V. H. King's Ink

Kent: “By all means, point your gun at me if it helps you to relax—it’s not like you’re actually going to use it.”

Marcis, rolling their eyes: “It’s not a gun, it’s a taser.”

Kent: “Damn, and here I was hoping to say I was being euphemistic.”

Marcis: “You’re a lot of things, but not that.”

Kent: “How do you know?  You just said you don’t even know me anymore.”

Marcis: “Maybe you don’t know me either.  We could both just be lying to each other to get what we want.”

Kent: “Do you really want to hurt me, though?  Do you have what it takes?”

Marcis grins, a slow spread of the lips…

Bridgett half-tossed her bag in the booth, script pages spilling onto the seat.  Caleb had been easy to spot, with their just-short-of-a-pixie cut and taller-than-anyone else’s head in the room.  Bridgett let out a whew, fanning herself as she shrugged out of her coat. She pulled the sleeve of her dress back over her plump shoulder, tucked a curl of hair behind her ear.  The curl immediately sprang out again as Bridgett put her elbows on the table, eyes darting from the wait staff to the bar to the muted television screens. 

Bishop’s Grill and Bar was dim but warm.  Lively.  She always had a good time here, especially when she was with Caleb.  Or if she was having a bad time, Caleb always made things better by the time the two of them left.  She was late again to dinner.  She knew.  Flagging a server, she asked for an ice water and a plate of limes. 

“Okay—” Bridgett bounced on the booth’s cushion once the two of them were alone.  “Run it by me again.”

Caleb tilted their head, but said nothing at first.  They never spoke thoughtlessly, and that was one of the things Bridgett admired most about them.  Words spilled out of her like a waterfall, whereas Caleb was a trickling river at the very top of a mountain. 

Bridgett leaned over and peeked through the blinds, trying to find her car.  She spotted Lucy, her orange VW Beetle, and nodded, satisfied.  She would have to check again in five minutes, because she always forgot where she parked. 

“It’s a bit…grim,” Caleb said.

“Life is grim—at least right now.”  Bridgett half-scowled, picking a roll from the basket.  “I think that’s how this whole thing came to be in the first place.  And it’d be nice if I could write some fluffy heartwarming piece that gave people hope.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I didn’t, but the truth is, I can’t.  Not well, anyway, so I leave it to those who can.  So—grim or not, hit me with it.”

“How did the appointment go?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right.”  Caleb eyed her.  “Why else would you want to grab dinner?”

“So I don’t have to talk about it.” 

Bridgett peeked out the window, nibbling the roll.  Lucy was gone.  Probably not stolen, but there were half a dozen giant pickups in the parking lot now.  She thought Lucy was on the other side of the black one with blue flames on the fenders.  Or maybe it was behind the red one with a grill that looked like it could cook a turkey.  Bridgett giggled to herself at the mental image and shifted in her seat.

“Okay—ideas, Mister.  You agreed to dinner, so talk.”

Their server brought a refill for Bridgett’s water and asked if she was ready to order.  She opted for the loaded baked potato chowder and a side of broccoli.  Caleb decided on seared salmon, with jasmine rice and asparagus.  Of course Caleb had waited for her to order food.  Bridgett winked at them and grinned, reaching across the table to squeeze their hand. 

“Okay, okay, okay—”  Bridgett took another roll from the basket and tore it in half.  “Tell me.  You said you had an idea for the gun scene and I want to hear it in detail.”

“It’s not a gun,” Caleb said, passing her the butter.  “That’s the detail.”

“I tried that already.”  Bridgett popped the bread in her mouth and reached for the script pages.  “See—I tinkered with the lines, but it just doesn’t feel the same.  I mean of course it doesn’t feel the same.  What I mean is that it doesn’t feel right.”

Caleb wiped their hands on a napkin and looked over the script. 

“If it’s not a gun, then what’s the weapon?” Bridgett asked.  “It’s hard to take someone hostage without one.”

The look on Caleb’s face said You’d be surprised.  But instead of saying it, Caleb’s eyes meet hers for a moment.  Bridgett thinks there are a lot of things Caleb doesn’t say out loud.  The things that go through their head or tug on their heart.  They don’t speak in ways that people know how to interpret, but Bridgett thinks you just had to get to know Caleb.  That is, if Caleb let you. 

“Oh, it looks like a gun,” Caleb said.  “But it’s really a knife.”

