February, 2013

Valentine's Day had come and gone and Jack along with it. They'd had an extended, romantic weekend but he'd flown away first thing Sunday morning. Business was calling, he'd claimed. An excuse that was getting quite old, Ingrid felt.

She wrapped her woollen cardigan tighter around herself as she wandered the grim shrubbery. It was her favourite place in the garden, tranquil and secluded. It quietened her mind. Calmed her soul. The wintry landscape gave her chills, which vibrated in the depth of her bones, synced with her inner turmoil.

At the end of the path, Ingrid spotted Leon smoking as he stared out over the murky ornamental lake ahead. She smiled. He'd been recently released from prison after the key witness in his trial had disappeared and the prosecutors were forced to drop the case. On a whim of goodwill, Ingrid had suggested to Jack that they should hire Leon as handyman or gardener. Or both.

Their housekeeper had done such a good job, Ingrid had argued, she had been so loyal, they could at least do this much for her in return. Jack had eventually caved in and thus, mother and son were reunited under the Astors' roof. Sofia and Leon Ortega had their own servants' quarters, within the main house but well isolated.

Leon and Ingrid ran into each other quite often, although in general he kept his distance. Avoided speaking to her. Did his diligent duty and looked after his mum. Ingrid would have liked to try and have a proper, normal chat with him, now he was a free man. They would no longer have to keep looking over their shoulders at potential eavesdroppers or limit themselves to a single hour.

Ingrid wanted to call out to him but somehow, his name would just not come out. Instead, she tapped his shoulder once she'd approached him and in response, he whipped round, swift as lightning, and tackled her to the ground, with a vice-like grip on her neck.

"Jesus fuck – " He loosened his hold and hung his head, eyes rounded in shock, as soon as he realised who it was. "Who taught you to sneak up on an ex-con?" His eyes softened but his hand didn't move. It lingered warm at the top of her chest. "Don't do that shit," he whispered, "ever."

Ingrid gulped, crushed under his weight but too afraid to say anything. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Likely sensing her discomfort, he quickly shuffled to his feet and helped her up. Looked almost sheepish as he did so.

"You gon' fire me now?" he asked.

"What?" Her cheeks heated up. "No, of course not. I'm sorry I scared you. Classic case of mea culpa."

His eyes seemed to brighten up. "You speak Spanish?"

She nodded. "A bit. But that wasn't Spanish. It's a Latin phrase."

"You speak Latin, then?"

"No, nobody speaks Latin. It's a dead language. But it was the mother of a lot of other – modern – languages, which have kept some of its phrases."

"Dead? How can a language be dead? When has it ever been alive?"

The question impressed her. It betrayed more intelligence than he cared to show or admit he possessed.

"When the people who used to speak it on a daily basis were."

"Hmm."

Leon stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers, glancing at the ground. He stooped and picked up his dropped cigarette. To Ingrid's mildly-experienced eye, it looked like a joint. He took a deep drag and looked her in the eye through the smoke he exhaled. Must have seen something there because he held out the stub.

Ingrid accepted it and put it between her lips. Sucked in the intoxicating fumes. Breathed out a veil of bitter mist but Leon declined when she tried to return it.

"Finish it," he told her. "You look like you need it more than me."

"Do I really look that bad?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You're trying to say I look bad?"

Ingrid laughed. "Oh, far from it. Bad is not exactly – "

She was going to compliment him but caught herself and focused instead on the remnants of her joint.

*

May, 2013

This wasn't getting anywhere.

Ingrid heaved a dissatisfied sigh and stopped moving her fingers, rubbing slowly at herself just to feel that there was still something there. Her insides had burned up at the sight of Leon, bare-chested as he cleaned the pool, except that spark seemed to have fled her grasp.

She'd become so used to him in his unflattering inmate outfit and the winter clothes he'd been wearing – now that spring had come and his work had become strenuous enough to keep him warm without a shirt on, Ingrid found she couldn't contain the wave of thirst crashing into her.

So she'd jumped – nude – into bed, fondling her own breasts, and slid her hand between her thighs, picturing a sweat-drenched Leon doing... things... to her, rather than her doing them to herself.

To no avail, however. Her inability to pleasure herself only left her more frustrated. Then panic struck her rigid when a knock came at the door and she hurried to cover herself.

