The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  This anxiety would evaporate as soon as Evie got her hit of Velma’s presence. Her lupine eyes and her gap-toothed smile were an elixir that cured every ailment, fizzing scars away to leave unblemished skin. Whether Velma wanted it or not, she could tell they were falling for each other. The loft was starting to feel less fantastic, more familiar. The front door lock was dodgy (Velma kept forgetting to tell the super), which meant Evie could open it without a key. Every time she pushed the door open, it felt more and more like she was coming home.

  On the weekend, Velma suggested they see the writer Chess Hudsen do a reading at Word Nerd, a cute bookstore in the East Village. Evie asked if the two had ever been involved, having seen pictures of them together online. “Briefly,” Velma replied. “But we worked out we’re better as friends.” This struck Evie as being incredibly adult. She’d cross state lines to avoid her college girlfriend, a drama-thick love affair that had ended with light stalking and heavy drinking.

  There was a line out the door by the time they arrived, but Velma bypassed everyone waiting, to be greeted enthusiastically by the guy with the clipboard. Inside, they had reserved seats, right at the front. Multiple people asked Velma for a picture, shy and excited. Evie wondered if this would ever get annoying, being the girlfriend of a literary superstar. Perhaps, she conceded, one day. For now, it just made her feel special.

  After the reading, Chess, Velma, Evie, and a handful of others went to a cozy Italian restaurant for a late supper. Over plates of buffalo mozzarella and handmade gnocchi, the conversation drifted from publishing politics to the New York theater scene to a playful argument over who was the bigger brat, Chess or Velma. Velma kept her hand on Evie’s knee, generating both a low buzz of desire between her legs and a warm, comforting glow of belonging to someone, part of a team. Red wine flowed freely. The more Evie drank, the more she felt convinced of the night’s wonder. Here she was, Evie Selby, the girl no one asked to prom, the girl who lost her virginity only three short years ago, with a table of artists and thinkers and professionals in their prime, in New York City.

  Their sex was insistent, urgent, and dramatic, recalling Rachmaninoff in size and scope. Evie shouted her orgasms. She did not moan or whimper: she screamed until her throat was sore. One morning she lost her voice. But despite the regularity, Evie could never get close enough to Velma. And not just because Velma refused to let her penetrate her, preferring exclusively clitoral orgasms. She just wanted more: more of her past, more of her attention. More intimacy. Velma came with her eyes closed, while Evie’s were wide open, searching, demanding to meet her lover’s. She evaded sleep with questions, reaching out to tug a lock of Velma’s hair and ask something like, “Do you think you’re a good writer?”

  A sex-weary Velma smiled at Evie with tired indulgence. “I think other people think I’m good,” she replied. “And I’ve learned to appreciate what other people think.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a lot better than listening to what I think.”

  Evie nodded in understanding.

  “But that doesn’t mean I like all my books.” Velma suppressed a yawn.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Underskin was terrible. Even for a debut.”

  Evie lit up with surprise. “No, it wasn’t!”

  “It was.”

  “It’s a cult book.”

  “And cults are not exactly known for their good judgment. Except when it comes to inventive ways to kill people.”

  Evie raised her eyebrows. She simply could not accept this about the novel that sparked a literary love affair. “It was universally adored.”

  “It was not,” Velma refuted, rearranging her pillows. “That’s simply not possible. The universe has seven billion people. I hate to break it to you,” she added, “but some people don’t like the Beatles.”

  Evie affected mock horror. “No.”

  “They hate Joni Mitchell.”

  “Stop.”

  “They think Ghostbusters is stupid.”

  Evie narrowed her eyes. “I would kill them if I had the means.”

  Velma chuckled. Evie snuggled closer, wanting to lay her head on Velma’s chest, but not wanting to lose sight of her face. “Okay. I get what you’re saying. There are probably some terrible reviews, somewhere—”

  “There’s lots,” Velma countered. “If you look for them. I don’t look for them. Not anymore. This is what I’ve learned about all that: you see what you want to see.” Velma’s gaze moved around Evie’s face in a way that felt more intimate than a kiss. “You really are exquisite, Chloe.” She yawned, her words thick and exhausted. “You’re poetry.”

