Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  Kenny had the key, if not to Yolanda’s love, then to her apartment and his future. Yolanda was gone, but with her key, she’d given him a way to fill the hole left by her departure.

  He stood at a crossroads outside the two apartments, both keys in hand; he could dispose of the second one, forget it had ever existed and leave his love life to fate. Or he could use it to find a more suitable mate this time, a woman who understood the innumerable possibilities of their unique living arrangement, someone who understood him and could share his apartment, his heart and his life. It could take a while, but he would take the warning of the ceramic begging dog at face value and slow down long enough to make the right selection.

  Two keys. Two roads. Kenny stood at the door and stared at them, one in each hand, and contemplated the consequences of each: happiness or madness, fulfillment or obsession, an answer to his prayers or a path to his damnation.

  The only question left was which was which.

  Sucker

  B. Gordon Doyle

  Talbot liked hotel bars.

  Airport hotel bars, in particular, possessed a certain uniformity, familiar and virtually homogeneous, that soothed him and put him at ease. Certainly, there were other, less conspicuous places to hunt, but this was an environment he knew, and this was why he would return, again and again, a creature of habit in spite of himself. In spite of the risks of establishing a pattern, a predictable set of behaviors that could lead to discovery, he returned. Over the years, Talbot had found that these oases, these watering holes set on the edges of cities, suited his needs precisely. His need for familiarity and, not coincidentally, control.

  Control was essential to the hunt.

  Talbot smiled as he plunged his fork into the plate of sausage and peppers on the table, speared a gobbet of warm meat and popped it into his mouth. It had occurred to him that he could determine what city he was in by the condiments that accompanied his appetizers. Marinara, salsa or honey-mustard. Day-old mayonnaise going yellow around the edges. A different city, a different sauce.

  Familiarity and control.

  And need.

  All these things Talbot knew fully. As he knew the stink of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, and the unceasing cacophony of ESPN on multiple televisions or vacuous light rock pouring from ceiling-mounted speakers.

  No matter where he went, hotel bars were all the same. Mirrors and bar stools and pretzels in baskets. Cubs and Rangers and Saints and Lakers.

  The liquor behind the bar and the people in the seats were all the same; the liquor was strong, and the people were . . . the people had their needs.

  And Talbot had his. He was watching her, from his table across the restaurant.

  All the same.

  She was sitting at the bar, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights and wishing she were ten years younger. She wasn’t unattractive, merely unremarkable, though the fullness of her breasts commanded attention far out of proportion to her slight beauty. Attention she could have done without.

  Talbot closed his eyes and thought about her breasts. Pendulous. Bottom heavy. Wide nippled, with salty perspiration in the crease of flesh beneath. Her breasts, swinging, shuddering . . .

  The woman at the bar shivered, and folded her arms defensively across her chest. She didn’t turn around.

  Strong, Talbot noted with approval. But then, you’d have to be strong.

  Talbot smiled, consciously changing the color of his thoughts, easing into character.

  I bet it happened quickly. All the fellas comin’ around. Caught you unprepared. Daddy’s little girl, his precious angel, suddenly a woman. Without warning, a woman. I bet they said things, filthy, hurtful things. Tried to put their hands on you. And worse.

  Did they whisper when you walked into the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner? Did they stare at you in the showers after gym class? Did your momma try to explain why it wasn’t such a good idea to hug Daddy anymore?

  Did they call you Jugs or Elsie or Sheena as you walked home from the bus stop, your head down, tears streaming from your eyes?

  No. Not Sheena. Irish McCalla was before your time. Just as you became a woman, before your time . . .

  Tell me. I know about pain. All about pain.

  She was drinking rum and Diet Coke, and Talbot thought that funny. He assumed that everyone knew that the bulk of the calories in a mixed drink were in the liquor. A small concession, the Diet Coke; a reminder, perhaps, of some unkept promise or resolution. But it was no more than a gesture. Certainly, she knew that her skirt was too short for her heavy thighs, her face too round for the bright smears of rouge.

