Kissing Corpses Read online

  Kissing Corpses

  by Amy Leigh Strickland

  Copyright © 2012 by Amy Leigh Strickland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in cases of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information address Matter Deep Publishing

  http://matterdeeppublishing.com

  To my brother, Sam. I can already see him smiling like a supervillian as he cracks the spine of this book.

  At his core his body trembled; the minute shaking motion magnified as it traveled down the length of his arm until the gun in his hands was convulsing wildly, unable to be aimed. Every shudder, every twitch, took place in slow motion. Guns are powerful. They can end lives with the squeeze of a trigger and, if one is pointed at you, they can slow down time. The man pointing the gun at me was a stranger. He had the gaunt face and yellow teeth of a meth user. The tremor of his withdrawal was only compounded by the cold. My purse was the ticket to his next fix.

  I held my hands in the air, thinking very quickly about what I needed to do. His aim might have been terrible, but I knew that if he got spooked and pulled the trigger, I didn't want to bet against his marksmanship.

  “Okay,” I breathed, watching the heat roll out from my lips, “You can have everything. Just... take it.” I held out my purse. He edged towards me, one hand reaching for the purple and black damask tote, the other trying to reign in the quaking pistol.

  He changed his mind. “Open the car,” he said.

  Fuck. This was turning into a car jacking. I could cancel my credit cards and buy a new iPhone. It was insured. I could stand to lose the twenty dollars and the pack of Big Red in my purse. The car was a whole new level of problems.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “Give me the goddamn keys!” he barked. I winced, but nodded and opened the purse to follow orders. My only hope was that someone had heard him shout.

  I felt my hands curl around my braided leather key chain. Then something vibrated. My phone. In that half second between the vibrate and the ring tone, I had all the time in the world to realize how much trouble this could be, but no time at all to react.

  “STOP CALLIN', STOP CALLIN', I DON'T WANNA THINK ANYMORE!”

  The sudden blaring of Lady GaGa at top volume cut through the cold night air like a siren. He panicked. I can't say that I didn't panic, too. I felt the barrel of the gun strike my cheek just below my eye. My head whipped back and my body followed. I fell hard against my car, catching the rear-view mirror across my lower back.

  “I LEFT MY HEAD AND MY HEART ON THE DANCE FLOOR.”

  “It's my phone,” I bawled, clutching my throbbing face. An injury like this would normally have me on the ground, unable to speak. Adrenaline is a wondrous hormone.

  “Open the car,” he ordered.

  “Or you could put the gun down,” another voice said. It seemed to carry a proper British accent.

  During my undergrad survey of Psychology, we learned that strangers didn't normally stop to intervene in public cases of assault. The instinct for the average human being, no matter how altruistic you'd like to think you you are, is to label it “not my problem” and keep walking. The uncommon individual who had come to my aid, stood at the corner of the street with his hands shoved into the pockets of a navy blue, wool top coat.

  My cheek was swelling up, making it difficult to keep my eye open and I'm pretty sure the contact had been knocked out by the blow. I covered the offending eye and tried to focus on the stranger. He was young with fair skin, blonde hair, and thick black glasses. The shadow cast by the sport's bar seemed to absorb him. “Put the gun down,” he said.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  My rescuer didn't answer. He walked towards the mugger with a calm that would make a Buddhist monk envious. The mugger lowered his weapon and stared back at the stranger. His hands steadied.

  “Have you looked in a mirror recently?” the stranger asked. “Have you seen what you look like? More of that junk in your veins isn't going to help anything.”

  I would have expected a backlash from the mugger, but he just stared at the stranger, waiting for what he would say next.

  “I'm giving you a chance,” he continued. “If you take her automobile, the police will pull you over in three blocks and you'll go to jail. You'll go through withdrawal in there, alone, with a metal toilet and a swastika tattooed bunkmate who's looking to trade you for a pack of cigarettes.”

