Sanguine Inclinations

Helaine

I couldn’t help feeling nervous as I stood at the top of the steps leading down into his basement apartment.

We had been friends for some time—maybe acquaintances was a better term—but the point is that we’d known each other for a while now, at least through moving in similar circles.

He should have been my type. I had always had a problem with the pretentious wannabe rockstar types, but there was always something about him that put me ill at ease, and if I was honest, neither this street nor the hour was helping.

His apartment sat below the corner of Cardinal and South Main, and the street signs stood ominously above me like a guillotine.

Cardinal was a lovely little street, with its artist alley, street food, and live music . . . if you weren’t privy to the area’s reputation, and ignored the missing persons posters.

Speaking of music, I could already hear the haunting melody emanating from the bottom of the stairs. If I could say nothing else for him, he was an excellent guitarist, and he knew that I thought that.

I couldn’t help wondering if he knew that I was standing up here at the top of his steps, or if he was only warming up because he knew I’d be here sooner rather than later—or at least, this was the time we’d scheduled.

See, the thing about him is that however uncomfortable he had made me, I had the opposite effect on him.

It had been no secret since the day we met that he had his eyes set on me, but I had always had a very convenient reason, or excuse really, to avoid being left alone with him.

It’s not that he ever pushed, or that I felt I needed a reason not to hang out with him—I had never in my life been the kind of woman who couldn’t look at a man and tell him no, but there was something about him that made me feel like I couldn’t trust myself.

I could feel it in my bones that the second he and I were alone together, I would lose all sense of self control. I couldn’t place why, but there was something about him that made the idea all too enticing, which screamed of red flags to me.

Especially given my history.

Even now, my entire body was screaming at me to run, to turn around and go home—or anywhere else, really.

But I didn’t really have a better option.

Earlier this week, my landlord had told me that my rent was going up by a whole two hundred dollars—that was an insane amount, especially for an already broke college student. Not only could I not afford that, but I most certainly couldn’t afford to look for somewhere else to live while paying nearly every goddamn cent I made to the leech who owned my apartment.

That’s where he came in.

He happened to be hanging out with us when I complained about my situation to our mutual friends, and for some god unknown reason I had allowed him to hold me back from the others when we all tried to go our separate ways.

As it happened, he was a lot more well off financially than he looked, and he could make my problem disappear . . . for a price.

Quid pro quo, he’d called it.

He’d make sure my rent got paid, so long as I kept him happy one night a month.

I should have slapped him, and I knew it, but something about the sincerity in the mahogany brown of his eyes, and the tension in my chest, compelled me to say yes.

After all, if it wasn’t for the bad gut feeling I’d had about him, I would have wound up in his bed years ago . . . and I did need to find some way to pay my rent, fast.

At the very least, I knew that taking him up on his offer would buy me some time to make other living arrangements—it’s not like I’d have to whore myself out to him forever.

And it would sate my burning curiosity.

Church bells tolled as I descended the stairs, harmonizing strangely nicely with the guitar music that I was sure came from his apartment—especially when it stopped the second I knocked on the door.

I’d never seen a door that strange—it was heavy concrete, painted with all sorts of gruesome imagery of blood, bones, and gore. Black feathers and bits of what I imagined were chicken bones were matted into the paint—I wondered if he had done the artwork himself, or if the differing art styles pointed to this being a community work. It wouldn’t surprise me on Cardinal Street.

I had become so invested in his door that I practically jumped out of my skin when he answered it.

“Hello Helaine.” His smile was calm, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that I couldn’t leave unnoticed. “You’re a little early.”

“I-I didn’t want to walk here in the dark,” I confessed, a bit sheepishly, more embarrassed over having been caught off guard than anything. “I mean, come on Evan, you live here, you ought to know how dangerous this place gets.”

“I do.” His eyes lingered on me a little longer than I thought was necessary, but I supposed that he was paying for that privilege . . . and paying quite a bit at that. “Would you like to come inside?”

No.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Suddenly, I was very aware of the chill in the air that always came with nightfall around here.

It would be winter soon, and I wasn’t looking forward to the walk, but at least winter was a little safer since fewer people wanted to be out at all.

At least, with this arrangement, I’d have a roof over my head this winter.

Evan’s apartment was . . . interesting.

It looked like the gutted remains of an old tattoo parlor, and knowing the area, it probably was. I hated to admit that that was pretty cool.

I didn’t know why I was trying to find some reason to pick apart his place—other than the lack of natural light, I really loved the layout, and the art he kept on display, but I supposed I was looking for something shitty to justify the weird vibe I got from him.

I didn’t want to be one of those girls who was just rude to a guy for no reason based on vibes . . . but I had to admit, it was starting to look that way.

Though, he was about to pay me for sex, so that might speak to his character a little.

Not that I was in any position to judge.

A particular piece grabbed my attention. On one of the walls was a stylistic floor to ceiling mural of a man painted in crimson, his hands shackled to the ceiling, and the striking white silhouette of a woman’s hands snaking around his torso.

“Would you like to sit?” He asked, gesturing to a plush red couch that looked about fifty years out of date.

“Thank you.” At least I remembered my manners as I ripped my eyes away from the painting.

He followed my gaze and smiled, that same strange predatory glint in his eyes. “Oh, you hadn’t seen any of my art, have you?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I figured you were an artist since we move in similar circles, but I didn’t know what kind.”

I felt awkward, sinking into the overstuffed couch all by myself while he stood there looking at me like I was fresh meat.

Actually, thinking about it, I wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t a serial killer as I looked around at his paintings and murals, both finished and not.

It made me very glad that we had a whole lot of mutual friends who would make a fuss if I went missing. I hoped that was enough to keep him from trying to kill me.

“I actually work in . . . a variety of mediums.” He grinned, and I knew I was going to die there—kidding, I hoped. “Painting is just one of the many ways an artist can express himself.”

“Did you do the uh . . . paintings on the door?” I asked, thinking of the black feathers and bits of bone matted against the concrete.

He laughed a little too long, and pushed his soft ash brown hair out of his face, smiling a little too wide at me. “Oh, no, no. That’s the work of several neighborhood artists, I believe.”

“Why would they do that?” I asked, fidgeting on the cushions, trying to find a stable way to sit. “It looks a little . . . ”

“Grotesque?” He leaned in closer to me, before laughing again. “They’re artists, Helaine—who knows why artists do any of the things we do.”

“That’s a fair point.” I shrugged. I couldn’t exactly judge him there.