by Bryan, JL
Cassidy didn’t even know Stray’s real name, but he’d lived here longer than any of them and collected their rent on behalf of the landlord, who lived in Florida. He was in his early thirties, much older than his current female roommates—far from sexually harassing them, though, Stray seemed mostly unaware that they even existed. He was usually in either the basement or his room, smoking pot and growing out his waist-length hair.
Cassidy pushed open the door to her room, stumbled over her dirty laundry, and flopped across her bed. Her room was a mess of sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and laundry, but she blamed the laundry on sharing a small washing machine and a barely-effective dryer with three roommates, including one who had two boyfriends.
She lay there for a moment, the lights off, streetlights pouring in through the window. Her phone, which she’d forgotten in her rush to wake up and get to work by noon, beeped on her cluttered drawing table in the corner. A few seconds later, it beeped again. Then again. She knew it would annoy her until she pacified it, so she sighed and pushed herself to her feet again. She stumbled to the drawing table.
It was a voice mail from her mom, probably another very aggressive invitation to dinner. Cassidy groaned. The timing was bad tonight, but her mom just didn’t care. Once again, she felt a twinge of guilt about missing her brother’s birthday, but she really couldn’t imagine he cared very much.
I should call him, she thought. She lay back on the bed, clutching the phone. Just rest a second first.
Then she was asleep.
In her dreams, she floated in a thick fluid, brown as whiskey and thick as gelatin. She could barely breathe. The light was dim, from somewhere very far above her. At first, she saw nothing, then her eyes seemed to adjust and she discerned shapes swimming in the brown fluid around her, shadowy things shaped like serpents and bristly worms. They burrowed toward her through the thick liquid.
Little unseen things slithered over her feet, like fish with oily skin and sharp, bony spines.
She tried to look down, but the thick fluid wouldn’t allow her head to move. She felt the little fish-things crawling up her ankles, her shins, and then up over her knees and thigh. She struggled and tried to kick, but her body couldn’t move at all. The brown fluid left her trapped and defenseless.
She felt them biting and stinging her legs with teeth like poisoned needles. She tried to scream but only inhaled the thick brown fluid. She choked.
The dim shapes swam closer, and she felt them chewing and burrowing into her stomach. An eyeless spiny worm swam toward her face. Its circular mouth flared open, revealing a pink throat ringed with disturbingly human teeth.
The creatures chewed softly inside her stomach and intestines. The unseen creatures dragged her down, twisting and churning her until she felt sick. She was drowning in a fluid that tasted like Kilbeggan whiskey gone rancid.
They pulled her down into darkness, spinning her faster.
Chapter Four
The vomit crashed against her back teeth as she awoke. She clamped her mouth shut with her hand as she sat up, then pushed herself to her feet. She stumbled through her dark room and out onto the landing as the pressure in her stomach approached critical mass.
She didn’t make it. As she raced along the second-floor landing from her bedroom to the bathroom, puke sprayed through her fingers, whiskey and stomach acid spattering her clothes and the floor between her socks.
Cassidy burst through the bathroom door and knelt at the toilet, letting her stomach empty itself. Nothing came out but brown fluid. She’d had a few double shots on an empty stomach.
It wasn’t the whiskey, she thought. It was the nightmare.
She hacked out more fluid.
“Sounds like you’re up.” Barb leaned in the doorway, watching her with amused sympathy. “So is the club out tonight?”
“No.” Cassidy wiped her mouth and took a deep breath. She flushed away her puke and splashed cold water on her face and hands. She ran her fingers through her clumped, slept-on hair—long and red, though much darker than the red nature had given her, plus a little black and purple here and there. Studs and rings ran up both her ears. Tattoos along her arms generally followed a poisonous-plant theme—belladonna, hemlock, deep blue wolfsbane. Her first tattoo had been a black rose over her heart, in memory of her father, who had loved Thin Lizzy’s Black Rose album. Peyton had liked that one so much that he’d had Cassidy draw a vine of black roses on his neck.
“I’m a freak,” Cassidy said out loud, and Barb laughed.
