Darkest Love (18 page)

“Disgrace!” someone called.

“And you know what? It doesn't matter. Researchers are allowed to have personal lives. Rain is. I am. So eyes off, ladies.” Annie's voice had risen to a shrill pitch. “And check your sources. Real sources! Switch off the fucking celebrity channel once in a while and read a book.”

That got them going. All around the room arms rose and fingers pointed at Annie, some slender, some chubby, some dark, some fair, some bare and some adorned with rings that looked like they could double as ninja stars. The diversity that looked so heartening when Annie had arrived was dizzying when these women got angry.

A chorus of shrill voices rose up–the timbres may have been different but the furious tone was common across the board–and three dozen irises of different colors, framed by myriad eye-shapes, blazed with common fury. Annie didn't know where to look. She caught snatches of their offensive prattle:

“You're the one who sucked a playboy's dick!”

“Do you get your inspiration from Miley Cyrus?”

“Miley would never disgrace herself like that.”

“Ha.”

“She puts the hole in anthrop-hole-ogist! She's a fuckhole for the rain man.”

“Annie Childs. She certainly acts like a child!”

“Stop letting men walk all over you.”

“You break my heart, sister.”

“
What
have you let him do to you?”

The last comment came from a woman in the front row. Annie just happened to be looking in her eyes when she said it. They were kindly-set brown eyes–the woman had those downward-slanting brows that made it look as if she was slightly afraid or concerned all the time, but at that moment they were sparking with rage. Annie met those eyes, pupils to pupil, iris to iris. The black holes through which the women engaged with the world met, and a Microsecond War went on. It was as furious as the Hundred Years War, or the Thirty Years War, but a lot shorter. All the fury was concentrated into a split second.

Something inside Annie Childs cracked.
What have you let him do to you?
The taunt seared her soul, unleashing some fire deep inside her that had burned since she first allowed Rain Mistern to take his liberties.

Actually, it had probably raged much longer. Since her father's abuse. Since her mother's betrayals. Since her sisters ganged up on her, reporting to their mother about every kiss Annie stole in the playground and about every boy who dumped her cruelly. About her nickname.
Easy Annie
.

Yes, the fire had raged since then. Since her mother opted to give her no sympathy—a hug and a such-is-life talk—but to punish her more.
The bitch.
Since her dad got in on it, with his attitude that women are commodities.
Other men don't want my daughter.
He took the shame of that out on her, in his blockheaded way, unsure of what to do. He beat Annie, humiliated her, and never told her why.

“You…” The words came out of Annie's mouth. She didn't feel like she was saying the words; the moment was pre-ordained. This was meant to happen. It felt like it was God speaking. “You will never find out what I do, slut. I know you'd love to check it out. To check if it's as nasty as all the things
you
do. Is that why you joined this movement? You're angry about all the men who pumped you and then kicked you to the curb?”

“What an absolute crock!” came the cries.

“You're telling us about yourself right now darling.”

“That response says more about
you,
Annie Childs, than it does about us.”

“Ooooh…issues.”

“Juicy!”

Annie was still staring into the eyes of the front-row girl. The woman raised her hand and gave Annie a solid up-yours. Her finger was fleshy and gleaming as an oiled torso. It was adorned with a massive green cygnet ring. Annie spat in its direction. Everybody gasped.

“You're never going to find out about me and Rain Mistern. Losers.”

Another hubbub. It was so loud Annie couldn't make out any of the individual comments. A sound-system speaker screeched suddenly, somewhere up the back, as if it was outraged by this misuse of its function. Annie gripped her microphone. She waited for the talk to die down, listening eagerly for more comments. She was on fire, and not in a good way.

“She probably wants to date him. She is so naïve.”

“He probably bashed her.”

The next part happened fast. Annie reached for a glass against her will. She didn't mean to do it. Looking back on it later, describing the incident to Lily, she would insist a demon took over. Something else took control: a dusty old devil built like Frankenstein's monster from all the outrages she had suffered, all the sorrows of her family from generations back. It was that spirit that grabbed the glass and threw it, sending water in a sloshing line across the front row.

