The Ties That Blind: Chapter Two

By Christopher Mitchell

II.

 Sickle threw the small bag of tomatoes in her cart and sauntered up the remainder of the produce aisle. This small bodega was her favorite to visit. It was quiet, uncrowded, and, of all the small shops on this side of New York City, it had the freshest fruits and veggies. Not like she would make a fucking salad with it or anything, but nothing beat a nice, thickly sliced tomato on a homemade cheeseburger.

Her peace was shattered by the whine of a small boy in the next aisle.

He was screaming at his mother for some sweet treat or another, and the sound grated on Sickle’s nerves like the scratching of fingernails over the felt of trunk-liner. She crept around the corner to see the kid’s full-blown meltdown and glowered. Weren’t these things supposed to be on leashes? Daddy’s mantra had always been “be seen, not heard, lest we sleep outside with the birds.”

It was official: her shopping experience was ruined.

Then again, maybe not.

She approached the mother, hiding the inner giggle of mischief. “Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind grabbing me that jar of sauce up there?” She pointed to a spot high on the shelf, knowing Mom would have to work for it.

Grudgingly, and with a small stare at her wailing crotch-goblin, the mother turned and stood on tiptoes, stretching to reach the jar of sauce Sickle had zero interest in purchasing.

Her distraction in place, she nudged the boy with her foot to get his attention. He looked up, and Sickle lifted the patch over her eye, showing the little boy the mangled flesh underneath. His cries stopped instantly, and he went white. She leant down quickly and whispered in the boy’s ear. “This is what happens to little kids when they don’t behave in public.”

She stood as the mother grasped the jar of sauce, letting the patch fall back in place and thanking her for her help. With a wink at the now-blubbering nuisance in Oshkosh overalls, she made for the register. The sounds of the boy’s tantrum faded to howls of terror. They paired well with the with the mother’s now desperate attempt to console the feral gremlin.

She felt like rewarding herself for her altruism; she would take her cheeseburger medium rare.

A short while later, a single hamburger patty sizzled on the iron skillet in front of her. The cooked smell of meat intermingled with the aromas of garlic, onion, and a dash of salt. She was spooning butter over the top of it, her mouth watering at the fragrant combination of scents when her phone went off. She moved the skillet from the burner, letting the hot iron continue cooking for her while she pressed the accept button on the phone screen.

“Yeah?” she asked, putting the phone to her ear and holding it there with her shoulder.

The voice on the other line came through soft and sultry. “You’re needed in Detroit.”

She heard the words twice—once in her ears, then again as an echo in her thoughts. Sickle loved the way Ink spoke into her brain. Not just words delivered deadpan to the listener, but a music that wormed and tunneled through the brain like a parasite. It was Ink’s special talent as a pusher, and she used it openly on Sickle every time they spoke. Ink knew it sent little jolts of excitement over her occasional bedmate’s body.

“Orders?” Sickle asked. She flipped the patty and hit it with another dash of salt.

Sickle could hear Ink’s smile on the other end of the line. “Only that you’re needed in Detroit. Parchment will meet you there.”

Sickle’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why is my orator needed in Detroit? She’s a bookworm, not a field agent.”

“You know that’s above my pay grade, Sickle,” Ink said, her voice coming out singsong. It was a clear sign she was annoyed by the questioning.

A wave of heat emanated over Sickle’s skin at the thought of Ink’s irritation. “Fair enough,” she replied with a fake a sigh, “do I have time to come see you?”

Silence came through the other end of the line. Then, softly, Ink spoke. “We said last time would be the last time.”

Sickle chuckled. “We said that the last time we said it would be the last time.” She knew it was a yes. Even Ink knew it was a yes.

“Where?” Ink whispered.

“That depends on when my flight is,” Sickle answered, moving the butter back and forth in the skillet. It bubbled on contact with the fat of the browning burger. Blood seeped from the top of the patty, congealing in rivulets of pinks then browns. “If it’s tomorrow, then The Hilton by the airport.”

“And if it’s tonight?” Ink’s breath came through the receiver heavy and deep. Sickle imagined Ink was moving the pens about on her desk with the tips of her fingers, knowing her nervous habits from years of cat and mouse.

God, those fingers were magic.

“If it’s tonight,” Sickle said, pressing down hard on the patty with the spatula, watching the juice explode from the sides in rivers of red and pink, leaving the pan soaked and sizzling, “then your office will have to suffice.”

“Mmm.” Ink’s eyes were closed, Sickle knew it. “See you soon.”

“Hard to see anything through a blindfold.”

Sickle hung up the receiver, cutting off Ink’s squeal of delight before it could wriggle into her bloodstream. She turned her attention back to the burger.

She changed her mind; she would eat it rare and juicy now.

Sickle’s twelve-grain bit into her side from its shoulder holster. Three hours of “wham bam, thank you, ma’am” with Ink, and now she was stuck in the aisle seat of some ramshackle plane. The twin engines roared at its ascent, bumping and jostling the smattering of passengers as the plane clawed its way to a safe altitude.

When Sickle had asked about first class, her handler had giggled.

“You’ve cost the agency over two-point-six million in collateral damage,” Ink laughed, “five funerals for partners that died on your watch—not to mention your incessant need for fine dining in one of the most expensive cities still standing—and you’re upset about being put in coach?”

