Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  Mom didn’t answer. I rose and stormed for the door.

  Malina followed. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  I stopped and whirled. “And you can just quit with the fake accent and the fake nails,” I shouted. “Good God, between the two of you it’s no wonder I turned out fucked up!”

  I left, slamming the door, and drove home.

  When I got into my driveway, my phone was buzzing. I figured it was Mom or Malina.

  But it was Mrs. Pell, Kamen’s mom.

  I steadied my voice and answered. “Hello?”

  “Miles, honey?”

  I forced myself to unclench my aching jaw. “Yeah?” I ran my finger along my jawline and stopped at a small, swollen spot.

  “Have you talked to Kamen recently?” Mrs. Pell always sounded a bit like a bird to me. She had a light, scratchy voice and spoke in little staccato bursts, like she was pecking. “I just tried to call him, and the robot woman said the number was disconnected.”

  I rubbed the swelling. “Oh yeah, that’s his new mailbox message. It’s him using a voice changer to make his voice sound like the robot woman. If you keep listening, eventually he breaks in with his real voice and pretends to have a battle with the robot woman from which he emerges victorious.”

  Mrs. Pell sighed. “Oh, when I get my hands on him . . .”

  “Yeah. He’s—” A sob escaped.

  “Miles? Honey?”

  Oh, I so could not do this right now. “I’d better go. I have to . . . to . . .”

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” she ordered.

  And for whatever fucking reason, I did. Everything from my dealings with the Beacon Center to the talk at Hymland to the fact that I wasn’t allowed to adopt James anymore. When I finished, she was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, “Miles, there’s nothing wrong with what you do. Don’t think that for a second.”

  “I don’t.” I rubbed my eyes with my fist. “I mean sometimes. But I know, logically . . . I’d just hoped my mom would be okay with it.”

  “It’ll be all right, honey. You—”

  I hung up. Closed my eyes and rested my head on the seatback. After a few minutes, I went into the house. Walked straight upstairs and flopped facedown on my bed, and let the hours pass.

  Drix stood in the doorway to my bedroom. I was in my pajamas, under the covers. I’d had my phone off for two days. An empty box of cracked-pepper crisps was on the night table.

  “How did you—?” I started, as he entered the room.

  I’d left my front door unlocked. I’d actually left my fucking front door unlocked.

  Oups, autant pour moi.

  “Get up,” Drix said.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Yes. Up.”

  I just lay there.

  “You haven’t answered my calls.”

  I shrugged.

  “When’s your meeting with Zac?” he asked.

  “I haven’t called Cheryl yet,” I told the ceiling.

  A moment later, my phone appeared in front of my face. “Here.”

  I pushed it away. “I need to do some thinking.”

  “You need to call Cheryl.”

  “Nobody believes I can do this. Be a father.” I touched the right side of my jaw, where the pain had been steadily growing over the past two days.

  “Bullshit. Get up and call Cheryl.”

  “You get up and call Cheryl.” My oratory skills had deserted me in this dark hour.

  Drix sat on the bed and pried me up. I surprised us both by snarling and lashing out. Then briefly clinging to him. Then shoving him hard. And finally falling completely still.

  “Je suis en disgrâce,” I said after a while.

  “Vous ne l'êtes pas,” he replied.

  “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

  “I didn’t know you were a quitter.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Kamen told me what happened with you and your mom.”

  I jerked my head up. “How did he know?” I looked away. Shit. Mrs. Pell.

  “I’m very sorry.” Drix sounded sympathetic but firm. “But there’s a kid who needs you.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  He softened a little then, and touched my cheek. “It’s gonna be all right. I’m not going to let you hang out here alone feeling sorry for yourself anymore.”

  “Can you stay here?” I asked.

  “As long as you need me to.”

  My throat constricted. “Ne me blesse pas ce soir,” I said softly into his neck. I didn’t care how pathetic I was.

  Don’t hurt me tonight.

  He seemed to need a minute to work that one out. Then he tightened his arms around me. “No.” He kissed my temple. “We can watch a movie, take a walk. Whatever you want. But first you have to call Cheryl.”

  I called Cheryl and set up the meeting for a week from Wednesday.

  Drix fetched me some clothes from the closet and threw them at me. “Dress.”

  I dressed slowly. “What’s been going on with you?” My attempt at casual communication sounded stilted even to me.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed his hands over his thighs. “We’re setting up a crowdfunding campaign for the coven. So we can become almost like a church—supported in part by people who want to give.”

  “Whoa.” I pulled on my socks.

  He hesitated. “My plan is to quit my job and devote more time to the Dark Ravens. I want to teach workshops that will help people communicate with their bodies and maximize their energy.”

  “So what, like, vampyre yoga?”

  He laughed. “No. Just, like, understanding how energy flows through the body. Helping with mobility, flexibility, feeling comfortable with our bodies . . .”

  “That is most certainly vampyre yoga.”

  “Maybe so.”

  I got a terrible sinking sensation. He’d seemed so on the ball. A good job, an actual house with furniture. Why? Why had I ever thought he and I could be parents, when we were both so fucking far away from grown-up? “You want to crowdfund your coven so that you can teach yoga instead of working?” I was aware I was already picking the worst way to say this.

