by Kyra Davis
“I’m suggesting that you’re being an asshole.”
“Careful, Sophie.”
Ms. Dogz perked up her ears. That animal’s insistence on responding to my name drove my agitation up to the next level.
“Or what?” I challenged, my hands now clenched into fists.
Anatoly stared down into my eyes, letting the silence stretch. I had forgotten how forceful his silences could be. He could infuse them with tension and threat…
…and sex. Anatoly could do with a silence what Otis Redding could do with a moan. Goose bumps were prickling my arms as my breath quickened. I was fully aware of the rhythm with which his uncovered chest was moving and yet my eyes were locked on his, absolutely unable to look anywhere else.
“Anatoly,” I whispered “I--”
But I didn’t get a chance to continue. In an instant, I was up against the wall, my arms pinned above my head as his lips found my neck and his body pressed against mine. His mouth found that spot that made me positively squirm and I let out a little squeak as I was suddenly unable to speak. His lips moved up to my ear and his teeth scraped gently against the lobe. When he released my arms he lifted me up so that I was still pressed against the wall. My legs wrapped themselves around his waist as my arms encircled his neck. I can’t remember the last time I wanted him this badly.
He crushed his mouth against mine, parting my lips with his tongue as I let my fingers run through his short, coarse hair. I bit down on his lower lip, my nails digging into his flesh. There was an energy to this that had been missing lately. A whirl of excitement was spiraling up from my stomach through my ribcage, making my heart beat too fast and my breathing too shallow.
I loved it.
He moved me from the wall and half carried, half threw me on the bed. He was on top of me in an instant and my fingers immediately traveled to the button of his jeans, reaching into his pants, feeling the proof of his desire as my other hand greedily ran down his shoulders, his back, his beautiful biceps.
“Sophie,” he said in a growl as he began to lower his face toward mine.
Except our lips never touched because the dog shoved her face between ours, causing me to accidentally press my mouth against black fur.
“Whaat da ferk!” I sputtered as I spit out wet fur. Anatoly busted out laughing, harder than he had in ages. I looked at him, looked at the dog, who looked back with innocent enthusiasm and in an instant I was giggling too, then laughing, then pretty much breathless with hysterics. Anatoly and I were both laughing like hyenas as Ms. Dogz pranced back and forth, periodically leaning in to lick one of our faces as she rejoiced in the commotion she’d caused.
“You might have to take a nickname,” Anatoly said as he sat up, wiping both dog slobber and tears from his face.
I scooted myself up, pressing my back against the headboard as I attempted to catch my breath. “I already gave her an alias,” I reminded him. “Ms. Dogz.”
“I’m not talking to the dog, I’m talking to you.”
“I should take a nickname?” I balked, although I could feel the giggles threatening an encore. “I’m not giving up my name for a dog, not even if we get to keep her.”
“Well, the dog clearly isn’t giving up her name for anyone,” Anatoly chuckled. “I could call you baby.”
“Baby? What is this, a 1970s porno? Millennials use the word, bae.”
“We’re too old to be Millennials.”
“Oh my God, there you go again, being all realistic and honest about our age.” I moved forward and straddled him, using my left hand to push him flat on the bed and my right hand to cover his mouth. “If you stop talking, I think we can make this work.”
I could feel his smile against my palm and then, without another word, he reached up, unhooking my bra, slowly pulling it off me so the straps tickled my skin, tossing it to the floor where, with a little luck, it wouldn’t become a chew toy.
He cupped my breasts, his thumbs moving slowly over my nipples until they reached for him. His eyes moved steadily up and down my body before finally, they once again locked with mine.
Without saying a word, he told me I was beautiful.
Anatoly really could do wonderful things with silence.
“There’s a reason I’m afraid of the dark. When I can’t see the tangled mess that surrounds me, I start thinking about the tangled mess that is me.”
--Dying To Laugh
I woke up to the quiet whine of Ms. Dogz. Anatoly’s arm draped over my stomach, his breathing deep and steady, his body completely relaxed into sleep. I felt the weight of Mr. Katz curled up above the covers. There was just enough light for me to see Ms. Dogz outline on the makeshift bed of spare blankets we had set-up for her. Her head was on her paws, her eyes too black to make out. But her whining…steady, mournful, rhythmic, it was heartbreaking.
Such a whirlwind of emotions. The ecstasy of the evening that topped off a day filled with confusion, daring, thrills, loss and guilt.
All fun aside I still felt so much guilt.
“There’s nothing I could have done,” I whispered aloud, to the dark, to London’s dog. Even if we had agreed to help him, we still wouldn’t have been able to save his life. It’s not our fault.
But the last few moments of his life…those could have been filled with hope. Anatoly and I filled them with disappointment. Now, with nothing around to distract me, I couldn’t escape that truth.
Anatoly mumbled something incoherent and turned to face the wall, dragging his warmth away.
Carefully I pulled my feet out from underneath my cat. With practiced stealth, I managed to creep out from beneath the blankets without waking either of my bedmates. I crouched down by Ms. Dogz and ran my hand over the top of her head and back. She smelled cleaner than I felt. “You’re going to be okay,” I assured her.
