by Jason Bryan
“No, not broken, stolen,” I grin as the earring finds my pocket. “Problem solved.”
She laughs through a pout. Her eyes flutter and she’s trying to keep her mascara from running. To me it’s just a piece of jewelry, to her, it’s the reputation of her craftsmanship.
“I’m going to need that piece back, of course. You’re friends with Kiki?” Devon gets right back to business.
“I heard about you, she said you have a certain style to everything you do. So do I.” She relaxes and puts a velvet-gloved hand to her hip.
“Yeah, and you’re the property of that stuffed suit I met?” Way to bring a hot girl down a notch or four, Dylen.
“Hah!” she laughs to hide being so offended. “That’s actually my boyfriend,” Devon stares into me.
Her eyelids close and squint a little just over her irises, her mouth thins at the edges into a slight smile as her brow tries to remain mad, but relaxes. Tell tale signs I struck a nerve, lusty tension a sure sign a girl wants you to kiss her. I step forward and put my hands on her hips without hesitation, locked on her gaze. “Is that what they call that these days?”
She trembles for a moment. Those beautiful wet, big sapphires shoot cupid into me, her high caliber womanhood enough to leave a goatse-gaped exit wound.
“A girl has to survive in this city, and I’m not some whore.” she replies, matter-of-fact.
“Far from,” I whisper.
My eyes closing, lips touching hers, the dart of her tongue meeting mine lights up my senses. Time slows and all I can feel is her hands on my back, mine falling off her hips and grabbing a handful of large, bountiful ass. She breathes out and the warm air from her nose tickles my face. My left hand slides up her back and I grab a handful of the hair at the back of her head. I can’t help but lose the passion at this point when I realize the irony of our bullshit conversation. Of course she’s a whore, she just made out with a complete stranger while dating a man for his money, I just knew what to say and when. We’re the same type of person.
Our lips come apart and we both look around to see if anyone noticed. Devon adjusts her dress and then opens her purse, a hand up to her nose to sniff back something. “You got a bullet?” I inquire. “Yeah, here,” she hands me a little stainless steel tube, the size of a brazil nut. A bullet is a little bullet shaped device you can fit in your pocket. It has two chambers separated by a knob on the side or a disc on the bottom. It has a hole on one end to snort coke from a chamber that you load by plugging one end, turning it upside down, turning the knob fully once, and turning it right side up and snorting from it.
I prep it for a hit and snort it back. She sniffles.
“Here,” she hands me a business card. “Text me after the show, I need my earring back.” She smiles, steps out from the shadows and heads up the stairs. Backing up against the wall, I can feel my dick pulling my pants tight around it.
“Wow,” I whisper to myself, noticing that I’m still breathing a little faster. I don’t know if it’s the coke or her kiss, but my soul feels like it’s on fucking fire now. I take off my jacket and lean my back up against the cold stone wall for some relief. What a rush.
My phone is eager to interrupt the nice moment between relieving wall and hot back. Misha and Kiki have texted me six times looking for me. Just as I notice their messages, I hear the familiar clipclops of Kiki and the cackling laugher of Misha shuffling towards the ladies’ room. “Hehehe! I can’t believe I was one of those server girls back in the day, oh my!” Misha laughs. Kiki giggles. “Dyl is going to freak when he sees how much we drank, he’ll end up paying for $18 watered down drinks here!” “Suckerrrrrrr!” Misha bellows back. They both laugh and holler as they enter the white light streaming out of the bathroom. I prefer shadows and silence for now.
Time crawls by while skulking. Devon’s cocaine and kiss feel radioactively passionate, I’m a walking ghost. Here. Now. My hands feel around my pocket and I pull out her earring. I put both her card, and the earring, into my coat pocket to keep them safe. I want some more of that, and I doubt Eric can light her up like I could. My coat goes back on and I duck into the men’s room. Cold water on, a handful of paper towels, patting my face dry. I don’t even want to think about having to watch her sitting next to him for the rest of the show. Fuck. Especially not right after what just happened.