"Come in!" she shouted after she pulled the blanket safely over her shoulders.

Sound of the doorknob twisting – locked.

"Shit," Ingrid muttered to herself. "One moment!"

She scrambled out of bed, dug out the first T-shirt and pair of shorts she could find and pulled them on. Opened the door and came face to face with Leon, now wearing a stained tank top. Ingrid felt her breath catch in her throat.

She stood in the gaping crack of the door, one hand resting on the doorjamb to block her visitor's view. He leaned against the same spot, his head coming level with her filthy fingers.

Could he maybe smell where they'd just been? She avoided his gaze.

"Sorry," Ingrid cleared her throat, "I was just... in the shower."

Blatant lie. Made her gulp.

Leon chuckled. "You know, I could help with that if you want."

"With... what?" Confused frown.

The tip of his tongue darted out to lick the finger nearest to his mouth. She withdrew her hand as if she'd touched fire.

"That," he said, mischief blazing in his eyes.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," she mumbled.

"Of course you don't. Anyway." He reached into the back pocket of his low-slung jeans and handed her two neatly rolled joints. "A small gift. Of... gratitude, let's say. And..." From another pocket, he produced a tiny ziploc bag which contained a couple of colourful little paper squares. "I'd recommend one a time to begin with. For when you need to escape reality."

He winked, turned on his heel and left. Ingrid closed the door and locked it again. She stood staring at the two cigarettes in her hand and – if her memory served – the small bag of LSD. Licking her lips, she hid the acid and one joint away and grabbed a lighter to make use of the other.

She threw off her shorts after she lit it and crawled into bed. Made another attempt to reach nirvana under the soothing influence of marijuana.

*

August, 2013

Ingrid stared at the little LSD squares on the tip of her forefinger, her eyes half-closed. She'd been meaning to dive in headfirst, hoping those horrible memories from the bathroom at the wedding would get mixed up with trippy hallucinations and she could forget them altogether.

Instead, she remembered Liz, who'd used to rave about how inspirational her acid trips were for her art. There'd been a huge fight about it in the house once. Liz had been sliding off the deep end, chasing ecstasy highs with strangers in nightclubs, until Rose, angry and tearful, had called her out on it.

It'd been a very intense exchange in the common living area, which the other housemates had unwittingly witnessed. It was the day Rose and Liz admitted their love for each other, after long months of will-they-won't-they. A love Liz had been trying to get away from, convinced it'd be unrequited if she ever acknowledged it – because she'd been under the impression that Rose was seeing boys.

Solitary tears escaped from the corners of Ingrid's eyes and rolled down her cheeks into the pillow. She could use a sensible friend right about now. Hell, any friend. Although Ingrid had often used to get frustrated with her housemates' antics, now she found herself missing them terribly.

Where was Rose telling her to leave the drugs and alcohol and find joy in the beauty surrounding her?

Where was Freddie cooking the best comfort food?

Where was Liz getting the groovy music on and the party started?

Where was Agata talking sobering sense into her, before making her laugh with the most inappropriate jokes?

Where was Sienna and her infectious enthusiasm?

As if summoned by her thoughts, a knock sounded at the door, then Leon's voice followed. Ingrid put the squares of paper back in their little bag and went to unlock the door. Struggled to smile through the tears.

Leon closed in, kissing her forehead. His patched-up hand – which she'd bandaged after he'd punched a hole through a drywall the other day – came up to stroke her hair. The door fell shut behind him and as his fingers travelled down her arm, they found the bag of LSD in her fist. He took it from her.

"Not like this, hermosa," he said, "bad mood means bad trip and believe me, that's the last thing you want."

She looked away and shrank into a self-hug. He pulled her sideways to him and kissed her temple.

"So let's put you in a good mood first, eh?" he whispered in her ear, pecking at it afterwards. "And then we can go together."

"I'd like that," she murmured. "I'd like that very much."

*

November, 2013

The noise had been going on for quite some time when Ingrid finally decided to intervene, fearing for her abuelita's safety. Her son had been yelling at her about something, too loud and too fast for Ingrid to pick up anything.

"Leo, stop it!" Ingrid shouted at him. "That's enough now, quit it!"

