by Lou Harper
“So what other things do friends do?” I asked.
“I dunno, keep in touch, tell each other when they have problems?”
“Right. I’ll be waiting for the midnight phone call. Do you want to—” I hesitated, unsure if should finish the sentence.
“What?”
“Charly and I are going to see Lethal Assignment in the movies this weekend. Her boyfriend is going out of town, some work stuff. She has the hots for Clay Carson. If you’re interested, you could join us.” I saw his hesitation. “It was a bad idea. Forget it.”
“I can do it on Saturday.”
A surge of happy spirits splashed over me. “Coolio. I’ll get the tickets; you buy the popcorn.”
I walked him out, and we had an awkward moment at the door but resolved it with restrained hug.
Nick stepped outside but then turned back. “What happened to the cat?”
“Oh, she was fine. My body shielded her from damage. I adopted her and named her Pancake in memory of getting flattened. Well, technically, my sister and parents took care of her for the first year, but she loved me the most, anyway.”
“So where is Pancake?”
“She ran away last summer. Jumped off the balcony when I wasn’t looking.” Story of my life.
Chapter Four
The second red envelope arrived on Saturday. I didn’t know when exactly. It was early afternoon when I first poked my head out the door, and then only to check the mail. A stone materialized in the pit of my stomach as the damn envelope fluttered onto the doormat. I stared at it, wishing it would turn into a burning bag of dog turd. No luck.
This photo was similar to the previous one, but not the same. Same room, same naked boy, but he’d risen up on his knees. Thinking about the figure in the third person helped only so much. There was another person in the picture now. Mostly naked, jeans pooled around his ankles while he fucked the boy’s face. He had the body of an adult, but I couldn’t guess his exact age and had no idea who he was. His bowed head and downcast eyes made identification difficult.
I didn’t know what pissed me off more—the rough way the man grabbed the boy’s head or that Riley wanted me to have this reminder. One thing was sure—my temper burst into flames before I lost it completely and ripped up the picture. I tossed the pieces into the trash, but after a couple of minutes of pacing around, I dug them up again. If Riley wanted my attention, he’d gotten it. I’d pay him a visit and settle this whole childish, passive-aggressive shit forever. I grabbed my car keys and went out the door.
Mrs. G sat in her chair in front of her apartment, knitting, like she often did. I stopped. “Mrs. Gallagher, have you seen anyone loitering around lately? Maybe by my door?” I spoke up because she was hard of hearing.
She nodded slowly. “There was a young man asking about you the other day.”
Now, that was interesting. Unfortunately, Mrs. G considered everyone under fifty young. “What did he look like?” I asked.
She blinked at me a few times. “He had dark hair. I think. I didn’t have my glasses on. I told him what a nice young man you were, never causing any trouble, never loud. Not like some other people.”
I could’ve questioned her more, but I doubted there would be any point. I said good-bye and left.
The place where Riley and I used to live, and he still did, was one of those buildings where all the upstairs apartments opened from the same balcony walkway and you could stare into your neighbors’ living rooms as you walked past. Made me think of prison cells—especially with the bars on the windows.
A ginger-haired twink answered the door. He assessed me with an expression of boredom mixed with calculation. “Yeah?”
“Is Riley in?” I asked.
Boredom got the upper hand. “Sure. That way.” He waved a hand in the direction of the bedrooms.
“Is he alone?”
“I dunno.” Ginger shrugged and walked away, leaving me in the open doorway. Dumb. I could’ve been a serial killer. Or a Jehovah’s Witness.
I closed the door behind me and walked in. It felt odd being there again. The living room seemed smaller and dingier than I remembered. I knocked on the door of the room Riley and I used to share.
“Come in!” I heard the familiar voice shout from the other side.
I stepped inside and found Riley half-dressed on the unmade bed. After a transfixed moment, his face split into a huge grin, and he catapulted up from the mattress and straight into my arms. He held me tight like he had that time when we spent our first night together—in a tent, out in my backyard. That was before either of us had known about sex, only that it’d felt perfect to be wrapped around each other.