  The experience of becoming Evie Selby in Velma’s bed had not left her unscathed. A stash of Tums, bleach, and paper towels was quietly hidden in the main and guest bathrooms. She’d even brought over a pair of old glasses to hide in the bedside table. Pausing at the bedroom doorway, Evie checked that Velma was sufficiently distracted with their dinner order. “Indian or Japanese?” Velma called, without looking up.

  Evie wrinkled her nose. “If I eat another blue crab hand roll, I’m going to turn into one.”

  “Vindaloos it is.”

  Evie smiled and pulled the bedroom door shut. Quickly, she crossed to her side of the bed, removing the old glasses from her pocket. They weren’t as thick or striking as the frames she wore now. She’d worn these freshman year. Holding them reminded her of bad cafeteria food that always smelled like chicken fingers, cramped quarters with Krista, and thrilling collective meetings that ran late into the night. The world was revealing itself to her back then, and she was hungry for it, hungry to make a change and leave her mark.

  Back then, she could never, ever have been convinced of her current situation: hiding a pair of glasses to avoid another stupid mistake. Because Evie Selby tried hard not to make stupid mistakes.

  The thought of losing herself—her clever, careful, rational self—gripped her. Who was this entitled idiot, this girl who rolled her eyes at too much sushi? Had this girl lost touch with her ideals, her standards, the essence of her being?

  Because she’d certainly lost touch with her friends.

  Willow.

  Where was Willow?

  Evie tightened her grip, only then remembering she still held her glasses. She hid them in the bedside table drawer and she sank down onto the edge of the mattress.

  After their fight about the photos, Willow had stopped staying at the apartment or picking up Evie’s calls. But to be honest, Evie had stopped making them. Taking on the problem of Willow forced her to become Evie Selby again, when really, she was far more comfortable being Chloe Fontaine.

  Shame and guilt overwhelmed her, as if Willow were a dinner date she’d forgotten and only just remembered, three hours too late. Quietly, she tiptoed to the doorway and edged open the door. Velma’s head was bent to her phone, oblivious. Evie pulled the door shut again and crept into the bathroom off Velma’s bedroom, locking the door behind her. Something about having to call Willow—as Evie, while still Chloe—made her feel particularly exposed. She dialed Willow’s number. Voicemail.

  “Willow, it’s Evie. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Can you just let me know you’re okay? Otherwise I’ll assume you’re dead and call the police.” She meant it as a joke, but it probably didn’t come across that way.

  An hour later, as Evie sat with her legs braided with Velma’s on the sectional, she received a text: not dead. preparing for my show. Evie checked the Wythe Gallery website. Caroline’s tear-streaked face filled the screen. The show name screamed at her in neon-yellow caps: BEAUTY IS A WITCH. Evie’s stomach kicked with anxiety. “Jesus Christ.”

  Velma looked up from her notebook. “What?”

  After a second’s hesitation, Evie turned her phone around. “Catchy title, no?”

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Velma said. “Much Ado, I believe.” She squinted, conjuring up the words. “ ‘Let every eye negotiate for itself, And tr
ust no agent; for beauty is a witch, Against whose charms faith melteth in blood.’ ”

  Evie smiled. “Impressive.”

  Velma gave a tiny shrug, reading the website on Evie’s phone. “Willow Alice Hendriksen. That’s Matteo Hendriksen’s daughter, right?”

  Evie nodded. “She’s a . . . friend.” Willow’s show left a bad taste in her mouth. “I need to make a call.”

  On the balcony, Evie wrapped her arms around herself as she found the number. The air was fresh tonight. Below her, the sweep of the city glittered back at her.

  Her city.

  Her New York.

  “Hello?” The male voice that answered sounded surprised.

  “Mark, hi, it’s Evie.”

  There was a pause. “Yeah, I have your number in my phone.”

  “How are you?”

  His reply was uncharacteristically clipped. “Fine.”

  “Have you spoken to Willow lately? I’ve been staying at my—” Evie almost said girlfriend’s, but stopped herself just in time. “Friend’s house, so I don’t know if she’s been at the apartment.”

