Exact Warm Unholy

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Sometimes I feel like a serial killer, the way they supposedly go dormant for a while, like snakes do, digesting their infrequent, large meals. Then the need begins pricking, the hunger rising again, a little bit more every day, until I know I have no choice. I have to leave the sterile silence of the condo and go find flesh. Nothing but a man’s hands on me, his cock in me, will do. Only that fills the hole rent in my life where family and belief once sustained me.

  I suppose it is a kind of hunting, though I leave my prey alive, with the illusion that they bagged me.

  No more car sex, though. I didn’t like that Syd had to walk home with Alan on her skin. Blood leaking out of her, too, which ruined those funny panties. I burned them along with Syd’s wig, and the washcloth I bathed her with in my own bathroom mirror. Letting Syd die wasn’t easy. She’d been interesting. She’d gotten me into the conversation with the bartender that led to a different kind of sex. A session intense enough to sate me all this time. Quite the meal.

  Which is good because I don’t want to repeat it. Despite her intelligence, Syd hadn’t been too smart about that one. Alan could have hurt her much worse than he did.

  Bobbi will lay out the rules for her encounter, though she doesn’t know what she wants yet. She likes to be spontaneous, go with the flow, love the one you’re with.

  Circle2 is gratifyingly packed and Bobbi spots several candidates right off the bat. More locals than usual, though, and I’m not sure about going to anyone’s actual home. I might have to lift the ban on car sex. Maybe judge by the car? I’d cross that bridge. I’d broken other rules, though I’m not sure I should have. Things aren’t as black and white as they used to be.

  No more conversations with the bartender though. That much is clear. Not that it’s likely with the din of the band and people shouting over it.

  Bobbi wedges her way through the press of standers and sitters at the bar. With the crowd, they have a couple more bartenders working and she angles herself to the gal with the blond ponytail serving drinks at the far end. But just as the guy in front of Bobbi gets his drinks, the blonde moves down five people to take another order, and Mr. Irish Catholic Guy moves into the void.

  “What’ll you have?” he shouts over the music to Bobbi, giving a distracted nod to another man who calls out an order. His shirt tonight says “Carpe Cerveza.”

  It doesn’t count as conversation. But, to be safe, I point at the bottle of beer in the hand of the guy next to me. A lite American beer that will be cheap and tasteless. Bobbi can pound a lot of those and not feel it.

  “Get me another, too, and I’ll get hers,” says the guy, giving me a once-over, gaze lingering on the cleavage revealed by the black net top. “I’m Mike.”

  “Bobbi,” I tell him, “like bobby socks.”

  The bartender checks with me, and I nod. Why the hell not? He shrugs, holding my gaze a moment longer. Bobbi’s eyes are a lightish brown, unremarkable as the beer, nothing to snag such attention. All of her sizzle is layered on top. Not unlike the real me. Regardless, I’m not sure why he’s giving me that look. Protective, maybe. Bobbi looks young.

  “You got ID, Bobbi?” he asks, confirming it. I mentally stumble. He’s never carded me before. Something I should have thought about, with the band and all. I haven’t been asked for ID in years, but with the all-ages band night he’s probably being careful.

  “Left it at home,” I mumble. Maybe that fluorescent flyer had been a warning, not an invitation. I turn to go.

  “I’ll be her guardian.” Mike slings an arm around my shoulder, hugs me to him. “I’m of age and can supervise.” He manages to make it sound dirty and I smirk, though mainly it’s funny because he’s probably ten years younger than I am.

  The bartender isn’t amused and holds out a hand. I stare at it, momentarily dumbfounded. He says something I can’t hear, so I have to lean in.

  “You need a wristband.” He dangles it, pulling it back when I reach for it. “I have to put it on you myself,” he says, very seriously. “It’s the law.”

  I’m quite certain the law specifies no such thing, but arguing the point would just suck up time and—not incidentally—make me violate the no-conversation rule. Bobbi puts on her best anti-establishment sneer and sticks out her arm, stiff, fingers in a fist. Mr. Irish Catholic makes a production of it, like he’s putting a diamond bracelet on me instead of a cheap paper wristband the same obnoxious orange as that flyer. He makes sure it’s secure, fingers brushing the underside of my wrist, a shockingly erotic contact for something so chaste.