“A knife—that’s good.  That’s tense.  Kent and Marcis would have to be closer though.  Can’t be arms’ length.  You’d need an arm around the waist or the neck.”

“Isn’t that what they always wanted?”

“Yes, but not like this.”  Bridgett shook her head.  “This way, it hurts.  Because Kent is good enough to maneuver out of a chokehold.  He could throw Marcis to the ground, if he wanted.  But he doesn’t.  He lets Marcis do this and Marcis knows it.”

Bridgett’s knee bounced up and down, occasionally hitting the underside of the table.  Caleb leans back in the booth, posture perfect.  They dab the corner of their mouth with their napkin and then place it back in their lap.

“How would they have wanted to be close?” Caleb asks.  “Or is that just an expectation they had for themselves because they thought it was the only option?”

“Marcis wanted Kent to be better.  To be more honest with himself, instead of thinking that he wasn’t worthy of anything.  But you can’t force a person to realize that, and some people just refuse to accept it.  It’s easier to be a villain, and that’s what Kent does.  Kent wants Marcis to throw him away and move on with life.  That’s how he acts, anyway.  But what Kent really wants is for Marcis to believe in him and accept him, even if there’s no proof that he’ll ever change.”

“Isn’t that asking a lot?”

“Doesn’t God ask the same of us?”

Bridgett held Caleb’s eyes for a moment before a roar snapped her gaze to the window.  The blue-flame pickup was rumbling out of the parking lot.  Bridgett swore she could see the taillights shaking from the engine’s whatever-it-was that made them sound like airplanes.  Lucy was on the other side—easy to spot even at dusk. 

“Marcis already believed in Kent.  Marcis just wanted him to stop sabotaging himself.”

“Can God sabotage their own plans?”

“Feels like it.”

“Was the appointment that bad?”

“Please, Libby.”

A nickname from another life.  One that Bridgett had exclusive permission to use.  She didn’t take that lightly, even though she sometimes said it playfully.  It was a secret kind of thing.  Caleb’s secret, and they had chosen to share it with her.  She didn’t call Caleb Libby in public, except with her eyes.  She never said it out loud. 

Caleb eyed her for a long time.  Bridgett could feel their gaze as she dusted crumbs from the table and emptied them on her bread plate.  Bridgett realized she was asking Caleb to come over that night, when she’d said please. That was alright.   She could use the company, and they could practice the scene together.  Get a feel for it. 

She would probably end up crying and tell Caleb that she wasn’t sure how she was ever going to get this script onto the screen.  Caleb would tell her things would be okay and she would want to scream and maybe she would.  But Caleb would be there one way or the other and she would fall asleep and Caleb might spend the night or they might leave or they might stay and make breakfast the next morning.  Bridgett hoped Caleb would stay.

“Okay—the not-gun-knife thing.”  Bridgett’s eyes glittered with soft lamplight.  “How does it get grim?”

“Like you said—they’d have to get close.”

Their server came back with their entrees, and Caleb stopped there.  Talking gruesome where people could overhear had gotten her many a wild look.  Bridgett didn’t mind, since she was always happy to talk about her projects.  The problem was that she was bad at explaining things, which was probably why she hadn’t been able to solidify her pitch yet. 

Plus, she wasn’t sure where she should submit it.  The script could be a short story or a screenplay.  It could be a one-act.  There were so many possibilities and she wanted them all.  She had to see the final result to know which one would be best.  It didn’t have to be the best, but it had to be her best.

“Let me know if you need anything!”

Bridgett barely held in a snort as their server walked away.  She signed off so many of her emails that way, it was hard to take the server seriously.  She wondered if anyone else took her seriously when she said that.  Email was a pain for conveying kindness.

“An arm around the shoulders.  A hand on the neck.”

“The gun-knife hand?”

Caleb nodded.

“You said an arm around the shoulders?  So not across the front, like a chokehold?”

Caleb nodded again.  Bridgett chewed her broccoli almost as fast as her knee bounced up and down underneath the table.  The skirt of her dress made quiet swish-shush sounds that she knew Caleb could hear.  Caleb could pick up on anything, but they were never rude about what they noticed. 

“They would have to be side-by-side then?  Kent would have to be leaning against Marcis, or slouched close enough for Marcis to get the gun-knife to their neck.  How does that thing work anyway?”

