Ren: God's Little Monster Page 4

  The girl holds up her hand and the guard freezes.

  What in the hell is going on? I chance a glance at Dahlia, who gives me a curious look.

  “Who is Shannon Fields?” she says, looking at the girl.

  She doesn’t glance at Dahlia, but rather keeps her focus on me. “She’s my mum, and she says that Ren Lewis is my father.”

  Chapter Six

  Casually I turn to Dahlia and purse my lips. “Well, I can tell you who Shannon Fields is. She’s a bloody liar.”

  Dahlia’s eyes are now scrutinizing, studying the features on the girl’s face. “I don’t know, Ren. She does look a lot like you.”

  “What?” I say, refusing to look at the thing beside me that’s making outlandish accusations. “There’s like a million redheads. Is that what you’re basing this on?”

  “My mum said you picked her up in a pub in London twenty years ago,” the atrocity says.

  Again I don’t look at the girl. “I’ve picked up thousands of women in London. Tell her to join the fucking club.”

  “Ren, this could be possible,” Dahlia says, her eyes still searching the girl. And to my horror she sounds half amused, half worried. Not sure which one I prefer.

  “It isn’t possible. I was careful,” I say.

  “Accidents happen,” Dahlia says, and now she looks curious.

  “Whatever,” I say. Where is everyone? I wonder again. It’s still empty in the café. I crane my head around to look.

  “I told the staff to leave us alone for an hour,” the girl says, sensing my question.

  “You what?” I stand at once, making the girl back up from our table. “Come on, Dahlia. We’re leaving. This girl is obviously spouting bullshit to every redheaded man she sees so she can get money.”

  Dahlia stands calmly and takes the arm I offer, her blue eyes still on the lying git.

  The girl unties the apron, wads it up, and throws it to the ground. “No. I don’t want money,” the little beast says.

  “Sure, sure. Maybe your trick will work on the next chap. Not me,” I say, sensing the other guard near us realizing we’re departing early. He puts a wall between us and the girl and the other guard takes the position in front of us. I lead Dahlia to the curbside entrance.

  “Get out of my way,” I hear the girl say and to my surprise she’s right beside us again.

  I wheel around to see the guard standing lamely by. What’s his bloody problem? Why is he not doing his job?

  “I just need to talk to you,” the girl says at my side. “I’ve been in and out of mental institutions for the last several years. My mum won’t have anything to do with me. I’ve been classified as a schizophrenic and she says you might know something about this mental illness since she suspects I inherited it from you.”

  I turn to the guard who stepped out of her way, the one at her back. “She just admitted to being crazy. Will you apprehend her so we can get out of here?” I consider using mind control on the girl to get her away from us, but I’m rather peeved that the guard isn’t doing his job. He should already have her detained in the back alley.

  The fatheaded guard nods and takes two steps.

  “Don’t touch me,” she says and again he halts, looking confused. “When people touch me I hear the voices.”

  “You what?” I say with a snarl in my voice.

  “I hear voices. And no one believes me, but I can make people do things. Like this guard,” she says, pointing over her shoulder at him. “And I sleepwalk at night messing with things. I have the strangest dreams.” Her voice sounds suddenly traumatized as she presses a hand to her forehead. “But no one believes me. They think I’m crazy. Do you have any idea what’s wrong with me, because I can’t take this anymore. That’s why I’m here. I need answers.”

  None of this makes any sense, and yet there’s too much information that I can’t ignore. This could all be a trick, but there’s one surefire way to find out. I extend a hand to the girl. “Take my hand,” I say.

  She eyes the hand I have extended and then me with a practiced skeptical look. “Why?”

  “I’m trying to determine if there’s any legitimacy to your story,” I say.

  Tentatively, she reaches out and lays her hand in my palm. It’s freckled on the top, like mine. I let her hand sit there for a long moment. Only a light touch. Her thoughts stream through my head at once. They involve a series of doubts and also one awfully nasty thought about my attitude toward her. I push this away and focus on having an exceptionally clear thought. Then I pull my hand away and wipe it on my trousers like I’d just touched a disgusting loo.

  “What did you hear?” I say.

  She drops her eyes to the ground. “I heard a voice…” The girl’s eyebrows seam together. “It was weird this time though. Weirder than usual.”

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  “It said, ‘All the oatmeal in the world should be fed to goats and then the pesky beasts catapulted off the fucking Earth.’”

  No bloody way! I release a long growling sigh. I point to the limo parked by the curb. “Get in.”

  “What? Why?” The little life-ruiner looks at the limo and then at me.

  I stare around at the street, which is slowly filling with people. Damn Californians can’t be bothered to get out before late morning. They have to drink a protein shake, do their yoga, and watch a talk show.

  “We aren’t discussing this here. Get in the car,” I say and stalk for the limo, as an overwhelming pressure erupts behind my eyes. My blood is beating so loud it drowns out the autos driving past.

  “But I—”

  I spin around, but don’t look at the girl in front of me. I can’t. I keep my gaze to the side. “If you want answers to your bloody questions then get in the car. Otherwise get out of my fucking sight.”

