Masochist: A Contemporary Young Adult SciFi/Fantasy (Swann Series Book 4)

by Schow, Ryan

  “No, that’s the name of the drink, silly.”

  “That’s a drink?” Brayden asked.

  “It’s a drink, and an experience.”

  “In that case,” he said, pulling on his shirt, “I’m in.”

  “My name is Becky, by the way.”

  Becky? Oh boy. Rebecca, then Becky? He took it as a good sign to go with her.

  Brayden stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Becky was a gorgeous red head with lovely green eyes and sensuous lips, and she was wearing the smallest black bikini he’d ever seen. Upstairs, on the fourth floor, she wrapped her towel around her waist and went to the mini-fridge.

  “So what’s in this drink anyway?”

  “Half ounce of vodka. Half ounce of tequila. Half ounce of gin. Half ounce of Blue Curacao liqueur, two ounces sweet and sour mix, two ounces of 7-Up.”

  “Jesus Christ of Nazareth,” Brayden said.

  She turned and grinned at him and said, “I know, right?”

  He sat at the table, but the minute his butt hit the seat, she said, “Dammit, this isn’t the right gin.”

  She turned around, gave him a meek look. “We need to make a gin run. Do you mind?”

  What else was he going to do?

  “I’ve got time, woman.”

  “I need to change,” she said. “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  He started to turn around but she said, “No, I mean, is it going to bother you if you see me naked, that kind of ‘do you mind.’”

  “Oh,” he said, suddenly breathless, “no.” When it rains, it pours.

  She untied her bikini in slow motion and right there in front of him she got completely naked.

  “Since I’m not dressed,” she said, “you should get undressed, too, and maybe we could do it before getting drinks, and then maybe do it again when we’ve got a few down.”

  “I love the way you look,” he said, his stomach in his throat in a good way, “and I love the way you think, but I’m bored by meaningless sex, so maybe we should just get the drinks first and see what happens from there.”

  Titan said if a woman comes on too strong, put her off awhile and it will only enhance the flavor.

  She gave a non-committal shrug then said, “I suppose that’ll work.”

  In spite of what he just said, he couldn’t take his eyes off her and she put her clothes on in slow motion, not taking her eyes off him.

  In the back of his mind, Brayden was thinking, it’s time. He was thinking, after this, I’m going to Titan and Romeo’s. In the back of his mind, he was anxious to see the lovely and amazing Aniela.

  What he didn’t think about was Abby and how she would not approve of his odd behavior, or his attitude. What he didn’t think about was how he felt like he was losing himself in Vegas. How he got here wounded and weak, but how he’d be leaving here with an entirely new attitude based on things like man-whoring and debauchery.

  And some solid freaking day game.

  Baby Darth Vader and the Wondrous Things

  1

  I pull into what looks like a dying, low budget car rental agency, grab the bag of items I bought from the costume shop, then get out of my car and hand the keys to Netty.

  “You’re okay driving?” I ask. The thing is, I love my Audi. I mean, I love it, love it. Okay, I’m obsessed, it’s true. Whatever, sue me.

  “I’ll take good care of her, Abby,” Netty says. Then: “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes,” I say, firm. “Go already.”

  She does.

  I walk inside the small white and blue building where it smells like oil and old packing blankets.

  I approach the thirty-something guy at the counter prepared to ask for the closest thing to a panel van he has. Looking the way I do, however, asking for a panel van might be the same as announcing a future kidnapping, so I quickly refine my strategy.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asks, his voice low, like he’s trying to hide it from something or someone. His breath smells a touch more sour than the air. It’s not a gross a smell, but it isn’t minty fresh either.

  He gives me the kind of look that says, “What the hell’s a pretty girl like you doing at a dive like this?”

  I smile anyway.

  My eyes flick down to the name stitched onto his pressed, cornflower blue shirt: Tyler. With his deep-set eyes, his bearded face, and his slightly larger than average ears, he looks like a Tyler.

  “I need a minivan, something not nice at all. Something I could lose friends by driving, if you know what I mean.”

