by Kyle Harris
That was interesting. Shit like that should’ve made headlines.
Curious, Chaz pulled up a search engine. Trident News Network was the city’s largest media powerhouse, so she typed in that and then tightened the results around partnerships, investors, contributors—anyone that might want lynched homosexuals kept out of the news cycle.
One shareholder stood out: Matthew Pruitt. And Pruitt Financial had funded the lease for the Trident News Network headquarters downtown. Also, the phrase “homosexual demon” was one of his favorites—several results from her own library of research materials popped up with the words highlighted.
Coincidence?
While she still had the time, Chaz did some cyberfrisking on Simon Dodders. Nothing shiny on the surface. He was a high school dropout who, according to some classy social media posts, had a revolutionary take on the education system: it was operated by gay-loving Satanists.
The Dodders surname, on the other hand, seemed to have some more heft. Simon’s father was a big retail junkie, operating the half dozen Maverick men’s clothing stores in the city. Maverick was owned by the Tyne Group, which in turn was under the operational umbrella of…
Huh. Wehrlein Industries.
The tether program chirped in the background—target approaching.
“Chaz, I hope you weren’t waiting long,” said Libby. When the sun was out, her hair was a honey blonde. Camera feeds did its radiance a great disrespect. “Those smelly trains are always running behind.”
“I totally just got here.” Totally a lie. “And I got you something.” She handed Libby a warm drink.
“A caffé latte?” That smiling askance look again, as if she were both amused and politely skeptical. “How did you know I like caffé lattes?”
“You do?” Chaz shrugged. “I saw a coffee cart on the way here and figured you might want something. Maybe I can read minds.”
“That’s very sweet of you, mind-reader.” She kissed Chaz beside the mouth. “I can tell the Lord blessed you with kindness.”
Chaz thought of about a million instances where that was not true. “I wasn’t kind to that dickwad at the club,” she said. “With any luck, his jaw’s broken.”
Libby smiled, shook her head. “Kindness does not have to be impartial.” She took a sip of the latte and licked the foam off her upper lip. “Someone who is kind can still be fraught with enmity in God’s eyes. You don’t feel hate because hate is what you want to feel; instead, you hope that this man will, one day, be touched by God. That hate is only the larva for respect when the man amends for his mistakes.”
Chaz nodded. “Nice. So I can keep knocking heads as long as they’re bad guys. I’m starting to like this God dude. He knows what’s up.”
Libby laughed. “As long as it’s not the violence itself you seek.”
“Sure.” It was getting easier to just roll with the nonsense. “Any more assholes like Cliff been following you around?”
“I haven’t seen any.” She continued to stare at Chaz with a little smile.
“What?”
“Just you.” Her cheeks were already painted red from the cold, but now the color was spreading. “Everything about you, Chaz. Your legs. Your clothes. How I cannot imagine you putting on makeup or browsing for skirts. How that eyebrow lifts when something grabs your attention.” She giggled. “Like right now. You might be the most interesting person I have ever met.”
“That wasn’t the vibe I got at the club.”
“That,” said Libby, softly, “was before I knew you. Whether you believe or not, it wasn’t an accident that you and I crossed paths. I can tell this isn’t your favorite topic, but God may even find you one day. When you’re least expecting it.”
Chaz tried not to sigh, but the exhale still came out noisy. It was God, God, God with Libby. Nonstop. A stereotype of stereotypes. “So. You wanted to show me something?”
“Come on,” said Libby, taking Chaz’s hand. “It’s warmer inside, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.”
The former tanning salon had been a three-month project of Libby’s, and it was going to be a homeless shelter when it was completed. In her spare time, she had been coming here to remove all the equipment—the skin cancer machines, racks of merchandise, seating—and take out all the redundant partitions to maximize room.
She had bought everything with her college savings fund.
“When it’s finished,” she said, leading Chaz through rows of empty half-enclosures, “I want there to be regular food deliveries, and for all of them to have clothing. Everyone in this city should have a warm bed to come back to, and a roof over their heads.” She pulled Chaz aside from their little stroll. “I can’t stand to watch the city’s poorest starve on the streets. If God has granted me anything, it’s that I do not wish to leave this life with an uncharitable legacy. Like my father seems to be doing.”
“Isn’t your father religious?”
The way she smiled made Chaz think she’d uttered an unintentional joke, but Libby caught herself. “He is Christian in name, and he alleges faith to our Lord. If God is truly in his heart and soul, then I don’t doubt His will. Devotion takes endless forms.”
“But…” Come on, Libby. This is where you say he’s a huge fuckstick.
She shook her head, as if to shake something out of her hair. “May we change the subject?” It was barely above a whisper.
“Sure.”
She pulled Chaz closer. “I want your opinion. I’ve been doing this alone. Besides some very friendly construction people, you’re the first person I’ve shown this to.” She placed her hand, gently, over Chaz’s heart. “Am I doing the right thing?”
“Hell yeah,” said Chaz. Totally not a lie. “Libby, look around. Look at all you’ve done. You’re helping people. It’s fucking awesome!”
A reluctant smile worked its way across the girl’s face.
