Helluva Luxe

by Essary, Natalie

  “Ash?” I finally asked.

  She set the bottle down and looked at me, puzzled. “The DJ,” she said, as if I should know. “And the owner. Her name is Ash.”

  My stomach quivered, then got hot. The bartender handed me a glass and nodded toward a fat red leather chair, lined with black cushions shaped like lips. I sat down and slid back. Every muscle in my body relaxed but one.

  “Thanks,” I said. “For your help and for the drink.”

  She fell into the futon across from me without spilling a drop and kicked her boots up.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “You kinda remind me of my brother.” The words materialized between us, hovered for a moment and dissipated.

  “Why would you say that?” I asked. Not something a guy wants to hear. Especially a guy with designs.

  “I don’t know,” she decided, boldly examining my face for clues. “Maybe it’s the shirt.”

  She winked at me then and downed half her drink.

  “I never make excuses for my wrestling shirts. Even to girls with knives in their hair.”

  She refilled both glasses and settled back again, completely comfortable with silence. Evidently, she had no trouble watching me, either. Her eyes were heating the room.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Rorke.”

  “In the last life or in this one?”

  She raised her glass to me.

  Another moment passed.

  “Where are you from, Nick?”

  “That depends,” I said.

  “Where were you last?”

  “Salem.”

  “Witch Capital of the World?”

  “The very one.” I nodded.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “What makes you think I left?”

  “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

  We locked eyes for a beat.

  “Do you always drink this much?” I said.

  “Only on days that end in why.”

  As she reached to take my glass, I realized it was empty. I didn’t say anything, just watched her get up and walk over to the sink. She ran the water and dried the dishes with a lace tea towel that said “I Like it Wet” in red cursive. I tried not to smile.

  “I’d stay away from Naenia’s bunch, if I were you,” she advised, palming something from one of the drawers and tucking it into her boot. “You gotta start with nutso and work your way up to criminally insane.”

  I assumed Naenia was the green queen on the back stage, so I nodded. But I’m no fool. The girl I needed to watch out for was the one right in front of me.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  “Pleasure’s mine.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I hoped she hadn’t noticed I was covered in Greyhound.

  “Of course,” she said. “You can use the staff showers.”

  I hadn’t meant a shower, but it sounded like a damn good idea. “Thanks, Rorke.”

  I got up and followed her to the door, stood quietly aside while she locked up number thirteen. I tried to seem as unobtrusive as possible, but something inside me was slowly thawing, and I wasn’t sure I was okay with it.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall and to the left,” she said. “There’s a sign on the door. Take your time.”

  David and Kim’s cover of “White Rabbit” echoed through the wall, pulsing faintly, as Rorke disappeared down the long hallway. I shivered through my leather and went in search of hot water, trying not to walk in time. Couldn’t seem to help myself. It was getting louder. Not the music, just the beat. Ash’s angled face tricked through my mind, tinged with red. I was marveling to myself that I just might be lost in the creepiest place on earth when the aforementioned door appeared.

  I never should have opened it.

  Chapter 3

  The last thing I remember before my head cracked the tile was getting blasted by the steam of somebody else’s shower. The moist air smelled like firewood. Then everything went black. When I came to I found that snit of a door girl standing over me, scowling. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear and an icepack in her hand.

  “Don’t move.”

  “What the devil, dormouse?” I mumbled.

  “You tell me?” she barked, making her eyes even bigger.

  There was an unsavory substance drying down the front of my shirt that did not resemble my last meal at Denny’s, and every bit of my body was in some sort of pain.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “What did you swallow, pal? And how’d you get back here?”

  If my father taught me nothing else, I learned being called “pal” is rarely a good thing. She fussed after me with her cold pointy fingers like an elementary school nurse who wasn’t easily impressed. In fact, she was so ticked off her lips were gone.

  “I’m not on anything,” I said, but my tongue sounded like it was covered with hair.

  “Right,” she drawled and lifted my shoulder to tuck a rolled-up towel under my head. Then the lecture kicked on.

  “You could have choked, you know? If you don’t give a shit about yourself, that’s fine, but do you have any idea what negative publicity does to a place like this? We’re the biggest nightclub in town. Plenty of people would be happy to see that change. I could be out of a job. And a home. And I am not the only one who works here. Selfish little prick. You’re not River Phoenix,” she trailed off, still trying to make me comfortable on the cold tile.

  “The bartender let me back here. I’ll find her, and she’ll explain—”

  “Oh, hell no!” she said, pushing me back down. “Your dumb ass is not going anywhere near that bar. You’re a liability. You’re not leaving until I’m sure you won’t OD. Plus it’s pouring outside, and the roads are closed. You’d never get a taxi.” She stared at me with tremendous intensity, daring me to dispute her.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “But at least let me get up off the floor.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  She continued to reprimand me with her eyes while she removed her witch cloak and pulled my arm around her bare shoulder. Her skin was about as chilly as her disposition. And she was freakishly strong for such a stick of a chick. Under all that velveteen, she was wearing one of Victoria’s secrets as a dress. Her striped tights, efficiently torn, led my eye directly to her pilgrim boots. And the swirling floor.

