by CK Dawn
“No, of course not,” she said, turning to look at the scenery blurring past her window.
“Of course not?” he prodded. His calloused palm covered her jaw gently and drew her face back toward him. He didn’t remove his hand from her cheek when they faced each other and Dragon closed her eyes against his question. She inhaled the subtle scent of his cologne, marveling again at her body’s lack of magical response.
“That’s nice,” she said of the perfume.
“It’s meant to be,” he confirmed bluntly.
She laughed, but kept her eyes closed. “How much for the honest treatment?”
He hesitated then answered, “I need to get back to you on that one.”
Curiosity forced Dragon to finally look at him. “No one’s ever requested the truth from you?”
His gaze was bewildered. “Why would they?” He kissed her forehead soundly then laid his head on her crown. “They all want the fantasy…” His body stiffened slightly and he pulled away from her to look questioningly into her eyes.
“Dragon,” she supplied, waving her left hand in front of his face.
“Really?”
He held her hand, the tattoo of a Chinese dragon twining around her wrist catching his eye before kissing the rendering and gathering her into his arms again.
“Close enough.” She nuzzled his chin lightly and he took the hint, resting his head on hers and snuggling her close.
“Okay. Well, they all want the fantasy, Dragon.” One hand absently caressed hers, tensing briefly as the car hit a pothole. “Is that what you want? The truth?”
She exhaled gustily, reveling in the calm just being in his embrace provoked, and thought about her options with him. The phrase “anything goes” jumped around her brain like an exuberant puppy and she imagined a sky’s-the-limit dream where, for once, someone catered to her. Limitlessly. Exclusively. The fantasy made her smile and she basked in it.
She surfaced ten seconds later, worried that if she lingered in the light, her entire being would shake off his curious effect and regard him as a morsel to fuel the bliss.
Taking a few surreptitious deep breaths to calm her heart, which had started pounding, Dragon closed her eyes to prevent herself from using her vision to see who Fel could be. Like a dieter turning her back on the candy aisle in the grocery, Dragon metaphorically walked away from rows of deep, dark, seductive chocolate, whispering its rapturous secrets—as even the most generic bars did these days—and stood in front of the much quieter celery bin.
“I want as much of it as you can give me,” she finally answered. She turned her head up until her lips brushed his chin. “But the minute you think to use a maneuver to give me what I want then stop. I don’t want strategy or guaranteed-to-work.” She placed her hand over his heart. “I understand that committing everything or risking your self in your line of work is dangerous, but certainly you have a—a, uh, critical mass indicator.” Her hand rubbed a circle over his heart questioningly.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then give me all you can until that arrow reaches the red, point-of-no-return zone. Can you do that on a free consultation?”
After a moment he nodded. “I can do that on a free consultation.”
“Then no second thoughts,” she kissed his Adam’s apple shyly.
“Yorkie Motel coming up in five, four, three, two—” the cabbie screeched to a stop in front of a rundown five-story building and leaped out to open their door with an exaggerated flourish.
“Thanks,” Fel said, handing her a few folded bills, stepping out of the cab and holding his hand out for Dragon.
Exiting more slowly, mindful of the length of her skirt and the height of her heels, Dragon stared like a tourist at the rundown brick building, its windows a checkerboard of plywood and broken panes, while Fel strode toward a doorman, fitting one key from a well-burdened ring into the lock of a set of double doors.
For reasons that had little to do with the sketchiness of the neighborhood in general or Avenue D in particular, Dragon felt anxious and lagged behind, pretending to be preoccupied with the fading banner that clung to the edge of an overhang, concealing a few windows of the Yorktown and read, make love not war for war is ugly and love is lovely.
She jumped when the cabbie appeared next to her, blinking at the ghost’s sensible, stacked heels and navy worsted skirt. “Hi,” Dragon said, oddly comforted by the cabbie’s stodgy appearance.
“It’s not the Ritz, that’s for goddamn sure,” the old specter said, nodding at the building in front of them.
Dragon smiled politely. “No?”