I knew then it’d been a mistake coming here. The anger still gnawed, but the stone in my stomach dissolved into something warm and fuzzy. Riley radiated joy like body heat, and I found it hard to resist. With his arms around me and our bodies pressed tight, it was easy to imagine for a flicker that we were still kids and would be together forever.
Riley’s eyes shone when he finally pulled back. “Look at you. You’re so butch.” He kept his hands on me, touching and caressing, and I didn’t stop him.
“You look good,” I said, but it was a lie. It shocked me how threadbare he’d become in a few years, and it made my heart ache. Still slim, but his once-supple body now had the sharp angles of a junkyard dog. I didn’t want to see him like that.
However, he soaked up the compliment. “I kept my girlish figure,” he said with a shade of vanity. “I’m so glad you’re here. I knew you’d come around. Alex will be so jealous.” The gleam in his eyes turned into the hunger I knew so well. He was plotting something already, I could tell.
I didn’t even want to know who Alex was. “Riley—”
He wasn’t listening. “We’ll go to The Abbey. You’re really not dressed for a night out. But don’t worry—you’ll just have to take off a few layers. This’ll be grand—you and me together again.”
His caresses became more possessive, and I started backing away. “Riley, stop. I’m not going to The Abbey with you tonight. Or any night. I’m only here to clear the air for good. I wish you the best, but we’re not good for each other.”
He took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “You mean I’m not good enough for you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s exactly what you meant. God knows, your family must have told you a million times how I was a bad influence. They’ve turned you into one of them at last. Don’t tell me, you realized you’re a raging heterosexual.” The sarcasm in his tone got thicker with every word.
I bit my tongue to keep from lashing out. “Don’t be ridiculous. I grew up. You should think about doing the same. Look around you. How much longer do you want to live like this? You’re smart. I was sure you would’ve moved on by now. Living at this dump was glam and fab when we were nineteen. Now it’s just a dump. And you’re getting too old to hustle. You can do better than this.”
I watched his expression turn glacial. He said nothing for a moment while his narrowed eyes shone with fury. “Fuck. You. And the horse you rode in on. You think you’re so much better than everyone now that you found the light or what-fucking-ever. Acting like some prissy princess, like you never sucked a cock in your life. You don’t fucking fool me. I know you. I remember all the strangers who fucked that pretty ass of yours.”
As his voice rose, so did my temper. I tried to keep a lid on it, but it was a losing battle. “I don’t give a crap what you remember. I’m done with that shit, and I’m done following you around like an idiot. So get this in your thick head—you can stop playing your games, because they won’t work. I’m not coming back, ever. No matter how many old pictures you leave at my door. Oh, and by the way, I have no idea who this guy is, and I don’t care.” I pulled the picture pieces out of my pocket and waved them into his face. “You can put them on a billboard, for all I care. You and I are over. Finished!”
Shoving the
pieces back into my pocket, I yanked the door open but turned for a few last words. “If you ever bother me again, I’ll call the cops. I’m sure there’s some law against harassment.”
Something in what I growled must’ve struck him, because I left him there with his mouth hanging open.
From Hollywood, I drove straight to the Y and swam laps till I got my emotional equilibrium back. Once my agitation wore off, a lingering sadness remained, but also a sense of relief. Like when an elderly relative passes away after a long illness. I didn’t want to think of Riley any longer; I had other things on my mind.
Nick picked me up at six in his midnight-blue Volkswagen…something. The car was a lot like Nick—self-assured and macho but solid rather than puffed-up. No sign of overcompensation—not that he needed to compensate for anything. Well, better not dwell on that.
He watched me getting in the car, and I nearly leaned in for a peck as I did. I stopped myself in time and started fumbling with the seat belt. The buckle clicked, and I looked up, straight into a pair of eyes watching me far too intently.
I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Blue suits you.”