“Let me guess. God frowns upon swearing, but I bet he doesn’t do it impartially, right? This is a good thing. I want you to say it’s fucking awesome too.”
“I know you’re right.” Libby’s grin was the most contagious thing Chaz had ever seen, and she grinned with her. “It is awesome.”
“Fucking awesome.”
“Fucking awesome.”
If there was a pause after that, Chaz couldn’t remember it, because then they were kissing. On the lips. There was a taste of coffee and citrus lip balm. The pressure of breasts underneath Gucci puffer coat. Chaz wrapped her close, pulled her tight as if to taste and smell everything that this girl was, to give that pulse in her groin something to press up against.
Then it was done, and they were apart and looking at each other. Libby’s eyes sparkled like they were wet.
Shit.
Her face went through a catalog of expressions—radiance with a splash of surprise, brief reluctance, then a long freeze-frame of hopefulness. “It isn’t a perversion,” she said. “Perversion isn’t a warm, pounding heart, nor is it butterflies in the stomach. If it is perversion, then God has not given me free will, and He has put his foot on the scale of my soul. But that can’t be true, because He doesn’t exercise prejudice.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
Chaz grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “I’m gonna say it, and you may not agree: you can’t rely on some stupid Bible to explain what you feel. For one thing, wasn’t the Christian Bible written by men? So out of the gate it’s already fucking bullshit. I mean, the men back then didn’t even know what the female orgasm was, and men today still can’t explain that shit. You think they’re experts about your sexuality?”
Libby burst into laughter. When she settled down, she said, “That’s your gift. You always make me feel better. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I’m just a sucker for pointing out the corrupt institutions that brainwash you.”
Libby still had a smile. “It was not God’s hand that wrote scripture.” She looked thoughtful. Then: “In the original Hebrew text, only male
homosexuality was considered an abomination. Nothing about females was spoken of.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. We’re home free.”
Libby laughed some more. “Maybe you don’t believe, but I think God is already inside you.”
Actually, that’s not God, thought Chaz. I can just think for my-fucking-self. It wasn’t just Libby; every religious bozo had that handicap. When people did good things, it was the work of God, not the people. It was like a business where all the employees happily gave credit to their laid-back CEO after their hard work had raised profits. Like a bunch of self-abusive slaves.
Chaz saw an opening and went for it: “What if I come over later?”
“Come over?” Libby didn’t look so sure. “You forget I live with my parents. And we’ve only known each other for a few days. I like you, but I think it’s too soon.”
“I know. But you said that what you feel for me is real, and I feel the same thing for you. What if we show your parents that this can work? The two of us. Together.”
She was already shaking her head. Strongly. “I don’t know. Every time I’ve introduced my girlfriends to them…and the men my father instructs to follow me—”
Chaz gripped Libby’s hand. “I’ll be by your side. He can’t call me a name that I haven’t already heard a thousand fucking times. And maybe by showing him our unity and strength, God might shine inside him.” Sounded pretty good for improv.
Libby considered for a moment. Then: “It would be a lie to say you aren’t right. You have convinced me.”
“Good.”
Wallflower, here I come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On the glass, an advertisement played for a women’s fragrance called Empyrean. If the marketing was to be taken literally, then bagging a tall, handsome hunk was as easy as sprinkling a little bit of perfume around the collarbone. Smiles. Necking. TONIGHT, BE HIS HEAVEN.
It always looked romantic when the rape scene was omitted.
Over the past ten minutes, Chaz had been running the mission details through her head.
After learning that the Trident News Network headquarters had financed its lease through Pruitt Financial, she realized she’d been smooth for not looking for another connection: the one between Pruitt and Wehrlein. But there was jack shit—Wehrlein’s lease was through another company (Baxter), their public works projects (citywide surveillance infrastructure, for instance) were personally financed or funded by taxpayers, and subsidiary corporations had no overlap with Pruitt at all from what she found. And Wehrlein, a conglomerate with no corporations that provided financial services, was not a direct competitor to Pruitt.
So, what the fuck? What could be so important to Kennedy that it was worth one hundred thousand dollars?
There was another possibility: it didn’t matter. All she’d been hired to do was steal the fucking thing, not stampede her thoughts back and forth about whatever it was.
Covert corporate espionage. Motherfuckin’ yippee.
Libby squeezed Chaz’s hand; she felt the train slowing down. Final destination.
The Pruitt household occupied the fifty-third floor of the Platinum Regal—even the fucking name sounded rich. The building looked like a twisted tower of mirrors. Kind of neat, if you ignored the blatant concentration of cherry-topped assholery living inside.
It would look even better after a few bombs had been planted on the columns, Chaz decided. Maybe the explosions could be timed to bring the building crashing down into its neighbors, make them all fall like dominoes.
Shame I left my dick at home, or I’d have a boner.
On the elevator ride up, she overheard Libby muttering some words. “What’s up?”
“Just praying,” she said, and she smiled as if to erase all doubts about why she would pray at all before bringing over company for her parents to meet. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”
Chaz suddenly had second thoughts about leaving Schnoz’s switchblade at home.
The elevator dinged their arrival. There was a short corridor with one door at the end, which whisked open when they got close—facial-rec authorization, Chaz guessed.