“It’s clean,” the cabbie assured her, reaching back to secure her no-nonsense bun with wispy fingers. “No human drugs and Muhammad won’t stand for no funny business, so if you need a condom or safe-as-houses ward or cop, just push the button for room service.”
“Dragon,” Fel took her hand and tugged her away, “you ready?”
The bellman scowled at Fel as they approached. “Door’s locked at 9:00 p.m. on Thursdays.”
“Bullshit,” Fel said.
“On account of Muhammad's religious practices,” the bellman insisted mutinously. He pulled at a loose thread on his coat and watched in dismay as a frayed epaulet listed drunkenly down one arm.
“On account of you being a lazy shit who would rather keep the local pub in business than do his job,” Fel said, pulling the heavy front door open for Dragon.
“Least I’m not a floater!” the bellman yelled into the dimly lit lobby.
“Mr. Fel!” exclaimed a diminutive Indian man who could only be the oft-mentioned Muhammad. He hurried over the ruby wall-to-wall to shake Fel’s free hand. “Unfortunately, the trousers you submitted for repair were, after a prolonged effort, pronounced unredeemable. However, Chuyia was able to stock the refrigerator in your room as you instructed and removed all of the other ‘unidentifiable’ stains from your laundry, and may I say it is a pleasure to serve such a discriminating gentleman,” he finished deferentially, despite the quotes his arthritic fingers were barely able to sign when he said “unidentifiable.”
Fel ignored the majority of Muhammad's speech, incendiary and thought-provoking to Dragon’s mind, and asked after the man’s children. Muhammad visibly brightened and detailed their status enthusiastically. All were well; the oldest son was studying to be a doctor, and the youngest, a girl, was a trial with her sketches and ideas about fashion, but such is life, eh?
Before Muhammad could address Dragon, which he was clearly longing to do, Fel hauled them into an elevator. The operator, a hobgoblin sporting a mink cut-to-size and oven mitts, raked the barred door close and politely asked what floor.
“Five. Doug off tonight?” Fel inquired, bracing a hand on the wall against the elevator’s jerky start and sliding the other around Dragon’s shoulders to steady her.
“Doug took up with a Jack,” the creature said with a shrug, his eyes trained hungrily on Dragon. “Don’t know if we’ll be seeing him again.”
“A Jack?” Masking her discomfort at the hob’s sudden attention and wondering if her appeal—comically mesmerizing these last six months—had anything to do with her power’s malfunction, she looked up at Fel. “Do you mean a Jack fly?”
She caught the operator’s glazed stare, trying not to notice that he was naked beneath his gaping fur. Only waist high, one would think that his equipment would be proportionate to his small stature and not resemble the genitalia of a Fi-Fum ogre, which it did.
“But Jacks are small. Insects.”
“Not all of ’em,” the goblin said before launching himself onto Dragon’s leg and humping frantically.
“Jesus!” Fel pried the hob off of Dragon and pushed him against the elevator’s wall. “What’s your problem?”
“I’m sorry,” the operator muttered, his chest heaving from his exertion. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m all right now,” he said to Fel who blocked Dragon from the hob protectively.
Th
e elevator dinged and the hob, his low accent straightening noticeably, said, “Fifth floor. Lingerie, jewelry and refreshment.”
As Fel pulled her off the elevator, Dragon looked back at the goblin who had stepped between closing elevator doors and wiggled his hips, smirking while his cock flopped from knee to knee before stepping back to allow the doors to close.
“Shiva wept,” Dragon muttered, sure she was scarred for life by the hob’s gargantuan equipment and odd behavior. All that bounty and not even a peep from my power, she thought, taking the hand that Fel offered and trotting to keep up with his long-legged stride. “He usually like that?” she asked.
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” he said. “But who can blame him? Thought about doing the same thing myself.” He grinned.
“Sure you did.” She chuckled. “Why did he mention jewelry?”
“Linda in five-oh-one B makes the ugliest tchotchkes you ever want to see. Chip the Gay buys everything she has.”
