Howard’s voice came again, lower this time. “It’s been a long day. Let me in. We’ll talk.”
I must have made a sound, because Mom spun around fast. She looked at me very slowly and carefully. It occurred to me suddenly that she might not be sure if I was the real me. She’d seen five of me today, in all shapes and sizes. I imagined her wondering, Which one is here with me now?
“It’s me, Mom,” I whispered. “Really.”
She blinked, and I knew she was editing the reality in her head again. Which reality would win? Hers? Howard’s? Or mine?
“Cora? Answer me!”
She looked at me and whispered, “Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”
I just looked at her. What could I say? I’m sick of being your moral compass, Mom. Or maybe, Don’t make me be nice to him any more. Nothing came out of my throat.
She nodded. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I whooshed out the biggest sigh of my life.
Mom turned back to the door. “Howard, go away. I’m getting a court order denying you access to me, this house, and my daughter. The police know what you did with my money.”
That might be true. I honestly hadn’t been listening while I ate, and she dished out her statement to Detective Doyle. I’d been too hungry. Had she really told the whole truth? Whoa, Mom. History is made.
“Cora, we agreed—”
She interrupted him crisply. “I suggest you telephone the police with your address for tonight. They won’t want to have to go looking for you when I refuse to approve the charge for security on your bond. I presume you used my credit card. Yours has been maxed out for a year.”
Way to go, Mom!
“Cora! They’ll make me stay in jail!” Howard said in a squeaky, strangled voice I’d never heard.
“Call 911, Melitta,” Mom said to me.
Desperate-sounding thumps landed on the door. “No! Please! I—I can’t go anywhere else. I don’t have any money.”
I had my phone out in a heartbeat. Instead of 911, though, I was calling Detective Doyle. “It’s me, Melitta Grove,” I hissed. “Mom’s locked Howard out of the house. I think he might run for it.”
Somewhere in the background, Howard was pouring out goo for my mom, trust, our marriage, whatever, in his smoothest psychobabble voice, sounding calmer, the madder he got. I didn’t listen.
Heat bloomed in my chest. I realized for the first time that I’d been frozen solid, waiting for this moment since I walked in on Mom and Mr. Dorrington. Maybe since I walked out of the house after they’d had the locks changed.
No, actually, I’d been waiting since she married him and he started in on me. I’d been waiting for Mom to pick me, not him. The realization that she was doing it, she was picking me, and she was throwing him to the wolves, lit a fire in my heart.
I felt so dizzy that I missed what Detective Doyle said next. I hissed, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
“I said, are you ready for us to collect him? We’re waiting down the block.”
I put the phone against my shoulder and looked at Mom. She stood even closer to the door, her fists working at her hips, as if she wanted to spit acid right through the wood.
I edged around her until I could see her face. Her concentration seemed absolute. I had never seen her look so focused.
But in the next instant she turned her head and looked at me and the look was gone. “Are they coming?”
“They’re here,” I said. “They never left. I guess they figured he’d show up.” I put the phone to my ear again. “Yes, please come and get him.”
There was another thump at the door, followed by quick, fading footsteps.
“Come on,” she said, and pulled me out of the hall into the living room. “Let’s watch.”
We stood at the big picture window and watched Howard sprint to his car and roar backwards out of the driveway, smack into a cop car. We watched him get out and try to run. We watched him throw punches at the cops. We watched them push him to the ground and handcuff him. We watched them pull him to his feet.
When he looked back at the house, my mom put her arm around me. I squinted into the darkness, sharpening my succubus-sharp eyes.
He saw us, all right.
I stood a little taller next to Mom. She squeezed a little tighter.
While we watched, Howard slumped and turned away, and the police put him into the back of an unmarked car, and the car drove away.
I slept in my old room that night. But before I did, I threw out a ton of stuff. Mom changed the sheets for me without my asking. She cooked up a bowl of soup with some chicken stock and shrimp she’d had in the back of the freezer—I must have overlooked those. And I went to sleep with her sitting beside me, her hand on my shoulder. She wanted to pet me to sleep, but I couldn’t deal with that. So, just touching.
