“For which I give daily thanks.” Ro helped himself to the remaining rib on my plate.
There was a lot of laughter and silly small talk. It was so different from last year when the only person I’d had here for me had been Ari. I didn’t know Rabbi Abrams or any Rasha, not that the hunters had been invited. Even Yael hadn’t come, in the midst of her horrible divorce. Leo and I hadn’t been speaking and there hadn’t been anyone else I was close enough to want to invite.
You couldn’t pay me to go back to that existence.
Finally we got to my favorite part: the cakes. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” as caterers brought in the desserts: a “balls inside” St. Honoré with the cream puffs both inside the sheet cake as well as on top for Ari and a super deluxe chocolate for me. Each had twenty-two candles because there had to be the one for good luck on each.
“Make a wish,” Leo called out.
I looked at Rohan, closed my eyes, and blew.
“One boyfriend,” Yael said.
I opened my eyes but she wasn’t talking about my cake.
Ari muttered for her to shut up and blew his last candle out. Silly boy. Might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull, because Yael grinned and said, “Let’s make a list of candidates!”
Rabbi Abrams had snuck in during the singing, so I brought him a slice of the “balls inside” which Mom always made sure was Kosher.
“Thank you for getting me to Dr. Gelman.”
He took a bite with a happy sigh. “You’re welcome.”
I stood there a moment, fidgeting.
“I’m not mad at you, Navela, but this is a sad situation.”
“I know.”
“You will keep me in the loop on all of it from now on, yes?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Happy birthday. You are a good Rasha.”
I gave him a watery smile and headed into the powder room down the hall in search of tissue.
“Everything good with Rabbi A?” Rohan held out a piece of chocolate cake to me.
I nodded, throwing my damp tissue in the trash. I hadn’t actually cried which was a total win. “I already tried both kinds.”
“Yeah, but you want seconds of the chocolate.”
I really did. We went and sat on the hallway stairs with our legs nudged together, me occasionally feeding him bites since it was a two-person piece. Fine, it was sharing-sized only because I’d already had two pieces and couldn’t plow through this one alone.
I put the empty plate on the stair beside me, braced my elbows on my knees, and dropped my head in my hands.
Rohan rubbed my back. “Talk to me.”
“I want a do-over on today.” I was rubbed raw. I’d woken up and nearly had a heart attack over Rohan making me think he hadn’t given me a gift, I’d seen Dr. Gelman, checked up on Christina and Naomi, and Sienna had told me I was dumb. I’d had more people ask me when I was going to start doing something useful and having kids than I wanted to count. Even the word of the day for today was awful.
Some things were good. Rabbi Abrams believed in me. But my own dad didn’t. No one in my family, except for Ari and Yael, thought I had what it took to actually do something cool with my life. My insides were a jagged jumble and any birthday happiness I’d accrued lay broken and battered on their sharp edges.
My mom walked past, her heels clicking on the tiles. “Nava, why aren’t you mingling?”
I tensed up.
“She needs a break,” Rohan said.
“Your concern is very nice, dear, but Nava can’t just selfishly hide away when all these guests have come to celebrate with her.”
“Be real,” I said. “Four, maybe five of these guests came to celebrate with me, and they’d all understand. The rest came for you and Dad.”
“It’s not fair to your brother to put this all on him.” Her “as usual” was unspoken but very much implied.
“God knows Ari’s feelings must always come first.”
“There’s no dealing with you when you’re like this.”
I straightened up with a snap. “Like what?”
Rohan stopped rubbing my back. “How about we go outside and get some air?”
“No, Ro. I really want to hear her answer. I’ve been putting up with insults all night at this sham of a birthday that has nothing to do with me, because in my entire fucking life it’s never been about me where she’s concerned. So tell me, Mother Dearest, how I should be behaving?”
“I’m not going to make a scene in front of your guests, no matter how much you want me to. I apologize for my difficult daughter, Rohan, but it was nice to see you again.” She turned away. “Now I need to speak with the caterers.”
