Messalina: Devourer of Men

by Zetta Brown

  “Yeah.” Gator chuckles, his voice thick from a thousand smoked Marlboros. “We got to be real friendly the other night.”

  My desk clock chimes three-thirty and I smile.

  “Speaking of meetings, we really have got to stop meeting like this, Hollister, but I’m glad to see you got my present.”

  Neil’s face is a mask and his eyes burn a black fire, but his skin is pale and flushed. I lean forward, loosely lace my fingers together in front of me, and look Neil Hollister dead on.

  “As you can see from the series of photographs and the DVD you received earlier, I have decided it would be in my best interest not to take you at your word—valuable though it may be. I needed to take some measures with regard to my privacy.” I flash him a cold smile. “Call it insurance.”

  Neil starts chewing his lower lip.

  “You, Peaches, and Gloria all had a good time in that motel, didn’t you?”

  Gator’s hearty laugh makes me want to clear my throat.

  “So you see, Neil, if I ever catch wind that you or any of your ‘associates’ are showing any of my photographs you’ve stored in any way, shape, or altered form,” I lean in closer for the kill. “Not only will your uncle, your mama, and your daddy receive a copy of your sex video . . . I’m gonna start peddling your ass on the Internet.”

  Still smiling, Gator gets on one knee and moves in so close I’m sure his breath heats Neil’s already flaming cheek.

  “Let me add to what the little lady is trying to say, you fucking limp-dicked cum stain. And that is: don’t mess in grown folks’ business, boy. I know who you are, where you live, and what power you think you have, and it don’t mean shit to me and my running crew. I’ll wipe your ass out.”

  Neil is breathing hard through his nostrils and his mouth is set in a thin line. His skin is turning dusky pink and I perceive dampness around his hairline.

  “Damn, Neil. When you told me you were ‘open-minded,’ I didn’t know just how open you meant.” Both Gator and I enjoy a good laugh out of this.

  “You’re kinkier than me, boy.” Gator leans over and says into Neil’s ear. “And I’m the type of sick fuck who would kill your mama and rape your dog.” He gives Neil a hard, but playful, slug in the arm. Neil flinches at the touch and I wonder if he’s shit himself.

  I’m busting a gut from laughing. “Hey, Gator, from what I spotted in the video, I see Gloria has had her surgery but Peaches is still waiting for his, right?”

  Neil’s involuntary shiver makes me laugh harder.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone about our little meeting, are you, Neil?” Gator asks.

  And for the first time, Neil moves voluntarily to shake his head.

  “As far as you’re concerned, Dr. Cavell here has given you and your pals your grades and you’re gonna leave her alone.” Gator stands up. “Now go and tell your little pussy friends that if I find out any of you haven’t left her alone,” he says, swinging around get square into Neil’s face, “you won’t live to regret it.”

  Neil rises to his feet, looks at me, and tries hard to stare me down, but my gaze is harder than granite.

  “Who you eyeballin’, boy?” Gator shoves at Neil’s shoulder. “You stupid enough to be making threats?”

  Neil ducks his head and raises his hands in surrender and makes for the door. Gator beats him there and puts his hand on the doorknob.

  “Remember, cum-stain, my crew is everywhere. There is no hiding. Dr. Cavell is under our protection, you got that?” He opens the door. “Now fuck off.”

  Neil is out of our sight within seconds. Gator closes the door, turns to me, and smiles.

  “Will that do, prof?”

  I stand up and go and hug the big muscle-man. “That’ll do fine, Gator. And, by way of reward, tell the girls that I got you all booked at The Marriott for the Southern Decadence weekend in New Orleans.”

  Gator gives me a squeeze.

  “Aw, heck, Evie. You don’t have to do that. Not that we’re ungrateful, mind, but when Tony told me what that fuckwit was doing to you, the girls and I were more than happy to stick it to the Man for fun. And I’ll tell you this,” he says, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “It ain’t like any of us got his cherry.”

  I break out into a genuine ear-to-ear grin for the first time in months. And here I am thinking there is nothing left that could shock me. Minutes after Gator’s departure, my phone rings. It’s Marlena Mondragon.

  “Hi, Evie. I’m glad I caught you before going home.”

  “Hey, Lena, what ’cha know good?”

  “Well, it’s about those grades you gave me.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that apart from the changes made to Neil Hollister, the grades you have for the others are the same as what we already have recorded. So, all the grades should be D, correct?”

  “That’s right, Lena. Those are the grades they deserve.”

  Chapter twenty-one

  “Par-tay”

  Tony Lobos, along with his cousin and housemate, Carnie DeLuna, aka The Howling Wolf cousins, know how to have a good time and now is the time of year when they throw their annual “Cinco de Mayo Costume Carnivale.”

  This mutha of all parties usually starts around 6pm on the day and lasts until: a) noon the next day, b) until the police come, or c) both.

  Tony and Carnie use the party to say thank you to the community, and to all those who’ve worked in their two restaurants and publishing company (read: business expense)—and to all the family members that accept Tony’s bisexuality and Carnie’s lesbianism.

