by Schow, Ryan
“Fine, thirty-one. Why?”
She forked her salad, politely put it in her mouth and studied him. She was a graceful eater. He appreciated that about her.
“Just curious. Have you ever been married before?”
“Twice,” she said. No hesitation. Like she wasn’t embarrassed, even though some religions would have you blow-jobbing Satan in Hell for all eternity for such an offense.
Am I surprised?
Yes.
She was beautiful, no scratch that, she was delectable, but a wife two times over? Nope. Aniela was a good time girl. The kind of party girl who knew what she wanted, knew what she liked, and knew exactly how to take it.
People have so many shades of themselves, he thought.
“How long?” he asked. The steak sliders melted in his mouth. The char flavor of the beef tamed by the slightly spicy taste of peppercorn mixing with the tanginess of blue cheese was far and away the best thing he’d eaten in months.
“Two years the first time around, a year the second. The two years felt like only a few months passed, but the second guy—my one year—that felt like an eternity.”
“Why did you get divorced?”
“I was pro-life.”
“As in no abortions?”
“No, as in I didn’t want some asshole sucking the life out of me one hateful word at a time. That was the second guy. The first guy nearly bored me to death. All we did was watch reality TV and read books. We never went out. Never got shit faced and screwed each other. We made love, of course, and we compromised, and we dreamt mutual dreams, but it was all so very stale. If you ask me what we did in those two years, I honestly couldn’t tell you.”
“And with me?” he asked. “Why do I interest you?”
“You’re unpredictable. Totally unstable but not in any kind of violent way. You drive a hearse, for Christ’s sake. And you’re both insecure and confident. You have sex like you’ve done it before, but I know the first time you ever did it was here in Vegas not that long ago. And the things you say in bed, I had to look up to see you just to know it was you. Where did you learn to talk like that anyway?”
He laughed, ate a fry, swallowed a gulp of water and said, “Remember that ginger bartender I waved at?”
“The old lady?” she said, forking a cherry tomato.
“She’s not even forty yet. That’s hardly old.”
“Are you saying…?”
“Not that long ago, her and I shacked up. She’s Becky.”
“That was Becky?”
He laughed and said, “Yep. Anyway, with her, I learned about drinks, and sex and how to please not a girl but a woman.”
“What’s the difference?” Aniela said, clearly amused. Or curious. Even sipping her drink, she managed to look ravenous.
He sat up straight, wiped his hands on his napkin, and looked around as if what he was about to say might offend eavesdroppers. Then: “A girl is satisfied with flowers and attention and money. They want their guy to be popular and cute and they want him to have potential. The right girl, saving herself for marriage and all, she is fearful and, deep down, she doesn’t trust guys. So in some cases, when she’s just starting out, she makes compromises, like the poophole-loophole.”
Aniela burst out laughing.
“What the hell’s the poophole-loophole?”
With humor in his eyes and tone, he said, “She wants to be a good girl, so she takes a vow to save herself for marriage. Apparently it’s a religious thing. The girl that told me about this, she said more specifically it was a Mormon thing, although I doubt the practice is exclusive to Jack-Mormons.”
“I get it now,” she said.
“Do you?”
Her face was still red from laughing, and the smile she wore, it was unguarded and magnetic, not like one he had ever seen on her. It made her look like a teenager, and less like a double-divorcee in her early thirties. He could see how a guy could easily fall in love with the Polish beauty. Maybe one day he would fall in love with her, too. Lord knew he was already halfway there.
“Tell me anyway,” she said, her tone melodious. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Okay, right,” he said, wiping his mouth. “So instead of letting some dude destroy her hymen on the way to the promised land, she takes it square in the dumper and voilà, on her wedding night, she can still bleed on white sheets like she’s freshly unwrapped.”
“So that’s a girl,” she said, grinning.
