by Staci Hart
She gave me a look.
My eyes narrowed. “You’re really not helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I just know that you two care about each other, and you’re both important to me. I want you to be happy. And the thought of double-dating with you guys makes my brain explode.”
I chuckled. “Well, don’t hold your breath.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Rose Fisher.” She pulled the covers up so we were in up to our necks and smiled innocently. “So when are you meeting Sexy Steve?”
Nerves fluttered through my ribcage at the thought of meeting a stranger for a date. “In a couple of hours.”
“So, dating again.”
“Scary. I don’t exactly have a stellar track record when it comes to guys.”
She chuckled. “Who does?”
“Hell if I know. I swear, bad luck with guys must be a Fisher thing. Like, my cousin Ellie. Every guys she’s dated ends up being a jerkwad asshole. She called the other day, I guess this latest one is a real piece of work. She thinks he might be cheating on her.”
“Ugh.”
“And then there’s me. The guys I’ve dated have either been completely unavailable or egomaniacs. Take Jack, for instance. You don’t know rock bottom until your boyfriend and roommate leave town and steal everything in your apartment that wasn’t nailed down.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No, but I did get suckered by the biggest douchewhore in the New York City Ballet.”
“Nice try. Blane at least brought you to West.”
She smiled. “And Jack running off with Liz brought me to you.”
I chuckled. “God, I’m glad you answered my Craigslist ad and not some psycho.”
“You had me at Vaginas only. Penis denied on entry.”
“Seriously, you could have been a serial killer,” I said with a laugh. “Let’s just agree that ninety percent of all humans are assholes. Statistically.”
“You’re so cynical.”
“I know. I can’t help it. Growing up in LA ruined me, and people like Jack and Liz just drove the last nails in the coffin. I mean, I moved here for Jack, and then he fucked me over so hard.” I shifted my voice into jerk-boy tone. “Come on, babe. The LA scene is tired.’ It sounded like an adventure at the time. And then he wanted to turn around and go back when he got picked up by that Indie label in Burbank. I felt like a rubber band.”
She shook her head. “Jack was a dick.”
“That’s true. But he was so pretty,” I said wistfully.
“Douchesparkle. Lead singers of bands have it all over them. You can’t see the douche for all that hair and musical talent.”
“Honestly, I don’t think it would have been so big of a deal if my best friend hadn’t left with him.”
“Yeah, because clearly she was an awesome friend.”
“Who stole my shit.”
She nodded. “Who stole your shit, exactly. No wonder you love me. The bar was pretty low.”
I laughed. “It was just a reminder that people suck. Probably not one that I needed. I mean, I did grow up in LA. I think they issue Fuck Everybody T-shirts to all California residents at the DMV.”
“Sounds like New York and LA aren’t so different after all.”
I snorted. “Shhh, don’t say that too loud. Wouldn’t want to start a fight.”
“Well, let’s look at it this way. Maybe you’ve put in your dues on shitty guys. Maybe it’s time for the Fisher luck to turn around. I mean, you’ve got a hot date today, and if things don’t go well, a hot guy is sleeping in your apartment.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
“Duh. That’s obviously what I did when I was trying to fall asleep last night.” When I wasn’t thinking about Tricky like twenty feet away. With no shirt on.
“So are you going to do a three date bang? Does he need to buy you dinner before you give up the goods?”
I cackled.
“What? You’ve got to have a game plan. It’s not Tinder, so at least there’s no unspoken expectation that you’re only meeting to bone.”
“I’m pretty hard up, but I’m not that hard up. I have plenty of Tumblr porn and batteries to get me by without having to resort to Tinder. I think I’m ovulating too because I’m super lucky in the uterus department. Do you know how shitty it is to have PMS and raging ovulation hormones? I was watching anime the other night and totally got a ladyboner. An anime ladyboner. What has happened to me?”
“Anime dudes are sexy, ovulation or not. I don’t know what it is about them.”
“The emotional unavailability?”
She shrugged. “Probably.”
“I don’t know, but clearly I’m extra frisky, which sucks because Tricky is a trigger.”
She waggled her brows. “Yeah, he is. A real pistol.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
She giggled. “I know. So, Steve.”
“Yes. Steve. Thank you. So, I think definitely a three-date situation sounds right. Make sure he’s not nuts. Unless he’s fairly normal and really, really hot. Then I can’t be trusted because it’s been a long, long time.”
“I approve.”
My mind skipped through scenarios of the date, kicking up my nerves. “I wish I could put you in my pocket and take you with me. I don’t want to do this alone.”
She smiled. “You’ll be fine, Rose. It’s like riding a bike.”
“If you say so. Will you be here when I get home?”
“I don’t think so — we’re going to have a late lunch and go to a movie.”
I pouted. “Well, damn.”
“Text me and let me know how it goes. We can talk at Habits tonight too,” she assured me.
“For sure. I’m excited to have everyone in one place tonight.”
“And if your date sucks, we’ll all be there to make fun of him with you. And then we can pick out your next guy. Group effort, and all.”
