I’m so lost in my thoughts when I walk through my front door I don’t realize Craig is in the apartment, let alone talking to me.
‘Huh? Sorry, what did you say?’
Craig is still lying in the same position on the sofa, playing his video game. There are bags under his eyes, but he looks the opposite of tired. Two energy drink cans lie crumpled on the coffee table. A busted bag of potato chips lies on his lap.
‘I said I can’t stop playing this damn game,’ he says. ‘The developers did such a great job on it.’
Makes me think of what Tweek said. I look around the apartment. Pizza boxes and takeaway containers litter the kitchen counter, beer bottles scattered among them. Dishes haven’t been done. A series of gunshots and explosions erupt from the HG, causing Craig to whoop with excitement.
‘Graphics are freakin’ insane, man, so good that you’d think it was real life. This HG is the greatest thing ever.’
I glance at the game as I grab a beer from the fridge. Craig’s right, the graphics are something else. It’s nice to see my roommate immersed in something other than porno for once.
‘Have you been to work at all?’ I ask.
Craig crams a handful of chips into his mouth and shakes his head. ‘Took a little time off, but I’ve got a bartending shift tonight at the Rochester.’
I drink the beer quickly as I watch Craig lead and kill some players with well-timed headshots through a sniper scope.
‘Nice shooting, dead-eye.’
‘The noobs are easy pickings,’ Craig says with a chuckle. ‘What are you up to tonight, dude?’
‘No plans.’
‘Well, grab that girlfriend of yours and come down to the bar.’
‘Ryoko’s not my girlfriend.’
Craig rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever.’
‘She’s not.’
‘If she’s still dating you when you’re Husking, I’d call that pretty serious. Women have dumped my ass for a lot fucking less.’
His comment annoys me, but only because he’s right. God knows where my dick has been over the last few years. Christ knows who my tongue has licked. What Craig doesn’t know is that Ryoko Husks too. I figured he would have put two and two together by now, but he’s not always the sharpest tool in the shed. Jesus, what other kind of girl would ever have me?
‘I’m hitting the hay for a while, dude,’ I say, finishing my beer and waving a hand toward the kitchen. ‘Do me a favour and clean this pigsty up a bit.’
‘I’m on it,’ he replies, but doesn’t move.
‘Oh, and one more thing, man … Please don’t leave your Glock lying out on the coffee table. Keep the firearms stowed away, okay?’
Craig grunts in agreement as he horrifically obliterates another player on the HG with a handheld prototype weapon I’ve seen before in the real world, an advance in science that has been misappropriated by the military. The thought of it makes me shiver.
I retreat to my room, the gun playing on my mind. My thoughts turn to Winslade and his stock in that particular weapons technology. My client, the gun, Tweek’s advice, it all makes me want to go to bed and forget about things for a while. As I lie on my mattress and drift off, the gun invades my dreams, showing me over and over in horrible detail what it is capable of doing to a human body.
The gun isn’t the only thing that sneaks into my sleep. There is blood too, flowing from a source unknown, running red and thick. It turns into ketchup, the kind I always wanted at the dinner table, in a squeezable bottle like the other kids got, not in the self-serve packets that my parents habitually stole by the handful from fast-food restaurants along with mustard, relish, sugar, salt and pepper. Cheap hot dogs on my plate again, wrapped in slices of stale white bread, surrounded by these condiments packaged in small rectangular white. Baked beans and Mac’n’cheese make an appearance, reminiscent of tough times long ago. I’m a kid, eating them by the bowlful, aware of how frequently they are being served for supper with money so tight.
My parents sit at the far ends of the dinner table, heads down, refusing to speak to each other. My sisters are quiet opposite me. Closing one eye, I look at their refracted images through the pitcher of tap water between us, making adjustments, trying to get the distortion to put smiles on their faces that aren’t there. I try to say words that will brighten the mood, but no one acknowledges anything that leaves my mouth. I know all too well why my younger sister looks so unhappy, but I’ll never breathe a word to anyone about it. She picks at her food and I stretch my legs under the table, trying to touch my feet against hers, never connecting, never comforting. My toes touch something else, cool and alien. We hear grunts from somewhere below and freeze. I can feel a monster crawling under the table, brushing my shins, moving away from me and toward my sister. I watch in horror as a hulking shadow rises from the floor behind her chair and looms over her small body. None of my family sees it, their eyes all cast down, staring at their plates. My sister, however, crumples in her seat. I yell, trying to warn her, watching as my shrill voice splinters and cleaves the table between us. It collapses inward, pulling everyone around it into the centre like a drain to be sucked down. In the increasing vacuum, suffocating, wondering where I’ll end up, I manage one deep breath and hold it for as long as possible.
Suddenly I’m breaking the surface of a new dream. I can breathe again, and find myself drifting through my college days. The days and nights are a blur as I absorb lectures and care too much about classes taught in the bowels of a concrete jungle, convinced the education will earn me some kind of job security, some kind of respectable future if I just stick with it. Sitting in my graduation robes, I’m surrounded by screens of rejection notices while my ear is pressed to a phone, listening to a message that says over and over again: ‘We’re very sorry.’ The phone gets hijacked by credit and collection agencies, legitimate loan sharks. Outstanding debts growl through the receiver, grilling me for my late or failed or nonexistent payments. Fancy paper in a broken frame lies at my feet, a degree majoring in compliance with a minor in gullibility. Fear grips me, fear of ending up like my parents, one foot in the gutter and one foot kicking the dirt out of some shallow grave.
