Page 11 of Chemistry: The Chemist

Catherine.

Catherine.

“Music.”

Cathe–

Slow, melodic sounds filled the vehicle, tackling the disorganization of my thoughts. My posture was hardly ever compromised but sometimes it was inevitable.

I slid down the leather of the seat until my neck rested against the coolness and my head dangled behind it. With closed eyes, I drowned in the chords played by the jazz band as darkness and water surrounded me, again.

Drowning there, however, wasn’t optional. I inhaled lungs full of oxygen and went under, hoping to come out on a brighter side. Hoping to finally find the sunlight. Hoping to reach the shore. Hoping to discover the meaning behind the constant vision. Hoping to end its recurrence once and for all.

Being hopeful had never gotten me far. This evening, all proved to still be intact. Because, when I opened my eyes nearly thirty-nine minutes later, I was still in the same spot, as if my tired arms and exasperated lungs were liars.

“Midnight.”

“Midnight,” Aden repeated, confirming the time he was to return.

“Destination?”

“Roulette.”

With a raised brow, he questioned, “Roulette?”

I wasn’t to be questioned.

Without a response, I climbed the stairs leading to my front door. Met by Jennie, I was stripped of my jacket and shoes.

“Take the week.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Come ag–”

“You heard me clearly, Jennie. Take the week.”

“I, uh–”

“Have Royce put you somewhere nice, somewhere private. A week.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her five-foot frame scurried, ready to suit every need I had. Even one to be alone. It didn’t matter. Jennie was here to serve and she took her role seriously.

Aaliyah. The name came to mind. Daughter of an associate. Procreating with her posed a conflict of interest. I quickly dismissed the idea.

Salem. Next on the list was a woman I’d encountered only twice, but had left a lasting impression on me.

The sound of her name rolling off my tongue made my dick harden, just as she had. Since I’d stuck my dick in a piece of pussy, I hadn’t doubled back. Hers, it made me reconsider.

Within a month, I was stroking her walls, again. Back for seconds. However, her lack of independence worried me. She wasn’t a thinker. She wasn’t a doer. She wasn’t a hustler. She was—nothing.

It was her beauty that stuck with me. It was her quiet that drew me to her. But, in reality, she wasn’t a person of interest.

By the time the second name vanished, so had my threads. I was down to a pair of trunks that were part of an extensive collection. Before another name could arise, my face was underneath the water and I was releasing everything that consumed me.

It hadn’t failed me. Ever.

Water.

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