Crash.
A shattering sound pierced the ears of everyone assembled.

“Aargh!” The women screamed as one. Their bodies curled up. Some covered their heads, some cringed, some stooped, some half-fell out of their seats, dropping binders and notes onto the carpet.

The next thing Annie was aware of was a buzz. It was the buzz of the microphone: a crackle and statical wheeze from the assault the mic had suffered as the water flew over.

After that–an attack! A woman from the front was chest-thumping her, reaching for her hair, clawing at her eyes. Annie's heart was thumping so fast all she could do was return the unplanned, furious assault.

Whack.
Her hip whacked against the podium as the other woman grabbed her, wrestling her to the ground. The pain and sting made Annie hiss, but that pain was soon replaced by another one: the woman had a hand around Annie's locks, pulling like she was trying to chime a bell.

They fell to the ground. Annie clawed, screaming, as her nose filled with too much perfume and her vision filled with images of the attacker's body parts: a jeans-clad hip. A round paunch. A section of a tight-lipped face. Fingers that looked eager to claw her to death.

The woman attacked. The woman swiped. She aimed a few punches that whizzed haplessly through the air. Finally as the assailant took a moment to catch her breath, Annie reared back and aimed a fist straight into her gasping face.

“Aiiiie!”

“Ladies!” The woman's scream ripped over the voice of a new entrant. Two security guards had stormed in, badges flicking against their shirts, batons in hand. Annie breathed with relief as a hand gripped her around the waist, firmly but gently, and pulled her off the stage. The security man dragged her through the side exit. She didn't even have to squeeze her eyes shut to avoid the faces and wagging fingers of the women in the audience.

The cab lurched, winding Annie's already-tight stomach into a double-knot and making her yelp. All her actions were jerkier since the fight. Every fiber in her body was alive. Adrenaline pumped through her.

Come at me, world.
Her neck still hurt from the moment when the other woman had twisted her to the ground. Her cheek had a crescent moon imprint from a fingernail that had pressed into it. And yet… part of her was enjoying the exhilaration.

Rain had told her about the feelings he used to have in the few hours after a high school wrestling match: he would walk through the halls full of adrenaline, eyeing off the tight butts of his female classmates in their uniforms and barely restraining himself from reaching out to squeeze one. He had described it really well: the way your body was cleansed by the release of all that sweat and the piston-like pumping of the muscles. Your blood rushed like a coolant through a car engine, keeping you fresh and humming. Rain said even his eyes had gotten in on it: they darted around the walls and corners of Bronx District Secondary School as if they expected a hand to reach around and pin him to the notice board.

“It was a bit like the feeling after sex,” he had said. “Except…violent.”

Annie could tell he was humoring her at that point. It was probably
exactly
what Rain felt after sex.

He liked a dash of violence in his sex-blend; a shot of brutality in his intimacy-smoothie.

And somehow–
somehow
–he always kept her coming back with the sugar.

“Can you watch where you're damn going?” Annie scolded the cab driver, surprised at the uppity tone in her own voice. She could feel him staring at her in the rear view mirror. She ignored his tight ‘sorry' which he didn't finish, as if he changed his mind and wanted to snatch it back.

No apologies for me.
Annie was not going to argue with him there. A demon had lurched out of her heart and was ready to pound everyone around her.

In the back of her mind she knew her angry feelings may have to do with the S&M sex with Rain. Annie felt happy that new emotions were rising out of her, but part of her wondered…is this the stress of my childhood being released? Or my anger at the man who was so happy doing those things to me?

Or was she angry at the interfering, judging feminists? It was all too confusing. Thank God the security guard had let her off. After he'd hauled Annie to the back room he'd asked if she was okay. Annie expected an arrest or a stern word about assault—it had been
she
who threw the glass, after all—but the guy had checked her for broken bones and lacerations and looked into her eyes with concern.