  “I’ll be working. Teaching. Not just coven members, but outsiders who want to learn more about the lifestyle. Kind of like what you and your friends are doing.”

  “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

  His expression was growing warier. “Yes, Miles. Being a PI’s not cutting it, so I’m going to try focusing on what I find truly rewarding. What’s the problem?”

  Our lifestyles shouldn’t be our lives.

  That was the problem I sometimes had with the Subs Club. It asked me to think too often about a part of my identity that really shouldn’t matter. My identity as a business owner, a friend, a son, a brother, a father . . . those were so much more important than my identity as a masochist. Years ago, I’d thrown myself into kink as though it were the only really important thing in the world. The only way for me to define myself. I didn’t want Drix to make the same mistake with the vampyrism.

  But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t even mostly that. I was jealous and in awe that he could do this without a year’s worth of planning. Without fear or regret or endless drafts of his resignation letter. That he was truly brave, truly skilled, truly kind—always and completely. Instead of faking those qualities on occasion, the way I did.

  “I just don’t know if it’s the best idea,” I told him.

  He gazed at me calmly, but his body was tense. “Did I ask you if it was the best idea? Or did I tell you I’m doing it?”

  “I’m only saying—”

  “Why are you so afraid of being happy?” he demanded.

  “We can’t just do whatever feels good!” I snapped. “We need, as humans, to work to build some sort of stability, some—some measure of agreed-upon normalcy. Anarchy is not the answer.”

  “You think you doing BDSM or me doing vampyr
e yoga is anarchy?”

  “You have a stable job. Why would you throw that away?”

  “Because it’s not making me happy.” He said it patiently, almost condescendingly. I knew I was on dangerous ground.

  I couldn’t admit what was really going through my head—that his stability was important to me because I couldn’t stop picturing our future together. Couldn’t help wanting him to be around forever.

  “Miles,” he said unsteadily. “I want to be with you. I do. But you’ve got to get over this—this thing where you have ideas about who people should be, and you blame them if they don’t fit your standards.”

  “No,” I snapped. “You’ve got to understand. I had a son. I knew his name. I bought him toys and a crib, and I looked into fucking preschools even though that’s years away, and I’ve pictured what he’ll look like and what his voice will sound like . . . and now he can’t be my kid.”

  “I understand all that. But what does that have to do with supporting me? I want to be your partner. Not just your—your nanny or whatever.”

  “Because I am going to be a father, even if it’s not to James. And I need to put my kid first. If I have a partner helping me, I want him to be someone with a legitimate job. I need some stability.”

  He stared at me. Shook his head. “Wow. I don’t even know if you hear yourself right now.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “So I’m gonna go.” He rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. “And this is probably good-bye for a while. If not . . .” He blew out a breath. “Whatever. I need to leave now.”

  I stood there, still angry and confused.

  And I let him go without saying good-bye.

  I kept hoping Drix would relent and contact me, give me a chance to apologize. But he didn’t. The next night, Mrs. Pell showed up at Gould and Dave’s while we were all hanging out.

  She breezed through the front door, hugged us all, and then zeroed in on me. Her frosted blond hair hovered around her head in stiff curls, and her low-cut shirt showed the tops of her extremely large breasts. “Miles, honey,” she said. “Your mom’s on her way over. We’re all going to have a little talk.”

  “Wait, what?” I stood.

  “I invited her to talk to us.”

  “Oh God,” Kamen said beside me.

  I whirled on him. “Did you—”

  Mrs. Pell snorted. “No, honey, Kamen had nothing to do with this.”

  “I really didn’t,” Kamen said pleadingly to me.

  We heard a car pull up out front. Mrs. Pell headed for the door. “That’s probably her.”

  The four of us followed her.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I said.

  Mrs. Pell glanced over her shoulder. “You three, stay here,” she told the others. “Miles, come on outside.”

  Dave and Gould stopped in their tracks. But I could hear Kamen behind me as I followed Mrs. Pell out the door.

  She walked to the edge of the porch. “I just have a thing or two I need to tell your mother.”

  “Please don’t . . .” But Mom was getting out of her car. I thought about warning her it was a trap, but I was curious to see how this would go down.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kamen whispered to me.

  “Mrs. Miles,” Mrs. Pell called as Mom approached.

  “Loucks,” I corrected quietly.

  Mom looked confused. “Why’d you call me here? You said Miles needed my help?”

  Mrs. Pell nodded. “I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

  Mom stood on the porch in front of us. I thought about bolting.

  Mrs. Pell was swift and deadly. “Mrs. Loucks, Miles recently told you something about himself.”

  No. Oh, no, no, no.

  She went on. “From what I understand, you weren’t very supportive. So I just want you to know I’m part of the same lifestyle Miles participates in. I consider myself a decent person, and I was able to raise my son to be a gentleman. I have continued to be a good daughter to my parents and a good sister to my siblings and a good friend to the people who need me.”

  “Mom,” Kamen said again.