“In my estimation, yes. A woman, however, you have to talk dirty to a woman. And you need to put things in different places. Fingers, tongues, your…dick. And when you’re doing it, you have to drive it in and really mean it. Becky, she says if a woman’s walking straight the next day, her man isn’t doing her right. Or he isn’t trying hard enough. So you bite, you pull hair, you call them names while you slap yourself upon them skin-on-skin in the heat of the moment.”
“And that’s a woman?”
“Not every woman, I admit. But you’ve had sex both ways, right?” he asked. She nodded as she sipped her soda. “And which do you prefer?”
“The latter, of course.”
“We haven’t even discussed toys or pictures or slutty lingerie yet.”
“For a rookie, you sure are up to speed. But that’s just sex. Love and marriage, that’s totally different. My first husband, he was prom king at a rival high school. We met in college. Got married two years later. I left when he got drunk and punched me in the stomach. In his drunken stupor, he thought I was pregnant. It turns out, I’d been steadily gaining weight. It wasn’t a baby, like he feared, it was just bad genes and too much ice cream. My mom and sister, they’re total porkers.”
“You were fat once?”
“Chubby,” she said, as if it were a big deal to her. “It’s genetic.”
“Well I like the way you look now.”
She smiled wide, cocked her head sideways and in a flirty tone said, “Awe, thanks. I actually like the way I look, too.”
“It’s your big ass tits.”
She had just eaten a bite of her salad when he said that, so when she laughed, the salad went all over the table and all over him. He couldn’t help laughing with her. He totally deserved that. And all the harsh looks he was getting from all the civilized people around him just trying to eat a meal without suffering all the next-gen porno talk.
“Okay, I admit, it’s more,” he said, much quieter, as he wiped down his shirt. “You’re not your tits. Not your hair. Not your sensational ass or all your precious little things.”
“Anyway,” she said, “getting off that subject, my second husband was beautiful, a total charmer, but he was the most insecure person I ever met. He worked out four hours a day, had more hair and skin products than me. Jesus, he had more beauty products, too. And shoes. My God, that man had a hell of a lot of shoes! I shed all my fat by spending my life in the gym. He was still extremely critical. He told me I was thin, but I could always be thinner. More toned in my abs. He corrected my English in public, straightened my shirt when it was wrinkled or accidentally snuck itself into my belt, pulled up my pants if they were sagging because, according to him, my butt looked dumpy when my pants were falling off.”
“What a giant horse’s cock.”
“I know, right?! Anyway, he pointed out everything wrong with me and made me aware of it on a regular basis. I endured this bullshit for a full year before getting out. I just left. Technically, we are still married, but I haven’t seen him in three years. That’s why I came to Vegas and became a cocktail waitress. Then I met Titan and Romeo and the rest is history.”
“But now you want to be in love again.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone but you since I got here,” she admitted.
Now he was truly shocked.
“What?!”
“It’s true,” she said. The look on her face, it was the business of romance now. Him and her, something she gave that he took not knowing how special or unique it
was.
Oh, shit, he thought.
“So you’re saying, my penis is the only penis to have gone…up there, in three years?”
People were looking at them again. They were radar tuned into the sex talk. A young couple trying to be discreet, and an older gentleman with watery, judgmental eyes.
Brayden didn’t care. He was too busy trying to grasp the things she was saying. And the implications? Monumental. Netty was a girl, not a woman. She was a virgin just days ago. He took that. And Aniela was on a three year dry spell that he broke because…what?—he was the guy Aniela wanted to be with?
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Oh, boy,” he replied. Suddenly his collar felt sticky around his neck, uncomfortable. Like the fabric was rough and rubbing red lines into his skin.
She wiped her lovely, lovely mouth and said, “Yep,” like she couldn’t wait to see what he was going to say to that.
“Um, I have something I need to tell you,” he said, “and you’re not going to like it.” Warning bells were going berserk in his head.
Now the mood darkened. Thunder heads approached. It was cloudy with a chance of meatballs times two.
“What,” she said. It wasn’t a question, just a word that left her mouth, leaden with consequence. It was one word and it said sooo much. Like, did I just open a wound for you to salt? Women like her, they expect to have their hearts broken, and now he was about to do just that.