  Another long pause. Then, in a colorless voice, Mark said, “Willow and I broke up.”

  Evie almost dropped the phone. “What?”

  “We broke up.”

  Willow and Mark broke up? Willow and Mark? “Oh shit. But . . . why? What happened?”

  “That’s my business, Evie.”

  Evie rubbed her face, distressed. “Mark, I’m worried about her. It’s a pretty weird time for us all right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Evie glanced at her reflection in the glass balcony doors. She was wearing Velma’s robe, Evie’s underwear, and Chloe’s skin. “Just your twenties, I guess,” she replied faintly. “They’re kind of a wild ride.”

  There was muffled noise on the other end of the line, like Mark was covering up the speaker. Then his voice reappeared, crisp and efficient. “I have to go.”

  “Wait! Mark . . . what’s going on? You don’t sound like . . . you.”

  Mark huffed out a breath, irritated. “I’m still me. Willow’s still Willow. It just didn’t work out.”

  “But—” Evie wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a female voice.

  “I have to go,” he repeated. “I’m with someone.”

  Evie’s mouth dropped open. “Another girl?”

  “Good-bye, Evie.” The line went dead.

  Evie stared at the phone as if it had just gained sentience. What was going on? Mark wasn’t a dick. Mark marched in Take Back the Night rallies and actually listened to her feminist rants. If Mark and Willow couldn’t make it, who could?

  When she came back inside, Velma told her she looked troubled. Evie regarded her, curled on the couch like a feline, her blond hair tousled and golden.

  “I feel troubled,” Evie said in a small voice.

  Velma’s lips curved into a smile, lazy as smoke. The sight softened the anxiety in Evie’s throat. “Baby,” Velma said. “Come here.”

  Evie curled into Velma’s open arms, pressing her forehead onto her lover’s. Velma’s face kaleidoscoped into three, four different versions of herself, refusing to settle into a single image.

  64.

  Being Tristan McKell’s unconfirmed, alleged love toy had its ups and downs.

  The downside was: paparazzi.

  Legit paparazzi.

  Krista had been leaving her apartment building in South Williamsburg, predawn, precoffee, when a swarm descended on her, flashes popping like broken strobe lights. She’d stumbled back, dazed and confused, swatting at them like flies before Eduardo hustled her into the car. It wasn’t until he said the word, in his soft Mexican accent, that she understood what had just happened.

  At first, she was excited. Paparazzi! Like in the movies, like in the magazines!

  Then the article came out.

  Bizarrely, it wasn’t something Lana or Greg or even Cameron had warned her about. She’d simply picked up one of the gossip mags in the hair and makeup trailer and there she was. On the front freakin’ cover. Face blotchy, eyes half open, under a bright red headline that screamed with all the subtlety of a freight train: “Stars Without Makeup!”

  When Ora asked her what was wrong, she couldn’t even answer. She just held it up.

  Her makeup artist clucked sympathetically. “That’s not very nice, is it?”

  “It certainly is not.” Krista stared at the picture mournfully. “It was 5 a.m.! It was 5 fucking a.m. and I was on my way here. To hair and makeup!”

  Ora patted her on the shoulder. “That’s when you know you’ve made it, pet. When the rag mags take a swipe at you.”

  Krista threw the magazine into the trash, feeling horrible. It seemed like an awfully high price to pay. On top of that, it just seemed mean.

  The upside was she was getting a lot of oral sex.

  A lot.

  Whenever she and Tristan weren’t on set, his nose was between her legs in the twin bed in Tristan’s trailer. At first, this was more than enough. Scurrying off to go at it in between setups, lazing around in a Sunday-morning kind of way when in reality it was a weekday afternoon: all very satisfying. Plus, Evie had been right about Tristan. The kid really was the king of cunnilingus. It felt like he could unlock his lower jaw like a serpent. Tongue: velvet. Stamina: superhuman.

  But after a week of oral and nothing but oral, it was actually getting frustrating. She wanted all of Tristan. But every time her fingers started heading south he’d pull them up or wriggle away. Tristan didn’t want to have sex with her. As in, pee-in-the-vee sex. Eventually, she just had to ask. “T?”