“I knew that group was going to be trouble,” he had said in his Aussie accent. “They've been chanting outside the universities and research centers for weeks. Rain Mistern this and Annie Childs that. I was worried they would start something at your press conference. Why did you attend it?”

Annie laughed. “I stopped in at the research center straight from my airplane trip, and they ambushed me. I agreed to give a Q and A. I thought it would be a quick ‘how was your trip'?”

“You mean you had just gotten off your flight?”

Annie nodded.

The guard's lips pursed. “No more conferences without a bodyguard, okay? I'm kicking myself for letting you go in alone. Stupid.” He knocked his forehead with a palm. “Do me a favor? Don't mention the lack of security, and I won't press anything.”

Annie had stared at him for a moment. She agreed. If staying mum would keep her glass-throwing antics out of the news she would do it.

Now as the cab roared around the corner, past Edwardian buildings and the bronze statues of Australian settlers dotting the historical area of The Rocks, Annie felt hot tears welling in her eyes. Why was Lily not calling? Lily was in Sydney for a conference of her own and had the same number she always did.

“Drop me off here.” Lily's hotel—the Westin—was about to creep past. Annie's body hurtled forward as the cab stopped way too suddenly. Her fingers tensed around the plaid seat cover and her purse fell from her lap, jabbing her in the shin.

Everything seemed designed to give her a heart attack, or high blood pressure.

Or to get someone punched in the jaw.

“Learn to drive before you take a job like this, maybe,” Annie said as she slid out of the door, newspaper, clutch and hand luggage gathered in a bundle in her arms. Her suitcases had been sent by courier to the hotel, so thankfully she wouldn't have to make eye contact with the guy as he pulled them out of his trunk. She
humphed
at his second sheepish,
sorry
, and slammed the door on his
goodbye
.

Shuffling down the footpath past the sculptured hotel hedges, Annie finally breathed easily. She'd had a close call with the AFA women, but she believed that security guard would not dish—he'd seemed as scared as she was about the incident.

* * * *

Annie walked, concentrating on her footsteps and the delicate equilibrium of the papers and bags in her arms. She inhaled deep breaths, noting the sappy smell of Australian banksias and eucalypts lining the garden paths at the front of the Westin.

There weren't many people around: just a doorman, a concierge on a cigarette break, and a couple of valets waiting for the next luxury car to pull up.
None of that luxury car stuff for me.
Tenure supported Annie well, but not
that
well. And she grew more and more worried about her shaky career by the day.

Rain seemed ready to drop his university position too. He'd had a faraway look in his eyes recently. He'd spoken of leaving New York altogether, of turning his back on that culture and retiring to a bohemian beach community, or a tropical forest somewhere. Maybe a commune in Queensland–the spiky state at the top of Australia.

A few peeks at awards night cleavages will probably bring him back to earth.
Rain would soon be heading back to the land of hairspray and shimmer powder he hated so much. Annie was thankful for that. He probably needed something to pull him back down to earth.

She mused about Rain as she swept into the Westin restaurant, grateful for the blast of air-conditioning and the happy atmosphere of well-fed people and smiling waitresses. A doorman rushed to her aid, snuffing out his cigarette with his foot and catching the swinging door so it didn't hit her in the butt.

Annie started to relax for the first time. “We have a few more hot days ahead of us yet, I'm afraid,” the waitress told her, voice full of those bright, clangy Australian vowels and diphthongs. Annie fanned her face in faux-distress. The waitress gave her a smile and consolatory arm-pat—she was happy-faced and koala-bear cuddly.

After studying Annie's face for a moment, she gasped. “Wait. You're Doctor Annie Childs!”

“Yes…”

“Oh…please. Miss Childs!” The woman slammed the coin slot of the register and grabbed Annie around the shoulders. “Please do not show your face here. It—”

“I'll take her.”

The voice came from behind. Annie turned and saw Lily, standing like a martial artist ready for mayhem.

* * * *