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Evangeline is still in the kitchen, her feet dangling off the counter as she looks at me somberly. “Do you have a black dress?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes. “Yes.”
Placing my hands in my pockets, I stand awkwardly in front of her, studying her face, the smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks, the arch of her eyebrows, and the clear blue of her eyes as she seems to look right into me. It’s unnerving, but I suppose I’m not hiding things very well, and what do I care if she knows how I feel?
My fucking parents died and I’m in their kitchen, worrying about coffee and imagining my wife, who happens to be an escort, naked on top of the goddamn counter. She looks good in my Georgetown t-shirt, and my dad would be so fucking pissed because he paid for my education, only for me to pass on taking the bar. Well, fuck all that now.
The chill in the room causes me to shiver, and I remember I had some shirts in the laundry room, so I open the door to find a stack of clothes sitting on the counter. When I grab one of the shirts, I notice a hole in it.
“What the fuck?” I grab another one, and it’s cut up the side. I start sifting through the other shirts which all have either a hole or a cut. Even my fucking underwear has holes in them—strategically placed.
“Evangeline!” I yell out the door and look around the corner to find her gone. “Jesus fucking Christ!” I throw the pile of clothes in the trash, a bubble of angry laughter threatening to spill over.
14
Souvenir from Vegas
Evangeline
Padding into the kitchen in search of something to eat, I open the fridge and survey its contents. It isn’t well stocked, but there’s leftovers and snacks. I select a bowl of grapes and wash them in the sink while looking out the window to the garden – the same garden I noticed Darren looking at the other day after Alistair showed him the email about his parents' services.
I’d assumed since he asked if I had a black dress that I was going to accompany him, and I’m apprehensive because I don’t think it’s my place. I hadn’t been to a funeral since my grandfather died, and that had been so long ago. His was a simple service at a funeral home, not at a hundred-year-old cathedral. The only flag that was flown at half-mast for my grandfather's funeral was the one at the VFW hall in town, not at every government building in the Washington D.C. area.
As I look out at the rose garden, only a few stems still remain, but what a magnificent garden it must have been in the summer. Finding a bowl in one of the cabinets, I place the grapes inside and then hop up on the countertop, and begin to pluck a few off the stems.
“Well, I see now what has Darren so preoccupied,” Rausch says, startling me.
His large presence leeches into the kitchen, charging the once neutral space where Darren and I have shared takeout and light conversation.
The house has been empty, too much space for only two people to occupy, but I didn’t expect anyone else to enter it, especially not Rausch.
Underneath his dark blue suit and perfectly knotted red and blue striped tie, he seems to bristle with agitated energy. I don’t think he was expecting to find me here. Maybe he didn’t think Darren would go through with it, or maybe he already knows and just wants to irritate me.
The problem isn’t that he’s here – because that seemed inevitable – the problem is that I’m not wearing anything besides a pair of boy shorts and knee-high socks.
I can’t help but notice the moment when his eyes land on my bare breasts. The tick in his jaw tells me it affects him, but how, I’m not sure. I’m not embarrassed. I know exactly who I am, and I don’t hide from it. I can tell Rausch is marginally embarrassed, at least enough to look away.
Instead of trying to cover myself, I pluck another grape from the bowl next to me as I sit on the counter, letting my socked feet dangle. This isn’t my house, but it isn’t Rausch’s either. “I would say it’s nice to see you again, but…” I leave the rest of the sentence to sit in the charged air between us.
He digs a finger into the knot of his tie, loosening it as if to aid in being able to breathe. His agitation seems to work its way like a snake over the countertops and through the cabinets. There’s not enough history between us to justify his hostility, but since I’m the only other person in the room, the anger seems to be directed towards me.
“Darren’s brought home a souvenir from Vegas.” He enters the kitchen further, placing his fingertips on the kitchen island. He seems familiar, like he’s spent more time in this home than his own, the way he walked right in without pause. The large slab of white marble is the only object that separates us.
I smile and plop another grape into my mouth. “A very expensive souvenir,” I say, arching an eyebrow.
He makes a noise deep in his throat, but his facial expression remains stoic, as if me sitting on the counter with my breasts exposed is inconsequential. Rausch does not seem to be the type of man who would take advantage of a woman, even a topless one swinging her socked feet like a schoolgirl in front of him. Something tells me he wouldn’t have to take advantage of a woman, because his presence alone exudes power and confidence. Rausch is a controlled enigma that I have yet to figure out, but I’m not sure I want to.
I don’t know much about Rausch, other than he ran Senator Walker's office: the man behind the veil, pulling the strings in American politics - the kingmaker, as Darren so ominously referred to him. I’ve met my fair share of prominent figures, and I doubt any of them remember meeting me, but Rausch doesn’t look like he forgets a face.
“Do you have a habit of walking around naked in someone else’s house?” he asks disapprovingly.
“I’m not naked,” I counter while kicking out a socked foot and looking down at my panties.
He sniffs loudly. “Do you know whose house this is?” he demands.
“Darren Walker’s.”
He uses his large hand to rub his sharp chin – his eyes lingering on me as if he’s trying to figure me out. If Darren had not announced that I was his fiancée in Vegas, I doubt he would think twice about me now. Perhaps I’d be just one of the many women in and out of Darren’s bed.