  Tristan lifted his head, wiping his mouth. “Yeah, babe?”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  She was hoping for surprised laughter or vehement denial. But instead, Tristan glanced at the closed trailer door. “We probably need to get to set—”

  “We have an hour.” She gave him her best you’re not getting out of this face.

  Tristan drew in a deep breath. Unconsciously, Krista did the same. In a quiet, confessional voice, Tristan said, “I’m not a virgin, Lenks. But . . . there is something.”

  A flash flood of worst-case scenarios: STD, married, could only do it dressed like an adult baby. “What is it?”

  Tristan ran both hands through his hair. All color had drained from his face. “Okay. I’m ready.” He leveled his gaze at her. “I like you, Lenka. I think we have a connection. A connection that goes beyond the physical. Don’t you agree?”

  Krista pressed her lips together, wholly unsure of where this was going. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I don’t believe that love can only be experienced by a man and a woman. It can be a man and a man, or a woman and a woman.”

  “Well, duh.” Krista squinted at him. “Are you saying you want a threesome? ’Cause I’ve totally done that, like, a million times—”

  “No, what I’m saying is, couples don’t necessarily need a . . .” He paused, frowning.

  “A what?”

  He cocked his head at her. “You know how blind people have a great sense of smell?”

  “Tristan!” Krista exclaimed. “Just tell me what the fuck you’re trying to tell me!”

  “Okay!” He took both of Krista’s hands in his and squeezed them. “Lenka. I have . . . a micropenis.”

  Krista blinked. “Cool,” she said. “What’s that?”

  Tristan looked genuinely surprised. “A micropenis. You’ve never heard of a micropenis?”

  Krista shook her head. “Nope.” Relief was edging its way into her veins. He wasn’t married, didn’t have an STD, and didn’t want to get into a diaper and have her bottle-feed him. All of this was good.

  “A micropenis.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Micro,” he repeated. “Penis. Micropenis. Almost a million guys in the US have one.”

  “Oh!” The strange term finally
registered something. “You mean, like . . . you have a small dick?”

  Tristan nodded. “Not just small. Very small.” He studied Krista anxiously.

  “That’s okay,” Krista ventured. “I like a big dick as much as the next girl, but once I fucked this Korean basketball player who wasn’t packing much. I mean, he had girth, you know, but not length. Wasn’t even four inches, and it still felt pretty good.”

  “That’s not exactly—I’m not exactly like that guy.”

  “I know,” Krista said. “You’re not Korean.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Tris!” Krista cut him off. “Dude. I’m kind of done with talking.” She leaned toward him and gently kissed his lips. “Sometimes, talking kills the vibe.” She kissed him again, letting her lips linger. “When what we should really be doing is talking with our clothes off. Do you know what I mean?”

  Tristan nodded as Krista kissed him again.

  “So maybe we should just get naked and see what happens,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” Tristan said uncertainly.

  Krista flipped the light switch, sending the small bedroom into near blackness. “Better?”

  “Yeah.”

  So the guy wasn’t packing an anaconda. So they wouldn’t be able to use his penis to jump rope with. It could’ve been worse. In seconds she had his T-shirt off over his head. Her fingers ran over his stomach, and she gasped. His abs were perfect. Christmas morning perfect.

  Krista pulled off her top and shoved his hands onto her chest. On feeling her breasts, enormous in a push-up bra worn exactly for this occasion, Tristan let out a moan.

  Of their own accord, her hands began undoing his belt buckle. This time, he let her. Soon only boxer briefs stood between him and nakedness. Glorious, wonderful nakedness. She hooked her fingers around his underwear.

  “Wait,” Tristan said. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Dude,” she breathed, “I was born ready.” In two seconds flat, his boxers were around his ankles.

  This was it. Her fingers moved over the light hair of his thigh, through the coarse pubic hair around his cock . . . and past it, to the top of his other thigh. She dove back in, groping through his pubic hair, not finding anything more than a small bump. Tristan groaned. “Yeah,” he panted. “That’s it.”