He thought, will this douchebaggery of mine ever end?
For the truth, Brayden leaned in close, to the point where all the eavesdroppers were going to wonder what he was about to say. In a low voice he swore broke only once, he said, “To hang out with Titan and Romeo, to get into the clubs, I needed an ID. A fake ID. I’m almost eighteen. Not quite yet, though.”
It took a minute, then it started to sink in…wait for it…there, it hit. Pow! Like a fat kid hitting a wall at forty miles an hour, that’s how hard her heart got smacked. She recoiled, went bone white in the face, backed away from him like he was a viral disease she was intent not to catch.
“Are you kidding me?” she snapped, not quiet or discreet at all.
“No.”
She sat paralyzed for a second, and then she stood and walked back toward the bathroom. Now his audience of listeners were looking at him like, WTF? His shrugged shoulders was the only answer they got. He waited probably ten minutes before a text came in.
It was from her.
ANIELA: U REALIZE THIS MAKES ME A PEDOPHILE, NOT JUST A PERVERT?
9:46 P.M.
Brayden hadn’t thought of it that way, but then he remembered the law, and it hit him. He tried to make light of the situation.
BRAYDEN: MORE LIKE STATUATORY RAPE, BUT LET’S NOT SPLIT HAIRS.
9:47 P.M.
He tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help snickering to himself. Her text chimed in almost instantly.
ANIELA: NOT FUNNY
9:47 P.M.
At this point, he didn’t know if he was gaming her, or destroying her. When you’re in the midst of pick-up, sometimes, if you’re not careful, it can be one and the same.
BRAYDEN: COME OUT OF THE BATHROOM ALREADY, PEOPLE ARE STARING AT ME, LOOKING AT ME LIKE I DROVE U OFF OR SOMETHING.
9:49 P.M.
ANIELA: I’M ALREADY GONE. BY THE LOOK OF THE SUITE U HAVE, U CAN AFFORD THE BILL. GOOD LUCK. AND WHEN U TURN 18, DON’T CALL ME.
9:50 P.M.
Now it was his turn to reel in surprise. He felt the blood drain from his face. His stomach took a hard turn for the worse. The way it was looking, he said not only the wrong thing but the absolute worst thing. Suddenly he felt the alcohol in his system and it was sloshy, like water in the hull of a ship being tossed at sea. He burped up a little stomach acid.
Abby once told him her life would be less complicated if she were fat again, and unpopular. He got it now. He also remembered what Titan and Romeo said about not having your dignity squashed by a broad. So he texted her back.
BRAYDEN: THAT’S EFFED UP.
9:53 P.M.
He wanted to say so much more, now that reality was crashing down around him, but he didn’t have the words. Everything he wanted to say would further the fight. And he wouldn’t let himself say something stupid like, so you’re into kids, so what? Or, you can’t rape the willing even if they’re half your age. But he didn’t.
Even he wasn’t that dumb.
After ten minutes without a reply, he realized he lost Aniela. He had her, and then she was gone. Relief should have been what he felt. It wasn’t. Aniela had that thing about her he couldn’t identify. In Hollywood, they would call her an “It girl.” Point was, he both liked and respected her. She was strong, the survivor of a crappy life who managed to climb a mountain high enough to make a different life for herself. He never did anything of the sort.
He wasn’t that brave. It took no effort at all to be an asshole.
The waiter came and said, “Will your date be rejoining you?” He had that look on his face like he could very well be amused if he wasn’t so professional.
Brayden smiled, then said, “She had explosive diarrhea and had to go upstairs.”
He said this loud enough to make the eavesdroppers wonder about the validity of the statement. “I think it was the bacon. She’s Muslim, and it caught her off guard. Basically she lives a pork free life and you and I both ruined that.”
Now it didn’t matter what he was saying, whether it made sense or not. He was distressed. Not because she date-ditched him, but because, technically, he’d made her into a rapist. Which wasn’t cool.