  “I have the perfect van,” he says. He’s only seeing me in glances at this point. His fingers start hitting keys at a rapid click; his eyes are glued to his computer screen, this fat electronic box that looks like it was most likely made by sweat shop children in China back when Reagan was President.

  “I’ve got this beat-to-shit Ford Windstar minivan. It’s old and ugly, and it’s got almost two hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s clean inside and runs decent. I don’t charge much.”

  He’s looking at me now like he’s just asked a question he wants the answer to.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Driver’s license and insurance,” he says. I hand over both and he makes copies off an old Sharp copier that takes forever to do its freaking job. He looks at my license and says, “You ain’t twenty five, not that it matters on this car.”

  “No,” I repeat, “I’m not twenty-five, but I’m responsible.”

  “Alright. You want the extra insurance?” he says, handing me back my driver’s license and insurance card.

  The laugh that erupts from deep within me is almost embarrassing. I cover my mouth with my hand, unable to stop the reaction. Tyler raises his eyebrows, then—as if he’s embarrassed—he puts his fingers back to work on the computer for a good two minutes. My face sizzles with humiliation. This guy, he must think I’m the most conceited bitch ever right now. I turn away, try to hide the red creeping into my cheeks.

  My eyes look around the squared, dingy walls holding up the facility, while my mind scrambles to find a way for me to not look like some high society chicken head in front of this just-below-average Joe. Finally a dot-matrix printer rattles out its forms, which startles me and makes me turn back around.

  At this point, Tyler won’t look at me, but I want him to, so I can show him I’m human. I barely even consider the irony of this thought.

  He tears off the rental form, lays a pen on the counter and shows me where to sign, then tells me he’ll bring the van around.

  “Meet me out front, please,” he says over his shoulder.

  Out front, he pulls around a brownish colored van that, true to his word, looks like some nineties wreck found abandoned in some old warehouse by the docks. He gets out and says, “Bring it back with gas in it.” The air around him doesn’t seem as forthcoming. I probably shouldn’t have laughed the way I did.

  “Will do,” I say.

  “You’re very pretty,” he says, his eyes half-restless like most guys’ eyes get when they’re telling a girl like me how much they love the way she looks.

  At first, when I became Savannah Van Duyn, version 2.0, I cherished every random compliment I received. Deep down, I was in love with the extra attention. When I was fat Savannah, the way I felt was ugly and awkward. So, being different, feeling beautiful for the first time in my life, it felt amazing. The compliments continued, however, and though I hoped boys would like me for me, I quickly realized they only liked me for my looks. “I’m more than a pretty face!” I want to scream most of the time, but I didn’t. I don’t.

  Fortunately, and this might be me maturing into this life, into my life, I have come to terms with the idea that looks will always trump substance when it comes to boys liking girls.

  “Beauty is an illusion,” I reply.

  “What do you mean?” he says, perking up.

  I guess he’s not used to talking to beautiful girls in anythin
g other than a professional capacity. Or maybe he’s got the stones to approach girls like me but isn’t skilled at speaking with them beyond the social niceties.

  “What I mean,” I tell him, “is sometimes the prettiest girls are really just assholes in disguise.”

  He finally looks up at me, holds my gaze with his own. “Are you an asshole?” he asks, visibly relaxing.

  “I hope not, but sometimes I think I might be,” I say. Then, I quickly add, “But I don’t want to be.”

  “You seem alright.” His grin is infectious.

  “Today I’m having a good day. Thanks for your help, Tyler, and thank you for the compliment. It made my day.”

  The truth is, it didn’t really make my day, but the way he’s smiling now, I think maybe I’ve made his, and this feels good. Like maybe I’m not so bitter and ruined that I can’t be a decent human being capable of functioning in society.

  2

  On my way to Gerhard’s San Francisco office, I pull into a gas station, park along the side of the lot nearest the bathroom, then head inside, buy a grossly overpriced energy drink, then ask for the key to the restroom. The guy takes my money then hands me the key.

