Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (4 page)

I’m not sure how long I was splayed out like a dead hooker under a Vegas box spring. Both Pendleton’s Hummer and Avery’s Mercedes were missing from their assigned spots—numbers 13 and 14. Mine was 15 and farthest from the elevator, but near enough that they would have noticed my prone figure, if they weren’t so goddamn self-absorbed. Those bitches just drove their inferiority complexes right on by. On any given day, they left around six o’clock, so, it had to be after that.

I must have cracked my head harder than I thought; there was a small puddle of blood that smacked and sucked at my head as I pulled my scalp out of it. Shaky hands followed the curve of my skull, prodding gently for damage. I was relieved by the absence of anything scarier than a sore pucker, no openings. My biggest problem was another puddle, a yellow one. I could smell the musty tartness before I felt or saw. I was sitting in it. I must have been really out of it, to relieve myself in silk Versace. At the very least, I was thankful that I’d already voided the donut binge—four cups of coffee helped—and other than my pride, nothing else seemed to be broken, not even a heel.
It could have been worse
.

But the atrocity done to my fashions wouldn’t do. I had to get to Convent, to meet Martin, therapist slash lover. I touched on him briefly before, you may recall. Here’s the scoop: gorgeous Mediterranean with brown eyes like Ex-Lax, hair the color and consistency of Spanish hot chocolate, and a body that could cause a woman to take a lenient stance on kink
25
. In fact, the first time we met, at his office for a session, I grabbed his
churro
, if you’ll forgive the food reference.
Gracias
.

The sex wasn’t what I’d consider dirty either, no matter what you’re thinking; it was great because it was mildly dangerous. The receptionist was in the next room, and being considerate individuals, we came with our hands over each other’s mouths. Ethics? I’m neither here nor there on the subject, but I will tell you that he didn’t charge me. So it’s all glitter, baby.

Thus my need to get cleaned up and moving.

The Volvo’s bumper was grimy and greasy but gave me enough slippery leverage to pull myself from the urine, so I couldn’t complain. My legs were fine, no bruises or stocking runs, thank God. I dashed back to the office and took a quick steamy shower in my
en suite
bath. I couldn’t very well show up to a date with a bloody scalp and a pissy cooch
26
. I was careful to not reopen the tender spot on my head, but was relieved to find that it didn’t hurt.

While I was blow-drying, the fog began to loosen from the mirror and my face came into focus. I gasped. The image revealed a hideous pallor to my skin; a pale white, and if I looked close enough, the veins were lightly visible. Jesus! It was time for concealer, foundation, blush and shimmer powder, the full line of cosmetics; I depleted my inventory in one application, and that never happens. I was in shock from the fall. Had to be. I convinced myself that a smart cocktail would snap me out of my depression. I threw on my backup impromptu party outfit, a little black dress—I affectionately call her Audrey—and fled the office for the creature comforts of electronica and hard alcohol.

I spotted him immediately from across the room. He waved, from under a large painting of Carmelite nuns, three of them, each face dustier and more somber than the last, habits black as obsidian. I pressed a quick kiss onto Martin’s cheek, anything more intimate and I wouldn’t be able to stop. We were in public, after all.

Convent was stellar atmosphere, dark, draped in rich fabric, religiously affected, and crowded as hell. Instead of the Benedictine vows of “Chastity, Poverty and Obedience” painted over the gothic carved bar, it read “Debauchery, Wealth and Recalcitrance.” The ceiling tented in bloody crimson velvet and glowed moody from rotund black iron hanging lanterns, inset with stained glass crosses. They jumped on chains in time to the techno beats, and glowed Christless—the only martyrs here were the aimless temps on the bar stools looking for husbands and finding only serial victimizers. But props to them; they were on the hunt, not sitting on their fat asses waiting for Mr. Right to step out of that Lifetime movie.

“This place is fucking fantastic,” I said.

“Are you feeling alright?” Martin reached for my forehead. “You look a little pale.”

I pulled away. “I’m fine, really, fully functional.” The waitress sauntered up for our drink order. “What’s the house cocktail?” I hoped to change the subject and the waitress was a lifesaver.

