Unfortunately, before I could chase this frightening spectacle out of the house, Grace pounded down the stairs. To hide his nearly-naked body, I tossed a blanket over him. He muttered a ‘thanks’ and immediately went back to sleep.
“Mom! Mom!” Grace skidded to a halt. “Hey, who’s that guy?”
“Probably a friend of Aunt Jasmine’s.”
“So why isn’t he sleeping with her?”
The question was a good one, but it broke my heart to hear her ask it. I wanted to keep my daughter innocent for as long as I could, but with Jasmine in the house, that didn’t seem possible.
“I have no idea.” I swept Grace into the kitchen before she could ask more questions. Heading for the coffee maker, I stepped in a puddle of water that soaked my slippered feet. The entire floor of the tiny kitchen was underwater.
With a cry of, “Ah, shit!” I started mopping up the mess with an armload of dishtowels, tracing the puddle to the washing machine which sat innocently by the back door.
I wanted to cry. A broken appliance was the last thing I needed. I’d spent the last of my savings to pay my car insurance bill and had nothing left over to buy a new washer. In fact, I didn’t even have enough quarters to go to the Laundromat. “Goddamn, shit!!”
“You broke rule number one. Now you need to put a dollar in the swear jar.” Grace stood in the doorway, looking solemn. She’d dressed herself in the same T-shirt and jeans she’d worn for the past two days and brushed the top layer of her brown hair smooth over a bottom layer of wicked snarls.
A year ago, when I was still married and living in my mini-mansion, Grace would have been dressed in her school uniform eating an egg white omelet in the breakfast nook while I braided her hair. The scene, once ordinary, was now so surreal that I might have dreamed it up.
There was no time for regrets, however. Not with the clock ticking. “I know I swore,” I agreed. “I’m just having a really bad morning.” I dropped the soaking wet rags into the sink and put down another layer of towels.
“You also broke rule number nine.” Standing behind Grace was a very triumphant-looking Ariel. My niece loved catching me in the middle of bad behavior.
The rules the girls were referring to were known as the “Ten Commandments of the Straight Household.” I’d posted copies of them on the refrigerator, above the TV, and on the bathroom mirror. Also, next to the computer, on the doors of all the bedrooms, and even on the dashboard of the car.
I’m nothing if not thorough.
Rule number nine had been written specifically for my stepsister. It said, “Thou shalt not let strange boys sleep overnight (either on the couch or in your bed).” Not that it did any good.
“You’re right. I did break the rule,” I told Ari, thinking of the man on the couch.
“And eight, too,” she added.
For a moment, I couldn’t remember rule number eight. When it finally came to me, I was shocked. Eight was: “Thou shalt not leave prophylactics (either used or unused) lying about the house.” Again, this rule was for my sister. Personally, I hadn’t needed prophylactics since long before my divorce.
“I never broke that rule,” I argued.
“Really?” Ariel held up several square, foil packages.
“Give those here,” I said, furious. “Where did you get them?”
“They were on the end table next to the couch. They probably belong to that bald guy.” Ariel’s eyes were alight with evil mischief. “But you should have thrown them away, so you just broke number eight.”
I snapped my fingers at her, and she surrendered the condoms with a smug smile. It never occurred to me to ask how she knew what those things were. Ariel’s mother had given her the flipside education to the ‘no boys, no drugs’ message most girls get at home. Grace, however, looked on with heartbreaking innocence. “What are those things, Mom?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I shoved the condoms into the pocket of my robe. “Just grab your coat and get going before you miss the bus.”
“But I need to change my clothes!”
I’d gotten careless with my laundry duties over vacation, and dirty clothes piled on the floor like the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Although I’d started a load the previous night before I went to bed, obviously nothing had gotten clean. There goes rule number two, I thought. (Rule number two: Thou shalt not pick dirty underwear out of the hamper and re-wear it.)
There was one silver lining to this terrible day, however. At least none of my old friends and neighbors were around to witness my current, desperate situation. If they had been, every woman in the subdivision would have been roasting me alongside their coffee beans.
“What about breakfast?” Grace whined.
