by Jasmine Walt
“Stop talking like that, Evan. He deserves the chance. And I'll figure it out. I might just have to sell off a costume or work a few extra shifts.”
“I just wish you'd think befo—”
“You're not my father, so cut the disappointed voice-of-reason bullshit. Stop patronizing me.” She doesn't sound angry, simply firm. And the calmer she is, the more her companion loses his shit.
“I'm not patronizing you. I just wish you'd use your head sometimes—”
“Evan, date night's definitely over now. Help me get him home, and then you're off the hook. He's my problem. And neither of us are yours.”
“Aww, c'mon, hon. Don't be like that. Don't throw a hissy fit—”
“It's not a hissy fit. If you can't take me at my bleeding heart-iest, then you don't deserve the rest of me.”
“Fine.” His voice is curt. “Home it is. Good luck with that.”
She ignores him, reaching a hand into the back to lay it across my shoulder. “You're gonna be fine, big guy. I've got you.”
With that quiet warmth in her voice, it's impossible to disbelieve her.
2
Alisa
Maybe I should be more torn up about dumping Evan, but after three months together, he just hadn't wowed me. Finding out that he can kick an injured animal—not just an animal, one that's likely someone's pet—and let it die without remorse…that's the last straw. Life's too short to waste it on lackluster people. I'm not idealistic or foolhardy enough to think that his reservations are wrong or that others wouldn't just drive on. But it negates his good qualities—namely his washboard abs and his sense of humor. It's not the worst thing someone's done on a date, but it's right up there.
I'll put in a call to the all-night emergency vet, see if they can do a home visit or something—I don't think that he's gonna be okay if we switch him to my tiny car, and Evan's obviously not onboard to help. Besides—the damage doesn't look as bad as it did at first glance. The dog looks dazed and bloodied, but I don't see anything obviously broken. I could have sworn that his ribcage looked dented at first glance, but he seems fine now. I must have been imagining things. This hasn't exactly been the relaxing night I had planned when I hinted at Evan that I'd like to leave the house for a bit.
My landlady's gonna kill me. Big dogs mean big poop. And I'm not supposed to have pets, anyway.
Maybe Evan's right, and I should just say “not my problem”. But that's just not me. I'd have nightmares for weeks if I had to. A clean conscience is worth the strain taking the critter in will put on my finances.
I make a padded bed of blankets and pillows on the floor and then go help Evan drag the poor animal inside to his new nest. The dog's eyes flutter shut, and I turn away. “Thanks for that.”
Evan shuffles from foot to foot before storming into my kitchen to get a paper towel to clean the blood off his hands. As he wipes himself up, he inspects his cuffs, wrinkling his nose to find spatters there, too. Really? He's concerned about his clothes right now? I press my lips together to hold in the fury. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who wasn't wowed. I know I'm not a catch or anything, in the traditional sense, but I'm not impervious. It would be nice if he could pretend he's bothered that we're in the middle of a fight and that if he doesn't do his part to extend an olive branch, we're gonna part on fairly bad terms. That is gonna bother me more than anything else. Maybe he's right and I am soft.
The distance between us hurts. Evan's still angry and bemused, and it's the most toxic combination it could be for me. But still, for all his disappointment, he did help in the end. I'm not sure whether to tell him to go or give him a chance to man up and apologize. “Everyone's gotta grow up sometime, Lis,” he says and turns toward the door. “You're gonna make a fine mother, someday.”
I can't restrain an eye roll at that. I have nightmares about having to babysit kids. Having an iota of empathy isn't a high enough bar for motherhood. And apparently, he's not invested enough in us to back down, either. Nothing to do but shrug and let him go.
I refuse to look at Evan, staring at the animal on my floor until the door clicks shut behind him. And despite the heady guilt knotting my insides—any more thoughts of him, any second-guessing myself—all gets set to the side. I've got more pressing matters on my plate.
