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Miranda Lennox rose hastily when Parker arrived at the accounting firm at ten. She was twenty, blonde, and drowning in student debt. She couldn't afford to lose her job, was therefore eager to please her boss.
Pushing a coffee cup into Parker's hand, Miranda indicated with a wave her neatly written notations.
Perhaps too eager.
"Your one-thirty wants to reschedule, your attorney said to call him this afternoon, and your- uh—I'm so sorry—Greg has telephoned six times."
"Marvelous," said Parker, dropping wearily into her chair.
"Speaking of marvelous, Miss Thang," another party chimed in, "you're holding out on Stella."
Owner of the largest real estate firm in the tri-state area, Stella Cherenfant was thirty-nine, wore a pressed pantsuit, and her sometimes-dark locks in a glamorous braided bouffant.
She drank deeply from a ceramic mug that boasted in rainbow colored font: Trans AF And Proudly Resisting.
Stella had ignored Parker's faked credentials, single mother status, and sold her a house with few questions asked. The pair, both criticized by some in society ("they're all bigots", spoken simultaneously with four hands on hips), became friends instantly.
Parker lifted a perfectly defined eyebrow, said neutrally, "Pardon, Stella?"
"Mister tall, dark, and mysterious but what else," answered Stella tartly. "I was minding my own business last night walking Nigel Bitch, Mister Mick Diggz Holz, and Vonny Von ThunderBarkz when what to my wondrous eyes should appear through your hedges but a man, by God, washing your dishes. When he walked outside I thought he'd dead caught me staring at his ass, and Lord have mercy, but what a glorious ass he has.
He closed that damn stubborn door, and I said mhm mister you done locked yourself clean out ,and it's a shame you're as stupid as Greg when you look like that.
Well, he showed me."
Parker absorbed the lightly accented answer with a blank expression, frowned at the latter. "He showed you what?"
"He fixed your door in ten minutes flat and that's when I knew it wasn't Greg," added Stella, with an extended index finger whose nail was polished matte Merlot. "Greg wishes he had an ass like that."
"Stel," Parker cautioned.
"Now," rebutted Stella, "you held my hand when the bandages came off, and taught me how to measure myself for a bra. You didn't even laugh when I put the damn thing on upside down. And who sold you a house with no questions asked and no background or credit checks and you all flighty and looking over your shoulder like Mister MDH when he's digging up my herb garden and afraid I'm gonna catch him?"
"I'm processing."
"Honey. This isn't like you. Processing? Processing what?"
"He's the Federal Agent."
Stella's face crumpled with incredulity. "That accused you of plotting to kill that cheating piece of excrement—and honey no one would blame you if you did and I'll help you hide Greg's corpse because that's what besties do."
"Yes," answered Parker.
"Why would a cop wash your dishes?"
"He's— an old friend."
"How friendly and since when are you friends with the boys in blue?"
"Black," corrected Parker. "We were friends."
"Why don't I believe you two were only friends?"
"During a brief moment of confusion he and I almost kissed."
"Ah," said Stella, intrigued.
"Also, as it turns out, he's Eli's father. I've mentioned Jarod."
"Dear all the gods. I always have to be a lesbian, don't I? Aren't you relieved your child has a real father, someone else in his life? Your support system is larger now. That's good, isn't it? Or am I off base here? He's not an asshole like Greg, is he?"
"Mm, no, Jarod is a whole other rather unique species of asshole."
"What he did do?"
"He died."
"Oh, lord, but white people are crazy and this coming from me, Granddaughter of a creole hoodoo queen. Y'all have your riddles and metaphors."
"There was a funeral. I told you about the cloning."
"Yeah, it was like pulling teeth; you are tight with your business."
"I didn't tell you about the explosion; I wanted a clean start, to leave the past behind."
"Honey," Stella said, setting aside her mug, "the past catches up with us all eventually."
"For years Jarod allowed me to grieve for him."
"How many years are we talking about?"
"Thirteen this summer."
"That's inconsiderate, egregious," Stella commented rationally after some contemplation. "Chasing him with a gun is, too— this is the same Jarod?"
"Stella," Parker said, compressing her lips, adding sheepishly, "I professed my love to his grave."
"You're the most sensible, bad-ass woman I know and I love you, baby, but it's not his fault you were talking to his headstone. It's a bad idea, generally, to communicate with inanimate objects—I discovered while treating myself on Rodeo Drive."
"Jarod was watching at the time."
"Oh, hell, nahw, babygirl," exclaimed Stella, impassioned, her smoky eyes large, filled with derision. "Do you want me to help you hide his body? Carefully, of course, because I just got my nails done. Seriously though—and I'm not trying to cross you—it sounds like you'd prefer him being dead to being alive."