I breathe in clean, clear air. I breathe out, from each nostril roar flames and soot. With each passing moment, dirty black diesel smoke stains everything it touches. The bathroom is soon covered in carbon as a fine grey ash floats delicately, almost to apologize for the apocalypse. I look at myself in the mirror and my green eyes have turned red. Cracked bones glow through loose skin made of little worms stitched together. I can watch a rock-grey cancer cell working to destroying me, sent to provide an end to pointless people. It tunnels through me, chewing its way from organ to organ and spreading hungry little copies of evil grey mouths. Full of jagged spines, each tooth has even smaller mouths on them, snapping and gnashing with clockwork rhythm, cute razor lips nibble on guts. I can’t breathe, inflating tumors push against my ribs on the inside. The bathroom mirror shatters and implodes, replaced with a tunnel of concentrated consciousness. The intersections of nirvana and oblivion, where understanding anything more than your mind can take would result in your instant death, the protection mechanism the universe uses to keep our souls from disengaging at will. My life hangs in the balance for now, but the cancer is always winning. Time is death for all regardless, only purpose keeps our experience from souring.
I steady myself on the counter. The blow she gave me is fucking intense. I’m going to need a few drinks. I straighten out my collar and check for any residue hanging out of my nose. I dry my hands, exit, and walk back up the stairs. The hall is nearly empty and I just manage to sneak back into the runway area for the second show to begin. I spot Kiki and Misha and step on a few toes to take my seat.
“Where the fuck were you?” Kiki says a bit too loud, feeling eyes all over me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Better to explain later. My eyes catch two empty chairs and I notice Devon and her date are gone.
17 Pressure
The second show begins and I let my eyes wander through the crowd. I’m bored and not in any way interested in the action on stage. Figures prance and spin, flashbulbs go off, coloured lights play on the walls and people applaud. Charlie Brown’s teacher comes on the PA system, I understand nothing announced.
Kiki pokes me, “Dyl, what a show! … Dyl?”
“Yeah, fucken sweet,” I reply.
Misha is wasted, stepping in front of Kiki and pushing her way past me. She can turn into such a bitch when drunk. Kiki stands up and follows me out.
Out the front door of the hall and the midnight air feels good on my face. Misha is bent over for a good 30 seconds while trying to do up a little fancy buckle on her heels. Kiki looks around a bit nervously. “Well, I think I should take her home, we drank that whole 26’er Eric left for Misha, and the bottle of Vueve! Where were you?” Kiki looks like she’s not having fun anymore. “I was just mingling, you know,” and I flash the little gold earring from my pocket. Kiki’s face brightens into a silly smile, “Oh Dyl you dog you!” and she playfully punches me in the arm.
We both laugh.
“Hehe, yeah,” I sigh while chuckling. “What the fuck is so fucken’ funny?” Misha barks, her butt pointing out at the lineup of taxis and cars, illuminated in a mix of German xenon and Japanese halogen. “Nothin’ Mish!” I say, walking over and standing behind Misha, pretending to slap her ass with a stupid look on my face.
Kiki howls and claps her hands.
“What! You fuckers!” Misha groans. “Fuck it!” she shouts as she kicks her heel off, hitting some guy smoking in the back of his leg. “Sorry! You’re handsome!” Misha stands up and smiles at the guy. She turns back towards us “Not really, ugh!” and balances on one leg to take her other shoe off.
“Dyl, let’s go to your
place, I’m going to call night flight for another bottle,” Misha says, opening the nearest taxi door. Kiki looks at the people patiently waiting in lineup for taxis and freezes up. I grab Kiki’s arm and drag her to the cab, put her in the back, and take the front seat. “Asshole,” a girl is overheard saying as the door shuts.
Misha and Kiki tap away on their phones in relative silence. The only words spoken are, “Crown or vodka?” Misha wanted more vodka. Vodka and water to keep slim she says. The cab dumps us in front of a few 19 year olds puking outside of the local Irish bar. I buzz us into my place and Kiki falls on my couch with a sigh, Misha hits the bathroom. “Dyl put on some tunes,” Kiki says just as I put on a random breakbeat iTunes radio station, “Way ahead of you Kiki,” I say through a grin.
The tunes are pumping. Misha is drunk dancing, or flailing more like it, in front of the purple couch Kiki is sprawled across.
“Eek!” Misha screams as she falls onto the couch, Kiki’s attempt at catching her results in a long, sharp nail puncturing one of Misha’s breasts.
“Owch bitch! I’m bleeding!”
Kiki laughs.