I shoved an apple at her. “Here.”
“That’s not breakfast!” Grace started to cry, and Ariel rolled her eyes and told her to grow up. Then Jasmine shouted up from the basement, “Shut the hell up! Some of us are trying to sleep!”
That’s the way my last morning as a living being started off. Compared to other Monday mornings, it wasn’t all that bad, really.
With the two younger girls out of the house, I finally had a chance to deal with the other member of our tribe: my stepsister.
The townhouse had three levels. Ariel and Grace shared one tiny bedroom upstairs, and I occupied the one across the hall. Jasmine dominated the basement. Between us, like a demilitarized zone, lay the living room and kitchen. Ignoring the hairless wonder who still gently snored on the couch, I marched downstairs and pounded on the basement door. “Wake up!”
“Go ’way.”
I opened the door and flipped on the lights. Jasmine pulled the covers over her head, but I yanked them down again. “It’s Monday, Jas. You promised you’d find a job today.”
Jasmine was twenty-three; a college dropout who was convinced the only thing standing between her and a career as a high-paid fashion designer was a run of bad luck and not a deficiency of talent, drive, and energy.
What Jas lacked in skill and knowledge, however, she made up for in looks. I don’t mind admitting that I’m good looking – at nearly thirty-five, I have no wrinkles, perfect legs, and auburn hair without a single thread of gray – but Jasmine is absolutely gorgeous. Hers is a blend of my stepfather’s Asian features – hair like black silk, flawless toffee-colored complexion, dark, exotic eyes – and her mother’s perfect cheekbones, impressive height and natural grace. Needless to say, men fall for her. Hence, the need for those two commandments on my list.
Jas glared at me, yanked the covers out of my hands, and pulled them back over her head. “I’ll find a job tomorrow,” she said, her voice muffled.
“That’s what you said last week. Which is now last year, in fact. Don’t forget; your New Year’s resolution was to get a job.”
On New Year’s Eve, Grace, Ariel and I had planned to watch the ball drop in Times Square, but I’d fallen asleep even before Ryan Seacrest began the countdown. Jasmine, on the other hand, stayed out all night. When she came home the next morning, she was missing one of the shoes she’d borrowed from me, had put a dent in the front fender of my car, and was still drunk. However, she had promised to find a job. Something I wouldn’t let her slip out of now.
“Jasmine, you getting up?”
I jumped at the sound of a male voice. Standing behind me was the hairless wonder. To my relief, he’d done the decent thing and wrapped the blanket around his waist to hide his skivvies. Despite his fearsome appearance, he grinned good-naturedly and held out his hand. “Tommy Lefevre. Nice to meet you.”
“Lilith Straight.”
“Jas’s stepsister.” His smile widened. “She talks a lot about you.”
No doubt she complained a lot about me. “That’s funny because she hasn’t mentioned you at all.” I’d wanted him to flinch, but he only smiled serenely.
“Tommy’s my spiritual advisor,” Jasmine said.
I snorted, unimpressed. Was she kidding? But, no, I could see by her reveren
t expression that she wasn’t. Only my stepsister would willingly take spiritual advice from an unemployed bum with a demon tattoo and more metal in his face than the hardware section of Home Depot.
“I’m helping Jasmine find her path,” Tommy said. He glanced at Jasmine who sat on the end of her bed wearing nothing but a tiny chemise and a thong. Watching him watch her, I wasn’t fooled for a moment. This guy could call himself a minister, a shaman, a monk, or even a witch doctor, but his eyes were crawling over Jasmine like a greedy bumblebee on the center of a daisy. Spiritual advisor, my ass.
“Well, maybe you can help her find a path to the employment agency,” I said. I started towards the stairs, but he blocked my way.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, disappointed.
I’m a master in the art of sarcasm. I can draw blood at fifty paces. “Of course I do. And I think it’s wonderful that Jas is interested in religion.”
“Not religion,” Jas chided. “Spirituality.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Whatever.”
“Here, let me see your palm.” Tommy reached for my hand. The narrow hallway made it impossible to move away, so I unwillingly relented. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined my hand. “H-m-m.”