I guess she went to bed eventually, too. I woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs.
“I can’t stay here forever, Mom. My team will be expecting me back.” I waited for her to react to that. She turned bacon a little mechanically, but she didn’t seem freaked. So I added, “I want to go back.”
She just looked at me. I could read in letters of fire printed across her eyeballs—okay, no, I couldn’t, not literally, but I knew darned well what she wanted to ask me.
“I can’t tell you what I’ll be doing, Mom. I can’t tell you who they are or where I’ll be living. All I can say is, they’re my friends. They take care of me. We planned that thing yesterday. We sent Dorrington over the edge on purpose.”
“Honey!” She looked horrified.
“Mom, you saw how he threw that chair at me and I just smashed it with one hand. I’m super strong now.” I changed the subject, since this was venturing too far into truth, especially truth she could argue wasn’t real because, well, oh well. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll manage,” she said, looking reallio-trulio brave and noble. I knew how hard it was for her to say that.
“Mom.” I put my hand over hers. She was ice cold. “I want you to do something for me.”
She swallowed. “Okay.”
“I want you to call Lester. I never knew about the college fund he gave me. I want you to thank him for me. I—I’ll be unavailable.” I tried to smile. “Who knows. Maybe he’ll take you out for a glass of Merlot.”
Her face crumpled. Oh, boy. Here goes. Now I felt like a mean person. “I can’t do that,” she squeaked out. “He’ll think I’m some kind of weak, pathetic, helpless woman who can’t manage her own life.”
I got up out of my chair and hugged her and she hugged me back and I kissed the top of her head. “I’m sure he won’t think that, Mom.”
I stayed at Mom’s house until we knew that Howard was in jail without bond for the duration. I’d wanted to wait until he was convicted and sentenced. But “discovery,” as Detective Doyle called it, took forever. More kids kept coming forward. I don’t really know why. If it was me and someone else had accused him already and I could watch Howard go down without having to speak up, I’d—
—I’d probably have spoken up anyway. Because all those kids needed was someone on their side, someone to believe them and ask for the whole truth.
Oh, and I graduated high school. With great grades.
So I started going back to the Lair on weekends. Then Mom broke down and called Lester, and I take credit for pestering her into that, and Lester showed up right away with flowers for her and a big squishy stuffed teddy bear for me—nice try, Lester, I’m nineteen, though I gave him points for trying—and eventually he was spending the night.
At that point I felt I could relax and return full time to my team.
I gave Mom my phone number, but I rationed her. “Four calls a year. Use them wisely. I won’t always be able to answer.”
She gave me that dumb suffering animal look again. I won’t ask because I promised not to. But you’re hurting your mother.
I shrugged. Mom convinced hers
elf long ago that she was the kind of parent who was cool with teenagers acting out, hoo boy was that champion denial. I wouldn’t test it just to torment her. “It’s classified, Mom. Need to know.”
She gasped. Comprehension flooded her expression. “You’re in one of those government things.”
I suppressed an eyeroll. “What government things?”
“Those hinky government agencies they have now. Everyone knows that the government is studying”—she dropped her voice—“magic, now that it’s everywhere. They have secret units.” Her eyes were wide. The Mom fantasy machine kicked into high gear. “Promise me you’ll be careful, honey. I worry.”
I didn’t deny any of it. What the heck, it made her feel better. I couldn’t believe I was reacting so relaxedly to Mom’s other planet. “I know, Mom. But I’m with a great team. You saw how good they are.”
So now I’m sleeping at the Lair all the time, finally. It’s awesome. I’ve been having coffee with Sanjay whenever he can get away from Northwestern. The sluts let me count that toward my monthly quota.
And no, I’m not having sex with anybody. Beth is pretty firm about that. She’s like my mom’s good twin, and she lays off ninety-nine percent of the time. She says I have to wait at least two years before I have sex, to see if PTSD sets in or something. As if Mom isn’t already on top of that to the screaming point. I don’t argue. It’s so nice to have people taking care of me.