  One of the big pleasures is getting the official invitation from them. Those who are so privileged wait eagerly to see how they will beat last year’s creation. This year is no different and they top themselves by burning the invite on a CD full of pictures from last year’s bash and a retrospective of things that happened during the prior twelve months.

  Personally, I cannot wait. Twelve to eighteen hours of solid boozing is just the ticket I need to congratulate myself on surviving the last few months.

  The first part of the party is to be held in the ballroom at The Westin Tabor Center with food, drink, and dancing. Then, for the second part of the party, about thirty of us will go back to the cousins’ home, where Carnie will bless us with one of her famous breakfasts, full of homemade Latin goodness, and room to crash on the floor afterwards.

  At seven o’clock, my door buzzer tells me that Ana and Frankie have arrived in the limo to take us to the party, because in a few hours, none of us will be in condition to drive. I step out of the apartment building, sporting a short, red PVC dress with a corset top and accented with buckles from cleavage to hem. Black patent leather thigh-high boots and a short, black PVC jacket complete the ensemble. When Ana and Frankie see me step out looking like Lady Latex, their mouths drop open.

  For once, I had no reservations about my choice of clothing. After being portrayed as a sex goddess in the comic world, I may as well attempt it in the real one.

  “Wow, Eva,” Frankie says. He’s dressed like Sinatra and eyeing me with a smile as the driver helps me inside. “You look ready to party.”

  “Not ‘party,’ Frankie,” I correct, “but par- tay !”

  “Say it, sistah!”

  Catwoman Ana gives me a high-five and I see that the Benedettos have already started on the complimentary champagne. I motion to Frankie and he pours me a glass.

 
For the next five hours, I lose myself among Tony and Carnie’s three hundred closest friends truly enjoying myself. The booze and the food are top-notch and I find I don’t have to worry about the cash bar, because when I try to buy friends drinks, they refuse.

  The gang’s all here: me, Ana, Frankie, Talley, Trey, and his wife, Piper. I even saw Jared, but almost didn’t recognize him dressed as a bomber pilot. That means Sarah is lurking somewhere. I see other people I met while dating Jared, but it doesn’t faze me. Whenever I catch a glimpse of him from across the room talking to someone, I keep on stepping.

  “Woman, you are gorgeous!” Talley shouts out over the music. She’s decked out as a prison warden and her latest girlfriend, Kristina, is her prisoner.

  “Totally edible,” Trey adds and kisses my neck. He surprised everyone who knows him by wearing all white and dressing like a televangelist.

  Tony and Carnie are floating around in their capacity as host and hostess: Tony is dressed as Elvis during his ’68 comeback, and Carnie, quel surprise , is Mother Nature. Press photographers help create a strobe-light effect with their flash pictures. The clock strikes two o’clock and the main party ends and the private party at the house is about to begin. I am surrounded by three new male friends, wait staff from Te Amo Café and DeGaulle’s, which closed in time so employees could attend the festivities. Suddenly, arms take hold of me and spin me around. Lips find mine and my three new friends take turns kissing me goodnight. But when I feel a hand slip up under my dress, I laugh and twist away. Just like my DeLuxe Theater days, I’m out to flirt and entice, nothing more.

  “Not tonight, hun. I’m in full flow.” I wink.

  The look on my would-be paramour’s face is priceless and I laugh. The easiest way to make a strong man cringe is to refer to anything menstrual.

  * * * *

  It’s 3 a.m. by the time we reach Tony and Carnie’s place. There are at least forty of us still partying strong, but at least we’re not the only house on the street with guests. I can’t say how many drinks I’ve had or what I’ve eaten tonight. Right now, I’m running on pure adrenaline to put my recent past behind me.

  The sunroom leading to the backyard has been designated as the dance floor. Carnie’s girlfriend, Marisol Cruz, is a club DJ and has taken control of the music. But as things start to wind down, Tony and his famous karaoke machine get hooked up and a list of brave souls develops. I’m in the kitchen, getting a drink of water of all things, and chatting with a couple who know Tony from high school when he comes in and grabs my arm.

  “Come on, Eva, it’s time for Los Locos.”

  “Oh, my God, Tony, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, girl! Come on!”

  Tony leads me to the sunroom and the little makeshift stage. Ana is already waiting and pulls me up. I start laughing because she’s just as tipsy as I am, if not more so. Marisol has kindly hooked up two extra microphones and after giving Ana and me ours, she heads to the front of the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you—Los Locos!”

  She hands the mike to Tony and steps off the stage, starting the karaoke machine as she passes. When the first few bars of Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling” start, people stop what they’re doing to see their host, looking like a tired, fried lounge lizard, with two tipsy backup singers.

  Ana, Tony, and I then put on a mighty fine show as we reprised an act we did in college for a student talent contest. We didn’t win, but we made it to the semi-finals. It was the mix of Tony’s sultry, Latin looks, Ana’s dark and petite cuteness, and me with all my bouncy curves that was the secret of our success. When we did this originally, I was self-conscious about myself, but when I finally decided to relax and let things happen, we had a good time and got some fans. Now, over ten years later, I think my curves are one of my best assets and I’m finally owning up to them.