  The adrenaline was wearing off and I was getting dizzy. The scene before me was beginning to feel like a dream. Was he really keeping the mugger's attention captive for as long as it felt?

  “Or you can give me the gun, take this dollar I'm about to give you, and get on a bus.”

  The mugger nodded. “To where?”

  “I'm sure the Emergency Room staff at the hospital can refer you to a decent rehabilitation center.”

  There was a long pause. I leaned back against my car to steady myself.

  “Give me the gun,” the stranger repeated. The mugger stepped forward and placed the gun in his outstretched hand. The stranger opened the clip, dumped the ammo down the storm drain, and threw the gun in a nearby public trash can. He reached into his pocket and handed a silver dollar to the mugger. “Go. Before the police arrive.”

  The moment the stranger turned his attention from the mugger, the mugger came to his senses. He started to shake again and then he ran. Where he went, I don't know. The important part was that he was gone.

  “Are you alright?” the stranger asked, turning his gaze on me. He approached and pulled off his leather gloves. His face was still a bit fuzzy, but I could make out the basic shape now. He had sharp, angular features and cold blue eyes. He had to be my age; I was six months out of college at the time.

  “I feel sick,” I said. There was no way I was going to drive. “Should we call the police?”

  “He won't be trying that again,” the stranger said. He touched my cheek and pulled back with bright blood on the end of his finger. “You'll keep until I can bandage you up. Is this your car?”

  I don't remember telling him my address, or much of the ride home. I have some memory of sitting on the toilet in my bathroom while he carefully placed butterfly bandages on my cheek and checked my pupils. After two Tylenol and a tall glass of water, he propped me up on my couch with a bag of frozen peas to watch a Lord of the Rings all-night marathon on some cable station. He asked me questions to keep me awake, but what they were or how I answered, I couldn't say.

  When the sun and the sound of a braking bus outside stirred me from my sleep, I was laying on my sofa in the living-room of the house I shared with my best friend. There was no sign of the bespectacled stranger with the British accent.

  The front door slammed. The bowl on the table next to the door rattled with the impact. My head throbbed. I sat on the sofa with a bowl of cherry-chocolate granola cereal in my hands and a mug of steaming black coffee on the table at my feet. Geneva tossed her Coach bag over the back of the sofa. It landed next to me.

  “What, not even going to ask where I've been?”

  I turned to look at her. She was wearing the same outfit that she had left the house in the night before, tight blue jeans and a red top that squeezed her extra pounds in and put her cleavage out on display.

  “Holy crap! What happened to your face?” she asked.

  “Pistol-whipped,” I grumbled. “Mugged.”

  “After I left? Outside the bar?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh my God. I am so sorry! Who the hell mugs someone in Cheyenne?”

  “A meth head. I'll be fine. Some guy came along and scared him off. O
r... well... talked him down. Didn't really scare him.”

  Geneva and I had been out the night before at a sports bar, but she had gone off to hang out with some hunky co-ed and I had gone home alone. Or tried to. Geneva had always had much better luck with men than I did. She had a friendly round face and brown eyes. She was always complaining (to me) that she was twenty pounds overweight, but she was bubbly and flirty and available. She said I scared men away by being too smart.

  “How was your date?” I asked, trying to sound happy for her.

  “It was great. I kicked his butt at Nazi Zombies mode on Call of Duty and had him wrapped around my finger like that.” Geneva snapped her fingers. I forced a smile.

  “But your face-- did you drive home like that? Are you sure you don't have a concussion?”

  “I'm fine,” I assured her. “Like I said, some British guy came and the mugger took off. He drove my car home and made sure I didn't slip into a coma.”

  Geneva looked around the house and strained her neck to peek into the hall. “Who? Is he still here?”

  “He was gone when I woke up. I didn't even get his name. Don't worry, he didn't steal anything. I checked.”

  “British? Was he cute? Oh, wait, how old was he? He wasn't an old guy, was he? Or at least, was he a sexy old guy?”