Time to settle in my new houseguest. I'll need food and probably bones or some shit. I check him again for a collar, but it's not like one was gonna just materialize there, was it?
He's huge. Black and brown brindle markings spread over him in patches. Not neutered, either. Great. Here's hoping he's not some alpha asshole who pees on the carpet and snaps at strangers.
He seems to be a healthy weight, not too bony or too fat. It seems like he should be skinnier if he's been a stray for long. No scars or disfigurations, aside from raw flesh on his neck and shoulder. It doesn't look like any abrasion I've ever seen, nor any burn, either. No signs of fleas, which seems off. Maybe he is someone's pet. I'll have to take a picture of him and print up signs to see if I can locate his owner. Though whether I give him back depends on their answer to how he got the wound on his neck. Mistakes happen, sure, but I'm not gonna give the beast back to an owner who hurts him.
I retrieve some iodine and a soapy rag from the bathroom. Time for the fun part. It seems stupid talking to myself, but he seemed to find my voice reassuring, earlier. Almost like he understood what I was saying, as irrational as that thought is. “Hey, again, big guy. You gonna let me see how badly hurt you are? Maybe clean you up a little?”
His eyes open, unevenly. One's blue, the other's brown. I hold my hand out to him, again. “You remember me? See? I'm not gonna hurt you.” I pet his head, working around the abrasions and burned area. “This is gonna sting a little. I won't yell if you try to bite me. So long as you don't actually do it. You could probably take my arm off to the elbow in one chomp. You gonna work with me?”
He whuffs at the smell of the chemicals, but watches as I reach for his shoulder. He doesn't flinch when I run a little iodine over it. Thank god.
I work slowly, cleansing him, wiping the dirt and automobile grit off his wounds, sanitizing them. Just to be safe, I take as many pictures as I can. My adoptive mother Annie always told me that was just common sense—photograph everything in case things go wrong and you need to prove exactly what happened when, in court. Her partner thought she was paranoid, but the lesson's served me well over the years.
I gently probe his ribs, his back, his hips, checking for tenderness or broken bones. He gives me a throaty growl when I prod a few places, but otherwise seems calm. I doubt there's much the vet would do for him that I can't. And doing it at this time, under these circumstances, is likely to cost extra. If he's okay through the night, and I can take him to a closer vet in the morning... I can be pragmatic where needed, contrary to Evan's condescending put-downs. I'm a night owl anyway. I'll monitor him myself, once I've taken the edge off the pain. Annie always gave her dog Benadryl or baby aspirin. And this guy is easily three or four times the size of that beast. It won't hurt him, though I don't want to fuck around with the dosage.
“Think I've got some baby aspirin around here. That'll probably help. My poor big guy. Let me Google how much you can have.”
I put the pills in peanut butter, and offer it to him. His eyes are glassy, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with it. “It's food, see? Yum.”
I lick a little bit of the peanut butter off my finger, and offer it to him again. He halfheartedly licks it, then stops. He seems to have forgotten about it halfway through. I lick a little more of it, and encourage him to take the rest off my finger. After several tries, he gets the whole thing down, thankfully not spitting the pills up.
Thank goodness. I couldn't force his jaws open to get the pills back in, if it had been needed. Maybe I do need a hand with him. I really didn't think this through. “Think you'll be okay by yourself for a bit, big guy? You're gonna need some real food, if you're here a while.”
&
nbsp; He whines when I back away and reach for my purse. “It's okay, big guy. You're safe here. And I'll be back soon.”
His eyes drift shut, and I scritch his head one more time. I'd better make this fast.
3
Reza
My head's swimming. Remembering my purpose, I struggle to articulate what it feels like to be a man. I can't figure out how it should feel, having extremities without claws, a body without hair.
My limbs lengthen, and the hair recedes. I'm laying splayed out on blankets, felted ones that tickle and itch my naked skin.
I start to stand, getting to my knees, but the world rocks and sways enough that I collapse back in place. Shit. I'm not gonna get anywhere like this. I must've hit my head in the accident.