I raised a brow. “And what if I don’t want to go on another one?”
“Aw, come on, Rosie. Don’t be a party pooper.”
I chuckled.
“Bacon’s ready,” West called from the other room.
I peeled myself out of bed. “Now that is something I’ll get out of bed for, no questions asked.”
Rose
A few hours later, I approached Roasted, wiping my palms on my jeans. My last first date was over a year ago and with one of my best friends, taking its viability as ‘first date’ consideration down a couple of notches. And despite my steady stride and don’t give a fuck expression, I was nervous.
Real nervous.
UndyingArt, otherwise known as Sexy Steve, stood when I entered, smiling. He was a good looking guy, tall and blond, with neatly combed hair. His Henley sleeves were pushed up to his muscular forearms.
I noted that he was wearing a scarf. It was June. Apparently there’s no hipster-o-meter on OKCupid.
“Rose?” he asked hopefully.
I smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “Hey, Steve.”
Rather than take my hand, he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a hug. My eyes widened, nose burning from the scent clinging to him, something chemical and sharp. I pulled away first, and he reluctantly let me go.
He sort of smirked down at me. “Sorry. I always say you can tell a lot about a person by their hug. Test number one.” He winked, and I gave him what I was sure was an awkward smile.
Not gonna lie. I was super uncomfortable. I was not one of those people who hugged strangers, especially not strangers who smelled vaguely of a funeral home. My eyes darted to the door.
“Want to sit over here?” he asked.
“Sure.” I followed him to a table by the window, hoping I was just overreacting or nervous, ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, though I really wished I’d planned an escape call with Lily.
Steve too
k a seat and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. “Man, I didn’t even ask you if you wanted coffee or anything. Maybe a lemon bar? I know you like those.”
A tingle crawled up the back of my neck. “How did you know that?”
He waved a hand. “Oh, I spent a couple of hours checking out your Facebook. You took a picture of one the last time you were here. Your entire profile is public, did you know that?”
The tingle found its way up to my face. “No. No I didn’t.”
Steve chuckled. “Anyway, just let me know if you want a little something. And sorry if I smell like formaldehyde. I swear, it won’t wash out.”
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, part of my brain relieved at making the connection to the smell while the other was really glad I’d met Steve in such a public place. “I thought you made furniture?”
“I do. Taxidermy furniture. You know, stuffed chairs, beds, divans.”
I had been looking forward to telling Patrick what his medium was. Not anymore. “Wow, that’s … fascinating,” I said flatly.
Steve nodded, looking really proud of himself. “I’ve always loved dead things. My mom stuffed schnauzer Mitzi when she died, and man, I was so into it. I used to keep her in my room. Like, I love the idea that you could preserve something forever.”
I turned on my bartending skills, which are largely pretending skills, looking for an opening to leave. “It’s cool you get to do something you love for a living.”
“Right? Not everyone gets to have a job they love, you know? But I get to work with my hands. Create something that makes a statement.” He leered a little. “Plus, who knew you could sell a potbelly pig ottoman for three thousand bucks? The market is growing, and I’m ahead of the curve. The Kardashians are about it right now. They bought four pieces from me last week.”
I blinked and cleared my throat, morbidly curious and genuinely shocked that this seemingly normal guy could have such a high creep factor. “So, ah. Where do you get them? The dead animals?”
He shrugged. “All over. The things you learn. Like, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dead grizzly bear? Shipping from Alaska is insane, especially for hazardous materials. I’m sure you can imagine. I just got a shipment of dead armadillos from Arizona for an order of custom purses. People just can’t seem to get enough of them.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile, for a serial killer.
“So, who buys these purses?”
“Texans, mostly, but also some hipsters who eat steak.” He sat back in his chair. “So, you’re a bartender?”
I tried to answer without reacting physically. “Yeah, for what seems like forever.”
“Are you in school?”
My least favorite question. I shifted in my seat. “No, no school. You?”
He shook his head. “I have a business degree from NYU. I mean, everyone should have a degree, right? If you don’t, you just end up working at a movie theater or drugstore or something. Gotta prove you can finish what you start, you know?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, or seem to realize that he’d basically just called me an idiot. “Anyway. my art is all I’ll ever need. Can you imagine working a job in some cubicle on Wall Street? That’s like the place where dreams go to die.”
I sort of laughed. “Yeah, but … novelty furniture? That can’t last forever, can it?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why not? Taxidermy is an ancient art. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I dunno. Just seems a little irresponsible to count on that as income,” I answered honestly, dragging the awkward conversation down a flight of stairs.
He scoffed. “And bartending is, what … stable?”
My eyes narrowed at the dig, but I smiled. “Has been so far. I mean, I don’t make three thousand a pop pouring shots, but at least I don’t smell like death.”
He seemed confused. “Well, what are you passionate about?”
“Is whiskey an option?” I joked.
Serial Killer Steve didn’t laugh. “No.”
And then, my mouth took off with no fear or foresight. “How about teen movies from the 90s? I mean, it’s not nearly as exciting as having my hand up a dead grizzly bear’s ass all day, but it’s got to count for something, right?”
