Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  He pulled his shirt back down. “I wanted to see the sun one last time, so I rolled over onto my back, and there he was... Tailypo... looming over me like some kind of tombstone. He said, ‘You want to die, boy?’ I didn’t like him calling me that, but I wasn’t in a position to argue. He offered to save my life if I’d swear myself to him. I didn’t know why he chose me. I still don’t. I said ‘let me die’.”

  “You said no?”

  “That wasn’t a life worth saving, Loxley. No purpose or good to anyone, you know? He asked me what I wanted instead... what would help me live. I told him I wanted to run the best club in the Hole. A real classy place – I guess that was because of where I’d been spending all my time. I told him if he could give me that, I would do whatever he wanted. Then, I laughed at him and passed out. When I woke up, I was here. That was ten years ago.” He leaned in, the lamplight washing under his face. “I’ve been all over the eighth ring in my days, Loxley. This place wasn’t here before the day I made that deal with Tailypo.”

  Her eyes widened. Maybe Tailypo was a more dangerous ghost than she’d previously thought. She could scarcely believe she’d slapped him. “Did you ever try to leave?”

  “Why would I leave?”

  “Because he’s got you! Tailypo is bad and you’re trapped!” she said, raising her voice without meaning to.

  Quentin placed a hand over hers and shushed her as quietly as he could. “But I’m happy.”

  “But you made a deal with the Devil!” As she said it, she still wasn’t sure if the Devil was real. She never much liked religion because it made almost no mention of ghosts.

  “Then I got some pretty good things out of it. I have the best club, the best people and the best life of anyone I know. I’m pretty happy with the Devil. I can come and go as I please, provided I show up to work every night on time. Hell, some folks can’t keep a job at all.”

  “But he’s bad. What if he hurts you?”

  “Then I probably deserved it.”

  “What if he hurts me?”

  He leaned back. “I guess we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we? I’d never let him do that.”

  But he wouldn’t have a choice. She knew that, even if he didn’t. She pushed back from the table, her stomach curling in on itself. Shaking the crackles out, she got to her feet. “Stupid,” she spat. “Stupid stupid stupid.”

  “Don’t be silly, Loxley.”

  “Don’t be silly, Loxley,” she echoed back. Her mouth had become fixed upon his words, and she silently whispered them once more.

  “Don’t be mad. I’m your friend. I’ve helped you when no one else could.”

  “Mm – I’m not mad. I just can’t trust you because you belong to Tailypo.”

  “It ain’t exactly like that.”

  She shook her head. “It is, Quentin. Even if you don’t know. Tailypo always gets back what’s his.”

  He regarded her without a hint of animosity. She felt sure he’d be angry with her. “I guess we’ll see, child. No sense in trying to change it now.”

  Covers

  BY THE TIME Loxley could return to her room, the sun had begun to rise. She saw it in the crack between the front doors, an orange slash cutting into the cloistered club. She hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, and exhaustion tickled her muscles. Each tiny jolt elicited a jump from Loxley’s voice, and she grunted melodically as she shambled down her hall.

  She pushed open the door and slipped inside, the pie wedge of light shrinking in the windowless room. Carefully, she made her way to the edge of her bed, where she stripped out of her dirty clothes and dropped them on the floor. Nude, she stared at nothing and focused on the way the air prickled her skin with goose bumps. She ran her fingers over her bare arms, enjoying the puckered surface.

  Jayla’s breath whistled through her teeth, the only sound in the stillness of the room. Loxley allowed her own breathing to fall in time.

  She would sleep late. She could do that now – nothing to sell at the Bazaar. Loxley’s sheets felt frigid beneath her legs, and she imagined how unpleasant it would be to immerse herself in them – nothing like the mild, effervescing waters of the cooling tower. She smiled, thinking of how the bubbles had tickled her entire body. How different things had become since that night.

  So many times, the world had felt as though it would end over the years. Each change that threw her whole life into disarray was unforgiveable and terrifying. Her mother’s death had been the worst, and yet Loxley had survived, even finding the strength to care for herself. After Nora’s death, though, nothing had made sense.