  It’s because I went so long, let the hunger grow teeth. Bobbi nearly climbs onto the bar to seize his face in her hands and kiss his gorgeous mouth that smiles so easily and speaks so frankly of sex. The sudden lust must show on my face, because his hands are still on mine, his friendly eyes darkening with an answer. The band goes silent, the hoots of appreciation fading as they go on break.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asks me in the relative quiet, for the second time, and I feel like he’s asking me something else.

  “Hey, do you two know each other or something?” Mike is little whiny. No surprise as I’ve forgotten about him, even though he still has an arm around my shoulders.

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes,” Mr. Irish Catholic says at the same time, giving me a slight smile, still holding my hand. “How about a Shirley Temple?”

  “Club soda,” I snap, yanking my hand away. “Twist of lime.”

  He grins, easily ignoring the patrons trying to get his attention, and pours it into a flute. “On the house,” he says and moves off.

  “Hey,” Mike complains. “He forgot my beer.”

  Except I know he’s forgotten nothing. My bartender is making a statement.

  I don’t know how, but he’s recognized me.

  ~ 5 ~

  Tonight, my name is Eris.

  The goddess of discord and strife. It’s only two nights since Bobbi fled Circle2 in unseemly haste. Notably without getting laid, and the hunger is that much worse for being denied. I’m still pissed about it.

  Or I’m something about it that I haven’t yet defined.

  I don’t much care about missing out on Mike. He was okay but that’s all. I can’t even bring up his face in my mind. I keep thinking about Mr. Irish Catholic, about the brush of his fingers. Even if he hadn’t tipped that he recognized me—though I don’t know how he possibly could have—I would have been thinking about his hands on my body, not Mike’s.

  I’m still thinking about them. And so I’m going back to Circle2, even though I know I shouldn’t. I am the serial killer pushed past all discretion. I can’t stop myself.

  I’ve spent the past two days scouring Yelp for potential new bars because I can’t go back to Circle2.

  I can’t make myself go anywhere else.

  It’s Halloween, so I justify that this makes all the difference. Everyone will be in costume. I can go to the extreme and not stand out. This is how the bartender recognized me, I’ve decided. Even in dim bar light, heavy makeup shows. So he somehow connected Bobbi and Tiffany. And maybe Syd, too.

  He won’t know me tonight. If he does, it won’t matter because this is my last excursion to Circle2. I repeat that resolve, my own personal kaddish of mourning before the fact.

  I dress Eris according to an illustration I like on Etsy. Any of several wigs with long black hair will do, but I pick the rattiest one. I pile her hair into tiers of ropy pony tails, decorated with gold bands. Her lips are full, pointed and a deep magenta. I make her eyes so smoky, with deep shadows and a double layer of false lashes, that they look like bruises in her white face. The contact lenses make her eyes look black and are so dark the room dims.

  This is how Eris sees the world. Through a glass, darkly.

  I dress her in a black silk nightgown with nothing beneath, risqué, even for the wildest of my personalities. But there will be women out tonight wearing much less, stretching the boundaries to breaking. Pe
ople like to bitch about the costume companies pandering with all the sexy female outfits. It’s not them, I think, but us. What woman gets to go out in public as the decadently sexual person she fantasizes she could be?

  I do, but I pay a price for it. Or, rather, I paid up front and now scrape to gather whatever rewards my pain bought me.

  Halloween lets us all be that slut, without censure.

  Of course, I am not the poster child for healthy sexuality.

  I add black fingerless gloves and night-dark feathered wings from the temporary costume shop down the block, and a half mask of ebony beads on dark velveteen. Carrying a golden apple, I walk to Circle2, ready to sow some discord.

