Chapter 3: The Unraveling
The key turned in the lock just after six. Kevin, standing at the window with a tumbler of ice water, didn’t turn around. He heard the door open, the hesitant shuffle of boots on polished concrete, then the soft click of it closing.
He listened to the silence that followed. A full minute of her just standing in his foyer, maybe staring at his back.
“You came back,” he said finally, his voice neutral. He turned.
Ashlee looked shattered. Her work clothes—a maroon call center polo and black slacks—hung on her like a sad uniform. Her red hair was a frizzy halo from the winter dryness. Her eyes were puffy. She held a greasy paper bag from the taco place down the street.
“You said to,” she rasped. Her voice was utterly wrecked, a gravelly whisper that clearly hurt to produce. “And I’m too tired to figure out where else to go.” She held up the bag. “I got you a chorizo breakfast burrito. It’s cold now. I forgot you don’t eat after four.”
He stared at the bag, then at her. The care in the gesture, even bungled, even amid the wreckage, hit him like a physical blow. The shirt she was wearing was his, a grey V-neck he’d forgotten existed, swallowed her frame.
Before he could formulate a response, the intercom by the door buzzed, sharp and electronic. They both jumped.
Kevin walked over, pressed the button. “Yes?”
“It’s Hope! I come bearing pre-gameday libations!” Hope’s voice was bright, cheerful, a chirp from another planet.
He closed his eyes for a second. He’d forgotten. Completely wiped it. The America Hotel Christmas party was tomorrow. Hope had texted yesterday about dropping by with the wine for their “pre-function.” He’d agreed absently.
He pressed the door release. “Come on up.”
He turned to Ashlee. “Hope Vassie. A date. For tomorrow.”
Ashlee’s face went through a complicated series of adjustments: confusion, then a dawning, awful understanding, then a forced neutrality that was worse. “Right. Okay.” She shuffled toward the kitchen, discarding the taco bag on the island. “I’ll just… get out of the way. I’ll go to my room.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended. “Stay. Have some wine. You look like you need it.”
“Kevin, my voice sounds like I’ve been swallowing barbed wire. I can’t do… social.”
“You don’t have to talk,” he said, just as the elevator dinged and the front door opened.
Hope breezed in, a whirlwind of cool energy. She was dressed in a stylish, oversized blazer and jeans, her dark skin glowing, her natural hair cut in a chic short crop. She carried two bottles of Bordeaux by the necks.
“Hey, you!” she said, rising on her toes to kiss Kevin’s cheek. Her lips were dry and landed a little too close to the corner of his mouth. The kiss was, as always, slightly off—a peck with too much pressure, not enough give. The memory of her expert, hungry mouth elsewhere flashed, clinical and detached.
She noticed Ashlee, who was trying to become one with the refrigerator. “Oh, hi! I’m Hope.” She set the wine down and extended a hand.
Ashlee turned, wiped her hand on her slacks, and shook it. “Ashlee,” she whispered.
“Ashlee’s an old friend,” Kevin said, taking the wine to the counter. “Staying for a bit.”
“Nice to meet you! Love the shirt.” Hope smiled, genuinely warm. She looked at Kevin. “So, should I open one? Let it breathe for a bit before we dive in?”
“Please,” Kevin said, fetching glasses. He got three.
“Oh, I shouldn’t impose,” Ashlee whispered, seeing the third glass.
“You’re not,” Kevin said, pouring a generous amount into each. He handed one to Ashlee. Her fingers brushed his, ice-cold.
Hope took hers, swirled, sipped. “Mmm. Notes of plum. A little oak. Good year.” She leaned against the island. “So, Ashlee, what do you do?”
Ashlee took a tiny, careful sip of the wine. It was dark and dry. She managed a wincing swallow. “I work at a call center,” she whispered. “For… appliance warranties.”
“Oh, wow. That must be… something.”
“It’s a living,” Ashlee rasped, her eyes on the dark liquid in her glass. “Your blazer is amazing.”
Hope beamed, launching into a story about finding it at a consignment shop in Seattle while at a comic convention. She was easy, chatty, filling the vast space with nerdy, un-self-conscious energy. Kevin watched Ashlee. She listened, nodding, sipping her wine with extreme caution, each swallow a visible effort. The wine stained her lips a deep purple.
He poured more. They moved to the living room as the sun bled orange over the city. Hope sat primly on the edge of the large sectional. Ashlee curled into an armchair, tucking her feet underneath her, looking small. Kevin stood by the window, a sentinel.
A bottle emptied. Hope opened the second. The warmth of the alcohol began to loosen things.
“So you two have known each other forever?” Hope asked, kicking off her shoes and curling her legs up.
“Since she was a mess in college and I was a slightly less-messy grad student,” Kevin said, his eyes on Ashlee. “Fished her out of a few bad situations.”
Ashlee gave a ghost of a smile. Her voice was a little stronger, frayed at the edges. “He’s my human safety net. With a really nice apartment.”
“And a best friend china people grafitti d in marker on my couch after a vodka incident who I didn’t kill,” Kevin added, a familiar, old fondness seeping into his tone.
Hope laughed. “That sounds about right. Kevin’s… surprisingly patient. For a finance shark.” She smiled at him, a private look. “Remember that hotel room after the Gala? I think I left my ears.” She giggled at her own vague whisper.
Kevin remembered. The efficient, world-class blowjob against the minibar. The way she’d swallowed without a flinch and then asked about the interest rates on municipal bonds. He just nodded.
Ashlee took a larger gulp of wine. She was on her third glass. The alcohol was overriding the pain in her throat, flooding her system with a reckless warmth. Her cheeks were flushed, matching her hair.
“He’s good at fixing things,” Ashlee said, her words beginning to slur just a fraction. “People. Things. Broken garbage disposals. Broken… whatever.” She looked at her glass. “Less good at knowing when things aren’t broken.”
The room got quiet. Hope glanced between them, sensing a current she wasn’t part of. “Well, he’s a good date,” she offered, trying to lighten the mood. “Even if he’s a distracted kisser.” She laughed, a little self-deprecating. “I mean, I know I’m not great at it. Too much teeth, my ex said. All my talent is… lower.”
Ashlee’s eyes, glassy and wine-dark, lifted to Kevin’s. A challenge. An ugly, shared knowledge. You like that, don’t you? A mouth just for that.
Kevin didn’t blink. He took a slow drink.
“Another top-up?” Hope asked, reaching for the bottle. She swayed slightly as she stood, the wine hitting her, too. She replenished her own glass, then shuffled to Ashlee’s chair. “C’mon, live a little.”
She poured. The wine sloshed, a thin stream missing the glass and spilling onto the white fabric of the chair and, more importantly, onto the front of the grey V-neck Ashlee wore.
“Oh, shit! Sorry!” Hope said, grabbing a napkin.
“It’s fine,” Ashlee whispered, looking down at the dark splash spreading over her chest, right over her left breast. The thin cotton of Kevin’s shirt clung, revealing the shape underneath, the wine a wet, purple stain like a bruise. She made no move to dab it.
Hope dabbed ineffectively at the chair. “Really sorry. It’ll probably come out. Club soda.”
“It’s just a shirt,” Ashlee said. Her voice was low, sandpaper rough.
Her gaze was locked on Kevin. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her wine glass to her mouth. She drank, letting the dark liquid seep over her lower lip, tracing the same path his cum had taken that morning. A purple droplet clung to her chin. She didn’t wip