  I rolled my eyes. I was not going to have this conversation with the pounding in my head. “He was our age. He was alright. Honestly, everything's a bit fuzzy.”

  “Kendall!” she moaned, “What good are you as a damsel in distress if you can't remember if he was cute!”

  “I was mugged, Geneva,” I snapped. “I didn't plan it to pick up cute guys.”

  “Sorry.” She sat down on the arm of the couch. “Should you, like, go to the hospital or something?”

  “I didn't die from brain swelling in the last 8 hours. I'm sure I'll be fine.”

  “No, you know what? You need a Doctor's note. If you're going to be a grump with a migraine for a while, you at least deserve some time off of work. Do you have sick time yet?”

  I nodded. “I think I've accrued one day.”

  “Good, use it for this. You got pistol-whipped for God's sake. That's hardcore. You have street cred now.”

  “For all of those rap battles I participate in,” I said, my tone flat.

  “At least it's a story to tell at parties, right?”

  “Geneva,” I groaned. “Could I have some quiet?”

  “Right. I'll go take a shower. Let me know if there's anything you need when I get out, okay?” Geneva leaned down and hugged me. I nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  There was a shrill beep and Geneva shot up. She pulled her phone out of her purse and grinned. “Text from Jeremy. He's hooked.”

  I picked up my cup of coffee, hoping she'd leave so that I could stop talking and have some peace. “Oh, last night, I called you. Did you get my voicemail?”

  I laughed, in spite of my killer migraine. “Yeah. Your ring tone scared him,” I said, gesturing to my split cheek. “Thanks.”

  Geneva winced. “Sorry,” she said. “It's not really important now. I was just letting you know that I'd be in late, if at all.”

  “Oh. Well... that shower?”

  “Right! Sorry.” Geneva hopped off the couch and ran down the hall with a bounce. I chugged half the mug of coffee in front of me and then laid down on the couch to wallow in misery for a while.

  I spent most of the day on the sofa. Some time before dinner I felt well enough to shower and change my clothes. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grasping--for the first time-- just how bad I looked. No wonder Geneva had freaked out.

  I consider myself to be pretty pale; I have fair skin with a lot of random freckles and moles. Add dark eyes and dark hair and the contrast makes me look like a sheet of copy paper. Add blood and dirt, and I look like a corpse.

  The shower made me feel human again, washing away the drippy mascara and flecks of dried blood from the night before. I stood under the hot water, letting it pound on my neck and loosen up the muscles, which were bound-up from stress and the recoil of being struck with a heavy metal object.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Geneva had fixed me a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup.

  “You need real food, not just coffee.”

  “I had cereal.”

  “Yeah, like eight hours ago. Eat this.” She handed me the food and marched off to her room to get ready. She must have been going out again.

  “Are you sure you don't need me to stay?” she asked, thirty minutes later when my meal was gone and she was all dolled up for a date. Her fashion sense was shaped by years of going to renaissance fairs; she was overweight, so she shoved it all in a corset and pushed it up towards her breasts. It seemed to work.

  “I'm sure. I'm fine. Go. Have fun with... Jamie?”

  “Jeremy. Jamie was his friend. Oh!” she exclaimed, “I can set you up. Double date!”

  “No, really, that's fine.”

  “Still hung up on Cody?”

  “No!” I snapped. “Just... go have fun. I don't want to be set up with some bro.”

  “Alright. Because, you know, you dumped him. I bet if you called, he'd come running right now.”

  “I don't want to talk about Cody, Geneva.”

  “Fair enough.” Geneva pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her purse and applied it liberally. “How's your head?”

  “Better. Not great.”

  A horn beeped outside.

  “That's Jeremy!”

  “He doesn't come knock?” I asked.