“For fuck’s sake, Mom, I’m not being difficult. You’re being a bitch.”
She flinched like I’d slapped her. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She strode off, holding a hand up to Ari, who’d arrived.
I muttered a curse, curling in on myself.
“You want to go after her?” Rohan said.
“No point right now,” Ari said.
I spread my arms wide. “Lay it on me, bro. I’m a horrible daughter.”
Ari nudged my foot. “No, you’re not. It’s been a long time coming. Take her home?” he asked.
Rohan nodded.
“Happy birthday, Nee,” Ari said, over his shoulder, already heading back into the fray. “There’s no one I’d rather share it with. Even if your sense of timing sucks.”
Rohan hung Leo’s gift up for me. It looked perfect against the raspberry walls that he’d helped me paint. Now I had the Gregory Hines tap dancing photo on one side of my bed and this print on the other. I’d also tacked up photos of the important people in my life: Leo and me glammed up for a night out, Ari and I at our favorite gelato place, Ms. Clara with a plate of cookies in one hand and her dominatrix whip in the other, Baruch and Rabbi Abrams drinking tea at a café in Jerusalem together, and Kane and Ari mugging with a basketball. Then there were the selfies of Ro and me: us in Prague, here in Vancouver beat up and triumphant throwing devil horns after a nasty demon kill in Stanley Park, and laying on his car at dusk with our best rock star faces on. Ro wore an unbelievably arrogant smirk that made me laugh every time I looked at it, while I’d affected my best sultry pout. I’d get a photo of Drio now that he was back from Rome and stick that up, too.
Rohan tucked me into bed. He wore my “Tap Dancers Need Wood” shirt that was too tight and short on him, fussing over me as he plumped up pillows to go behind my back.
He was amazing.
“I have one more gift for you,” he said.
I traced the line of his abs down to his waistband. “Is it R-rated?”
He picked up the acoustic guitar he’d brought in, his hand curved possessively around it, rummaging through the pocket of his shorts for a pick. He had dozens of them scattered about his room, but he pulled out this matte purple one that, according to his fan boards, was his favorite type.
“Did you write a new song?” I’d recently heard the finished version of the theme song for “Hard Knock Strife” and he was writing music again but, even though he was always willing to play for me while I danced, it was either Fugue State Five songs or covers. He hadn’t let me hear any other new songs.
Ro put his finger to his lips to shush me and I folded my hands in my lap like a good little listener.
“It’s called ‘Slay.’” Head bent, a lock of hair falling forward, Rohan’s first notes were as rich as aged whiskey. The opening melody wove around me, low and clear.
Sucker-punched by a cherub wrapped tight in barb wire
You skirted the shadows
taught me how to soar higher
It started a game
stand one night on its head
My fallen angel’s my home
stack our days end to end
Words poured out of him, his eyes on mine weaving a spell, a story of us, that I wrapped myself in snugger than any blanket. He
kept one foot planted on the floor, keeping time, the other bent to support the weight of the guitar.
I listed toward him, drawn in by the warm pull of his smile. My blood heated to a slow drift and my heart kept time with the bass.
His strumming kicked up, his heel driving the rhythm and his voice ringing out for the chorus.
Slay all your demons
I’ll slay all of mine
Light up the darkness
you’re my bottom line
Let’s slay all our demons
I’ll lay down my knives
For you, I’ll lay down my knives
Why don’t you slay?
Come on, just slay,
You know I’ve been slain.
Rohan danced his pick over his knuckles, swallowed, and pursed his lips. “It’s pretty rough. I mean, I haven’t been writing for a while and I might need to edit some parts, but that’s pretty usual and–what?”
My boyfriend had written a song for me. The best song in the history of all mankind.
Pressing my palms against the mattress, I rose up and kissed him. “I love it.”