Miller stands in the dark corners of my dream, silent and still. I know it’s him by his height and stance, though I can’t see his face. We were similar growing up, both from homes that bordered on broken. Most conversations we shared were about our poor commonalities. Miller watches knowingly, breathing in the dead air I expel. I want him to intervene and end this anxious reliving of the past. He reaches toward me, threatening to step out of the shadows. Before he can his figure fades, collected by the dark, his presence required elsewhere.
I wake to gentle hands gliding over my abdominal muscles, suckling mouth enveloping my dick that is quickly becoming an erection. A soft, playful tongue licks every inch of it as fingernails dig into my skin, scratching the surface of me in long lines. The naked body that writhes against my legs is warm and smooth, supple breasts pressed to my thighs, hard stomach brushing against my shins. I know the familiarity of this erotic touch before I open my eyes.
‘Baby,’ I groan.
I clench my buttocks and feel her giggle against the base of my shaft as she presses wet lips against me. The sensation makes my back arch. Grogginess slips from me all at once and I want to fuck her in the worst way. My hands reach down and grip her hair, lifting her face up from my lap so I can look into her eyes. A click behind my ear is heard, or maybe just felt.
‘Ry—’
Except it isn’t Ryoko looking back at me. Glassy blue eyes between handfuls of blonde hair regard me blankly. I stifle a cry of shock as I scramble backwards, kicking the sheets off the bed.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ryoko says, wiping her mouth as she rises.
I try to catch my breath, scanning her unblemished skin, her ultra-fit body, making sure it really is her. Another vision, another memory I can’t hold on to slips away, despite the seeming importance of it. Ryoko, naked
in the afternoon light except for a tight blue T-shirt hiked up over her breasts, recaptures my full attention.
‘Bad dream,’ I mutter, rubbing my eyes.
Ryoko crawls across the bed and slides on top of me, her dark hair falling over my face as she bites my bottom lip. Hard nipples brush against mine, sending a buzz coursing the length of my body.
‘How’bout I give you a wet dream instead?’
‘You are my wet dream.’
‘That was the right answer,’ Ryoko says, straddling me.
She shifts her hips a little and I’m past her tightness, thrusting inside heavenly warmth, skin to skin, no contraception needed. Ryoko can’t have kids, and we take full advantage of this fact. My moans are muffled against her breasts, but hers are loud and growing. She bucks on my lap with a series of submissive whimpers until I lift her off and flip her over. We don’t last long. The force of my riding pushes her body down further and further until she is lying on her stomach. Stretched out on top, I grind her ass into the mattress. She squirms with pleasure as I lick her skin slick with perspiration. I entwine her hair in my fist and pull, lifting her head so I can whisper in her ear as I drive myself into her as far as I will go.
‘I love you,’ I pant. ‘I fucking love you.’
‘I know, I know,’ she says between short, desperate breaths.
This is the only control I ever have over a woman who could otherwise own me if she wanted. We slip into a heavy rhythm until we come one after another. I collapse on top of her, sliding on the cool sweat from our bodies.
‘Welcome back, baby,’ she says.
I pull out and kiss her before rolling off. ‘Not for long.’
‘Another gig?’
‘Gigs,’ I say. ‘Baxter roped me into two local sessions over the next couple days, and then I’m off to London to cover one of Clive’s clients.’
‘Pity.’
‘We still got tonight.’
Ryoko glides her fingers over the bruises on my chest. ‘That we do.’
We lay there for a minute until she makes the mistake of asking me if I’m all spent. I grab her by the wrists and lead her from the bed to the bathroom, where I throw her into a warm mist. Pressing her naked body up against the glass partition, I take her for another round and think about how much I simply want to stay with her and forget all the work lined up. For now she’s mine and mine alone, the real thing, soft around the edges, but sharp enough to see through the bullshit of bad art and love songs. Our connection is on a level most don’t register. I wish there was a simpler deal between us. I wish she would tell me she loves me too. Wish to God she was my girl, but Ryoko is nobody’s girl really. She’ll have me over and over again though and I guess that’s good enough.
Back in my room I watch her pull on her panties and jeans. All I can think is how much I want to tug them off and throw her on the bed again.
‘What time is your gig tomorrow?’ Ryoko asks, zipping her fly.
‘Scheduled for a noon start.’
I’m about to ask what her schedule is when I remember she wanted a hiatus. It’s then that I realize that Ryoko hasn’t been into Solace Strategies lately, hasn’t heard about Miller. She seems so content right now. I don’t know how to break it to her. Waiting for the right time seems pertinent, so I say nothing. Ryoko roots through my dresser and puts on an old CBGB T-shirt of mine, knowing how much I love the look of my clothes on her. Behind my dresser is a long crack in the wall that Ryoko inspects.
‘Tell me again why you live here when you can afford better?’
