Episode Two – Denny’s After Dark

Hard Candy

Episode Two

Denny’s After Dark

     “I’ll take the Lumberjack Slam, over easy,” I said, sliding into the booth across from Trista Rios, and a woman I’d never seen before.

     Trista smiled widely. “Still watching those calories, I see.”

     “As closely as ever.” I looked over at their matching plates—scrambled egg whites with spinach and a side of fruit.

     Gag.

     “I’m Candy,” I said.

     “Patience.”

     “Patience is new to our group. I was hoping this smaller meeting between us three would help her to feel more comfortable. I hope you don’t mind.”

     “Not at all,” I said.

     Patience gave me a half smile and poked at her egg whites. 

     She looked pale and fragile, like rice paper. Her edges were turning that sallow color that warned of liver failure.

     I tried my best not to wrinkle my nose, but I could smell her sickness lingering in the open hallway of the dinner, like Frankincense in a Catholic church. The thought crossed my mind that I might save her, but I pushed it away before it could take hold.

     We all had crosses to bear.

     “Nice to meet you, Patience.”

     “Trista said that you’re a writer.”

     Trista choked a bit on her eggs.

     So much for anonymity, I thought.

     “Yeah,” I narrowed my eyes. “I write historical romance novels, mostly early American, with a splash of Europe when I get bored.”

     Just then, the waitress set down my order—enough food to feed an army—two eggs over easy, ham, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, toast, a short stack of pancakes, and a large coffee. I added three packets of real sugar and two containers of cream.

     The table was silent.

     “I don’t want to beat around the bush here, Trista. I slipped. After two hundred and sixty-five days, I fucking slipped.” I finished the last remaining sausage. “I don’t get it. There wasn’t even any hesitation on my part—I just did it.”

     Trista leaned in, her eyes plaintive. “That’s step one—honesty. You’re not making excuses for your actions. You’re stating a clear fact. That must have been difficult for you. I’m proud of you, Candy.” 

     I looked over at Patience and wondered what her honesty was—I could stop the pain.

     Honesty.

     I tried to imagine what would happen if I were completely honest.

     Gee, Trista, I really do have a problem with drinking, but it’s not alcohol—it’s human blood. I killed some little shit the other night just because he refused to restock the Swedish Fish. Then I sucked him dry like a root beer float and tossed his remains into three different dumpsters.

     I smeared a generous amount of ketchup onto my hashbrowns.

     They probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

****

     “Ms. Holt,” Roger said, popping his head up from behind his station as I entered the building. “Your package arrived this evening while you were out.”

     He wheeled it around on a small blue dolly. The box read: Amazon Pharmacy—keep cool.

     “Thanks, Roger,” I shifted the bag of glass bottles from one hip to the other and fished out my key to the penthouse elevator. “I’ve been waiting for that.”

     Roger Field, the night watchman, shuffled up beside me in the elevator.

     “If you don’t mind me sayin’, you smell wonderful, Ms. Holt. Reminds me of Christmas morning.”

     I sniffed the air around us.

     “That’s maple syrup.”

     I smiled, then…

     There was another smell, one that was less welcoming and far less pleasant.

     Before I could ask the old guy if he’d seen anyone strange hanging around the building, the elevator doors opened.

     The scent grew stronger and more overpowering.

     “You can just drop that here, Roger. I’ll unpack everything and bring the empty box down later.”

     “Whatever you say, Ms. Holt. If you need anything, just give me a call.”

     I plastered my biggest, fakest smile on my face and waved goodbye to Roger. As soon as the doors closed, I spun around and stormed into the main living area.

     There he was, standing with his back to me as if he owned the place, his silhouette outlined by the city lights.

     “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

     “You always did have a way with words,” he said, still not turning from the window.

     I rolled my eyes. “The last time I saw you was at a Madonna concert in 1985; you left with two groupies and all my money.” I set the bag on the kitchen counter. “What do you want, Kendrick?”

     “The Paramount Theater in Seattle,” he said, turning and flashing his smile at me. “Has it really been that long?”

     “We both know that forty years is just a drop in the ocean when it comes to time. Again, Kendrick, what do you want?”

     As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he made a part of me ache, but then I saw the arrogant look in his eye, and the ache vanished.

     “You seem to be doing well.” His eyes scanned the six thousand square foot penthouse and then stopped on me.

     Without even thinking, my hand moved to smooth out the mess of hair that I had held in place with a plastic clip and a few bobby pins.

     I really needed to start taking care of my appearance.

     “This place is almost as large as my holiday chateau in France. Only without all the culture or style.”  

     I turned my back on him, wiped the zero off the refrigerator magnet, and slashed a red one across the white surface.

     “Whatever it is, I’m not interested. I have a novel to finish by the end of the month and two new bottles of Absinthe that aren’t going to drink themselves, so if you don’t mind, get the fuck out.”

     The idea of stabbing him in the chest with one of the larger knives sticking out from the butcher block crossed my mind, but then I’d have a mess to clean up, and I just bought that antique Persian rug last week.

     Instead, I entered the hall, picked up the box from Amazon that I had left on the floor, and placed it in front of the fridge. I grabbed the nearest knife, hesitated for a moment, and then ran the blade along the clear tape. As I started stacking the fridge with bags of AB-negative blood, I could feel him slip in behind me—his hand resting gently in the small of my back.

     “Expensive taste,” he said.

     I could hear the humor in his voice.

     My canines started to grow.

     “Save it,” Kendrick said. “I’m not here to start anything, I’m here to warn you.”

     I spun on my heel.

     “Warn me, warn me about what?”

     “Alard Plamondon is dead.”

     It was straightforward and complete, hanging in the air like the sour, damp smell of a crypt…