“I’m not wearing blue.” True. He had on gray slacks and a crisp white shirt.
Yeah, but your eyes are, I wanted to say. “The car,” I mumbled instead.
“Ah.” I thought he was about to say something more, but he didn’t.
We picked up my sis in Pasadena and drove the few extra miles to Old Town. Parking there was always a challenge, especially on weekends. Yet we’d barely entered the public parking structure when a spot opened up right in front of us. I took it as an auspicious omen for the evening. I had a couple of personal superstitions, and this was one of them. If the Romans could divine from the flight patterns of birds, why not from parking?
In Lethal Assignment, Clay Carson dashed, jumped and flew across the screen with a CGI-enhanced bravado. He played a cop who, investigating the murder of a young woman, stumbles upon a rats’ nest of terrorists and government conspirators. I wasn’t sure if the plot made any sense, but it hurtled along at such a pace, I had no time to wonder about the holes. In ninety minutes, Carson managed to destroy a fleet of cars, a helicopter and several city blocks of New York.
I had a feeling this movie would make Carson the staple Hollywood action hero for the next decade. Longer if he played his cards right, like Bruce Willis. He’d been doing well on TV, but the movies were a big step up for him. I had to admit, he embodied the type—sleek, steel-jawed and handsome as hell. He could even act a little. Charly was smitten. She hummed every time Carson did something particularly manly.
Nick didn’t seem to share Charly’s rapture. I heard him snort occasionally as I sat between the two of them. My own attention wandered. Halfway through the movie, I lost the story thread for good, and Nick was to blame. Not even an extremely well-choreographed fight scene between a shirtless Carson and the assassin sent to kill him could hold my full attention with Nick sitting next to me. In the dark to boot. I leaned to my right to reach for popcorn and then just stayed leaning. As our arms and shoulders pressed together, I felt the warmth and firmness of his muscles through the thin layers of fabric. I already knew how they’d feel against my naked skin and found it hard to keep the memories at bay. Clay Carson with his six-pack was a feast for the eyes but all fiction. Nick, on the other hand, was real, tangible to all the senses. Well, except one. As much as I would’ve liked to lick the salty popcorn butter off his fingers, it was out of the question.
I knew how inappropriate it was to have carnal thoughts with my sister sitting to my left, so I tried to focus back on the movie. After a ten-minute car chase that must’ve cost millions, Carson disarmed the bomb and rescued the sexy female district attorney from the mad villain, who then dutifully fell to his death. New York and the world were safe for another day.
“So what happened to the computer disk?” I asked Charly as the credits rolled by.
“It was fake, planted by the double agent to make Carson think that the DA was one of the terrorists. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“I was!”
Night had blanketed the city by the time we filed out of the theater, and I navigated Nick to my favorite French restaurant in the neighborhood. Everything went fine until the waiter took our orders. Then Charly smiled at us sweetly and said, “That Clay Carson is total man-candy, isn’t he?”
What the heck? What happened to my normally well-behaved sister? Sure we’d objectified male celebrities in private before, but I didn’t expect her to do it in front of someone she’d met for the first time.
Fortunately, Nick handled the query with aplomb. “He looks like a movie star. Right, Jem?” Nice move to put me in the spot.
I shrugged. “Not really my type, but Olly’s a big fan. Did you know he made a delivery to Carson’s house once?”
Nick looked at me nonplussed. “Your boss lets Olly make deliveries? He’s a toddler.”
I felt it necessary to defend Olly. “A toddler with a perfect driving record, and he only does deliveries when everyone else is out. He’s actually much more mature than he looks.”
“So did he see Carson?” Charly chipped in.
“I don’t think so, or I would’ve heard about it in detail. Hasn’t Carson just gotten married recently?” I recalled seeing him and a generic blonde on the cover of a magazine last time I stood in the checkout line of a regular grocery store. “And you have a boyfriend!”