He set the guitar down. “You needed your own song. For the new album.” He tossed the pick on the nightstand. “I wouldn’t even be writing again if it wasn’t for you.”
I kissed him again, more insistent, pouring every feeling I was too overwhelmed to voice into it. He pulled away, breathless and laughing, and from the tender look he shone on me, he’d understood.
“Sing it again?”
His pleased growl shot electric sparks through my blood. But the smile he bestowed on me? It wasn’t some sexy wattage or the deadly-deserved arrogance of his hunter smirk that got me hot and wet. No, this one, warm and intimate and a bit shy to fully emerge, swelled me up with light and air and a bittersweet ache like there was this amazing thing if I could only stretch my fingertips one more millimeter to grab it tight.
I couldn’t contain it, so I molded it into something I could handle. I got onto my knees, fingering the hem of Ro’s T-shirt. “Keep singing.” I tugged it over his head, pitching it carelessly at the foot of the bed.
His eyes darkened but he started the song again, a capella.
I snapped the button on his shorts and Ro’s voice wavered. I raised an eyebrow and he grinned his apology, singing the chorus in a steadier voice, even as I pulled out his cock, stroking it, luxuriating in the feel of it swelling.
I reached over to the night-table, got the bottle of water-based lube and pressed it into Ro’s hands. He was about to stop singing when I shook my head and took out Snake Clitspin, my S-shaped vibe. He smiled and oiled the toy up just at the chorus.
The song ended right as I hit the “on” button and Snake hummed.
Ro reached for me but I wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh. Keep singing. Mood music. But no touching.”
“Come on–”
I sucked his erection into my mouth.
Ro bucked off the bed and burst into song. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Not in my top ten bow-chica-wow-wow songs, but rolling off his tongue, his voice a low growl and the corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing smile, it was positively pornographic.
I squirmed, his answering smirk ruined by the flush on his cheeks and the white-knuckled grip he had on the sheets.
A better musical choice was his rendition of Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” accompanied by me on dick and vibe. Ro’s breathing was growing harsh, but champ that he was he kept singing, albeit a bit more growly than usual, his eyes darting between his blowjob of the century–I wasn’t even using my magic on him, I was just that good–and my writhing, getting myself off on Snake almost as much as on what I was doing to Ro.
By Britney’s “Slave to You,” he was snapping his hips in time to the music, his erection in my mouth impossibly hard. He strained to stay in control enough to do as I’d asked and keep singing. Keep his hands curled in tight fists so he wouldn’t touch me, his voice wavering as he tried to follow my dictate.
With a word I could unleash it all, let the storm of his passions devour me. The knowledge was heady to the point that my wanton moans threatened to drown him out. I rocked Snake inside me in rhythmic pulses; my fingers and toes tingled from the fat coils of pleasure rippling through me. I vibrated, strung taut.
We didn’t even make through the first chorus of “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd. Ro sang these filthy lyrics in a ringing voice and I came hard. It sent Ro over the edge, his body bucking, all pretense of singing abandoned.
He mumbled a string of Hindi curses, sprawled against the pillows.
I rode the aftershocks coursing through my body, then mustered up the energy to turn Snake off. The room smelled of sex, drenched in musky good times.
“Your blow jobs are the fucking bomb,” he said. I laughed and he nudged my shoulder with his knee. “Happy birthday, Sparky.”
I crawled up the length of his body, sliding blankets over us both. The incandescent glow of the firefly lights tapped up around my ceiling made the room softer, warmer. Rohan’s chest pressed against my back and my breathing came easier, my heartbeat slowing to match his. “Thanks for making it happy.”
He tucked a kiss into the nape of my neck, stretched to switch off the light, and then settled back against me with one arm holding me close. “Always,” he said.
And right before I fell asleep, I thought that sounded pretty good.
10
Tuesday morning I ambushed Kane and Ari at the front door, forcing them both to hug me at the same time. “Be careful.”
They were headed into the interior of the province which had been affected by extremely bad flooding. Natural disasters: demon’s crack.