It was so very, very not cool at all.
“My apologies, sir,” the waiter said, placing the bill on the table. Brayden charged dinner to his room, then went upstairs and turned on the TV. He had to pick up Georgia in an hour, so he had time to kill and he wasn’t about to rehash his massive failure of a night. That’s when he saw the breaking news at the ticker-taped bottom of the screen.
HOLLYWOOD MUSIC MOGUL AND WIFE FOUND SHOT TO DEATH IN BEL AIR ESTATE. WHAT WAS AT FIRST LOOKING LIKE A MURDER/SUICIDE NOW HAS DETECTIVES THINKING FOUL PLAY. FOUND ON THE VICTIM’S COMPUTER HARD DRIVE: A SHOCKING COMPENDIUM OF SEXUALLY EXPLICIT HOME VIDEOS INVOLVING YOUNG, ASPIRING MUSICIANS. LIST OF VICTIMS/SUSPECTS NOW TOPS THIRTY.
“Shit,” he said.
His insides plunged a good twenty degrees; outside, his skin caught fire. It was game over. He felt himself spiraling. All he could do was get undressed and crawl under the blankets.
It was definitely game over.
Maybe not now, and maybe not next week, but eventually, detectives would come for him and Abby and they would want to know exactly what happened, and that’s when it was all going to fold in on itself: the GMO experiments, Gerhard’s immortality, Abby’s and her father’s true identities, Astor Academy’s dark secret, everything.
All primed to unravel.
If there was any silver lining in the dark cloud, it was that Abby was now a zombie, incapable of remembering anything past last week, let alone the attempted murder of the music executive. It was her blood at the scene of the crime. Not his. His only hope was that there were no witnesses. And no video evidence of him being in L.A., if such a thing were possible.
For a second, Brayden thought, this is what it’s like, being snared in a vice that is slowly turning in on you. Eventually you feel like you’re getting squeezed to death, but not before you realize you are getting squeezed to death for real and there’s nothing you can do about it.
5
Everything was happening too fast. He was afraid. Terrified, actually. The mental fog that wrapped his brain told him he would be in jail before school started. Which was in weeks. And after that, if the FBI wanted him to work on cyber security, or whatever, they’d have to haul his ass out of the penitentiary by Executive Order.
He barely remembered driving to the airport, but when he saw Georgia, he mostly snapped out of it. God she was
gorgeous! The closer she got, however, the more empty her eyes became. They were a dull shade of grey.
When she hugged him, he had to actually pull her body into his to make it real.
“Help me with my bags, please,” she said.
A woman next to them had just said the same thing to her husband. Okay…weird, he thought. Does she really have no idea of how to socialize in public?
“All the sudden I’m wondering if I should take you to Gerhard’s lab…I mean Holland’s lab. This shit with you, it has to stop.”
“I know,” she said. Next to them, the husband kissed the wife. She looked at him, at his lips. So he kissed her. It was late, he didn’t want to complicate things.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“I’ve never been to Vegas before,” she said, looking around, taking it all in. The way she said it, it was in a faraway voice. Like she smoked a fatty just before falling off the plane.
“You’re going to love the views from the room. It’s only got one bed, though.”
“We’ve slept together before,” she said.
“I actually have plans tonight. A spur of the moment sort of thing.” If I can only not think of Aniela and the Giardino murder/suicide, he thought, perhaps this night might be halfway salvageable.
Georgia watched the husband and wife talking, so she kept talking. “It’s okay, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”
He was hoping she’d say that.
In the hearse, Georgia looked around, like she’d never seen it before. In the back, over at him driving, at the instrument cluster, and she said, “I hate your car.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. Like she really meant it. “You should get something else.”
“Like what?”
“Something fast. Something blue,” she said, smiling for the first time since he’d seen her. “You should get something electric blue.”
“Yep,” he replied, looking strangely at her, “I’ll get right on that.”
Actually it was a good idea.
“Good,” she said, “because this thing is depressing.”