Sickle hadn’t heard a word her handler said. She couldn’t take her eyes off Ink. Somehow, the woman was sexier putting clothes back on than she had been taking them off. Sickle’s one eye traced Ink’s porcelain-white legs. The high cleric pulled at the bulk of her stocking, sliding the fabric sensually back up her thigh and patting it in place. Little purple bruises dotted her hipbones. Sickle hadn’t thought she’d held on that tightly. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“To first class?” Ink asked, then saw where Sickle’s eyes were. She looked at the marks, growing darker by the second, and let a sultry smile spread across her face. She kissed her fingers, then touched those perfectly spaced bruises. “Or were you referring to your other question?” she finished.

“The other one.” Sickle’s mouth had gone dry. She longed for Ink to wet them again. “My offer still stands.”

Ink’s smile faded. “I’m not a thing to be owned, Sickle.”

“Good thing I don’t wish to own you,” Sickle replied. It was a lie. They both knew it. But she’d grown attached to her playmate. “I just want to cuddle.”

Ink rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her curly dark hair, trying to tame the knots Sickle had twisted into it. “We’ve been on and off again for three years and not once have you been interested in cuddling.”

“I might one day.”

Another lie.

Sickle was ripped from her dream by the ping of the seatbelt sign turning off.

“Would you like something to drink, Ma’am?”

She’d fallen asleep, apparently.

“Whiskey, just the shooters.” Sickle said groggily, then yawned. She longed for a little bit of Twinrye, but she couldn’t find that type of alcohol on this plane—or any plane, for that matter. Her mind flashed with an image of Ink’s flat stomach, a shot of the sweet amber elixir pooling in her perfectly symmetrical belly button only hours before.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” the flight attendant said, her face pure sorrow. Sickle assumed she was another failed actress in new, greener pastures. “There’s no bottle service on this flight.”

“Figures,” Sickle muttered and kicked her carry-on, trying to make a little more leg room. Her boot connected with Dorothy— her currently dismantled shoulder mount. The rifle had been her teddy bear for nearly ten years. “I’ll take coffee. Black.”

The blonde woman nodded, pulled a small Styrofoam cup from the stack, and poured hot, black tar from a battered insulated pitcher. The aroma filled the cabin, clearing the cobwebs from Sickle’s eyes and making her wonder how long she’d been asleep. Her watch told her nearly forty-five minutes. The woman leaned down, the smell of rosewater and jasmine overpowering the coffee.

Sickle’s heart fluttered. The scent was intoxicating. She looked around, noting there weren’t any passengers around to hear her question. “I’m curious,” She started, holding the coffee up to her nose, replacing the intoxicating aroma of flowers in her olfactory senses. She peered from the corner of her eye at the attendant. “Do those restrooms have room enough for two?” She’d clear Ink from her mind somehow, the smell of that jasmine burning Ink’s raven hair into Sickle’s muddied brain.

The flight attendant blushed. “Not that I’m not flattered.” She started, biting her lip. Sickle’s mind flooded with thoughts of hunger, of hands gripping necks, and hot, heavy breaths against her earlobes. “But I don’t date girls.”

“I didn’t say shit about dating.” The woman’s perfume overpowered the coffee again, and Sickle itched with aggression.

They exchanged banter until the attendant was waved down by another thirsty passenger. She obliged, then continued to distribute the last remaining necessities to the other filled seats before returning to continue the dance. Sickle knew her craft; the girl would crack soon.

Finally, after what Sickle felt had taken too long to accomplish, the attendant looked up the aisle.

Toward the cockpit.

“I could lose my job.”

Sickle leaned in hungrily. “I assure you, it’ll be worth it.”

The girl’s eyes said no, but her quaint, subdued smile said otherwise.

Sickle walked off the plane a short while later to the sound of the pilot scolding the flight attendant in hissing whispers. Her hair was a mess, and her skirt was raised on one side.

She’d been fun, but Sickle had business to attend to. She left the tarmac and entered the airport terminal, shifting her focus to the task at hand. Why those shitheads, Hammer and Anvil couldn’t handle a simple logistics escort, she didn’t know. This was their territory, after all. Why couldn’t they babysit a logpack? In any case, Ink thought Sickle’s talents were needed here in Detroit, so she’d earn her supper and hopefully let Dorothy unleash hell on whoever stood in her way.

Parchment leaned against a convertible, standing below the departures sign, her arms folded. She looked pissed. “You were supposed to stay on the plane.”

“What?” Sickle shrugged as she approached and tried to look innocent. “We had a mission to think of.”

“Home office said the flight’s captain is pressing charges.” Parchment’s green irises were barely visible under her narrowed eyes. “He wasn’t happy, Sickle.”

“Was it the gun…” She smirked, thinking back to Toto resting snugly against the pilot’s forehead. “Or was it that felt like he was supposed to be fucking that flight attendant instead of me?”

Parchment wrinkled her nose. “You’re disgusting, Sickle. Easton told me that pilot was in his sixties.”

So, her brother had called her. News traveled fast, it seemed.

Faster than a damn plane, apparently, Sickle thought to herself. Sickle was glad she didn’t have siblings, especially one who’d taken the mantle of Prime Cleric.

“Cogs have been chasing girls her age since the dawn of time.” Sickle mused. She pulled a pack of Bali-Hai’s from her carry-on and threw the bag in the backseat.

“Cogs?” Parchment asked?

Sickle laughed, watching Parchment enter the vehicle. “Creepy Old Guys, Parchment.” she explained, then shook her head, “God, you and Rake must have no idea what you’re doing under those sheets.”

She took a long drag from her cigarette, reveling in the warm August wind as it whipped through her hair. They exited the airport and raced to the rendezvous point.

Where the log-pack was waiting.

THANKS FOR READING! LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE TO STAY UP ON HAPPENINGS IN THE AETHER!