A cavernous hallway. An obsessive amount of chandeliers and ornately framed portraits. One open door leading to a billiard room, another to a fitness room, a third to a spa with tiny streams of water falling out of the ceiling. An open area with a grand piano, a crackling fireplace, a sofa like a small stadium.
Chaz was reminded of a flophouse she’d seen on the Nova Atlas. About the same overall size as this apartment. Except the flophouse had bunks for two hundred people.
“Libby, is that you?” called a voice.
“Coming.” Libby tugged on Chaz’s hand. “Let’s introduce you.”
Joy.
Mrs. Pruitt—her name was Juliet, Chaz remembered—wasn’t far from the spitting image of her daughter, just with a few more lines and angles. She had her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was dressed for the gym—leggings, tank top, running shoes. The sweat patch on her neckline said she’d already been.
“Mom,” said Libby, cautiously. “This is my friend, Chaz.”
Unable to remember the last time she’d been introduced to a girlfriend’s mother, Chaz opted for the traditional handshake. Juliet’s eyes took a full inventory of her.
“Chaz.” Their hands fell away. “Interesting name. For a girl.”
Juliet wore a smile, but her eyes were locked in a cold stare—the cultured contempt of a mother who had, at some point, grudgingly accepted that her daughter drank from the same stream she bathed in. In her eyes, Chaz was probably just another member of the lesbian freak show.
“Are we having supper?” asked Libby. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you she was coming over.”
“That’s all right,” said Juliet, still flouting with her eyes. “After I take a shower, I’ll get something going.” The gaze tightened. “You’re not one of those vegans, are you, Chaz?”
“Nope. Whatever’s in front of me, I’ll devour it. I’m easy to please, Mrs. P.”
“Good. And I’ll be expecting Libby’s father too. I hope you don’t mind being our guest, Chaz. In our house, the family always eats at the table.”
“Got it. The drink goes on the right with the knife, and the fork’s on the left, isn’t it? It’s been a while since I ate with my rich friends—I don’t want to flub.”
Juliet’s expression didn’t change as she started to turn away. “Oh, and one more thing: my husband can be very picky about the company our daughter keeps. That’s my fair warning to you.”
Chaz returned a smile as if to say, I can’t wait.
Juliet walked away, taking a towel that had been pinched under her arm and wrapping it around her neck. Maybe she radiated some bitchy vibes, but her butt compensated for them. Chaz gave a silent praise to the saint who’d invented Lycra.
Libby took Chaz by the hand, whispering, “She doesn’t like you,” and they were off to somewhere else in this mansion of an apartment.
What else is new.
Chaz hadn’t done any research on Mrs. Pruitt, and now she regretted that. It was clear that Matthew Pruitt sat upon the throne of screwballs with his Christian Science bullshit. But he wasn’t the only psycho on this planet. There was the old adage for relationships, that opposites attract or whatever, but Chaz had never known that to be true. Odds were Mrs. Pruitt had the same disease. If so, maybe she was also complicit with the bullying and tabloid articles.
As a looker, Chaz had seen plenty of cheating wives, even one who had tried to set her husband up with drugs and a hidden camera. In the end, women could be as evil as men; they just injected their venom differently.
The apartment met all the criteria of being ostentatious, and so did Libby’s bedroom: lofty ceiling, a sprawl of bed, gold-plated sconces, towering bookshelves, and a curved wall of dimmed glass that switched to a feed of blue sky and sweeping grassland when they walked in.
Libby, head held low, tr
otted to the bed and sat down. Chaz twirled around the bedpost and flopped down next to her. Hanging on the wall in front of them was a meter-tall, backlit wooden cross. How fitting.
“My mother’s nice enough that she won’t say she doesn’t like you,” said Libby, sounding jaded. “I’m still not sure about my father seeing us. Or supper. He can get very angry.”
Chaz put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’ll be cool, Libs. He just needs to see that this lesbo gang is unbreakable. Strength and unity, right?”
Libby giggled. “Lesbo gang?”
“Oops. Now you know the working title for my punk band. Just don’t tell anyone else, okay?”
“Are you in a band?”
Chaz laughed. “No. I picked up a guitar once, but I don’t have the fingers to do a killer shred. Maybe drums, since I’m good at beating things.” She looked at Libby. “Why?”
“I was just thinking,” she said, hands fidgeting in her lap, “that you’re still like a stranger to me. I want to know you better.”
“All right. What chapter you want to open up to?”
She put her cheek on Chaz’s shoulder. “Well. You’re meeting my parents. What are yours like?”
The grassland was gone; now they were in a forest, all the leaves contaminated with the reds and oranges of autumn—that bizarro Earth season when all the green vanished.
“You lucked out with me,” said Chaz, watching the trees dance in the wind, “because I don’t even know my parents. All the earliest memories I have are at some orphanage. I think it was called Shining Star or something, I don’t remember. I escaped when I was thirteen and left that place in the dust. Lived off the street for a while, until I met this guy, Palko, who took me in as his little indentured bitch to help around his shop. I got to strip apart computers and separate everything, and I learned a lot about them.”