“Ow!” Misha half pulls her left breast from its bra.
“Look! Look at what Kiki did to me!” Misha exclaims, as if it was Kiki’s fault that she fell over.
A little crescent shaped red mark and a tiny bit of blood marks the scratch. Misha walks to the bathroom and spends 30 seconds eyeing up her grievous wound. I look at Kiki with a raised eyebrow, she returns the look with rolled eyes.
“If this scars I’m going to be so pissed! I can never wear another summer dress!” Misha stomps her feet.
“OH BOB SAGET!” I drunkenly scream, mimicking my YouTube hero Tourettes Guy.
Kiki laughs. “Mish, you’ll be fine. Calm down silly goose!”
Kiki strains to get up off the couch, her breasts must weigh a ton. My phone goes off and the late night booze delivery is here. I press 9 to buzz him up and walk to the foyer to wait at the door. Kiki clip-clops around the apartment in the background and I can hear Misha change the internet radio to bass-thumping ghetto rap. I count how many times the rapper alternates between the words “what” and “nigga” in 30 seconds. Six whats, and ten variations of the word nigga, but the beat is really catchy and I tap my foot to the track.
Knock knock. I open the door and I’m greeted with a smile. $80 goes into the hand of the grinning chubby deliveryman and I get 40 ounces of vodka in return.
“Thanks!” I say, I’ve never meant that more.
The door thuds as it closes, my excitement has me skipping back to the kitchen. Kiki, always the homemaker, already has three glasses full of ice and half-filled with cranberry juice. I top up the drinks, put the bottle down, lift up a cup and cheers to a fun night. Misha looks upset. Deep creases betray to us emotions hidden behind a mask of triple ounce drinks.
“Fuuuck!” Misha moans, and tosses her phone into her purse.
Kiki’s brow goes into a rare scrunch,
“What’s wrong now Mish?!”
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
I laugh.
“Shut up Dyl!, Mish …what?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Misha pulls her hair back into a ponytail and sits in a red leather chair. She takes a huge mouthful of her drink.
“Okaaay,” Kiki has a sip of her drink and checks her phone. “Oh there’s a party at Tammy’s tonight!”
Misha takes another big drink. I’ve seen this before on Intervention.
My first thought to cheer up Misha is to crank the music and dance around like a complete tool. I make sure to pelvic thrust at Misha. Nothing makes her smile. Kiki gets up and dances too, and does the funky chicken. It’s pretty obvious that Misha is miserable about something.
My glass of vodka disappears on a trip to my liver, followed by quickly pouring myself another. Kiki joins me with Misha’s empty glass and her own half empty cup.
Misha yells out “Dyl, your phone is ringing!” just as I pour the first glass.
Kiki walks over to my desk and brings me my phone, I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I had Kiki text me your number, I hope you don’t mind.”
It’s Devon.
“What’s up? Haha, that’s awesome,” I smile, I’m sure she can hear the music. Kiki says “I’ll take that,” as she grabs the bottle to pour more drinks.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No, just a few friends having a few drinks, you?”
“I’m bored, I need my jewelry, and I have no booze. I could trade party favors for some? Hehe.”
Devon thinks the quickest way to this man’s heart is through his nose.
I step away from the counter and sit by the window.
“Yeah …yeah come down. 55 Cordova Street. Text me when you’re here.”
“Okay ... going to catch a cab! Bye!”
I hang up and wonder why anyone would date in this city.
Misha’s pissing again, or texting someone in the bathroom. Something’s up with her and she doesn’t want to talk about it at all.
“Kiki, I have Devon coming over in a bit. Do you guys mind if I get you two to go so I can have some, uhh ...”
“Alone time?” Kiki laughs.
“Yeah.”
“How did you swing that, getting her to ditch Daddy Warbucks for... you?!”
I don’t know if Kiki meant to sound insulting, but really, it kind of was.
“Obviously she knows when he’s pumping her that she’s basically spreading her legs for a paycheque. I can’t imagine that sex would feel very good. I know I’ve pumped a couple fatties when drunk and I know that immediately after I cum, I want to get the fuck out of there and forget it ever happened.”
Kiki stares at me with a blank face.
“Okay then! T.M.I. Dyl, T.M.I.!”
Kiki was never one for the red pill. It’s better to keep her in the dark about some things.