"I didn't say that."
"You aren't denying it either. Let's be real here: you're just as guilty as the next person of making everything about you. Have you considered he might have had his reasons? And even if he wanted to hurt you that doesn't mean he should be dead, does it?"
"Is it too early for a drink?"
"I'm not judging you, okay? I'm just saying. Look, you're going to feel the way you feel- until you don't anymore and that's okay."
Parker smiled, said softly, "No, I have to put my anger aside and let him be a father."
Stella's face twisted in incredulity. "It doesn't have to be mutually exclusive. He's entitled to see his son and you are entitled to your feelings."
Burying her feelings, Parker discovered, was easier than burying Jarod had been, more comfortable than confronting the truth. She instructed Miranda to take messages and answer no questions. At three sharp, she collected her daughter from Lavender Gardens Academy and her son from the Midtown Art Institute. She presented her children a portrait of maternal calm and competence and prepared dinner.
The children were positively gleeful when Stella arrived at five with DVDs and ordinarily prohibited snacks, neither noticing the nude, strappy mini-dress with plunging neckline, Parker's locks hanging in loose waves, the reapplied cosmetics. Avery and Eli assumed their mother was returning to the firm and neither Stella nor Parker intended to suggest otherwise, confess that Parker's destination was !Uproar, a nightclub frequented primarily by twenty-somethings.
There, beneath purple lights—and with a vodka tonic in hand—she strode up a spiral staircase, past curious stares, onto the mezzanine level, emerging at last on a curved overhanging balcony.
Parker sat the empty glass atop an ornate mahogany pub table and advanced predatorily on the trio that had joined her, kissing the youngest on the mouth and dragging black painted fingernails over the lapels of his pressed shirt.
She closed her eyes, surrendered herself to the relentless bass, the various lips and bodies, hearing and seeing nothing, pushing away the audio-tuned vocals and the bitch of a month she'd had, her divorce, and Jarod; they were incapable of touching her in this place.
Parker accepted offers of water, declined both a second drink and seedy motel sex with a pediatric cardiologist, discarded hastily scribbled telephone numbers on napkins. She craved only the dance floor, the brilliant hues synced with manic club beat, the live DJ playing requested music. The new, old, older.
Here—the stomping ground of the persecuted millennials and Gen Zers, where the goth and emo, the homeless, jobless, those ostracized by blood relations, the dispossessed, straight, gay, asexual, the ignorant privileged and those oppressed by upper caste privilege deposit their existential anxieties and differences—Diana Ross and Madonna are fucking champions and P!nk a savior. Ace of Base will forever be the ace of bass. Music is the lone, gallant uniter, welcoming with arms open.
Parker had not come for the music.
She was, after all, the huntress; open season had commenced.
Swiveling on her heels, she rolled her hips, pressed her buttocks into the pelvis of yet another stranger. He'd approached stealthily, held her hips loosely, knew somehow she belonged only to herself and would never be possessed. There was no attempt to greedily tug her away from the various parties that came to her, kissed her mouth, absolutely no jealousy or feelings of entitlement, no proprietorial compulsions.
He remained attuned to Parker's cues; they moved together flawlessly, transitioned through various songs and rhythms, as if they'd been doing it their entire lives.
This one, she thought. This is the one I'm going to fuck tonight.
Enveloped in violet glow, Parker pressed her back to his chest and lifted her arms above her head and her partner's hands instinctively ascended her body. She moistened her lips, preparing to kiss him, looked up into his face.
Then came the startling realization that her present partner was no stranger and was, nonetheless, a complete stranger and George Michael was explaining how his lover was amazing and had tried to save him from himself. And I know you're insatiable -
Parker withdrew, wheeled, opened her mouth to inquire how long have you been here, but she knew. God, she knew.
Much too long.
"I swear I'm not stalking you," Jarod said, casually not defensively, never slowing his rhythm, endeavoring to conceal his eagerness to preserve the gaiety, exhilaration. "I'm following up with a case," Jarod explained, observing Parker's incredulous smile, her encompassing appraisal of his indigo shirt opened at the neck, sleeves unbuttoned and pushed back past the wrists, black slacks, the fan club that had trailed him up the stairs, all awaiting their turn, attempting, futilely, to compel his attention.
