by Danae Ayusso
Volac rolled his eyes then slid the registry over to me to sign for receipt of payment.
Now I can’t go shopping! I hate management.
I licked my finger and scribbled out my signature on the line. It heated up, glowing red against the black paper, before the entire page was consumed in the spreading flames.
“Real mature,” he complained so I flipped him off. “They have your next batch ready.”
“They can shove it up their asses! I’m taking a few days off.” I started for the elevators, not wanting to put up with the bullshit anymore.
“There’s a high priority in it,” he sang.
I stopped in mid-step.
High priorities paid more than triple what a standard repo paid. They usually took a bit of time because they were most likely a runner and then some.
“How many in the batch?” I reluctantly asked.
“Oh I’m sorry, are you talking to me now?” Volac huffed. “I’m sure that Raul or Gung would love this batch. It’s a repo man’s wet dream,” he purred.
I’m so going to regret this.
“Please,” I whispered and batted my lashes at him.
“Get drinks with me,” he blurted out.
Like I said; I’m going to regret this.
“You know that isn’t possible,” I reminded him and his face fell. “But I will let you touch my tits at the Christmas party.”
“Deal!” he beamed and clapped like a fat kid about to get cake and pie.
Yup, so going to regret this.
I held my hand out and a small glass vial filled with a swirling black and clear liquid appeared in my hand. Absently I signed the registry that I accepted the terms and payment, schedule, and batch.
“Thanks, Little Man,” I said and flashed him a quick smile then pocketed the vial; I needed to eat first.
Once in the lobby, I retrieved my guns from security and headed towards the exit.
“Hey Beautiful,” a flaming voice sang from behind me.
The timing couldn’t have been better. My shopping partner—if I actually got to go shopping: I needed to crunch some numbers still—and what every sophisticated and fabulous single woman in NYC needed: a fabulously gay best friend.
How Sex and the City was that?
“What’s up, Bitch?” I asked then we kissed each other, a quick peck on the lips.
“This and that,” he said then smiled wide and batted his lashes at me. “Are you done being the soul sucking bitch of Upper Manhattan or did you need to ruin even more lives and families before all is said and done?” he asked conversationally as he checked his nailed.
Loke wasn’t a repo man.
No. He was much worse.
He was a Trickster, and never callously meant what he said. In fact, it wasn’t even sarcastically said. The way he said it was quite possibly the most endearing thing I had ever heard in my entire existence.
Loke hated the life that his birthright had deemed for him. But what could you do when your dad was a fucking Norse God and the original Trickster?
Don’t get him started on it otherwise you’ll have to listen to him bitch for a decade straight about it.
“I just unloaded. Got screwed without a don’t call me-I’ll call you note. Now I have to crunch some numbers to see if it’s even worth my time and energy to attempt to sneak a peek at tomorrow’s Saks sale,” I said then smiled wide, trying to play the happy go lucky bitch role, but Loke wasn’t dumb so it never works on him. “I really wanted those shoes,” I grumbled.
“Ooh,” he squealed and jumped up and down like a kid in a candy store. “Drinks afterward?”
“Sure, why not,” I said, but again, it was bullshit and he knew it. Drinks weren’t my thing anymore. Once again, another of those vices that my therapist said I needed to stop indulging in.
Loke rolled his light blue eyes. “Whatever. Pie then?” he offered knowingly.
“Hell yeah! A fag after my heart,” I said then blew him a kiss.
He laughed. “If only you didn’t have a vagina and liked to take it up the ass, we’d be soul mates.”
A mental picture I could have lived without.
“Let’s start with pie,” I suggested.
Loke huffed and blew his white-blond bangs out of his eyes then touched every parking meter we passed as we headed down the street towards my favorite diner.
The diner was crowded, not a surprise for that time of day in Eden. Each red, vinyl seat was filled with large denim covered asses; booths were filled with giggling, loud and obnoxious teenagers; the group of lycans in the front corner were on their third course of rare hamburgers—you had to admit, Mel at the grill was a culinary orgasm just waiting to be ordered—and I was on my sixth plate of pie in the back corner.