“He does?”
“He’s not really gay.”
“Ah.” They stopped in front of a heavy oak door with a brass strong man door knocker; the dumbbells he held rested at his feet until someone raised them over his head to tap at the door. “The lingerie?”
“It’s the only thing five-oh-three wears. She runs errands in it, works out, answers the door.”
“In silk and lace?”
“And stilettos and a feathered boa.” The door yielded to his key and they tumbled in. A king-sized bed dominated one wall. Plywood cut to outline the domed top of the Taj Mahal framed the sides and black filmy curtains provided the wondrous fill.
Dragon moved towards the low-slung green sofa that faced the bed. “And the refreshment?”
Fel laughed self-consciously and headed to what Dragon assumed was the bathroom without answering.
“Massage is refreshing, I guess,” Dragon said to the empty room. She eased onto the couch, smoothing her skirt demurely over her knees. She jumped when she heard the shower turn on and looked at the front door.
“He could chop me into bits. I should leave right now.” She stood up. “Would that be rude?” She sat down. “What am I saying? Fuck him.” She stood up and walked to the door. Hand on the knob, she hesitated. “But a massage would feel really good right now.” She walked back to the couch and sat down. “I won’t take off all my clothes,” she concluded. “My underwear can stay on. That’s normal.”
The shower turned off and Fel emerged in only a towel. Thin, precise scars traveled up one arm depicting a curling, feral vine. Each spiky leaf was fingerprinted with a web of delicate veins and tiny thorns littered the stalk and stems like teeth. The design flourished down his chest and over his muscled abdomen, disappearing beneath the plain, white towel like a virulent, beautiful weed searching for a place to root.
Dragon’s breath caught. “Wow,” she exhaled at the breathtaking artistry of his family line.
Fel stopped rubbing his wet hair with a towel and turned to face her. “Yeah?” he murmured almost shyly, then his eyes slid to half-mast, the beginnings of the classic seduction. He stopped in the middle of that stratagem, apparently remembering his promise in the cab and the sweet smile returned. It was just the slightest curling of his mouth’s corners, but his eyes crinkled for the first time since they met, finishing the smile like icing on a layer cake. He stood still, his hand holding the limp towel and let her look.
“You don’t have to do that,” Dragon said.
“I know.” One hand fingered the towel around his waist, pulling it free.
Dragon jumped up and nervously rewrapped and tucked the towel into place. When she’d finished, she didn’t step away, but brushed the back of her hand over the scarred tendrils that reached out towards his pelvic bone. She couldn’t help herself. “I meant this.” She traced the spikes of one leaf that disappeared in the hollow of his belly button. “Wow, this.” She blinked up at him finally and blushed at the intensity of his gaze.
He caught her hand before she could pull away and placed it over his heart. “What about this?” He dragged her palm over his nipple and she snatched it away.
“Muscles are nice.” She ducked her head and returned to the couch. “The truth, remember?”
“That was the truth,” he laughed and strode to a sturdy, unadorned bureau centered on the wall facing the foot of the bed and pulled out a plain white T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats.
“You’re sweet,” she said with a self-conscious chuckle.
“Not really,” he confessed. He opened another drawer and pulled out a set of sheets. He tossed them on the bed and hauled a folded massage table from its place leaning against the wall behind the bureau.
“Wait—”
“No sex,” he assured her, fitting the sheets on the table.
“I know, it’s just…” She stared at his body: tall, broad-shouldered, lanky, yet precisely sculptured and the way his dark hair fell over his brow and into his eyes. Dragon watched the muscles in his arms as they bunched and flexed as he held one end of a sheet and tossed the rest in the air. She stared at the way his back curved at his shoulders and hollowed at the rise of his ass as he smoothed the billowing fabric over the massage table, fascinated by the tenacity of the bit of terry cloth that clung to his hips and the frayed, woven bracelet that hugged his wrist. His feet were long and strangely elegant, and stepped forward and back as he made the makeshift bed. Dragon felt her skin prickle in sexual awareness. “Stop doing that.”