“I uh, I guess we could go to, Sam’s? We’ll see when Mish gets out of the can.”
I run my hand through greasy spaghetti hair, my scalp sweating crisco. Grit in the back of my nose with an old shoe soaked in vodka for a mouth. I feel perfectly dirty for what is about to transpire. Kiki finishes her drink and I head to the kitchen to grab the bottle. I can’t believe they already put such a dent in a forty. My second drink sits untouched on the counter and I have a long pull from it, top it up with vodka and cranberry, and head back with the bottles to pour Kiki another.
“What’s up with Mish?” I ask, knowing it’s probably to do with some douchebag she’s seeing, somebody like me.
“Her boyfriend is in Vegas and hasn’t texted her in days, I think she’s just worried if he’s ok. She just wants to know where he is.”
“Yeah, balls deep in some broad he met poolside, no doubt.”
“Dyl!” Kiki scowls.
A muffled scream comes from the bathroom. The door flies open and crashes into the wall behind it.
“Fuck you Dylen, go fuck yourself!” Misha half screams, half sobs.
She slams her phone down on the bathroom counter.
“Let’s go Kayla.”
“Misha, calm down,” Kiki says, getting up off the couch and joining her at the bathroom sink.
My mind is on the pussy delivery service that’s coming, and hoping the tear brigade leaves before she gets here. Misha fixes her makeup and walks to the purple couch to grab her jacket.
Kiki follows her, looking at me with a frown. “Are you happy? Thanks Dyl, way to ruin her night.”
Just as she says that, my phone rings to signal someone at the front gate. I push 9 to buzz them in. Kiki pours another half and half for Misha, who slams it in two large unlady-like sips. I walk over and sit on a plush reclining leather chair usually reserved for meetings. It’s behind a glass topped desk that has the green neon heart behind it, across from the purple couch. Styles of Tony Montana and The Joker mix toget
her in my world of shit.
The girls continue to look for things they’ve left. Kiki’s phone, Misha’s bag, a hair tie, Misha’s lighter. Three door beeps means Devon just walked into the studio. Hearing her heels echo down the short hallway, in moments turning the corner to see Misha and Kiki frantically looking to leave. Misha immediately smiles and puts on a perfect social face.
“Oh hi Devon! Your stuff was SUCH a hit at the show tonight! I love your jade pieces!” Misha sings before giving her a hug.
Kiki kisses her on both cheeks, “You have to let us know the next event! I need to see what you have in the way of ankle bracelets!”
Devon looks flattered. “I don’t ... I don’t actually have ankle bracelets yet. I never thought there was much of a market for that here!”
Kiki giggles and Misha beams a smile to her.
“Well, we’re just on our way to a private party, message me on Facebook soon!”
Kiki and Misha wave and say “Bye!” in unison.
Kiki waves and says “Bye Dyl!” while Misha walks out without a word.
18 Aftertaste
Devon walks to the couch and puts her bag down, then takes off her coat.
My eyes meet hers. She’s wearing a black, skin tight dress. Her dark locks are perfectly straight, two beautiful highways of black hair draped over her buxom breasts, nearly popping out of her top. Her smile, body, and dress scream fuck me, my nose whispers for the snort me. When she walks her hips rock back and forth, a switch speaking to the oldest parts of my mind; her heels strum a subtle and sexy slow beat on the concrete floor.
Devon prowls away from the couch to squat down in front of my desk. Her chin on the backs of her sandwiched hands, elbows on the glass. Green light from the heart behind me only serves to highlight the blue of her eyes more. She looks up at me with a foxy grin and asks, “Is this where you do your business?” Inner workings of my brain gears grind out whether or not she’s trying to seduce me, or if she’s just naturally irresistible.
I point to the desk, I already have a straw out and a business card to chop with. She stands up, walks to the couch and opens her purse. Her hands find the goodies and she dumps the little package onto the desk. Bedroom glances over her shoulder while walking to my kitchen, I can’t take my eyes off her, staring at her ass the whole way. She comes back with the vodka bottle, sits on the corner of the desk, and takes a big swig. I unfold the flap, a porn magazine was butchered to make this convenient drug pouch, a lithe model wearing torn stockings, the innards of her vagina spread open like a predator mouth. Eyes as vacant as mine.