  She simply didn’t care.

  Talbot had been watching her for nearly two weeks. He’d spoken with her twice, just small talk, bar talk. He’d even bought her a drink on the pretext of some celebration, a lottery win or contract award, and sat with her briefly, gathering information and personal history.

  Familiarity. Because he knew, in the end, she would not be able to describe him.

  Her name was Arlene.

  She was twice divorced, had no children and worked as a consultant for a business association in Washington, D.C. She was on a ninety-day assignment to the Chicago office, installing a new accounting system, and had rented a small place nearby for the duration. She didn’t much like the Second City; it was too intimidating, so every day she drove in and out, from home to work to home, door to door, without stopping.

  But she liked this bar. It was close.

  Talbot watched as she waved to the bartender for another drink. Her third.

  Sometimes, when she didn’t want to talk, she would bring a paperback to the bar, some potboiler by Clancy or Le Carré. On those rare occasions, she would arrive early and leave early; more often, the book would wind up facedown on the bar, and the drinks would come and she would stay until nearly closing. And when she stayed, she never left the bar alone.

  Because the fellas still came around. They liked her then, and they liked her now. They liked her mousy brown hair and her sulky brown eyes and her chunky body. They liked her short, tight skirts and her tits. Especially her tits.

  And she liked the fellas, after enough drinks. In her own bitter fashion, she liked them, too.

  Talbot watched her as the moon moved to fullness. He watched her joke and flirt; he watched whom she encouraged and whom she rebuffed. His furtive pursuit was precise and uneventful, but wary; he was certain that the bartender was also watching her. Rather, watching out for her. He kept her hammered and happy, beneath his weathered eyes.

  Because sometimes things, like people, have needs. And every bar needed a woman like her . . .

  Now. It was time.

  Talbot pushed away the plate of congealed meat, waved and dropped a handful of bills on the table. The restaurant was growing crowded as the surrounding office buildings emptied and workers stampeded to the nearest Happy Hours. It was barely evening, but Talbot knew he would have to move now, before one of Arlene’s favorites appeared and swept her up for the night.

  He slipped into a seat three bar stools down from her and ordered an Old Style draft. The bartender, young, with longish, blond hair and tired eyes, grinned and poured. He’d seen that Talbot was a good tipper; the smile wasn’t free.

  Talbot was ready to approach her when she placed her book on the bar and looked up and through him. Her eyes slid over him with no hint of recognition, no sign of interest.

  No. This is all wrong, Talbot thought. I was so sure . . .

  He could feel the tug of the moon in his blood; anxiety crept into his mind, muddling his thinking, giving him pause.

  No! This is the face. I’ve watched her for too long, worked too hard. She should be drawn to me. There is no choice . . .

  He heard a cluster of voices behind him, barroom hellos! And was suddenly afraid.

  I can’t lose her, he thought, his mind racing. Not tonight, so close. No time to find another. Too dangerous. It must be her!

  Decide now. Now!r />
  He left a ten and his untouched beer on the bar and hurried away. The bartender would remember the money but not his face. Talbot pushed through the door and ran into the lobby, bouncing off bodies, looking, looking. . .

  Back upstairs to his room to change? No. No time. Some other male might poach his Arlene, get her scent, and his plans, so precise, so meticulous . . .

  For naught.

  Desperate. Looking. Looking.

  And finding.

  A place to change.

  Talbot moved across the lobby to the souvenir shop and quickly bought a gray, hooded Bears sweatshirt. Tucking the garment under his arm, he stormed past the reception desk to the lobby men’s room, his head swarming with a catalogue of Arlene’s particulars. Whom she liked. What she’d said. He’d been overconfident; he’d mistaken her presence at the bar for availability. He’d have to rethink everything, change everything, to drive her to ground.

  But he’d remembered the men’s room. He hadn’t panicked totally. Familiarity had its advantages.