  In the bathroom, which is clean smelling but not clean looking, I put on my wig—a black shoulder bob—adjust it, then I put on my big sunglasses. Okay, this is going to be confusing. Big glamour look, low rent van.

  Shit.

  Inside I feel every last jittery nerve. Lately that’s been the prevailing feeling. Me doing bad things for the right reasons while at the same time putting my life in jeopardy. On paper, most people would think of me as an idiot. Or some trust fund baby with a death wish.

  Maybe they wouldn’t be so wrong.

  The plan I had, to not stand out, this isn’t it. Me looking like this, everyone and their cousin will want to know who the hot brunette in the dodgy van is and why she’s sitting there like she’s planning to rob someone.

  God I suck at this!

  Less-than-gently, I wipe off my makeup, my lipstick, my eye shadow. Inside my purse I pull out a tube of moisturizer, rub it on my face, then toss the big sunglasses in the trash and rat up the wig. This is what Tempest would call the freshly-f*cked look (okay, so these censored f-bombs, this is just me not wanting to sound like such white-trash; the * is my best compromise!) What I’m doing here is going for the economically-challenged daughter look. The barely-above-homeless vibe. In truth, the more that I change my face, the more I feel like I’m just making a mess of everything.

  “Ah, hell,” I say. I leave the wig on, then trace a long, thick line of black eyeliner around my eyes. Girls driving vans like this should look like hookers. Or up and coming musicians. Now I’m thinking of my favorite rocker chick, Tyler Momson of The Pretty Reckless, and I’m doing the raccoon eyes, which actually works.

  I waltz into the gas station store and hand the clerk his restroom key (he frowns at me because I am not the same girl who took the key, and yet I am). He says “Thank you,” almost like it’s a question, but already I’m on the move.

  After continuously circling the block where Gerhard has his lab, hoping for a parking spot to open up, some douchebag in a four-door Porsche Panamera does me a solid and vacates a Gucci spot. I swing the van in, but being that I am terrible at parallel parking, I bump the Honda in front of me and the Chevy truck behind me (twice) before getting settled evenly between them. By the time I’m done, my heart is banging around in my chest and my armpits are practically stinking up the joint with sweat.

  As Brayden would say, big city life ain’t for pussies.

  People move up and down the sidewalks like a never-ending hoard, not looking at me, not thinking twice. This pleases me. It makes me think maybe I’m blending. But just when I’m getting comfortable enough with my stakeout prowess, some old-as-dirt Asian bitch half startles me out of my skin by pounding on my passenger-side window—the window facing the sidewalk. I turn and see this small, angry Chinese thing standing on the sidewalk. Her face is like worn leather and she’s glaring at me like I’ve just fisted the family dog or something. I roll down the window and she squeaks/barks at me in a very clipped, very accusatory tone, “You be here too long! Move van!”

  “I’m waiting for a friend,” I say, smiling.

  “Too long!” she repeats, slapping the van with the flat of her hand.

  “Not too long,” I say, not so nice anymore.

  “You move now!” the Chinese woman shouts, small and terribly ugly.

  “I’m not moving so you can f*ck right off,” I growl back. The thing about bullies is you have to stand your ground and never, ever show fear. Still, I don’t know what this woman’s problem is. It’s not like I’m parked in a loading zone.

  My vulgar aggression sends the petite woman into a fit of rage. Just then, I glance over and see Nurse Arabelle leaving the lab with a small girl. They’re walking hand in hand. I’m thinking, I didn’t know Arabelle had a daughter.

  “You move!” the woman howls, banging her hand on the side of the van harder and faster.

  I swallow the rest of my energy drink, then throw the aluminum can at the woman, hitting her square in the face. The bulgy-eyed look she burns me with, a horrified look mixed with shock and rage, gives me a moment’s pause. I roll up the window, the old power window taking its sweet time.

  Holy cow, I can’t believe I just did that!

  The woman blows out a violent huff, winds up and kicks the van, then turns and storms off, muttering something high and sharp in her native tongue.

  “What a wet crotch,” I mutter to myself.