She rolled her eyes. “Because if we were both available, I would totally have a chance with him, right? Harmless crushes are harmless. Why don’t you like Carson, anyway?”
“I don’t dislike him, but he’s too perfect. You know what I mean? Like he was genetically engineered in a lab. Imperfections make a person more attractive, give them character, don’t you think?”
“Hm, I see your point. What about you, Nick?” She turned a sharp gaze on Nick and paused for a second. I was sure she was going to ask him about his opinions on personal imperfections, but instead she said, “Any brush with celebrities?”
Inwardly, I sighed in relief. I sensed a touch of combativeness in Charly, and it was so out of character for her.
“I pulled over a couple of B-listers when I was on patrol, but nobody big.”
“Did you ticket them or let them go?” She asked.
“That depended on their attitudes.”
I figured out a way to move the conversation to neutral waters. “Nick, tell Charly the story you told me, you know, about the trunk.”
Nick obliged, and his delivery was even better this time. Charly laughed so hard she gasped for air. I’d noticed nurses have a yen for the morbid and gruesome. By the time the appetizers arrived, she seemed to have let go of whatever quibble she had with Nick. Although, she convinced him to try her sweetbread dish and didn’t tell him what it was made out of till after. Nick paled then for a second but kept his meal down.
Over the main course, Nick told us about the things the movie got wrong on police procedures. “No cop in his right mind would stick a pencil in a gun barrel and lift it up. The scene wasn’t even processed yet! And there is only so much enhancing you can do with blurry security footage. There’s no way they could read the guy’s name tag. Totally unrealistic.”
“I know how you feel,” I said solemnly. “I can’t bear watching grocery-store scenes in movies. They always get the shelving wrong.”
“Really?” Nick looked at me as if working in a gourmet store made me an expert in anything that mattered.
I grinned back. “Nah, I’m making shit up.”
He scowled, and Charly giggled.
“Neither of you were bothered by the scene where Carson drove a motorcycle from the top of the building straight into the helicopter?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“That’s just movie stuff,” Nick explained.
By then Charly and I were well lubricated with wine. We’d ordered a bottle of red for th
e three of us, but Nick only took a token sip. Somebody had to pick up the slack. Wine made me mellow, but it turned Charly into an indiscreet and sentimental sap.
“You should have patience with Jem,” she said, leaning close to Nick. “He thinks he’s been cursed.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Nick replied.
I shook my head at her disapprovingly. “I don’t think that. I know it. Ms. Jones said, word for word: Sir, may all your hubris fall around your ears like a ton of bricks. Three days later, a literal ton of bricks fell on me. Well, okay, technically, it was poured concrete, but that’s a tiny detail. I’ve had nothing but bad luck since.”
Like my sister, Nick was a doubter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Life’s not a fairy tale.”
“Don’t I know it? But the curse is real. I saw a psychic, and she categorically declared I was under a curse. Don’t give me that look,” I added, because Nick was rolling his eyes now. “Madame Layla is for real. She’s also a witch, so she knows this stuff.”
If only they’d met her. Madame Layla had shown none of the kitsch appeal of twenty-dollar palm readers. She’d been all class in her sea-green dress and thick black tresses peppered with a few gray strands. The room where she’d seen me had been full of sunlight, color and the scent of burning incense. She’d held my hands between hers for a long time before reaching for the cards. Without me disclosing any details of my troubles, she’d told me I’d suffered a great physical ordeal and it had been brought on by a curse. She’d mentioned a woman of power, and even zeroed in on this woman’s color—deep red, close to purple. I’d known then Madame Layla had been the genuine article. I’d tried to explain it to Charly once, but she’d been a devout skeptic. I didn’t expect any better from Nick.
He visibly struggled to keep his face straight. “Why didn’t you have her break the curse, if she’s a witch?”
“Don’t you think I thought of that? Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of curse that can be broken. The good news is, it won’t last forever. I just have to wait till it runs its course. Course of the curse. That’s a bit of a tongue-twister, isn’t it?”