  Our effect tonight is no different as Ana and I relive our comic roles as the “Ooga-Shaka Girls.” Back then, Tony dressed in a borrowed, silver-lamé suit while Ana and I dressed as cavewomen and worked a pair of maracas each. This time, we look only slightly better.

  We are jammin’ and I think everyone left in the house has come out to see. They’re laughing and clapping to the beat. Meanwhile, Ana pulls faces at me during our routine, making me laugh and nearly fall out of what little rhythm I have left. Tony croons and flirts with a woman standing in front. I turn away from Ana to focus and that’s when I see Jared staring straight at me.

  He’s a good twenty feet away, but he may as well be standing in front of me, his gaze is so strong. If he’s been looking at me all this time, I can’t believe I haven’t felt it before now. Then again, I’ve been trying to keep mingling all night. Always smiling, always moving.

  But I’m tired. I can’t keep up this pace and this carefree façade going forever, and my mind and body knows it. This sudden encounter with Jared’s stare is more than enough to disrupt my false sense of control.

  And the man is presenting a mighty fine picture in his bomber jacket. His lips are upturned in a slight smile, but I wouldn’t call it happy—perhaps wistful would better describe it.

  I analyze all this in about a second, but it’s enough to throw me off for a few beats before I pick up and place my attention elsewhere.

  We finally end our routine to a riotous ovation and take our bows. Since everyone has filled the conservatory, it’s a few minutes before we can get off the stage, but I’m reluctant to go. My unwillingness increases when the crowd disperses enough for me to leave, but Jared still holds his position by the entrance, blocking my exit.

  With a handful of people still in the room, I can no longer pretend that I can’t see him or need to duck past him. Those options evaporate completely when he steps forward and offers his hand to help me off the stage. His grasp is warm and firm reminding me how I’ve missed that strength over these past months. When my feet touch the floor, I wobble but his hand remains steady. I clear my throat, but when I say, “Thank you,” my voice sounds squeaky and exhausted.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” I look up at him. “How’ve you been?”

  When he smiles, this time there is warmth in his indigo eyes.

  “You look like shit.”

  I glare at him and open my mouth to say something, but then again, so does Jared. He hadn’t said a word.

  We turn in unison to see Sarah approaching, clicking towards us on her stilettos. I’m still a head taller than her. Earlier in the evening, I had grudgingly admired how she worked her World War II nurse’s costume. She still looks fresh and I wonder if she’s had anything to eat or drink all night, but when she gets closer, I can smell the gin.

  “Really, Evadne, you should pull yourself together.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Evadne,” she begins, folding her arms over her chest and taking the tone of someone about to give a lecture to a child, “I think it time someone educated you on the facts.”

  I adopt the “Oh, really?” stance that I do when I’m about to go apoplectic on someone’s ass. I believe Jared senses this too.

  “That’s enough, Sarah.”

  “I don’t think so, Jared. It’s time someone told this woman it’s bad enough that, through you ,” she says, flashing her steely blue eyes on him, “the world now has images of what this thing could look like while rutting like some fat slug.”

  “ What ?” I couldn’t keep my voice from sounding like fingernails running down a chalkboard. “Listen, bitch, I’ve had enough of you talking about
my size.”

  “Oh, please.” Sarah scoffs. “How can one not?”

  I am vaguely aware of others coming into the room, because they keep their distance.

  “Sarah,” I say, “your problem is that you’re shallow. Your tiny view of people is proportionate with the rest of you. This is not about size, this is about substance.”

  “You certainly have that, my dear. All night you’ve been trying to strut your stuff like some pork sausage in a bright red casing.”

  I put my hand on my hip and lean in. “Little girl, I’m not gonna tell you again. Knock it off about my weight.”

  “Sarah,” Jared says. “Leave it alone.”

  “Why are you defending her?” This time it’s Sarah’s turn to screech. “Look at you. Holding hands.”

  Jared and I both look down not realizing this was the case.

  “Why do you keep hurting me so?” she whines, making my skin crawl.

  I stare at her heart-shaped face and quivering, apple-red lips. Her icy blue eyes have melted and brim with tears and her pale, powdery complexion contributes to her waif-like appearance. If I didn’t know the monster that lies beneath, I might actually feel sympathy for the wretched woman-child.

  “Jared,” Sarah says, squaring her shoulders, her voice suddenly showing no trace of frailty, “you are not going to embarrass me again with this—this thing!”

  “Sarah,” he replies through barely moving lips, “you are only embarrassing yourself.”

  “Maybe I am.” She gives a short but hysterical laugh. “I am embarrassing myself by being seen with a trailer-trash bastard like you.”

  I shall call what happens next as “The Slap Heard ’Round the Room” because Sarah does a roundhouse that connects with Jared so hard, the resulting welt starts forming before her hand leaves his face. The people in the room all take in their breath and I’m amazed we don’t get sucked into the vacuum it creates. Then, to my surprise, Sarah pivots, faces me, and builds up to give me the backhanded version. The next thing I know, my cheek gets in the way of her palm and I feel the heat and sting of her slap.