“Sounds good,” I casually replied, managing to stifle the part of my brain that wanted instead to shout, “OH YEAH, BABY! MAKE ME YOUR PLAYTHING!”
“Great.” She actually appeared genuinely pleased.
“So, what time does this soiree get started?”
“Show up any time after dark,” she said with a glimmer in her eye. “Here's the address; come up to the third floor,” she removed a pen from her purse, then took my hand and wrote on it. Wow. Didn't think that happened outside of the movies. This was starting to turn into a letter to a smut rag. “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me...”
A moment later, the train stopped and Sally popped to her feet, her tight body moving in all the right ways
“This is me,” she said as she walked to the door. “Hope to see you there.” She then stepped out onto the platform and gave a little wave.
I glanced down at the address on my hand, figuring it was best to memorize it, lest my palm get all sweaty. I looked up again, a scant second later, and Sally was gone. I jumped to my feet and stuck my head out the door to give her a quick wave goodbye, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Had I been in a slightly less euphoric mood, I might have noticed that we were at the very end of the station. The nearest stairs were a hundred feet away off to the right. There's no way she could have gotten there in the time I looked away. To the left...there was only the darkness of the subway tunnel.
A Party to Die For
It's amazing how just a few random events can turn things into the perfect shit storm. Under normal circumstances, Tom or Ed (or most likely both) would have been home when I arrived and, between the three of us, we would have probably psyched each other out and just blown the whole damn thing off in favor of going out for pizza. Not that we're allergic to fine women, or anti-social, or anything, but I have no doubt the whole “too good to be true” aspect of it all would have come up and realistic heads would have prevailed. Well, either that or we would have all been enticed by the possibility of some prime pussy, and the three of us would now be lying around, kind of dead. I give it a fifty/fifty shot of either scenario occurring, and, since I'm not a complete asshole, I guess in the end, only one of us biting the big one is better than our families having to throw a triple funeral.
Regardless, none of that came to pass. As I mentioned, Tom was at his family's house for the day. Ed must have taken a break and gone out for a bite to eat, because he wasn't home, either. That left me. Just great. I knew that, with no real voice of reason to turn to, I'd be left with just my own thoughts. The problem was the voice in my head that typically reasons with me pretty much sounds like a harsher amalgam of my two roommates. Where they might have decided on a different course of action for the evening, I knew that if I considered, for even a second, not going to this party, I'd have to contend with my own subconscious mercilessly assaulting me for being a pansy-ass loser with questionable sexual orientation.
Oh, well. At the time, I figured the worst-case scenario would be that I'd be out a few bucks for train fare. At least I would have killed a few hours that otherwise would’ve just been wasted on some online raid with my guild brothers. A definite night of World of Warcraft versus the slight chance of hooking up with some chick straight from the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Millions of people play the Powerball lottery each week with much worse odds. So, ultimately, I figured, why the hell not?
I nuked myself a couple of pieces of chicken (no point in heading toward probable disappointment hungry) and then proceeded to clean myself up - figuring simple was best. I wouldn't even know what to wear to look “cool” in the Village, so instead opted for business casual. That was usually a safe way to go when in doubt, at least during company meetings. I was just winging it here. It might not be the coolest attire, but at least I wouldn't look scummy. Hopefully, Sally wasn't one of those chicks who was into dating dirt bags. Speaking of which...was this really a date? Sure, the word had come up, but the reality was I had no idea. Hell, I wasn't even sure I'd give her a ten percent chance of being there, so worrying about it being a date or not seemed to be getting a little ahead of myself. Ooh, Sally and a little head. Now there's a possibility I could get behind. Anyhow...
I got myself together as best as I could. I wasn’t a male model by any stretch of the imagination, but not exactly pre-Subway Jared-looking, either. It'd do. I grabbed my keys and wallet (stuffing an emergency $20 into one of my socks...momma didn't raise no complete fool), then stepped out to meet my fate...literally, as it turns out.