“Who isn’t? You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I didn’t poison my brain enough before sleeping,” Cassidy told her. “I just need to take something and I’ll be fine.”
The air around Barb’s head seemed to thicken and burble, and Cassidy saw glimpses of the nightmare things, coiled worms and strange creatures with sharp, twisted shells. They were like transparent projections, not really there at all. Cassidy swiped a hand at them, then blinked, and they vanished.
“What was that?” Barb asked.
“Have you got anything on you?” Cassidy asked.
“Maybe...”
“Don’t tease me, Barb. My stupid brain is going off.”
“It’s your lucky night, baby.” Barb held out a pair of tiny pink tablets engraved with arrow-shot hearts.
“Are you serious?”
“Got them as a tip, from a guy who forgot his wallet but remembered his drugs. Good enough?”
“Perfect, thanks!” Cassidy lifted one of the pink circles. “You’re taking it with me, right?”
“I’m not letting you have all the fun.” Barb popped the remaining tab into her mouth. “Let’s go. It’ll be one by the time we get there, but you can catch the last hour.”
“Yeah...let me change into something less puke-stained before we go.”
They drove to Midtown, three miles away but a different world—the nightlife here was larger and had a more corporate feel than the spots in her neighborhood. They had to park and hike to reach the club. The Red Door was in a refurbished brick building on Crescent Avenue, squatting among glass and steel skyscrapers. It was the sort of place where a long line of hopefuls waited for the doorman to allow them inside.
Cassidy and Barb bypassed the line, gave the bouncer Cassidy’s name, and he waved them in.
The front door was red, naturally, and opened onto a short, red-carpeted black corridor that widened into a bar and lounge. The theme was relentlessly red and black—black walls, red-upholstered booths, a black granite bar with a glass top encasing thousands of pressed red roses. The bartenders were stunning beauties in black leather chokers and bracelets, wearing ultra-skimpy red and black clothes that looked like they’d come from some kind of S&M lingerie catalog.
The place was crowded, the girls flashing lots of glittered skin through their designer clubwear, the guys in ultra-tight and expensive clothes. They were the future executive class, entry-level accountants and copywriters getting drunk and laid on the weekends while they were still young and single. Fast electronic music thumped from somewhere below, shuddering the floor.
They struggled to get a bartender’s attention and finally managed to order drinks—whiskey for Cassidy, tequila for Barb. The bartender ignored their requests and brought them each a plastic cup filled one-third of the way with straight vodka, then charged them fifteen dollars each.
“Fifteen bucks for a shot of potato liquor?” Barb grumbled as they left the bar.
“That’s how they can bring in famous DJ’s from New York and London,” Cassidy said.
“I hope Peyton’s getting a big chunk of this fifteen-dollar vodka.”
“He is. He’d get more if he were headlining, though.” Cassidy led the way down a wide, curving stairwell lit only by the red glow of the stairs beneath their feet. It brought them to a landing overlooking a crowded dance floor. Narrow beams of colored light swept the dark room, illuminating closely-packed sweaty flesh undulating to the rapid, heavily l
ayered music.
Peyton stood in the dim red glow of the DJ booth, across the room and high in the corner, his head bouncing, his eyes locked on his mixing table before him while his hands flew. He wore a sharp grin, his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other. Peyton Alessi was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes—his ancestors were mostly Spanish and Italian, and he had a dusky Mediterranean look.
They descended the final set of stairs, which was red-carpeted, spotlit, and had clear handrails, creating the sense that were onstage over the dance floor for a moment. Then they stepped into the dense crowd and were swallowed up by music, darkness, and the heat of hundreds of warm, moving bodies. Cassidy led the way toward the DJ booth, but it was slow going and Barb had to walk behind rather than beside her, and they still barely managed to squeeze through the tightly packed dancers.
“Barb!” a girlish voice squealed. Kit emerged from the crowd, wearing some kind of shiny top that appeared to be made of nothing but different hues of glitter, short enough to show off her navel ring. Her black shorts were just a thin stripe of denim.