  “No need; he knows I'm waiting.” She gave me a big, smothering hug and then ran out the front door, slamming it behind her. I got up to lock the deadbolt. Normally, we left our doors unlocked; it was downtown Cheyenne. The crime rate was pretty low compared to almost every other city in the world. The night before had taught me that even Cheyenne had desperation. I turned the deadbolt and then walked to the front window. The sun was setting, casting an orange filter over everything outside. Jeremy's white Mustang was parked under a streetlamp. Geneva's glossy brown hair bounced and swayed with her excitement as she practically skipped across the street.

  I turned from the window and went back to the sofa. I had spent the day feeling sorry for myself, but now I was becoming bored.

  I flipped through our Netflix queue for a while before settling on a documentary about Jack the Ripper. They showed photographs of the victims, some of the first crime scene photography in history, and debunked the rumor about a chest of bloody crevats kept by one of the Ripper suspects. The bell rang. I paused the movie.

  “Did you forget your keys?” I called as I headed back to the door. I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the front door. A man was standing on the front steps.

  He was tall and thin with an angular face, blonde hair, and blue eyes. His face, pale as it was, was clean-shaven except for neatly trimmed sideburns. He wore thick, black glasses that would have been considered hipster glasses if anything else about him at all had suggested hipster. He was dressed in a perfectly-tailored suit. It was charcoal with a thin pinstripe and complete with a white pocket-square and a chain connecting the watch in his pocket to the loop on his vest. His tie was silver paisley. I imagined that underneath his vest there would be a pair of old-fashioned suspenders, the kind that didn't have clips and needed buttons on the trousers. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had pulled up his pant leg to show me garters for his socks. The whole ensemble was completed with a navy blue wool topcoat and leather gloves.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Hello,” he said. The British accent brought back memories of the night before and I clapped in excitement at my realization.

  “It's you!”

  “Yes, it's me,” he said with an almost imperceptable smirk. “I came to see how you were doing, Miss Harker. I had to take off rather early, had somewhere to be, but I wanted to make sure that you were recovering well from your injury last night.
You weren't exactly.... lucid, the last I saw you.”

  He knew my name. I must have told him, but I had no memory of it. I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, headache like nothing I've ever felt before, but I'm alive. No brain damage that I know of.”

  “That's good to hear,” he said.

  I stared at him for a moment, wondering what to say next. Geneva's voice echoed in my ears. Was he cute? Definitely. He probably would have been cuter without those enormous glasses. He stood there, politely, waiting for my reply. I remembered myself. “I don't remember your name.”

  “Rawdon Hale.”

  “Rawdon. Wow. That's British.”

  “So am I.”

  “So you are. Uh... well, Rawdon. Thank you,” I said. “You may have saved my life back there. At the very least you saved me having to cancel all my credit cards and file an insurance claim on my car.”

  “Insurance adjusters are a nightmare,” he said with a nod.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I don't drink alcohol. But thank you.”

  “Oh.” Was he under twenty-one? I was having a hard time pegging how old he was. He looked my age, but then again, I had only been legal to drink for two years.

  “You could take me to a movie,” he suggested, “That's about the same cost as a glass of decent whiskey, right?”

  Was he asking me out? I suppose I had asked him out first. But a drink had the potential to be far more casual than a movie.

  “You a fan of Zack Snyder films?” I asked.

  “Is that the guy who does all the action films with the one-liners and high speed shots?”

  I nodded. “300, Superman: Man of Steel, Suckerpunch.”

  “I rather liked 300.”

  I smiled. “Good. I'll get my coat.”

  “Will your head permit it?” he asked. “If you don't feel well, I can take a rain check.”

  “I've had 800 milligrams of Tylenol. I'll be alright.”

  He stayed on the doorstep as I went to fetch my coat. I found specks of blood, evidence of the night before, on my favorite coat and had to dig in the closet for a warm-enough backup. When I came back, he offered his arm and walked me to his car. It was a frigid night. The top layer of snow outside had melted slightly in the afternoon light before freezing again at sunset, leaving a coarse layer of ice crystals that glittered under the street lights.