Mrs. Miles, the large, yet surprisingly agile, waitress worked the crowded space like a pro: no one’s coffee or water was neglected and the food was never left sitting in the window. I never had to ask for another piece, as soon as I took the last bite, a new piece of pie was in front of me. Sometimes, I swear the woman was trying to make me fat, but I loved her for it.
“He was gorgeous,” Loke gushed—I was pretty sure he was talking about some guy he hooked up with, but I quit paying attention once he started getting detailed about the way he cupped the balls or something while he was going down on him…
Seriously, I was eating pie here. Ew.
“But he started trying to move in with me after four dates,” he whined. “Sure, four dates is practically married in GAY-Land, NYC, but not in Loke-Land. That is like trying to get an invitation to Kristi Himmelfartsdag to meet the family. Hei, never going to happen. So sadly, I had to kick his delicious ass to the curb. I gave him that whole ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you when I get back from feeding orphans in Nyttårsdag’ spiel.”
“Nice,” I said with a chuckle. “You told him you were going to be feeding orphans in a country that is really the Norwegian name for New Years?” I had to ask the obvious because it was just too damn funny.
He shrugged, blushing slightly. “Ja. He got me all frustrated and distracted when he started batting those long lashes that surrounded those big puppy dog eyes of his. It took all of my conscious effort to keep from giving him a little something for the road. Holy Hell, Zee, these devilishly delicious pieces of man-meat are so damn complicated,” he huffed and softly bashed his forehead against the table, counting out each hit until he reached seven.
If only my problems were that simple. Actually, they were. So I couldn’t drop a buttload of money on clothes tonight, big deal. It happened. At least my bills would be paid for the next two months, and then I could splurge for three months and play catch up on my bills again on the fourth month. Seemed like an acceptable and totally mature plan.
“So, are we shopping or what?” Loke asked and drummed his fingers on the table, seven taps from each finger before moving onto the next.
“Sadly no,” I pouted. “I have to be mature about this. It’s a shame though. I would have loved to bring home those navy and black Feline, Jimmy Choos.”
“I know right,” he said; now he was just mocking me. “If only they had them in size…what do I wear in vagina sizes again? Like a fifteen?”
Why me?
Loke took my hand in his. “Zee, like the great Carrie Bradshaw said, ‘But I rationalized that my new shoes shouldn't be punished just because I can't budget.’ So make it work. So you don’t eat for a few weeks; big deal. At least you will look fabulous while getting über heroin-chic skinny.”
How many times have we had this discussion now?
“Speaking of, did you want to have a Sex and the City marathon night?” I asked, pushing the sixth empty plate away. “We can play dress up in my Manolo Blahnik's and you can drink Cosmos until you piss rainbows and we can order Chinese take-out and watch the box set I know you stole from me.”
Loke ignored me, his attention was solely on the empty plates and he started arranging them in a perfectly st
raight line. “One, two, three, four, five, six… We need more pie here!” he barked out.
Damn it. Goddamn colon cowboy and his OCD.
Mrs. Miles hurried over with a smile and placed a small piece of pecan pie in front of me. “You know how Little Lokie Wokie is, Zee, everything in sevens. Is there anything else you kids need?” she asked and continued to smile and refilled my seventh cup of coffee.
Loke pouted his bottom lip out and batted his lashes at her. “Do you know of any good men that don’t want to move in with a hot piece of Norwegian ass like me after four dates?”
I rolled my eyes and made a face as I shoved a bite of pie in my mouth.
But Mrs. Miles laughed. “Sweetie, if I knew of one, I’d tie his ass up and keep him all to myself. It’s been much too long since Mr. Miles died, God rest his soul,” she said then crossed her heart. “And my old heart needs some new arms to hold me. Oh well, if you find one that isn’t buying your saving the world and feeding orphans bullshit, let good Mrs. Miles know and she’ll show him some lovin’ he won’t soon forget.”
