move past her, and can hear her footsteps fall in line behind me as she follows me across the room.

I open the door for her, but Eve stops right in front of me, her face slowly rising to meet mine. We are locked onto each other, the seconds passing feel like years as the electricity between us builds. I can’t take it anymore, this feeling like my soul found its twin swimming in those emerald eyes.

Say something, you idiot.

“Well it was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. O’Hara. I’ll be in touch.”

Eve takes a step forward, brushing against me dangerously as I try not to budge. She’s so forward, so unashamed, and she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. As if I can’t be even more turned on right now.

“It was MORE than a pleasure meeting you,” she croons, her voice like honey, dripping and seductive. In a small act of mercy, she steps back from me and gives me a once-over before walking through the open door. She begins her trek down the hallway, looking back just once to toss her hair over her shoulder with a small smile.

“Have a good night…Jaaason…” Her sing-song voice echoes through the hallway.

My lip feels like it’s going to pop with how hard I bite it, the sway of her hips holding my gaze. She stops for a brief moment at Maya’s desk, and though I can’t hear the exchange of words, I see Eve reach over and gingerly lift something from Maya’s desk. It was a picture frame, the one with the Queen of Spades card nestled inside.

Eve looks at the card, her mouth forming words that only Maya can hear, and for a second, Eve looks back at me down the darkened hallway towards me. I can feel her eyes piercing mine. There is something unexplainable about her that piques my interest, something…dark.

My lips curl into a smirk as I nod slowly in her direction, watching her put the picture frame down and walk out the front door. She barely makes it past the threshold before she pivots, messy waterfalls of wavy copper falling around her face as she looks back towards me one last time. Framed in the golden evening light, her beauty gives God’s angels a run for their money.

Yet her eyes shine with a devilish spark, a flame that is all but begging to run wild and burn anyone in her path.

And I’ve never been afraid of a little fire.