How many people had said that to me after I lost my own father at nineteen? And, assuming she really was his daughter, how many people must have said that to Cat London within the last ten hours? All those people were right of course. But in an odd way, they were totally wrong too. When you lose someone who is that central to your being you have to change the definition of what it means to be okay.
Ms. Dogz’s whining was getting softer with my touch, less plaintive. The quiet gave new amplification to the thoughts forming in my exhausted mind:
Maybe Anatoly’s right.
London was probably separated from his wife, which didn’t mean there still wasn’t love there. Not necessarily. Yes, he was clearly in the middle of a breakdown but if she was the mother of his child, Anita was his family.
If London’s family wanted my help, I would owe it to them. But they quite clearly didn’t. Would London want me to upset his family? Now, just as they had begun to grieve?
Yes, yes he would if it meant uncovering the truth.
But it was hard to figure out if that was the voice of reason or that of my own stubbornness. There was no question that I was incredibly tempted to pursue this. To investigate and see if I could solve a murder or at the very least prove that it was a murder. But why? What would be the point? No matter what I discovered, London would still be gone. His last moments on this earth would still be defined by disappointment. The latter’s my fault but I couldn’t change what was done. I couldn’t help him.
But I could still make it worse. I could hurt his daughter.
So if I did pursue this, who would I be doing it for? Me? Today should have been purely awful. And it was awful…except…it was also so much fun. I had felt…energized. More so than I had in a while. Even the resulting conflict with Anatoly had ended up amplifying our lust. What was wrong with me that I could get an endorphin kick from something so dark and twisted?
I removed my hand from Ms. Dogz’s back and sat quietly by her side. “It’s possible I’m a monster,” I murmured. Ms. Dogz tilted her head, looking up at me with eyes that were still perfectly camouflaged by the darkness. Then she shifted her weight and put her head on my la
p.
I loved this dog.
I would have to think about what I needed to do to deserve her.
“Everyone is beautiful in their own way...but good hair products help.”
--Dying For Laughs
My whole office was flooded with morning sun. Anatoly was gone and I was still in my nightshirt, my hair an ill shaped frizzy halo. I had an appointment with Marcus that afternoon so I had zero incentive to try to do anything with it. But then, I hadn’t really done much with it for some time now.
I ran my bare foot over Ms. Dogz’s back, letting her fur tickle my sole. To her left was Mr. Katz, giving her a hardcore kitty glare. Still, his proximity to our newest resident was progress.
My laptop sat before me and was open to Microsoft Word. Microsoft called their software Word because that was its raison d’être; to hold words. And my raison d’être was to create words. I should have been looking at a page filled with my words. Words that carved images into readers’ minds, gave life to new adventures, words that created colorful characters, pain, hilarity and love. But the only thing on my screen was a bleak, empty page and a cursor blinking at me accusingly.
I ran my fingers over the keys, once, then twice.
Once upon a time…
I let out a wry laugh and hit the delete button. I looked down at my furry friends. “I have never wanted to be an accountant,” I told them. “But there are many days when I’ve wanted to want to be an accountant.”
Ms. Dogz tilted her head in a manner that was clearly doggie language for explain. Mr. Katz blinked his eyes, which was kitty language for, you don’t have to explain. I get it.
“If you’re an accountant you just do your job,” I went on, for Ms. Dogz’s sake. “You don’t need to be inspired. You don’t have to create a new world every year. You just do what you know how to do. Sometimes you have to put in an insane number of hours, sometimes you don’t. But you do understand what you’re doing. But being an author, you have to relearn your craft with each friggin’ book.” I looked back at the computer screen and the soft grey background to my unadulterated, white document. My imagination was failing me. I had become as dull and empty as the screen.
“I’m lost,” I whispered.
Mr. Katz looked up at me and blinked his eyes once. Kitty language for, “No shit.”
My phone rang and I looked down at the screen. Mama. Oh boy. My mother was a little nuts and it was rare that she called me for any purpose other than to complain that I wasn’t calling her.
“Hello, Mama,” I said upon picking up. “How are you?”
“Good mamaleh!” she said, using her favorite Yiddish term of endearment for me. “I’m just calling to hear your voice.”
I waited for her to tack on the prerequisite passive-aggressive admonishment. Something along the lines of, I’ve nearly forgotten what you sound like!
But…nothing. She added nothing. Huh. “I guess I should be the one calling you,” I said slowly, trying to spot the trap.
“You called me Sunday! What, now you should spend every minute of every day on the phone with your mother? You have a life, already! Speaking of which, how is your Anatoly?”
“He’s good,” I answered, still wary.
“Good!” she gushed. “Is he ready to make an honest woman out of you? Nice Jewish girls shouldn’t be living in sin with gangsters, Sophie. You should marry the man and make it proper.”
And there it is.
“I’m pretty sure gangsters only marry their girlfriends when they’re worried they’ll be compelled to testify against them. But Anatoly doesn’t have to concern himself with that.”
“Why because he’s not a real gangster?” Mama asked with a smile in her voice.
“No, because I’m not a real snitch,” I volleyed back.