Twin sets of elbows jabbed me to get free. “We will,” they chorused.
“Take care of each other. I refuse to be down a sibling or a friend.”
Kane hefted up his duffel bag. “It’s always about you.” He winked and strode out to his Porsche.
Ari slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Promise you’ll talk to Mom. Apologize even.”
“I promise that at some point in my life I will once again speak to her.”
“Nava.”
“Ariiiiii.” I squirmed, miserable. “Fine. I promise.” I gave him one more hug for the road, waving until he and Kane had driven off.
Drio and Rohan were in the library. Drio, in sweats, was typing on Rohan’s laptop, while Ro stood in the corner on the phone in board shorts and another faded T-shirt. He waved hello at me.
I set a foil-wrapped plate down in front of Drio.
He pulled up one edge and peeked in. “This is cake.”
“Actually it’s cakes plural, but solid attempt on the identification.” I tossed a fork at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Next time, come to my damn party.”
He glared at me but tore the foil off and dug in, so I figured my point had been ceded.
I sniffed the air. “Wearing Sexy Ruby now, are we?”
He smelled his wrist, his eyes going soft and dreamy for a moment.
I smirked.
“It’s on her sheets. Shut up.” He dug into the cake with ferocity.
Well, well. I refrained from poking the beast further, especially the beast with a fork and über-speed. I filled him in on what Leo had told me about the oshk’s bogeyman status, omitting the part where she’d learned it directly from her goblin father, and letting him think she’d discovered it from the demon clientele she worked with as a part-time Private Investigator. I shuddered to think how the Rasha with the biggest hard-on for killing demons would react when he learned he was sleeping with a half-goblin.
Drio entered the keywords “bogeyman” and “urban legend” into a new search in the Brotherhood’s database but it still didn’t yield any results for the oshk.
Rohan sat down next to me. “That was Zahir.”
“Learn anything useful about Ferdinand?” I said.
“Not exactly. Drio, I need you to go to Palm Springs.
”
I didn’t understand Ro’s request, but Drio gave two slow blinks before replying. “You are without scruples.”
Rohan wagged a finger at him. “You’ll make an old lady very happy.”
“Phrasing and huh?” I said.
Drio licked frosting off the fork. “He wants me to visit the widow of the rabbi who ran the Los Angeles chapter.”
Rohan spread his hands wide. “Rabbi Soriano has been gone a couple of years and Golda must be lonely. Besides, she loves Drio. It would be such a mitzvah.”
Drio kicked his chair. “Golda has early stage dementia and I’m not going to harass her. She can barely remember–” He snapped his mouth shut.
“Aha! I knew you still visited her.” He patted Drio’s cheek. “Such a mensch.”
Drio knocked Ro’s hand away, then smacked me with the fork. “Quit gaping. They are pity visits.”
I tossed the fork on the table, wetting my finger and rubbing the front of my purple sundress to clean the smudge of frosting. “Sure, softie.”
I took his growl for the assent that it was, smothering my fond smile at how much the big meanie was going out of his way to help me. Drio’s loyalty to Ro was absolute; having even the tiniest sliver of his support made me more certain that we could pull this off.
“Golda befriended everyone who ever came through the place and Zahir said Ferdinand was based out of there for about a decade, starting in the late 80s,” Rohan said. “Not sure why the Brotherhood doctored his record to show Ferdinand was there this past year, but chances are Golda stayed in touch. She might be able to tell us more about his death.”
“I understand you don’t want to ask the current rabbi in case he’s involved, but why don’t you visit Golda yourself?” I said. “Los Angeles is your home chapter.”
Drio barked his laughter and finished his last bit of cake off with his fingers. “She’s never forgiven him for ruining her Passover dinner one year.” He nudged Rohan. “Go on. Share.”
Rohan stood up abruptly. “Not worth retelling.”
“I beg to differ,” I said.
“Ro got hold of this–umph!”
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