  “Ren, is she—”

  “Yes,” I say, cutting off Dahlia’s question. I don’t chance a glance at her, but instead turn to the car where the guard has the door open. I slide into the limo and take a seat on the far side, next to the minibar.

  Chapter Seven

  I detest alcohol. However, right now the monster in me is ripping at my insides, trying to take over my being. Poison seems like the only way to corral the beast. I pour a tiny bottle of gin into the tumbler and throw it back before the car pulls away from the curb. Dahlia stares at me, giving me a look that from my peripheral tells me I better not glance directly at her because she’s readying a volley of insults in my direction. However, I know her and know she’ll want eye contact to deliver the nasty remarks.

  The girl sits on the other side of the limo, arms tightly crossed in front of her chest. “Where are you taking me?” she says.

  Pulling out two more bottles from the bar, I ignore her. I screw off both the lids and pour them simultaneously into the glass.

  “Ren, what are you doing?” Dahlia says.

  “Processing,” I say, sliding the full tumbler to my lips and taking a sip which makes my tongue burn and then my stomach warm.

  “Can all this be possible?” Dahlia says.

  “I’m not ready to answer questions,” I say to the glass I’m holding just in front of my mouth, my elbow propped on the armrest beside me.

  “You are my father,” the girl says, a cold hostility in her voice.

  “Dahlia, will you tell it not to talk to me right now?” I take another sip, my head feeling like it’s shrinking in on itself. I wouldn’t be able to hypnotize anyone under this drug’s influence or use any of my other gifts, but the monster seems to have retreated slightly and for that I’m grateful.

  “Oh really, Ren,” Dahlia says and I sense her reposition herself to face the girl on the other side of the car. “What’s your name?”

  The girl remains quiet, not answering her question. I feel her stare on me. Finally she says, “Is he always like that?”

  I take another sip which bubbles in my throat.

  “No, usually he’s way more verbally abusive. I
think we can thank the alcohol for his unusually quiet demeanor,” Dahlia says.

  I swing my gaze out the window, not really seeing the terrain as we wind through the Santa Monica Mountains. Daughter? How do I have a daughter? She irrefutably looks like me with her orangey red hair and almost neon green eyes. That’s not what bothers me. It isn’t even that at first glance she reminded me of someone who I only now recognize is my mum. What infuriates me is that she appears to have inherited my gifts and that means she’s dangerous. How do I have a daughter?! I’ve been so careful, while also being promiscuous. Carefully promiscuous. Maybe that’s the thing, it’s an oxymoron. Wish I could tell twenty-something-year-old Ren that.

  “Are you even listening to me?” I hear Dahlia say up close to my ear. I realize now my vision has tunneled. I blink back into focus and take a drink but only because I know I’ve been frozen for several minutes, only taking shallow breaths.

  “No, I’m not,” I finally say, my eyes still directed out the window, my words slurring.

  “Ren, what are you going to do?” Dahlia says.

  “Right now I’m getting drunk. Not sure what happens after that. Only done this drinking thing twice before. The events are blurring,” I say.

  Dahlia sighs loudly. “Are you really taking this girl to my house?”

  “Adelaide,” the beast on the other side of the limo says.

  From my peripheral I see Dahlia turn her head. “Pleased to meet you, Adelaide. And no offense but all this is rather sudden. Why are you so sure that Ren is your father?”

  The girl gives a humorless laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Dahlia looks at me and then back at my spawn. “There’s a resemblance but—”

  “My mother says that the year she had me she’d only ever been with one man, Ren Lewis. She was in pre-candidacy to be a nun.”

  At once my arm is assaulted by a fist. “You screwed a nun?” Dahlia says.

  “Oh, that Shannon Fields,” I mumble into my glass before taking another drink.

  “Not a nun, pre-candidacy to be a nun. She was of course rejected by the church. How did you convince her to sleep with you?” the thing says in my direction.

  “He’s extremely convincing when he wants to be,” Dahlia says and by her tone I consider opening the door and throwing myself out of the vehicle. If I hadn’t drunk so much I could dream travel to a GAD-C and generate my body. That would freak the girl out when my body disappeared in front of her eyes.

  “Oh, like when I tell people to do something and for some insane reason they do it? Like the wait staff I told to stay in the kitchen until noon? Convincing like that?” the girl says.

  I rock my forehead forward until it slams into the window. This can’t be happening.

  “You can control people with your mind?” Dahlia says to Adelaide. Which is a mouthful of a name and should be changed to something I can say when I’m drunk. Twit. Pest. Fucker.

  “That’s what I think it is,” she answers. “But other people think I’m crazy when I say that, hence the mental institutions. And things just happen around me. I tell someone to do something and they do. Then later I’m blamed for something ridiculous that happened, like when I told a customer at my last job that if he didn’t like his split pea soup he should just pour it on his fucking head. He did but then I was blamed for doing it. Apparently no one wants to believe that a bloke would do that to himself.”