  The place is busy. Nothing like when the band played, but more packed than usual. I study the room, picking my spot. Eris would simply force someone to move from the seat she fancied, through guile or outright aggression. She’d likely steal someone else’s man. I won’t let her do that, I think. Even I have my lines in the sand and I won’t do that to someone else. Not right in front of them, anyway.

  Besides, I have my target in mind. For my last visit to Circle2.

  I’m having some Irish tonight, and then I’m never coming back.

  Never taunt the goddess of discord and strife.

  The blonde is working the bar, along with another guy. My bartender is nowhere in sight. Unusual, but not disastrous. Not yet. I circle the room, the place looking like the Mos Eisley Cantina with the array of costumes. He doesn’t appear. He must be in the back. That’s it. Grabbing a fresh keg or some such.

  He’s always here. He can’t not be here.

  Unless, with the finely honed instincts of any prey animal, he’d known to keep clear. The hairs prickling on the back of his neck, a chill passing over him as if someone stepped on his grave. A smart man to avoid making a pact with this particular demon. My heart thuds with disappointment. I try to make Eris look around for someone else, but she’s stubborn. She has one man in mind and a goddess doesn’t easily give up her target.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I bite down on the automatic no. I’m bitter that Mr. Irish Catholic isn’t here, but I will get laid regardless. Who it will be doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered. I can’t let that change now.

  I force a smile onto Eris’s magenta mouth and turn. And catch my breath. He’s got his dark hair in a side part, sleekly combed over, and heavy rimmed glasses dominate his face, mossy green eyes looking larger with the thick lenses. An old-style trench coat hangs open over his gray suit, a too-wide red necktie askew on his crisp white collared shirt. One of the buttons is undone, giving a glimpse of scarlet and yellow beneath.

  “Clark Kent.” He holds out a hand to shake. “Reporter for the Daily Planet.”

  “Eris,” I say, taking his hand. “Goddess of—”

  “Discord and strife,” he finishes, pumping my hand and then pushing up his glasses with one finger. “Started the Trojan war by tossing that golden apple into the feast of the gods.”

  “I like an educated man.”

  “Good.” He smiles easily. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight. Eris. What’ll you have?”

  I hesitate only briefly. He knows it’s me, but I take the plunge. I want what he has to offer. “Black Velvet.”

  His smile widens. “A house specialty. Come with me.”

  Keeping my hand, he pulls me to the bar, lifts the pass-through and parks me in a corner where my wings won’t be in the way. It’s far less crowded inside the circle than out. With a shimmer of growing anticipation I watch him build my cocktail. Those lovely, competent hands of his work with brisk yet careful skill. I want them on me. I set the apple on the bar.

  He uses Dom Perignon for the champagne portion and I raise a brow. “Expensive.”

  He gives me a half-smile, a bit of self-effacing shyness in it. “It’s my place, so I get it at cost. Besides, it’s a special occasion.”

  “Why did you name it Circle2?” I’ve wanted to ask this for a long time, but none of the women I’d been had cared.

  The half-smile spreads into a grin. “Two reasons. The second circle of hell.”

  “For those overcome by lust?”

  “Why I could never become the priest my sainted mother hoped I’d be.” He leaks a bit of an aggrieved Irish accent into the words.

  “And the other reason?”

  “You can’t square a circle, no matter how hard you try.” He’s made two of the cocktails, the separation perfect, with effervescent gold below, capped by impenetrable darkness.

  “To you.” He taps his glass against mine. “Let’s find a booth.”

  I smile, not moving. “Let’s finish our drinks and get out of here.”

  That arrests him. He pushes up his glasses, the gesture completely in character and yet so natural to him that I think he’s worn glasses in his life. Maybe he normally wears contact lenses, too, and these are actually his prescription glasses. The insight gives me a thrill, like I’ve glimpsed something illicit that he meant to hide.

  He doesn’t argue, though he seems to want to. I sip my drink—heavenly!—and wait for him to accept the invitation. He can’t refuse. Eris won’t let him. I’m depending on her for this. She slips her free hand inside the open placket of his shirt, caressing the spandex beneath, and leans in to breathe in his ear.

  “I know who you are.”

