Leviathan Carter

another old excerpt (2018?) from my novel that i'm rewriting. a relationship gone sour between a destitute queer barkeep and the son of a rich man

Getting drinks, from all angles--present and future, maybe even past--was a terrible mistake.

Anya drank too much, because talking was so uncomfortable and awkward. It wasn’t that he was rude or excruciatingly boring, this was just completely foreign. Everything. A man. A strange man, barely a man, more of a boy, really. So, a boy. A boy. She was getting drinks with a boy. She might even think he’s sort of pretty. She was definitely drinking too much, at any rate.

“You don’t do this often?” he asked. She downed the rest of her mead and screwed up her face a bit.

“Not with anyone like you,” she replied, sounding fully idiotic.

“In what way?”

“Wealthy?” She paused. “Blonde? Male?”

He didn’t comment. He stared at her for what seemed much too long, and she couldn’t decipher his expression. Finally he said, “You could have said you preferred women, you know.”

“What did you think? It’s practically in the description where I work, you complete…” she couldn’t think of an insult strong enough. “I assumed you were as well.”

He kept staring. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “I am an idiot, aren’t I? Cheers.” He looked embarrassed by now; it was dim in here too, so she was disappointed not to see the full effect of the color blossoming in his cheeks.

“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time,” she confessed. She knew she was smiling her stupid, drunk smile. When that started, things would usually go downhill from there.

“Figures,” he muttered, smirking a bit. He looked tired again. “Why didn’t you just say I was bothering you? If you don’t like men.”

“I didn’t guess your intentions,” she said, reclining lazily in her chair. “Men don’t…like me. I don’t usually like them, either. Women…we understand each other much clearer. Well…on some topics,” she admits with an unconcerned kind of shrug. “Really, what were you doing at a place like the Torch?”

“Looking for something a bit different, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Did you find it?”

“It was rather different, I’d say.” He grinned. She shook her head at him but couldn’t effectively hide her amusement.

“I can leave you alone,” he said, and he went back to looking resigned. Defeated. Ready to be set in the soil and wept over in his best suit. Anya had already realized, much before acquiescence crossed his face, all the ways she could have one over him, outsmart him; for money, perhaps. In truth, his attention was not unappealing, as surprising as this was to her. She tried to ignore this fact; it made her thoughts grow hazy and disorganized. Well, more so, since she was exceedingly drunk.

“You’re pretty enough by my standards,” she conceded. "Almost girlish."

“How sweet of you.” His mouth finally quirked into something closer to his usual, faintly amused smile. She only smiled back, hands encircling her glass, tilting her head to the side like a question. He really was pretty, in his strange, mawkish way. She thought abruptly that he really should button his shirt up; she could see the bones of his chest, the white of his neck, his throat like the smooth, expensive column of stone bracing a manor’s front porch. It was very inappropriate.

She saw where this was going. Instead of stopping it, using her sense and not letting impulse and unruliness get the best of her, she waved down the bartender to refill her glass. It couldn’t be helped; she was drunk, after all.

*

Anya woke up with a long, lithe body sprawled beside her, potentially of the deceased nature. If he really was some big rig tycoon’s son, she was beyond screwed if he had drunk to death and kicked the bucket completely while naked in her bed. The papers for that would be enough to lock her up for life. She tried to remember the exact events that had led up to this and came to the conclusion that if anyone should be dead by alcohol, it was herself. Her head was being hammered in.

Through slitted eyes she could see that his ribcage was rising and falling; all of him was too bright in the light coming through the window. She pulled the dirty sheets over her head. They stunk, and traitorously. She hadn't considered how messy sex with a man would be. Washing them was expensive. She wondered if he’d agree to pay for it but disliked the concept of asking.

She didn’t have work until much later, and therefore no excuse to banish him from her presence except that she couldn’t bear to see him there anymore. He was so effortlessly ostentatious, and her bed reeked of alcohol and sex. And he was so damn pretty, looking lit up from the inside, pale eyelashes resting against broad, high cheekbones. She couldn’t stop peering at him from under the sheets.

He had to leave. Or she did. One or the other, it didn’t matter, she needed to be rid of his presence. It was just that her head hurt so badly, she didn’t want to leave the bed, despite being achingly thirsty. Anya spent what seemed like a long while staring at him in a tangled union of resentment and admiration before he started to stir, and yawned ridiculously wide, stretching out his lengthy limbs with the loud noises of his joints readjusting. Most of him did seemed to be composed of his limbs. Finally he cracked his eyes open, and eventually turned to see her huddled under the covers, watching him. His mouth twisted up at the corners. Everything about him was warm and soft and stretched out, like a house pet, lounging and leaning back on his elbows in his patch of sun.