Anyway, apparently I only have to tempt somebody to score it on my monthly reports to the Regional Office, so I’m on half pay already—coffee with Sanjay. I change his name on the report every time. I guess cheating is rampant with the Regional Office. Every time, I make up a new name for him, and a new place where we met, and how I tempted him. It’s like writing stories. I love it.
Half pay comes to about eight thousand dollars a month, minimum. Good thing, because University of Chicago is insanely expensive, even with what Lester put aside for me. I’ll start my BFA there in the spring, and then three years after that I’ll enter the Seton Hill graduate program in fiction writing. I can do that long-distance most of the time, except for residency periods. Half a million dollars goes pretty fast.
Yesterday I tempted a guy on the El without even trying. I just glanced over at him and boom, I noticed that he felt, you know, like that. Huh. My succubus senses seem to be getting more powerful.
Maybe this is going on all the time, and I’ve never noticed.
I could be on full pay before you know it.
Acknowledgements
Many people have made these books possible. I want to express deep appreciation to my publishing team, Mark Collins and Chaz Brenchley, and for advice from Vonda N. McIntyre, Jeffrey Carver, and Dave Smeds. For specialty information, I voice my gratitude to Sue Heneghan and Phyllis Irene Radford. My heartfelt thanks go out to all my beta readers and supporters, Kate Early, Pat Rice, Mindy Klasky, and Sherwood Smith, Michelle Hoffman, Kristine Davis, MJ Reynolds, Kimmie Nelson, Roger Jean Fauble, Anne G. Kasaba, Karen Kumprey, Brandee Heller, Shirley K. Lohrricci, Michelle Hoffman, Cheryl Liacos-Halstead, Beverlee Smith, the enigmatic lrap1230, Jennifer Hill, Mary Szigeti, Julia Wallace, Linda and Rob Williams, Bari Silver, Loralei Moir, Sue Heneghan, Shirley Márquez Dúlcey, Emily Pennington, Cheryl L., Tammy Brazeau, Evonne Hutton, Anna Trombley, Mary Nickell, Pamela Gramlisch, Silva Presler, Peggy Fowler, Mrs L J Williams, Julianne H., Beth L. Rodriguez, Aimee Bowyer, and Sandra Spilecki.
If I have omitted someone from this list, it is because my sieve-like brain cannot contain the immensity of the world’s kindness and generosity. If I have erred, it is not their fault, but mine. If I have offended, then I guess I’m doing my job. If I have entertained, thank goodness.
Copyright
COED DEMON SLUTS: MELITTA
Jennifer Stevenson
Published by Book View Café
www.bookviewcafe.com
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Stevenson
ISBN 978 1 61138 628 8
All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Cover design by Mark Collins
Horns headband logo design by Mark Collins
Copyedit by Chaz Brenchley
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
COED DEMON SLUTS: AMANDA
Jennifer Stevenson
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café 2017
Copyright © 2017 Jennifer Stevenson
For my babe, Rich
CRICKET
Cricket Immerzang sat silent at the breakfast table at the Loriston Home. It wasn’t her nature to be silent. Normally she was talking. That’s how she’d got the nickname. Cricket didn’t mind. She took an interest in people. She let them feel noticed. Today, though, she felt unsure of herself, a very rare occurrence.
“Spent it all on that new wife of his,” Zilla Barrett was saying. “Can never remember her name.”
It’s your son’s money, Zilla. And his wife’s name is Isabel, same as your mother’s, which is why you don’t remember. She’s not a bad sort. She came out here for Fourth of July brunch to see the fireworks with you. She makes your son happy. She’d like to make you happy, too.
Good luck with that. Zilla was heavily invested in her unhappiness. For once, Cricket held her peace.
“I’ve told them and told them,” Xavier Holz was saying at the same time, across the table. “I can’t have anything with soy in it. Makes me sick. You remember how sick I was. Told them and told them. Sick as a sheep,” he added, ignoring Zilla’s complaints. “I had to go to the infirmary.” He shuddered. The oxygen tubes running into his nostrils shuddered with him.