I was curious in spite of myself. “H-m-m what?”
“Your lifeline is very short. It stops here, but picks up again here.” He tapped the center of my palm.
“Oh, let me see. Let me see!” Jasmine crowded against me.
Tommy frowned. “There’s also something strange about your aura.”
I yanked my hand back. “Oh, please.” If there’s anything worse than a cliché, it was a religious cliché.
“I’m not kidding,” he said. “Something’s off. Possibly something serious.” He anxiously tugged on one ear. “My sister’s aura was bloody red on the day she… Well, it was bloody red.”
“What’s going to happen to Lilith?” Jasmine’s eyes glowed. She looked as excited as Ariel when she caught me breaking a rule.
“I have to use the bathroom.” I shoved myself in between them.
“I know you don’t believe me, but do yourself a favor, okay?” Tommy said. “Be careful today. Wear your seatbelt. Don’t give rides to strangers. That kind of thing.”
Jas made a farting noise through her lips. “Are you kidding me? Lilith wouldn’t cross the street without looking five ways. She wouldn’t even talk to a stranger, let alone give one a ride. For her, leaving the house without an umbrella is risky. And she’d never –”
“Okay, Jas, we get the picture,” I said.
“I’m just saying, you’re a careful person, that’s all.”
I glared at her and started up the stairs. “I’m leaving in an hour. Jas, I’ll expect you to be gone by then as well. And before you leave, take out the trash.”
“That’s Ariel’s job, not mine,” Jasmine howled.
“That’s not what she meant, Jas,” the hairless wonder said. “She’s talking about me.” This time, I was pleased to see that he did look hurt.
Not until Grace complained that her clothes no longer fit did I notice that she had a little gut hanging over her jeans. The next month, her doctor confirmed what I’d suspected: my daughter was gaining too much weight. Don’t get me wrong – I love my daughter the way she is – but I also wanted to keep her healthy. Hence rule number three of the Straight Ten Commandments: Thou shalt eat no junk food.
However, twenty minutes before being run down by the white Volvo, I ordered a double Bates burger, large fries, and a large Coke. I always eat when I’m nervous, and my upcoming meeting with my ex-husband was making me very anxious. When my order was finally up, I eagerly grabbed the greasy bag.
Before I took my first bite, however, I paused. Jasmine’s friend’s warning rang in my head. Be extra careful, he’d told me. Could a simple hamburger be my undoing? Was a case of e-coli poisoning in my future? I wasn’t a superstitious person, but then again, I wasn’t one for tempting the fates, either. Plus, Tommy had seemed so sincere. I dithered for a moment before deciding not to take any chances. I dumped the burger and fries in the garbage, then tossed the Coke as well. Who knew? Maybe all that sugar would put me into a diabetic coma.
Stopping for the Bates burger made me late for my appointment. This meant I’d broken rule number six (thou shalt not be late). When I saw a SALE sign hanging in the boutique window across the street, I probably would have broken number seven (thou shalt not spend money frivolously), but I died before I had the chance.
Breaking all of these rules isn’t what sent me to Hell, of course, but it was part of the equation. Because if I been paying more attention to where I was walking instead of fiddling with my cell phone, I would have seen the car before it hit me. In fact, I might have even changed my destiny. Who’s to say? But one thing’s for sure. If I hadn’t been trying to text my sister, I wouldn’t have broken the biggest rule of them all: number ten. Thou shalt not upload or download porn from the Internet.
Then again, whether or not I actually broke number ten is a matter of opinion. After all, what’s pornographic to me, probably isn’t so bad for someone else. If, for example, you think that snapping a picture of an enormous dildo is pornographic, then so be it.
But it probably says a lot more about you than it does me.
The truth is, the sight of that ridiculously huge vibrator gave me the giggles. The owner – a fifty-something, bleached-blonde, leather coat-wearing woman – had just come out of a store called the Love Nest. The Love Nest was a porn shop, but a classy porn shop. Classy, because everything in that neighborhood, even the Bates Burgers, was upscale. The woman’s paper shopping bag, unbeknownst to her, had a large rip in the side and the dildo was leaning out of it like it was thinking of escaping. It kept wagging up and down in time to her stride as if trying to make up its mind. This struck me as hilarious.