“It looks like a gun, but a blade flips out of the barrel.”

“Like a switchblade?”

“The ‘trigger’ so to speak is just that.  The blade comes out of a slit on the barrel’s underside—so you can have your standard pistol or a smaller one, but it wouldn’t work with a silencer.  I’ll show you some time.”

“Do they really make those?” Bridgett’s eyes widened.  “Or do you mean like a drawing?”

Bridgett catches the movement by Caleb’s eyes.  The smallest of winks.  She grins in delight at the surprise to come, leaning over to spear the last of Caleb’s asparagus.  Perfectly firm, not too buttery, and an excellent blend of seasonings. 

“So, the knife hand is at Kent’s throat—”

“What if it was the other way around?”

Bridgett shredded another dinner roll, dropping the bits into her soup.  Warm carbs—a staple comfort food.  Caleb knew this about her, but said nothing. 

“I’ve switched it so many times, I’m not even sure anymore.  But okay—Kent has the knife, Marcis is the hostage.  To start off, Marcis could probably tell Kent off with that line about not using the gun, but Kent would ignore it as bravado.”

“Is Kent’s mistake that he underestimates Marcis?”

“What would he do with the knife?  Why would he hurt Marcis?”

“In your words, to sabotage himself.  To prove he won’t change.  The question is, would Marcis still love Kent anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

Caleb reached across the table, fingers lightly landing on her wrist.  She glanced up and her wrist slowed.  She had been stirring her soup so fast that she’d spilled a fair bit over the edge.  That’s what she got for thinking so hard. 

“Does Kent still want Marcis to love him?  Say he has the knife at Marcis’ neck or side.  Kent only makes a shallow cut, enough to fill a vial with blood.”

“Kent isn’t a killer, even if he would think of himself that way.  A mercenary of the abstract, which again is self-sabotage because he doesn’t allow himself anything concrete.  He kills dreams and hopes and faith.  He’s always taking something away.”

“Like God?”

Bridgett hummed but said nothing.  The soup was still warm.  She savored the cheese, the salted bacon, the crips chives.  A lump of potato caught in her throat and she forced it down.  Maybe that had been a piece of bread, come to think of it. 

“Kent wouldn’t want to use a gun.  Not on Marcis.  He would want the knife.  He’d want to leave a scar.”

“Something to remember him by?”

“Barely visible.  Something that would almost disappear with time.  Almost.”

“Another question—what does Kent do with the vial?”

“You said your idea got grim—it’s this part, isn’t it?”

The salmon was almost gone.  Bridgett reached over and stole a bite, humming to herself.  Very good, very good.  She was glad neither of them had ordered red meat.  She wasn’t sure she could have this conversation while eating a steak. 

“He could keep it in a necklace around his neck, or use it for blood magic.  But the real question is what does the vial mean to him?”

“Kent’s not sentimental.  Not really, not in that way.  But, maybe for Marcis…”  Bridgett ate another spoonful of her soup.  “It’s not the vial, but what the vial represents—so the real real question is what does Marcis mean to him?”

“Would he know?”

“He could cast spells through Marcis—forcing control of Marcis’ body.  Or locking Marcis up, using Marcis as like an energy supply.  As long as the body is alive and in good condition, there would always be more blood.  None of it would be as good as that first vial, if he ever decided to use it.  I don’t think Kent wants that kind of power though.  He could do so many things—”

“He could—but does he?”

“Does he?”

Bridgett’s heel stomped on the floor as she sat up.

“Does he?” This time she says it more to herself than Caleb.  “That’s it, that’s the whole point.  Because we all have our chances to do good or evil, but what do we actually do?  And what drives us to make one choice over the other?  Is it just our self-hatred, or do we choose love?”

She finished the rest of her soup, her eyes half-focused and the world a blur of glasses and silverware and plates.  Caleb pushed their plate to the side, lacing their fingers together.  Almost as if they were going to ask a question—and they were asking, just not out loud. 

“Can I get you two anything for dessert?”

“No, thank you though.” Bridgett said, smiling.  “I’m just about stuffed.”

Bridgett and Caleb never got dessert at Bishop’s.  They had a tradition.  If they stopped for milkshakes at the shop halfway between her apartment and Caleb’s, one of them would spend the night.  If they didn’t stop for milkshakes, they spent the night alone.  Bridgett took the check, hoping for milkshakes.