  Her eyes adjusted to the thin light leaking under the door, and she watched Jayla’s back rise and fall. Their kiss had been too perfect. Loxley touched her own lips, trying to call the moment to mind, but all the sticky lipstick had worn away. She placed the back of her hand against her mouth, but her skin had grown cold in the chilly air. Frustrated, she let her arm flop to her side.

  She wanted another kiss. Her heart hammered, each beat multiplying the little jolts of sleep deprivation. She felt so tired, and so desperately alone. Her icy bed had grown unbearable. The line of light under the door wavered as someone passed in the hall. Her fingers burned with electricity, and she shook them, trying to get them to loosen up. She could get up, walk over there, climb into bed with Jayla and have that kiss. A throaty hum erupted from her chest, and she flapped harder, trying to restrain her voice so as not to wake her roommate.

  Just stand up. Stand up and go kiss her.

  Her feet stung, but she couldn’t stomp them for fear of making noise. She rubbed them together, trying to scrape away the crawling nervousness. She grabbed balls of her bedding and squeezed as hard as she could, clenching her teeth. She pulled until her arms burned, her whole body starting to shake from the effort and the cold.

  Go on, then. Go kiss her.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cold wooden floor was like a thunderbolt on her bare feet as she padded toward Jayla’s sleeping form. The woman faced away, and she didn’t stir at Loxley’s approach. Without allowing herself to reconsider, she pulled aside Jayla’s covers and slipped into bed with her. She wrapped her arms around Jayla, pulling her roommate back into her.

  “Oh, Jesus – Loxley, what?” she mumbled, startling awake.

  Loxley buried her head between Jayla’s shoulder blades, not daring to see what face her roommate was making. Jayla was clad in bra and panties, and Loxley enjoyed the heat of her exposed flesh. She squeezed as tightly as she could, inhaling her scent.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” asked Jayla.

  “I wan...” she began, but stopped. “I wan...” The phrase felt good, and she said it a few more times to calm her racing heart.

  Jayla turned over and Loxley found herself face to face with deep, brown eyes, glittering in the thin light. She smiled, her lips still so succulent, even without makeup. She put a finger to Loxley’s mouth. “Shh, calm down. It’s okay. Take your time.” She took her finger away.

  The words snapped together with a well-polished precision, as though they were always meant to be said together.

  “I want to kiss you again.”

  Jayla’s hot hand snaked under Loxley’s jaw and to the nape of her neck before pulling them together with surprising firmness. Their lips fused into a wet jolt of pleasure, and Loxley’s knees trembled. She would have fallen, had she been standing. A muted moan escaped her throat, not at all like a hum, but some other delightful sound entirely.

  She broke contact, breathless. Her chest tightened, and she felt an aching between her legs, radiating into her belly. “That was even better than before,” she murmured.

  Jayla giggled like someone else, not the firm woman who guided Loxley through crowded corridors by her wrist, but playful, like a bird. “You know how to French kiss?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never been to France.”

  “When we kiss, open your mouth and let
my tongue touch yours.”

  Their lips met another time, and Jayla’s tongue darted into Loxley’s mouth. It startled her at first, tasting another person’s saliva, feeling another person’s teeth. She was about to stop and say she didn’t like it when Jayla’s other hand slid over Loxley’s right breast and gently squeezed. It filled her with a heat she hadn’t known she’d been craving. Her vision flashed, and the room pitched to one side as her roommate pinched a nipple and slowly rolled it. She’d wanted this so badly, but what was it? What was supposed to happen? She pulled away to take a trembling gasp, but Jayla’s hand didn’t retreat. Her roommate wrapped a leg around Loxley’s thigh and began to caress both breasts as she nibbled Loxley’s neck.

  The two women lay entangled for long minutes, Jayla’s soft palms exploring every inch of Loxley’s chest and back. She gave up control over her body as her partner’s lips brushed her ear. She reverberated with Jayla’s low groans – relaxing, in spite of the crackles that begged to be shaken from fingers. And most of all, she enjoyed the hot friction of skin against skin, moving her heart in ways she never could have predicted. They began to sweat, the bedclothes steaming like a greenhouse.