  Looking back, I see Arabelle and the little girl getting into a car. I ease the van out into the street and slowly follow Arabelle in what appears to be an older Mercedes Benz. An E-500 sedan.

  I memorize the California plates, just in case.

  We cut through the city for about thirty blocks, then she circles the same street a few times until she finds a parking spot. Now I panic.

  My mouth makes some unintelligible mumbling sound as I pull past her. With no choice but to double park where I can see her, I pull over and punch my hazards. I tell myself there are always cars double-parked. There are always cars blocking traffic. This is San Francisco! Unfortunately, Arabelle seems to be in no freaking rush. Someone honks at me. So does someone else.

  A guy in a delicious looking 6 series BMW swings around me giving me the big middle finger. Still I stay put, my hazards flashing, my heart pounding like a hundred miles an hour. Finally Arabelle and the young girl get out of the car. They cross the street and stroll into their apartment building. It’s nice. Maybe even nicer than Netty’s place.

  This must be home.

  3

  Finally, I find a place to park. It’s nearing six o’clock and my stomach is growling. I call Netty. She says, “I’m going to karate,” and I’m like, “You’re doing what?”

  “Going to karate,” she says. Like I should know already.

  “When the hell did you start doing that?”

  “My mother insisted on it after the attempted…you know…”

  The attempted rape is what she’s trying to say.

  “So how is it?” I ask, not sure really how to respond. “Karate, that is.”

  “It’s what I needed to do to be able to function again. Before this, I was scared all the time. I didn’t want to leave the house. Now I feel better. Like if those two assholes tried that shit again, I’d have no problem breaking my foot off in their asses.”

  I can’t take this wig, so I pull it off, toss it on the seat next to me.

  The confidence in Netty’s voice puts me at ease. Feeling like those two boys robbed my friend of something as precious as her confidence (rather her overconfidence) has been tough to digest. Now, perhaps, I can start to let it go.

  “I’m so proud of you, Netty.”

  “After everything I went through, I needed this. You should come watch tonight. The classes are really fun.”

  “Th
at’s why I’m calling. I’m in the van at Arabelle’s place right now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to stake the joint out tonight. I just need some blankets and a pillow so I can sleep here. Parking sucks ass, but I found a choice spot, so I can’t leave it.”

  “Where exactly is this choice spot?”

  “I’m literally right in front of her place.” I give her a brief description of the van and Arabelle’s address.

  “What do you hope to gain sleeping there anyway?”

  “I don’t know, I’ll figure it out. All I know is I need to find Rebecca. I need to get her back with me.”

  “You’re effing crazy,” Netty says, quiet, like she’s serious, like she’s not kidding at all. As with everything Netty does and says, she goes full strength on the f-bomb.

  “I’m not crazy,” I reason, “it’s the DNA.”

  “Stop blaming everything on the DNA! Eventually you’ll have to come to terms with the idea that you are your DNA, and your DNA is you.”

  “I know,” I say sheepishly, “I’m just not ready yet.”

  But maybe I’m getting close.

  An hour and a half later, Netty double-parks beside my van, gives me blankets, pillows and a carry-out bowl of chicken noodle soup with napkins and bread. I thank her, kiss her, then tell her to hurry on so she doesn’t blow my cover. She laughs and tells me I’m funny, then she says, “Don’t go getting yourself killed.”

  I give her a grin and a mock salute, then say, “Will do.”

  She waves one last time as she’s taking off in my car. My lovely, lovely Audi. Which I miss immensely sitting in this dreadful van.

  4

  The thing about stakeouts is they suck ass through a straw. My back and legs are killing me and I had to pee so bad about three hours ago I used the empty soup container as a toilet. If you’ve never tried being modest while pissing in a cup in a van on the side of the road and trying not to get arrested for indecent exposure, trust me, don’t try it. When the street was clear, which was mostly the case, I dumped out my hot urine in the gutter just outside the passenger door. Yeah, that’s the silver lining in this stakeout: you can make your own toilet without ever leaving your seat.