She wanted him to go just barely more than she wished he’d stay there with her, all day, all week, maybe until she died. But really, the bed stunk. And her head hurt, and she wanted him out.

“The sheets need washing,” she told him, only a little bit sulkily.

“I can take care of it,” he said easily.

She really couldn’t stand him.

*

They didn’t bother getting drinks the next few times; he would sometimes pester her while she worked, but mostly he would come straight to her building and rap on her door, and they’d go together straight to her cramped bedroom.

He became surprisingly difficult. The first time he’d listened to her, did whatever she said, completely pliant like clay in her hands, but the next few became progressively more impudent and defiant. This irked her, but also wasn’t entirely unforthcoming. It was fun to bully him back into deference, to see how much he’d let her get away with. This happened during conversation, as well; more than once they’d end up arguing now that he’d found his backbone, which would either end in angry, enthusiastic kissing or him stalking out of the place leaving the door ajar, making it so she’d have to slam it herself. All this, and she still didn’t know his name.

It was easiest lying there after all was said and done (mostly done). The air was humid and smelled like sweat, and they were both sticky and exhausted. She didn’t like it if he tried to touch her very much afterward, and he didn’t mind; eventually he’d get up and rummage in his trousers and roll some pricey herbs in wax papers, ostentatious as ever, and she’d grudgingly tell him to open the window up and make damn sure to direct the smoke outside. He’d comply, but he’d also stretch out his stupid long legs until they were touching her, just to annoy her, leaned up against the wall parallel to the bed with his head leaned against the sill.

He was tilting his head to exhale when she told him, “I’ve been thinking I should blackmail you.”

He coughed a bit, then met her gaze, albeit unfocused. “Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so.” She rolled her eyes.

“What do you want, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe your jacket.”

He grinned lazily. “Which one?”

She considered this a moment. “I guess that soft red one with the patterns,” she decided.

“What happens if I tell you to sod off?”

She scowled and swatted at him. He laughed. “Use real words,” she snapped.

“If I refuse, what then?” he amended.

“Then I tell everyone you’re my personal sex slave. Me, a deviant street rat. Your father won’t like that much, will he?”

He shook his head, amused, and Anya felt the prickling twinge of irritation at the sight of him acting like he was the one getting one over her. “You don’t even know who my father is.”

“Tell me,” she demanded, “tell me your name and where you’re from. Tell me where the f**k you picked up that stupid accent.”

“You’re pretty s**t at blackmailing. You’re doing this all in the wrong order.”

She couldn’t contradict him on that; she glared at nowhere in particular, fuming.

“Now you’re pouting. Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming for a young lady, isn’t it?”

“I’m not!” she hissed, throwing a pillow at him. He was giggling again.

“You don’t mean it anyways. I don’t reckon you’d really do it.”

“You don’t know that,” she mumbled, shiftily.

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t. I don’t care about money. You don’t actually need to blackmail me.”

“I’m not a charity case.” She was pouting again.

“You’re very difficult,” he observed, taking another long drag.

“No one’s making you come to my bedroom every other night,” she pointed out, rolling her eyes at him.

“I thought I was your sex slave?”

“You know, I really can’t stand you.”

“I’ve no idea whether you really mean that one, though,” he said, setting aside his rolled herbs, moving like molasses to curl up at her side. He was unbearably warm.

“I mean it,” she muttered, rolling her eyes even if he couldn’t see her do it.

“I nearly believe you.” She could hear the laughter in his voice, and shoved him away, which did nothing to curb his amusement.

*

The last time she saw him was when he asked to have dinner with her. She wasn’t so sure about this. She wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed sitting through a dinner with someone, drinking finely aged alcohol and commenting on the quality of the meals. She was also decidedly poor and uncultured and lacked any sort of refined mannerisms that would likely be useful wherever he wanted to go with her.

“Why?” she asked, albeit suspiciously.

“It might be fun,” he said with a thoughtless hitch of his shoulder. “I want to take you out. You can wear my red suit jacket. I know you don’t really like dresses.”

She considered this, still hesitant. “Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere private. I can get us a room somewhere nice, where no one will bother us.”

“What if we fight?”

“Maybe we can try not to, for once.”

“If we do, it’s your fault.”

He looked lit up from the inside all over again, his tired, hooded eyes shining with eagerness. She smiled a little feebly back at him.

*

They fought.

Anya did wear his jacket, with her nicest button down and slacks, her only tie and scuffed-up shoes. She didn’t own a waistcoat, and her hair was still growing out, sticking up in small tufts that refused to be flattened. He had taken to simple linen shirts and casual trousers lately, but this time was in a neat outfit of varied shades of blue. He looked lovely, better than anyone she’d ever seen.

