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Yanking her arm from my hold and with sparks flying from her eyes, she says, “Your loss.”
She holds my gaze as she takes Ruben’s hand. With his golden hair, green eyes, and pretty-boy face, he’s always a hit with the women.
Ruben grins and chucks the rest of his drink on the grass as he lets her pull him to his feet. She looks over her shoulder at me as they take the path, heading in the direction of Ruben’s bungalow. The locals don’t wander around the unfenced property without a gun. Crocodiles cross the paths, especially at night. Knowing Ruben always has a pistol on him, I let her go. He’ll take care of her and see her home safely.
Garai comes over with plates of meat, porridge, and a chunky tomato and onion sauce called sheba. “Here you go, Baba.” He hands me and Leon each one.
We eat with the others. I listen to their stories and later to the complaints. It’s part of the communal culture. When the men light their pipes and the women sing softly next to the fire, I follow the path to my bungalow until the darkness swallows me and the sound of the crickets turns louder. A frog harps out of tune. Quietness dawns. The singing is background noise, a comforting sound like the soft beat of a heart when you put your ear to a warm chest. I light the lamp hanging on a hook by the door and check for snakes and scorpions when I enter.
Taking off my clothes, I opt for the outdoor shower and turn on the tap. A partition provides privacy on the side, but the front facing the river is open. It gives me a view of the stars and the reflection of the moon in the water. I wash in the dark, letting my hand travel south, and when I fist my cock, I think about a platinum blonde with baby-blue eyes.
Chapter 15
Cas
When Ian drives away, I walk into my building on autopilot. A faint ache persists in my chest. This feeling is new, and I don’t like it. I don’t like what it means.
A new slam-lock security gate bars the entrance to my apartment. The door boasts a peephole, deadbolt, and new lock. Ian had this done yesterday.
A beep sounds when I’ve finally worked my way through the three locks and get the door open. A red light flickers on a security panel on the wall. I punch in the code, and the green light goes on. An alarm manual lies on the small table in the entrance.
I lock up and lean against the door.
Ian has left, but my tension lingers. Every muscle in my body is drawn tight.
Pushing off the door, I do what I always do when I’m sad or stressed. I spring-clean. I unpack the cupboards and wash the shelves. I arrange everything back neatly and pack the clothes I don’t wear any longer in a box to donate to charity. I strip the bed and air the room. After doing the laundry, I scrub the tiles on the walls and floors and vacuum the rugs and the mattress. The bath and taps are so shiny when I’m done I can see my reflection in them. By nightfall, my apartment is squeaky clean, and I’ve reached my objective.
I’m exhausted.
I still smell Ian on me. I still feel him inside me where I’m raw. I’m reluctant to rinse the last remnants of us away. Instead, I cling to the twisted memory in a perverse way. However, I’m sweaty from the cleaning. I get into the shower and wash everything that has happened down the drain. Well, not everything. I can’t stop thinking about his unspoken threat and that offshore bank account. Why did he give me so much money? Will he really keep an eye on me? Maybe he was bluffing to scare me into compliance.
Taking a towel from the rail, I consider this turn of events while I dry my body. How much of my freedom have I truly lost? Two nights of my life or forever? Too tired to think about it anymore, I dress in comfy pajamas, make a veggie stir-fry, clean the kitchen, and crawl between the clean sheets of my bed. Despite the fact that I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically wrung out, I toss and turn until the sun comes up. Finally, I give up and get out of bed.
The same thought that tormented me in the shower last night has been turning in my mind during the long hours of my sleepless night. I think about it while I brush my teeth and wash my face. Am I a long-distance prisoner?
In the bedroom, I glance at the piece of paper on my nightstand. Padding over, I unfold it. My name, address, ID, and contact number are printed above the account number. Ian obtained that information the night he went through my bag. He must’ve copied everything while I was sleeping. The account number is long. I take note of the bank and memorize the number as well as the security pin. I’m good at that. During our holiday road trips when I was little, my mother and I memorized the license plates of the vehicles that passed us on the road. Later she’d question me on the color and model of the vehicles, matching them to the license plates. “Give me the number of the white Mazda, Cassy,” or, “What is the color of GP 36867?” It was a game we used to play. My mother insisted on constantly exercising my brain muscles.