There's the click of a key in the door. It must have taken me longer than I thought to find my way into my own skin. Either that, or I blacked out at some point. Double shit. What's she gonna think when she comes home to a strange nude man? Hurriedly, I focus on the now-familiar feeling of the wind in fur, and the ground under padded paws. The door opens just as the last of the transformation takes hold. Her eyes land on me.
“Oh, you're up. I was kinda hoping the pills'd knock you out. Sometimes it's easiest to just sleep through the worst of the pain. And this all probably seems really strange.”
She's beautiful. I wish I could look at her as myself, to see the full range of colors shading her. Dark hair, large eyes, and rosebud lips. All carefully polished, no doubt for the date I interrupted. More living art than person. It's a rarity to see; when your physique is even a little mutable, there's not much point to that kind of artifice. Most of the women I encounter don't bother with makeup or primping.
“So what'm I gonna call you?” She pets me carefully. It's unnerving being treated like a beast, even knowing I look like one. I've spent too much time in the demonic realms, where people rarely make the assumption that animals are wordless. “I've always sucked at naming things. I should've made Evan do it, before he took off.”
Her touch is surprisingly calming, peeling away tension and soreness like the layers of a onion. I shouldn't encourage her to treat me like a dumb animal or to get attached, not when I'm just waiting for the next chance to run.
There's a noise outside, a car peeling away, and for a moment panic grips me—even now, one of Morena's Reapers could be on my tail. We could both be dead. I howl, trying to warn her to grab whatever's on hand. My head is swimming, and I can hardly stand.
“Felt like singing, hunh?” She laughs. “You'll be Ballad, then. Unless your owner turns up and has a better name for you. Mi casa es su casa, right?”
She walks into the kitchen, and pours a bowl of something. Dry food clinking off freshly-washed ceramic. The noise makes my head pound sharply.
I'm already fading, lulled by her soft footsteps and soothing voice. Maybe I should just sleep a little, wait for the Reapers to get bored of searching, and thin out. A prolonged possession isn't their style. If they think that they missed me, or that I'm not coming, they'll move on to other targets eventually, leaving me free to amble through the gate without interference. When I'm healthy, and my body no longer aches.
4
Alisa
The dog seems exhausted. He doesn't touch the food I've put out, but at least it's there. I have to remind myself not to trip over him as I go through my evening cooldown, removing my makeup, stretching, putting my heels away and my dress in the hamper.
This is gonna take some getting used to. I never got to have a pet as a kid, so this is a totally new experience. Annie taught me a bit when she’d finally persuaded Reba to get a dog, but I've never been in the driver’s seat, or even truly in the passenger's seat as a pet owner. I was already out of the house by the time they adopted Marceline. It stung at the time, since I'd wanted a dog all my life, but somehow, they were always convinced I was too flighty to care for it. And not two months after I moved out… Ugh. I don't begrudge them the happiness that puppy brings them, but the thought of being found wanting when I was there stings a bit. And Evan had a point—I shouldn't spend what it's gonna cost to feed the dog, even if there aren't huge vet bills when I can get him in to the one that's closer. Maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew.
But what else was I supposed to do? Leave him there in the road, waiting to get hit again? The next car to come along would have made him a smear; cars coming off the freeway take that stretch way too fast. It's not his fault he got out of his yard, was wandering off-leash and took off, or whatever happened. It seems like caring for even stray animals is part of the social contract we made with dogs when we persuaded them to leave their wolf-y days behind.
Still, a big dog like that doesn't exactly go unnoticed. Someone must have seen him or chased him. I've really gotta get the posters made, just in case his owner's worried. He seems sweet, even despite his injury.
I count through the cash in the basket on my counter. How much does a vet visit cost anyway? I guess, worst case, I can probably talk Lenny into letting me take a shift before my electricity bill's due.