“The Penitent Abbess.”

I winked at Martin. The server, awash in a black habit cut far above the knee to reveal garters and those adorable retro stockings with the seam up the back, continued her description, “It’s a muddle of Absolut Vanilla and fresh fire-roasted pear sorbet with a float of crème de menthe.”

“Mmm, I’ll take one now and one in twenty minutes, sister.” I scooted in close to my man candy. He wrapped his arm around me, pulled me in tighter. “So get this,” I said, starting in. Martin was a great listener; the benefit of our dual relationship was the ability to work out my issues for free. “I slipped and fell in the parking garage and must have passed out.”

“Oh my God, are you okay? I knew you looked funny.”

I let that comment pass and continued. “Anyway. When I woke up I noticed that both Avery and Pendleton had left for the day. Can you believe those scumbags?”

Martin shifted to face me sliding his right knee up onto the seat. “Fucks, both. How did you fall?”

That part was still hazy. I let my left hand fall to rest on his thigh. “I was running…for some reason.” I struggled for the details, but they wouldn’t come. I only recalled the running. “Hmm. I don’t really remember from what, or why, but then I slipped on a box
27
.”

He reached to touch my head and as his hand rose past my face, I caught a smell off him that made me want to eat him alive. I ran my hand up his thigh and let my pinky rest against the bulge at his groin. He patted the back of my head.

“There’s a little bump, but if you could drive I think it’s probably okay.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand, tilted his head abruptly and then palmed my forehead. “You’re pretty cold though. Here.” He took his jacket from the hook at the end of the banquette and rapped it around my shoulders.

“Thanks doc,” I said. Sister Chlamydia brought the drinks, and we slurped and snuggled, watching the animals do their mating rituals
28
. And, they were animals; in fact, a few were getting a little rough on the dance floor.

Later that evening, in a more literal interpretation of the phrase mating ritual, Martin and I went back to his apartment and after a nightcap of nondescript but chilled champagne he had on hand, I stripped out of Audrey and wriggled between the Egyptian cotton sheets.

Our sex had become familiar by this date and regular to boot, so he was used to the idea that kissing was enough to get me going. His hands moved down my body toward my thighs and then stopped. His face registered confusion.

“Why are you so cold?”

“I don’t know, keep going.”
I
felt warm. Maybe he was feverish.

He spread my legs and scrambled between to find his leverage, kissing my neck, breasts. I could feel his hard cock slide across my thigh and press against me. I shifted my hips, curling my pelvis against him. My hunger grew from the moment I smelled his scent, the morbid sweetness of overripe peaches. It clung to him like cologne, an essence, liquor. Peach Schnapps, perhaps. He pressed his lips into mine; our tongues circled, and again, I resisted the urge to bite. He positioned himself to thrust and then…

“Jesus!” I yelled.

He was prodding my vagina, poking, attempting to insert his finger, now.

“I don’t think you’re letting me in.”

Martin was right. I was cold, too tight and dry as Death Valley. For the first time in our relationship, I was feeling a little disconnected from my privates.

He slid down the length of my body and pressed his mouth to my vagina, started to lap and then stopped. He seemed to question whether he should speak. “No” would be the correct answer. I was totally out of the mood, by then.

“You can keep knocking on that door, all you’d like. But, it’s not looking good for tonight.” He looked like I’d taken away his favorite toy. So, I finished him off
29
, pulled on my clothes, left him with a kiss and made off into the night.