He made a face, finally catching on to my sarcasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, you did. Didn’t even wait to see if I was kidding.”
“Were you?”
I folded my arms. “Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “I just think it’s sad, is all. I can’t imagine living my life without something I was passionate about.”
I just looked at him for a second with flushed cheeks, imagining myself kicking him in the face. But instead, I smiled tightly. “Well, it was nice to meet you, but—”
“Hang on, wait. We’re not going to hook up?” His face fell.
My hackles rose as I stood with a sardonic smile on my lips. “Listen, Steve, I’d love to take this back to your murder room so you can show me your knife collection, but I think I need to go wash my hair since I smell like a morgue. I really hope you and your passion are super happy together.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, at least I didn’t waste money on your coffee first.”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, and then I walked the fuck out of Roasted like my boots were on fire.
WHAT GOES AROUND
Patrick
I SMOOTHED THE LAST PIECE of tape over the girl’s shoulder blade, covering her fresh tattoo as she looked over her shoulder at me.
“Leave the covering on for the next four hours, then toss it. Don’t cover it up again, okay?” I handed her a care sheet. “You’ll want to wash three times a day with a non-scented mild soap. I really like baby soaps. It’s going to start itching in a few days, but don’t scratch it, all right? Just slap it.”
She raised an eyebrow as she sat up and righted her shirt.
I smirked. “Trust me. It works.” I rolled my chair over to my cabinet and grabbed a small apothecary jar. “Use this balm after you wash it to keep it moisturized.”
She batted her lashes as she took it. “All right.”
“Any questions?”
“Can I, ah, call you?” She bit her lip. “You know, if I need anything? I mean, about my tattoo?”
I smiled, choosing my words carefully. “Sure, you can call the shop if you have any questions.”
“Thanks, Tricky,” she cooed.
I was already breaking down my station. “You got it, Cherice.”
She walked to the counter as “Siamese Dream” blared over the shop speakers, Billie Corgan wailing his lament as she paid. I was peeling the plastic wrap off my tray when she made her way back and leaned over the low wall, giving me an eye level view of her cleavage.
“Thanks again,” she said with a smile and handed me a couple of twenties.
“Any time.”
She looked me over once more before turning and strutting out. I glanced at Joel, who watched her from behind the counter. He shook his head and shot me a smile.
The bell over the door rang, and I looked back, expecting Cherice again. My hands froze, needle gun in my hand.
I hadn’t seen Seth in nearly a year, when he’d called me for help. He needed money, which was the immediate reason he’d called. But more than that, I knew he needed to get clean. I’d been trying for years to save him. But he didn’t want my help, not then. He just needed someone to bail him out, get him a fix. Three days, he’d been high. And we fought. And I’d left him where I found him in his apartment, trying not to think about the knobby joints of his arms, his grey skin marred with bruises and track marks.
We hadn’t spoken since. I didn’t even know if he was still alive, didn’t realize how much it had weighed on me, not until that moment when I saw him walking into the shop whole and felt the rush of relief.
He looked more like the kid I met so long ago than I’d seen him in years — clean and smiling, blond hair combed, g
reen eyes bright. I think his shirt was even ironed.
I glanced at Joel, whose eyes were narrowed as he watched Seth approach me. I set down my machine and stood, stepping around to greet him.
He laughed, pulling me into a hug. “Goddamn, Tricky. It’s good to see you.”
I hugged him back, feeling the warm weight of him in my arms. “It’s been too long, man.”
He let me go and stepped back, looking me over. “Way too long.” He glanced over at Joel. “Hey, Joel. Shop’s looking good.”
Joel had the good manners to smile and play along, even though I knew he disapproved. “Thanks. You’re not looking so bad yourself.”
He smiled back, looking proud and together. “Yeah, well. A lot’s happened.”
“Looks like it.”
Seth turned to me. “I was in the neighborhood, wanted to see if you were here. Got a minute?”
I nodded. “A few. Walk with me to Roasted. We’ll grab coffee for the shop.”
“Sure.”
I pulled off my gloves and tossed them. “Joel, text me what everyone wants.”
“You got it, Tricky,” he said, watching Seth like a guard dog.
I took a breath, not sure what to expect as we walked out of the shop and into the sunshine, still battling the shock of seeing him and the wariness I always felt when it came to Seth. Wary, but protective. Because no matter what had happened between us, I loved him. And if I could shake the habit, so could he.
I glanced over at my first friend, my oldest friend. My friend who I had been sure had been beyond saving, but was somehow standing next to me with no signs that he was using, twenty pounds heavier than usual, no listing, ringed eyes.
He looked sober.
Seth slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked down at his Converse. “How’s life treating you, Trick?”
I shrugged. “Can’t complain. You look good, man.”
“Thanks. I’m straight. For real, this time. The yo-yo’s out of string.”
I nodded. “How long?”
“Six months. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone.” His voice was a little distant, touched with wonder. “It feels good, man. I get what you’ve been selling me all these years. The other side.” He waved a hand like he was displaying a movie marquis.