  Talbot reached the men’s room door and swung it open. His luck held; it was a single, a courtesy, with a toilet, a small sink and mirror, and a hot-air hand dryer. And most importantly, a door that locked from the inside. . .

  Shaking, he locked the door behind him and filled the sink with cold water. He pulled a fresh roll of toilet paper from the dispenser, nearly tearing the dispenser out of the wall in his haste.

  He hoped there wouldn’t be too much blood.

  Talbot stripped, setting his shoes and socks on the toilet tank, hanging his clothes on a hook behind the door. He stood naked before the mirror, gathering himself. He’d never had to do this before, so quickly. But there was no time. Even now, someone might be sitting down next to Arlene, smiling at her . . .

  No!

  Talbot focused, and willed the change.

  Athletes. She likes athletes.

  Focus.

  A college football player, ten years away from the gridiron.

  Focus. See him in the mirror. Be him. Be him. Be . . .

  A wave of nausea came over him; sweating, he gasped for air—as his bones began to move.

  He plunged his hands into the basin, splashed cold water on his face.

  Be him.

  Talbot choked back bile, tasting the sausage again, as his frame began to flow and thicken. His joints cracked like pistol shots as the bones stretched, tearing at ligaments and muscle.

  Bigger.

  The skin on his arms and chest pulled taut, split and bled, until he stood in a puddle of his own blood. The pain drove him to his knees; he moaned softly as he mopped at the red rivulets that seeped from his rent flesh. But even as that bloody flesh tore itself, new skin, pink and smooth, pushed up through the wounds.

  Face.

  His jaw popped, dislocated. Spittle ran from his slack mouth. Talbot seized the jawbone and rammed it back into place. Gasping, he turned to inspect his profile and noted with excruciating irony that he now possessed the lantern jaw of some comic-book hero. And still the blood came; the basin was choked with red-stained tissue.

  Eyes. Hair.

  Talbot felt his cheekbones surge beneath new flesh, and red tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Gingerly, he reached up to his hairline, peeling away his scalp, tearing at the tufts of thick, dark hair that came away in his hands.

  The unmarked flesh beneath showed fine, blond hair, like down, that grew longer as he watched. A mustache covered his upper lip, wild, unkempt. He bit at it, trimming it with his teeth.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Inna minute!” Talbot barked. He opened the drain, let the reddened water run out. He dabbed at the closing wounds, slowly inspecting himself as he did. Gathering up the detritus of who he had been, he carried the hair and clotted blood and flesh and tissue to the toilet and flushed. It went down in a slow spiral of red water, down and away, as he zipped up his pants.

  He wiped the last of the blood from the floor with his shirt, balled it up and shoved it into the toilet tank. He pulled on the Bears sweatshirt, tugged it into place and put on his socks and shoes.

  The change complete, Talbot inspected the bathroom, turned and inspected himself. He looked one final time into the mirror, and it wasn’t him looking back.

  Arlene slid her tongue into his mouth as they rode the elevator upstairs to his room. His hands found the warm curves of her ample buttocks, lingered . . .

  “Don’ know why I don’t remember you,” she whispered, feeling his shoulders, “I’da remembered a big man like you . . .”

  “It was a while ago. And you’d had a couple . . . what, rum and Cokes?”

  “Diet Coke! You can’t ’member anything either.” She giggled. “What’s my name?”

  “Arlene. I remember you. Like it was yesterday.”

  “An’ we’re glad you did.” She reached down and squeezed his cock, singing, “I be-lieve in yes-terday!”

  They staggered out of the elevator, down the carpeted hall and into Talbot’s room. His hands were shaking as he locked the door.

  “Oops! Gotta tinkle. Make me a drink?”

  Talbot poured her something from the minibar and left the lights off. He liked it dark.

  Arlene was naked when she came out of the bathroom; for a moment, she was a lush silhouette, then she flicked out the bathroom light and lay down beside him.

  High above, the full moon screamed his name. Talbot answered, slipping from the bed to open the curtains, so that a patch of moonlight fell across the bed.