  She didn’t break eye contact with my mother. “There’s nothing wrong with the lifestyle I live. It’s nothing I’ll grow out of. And if that girl who got knocked up can’t deal with who Miles is, then that’s her problem. To withdraw your support now, at a time when Miles needs it, is not okay. Do you understand me?”

  Kamen and I both stared.

  No one talked to my mother that way. It was reasonably awesome. But I couldn’t imagine that what followed would be pretty.

  Mom held Mrs. Pell’s gaze. “I am not failing to support Miles,” she said at last, her voice low. “I merely pointed out to him that he may need to rethink his priorities now that he’s decided to become a parent.”

  “It’s really fine,” I told Mrs. Pell. “I don’t need her support.”

  She turned to me. “Honey. Trust me. You do.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. I don’t need my mother’s approval for everything I do.”

  Mrs. Pell faced Mom again. “He was crying when I talked to him the other day.”

  “Mom!” Kamen yelled. “This is totally inappropriate.”

  “Oh hush up, Kamen.”

  My mom stepped closer to Mrs. Pell. “It is not your business the way I communicate with Miles.”

  “It is,” Mrs. Pell said. “I care about Miles. I care about all these boys.”

  “Miles knows that I love him. And he can handle my honesty.”

  “Actually,” I said suddenly.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Actually, you do make me feel bad sometimes,” I told Mom.

  Mom pulled out her handkerchief. Wiped her face.

  “Not just about this,” I went on. “But sometimes the advice you give . . . the way you say things . . . it really hurts me.”

  She tucked the hankie back in her pocket and studied me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But it’s true. I have done . . . everything. Everything I can think of to try to be . . . good, and—and successful, and . . . prepared. I have worked really, really hard to make this adoption happen. And I’m . . .” I hesitated. “I’m proud of what I’ve done, even if you aren’t.”

  She stared for a while. Then her expression softened, and her jaw trembled slightly. “You were always so good with your sister. So sweet.”

  I thought about that time I’d left Malina on the way to the park. Telling her no one wanted her. Guilt flooded me so fast I felt ill. A bolt could have come down from the heavens, split me in two and left me in flames, and it would have been less than I deserved. “I don’t know,” I said, quietly enough that I hoped only she could hear me. “I always wish I was better.”

  She stepped forward, and we stood eye to eye. Then she cupped the side of my face. “You will be a wonderful father.”

  I started to pull away. Stopped.

  She dropped her hand from my face and looked at Mrs. Pell. “I love my son,” she said coldly. “Don’t you ever act like I don’t love my son.”

  Mrs. Pell didn’t flinch. “Then don’t you ever act like you don’t love him.”

  Mom nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said to me.

  And that was pretty much it. The first time my mother had apologized to me in memory, and all I could do was stand there and gape.

  She left almost immediately after.

  Mrs. Pell ran her fingers through her hair. “I’d better go too.” She turned to Kamen. “I brought brownies. Will you boys eat some brownies?”

  “Mom,” Kamen muttered. “I can’t believe you got involved in Miles’s private life. Like, fucked up his whole day and then brought brownies. That’s weird.”

  She straightened her shirt. “I’m sorry, Miles. But it needed to happen.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “Um, thank you. And . . .” I exchanged a glance with Kamen, then looked back at her. “We will take some brownies.”

/>   I drove to the suburbs the next day to apologize to Malina. She waved it off. “Babi. I’m doing a lot of stupid stuff right now. I get why you don’t like the accent or whatever. But you gotta find yourself in your twenties, you know?”

  Apparently.

  We went outside and sat on Mom’s front step. She glanced at me, looking almost shy. “Newsies goes on tour again next year. All I need is an agent and an equity card. And to be a pretty blond white bitch.”

  “You need me to stand in for Crutchie while you practice?” I asked wearily.

  She dug me in the ribs. Froze. “Hey. What’s wrong with your mouth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One side is all puffy. And you’re making a face like you’re dying.”

  “I have some kind of tension headache or something.”

  “In your jaw?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a toothache. It’ll go away. Shut up.”

  “You’re such an ass. You need to get that looked at.”

  I thought about my mom’s words. “You were always so good with your sister.” Malina had been a mystery to me when Mom and Dad brought her home. I’d taken a picture of her for show-and-tell that year. Watched her grow into a wild, dark-haired little girl. She started beating me at video games. Told me I could legally change my name by sending a letter to the president. She wore wedge heels to her eighth-grade dance, then fell and broke her ankle. Drew pictures of the doctors and nurses all over her cast. They thought she was hilarious.

  “I’m really, really glad we’re related,” I told her.

  “Aw. Don’t get mushy on me, please.”

  “No, but seriously. I’ve missed you these past few years.”

  She half smiled, ducking her head. “I’ve missed you too.”

  “When you’re an aunt, can you fix my kid each time I screw up with him?”

  “So, like, when you give him a set of china dolls for Christmas and tell him they’re only to be looked at and never played with, I can give him, like, fireworks or something to make up for it?”

  “No fireworks. Ever. Please.”

  “Do you want me to teach him to steal manhole covers? Because the metal industry—”

  “Absolutely not.” I slung my arm around her.