I don't know how I'm gonna sleep with the dog's gentle wheezing—even when I have someone in my bed, I need to be touching them. I'm not honestly sure where the aversion to having people in the room when I rest comes from, but it's there, and it’s strong. Maybe I should exhaust myself before I try.
There's not a lot of room around my stripper pole, certainly not enough for some of the more sweeping spins. But there's more than enough room to practice.
After the day I've had, I deserve to blow off some steam.
I put on my mid-tempo pop playlist and bite my lip when the dog flinches at the noise. I'd been hoping I wouldn't disturb him.
Since you need exposed skin to stick to the pole properly, I drag my oversized T-shirt over my head and turn away to look for my exfoliating lotion. It sounds strange, but the best product I've found to help my hands stick to the pole is a weird, tacky product that's intended for pedicures. And I like the ritual of going to the beauty supply store, shoving through shelves until I find the right brand. Just a little of it on my palms and my knees will make it a lot more fun, since I don't fully trust my skills enough to not drop myself on my head.
No point to digging out a sports bra—I doubt I'll be at this too long, from how sore my hands already are.
Ballad looks at me curiously. Shit, what if he's one of those dogs that's gonna want to investigate and get underfoot? I'll have to train him to sit in his bed when I'm dancing. “Stay,” I tell him, hoping he knows the command. He shouldn't be moving, anyway.
The music starts with a reasonably brisk beat, and I step into one of the easier spins, twirling around the pole with it held between my knees.
It feels good to be moving. I don't think I'll actually mind picking up those extra shifts.
Sometimes it stuns me, that although I may not be making a fortune, my job is cavorting around and dancing. The stripper pole's just for fun—I'd never have the balls to do it for an audience. But it's relaxing and keeps me raring to go. My speed's more go-go dancing at a few of the more edgy nightclubs. Shimmying on a platform about ten feet off the ground, watching everyone around me having the time of their lives.
Tips are hit-or-miss, but when they hit, they hit hard. Some guy shoved a hundred-dollar bill with his number written on it into my boot. Of course, I never called him. Not my fault he's got more money than common sense when faced with an attractive woman working the room.
Rory asked me why I didn't call, when the bar closed up—there could be more money where that came from. But where do you even start with something like that? Hey, I'm glad you enjoyed my dancing. If you want to take me out, it's this much. And I won't screw you. There's plenty of other women out there who would, though... maybe you should give one of them a Benjamin with your digits instead? But if you want me to hang out with you otherwise, and keep tucking benjy's in my shit, I'll totally be your best friend...
Ouch. So
I told her that she could always write it down for herself, but that I was spending the cash.
Never quite know what the new day will bring. Case in point, the giant beast pointedly staring at the wall away from me. I would've thought he'd be more curious than that. Rory brought her little chihuahua over to hang out once, and the beast freaked out the moment I attempted a spin. My ears are ringing just at the memory of it. But Ballad's probably still feeling crappy enough to not want to focus on things.
I climb the pole and invert. Rory also strips, when the bar thins out her schedule, and she taught me this new move, where you tip yourself upside down, gripping the pole with your legs, and then loosen the grip just enough to let yourself slide down the pole. It's nerve-racking, but I love the thrill of a new skill. And you never know when it'll come in handy.
My skin screams from the friction as I slide, and the dog jerks his head back toward me, eyes wide. “Shh, it's okay,” I call out to him. “The noise isn't a threat.”
He jerks his head away again, pointing it away from me.
So strange.
Oh, well. At least I won't trip over him.
I tighten my stomach to pull my torso up, grab the pole, and release my legs. The pole spins me slowly as I hold a pose, one knee bent but the other straight, toe pointed. Then, I lower my feet to the ground and use the pole's momentum to spin on my own feet.
I love the flow of this. Love every solid object within arm's reach being something to interact with.
I always feel whole when I pole dance. One with the universe and all that shit.
I've really gotta get Rory a thank-you card for the lessons.
I veer into another spin, enjoying the way the metal bites into my hands.
5