“What’s up, baby?” Barb asked while Kit hugged her. Kit lingered against her, gazing at Barb’s face and stroking her hair. Kit and her gang of friends were already dripping with sweat.
Cassidy greeted each guy and girl in the group, thanking them for coming, but she hurried. She wanted to reach Peyton before the ecstasy really kicked in, lest she find herself in the middle of a cuddle puddle with Kit and friends, who were clearly rolling, too. Everybody was on ecstasy tonight.
Cassidy left Barb with her friends and continued on. She climbed the steep stairs into the DJ booth, where Peyton was still focused on his equipment. Another man stood nearby, assembling his own gear. The second man was pale and rotund, squeezed into black leather clothes much too thick and heavy for the hot room, and he sweated profusely—he made Cassidy think of the Pillsbury doughboy in tight leather and shades. He frowned at the sight of Cassidy.
Cassidy ignored him and touched Peyton’s arm. Peyton turned and flashed a grin, then pulled her close and kissed her. She felt the hard ridges of his chest and abdomen press against her through his thin black shirt, and she felt instantly warm and happy. Whether it was love or the love-drug, she could no longer be sure.
“How’s it going?” she shouted in his ear.
“Good. They’re going for it.” The rapid dance beats were layered with electronic sounds that somehow made her think of shooting stars, plus snarling animal noises, samples of news reports about war and death. Peyton controlled projectors and screens in the club, along with the sound system, and showed a giddy collage of old movies, archival war footage, wild predators, fields exploding with flowers and then shriveling brown and dead in time-lapse photography.
“Nice rotten bear carcass!” Cassidy pointed to a passing image on the projection.
“Thanks!” Peyton nodded to the other man. “Can you give us a sec?”
The man frowned even more deeply, then sighed, kicked his toe like a petulant child, and left.
“Who was that?” Cassidy asked.
“The headliner, Gunterwolf. They brought him in from Berlin.”
“Fifteen-dollar vodkas,” Cassidy said, nodding.
“What? Hold on.” Peyton glanced out at the floor, then knelt low behind the blocky sound equipment. He opened a steel case the size of an Altoids box, revealing a straw, a spoon, and a trough full of white powder. Peyton scooped up a spoonful and offered it to her.
“Hell, yes!” Cassidy knelt beside him. She put the spoon against one nostril, then the other, snorting up the little heap of powder. Her nose burned a little, and she pinched her nostrils. She beamed at Peyton as he snorted a couple bumps himself. Cocaine was Peyton’s love, and Cassidy had done far more of it since she’d begun dating him.
He put it away, kissed her again, and quickly finished his set. Gunterwolf returned and began pushing Peyton’s gear aside with a sneering pout, again acting like a petulant child with low blood sugar.
“Relax!” Peyton said, disconnecting a wire. “I’m clearing out.”
Gunterwolf barked a stream of words that might have been angry curses, or possibly just regular German. Peyton shrugged and hurried to make the switchover.
Peyton packed up his gear, and Cassidy followed him out the back door to a small parking lot protected by chain link. He loaded it into the trunk of his car, a fire-red 1972 Dodge Demon, which his father had fully restored. Peyton’s father collected vintage cars as a hobby, and he’d given this one to Peyton when he’d graduated high school—which was Peyton’s last major accomplishment in life, from his father’s viewpoint. He’d gone from a private Alpharetta high school to Duke, then dropped out a few classes short of an undergraduate degree in philosophy. He was now twenty-four, and he’d been out of school for three years.
“That crowd was really into you,” Cassidy said. “You think they’ll bring you back?”
“I hope. The money’s fucking ridiculous compared to what I’ve been doing.” Peyton winked at her. “Let’s get in the car.”
“I want to dance,” Cassidy told him. The ecstasy was pulsing through her brain now, and her body already missed the music filling her up and swinging her around.
“Just for a minute.” He winked as he opened the passenger door for her.