  I mean Superman, all part of the game, but the words electrify him and me both, our gazes clashing like amplifier feedback, then holding. I’m wet. Eris would fuck him right on the bar, in front of everyone. But he wouldn’t. “Where’s a phone booth when we need one?” I add, and the joke alleviates the unbearable tension.

  He wraps strong fingers around my wrist, not pushing me away, but holding me there. “I live upstairs.”

  My turn to hesitate. I don’t want to be in his place, to see the photographs of family or past girlfriends, the dirty underwear on his bathroom floor, crusty dishes in the sink. I want Clark Kent on the bar or Superman in the phone booth.

  He reads it in my face, Eris letting me down. She’s an imperfect mask. Or maybe it’s him, somehow seeing into me every time, no matter who I wear.

  “Or your place is good, too,” he says softly. Trying to reassure me. “You must live nearby.”

  I bite the corner of his jaw to punish him, and his eyes widen in surprise behind the thick lenses. A magenta lip print stains his skin. I want to cover his body with my marks. “Mt. Olympus is far away from here.”

  “Then upstairs it is. You can even bring your drink.”

  I nearly suggest the hotel instead, but he’d have to pay for the room and that feels unfair. Eris shouldn’t care. She, however, is not helping as much as she should. Once we get there, once I find her reflection, she’ll take over. I won’t notice anything else.

  He takes my hand in that way of his and we exit via the pass-through. Only dropping my hand long enough to unlock the deadbolt on a door at the back of the bar, he leads me up a narrow stairway with boards that creak underfoot, audible even over the muffled din of the bar. It’s an old building, smelling of brick dust, worn wood and the passage of many footsteps.

  There’s another door at the top of the stairs and once that’s closed, there’s remarkably little sound. If I don’t listen for it, I can’t hear the bar at all.

  He starts to say something, but I don’t want to risk looking around, seeing something I can’t unsee, so I take his drink and put it with mine on the closest surface and stop his words with a kiss. He returns it in kind and I drink him in. The taste of champagne and stout overlaying another flavor, something essentially him. His hands encircle my hips, moving up my back under the wings, caressing me with gentlemanly care. With something that feels like affection.

  It kind of breaks me, that tenderness. Suddenly, I’m not sure I can do this.

  Where has the driving hunger gone? It hasn’t vanished, but it’s…metastasized in some insidious way. I want him to fuck me, yes, and
I also want—something I can’t have. I’ve been down this road. I know better.

  Then, his tongue touches mine, he murmurs something sweet against my mouth, and I nearly weep.

  So I pull away and begin to tug the slim straps of my gown through the elastic bands of the wings. I want to keep them on, keep Eris on, even though she’s not doing her job. Maybe it’s too hard to be a goddess. I don’t know what she’s like, what she does when she can’t sleep at night and the glowing numbers of her cell phone glare at her, ticking her life away.

  He stops me, hands on my wrists again. “What’s your hurry?” He kisses my throat, making me hum and arch against him. “We have all night.”

  We don’t, but I don’t say so. I like that he’s taking over. That always makes it easier because I can let go and drift on the tide of sensation. Let the physical wash away everything else. He draws my hands around his neck, kissing his way down my throat, tracing my collarbones with his clever mouth. He’s humming, swaying with me in his arms, and I realize we’re almost dancing, moving to the nearly subliminal throb of a song from below.

  It would be our song, if this were a romance. The fact that I can’t quite identify the melody is perfectly apt. Such things always slip away, just outside my grasp.

  Unable to contain my impatience, I pull at his buttons, blindly pushing the ridiculous tie aside and yanking open his shirt. He groans, mouth finding mine again. His hair is mussed and his glasses are askew.

  Underneath, he is Superman.

  I get his belt undone and his dorky pants open. He is old-style Superman, and the yellow-belted red groin-covering should be silly, but it’s not. It’s strangely erotic, especially with his generous cock upthrust inside. I stroke him over the sleek spandex, swallowing his hum of pleasure.

  “The bedroom,” he says into my mouth.

  “No. Here is good.”