  I take a long drink. I’m pretty certain that if I drink this whole thing the girl in front of me will disappear. Or I’ll pass out. Either way.

  “Anyway that’s one of the reasons I can’t ever keep a job,” Adelaide continues. “Well, and also because I hate people. They’re all bloody idiots.”

  The glass I’m clutching is plucked from my hands. “Yep, she’s yours,” Dahlia says and throws back the rest of my drink. Like me, she doesn’t drink. Hates the poison. She extends her arm, knocking the glass into my chest. “Fill her up, Ren,” she says.

  I take the tumbler and set it down on the bar just as the limo halts in front of the house.

  “You live here?” Adelaide says, staring out the dark tinted window.

  “He used to,” Dahlia answers.

  Chapter Eight

  “Please escort Ms. Fields into the house. Have her wait for us in the study, and ensure she’s comfortable,” Dahlia says to one of her guards when we exit the limo. She’s the perfect picture of poise.

  “Is that code for ‘bury her in the cellar’?” Adelaide says, standing arms crisscrossed with a look on her face I know too well.

  Dahlia quirks up the corners of her lips at the beast. “No, the code for that is ‘serve her the house specialty.’”

  “I’ll remember that,” she says, flashing Dahlia a false smile before turning and marching off with the guards. I only really see fuzzy shapes move away. Being drunk before noon is a surefire method to screw up one’s life.

  I finally turn and look at Dahlia for the first time since this catastrophic atrocity befell us. “So I don’t know about you, but I’m famished, luv. What do you say we pop over to one of those new spots you’ve been convincing me to try? Maybe that awfully pretentious place that’s always swarming with shabby chic dipshits down on Sunset,” I say, my words almost slurring.

  Dahlia’s hands are pinned on her hips, her heel tapping the concrete. And a look I haven’t seen in eighteen years is plastered across her face. That’s the expression she gave me when I dumped her for no good reason all those years ago. “How do you plan to handle this?” she says.

  “Do we really have a house specialty, because that would be my vote. I’m sure Adelaide won’t be missed by anyone by the sound of it,” I say.

  “Ren, she’s your daughter.”

  A gigantic shiver rips through my body. “Don’t say that.”

  “What are you planning to do?” she says.

  I pull out another mini bottle of gin I stashed in my pocket. I unscrew the lid. “I’m going to find out what she wants.”

  “So, you’re actually going to be able to talk to this girl? Because earlier you appeared a bit incompetent at the task,” Dahlia says.

  “I’ll be able to talk to her,” I say and throw my head back, filling my mouth with the repulsive alcohol.

  ***

  Adelaide is sitting in my plaid armchair when I enter the study, Dahlia is behind me, and meathead number two behind her. I don’t know his name and don’t plan on learning it. Meathead number one stands in the corner, his eyes sparking to attention when we enter the room. I halt at the sight of the girl sitting casually in my chair. Her legs are propped on the arm on one side, her back leaning into the other. And in her lap she holds a small purse and is lacing her finger around the strap.

  “Get out of that chair,” I say at once.

  Unrushed, Adelaide brings her eyes up to meet mine. “Dahlia told me to make myself comfortable,” she says.

  “Well, make yourself cozy somewhere else,” I say.

  She motions to the leather couch and various straight-back chairs littering the room. “That other crap looks like it’s made to encourage people to stand.”

  I growl in response.

  “Get out of Ren’s chair before he throws an awful tantrum,” Dahlia says, casually strolling over and sitting on one of the other chairs.

  Adelaide looks at me with an inquisitive stare. Then she mouths the words “Ren’s chair” as she pulls upright to a standing position.

  “What do you want?” I ask, staring straight at her, the corner of my lip pulled up like a wolf’s.

  “You know what’s wrong with me. I want you to explain it,” she says, tucking her chin into her chest, her hooded eyes staring at me with a strange menace.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” I say. “You’re very powerful and completely incompetent at controlling that power.”

  “Well, then that’s what I want. I want you to teach me. Explain why I can do these weird things and teach me how to control this,�
�� she says, and although it’s a request, there’s a great deal of authority behind it.

  I drop my eyes. Oh fuck, why doesn’t she just want money?

  “I inherited this all from you, didn’t I?” she continues with the incessant questions.

  I don’t answer. I’m forming my next question when the pain in the ass says, “And do you have the weird dreams too? The ones where no one can see you?”

  I flick my eyes at Dahlia. Her stare seems to be encouraging me to talk. To explain.

  Then big mouth says, “The other day I had a dream I painted a large mural on the side of the front of the Louvre. And the next morning—”

  “That was you?!?” The words explode from my mouth.

  “No!” she says at once. “I dreamed it. Like I was having a clairvoyant dream or something.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” I say. The news reports were baffled about the invisible figure who the cameras couldn’t catch. She’d apparently stolen paint from a nearby shop and then when the sun rose it showed her extensive mural covering the bottom half of the walls and columns of the museum. It actually wasn’t considered horrid artwork. They called it classy graffiti, which sounds like an oxymoron to me. I called it careless debauchery.