Thinking quickly, I took out my cell phone. The moment I had snapped my picture and sent it to Jas, I looked up to see an oncoming car: a white Volvo being driven by a man in a white suit. A moment later, there was a terrible jolt as if the hand of God had suddenly jerked me upwards by the back of my collar and hoisted me into the heavens.
Unfortunately, I soon realized that I hadn’t gone up at all. In fact, I’d gone in the exact opposite direction. The express elevator, as it were, straight to the very bottom.
Hell.
Chapter Two
I didn’t lose consciousness, but my vision blurred and there were a few, terrifying moments of darkness. Then things slowly faded back in, like the change of scenes in an old movie. Objects took shape: a bookshelf, an end table, a painting, and a hulking woman with cropped, black hair who sat on a couch and stared at the floor.
Dazed, I put my hand to my head, trying to remember how I’d gotten there. Had I walked in myself? Had a passerby seen the accident and helped me? I glanced at the woman on the couch, hoping for answers, but she continued to glare at her shoes.
Other than the strange woman and me, the place was empty: no doctors, nurses, or even a receptionist. What kind of hospital was this? That’s when I discovered the prison bars.
I was in jail? For what, jaywalking? This had to be a joke. I grabbed the bars, pulling on them as hard as I could. They were thick as broom handles, cold and unforgiving under my clutching fingers. Rattling them was like trying to shake a bus.
Beyond the bars was nothing but an empty hallway. “Hey!” I shouted. “I was just hit by a car! Hello? I need medical attention!”
Sweat oiled my fingers, and my cell phone slipped from my hand. I’d forgotten all about it. Picking it up, I attempted to dial, but there was no service. As I shoved the thing back into my pocket, I realized that I was entitled to one call.
That thought steadied me. Yes, I was entitled to a phone call. That and a lawyer, too. And Miranda rights! I’d been jailed without having been read my rights! My fear gave way to outrage. I was the victim of an auto accident, yet instead of b
eing taken to a hospital, I’d been carted off to prison. This was Detroit, for God’s sake, not some third-world dictatorship!
I glared at the hallway beyond the bars. When the guard came, I’d let him have it! Though I was no longer married to Dr. Ted Dempsey, the most sought-after orthodontist in the metro Detroit area, I still had connections. My stepfather a lawyer, and I had plenty of friends in the judicial system. I even knew the county sheriff who had once slipped me some tongue at a New Year’s Eve party. Just wait and see whose career went into the toilet because they arrested Lilith Straight!
I smoothed my sweater, then combed my fingers through my hair, dislodging a myriad of tiny pebbles that rattled onto the floor. Stunned, I picked one up. It was a fragment of glass, probably from the windshield of the car that had hit me. I frowned at it. If I’d been hit hard enough to get glass in my hair, how on earth was I standing upright now?
Puzzled, I re-examined my surroundings. There were prison bars here, but also an expensive leather couch with an oil painting hanging above it. Not one of those cheesy ‘starving artist’ things, but a genuine work of art. In addition, there were brass lamps, rugs, and a bookcase full of leather-bound books. In the corner stood a water dispenser alongside a coffee maker. Three sides of the space looked like a waiting room in a plastic surgeon’s office, yet the fourth had the steel bars of a prison.
Although the books and coffee maker seemed out of place in this jail, my cellmate did not. She sat with her legs apart, and her elbows braced on her knees. She had the shoulders of a linebacker, and her feet were clad in boots with thick, crepe soles. Looking at her gave me the same, uneasy shiver as the steel bars. This woman could eat me in two bites.
As if hearing my thoughts, the woman lifted her head. I pressed my back against the bars, not daring to meet her eyes. Instead, I took in the white T-shirt with the cut-off sleeves, the thick leather wristband, and the enormous chain that went from her front belt loop to her back pocket. She was a bruiser who would make me her bitch.
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