And pecan pie was spit across the table in surprise.
Loke growled at me. “Those aren’t the kind of nuts I was looking to have all over my face tonight!”
“Please stop,” I begged then chugged an entire glass of water in an attempt to wash down the rest of the pie that was stuck in my throat. “Seriously, if you don’t stop they’re going to find you face down in Ricky Lake. Got it?”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Miss Jersey Turnpike runner up.”
Oh no he didn’t.
“This is a natural tan, Dick weed, not some Day Glo orange shit from a bottle!”
Loke smirked, waving dismissively for me to continue.
Remind me why we’re friends again?
I ticked them off on my fingers. “My nails, hair, highlights, lowlights, tan, tits, nose, lips, and designer labels are all real.”
Great, now I sound like I fell out of the Bronx. Only Loke can bring out my inner diva.
Loke sighed contently. “And they call me a Queen.”
“Fuck you, you train pulling dollar store fag,” I said with the bob of my head.
He laughed. “And what does that make you: the dollar store fag hag?”
“Sure, why not?” I shrugged and that concluded dinner theater.
Slowly we walked arm in arm down the sidewalk skirting Central Park; enjoying the sun and warm breeze, the company, and the peacefulness that was usually lacking from both of our lives.
Loke had to deal with thrones, titles, and a genetically based career that he hated and was really bad at. I think the last person Loke tricked, he ended up dating for a month. He truly was a strange, strange creature, but I loved him for it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the club with me?” Loke asked for the seventh—imagine that—time.
“No, I have a new batch with a cash cow.”
It wasn’t a total lie; I wasn’t in the mood for horny drunken assholes. It didn’t matter which spectrum I was in, it was always the same: Loke would find some super hot guy that he ended up making out with all night, they disappear leaving me by myself with everything with a penis, and some without, sniffing up my skirt, throwing their best pickup lines at me, which I’ve heard all before and then some, trying to buy me drinks while begging for an invitation to play between my legs. It was annoying. When I drank and indulged myself in every vice possible, yeah it was fun, mainly because I couldn’t remember anything other than the hangover the next morning. But that isn’t me anymore, and the more I thought about it, I don’t think it ever was me to begin with.
Huh, I will have to mention this realization to my therapist the next time I see her.
The admittance of a high priority target got Loke’s attention. “Really, who?” he asked.
I pulled the vial from my pocket. “I don’t know. I haven’t gone down the rabbit hole yet. You know I don’t do well with downloads on an empty stomach.”
“Well, it isn’t empty now. Take it and spill, I want to know all the juicy gossip!” He rubbed his hands together like a villain about to take my virginity...again.
“I rather like having a job and apartment, clothes and shoes, and oh yeah, my soul.”
Loke rolled his eyes. “Oh come on. So you’ll be homeless. You'll be a bag lady! A Fendi bag lady, but a bag lady! Big deal.”
“How very Carrie of you,” I said and made a mocking face and he laughed.
“Zee, come on. It's Christmas for goodness sake! Think about the baby Juan, or Jesus or Pedro, whichever it was, up in that tall stone tower, letting his hair down.” He sighed, his attention going past me.
I looked over my shoulder to see what he was looking at, but he lost me.
“Then those yummy three wise men in their loin cloths and oiled up muscular bodies, with those rippling abs and chiseled pecks, grrr,” he growled, biting his thumb then softly moaned. “They climbed up his beautiful raven locks, played twister naked for a couple of hours, and spun the dreidel while singing It’s Raining Men to see if there are six more weeks of winter.” He looked back to me and smiled wide. “So, how about my Kwanzaa gift now? Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me! Inquiring minds need to know.”
Somewhere the train derailed and Loke wasn’t even onboard.
“Sweetheart, I can’t,” I apologized. “I’m sorry. Go have fun; drown your sorrows in the lap of some hot brunette; and get a little play for me. Okay? I’m just going to wander around the Cloisters and check out some of the pieces from home. Call me later and tell me all about it?”