Cricket forbore to point out that the infirmary was pretty good here. You got prompt attention and you almost always felt better right away. Not like the second floor. Nobody wanted to go to the second floor. People went there and stayed.
No point thinking about it. Not until the middle of the night anyway.
Meanwhile Wanda Toot was retailing a fresh horror. “The elevator doors opened and I saw her. In a wheel chair. On the second floor,” she hissed. “They had those mittens on her hands. So she can’t scratch herself.” Wanda didn’t quite believe in the second floor, She was younger, in better shape than most. She was working her way around to thinking about it, though, by cataloging the horrors perpetrated on people she knew. She preferred to think of them as wrongs done by the medical profession, not as inevitable calamities.
Cricket was aware of her own dodges and denials about the second floor. She was ninety-eight. She had buried three husbands and all their children. Cricket’s simple resistance was her bucket list, a list that got longer every week. She read widely, surfed the internet, and watched action-adventure movies, so she was able to keep that bucket list growing. Her creed was that until she got to do it all, she wouldn’t go.
Lately she’d been hearing the denial in her own voice, especially at three-forty-five in the morning. She’d lie awake wondering about death. Everyone here resisted death in their own way. When they started to embrace it, they tended to slide to the second floor quicker. Sometimes they just went: healthy-ish one day, the next...boom. Was that better? What had her husbands learned, at the last moment?
It would almost be worth it to die, just to find out. Almost.
Alban had been devout, which meant he thought it was over, finis, nothing happens, the end. That was a hell of a note. Lucien hadn’t cared. He went boom, too. Irving was completely unreligious, though he’d begun to wonder, toward the end, and he’d been grateful to leave the lung cancer behind.
In ninety-eight years Cricket had seen a lot of leading-up-to-death, but she hadn’t seen death. What happens next?
In the wee hours, she would spend a few minutes thinking all these thi
ngs, even though she had thought them every night for many years, and then she would turn over with a sigh to worry about all the other stuff she didn’t know. Politics. How to keep her granddaughter Sharon from talking to her doctors. When, if ever, she would feel she belonged here. What body part would fail her next, and what functioning she’d lose with it.
Finally, at four-fifteen, she would feel a click in the back of her skull somewhere and then she’d fall asleep. She called it her worry-wart popping. But it didn’t seem to matter what she thought about. For half an hour every night, she lay awake, feeling anxious and vigilant, while nothing happened.
Cricket believed in truth and kindness, two wildly opposing ideals that made conversation with her, she was aware, a test of patience sometimes. She couldn’t go changing her chatterbox habit at this time of life. She stayed positive.
So she didn’t complain, and she didn’t talk about death, or the nearest thing, here at the Loriston Home.
Somehow there was always a bed open on the second floor. That’s how you knew how bad it was. Other floors, you had to wait months for an apartment. Loriston Home was a very nice facility. But the second floor was what it was all about. A graceful transition facilitated by expert and well-meaning staff.
She loved the staff at Loriston. She really did. It was just that they were so young.
Nor did she have a right to feel lonely. Her grandkids and great-grands were attentive. Yet, when they were here, they acted nervous. The place scared them wall-eyed. She supposed that tolerating it was a knack, like living on a volcano slope or next door to a glacier. You never knew when it would roll over everything you knew. You got used to it. And if you were one of the people who didn’t have to think about glaciers or volcanos yet, you pretended there weren’t such things.
Cricket thought glaciers and volcanos were interesting. Apart from the bit where they eventually obliterated you.
After breakfast, she changed into her bunny-printed sweatsuit and spent a pleasurable hour in the community garden out back, pulling weeds, staking up tomato plants, just staring into the bean vines. The longer you stared, the more you saw. The beans became a titanic jungle canopy where ants crawled like prehistoric monsters. The bean stems twisted and sometimes split. Overhead, cicadas sang like a million tiny chainsaws. At length she got dizzy from bending over, and returned to the air-conditioned sameness of the main building. She took a moment to be grateful for having seen the ants. It drew the sting out of having to go in early.
Coed Demon Sluts: Omnibus: Coed Demon Sluts: books 1-5 Page 58