  He reached out and pulled her to him, kissed her roughly, playfully. He’d had only two drinks at the bar, and had nursed the second. She had had five. Or six.

  “Umm. That feels . . . good.”

  Talbot bit her lips, her neck, her breasts, taking his time. She wiggled beneath him, eager to have him inside her, finally grasping the base of his thickened cock and guiding it into her wetness.

  “Yeah . . . like that. Ooh, yeah . . .”

  He reached under her, lifted her to him, digging his fingers into her fleshy bottom, rocking her slowly, letting her feel him.

  “Ooh, yeah,” she cooed. “That’s it. Give it to me. That’s . . . like that! Yeah! Fuck me like that! Yeah. Ooh. Like that fuck me like that . . .”

  Talbot lifted her leg and buried his cock in her, his teeth at her throat, driving his hardness into her so deep, so deep . . .

  “Yeah, baby . . . yeah, baby, fuckmefuckmefuck-mmm. . . Oh! Oh, GodOhGod . . . Yesssss!”

  So deep, so deep, until she came, heaving and hissing like an animal in a trap.

  He pushed himself off her. Her eyes were as bright as new silver, and perspiration glistened on the curves of her body like dew.

  “Fuck, baby,” she said breathlessly. “Fast and furious. God damn . . .”

  Talbot was silent. Arlene rubbed gently between her legs.

  “Didn’t you . . . ?”

  “No,” he answered. “I mean, not yet.”

  Silence. In the moonlit room, a silence complete.

  And then, “Didn’t you like it? I mean, it felt like you liked it?”

  “I liked it fine,” Talbot whispered. “I like . . . different things.”

  She reached for her drink, and drank off half.

  “Different how?” she asked, and Talbot could hear a tired apprehension in her voice. “I don’t do butt stuff. You guys always wanna . . .”

  “No. No Greek. French. With you on top.”

  “French? You mean oral? Like sixty-nine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah.” She curled up next to him, running her fingers along his still-erect cock, “Yeah. I like that, too.”

  Talbot smiled wolfishly as she turned and straddled him. He grabbed her hips and raised his head, burying his tongue between her legs.

  The moon hung above him, beckoning . . .

  Arlene lowered her head and grasped his cock, set her mouth to it. As she licked at the burnished tip, it grew even
larger. She barely noticed; she’d seen lots of cocks, and his tongue was so good . . . so good.

  She wanted him to come. She sucked his hard cock hungrily, eager to taste him, rocking her hips against his mouth.

  She was ready to come again. Swept up, carried away by his agile tongue and the great thickness in her mouth so big, so luscious . . .

  “Um. Ummm . . .” She moaned, widening her mouth until her jaws ached, taking him deeper, wanting it, wanting it . . .

  And getting it.

  Talbot growled; his legs curled up and seized her head, holding her immobile. And she came.

  “More. Suck it more.”

  Arlene tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his huge cock thrust to the hilt in her mouth. She twisted frantically, making wet, unintelligible noises, guttural cries that couldn’t be heard . . .

  Too big too big can’t breath can’t . . . Ooh!

  She came again. And then, the fear came.

  She opened her eyes wide; in the darkened room, in the moonlight, she opened her eyes and dug her nails into his thighs and pushed with all her strength. Grabbed at his scrotum, his balls, and tore at them, choking, choking . . .

  Tearing . . .

  His scrotum writhed in her hands and, horribly, split, with the sound of wet flesh. White tendrils, wire-thin, crawled out of the bloody sac, seeking, undulating with a life of their own. Locked in his preternatural grip, choking on his swollen meat, she could not even scream as the pulpy fibers reached out and touched her face, caressing . . .

  “Give it all,” Talbot snarled, “to me!”

  They plunged into the corners of her eyes, her ears and nose, curling upwards, crawling into her head, deeper, burrowing deeper into her very skull.

  And behind the terror, behind the revulsion, in the place behind her eyes . . .