  Jayla pushed her flat against the bed by her shoulder, then straddled Loxley’s hips. Cool air tickled her now moist skin as the comforter fell away, and she noticed the trickle of wetness between her thighs. Her partner unbuttoned her bra, exposing two large breasts, silhouetted in the dim light. She took Loxley’s hands and cupped them to her chest, where Loxley began to mimic what her partner had done.

  “You’ve got something special, you know that?” Jayla sighed, grinding her hips across Loxley’s pubis. Her panties had been soaked through.

  “You’re really pretty.”

  Jayla giggled again. “I didn’t see this coming when you got here. I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I didn’t, but I do now.”

  “Well, I am just so glad.”

  Her partner leaned down to slide her tongue into Loxley’s mouth once again. Jayla’s hand brushed up and down Loxley’s stomach, lightly caressing her ticklish spots. The deep ache had become almost painful. She bucked her hips, trying to press her most sensitive skin into Jayla’s.

  Hot water streaked across her cheek, instantly growing frigid – a teardrop. Loxley blinked, and two more followed. It was as though her body was trying to remember something horrid, but her mind wouldn’t let her – rough hands, a gray mustache and calloused fingers. The memory threatened to pour into her exposed mind like molten candlewax. Her moans became humming, and her fingers jolted.

  “Shh, baby,” Jayla whispered, wiping away a tear. “Just be here with me. Forget everything else that’s happened.”

  “I want you to f... Can you fuck me?” Her voice broke and more tears wet her cheeks. “I don’t know how – just... just make me feel something else.”

  “I think I can arrange that.”

  Loxley squeezed her eyes shut and felt soft lips on her neck. Her partner’s weight lifted away as she climbed off, but her touch grew firmer on Loxley’s torso. Hands roved further down, and fingers ran through her pubic hair, tugging gently before retreating. One at a time, two fingers traversed the length of her opening before slipping inside.

  Her body was a cascade of sparks and stars, a web of tangled lights aglow in Jayla’s electric touch. It would be hours before she found sleep –

  – Blissful, deep and safe.

  Lockpick

  THE NEXT TWO days were a knot of legs and tongues, fingers and sighs, sidelong glances and whispers. Jayla had many obligations, but Loxley only needed await her moment onstage. Other than calling her to shows, folks generally left her alone. She ventured out of the room on occasion to take lunch or dinner, but she spent many of her hours resting comfortably in her nest of sheets and blankets. Her roommate returned with every stolen spare minute, depositing them in the room like bars of gold.

  It was as though a dam had burst inside Loxley, and what flooded through was a burning need to have her skin against Jayla’s at every opportunity: holding hands, little kisses, fingers through hair. She quickly learned to reciprocate her partner’s actions, closing her eyes and focusing on Jayla’s voice and quivers. Without the distraction of her sight, Loxley felt she could understand her partner in a way she hadn’t before.

  The only snake in paradise was the clock, ticking ever closer to midnight, Thursday. Jayla had to leave so often to handle the trash, coordinate the kitchen, settle a dispute or take food to Tailypo; it was in those lonely minutes that Loxley’s eyes wandered over to the battered chrome alarm clock. She’d do the math in her head.

  Thirty-two hours. Twenty-six hours. Sleep. Eighteen hours. She’d slept away eight of what might be her last hours. The clock injected churning venom into her veins, and she’d lay, near paralyzed, waiting for Jayla to draw it from her with a kiss.

  They didn’t speak of what Loxley was going to do at midnight. Jayla knew. Quentin and Tailypo knew, too. When five o’clock Thursday afternoon rolled around, a knock came at her door. Jayla didn’t knock. A guttural yelp burst from Loxley’s throat, else she’d have pretended she wasn’t there.

  She pulled on pajamas and padded to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Quentin. Do you have a moment to talk about the show tonight?”

  She opened the door.