He didn't seem to hear her. Sofia backed away into the wall, frightened of her own son.

"Leon!"

Ingrid latched onto his arm and he pushed her violently with it, raising his other hand as if he was about to strike her across the face. His features tightened with fury. His eyes pierced through her, recognition slowly sinking in. His hand shivered up in the air but he suddenly dropped it and stormed away.

Sofia dared to cry at last, collapsing to the floor in Ingrid's arms. Between tears and pained sobs, the woman managed to explain that she'd cleaned out her son's room and apparently thrown some of his drugs away in the process. A significant stash, it'd turned out, since he was now so mad about it.

Ingrid made tea for her and her abuelita, sat chatting with her for a while and walked the poor woman to her room once she'd calmed down. Afterwards, Ingrid locked herself in her bedroom and seethed. How could he?

How fucking could he?

His own mother, who'd suffered so much – sacrificed so much to get him away from the drugs that had ravaged their lives back home. He'd let himself get dragged into it all the way out here, gone to prison because of it, and now he'd been given a second chance at a peaceful life with his mother, he was kicking it away day by day. Letting the drugs consume him. Taking it out on his mother.

Ingrid gritted her teeth. Battled the guilt. She'd indulged him. She'd enabled him. Every high she'd accepted from him, every rush, it had all led to this. She'd have to put a firm end to it.

Her mind made up, Ingrid did a quick inventory of her personal financial resources and devised a plan to offer him some cash as compensation. She went and banged on his door, determined to put him in his place.

The door swung open. Leon stood there, his countenance screaming blue murder. It brought Ingrid's determination down a couple notches.

"What do you want?" he growled.

She balled her fists by her sides. "You know... you really shouldn't be talking like that to your mother."

"That's none of your fucking business," he bit back.

"Oh, now it's not my business?" Ingrid crossed her arms over her chest. "So you say all those things to me in bed and now how you treat your mother – who's the only reason you're even here in the first place – is none of my business? You've got some nerve."

"Of course I've got fucking nerve. I wouldn't be in this business if I didn't."

Her nostrils flared. This wasn't exactly going as planned. "How much do I owe you, then? How much does your mother owe you for accidentally, uh... fucking up your business?"

Leon cackled. "Oh, baby... you think you can afford it? Unless your sugar daddy suddenly croaks and you're left with a shitload of money, you can't."

"Fine," she hissed. "Fine. Then you keep your precious fucking drugs and stay the fuck away from me."

His face darkened. "What did you say?"

"Are you fucking deaf now? I said, stay the fuck away from me, motherfucker."

Like it'd been doused with gasoline, the fire of his fury flowered and his arm shot out, gripping her elbow, and dragged her into his room. The door fell shut behind her and he slammed her against it.

"Stay away from you?" His lips hovered inches from her own. "You think you really want me to stay away from you?"

Ingrid stood petrified in his grasp, unable to utter a word.

"You'd be fucking miserable without me. Let me show you."

He pulled her to him and pushed her towards the bed, throwing her on it.

"You don't fucking want me to stay the fuck away from you."

He climbed on top of her and pinned her under him as he reached down between them, trying to slip his fingers into her knickers.

Ingrid screamed.

A single screech of agony, followed by more cries begging him to stop.

Leon froze. Distanced himself in a heartbeat and dropped to his knees beside the bed. A shard of fear glimmered in his eyes. Ingrid buried her face in a pillow and shook with sobs.

"Ay, mi alma..." The rage instantly faded into confused concern. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I – "

He continued to apologise profusely, both in English and in Spanish, unsure whether to touch her or how. At some point, he climbed into bed beside her and hugged her, holding her close to his chest as he poured an uninterrupted stream of sweet nothings and apologies in her ear.

Ingrid trembled in his arms, weeping, wailing, whimpering. He rubbed at her back, kissed her head, shielded her with his body. She must have worn herself out at some point, though, and fallen asleep, because she stopped moving for a while. He remained still in her embrace, abstaining from anything that could have disturbed her.

When she came to, Ingrid swiftly rolled away from him and got out of bed with puffy, bloodshot eyes and not a single word as she exited his room.

*

song of the chapter: wicked games by the weeknd

https://youtu.be/o9PuAm7d0PA