It was somewhere nice, all right. They were in a private room that gave the impression of being more expensive than her entire apartment, and they entered from a secret back entrance to avoid being seen.

It was full of chandeliers made of harvested crystals, glinting, with intricately designed oil lamps blossoming from the center of the tabletop and smaller, more practical yet still ornate ones winking at them from the walls. The tablecloths were embroidered, shining golden and emerald green. The silverware even seemed too gaudy to be used for something as sordid as eating. Everything twinkled and glittered, taunting her.

The server only ever called him “sir,” not giving away anything as to his hidden identity. The food was savory and delicate, and she’d never tasted anything so refined. She felt sick to her stomach.

“How is it?” he asked. He seemed nervous, fidgety, like a child. “Do you like it?”

She gave a jerky nod, stuffing a bit more of the roast into her mouth. It was warm and melty, stuffed with fresh-tasting cooked fruits and spices. She tried to swallow it without enjoying the flavor too much, irrationally aggravated.

“You don’t, do you,” he said, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. He looked so good, even sprawling casually like that, making it seem so easy. She despised him.

“It’s fine,” she said, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

“You’re trying to wind me up,” he said. “Well, you can’t blame me for it, after all. There’s nothing wrong with sharing a nice evening like this, is there? What’s so wrong about this?”

“Why’d you make me come here?” She was blurting it out barely after he’d finished talking. “Are you trying to embarrass me? Prove a point?”

He slammed a hand down next to his plate, seeming to startle himself with his own action and gripping the edge of the table as if to stabilize himself before opening his mouth again. “Why is it always this way with you? Why are you so suspicious of me? Can’t we do something other than shag without you thinking I’m trying to humiliate you or take the piss out of you all the time? Christ.”

“You’re talking with made-up words again,” she pointed out, childishly. “No one’s forcing you. I’ve told you over and over. If you want to have cute little dinners, maybe you’re asking the wrong kind of girl. And I still don’t even know your damn name. Of course, I’m f*****g suspicious, you idiot.”

“You don’t have to be any sort,” he snapped. “I just wanted to do something nice. I get it if that’s literally impossible for you to get through your thick head.”

“F**k you,” she said icily. “And f**k your stupid, high-class dinner, and--” she shoved the coat off her shoulders and flung it across the table at his head. “And f**k your stupid, high-class coats! And your stupid high-class face! I don’t want to see you anymore! Or any of it! Ever again!”

His hair was slightly mussed when he removed the dinner jacket from his head, and his expression twisted into something sour. They glared across the table, both imitating each other’s posture with arms crossed almost in an almost suffocating vice over their fronts, as if they were trying to burn each other’s skin off with their eyeballs. The waiter came back with a tray of swampy-looking pudding, peaceably ignoring the crackling tension taking up all the breathing space of the room.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be going,” she said, her chair legs screeching horrendously against the polished floor. The waiter seemed to wince a little, involuntarily, at the sound. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

“Anya--” he started, getting up from his seat as if to manually keep her from leaving.

“This is your fault,” she reminded him smugly, with less satisfaction than she had expected to feel from uttering the words, and slammed the door behind her, even though she’d meant to leave the damn thing open like he always did; it just swung soundlessly on its hinges, anyways.

He followed her out, the idiot. “We shouldn’t leave off like this,” he said, his voice low. He was holding her by the wrist again, making her stand too close to him.

“Why bother?” she said.

“I like you,” he said simply, brows drawn up in a plaintive countenance, like a kicked animal.

“Tell me your damn name, then. I don’t even know who it is that likes me so much.”

A droplet of water landed on his cheekbone; it was beginning to rain. He opened his mouth, and there was a bright flash of light. A camera flash, from across the street. A reporter.

“Oh, f**k.” He looked horrified. “F**k it all to hell.”

“What?” she said. The reporter was gone as rapidly as they had appeared. “Worried about your reputation? I know just how to amend that.”

“Anya,” he said, his grip tightening as she tried to pull out of it.

“Stop using that stupid name,” she hissed. “I’m bored of this. Find someone else to drag around to your stuffy restaurants, all right? It won’t be difficult. I’m sorry,” she added hastily, because he really looked like a kicked animal now, and like he might cry. “Honestly, it’s not difficult. You can get anyone looking like…this.” She gestured to his general person, slightly mussed but still so painlessly trim in what seemed to be every living shade of blue.

He let go of her wrist, turning his face away from her, and then he left her standing there on the swept-up, well-kept cobblestone streets, in damned uptown as it lightly began to rain. It seemed that their week-long fling had met its end.