‘All part of my master plan,’ I say. ‘I can’t make my nest egg by spending money on frivolous things.’
Ryoko smirks. ‘Couldn’t help notice the new HG out in your living room.’
‘That’s a gift from a client.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Someone sure is happy with you.’
I don’t say anything, not wanting to bring up the topic of clients. Ryoko wants to pry, I can tell by the look on her face, but Solace Strategies’ discouragement is a constant nag. Besides, when it comes to Husks and maintaining intimate relationships, casual or serious, the less said the better.
‘So, your roommate was leaving for work when I arrived,’ Ryoko says, tipping her head toward the living room with a smile. ‘Fancy cuddling up on the couch and watching a flick on that new toy of yours?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
8
Later that night we hit the bar where Craig works. The Rochester is packed: cheap bar rail drinks and craft beer deals. Some of the best prices you can find in the city. There is an undeniable energy in the air, one Ryoko and I feel like static. How we earn our living puts a perspective, a spin, on the rest of existence. The East Village comes alive after dark, its inhabitants throwing caution to the wind at the end of their depressed days. It’s almost vampiric, the way people rise with the setting sun, leaving their homes to prowl for some form of satisfaction: flesh, fantasy, or pharmaceutical. Celebration comes one night at a time, a reward for the day-to-day. As the Big Apple rots, it also ferments. Ryoko and I soak it up. We could go uptown, spend more money, but we don’t. After you’ve done your fair share of Husking, you want to stay away from the wealthy as much as you can. It’s a comfort being off the clock; out of sight, out of mind, out of range of the things that can haunt you if you’re not careful. Down here, most of our clients would call it slumming. We call it living.
Ryoko is more affectionate than usual, though I wonder about her motives. She stands close, sneaking kisses when she thinks no one is looking. Over the din of the clientele I yell another order to Craig behind the bar. Within a minute he brings us two Brooklyn brews and two shots of Don Julio.
‘To Miller,’ Ryoko says, raising her shot glass. ‘Taken too soon.’
There was no right time to tell her about Miller, but I broke the news halfway through our afternoon movie. She didn’t seem shocked, didn’t shed a tear. She just sat on the sofa and kept watching the film as I explained how he died covering an unknown client of mine. Maybe there was an underlying desire to smash a thing or two in anger, but the girl kept it together. I expected nothing less. Ryoko might look soft and lovely on the outside, but inside she’s a rock. You’ll break against her before she even chips. We knock back the tequila and chase it with beer.
‘So what did Tweek say?’ Ryoko asks.
‘About what?’
She taps behind her ear. ‘Y’know …’
‘Nothing,’ I say and frown. ‘The tests he ran say everything is fine.’
‘Are you still having problems?’
Her face gives nothing away, but I can see it in her eyes, the growing concern over what has me so worried. Ryoko is the person I’m least likely to lie to, but I’ll do it in a heartbeat if it will ease her worries. More beer finds its way down my throat, stalling a reply. The buzz from it further delays things, the hamster wheel slow to spin. My pause is too long. Ryoko knows I’m sparing her the truth as I speak.
‘I’m fine, babe. No need to worry –’
The Rochester suddenly goes dark, every light in the place failing simultaneously. Hoots and jeers rise from the patrons as Liaison screens glow in the black. Bartenders and bouncers call for calm. The sound of shattering glass comes, drinks hitting the floor as people get shoved. An alarmed cry follows, then a series of angry shouts. Ryoko grabs me in the dark, pulling me close. I slip a hand around her waist and hold her tight. All kinds of crazy things have happened, and have been rumoured to happen, in these rolling blackouts. When the power comes back on, sometimes theft or assault has occurred. Occasionally there is a corpse.
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
The lights reactivate as if on cue, and I catch Ryoko mouthing the words back to me, trying them on for size. Immediately she puts a hand over her mouth, eyes shutting shamefully over dropping her guard. She’s trained herself to avoid toying with emotion. I want to tell her it’s all right, that there’s no need to keep
me at arm’s length. I try to touch her face, stroke her hair, something. She pulls away before I can, the movement slight, maybe only an inch, but enough to put some cold between us.
There is a loud yelp as a bouncer wearing sunglasses strong-arms some dude at the other end of the bar, mercifully drawing our attention away from our awkward moment. We watch as the culprit gets hauled out of the place and thrown onto the street. Craig swings by our spot at the bar.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘The guy was trying to steal tips in the blackout,’ Craig says. ‘First thing we expect to happen around here when the power fails. Shit, we gotta stay vigilant even with the lights on these days.’
‘How’d they catch him?’ Ryoko asks.
I point at the bouncer. ‘That guy’s not wearing sunglasses at night because he’s some Corey Hart fan.’
Ryoko frowns. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘For crying out loud,’ Craig says, giving me a less than amused look. ‘No one listens to eighties music, dude.’
‘Everyone should listen to the eighties. It was the peak of civilization.’
‘Oh, don’t start.’
‘Just saying.’
‘Night-vision lenses,’ Craig says, turning back to Ryoko. ‘Things go dark in here, and security gets instant cat-eyes.’
Husk Page 6