My mother laughed, for once not taking my joking literally. “Such a troublemaker you are. Well, as long as you’re happy mamaleh. I just spoke to your sister. You know her party planning business is going like gangbusters? She’s like a real Martha Stewart, that one! So wonderful to have two happy daughters. And your little nephew, Jack? He’s a genius. Let me tell you what he did at school the other day…”
I listened to her detail Jack’s lists of accomplishments. This was by far the least contentious call I’d ever had with my mother. Although to be fair, she had been a lot less pushy in general lately. Her appetite for doling out hefty portions of Jewish guilt seemed to be diminishing with age. As a result, I had less and less call to be snarky or to bicker.
It was a good thing. It was something to be grateful for. But I didn’t feel grateful, although I really wanted to. I just felt…numb.
Three hours later, Marcus was studying my hair, his mouth curved down as he reached out to touch one of my frizzier curls. We were in his salon and the music of Prince was intermingling with the sounds of confidences being exchanged between patrons and their stylists. The exposed brick walls made the place seem both elitist and rustic. Marcus was also a mix of those two sensibilities. His short dreads and muscular form denoted a man who didn’t need to spend time primping in the morning, but his AX Armani T-shirt paired with his fitted white jeans said that he did anyway.
“You haven’t been using your product,” he growled.
I sighed, my mind elsewhere.
“It’s like you’ve been taking styling lessons from Don King.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” I snapped, the insult bringing me back to the here and now. “I ran out of product a few days ago. I was going to pick some more up yesterday but things got hectic.”
“Did we have a nuclear holocaust that I missed?” he asked. “Because short of that, there’s no excuse for going days without product. We live in a civilized society, Sophie. This,” he held out my curls so that they formed wings on either side of my head, “is not civilized.”
“What is your problem today?”
“My problem?” He leaned back on his heels and stroked his chin, pretending to ponder the question. “Well, it starts with my assistant calling in sick this morning with an upset stomach…too much vodka will do that to a person. So I rescheduled the client whose appointment layered over the end of yours for another day, and then my next three clients, three, canceled on me.”
“Three?” I repeated, surprised. Marcus’s services were always in high demand. Most people had to wait months for an appointment. It was hard to imagine three of them canceling at the last minute. “What’s going on?”
“One of them has some sort of work emergency and her boss won’t let her leave until it’s handled. Another just found out that her son’s about to be expelled from his elite private school so she’s running over there with an endowment check and an accompanying plea for leniency. And the last just found out this morning that her husband has been screwing their dog trainer.” He spit out the last sentence with particular vehemence. The stylist working nearest us cast a bemused look in our direction before pointing her hair dryer at her client’s head. “I understand why you might have to cancel a hair appointment in order to save your job or your kid,” Marcus said, raising his voice to be heard over the dryer, “but if you find out you’re being cheated on the first thing you should do is fix your damn hair! What, you’re going to confront your husband and his mistress on a bad hair day? Who does that?”
“It does seem like an ill conceived plan,” I agreed.
“And then to top it all off, you come in here looking like you just went skipping through a thunderstorm with a lightning rod all because you can’t be bothered to get your butt over to Target to buy some product!”
“Oh for…” I shook my head, already bored with my role as a temporary punching bag. “Look,” I said, steadily, “I’m here, aren’t I? Or is all this too much for you to handle?” I patted my hair protectively. “Because there’s a new salon on Maiden Lane that supposedly specializes in miracles.”
Marcus made eye contact with me through the mirror. “Oh touché.” He stepped bac
k and examined my hair even more carefully. I stared pointedly at the blown up Rolling Stones covers that decorated the walls. Much better than seeing Marcus’ perfect nose wrinkle in distaste.
“All right,” he finally grumbled. “I’ve vented, I’m calmer and I’ve formulated a plan of attack.”
I gave him a small smile. “You still love me?”
“Always and forever,” he said with a sigh. “Okay, let’s Beyoncé you out.”
He stepped forward and started combing through the disaster, his eyes narrowed with focus. “I’d like to do some color, but if we do you have to promise me you’ll deep condition once a week. Your hair’s going to start getting drier now that the grey’s coming in and---“
“The grey’s coming in?” I leaped to my feet and faced him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?”
The patrons in the chairs nearest me all jumped, surprised by my outburst and then quickly started whispering to their respective stylists.
Marcus gave me a withering stare. “We all go grey sometime, honey. Anderson Cooper went silver fox before he hit thirty.”
“But that’s not me!” I insisted, banging my hand against the revolving chair. “I’m not going to go grey for another decade! I don’t have a single strand of—ow!”
Marcus had reached over and yanked out one of my hairs from the back of my head and held it up for my inspection. “What color would you say that is?”
I bit down on my lower lip and glared at the hair. “Slate.”
The corners of Marcus’ mouth twitched. “It’s a little light for slate. You might have to amend to silver.”
“Fuck.”
“Sit.”
“Fine.” I dropped back down in my chair, disgusted.
“It’s really not a big deal,” he assured me, my own outburst calming his mood.
“Whatever.” I sounded like a petulant teenager. Did London’s daughter sound like that? How was she doing? “Are there a lot of…hairs like that back there?”