  She found Quentin leaning against the frame, hands in the pockets of his dapper suit. He glanced down the hallway and sniffled. “Tee said to tell you that you’ve got the last spot this evening. You go on at eleven-thirty, so you’ll need to be in makeup by –”

  Don’t flap your fingers. Look him in the eye. “No.”

  “Loxley, I –”

  “No.”

  She tried to shut the door, but he wedged it with his foot. “Just listen to reason, damn it. Tee thinks you’re going to get killed down there. I’m inclined to agree.”

  “You said you were my friend.”

  “I am. And a friend wouldn’t let you do something so crazy.”

  She opened the door and tried it again, but his foot wouldn’t budge. The opening to the hallway had become a maw, and she needed to close it as soon as possible. “I’m not crazy. Go away.”

  “What the hell are you planning? You don’t stand a chance against this guy.”

  “I’m smart. I’ll kill him.”

  He put a shoulder into the door and knocked it open, shoving her backward. She lost her balance and landed hard on her rump. The person who entered the room may have had Quentin’s body and voice, but he wasn’t anything like the kind man she’d seen before. He towered over her, his fists balled and steady, his suit taut with muscle, his eyes dreadful and cold. This was the person who’d beaten the thief in Harrison Hoop Station – the Quentin of the bad old days.

  “You think you can take a man who means to kill you?” he bellowed, shaking a meaty fist in front of her face. “You think you know what it’s like to be in a fight for your life?”

  Quentin’s mass seemed to grow before her eyes, as if to wrap around her entire field of view. He hadn’t actually changed, and yet he loomed like a bear before her, his footing as sure as if he’d been nailed to the ground. The tide of static began to rise around her. What if he punched her? What if he did something worse?

  Her voice burst from her chest, no matter how hard she tried to stop it, and so she shouted at him. She summoned up all the rage inside and pounded her fists against the wood so she wouldn’t have to shake the crackles out. Her voice filled up the room, rippling from the boards, multiplying upon itself. She wasn’t Quentin’s to command. She wasn’t Tailypo’s. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t crazy. She was powerful, and nothing would come between her and fate.

  She meant to say those things, but her mouth was too full of fury to hold the words, and so she only screamed.

  Quentin took a step back. Faces gathered in the doorway, peeking in at the pair: Cap among them. Loxley rose to her feet, tears bursting the lig
ht in her eyes like exploding stars – too sharp. She softened it, passing her spread fingers before her face like a fan. Her lips locked around a hoot, and she repeated the noise until the static went away. When she finally lowered her hands, she found Quentin standing with arms crossed.

  He straightened his tie. “I think you get my point, pumpkin. There’s no way you could handle a fellow like –”

  She stepped forward and kneed him in the balls as hard as she could – with the legs that had climbed thirteen stories to her rooftop garden every day for the past five years – legs that had dragged a fully-loaded vegetable cart to the market from Magic City Heights – legs that had outrun Hiram and Duke.

  When Quentin doubled over, she wrenched open her nightstand and snatched the knife she’d borrowed from Cap. Without another word, she pressed the point of it to her opponent’s neck. His eyes went even wider, and his torso froze mid-breath.

  She wanted to threaten him. You don’t know me. I could open you up like that man in Duke’s car. Just a push would do it. Instead she hummed long and low, half a growl, half a song.

  Quentin didn’t speak. He kept his palms flat against the ground, his brown skin slick with fresh sweat.

  “Fuck off,” she finally managed, and made for the door. She pushed past Cap and into the hallway.

  “Wait,” said Cap. “That knife...”

  “I’m going to borrow it,” she said.

  “I know. Let me get you a sharper one. You’re going to want a jacket, too.”

  The Old Path

  THE CITY CAME out to watch her passing like mourners at a funeral procession. Above her, on the terraced steps of the Hole, city lights shimmered in a great bowl. The omnipresent column of steam that rose from the Foundry caught the light, glowing and churning like a summer thundercloud. It suffused the sky with a sick, sodium vapor pallor. Loxley imagined what it would be like to fly through its swirling mist; would it be warm? Would it carry her up into the heavens?