* * *
Saturday night trains are a lot like rush hour trains. People are in a hurry to get where they're going and, for the most part, stay out of each other’s way. Even the homeless mostly seem to understand this, and the onslaught of panhandling lessens a bit during these times. After all, getting in front of a determined person headed from point A to point B is a good way to get trampled. Thus, it was that I rode the N train to the stop closest to my destination. It let me off about five short blocks away from where I was headed, which I was able to walk with no problem.
In retrospect, the whole trip was a little underwhelming. If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's that fateful journeys like these are filled with foreshadowing. It should have been storming outside, but it was crystal clear. I should have been accosted by at least one semi-crazed, but mysteriously wizened, stranger on the train, warning me of dire doom, but instead I managed to snag a seat, and nobody even batted an eye in my direction. For Christ sakes, the address I was given should have been some popular, but inexplicably creepy, nightclub with a non-subtle name like Type-O, or maybe The Blud Room, but noooo. Instead, the main floor of the building was a fairly nondescript bar. Loud and full, but not packed, and certainly not crawling with creeps that were practically screaming, “Come in here and we'll drain your ass dry.” It figures. The world can't even deliver me clichés correctly.
My instructions were to use the side door and walk up to the third floor. I pressed the buzzer and was immediately let in. There was no challenge of “Who dares trespass?” No hulking bouncer opened the door, only to give me an evil smirk to let me know I was fresh meat. It was just a stairwell. Jeez!
As I climbed, the sounds changed slightly. The techno-rock music from the first floor was fairly muted by the time I reached the second floor landing. As I continued upward, it was slowly drowned out by a different techno beat. This was SoHo, after all.
Oh, by the way, in case you had forgotten from earlier...fuck SoHo!
Now, where was I? Yeah, yeah, still a fucking corpse, but I'm getting back to that. I'm still doing the whole life flashing before my eyes bit...although it's odd that the majority of the flashback seems to only be from the last twelve hours, but whatever. It’s not like I was an expert in the rules of the afterlife, at least not yet.
Reaching the third floor, the source of the new music, I knocked...and knocked again...and then knocked a third time. Didn't these guys just buzz me in? I was about to turn around and leave, visions of Sally and her friends (hot friends no doubt...and while we're on this fantasy, let's say hot nude friends) standing there, laughing at my idiocy, going through my not-surprised-in-the-least mind, when finally the door opened.
If this were a trashy romance novel, I'm sure the guy standing in the door would be described to the rapidly moistening female reader by his perfect hair, dazzling eyes, and bulging muscles. However, here in the real world, guys like me tend to see dudes like him and automatically assume one thing about them; that they will, in all likelihood, be complete asshole douchebags.
“What?” Douchebag asked in a bored tone (All right. At least one cliché was holding true tonight), looking me over as if I were something unpleasant he had stepped in.
“Sally invited me.” I tried to sound equally as bored as I replied to this fellow who looked uncomfortably like some of the jocks who’d handed me ass-kickings back in high school. At this, though, his demeanor notice
ably changed. He straightened up and adopted an easy smile. Sure, he still looked like a douche, but at least now he was a douche who was acting...err... less douchey.
“Cool. Come on in,” he said, opening the door wider, letting out more of the insufferable techno crap that was playing. “Sorry about the attitude, buddy. Never know who's knocking. Gotta watch out for the narcs.” (Narcs? What was this, 1985?)
“No prob,” I answered, following him in. “Bill.”
“Huh?” Obviously he was already losing interest in me.
“I said my name is Bill.” And with that, I held out my hand.
“Oh. That's cool,” he answered, leaving my gesture of friendship dangling there. “Sally's around here somewhere. Just chill and she'll find you.” He turned away toward more interesting fare.