  “My name is Nick.” I wasn’t really trying to make conversation. I was merely trying to remain conscious.

  “I’m Evilyn. And let’s just get it all out now, Upchuck. I see you’re a prime catch and all, with your sexy east coast accent and your skinny boy pants, but I’m not into guys who have more problems than me, so just take your tats and go sniffing up another tree. I belong to the bar.”

  “I was just being nice.”

  “I like nice even less.”

  So we hobbled down the endless hallway in silence.

  When number thirteen materialized, Evilyn fished a skeleton key from the crystal pouch around her neck and unlocked the door.

  “No one will mind?” I asked.

  “Who would mind?”

  “Rorke said it was her office.”

  “Because it’s where she hides her stash,” she said flatly. “Besides, she’s pissed and gone to bed by now. It’s after four.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Indeed, she did not.

  “Go lie down,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you when I finish the books. And take that shirt off. It was visually offensive without the vomit.”

  The door slammed before I could argue.

  I leaned against a blown up print of Julie Strain, shirtless, brushing her teeth in a mirror. The click of a deadbolt echoed through the empty room. It sounded rather final, and it was followed by the haunting hum of silence.

  Bitch had locked me in.

  I sighed. Then I saw a pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on an ashtray by the futon, and had a change of he
art. I plucked one from the box, fumbled through my pocket for a light and gazed up at the beast towering over me.

  Someone had gutted a grandfather clock and converted it into a bookcase. All the tricks and trinkets that were once on the inside of the clock had been dismantled and glued down one pane of the side glass, like the pieces of time had all tumbled out. The clock had a high bonnet with a split pediment painted up like the wings of a rising phoenix. The moon dial was mounted at its feet. Fire licked up the corners, along the wooden casing, and the toe molding looked like it had been scorched. The bottom front glass was removed for easy access to the books, but the top front glass had a smoked key lock door. I couldn’t see what was in there without climbing up the shelves. It looked like more books.

  I took a couple of long drags and wondered how something so incredible slipped my notice when I was in “the office” before. I assumed because there was a girl in the room. One Helluva girl. But then I decided I didn’t care about the bookshelf and sank back into the arm of the futon.

  The lamp next to me flickered with a little hiss.

  I glared at it.

  If it went out, all I had was a Zippo.

  The lamp was clearly pieced together from a couple of antique shop jackpots, the kind of lamp that would complement sexually suggestive dishtowels. The base was black wrought-iron vinery, twisted around a slender body of ruby glass. The shade, deep red satin with black tulle overlay. The overall effect on the room was something akin to my fantasies of an opium den.

  A few moments passed with the light still on, and I started to relax again, fancy myself lucky even. Then the bulb rattled. It screeched and turned slightly, metal on metal. I looked under the shade, and that’s where I found the frantic flowers scratched into the lining. They looked like the work of a razorblade, but I was too tired to freak out.

  Instead I thought, What the hell are those flowers called? As I concentrated on them, the throbbing in my head stilled, like I’d eaten a pill. I lit another cigarette and unlaced my boots, took my socks off, and grabbed the black fleece throw from the back of the futon. It was so soft, like somebody skinned a teddy bear…

  Of course I nodded off with a smoke in my hand, an act nightmares are made of. Sometimes I’m just not that bright.

  I dreamed I was in an altered version of Rorke’s office. Someone, a female, was shrieking like a banshee. Every time I turned around to see what the hell the fuss was about, the scream reverberated. In other words, no matter which way I faced, the sound was coming from behind me. The butter walls were charred and dripping onto the floor in greasy puddles. It made the room feel incomplete, like a stage set. An acrid fog hung in the air.

  Then it started to rain.

  I rolled ass-first off the futon and landed with a thud. Smoke curled from the blanket twisted through my legs, and water sprayed from the ceiling. Evidently, the cigarette dropped out of my hand and ate a fire trail straight through to my leather pants. I got up fast and killed the blanket with my bare foot. Then I scaled the bookshelf to have a whack at the blasting fire alarm. Unfortunately, I was half-awake, half-lit and mildly concussed. So when the tower of books rocked forward, and I staggered backward, a dense collection of Poe’s greatest works fell a significant distance, landing squarely on my stomping foot. I’ve still got the tell-tale toe to prove it. Then the glass door with the key lock flew open and spewed a leather-bound demon across number thirteen. It was a notebook, filled with tissue thin sheets of red paper that fluttered to the wet, wooden floor like broken wings.

  So far I was totally trashing the place.

  I was sure to get the girl after this.

  I took a deep breath, grabbed a chair from the kitchenette and used it to knock down the smoke alarm. Then I went after the sprinkler. When the chaos stopped, my damn ears were still ringing. I picked up the Lucky Strike box, dried it off on my shirt and fished around for a cigarette that hadn’t been compromised.

  All the sudden I had a lot to do before Evilyn returned.

  If Evilyn returned.