“Say it isn’t so,” he gasped. “Zee wants me to kiss and tell? What kind of demigod do you think I am?” He smirked. “You can read about it like everyone else on Facebook and Twitter, Bitch.”
I laughed. “Thou are classy, timeless, and romantic.”
“Don’t mess with perfection. Love ya!” he said, gave me a quick peck then disappeared from Eden. He was going to get his ass kicked for doing that one of these days. It was a big no-no to pop in and out of Eden outside of secured locations where imagery devices were under immortal control. It was because of popping in an out of spectrums that Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, UFOs, Yetis, Mormons, and so forth came about. Some dipshit switching spectrums got caught by humans, and in some cases drunken religious fanatics, and they started bullshitting with them, and look at where that led! Joseph Smith wasn’t the only one drunk that night, not by a long shot.
It was just another regrettable part of our history, which changed the fragile human spectrum forever.
Aimlessly I walked around the ancient pieces of architecture at the Cloisters, and each brought back a memory from my time wandering the globe. I spent the most time walking around the Chapter House from Notre-Dame-de-Pontaut. The twelfth-century limestone piece of French history was nearly as beautiful today as it was when it was first completed. Unable to stop myself, my hand caressed over the limestone stone blocks and rounded detailing, the archway and the incarnate detailing around the capitals of each column. Through hidden speakers in the gardens, Con te partirò played and it made me smile.
I loved NYC. You didn’t see shit like that anywhere but in New York. Sure, Paris had its endless art, architecture, shopping, couture clothing lines, snobby people, cigarettes, and pastries. But they weren’t welcoming of anything that wasn’t originally there. The piece of architecture I was molesting was just abandoned and left to ruins in Paris simply because the French didn’t see its timeless beauty. With Americans, everything was worth looking at twice, and New Yorkers looked at everything a dozen times before it was deemed unfit to be there. And as much as everyone talked shit about New Yorkers being assholes, we really weren’t. We were opinionated, loud mouthed, fast-talking, questionable accent sporting, people persons.
Yeah, that’s what New Yorkers were: people persons.
Content with my surrounding and the lack of visitors at that hour, I sat on one of the benches in the garden
s and pulled the vial from my pocket. The two liquids moved around each other, apparently battling and attempting to strangle the other in the delicate glass vial, but like water and oil the two just didn’t, and couldn’t, mix.
The clear liquid was a link, an invisible tie, an anchor almost, to the soul that is up for repo. And the black disgusting acidic liquid was the information packet in a matter of speaking. It was like having a million-page dossier on the vessel housing the soul to be repossessed: residence, occupation, family, acquaintances, personality profile, daily routine, and so forth. That’s what the clerical staff was for: the augurs. They are comparable to private investigators from Hell...technically, half of them were from Hell, and the other half Heaven. You couldn’t keep anything from them. They even informed the repo man of the person’s clothing size, how often they get laid, vices, and so forth. It was ridiculous, but, more often than not, was helpful.
The black was what tattooed itself on the repo man’s skin. It was an identifier to others that you have every right to claim the soul you’re taking, and that you aren’t a hit man or whack job going on a selective killing spree. It’s the same when a cop flashed their badge. Most dwelling in Edom know that if you’re shooting someone in public and not fleeing, and the soul going from one body to another was usually a telltale sign, that it is a sanctioned repo and not to interfere. Not many sane people shoot someone twice in the middle of a crowded park and just stands there holding him up as it they were presenting the carcass to the gods or something. Only a goddamn repo man would do that.
I didn’t enjoy sucking down God knows what, but it paid the bills and that was all that mattered. There was only so much that a single woman could manage on her own. Yes, I was in a rent control building and had been for the past half-century. Yes, I make sure that my credit score doesn’t go below six-fifty. And yes, I refuse to date anyone longer than a year because I didn’t want that type of shackling that always accompanied long-term relationships...that, and it would be disrespectful to my master, even if he didn’t want me. Thus, everything was left to me. In order to survive, you had to work in the modern day and age.