Douchebag or not, I can't say I really blamed him. Once I was dismissed, I took a second to look around. Hmm, it was an interesting place; kinda had a retro feel to it. Not that it was very surprising, considering what part of the city I was in. Every place in this area either was trying to be cutting-edge hip, or latching onto some past decade like it was coming back into style. This place had a definite “groovy” vibe to it, minus maybe the music that was playing. As for the partygoers...whoa...the partygoers. Damn! The only parties I’ve ever seen that looked even remotely like this were all on TV. Every chick could have passed for a swimsuit model, and I doubted any of the guys benched under two-fifty. I tried not to gawk as my brain attempted to process exactly when I had left reality and wandered onto the set of Gossip Girl. Forget the decor; they could have decorated the place as a Black Plague death pit and it wouldn't have mattered one iota.
I was starting to become acutely aware of how much I didn't fit in when I noticed a similarly out-of-place fellow off in a corner being chatted up by a tasty redhead. He was about ten years older than me, nearly bald, and looked like he'd be more at home at an accountants’ convention. Not that I should be judging, but it felt good to know there was at least one other person here who I'd stack up pretty well against. Sorry, but maybe it's a guy thing. Whenever there are women around, the whole Bros before Hoes concept goes right out the window, and I start checking out the situation to see who's higher and lower than me on the food chain, so to speak.
Regardless, he was also the only person in sight that I was not immediately intimidated by. I was thinking about heading over and introducing myself as the only other “normal” guy here, when I began to notice that I wasn't. Scattered throughout the crowd were more sore thumbs, guys much closer to geek than chic on the social scale, all being kept company by women way out of their (our) league. Damn, I thought, they must either all be rich or have huge dicks. But that still didn't answer what I was doing here. I do okay, but I'm definitely not rich, and I don't have a huge dick. Err, that is, there's nothing wrong with the size of my dick. Really! I mean, sure I'm not John Holmes, but things below the belt are just fine, thank you very much.
Okay, time to get off my dick...unless you look like one of the babes at this party. Ah, anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah. While I was lost in this reverie of finances and dongs, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Giving my head a quick shake to clear it, I turned around just to be stunned again. There stood Sally. Holy shit! She was wearing a little green strapless dress, and, well...holy shit.
“You came,” she said (not yet, but pretty close, considering how she looked). “I wasn't sure you would. A part of me was hoping you...” she paused, sounding a little uncertain and maybe even...a little sad.
“Hoping I would...?” I tried to get her to finish the thought.
“It doesn't matter. You're here. That’s the important thing.” Whatever made her pause a second ago was now gone. Maybe I had just been imagining it.
“Yeah. I made it. You look great, by the way,” I stammered back, absolutely certain I sounded like a complete social retard.
“Thanks. As I was saying, I wasn't sure you'd actually show up. You sounded a bit nervous on the train.”
“I wasn't. You just caught me by surprise,” I blatantly lied.
“Cool.” She ignored the obviousness of my untruth. “Let me show you around.” With that, she hooked her arm around mine (more physical contact!) and gave me the tour. Turns out the apartment occupied the entire floor of the building (damn, I could only imagine the rent). It was a fairly open floor plan, but not quite a studio. All in all, it was a big space, and I doubt there are too many slumlords who wouldn't have drooled at the chance to get their hands on it. A few subdivisions and a landlord could retire to the Caribbean on the rent alone.
“Whose place is this?” I absently asked as we walked.
“I live here.” Goddamn! Hot and rich. Yes, I am here to tell you with all certainty...life is not fair.
“This is your place?” I asked somewhat incredulously.
“Technically it's Jeff's place (Jeff? Yeah, it was too good to be true), but a bunch of us share it.” (A bunch? Okay, there's still hope.)
“Who's Jeff?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could, hoping to be steered in the direction of someone obviously gay, or at least one of the other average dudes in the room. Sadly not, I realized, as she pointed directly at my douchebag acquaintance from earlier. Figures. Can't say I was overly surprised by this, either. On the other hand, it's not like he was the only scenery in the room. All things considered, douchebag aside, the entire experience was slowly turning out to be a positive.
“We've met,” I replied neutrally. “How do you two know each other?” I tried to sound as disinterested as possible.