“Not doing anything,” he said distracted with hospital corners. He picked up the sweats and T-shirt and walked swiftly to the bathroom where he stood behind the door to dress. “Are you okay?” he called.
She flinched at the cloth-y thump of a towel hitting the floor. “Sure.” She took those few moments to herself to pace.
Three
“You can leave if you want.” He walked out of the bathroom and toward her, throwing his damp towel in a corner near the bed.
“I know,” she said, wondering how it was that the man could look good naked and in clothes. Surely one state precluded the other; at least it did for her. Yet the stupid white T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and hung loosely about his waist, and the sweats rode low on his hips, on the verge of sliding down, but for the bulge of his genitals and the curve of his ass. The wide hem fell over his feet extravagantly, making his toes appear strangely endearing.
“Bathroom’s that way.” He nodded toward the open door.
Dragon blushed, furious with herself for forgetting that another man’s semen dried on her thighs. “Oh, right.” She walked quickly to the bathroom.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t.” She hid the lower half of her body behind the room’s door as if that could help conceal this evening’s bad judgment.
“I just thought you might like to…freshen up.” He shrugged, his smile compassionate. “It’s what I would do.”
It’s what you just did, Dragon thought, then cursed herself for wondering where he’d been before he met her. “No, you’re right. I feel…” She smiled wanly. “I’ll just be a minute.” Dragon closed the door and leaned against it for an easy count of ten before approaching the sink. She deliberately ignored the mirror and the suspiciously odd placement of a spoon in the toothbrush holder and turned on the tap. She slipped off her shoes, pulled her panties down her legs and plopped them in the sink, letting the cold water saturate them.
Scrubbing her panties with the cracked bar of soap on the sink, Dragon looked longingly at the tub. She desperately wanted a soak and a scrub in near-scalding water, but was nervous about stripping in Fel’s bathroom. Was nervous, truth be told, about taking off anything in Fel’s presence and not just because he was bigger than she was.
She wanted him, could feel her soul revving up to yearn for him. “He hasn’t even done anything,” she whispered, finally facing her own reflection. “Just smiled.” And held me while I fell apart.
&nbs
p; Taking stock of her body’s strangely even keel in the face of such temptation, Dragon stopped washing her underwear, unable to tell if it was it the need for bliss that hungered for him or herself.
Had it really been that long since she’d actually wanted someone, not for the unnatural high fixing them could bring her, but for the simple pleasure of how that person made her feel?
Had she ever really felt the pull of genuine attraction or had she always just fulfilled this other need?
“This inhuman need,” she said out loud, remembering the gloating voice’s boast in Junior’s.
Refusing to acknowledge the rabbit hole the question represented and all incoherent voices in general, she glared at the frowning woman in the mirror. “There’s nothing about him that needs fixing, Wilhelmina,” she gritted out instead. “Well, there is, but he’s too far gone for you to do any good.” Or get any benefit out of him, an insidious voice reminded her.
Ignoring the last, she lathered the cracked bar of soap over her wet underwear, trying not to think of all the ways she could make him like new again. It would only make her hungry for a meal he couldn’t provide, she decided. She glanced in the mirror again, waiting for her reflection to make her see reason.
“Why do you think he can do magic?” she asked. She picked up the tarnished spoon and thought of the leanest year she and Jasper had ever experienced.
Undertow.
Hungry and homeless, they’d been caught squatting in her school’s unused audio/visual room. The principal had found them and lectured them both. Organizations he could call that would give them aid, he’d said after droning on for a good half an hour. Jasper had thanked him and excused himself, grabbing Dragon’s hand.
He’d pulled her out of the man’s office and the building not speaking until they reached a run-down park near the school, a chain-link fence the only thing that separated it from an alley overwhelmed by trash bins. Jasper hushed Dragon before he made a hasty transaction with the smelly, emaciated creature that emerged from the shadows then hauled her to a secluded park bench where they both stared at the three lumps of calcified undertow in a small plastic bag.