Cassidy slid into the brown leather seat. Peyton dropped in beside her, and her MDMA-filled brain was ready for some serious kissing—or anything else he wanted to do to her—but Peyton was more interested in the powder inside his little metal box. He cut out four lines on a small hand mirror. They took turns snorting.
“A lot of pretty girls in there,” Cassidy commented.
“Nobody’s as pretty as you are, Cass,” he said.
“Ha. I’m glad they didn’t freak out with your, you know...”
“My what?” Peyton gave her a look, his eyes dark and serious.
“Uh, your movie devils and rotting gazelles and evil clowns...”
“It all has a purpose, you know,” Peyton insisted.
“I know.”
“I’m trying to pull things apart for people. I want to show them it’s all bullshit.” He snorted another small spoonful of coke. “People don’t understand. It’s all words, it’s all stories we tell ourselves—religions, countries, societies...it’s nothing, just words. Take away the words and we see what life really is, just a series of moments, just sensations and experiences, and none of that shit means anything. I want to strip away the stories and show everyone the truth.”
“I know,” Cassidy said again, fidgeting in her seat. Her heart hammered inside her chest. She wanted to stay and make out with Peyton, but not as much as she wanted to get back into the club and dance. She felt jittery and nervous, knowing that she had to act soon, to go get pounded by the music now, while all the good feelings lasted.
“Take away the words, and we’re all just apes in search of meat. Nothing else,” Peyton said.
“We’re not search of anything else?” Cassidy moved her hand up his arm, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. She caressed the back of his neck.
“Meat and sex,” he said, his eyes burning into hers now.
“Pure poetry,” she whispered with a smirk.
“The poetry of meat and sex,” he said, and then he kissed her hungrily, mashing her lips back against her teeth. His hands went to her breasts, and she kissed him back, her fingers exploring his face and skull.
It felt good, but her body insisted there was a missing ingredient—music, thrumming through every cell and pore of her, bringing the billion fibers of her body to life.
“Let’s go dance,” she breathed.
They returned inside, and the night became a white-hot blur. Gunterwolf had a fast, deep sound and his own bizarre video clips, black and white film of faceless marionettes moving at freakish speed. Cassidy danced in the crush of the crowd, enjoying the pulse of the music and the touch of so many steaming bodies.<
br />
She found herself dancing with Kit and her friends, and one of the guys tried to pull Cassidy aside. She realized that the exact cuddle-puddle scenario she’d wanted to avoid was beginning to develop. Cassidy jerked away, found herself facing Barb, and the two girls laughed on eye contact. Cassidy felt bubbly and pink inside.
“You’re so pretty,” she told Barb, touching her face. “You have the cutest...nose.”
“You’re being a dork,” Barb snickered. “It’s pretty obvious my nose began its life on a rat before migrating to my face.”
“Aw, don’t say...” Cassidy began, and then she lost her train of thought entirely. Peyton drew her aside and she danced tight against him. Suddenly she wanted to be out of there, somewhere alone with Peyton where they could strip off their clothes and melt into each other.
“Let’s go,” Cassidy whispered into his ear. She waved at Barb as they left. Barb was dancing close with Kit and one of Kit’s guy friends and barely noticed.
Back in the car, Peyton fed more cocaine into his nose and hers. Cassidy’s head buzzed and spun, and she felt intensely eager to do something but couldn’t focus her whirling thoughts at all.
“It’s such a great night,” Cassidy said. “I don’t want it to end.”
“Maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll just go on forever.” Peyton punched the accelerator and roared out onto the road. Cassidy gazed at him, thinking he was the most gorgeous thing in the universe.
“Midtown,” Peyton snorted as they zoomed down Thirteenth Street at three a.m., in time to see the well-dressed young crowds spill out of the closing dance clubs. “What a bunch of fakes. Plastic people, man, just pure unalloyed plastic.”
“But you still want to play out here, right?” she asked, feeling an irrational sense of rising panic. If he turned down the good gigs for aesthetic reasons, he would get mired in the tiny night spots, his career would die, he would become depressed and withdrawn, and finally self-loathing...all this flashed across her coke-fueled imagination in about half a second.