“That's not important right now. Let's not worry about him. You're here with me. Let's mingle before the festivities get started.” She led me toward an open bar in one corner of the room.
“Festivities?” I asked, trying not to be distracted by thoughts of hot chicks and free drinks.
“You'll see. The night is still young.”
Okay. Whatever that meant. Hey, who knows? Maybe this was one of those parties where it all culminated in a wild orgy at the end of the night. A guy I knew in college claimed to have been at one of those. Personally, I thought he was full of shit, but since it at least sounded better than any of my stories, I kept my mouth shut. Besides which, I needed someone to live vicariously through, bullshit or not.
And so we mingled for a while. What I mean, of course, is that she mingled, while I was content just to devour my fill of eye candy, of which there was plenty. The problem with candy, though, is if you eat too much, you're asking for trouble.
Be Still, My Beating Heart
“May I have your attention, please?” the douchebag...err, Jeff, shouted out. “Midnight is upon us. The time you have all been waiting for has arrived.”
The time I was waiting for? Holy shit, maybe I was right and there was going to be an orgy. As long as I didn't have any dudes trying to rub their junk up against me, this had potential to be the best night of my life. If this actually happened, then from this moment on, my roommates would have to worship me as if I were unto a god. Oh, yeah.
“But first,” Jeff continued, “a few quick words, my children (children? Okay, douche). Judging by the new faces I see, the gauntlet thrown down last month by your brothers has been answered (???). Dread Stalker's is the score to beat,” he said, motioning to a muscular goon of similar douchey appearance off to his left. Dread Stalker? Either this guy was still living out his high school football fantasies, or his parents were a couple of Goth weirdos.
“Bring forth your offerings, my daughters.”
I saw several of the girls, all of them sweet little morsels, step forward, leading some of the men. I immediately noticed the accountant amongst them. I was about to comment when I felt Sally's arm entwine with mine and start to gently pull me forward. I tried to look at her expression to get a sense of what was going on, but she was facing toward Jeff’s direction. Hmm, if this was an orgy, I hoped I wasn't expected, as a new guy, to perform in front of everyone e
lse. Sally was hot and all, but I wasn't quite so sure if a little stage fright might keep me from getting the job done.
She led me through the crowd and we wound up next to the group who’d been singled out. I couldn't help but take note that all the guys that I was now standing with appeared to be of the decisively non-male-model variety I had noticed before. Odd. I was actually starting to wonder if this was about to turn into the hazing scene from Revenge of The Nerds when Jeff began slowly pacing in front of us.
“Very nice. Any that you fancy before we get started, Ozymandias?” he asked toward the direction of the main group.
A bored voice with a vaguely Bostonian accent replied from near the back of the crowd, “Not particularly. Carry on with your silliness. Don't worry about me.” I couldn't help but notice a brief look of annoyance cross Jeff's face at the answer he was given. I tried to scan the crowd for the source, but that was when Jeff's overly smug-looking face stopped in front of me and continued. “So be it. As host, it is mine to offer our hospitality, but as guest, it is yours to refuse (ooh, wonder how many brain cells this ox had to burn off to come up with that). Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Excellent choices, my daughters. But before we can judge the cattle...”
I interrupted, “Did you just call me...*urk*” Make that tried to interrupt. His hand shot out, lightning quick, and grabbed me by the throat with a grip that felt overly strong even for a guy with his build.
“Cattle do NOT speak!” he spat at me. “They are just judged...after we feast.” He flashed a predatory smile. If you're guessing that his eyes turned black as coal, and his canines elongated in front of me, well, you're wrong. Don't be such a pretentious know-it-all.
Just messing with you. That's exactly what happened. It's kind of comforting to know that being a corpse hasn't affected my sense of humor. Unfortunately, it's the, hah-hah, if I don't laugh, then I'll start screaming, type of comedy. But hey, never let it be said I didn't crack wise in the face of a creature that shouldn't exist, right before it lowered its head to tear into my throat.
Never Forsaken (The Kurtherian Gambit Book 5) Page 28