  But I didn’t feel like cleaning. I felt like reading the pages that were all over the floor. When I bent to pick up the closest one, a familiar scent cut straight to my memory and threw me back in time. I’m well aware the room should’ve smelled like burnt crotch but it didn’t. It smelled like cloves. It smelled like my most aggressive skeletons rattling after me, the ones who hide the furthest back in the closet. My heart dropped into my gut. I sank to the floor, surrounded by tissue pools of blood-colored secrets.

  I hadn’t smelled a clove in a long, long time.

  Dark and spidery scrawl floated across the page in my hand, flashing like fish scales. I ignored it, put the paper down, and cleared a path to the kitchenette on my hands and knees. I stood up to get a glass and Rorke’s gypsy bottle from the fridge. Then I wondered who the hell I was kidding and put the glass back. I took a long tug straight from the bottle, and it did the trick. Suddenly, cleaning the room didn’t seem like such a big deal.

  I sat back down on the floor at the edge of the fray where the book had landed. I picked it up and opened it. There was another flower scratched into the leather, on the flap of a small pocket with a snap shaped like a skull. I popped it open. Inside there was a lock of silvery hair and a broken piece of platinum jewelry. My hands felt warm, and my breath got caught. I slid my finger along the binding and found a tear in the seam. And that’s where the pictures were hidden.

  The first was a black-and-white profile of a seductively strung-out girl, leaning over the railing of a roof bar at night. She was watching the twisting traffic below, a cigarette with an inch of ash forgotten between her chipped nails. Her eyes had slipped out of focus. She had the look of someone who thought nobody was watching, and the moon hung heavy on her shoulder. I felt like I’d seen her somewhere before.

  The same girl was in the second photo. It was black and white, too, but this one had her standing next to some guy in front of Rorke’s bar. They were ragged-out in Steampunk gear. She wore a pinstriped walking suit that barely covered her little ass, with fishnets, a garter belt and granny boots. She even had the fingerless lace gloves. In one hand, a pair of Victorian opera glasses. In the other, a drink. The guy had his arm around her, and her shoulders were as tight as her smile.

  He had on a silk floral vest with a gambler hat, a string tie and sleeve garters. I started laughing out loud. He was leaning chivalrously against a walking stick that was topped with a very large jewel, and grinning like a game show host. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I even considered tearing the photo in half. It was a tingling impulse more than a thought, really. But the girl, well, she was incredible.

  The final picture, shot in color, made me gasp and say something along the lines of “Holy shit.” Again, same girl. But not really. She was sitting on the edge of a catwalk beneath a spray of purple lights, and she had wings. They were gauzy, woven with ribbons and broken glass. I couldn’t imagine what held them in place, because her water-colored dress was so sheer I could see trails of dark lace through it. Over-the-knee blue-black boots. Wild hair twisted with black flowers. She had fire in her midnight eyes, burning straight through the lens of the camera. Her lips were twitched into a mischievous smile as the DJ, head bent, said something in her ear.

  A whisper shivered through the room.

  I’d love to blame my behavior on the bolted door and pretend I didn’t have anything better to do than obsess over photos of gorgeous strangers, but I’d be a goddamn liar. I couldn’t move. I sat there staring at the pictures, comparing each to the other with the scrutiny of an artist. Then I reached for a fistful of tissue paper pages and another tug on the bottle.

  I only had to read as far as the first line to figure out they were letters. Hundreds of whisper-thin letters. But not a single one had a salutation on it. Or any dates. Some of them got damaged, and the bits of wet paper stuck to my feet looked like open wounds. The spidery writing shimmered again, and I kept reading.


  The voice of the writer was alternately aching and soothing and crazy with love. I immediately pictured a woman, sometimes teasing, sometimes angry, but always…alive. So alive I wanted to shred the letters and swallow them. I read dozens. I read so many I was hearing the voice in my head, and I wasn’t even sure I was reading anymore.

  I drifted off again.

  Well, that’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  Chapter 4

  This time the burst of wailing rattled the walls. Unfortunately, it seemed to be coming from inside the big clock. It sounded just like the fire alarm I’d knocked off the ceiling, if the fire alarm were a woman. I stood up to check it out, because sometimes I’m just not that bright. As I got closer to the sound, it upgraded to a scream, the kind that makes your skin ripple.

  And I realized my head wasn’t doing the pounding.

  Something inside that clock wanted out.

  Before I could whimper like a little girl, the door to number thirteen banged open, and I staggered back against the futon, hitting my head for a second time.

  I looked up, and the DJ was standing in the open doorway.

  She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her eyes were deep, red-rimmed shadows behind chunks of wild hair. She had a beer and a cigarette in one hand, and a chain of keys in the other. She was wearing a beater that said Get a real fucking bike and red leather pants that looked like she applied them with a brush.

  In other words, she was freakishly more intense close up.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Her voice was low and smooth, like she’d taken a shot of the River Styx.

  “The door girl locked me in here, and I fell asleep.”

  “You were screaming,” she said. “Like a woman.”

  “That wasn’t me. That was the smoke alarm.”