"Off duty," added Jarod hastily, the bizarre intensity in his eyes entirely foreign to Parker. He'd been the prey, she the predator; as well as she knew him, however, she had not, heretofore, been with acquainted with ArousedJarod. She suspected, instead, a contrived pretext to justify his presence, mistook lust for duplicity. "Two losers," expounded Jarod earnestly, "were posing as bartenders and doping the drinks and then abducting and sexually assaulting patrons. The waitresses, as you can imagine, were frightened, and requested an update."
"Magnificent," remarked Parker, blandly.
Behind them, bright laughter tumbled from ebony painted lips - the bittersweet symphony of another outcast finding their tribe.
"Pardon? I thought we were dancing," said Jarod, wounded and puzzled by her demeanor.
Parker snorted her incredulity, withdrew hastily.
"You seem angry," Jarod observed delicately, following her downstairs.
Parker swiveled on heels, furious with Jarod, his persistent expression of sympathy, her name on his lips.
She laughed contemptuously, narrowed her eyes.
In an inadequately illuminated antechamber—bewildered by her own arousal, accompanying disorientation, her botched retreat—Parker met Jarod's intense gaze. "That's because I am angry," she snarled. "You are a cruel, manipulative son of a bitch, and I can't endure the thought of you having any kind of role in my child's life."
Jarod recoiled from her rage, grimaced. "I don't understand," he said, softly. "I've apologized for not reaching out sooner, for the subterfuge that, while perhaps selfish and unkind, was prudent in regards to my family, safety, freedom. You made it abundantly clear on several occasions that you couldn't and would never offer such assurances to me. My mother was ill, my family was grieving, vulnerable to attack.
An opportunity presented itself and I seized it and you are in no position to question or condemn my decisions because you would have been conducting the assault had you known I was alive. Believe me," concluded Jarod, whispering Parker's name again and regarding neutrally her perfectly defined eyebrows surging high above hardened eyes, "manipulation has never been my intent."
"Bullshit," rebutted Parker. "I," she snarled bitterly, "was grieving Sydney and you. I barely had the energy to crawl out of bed."
"What do you want from me?" Asked Jarod. "Another apology?"
"I don't want a damn thing from you," answered Parker crisply. "And certainly not another empty apology. You're not sorry, Jarod. You're only perplexed that past actions have produced annoying inconveniences. You burned a bridge and now you need that bridge to reach your son; rebuilding isn't looking promising. That's not remorse. You weren't sorry about the hundreds of distractions, fool's errands, disparaging my family. You're not sorry about— Tommy," whispered Parker in a strangled, brittle voice.
"Nothing could be more cruel or manipulative than sending him to me, giving me something that you knew damn well the Centre would never allow me to keep. You had no fucking right to interfere in my life and certainly not to that extent. My family and career were heinous legacies, compulsory crosses to bear, but you were under no obligation to be pursued. You could have faked your death the day you escaped the Centre rather than opting to play mind games. Jesus," she groaned, "you might as well have fired a goddamned bullet into Thomas' head the day you directed him to Blue Cove. Make no mistake," Parker continued tremulously, equal measures of pain and rage in blue-grey eyes standing with tears that were forbidden to fall, "it's your fault Thomas is dead. I'll go to my grave feeling responsible for his murder but it's your fault."
Jarod averted his eyes, pushed a hand over his face. "You and I, clearly, have unresolved emotional conflicts, no doubt exacerbated by our history, and, like it or not, the past must be addressed."
"Like it or not?" Repeated Parker, hotly. "The hell?"
"I'm not eager to unwittingly impose unpleasantness on our son and your daughter. Are you?"
"You're completely divorced from reality, Jarod," she observed coolly, remarkably composed for even Parker, alleged Ice Queen, considering the revelations and emotions she was processing - or, rather, ignoring. "You'll have your court ordered supervised visits with Eli but you will not make demands."
"I'm not making demands," he assured her. "Your belligerence is entirely unwarranted."
"Aw, how precious, Jarod."
"Talk to me," he pleaded, deflated and desperate, reaching for her.
Appalled, Parker gasped, jerked away, gaped in disbelief at him. "Don't touch me," she screamed at him. "Don't," she repeated, thrusting an accusing finger at him, drawing a sharp breath. "I swear to God, Jarod," Parker cautioned, mortified by the fractured enunciation that belied her words and otherwise flawless delivery, "if you follow me I will kill you."
Often, Jarod relied on his intrinsic crystalline acumen, however, it was rather apparent to him that Parker would never execute her threats, was, in fact, altogether inconceivable. Nevertheless, he made no attempt to pursue her; instead, he rooted himself to the floor and—contrite and dismayed—followed her departing form with his eyes.
Chapter End Notes:
Parker might be retracting the claws soon.
Or not.