Outside, there was an eerie silence, no cars passing, a breeze too gentle to crinkle leaves. The only atmosphere was a soft drizzle. I pretended to lock the door to the apartment building, stalling. I had the uncanny sense of being followed by a pair of eyes, a cold breeze up a wet spine. I took tentative steps, stopped to listen for unfamiliar sounds, before continuing. At the gap between Martin’s building and the next, I scanned the street for signs of human activity; I saw none. But then, a resonance came, from the direction of the darkened alley, a swishing breezy sound accompanied by fast footfalls. I scurried for my car, scrambling in my purse for keys, stupidly dropped back in, instead of fanned between my fingers like a deadly set of brass knuckles—as seen on Oprah’s self-defense show. Just three car-lengths away, I felt a brash hand circle my wrist, and lock on. My feet flew out in front of me. I was drawn backward into the darkness; a Jimmy Choo fell off, and was left teetering on the curb above a particularly mucky brown puddle. A thick, gloved hand muffled my screams; I could smell the quality calfskin. And then as quickly as my abduction had begun, it stopped.

“
Ew
…I’m sorry,” my attacker said.

He released his grip and I ran, or a close enough facsimile to running—more of a hobble, really, but graceful, I can assure you, as refined as a woman can be while fleeing a possible rape in a single stiletto. I clutched the Balenciaga purse to my chest, a $1,250 security blanket, and that was on sale.

“I said, I’m sorry,” the man repeated, in a surprisingly meek tone.
Did you smell that
? I thought.
Weakness
. My cue.

“You’re goddamn right you’re sorry,” I said, spinning to confront him. Odd, since he’d closed the gap with nary a sound. Quick fucker. “What the hell was that?”

“I didn’t realize. I mean, you seem so…” His arms spread out redemptively.

“Seem so…what? Realize…what?”

“Look, why don’t we go get some coffee and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Excuse me, but what the fuck? You attack me out of the blue and think we’re going to start a fucking coffee klatch? Unbelievable.” I turned to walk away and remembered I was on one shoe, so I stopped and stepped out of it.

“Listen,” he said, probably in his sincerest voice. He emerged from the shadows, revealing himself. He was beautiful. He had shiny blemish-free amber skin and dark hair; his eyes were these amazing black pools. He seemed to look through me, but not in a Helen Keller way—Latino, Cuban maybe. “I was simply hungry, I didn’t realize you were an abovegrounder, or I would have never, I swear. Scout’s honor.” He held up the three middle fingers of his right hand and grinned, revealing two-inch canines that retracted into black slits in his gum line as he shrugged.

“Jesus Christ!” I screamed and put my hands up in front of me forcing a makeshift cross out of my index fingers. “Back to Hell, you unclean spirit.”

“That’s for demons. I’m a vampire.” His smile faded. “And I’ve never been to Hell, so.” He looked off in the distance and muttered, “Although, I do have the frequent flyer miles.”

“Whatever.” I turned and dashed for my car, cursing myself for still not having my keys out. I was still struggling for them, when I reached the driver’s side door. I found them at the bottom of the purse, of course, under my Coach signature wallet, make-up bag, and a large tube of shea butter hand cream. In the end, what made it most difficult to find them, were the handfuls of loose change that populate all my bags. I promised myself to gather the change and go to the bank; I probably had enough change for a car payment. I clicked the unlock button, and looked into the window to the passenger side. The Mexivamp was sitting there, holding my Jimmy Choo. He smiled sans fangs, a little smug for my taste.

“I thought you might appreciate that I rescued this one here, just prior to a heinous plunge into a wet gutter full of used condoms and hypodermic needles.” He held the shoe like a
Price Is Right
blonde.

I laughed, tried to stop myself and laughed again.

“I’m Gil,” he said. “And you…sweetheart, are my new friend.”

I drove. Gil rode shotgun, forcing friendship down my throat like an emergency room doc with a handful of charcoal—not that I’ve ever had my stomach pumped. Suicide is so self-indulgent.

“Vampire, then?”

“Yep.” Gil nodded, twisting on the radio knob. A horrible whining issued from the speakers: Dave Matthews. Gil nodded along with the squelch, shifting his hips in the seat, snapping his fingers. Now, what kind of straight man would rock the seated dance of the uninhibited, after only minutes of knowing me? I’ll tell you what kind. The gay kind. Now, the vampire was even less threatening. I hit scan on the radio. The Pussycat Dolls were whoring themselves two digits over, while four away found some country bumpkin mooning over beer or lost poonani.

“What, you don’t like Dave Matthews?”

“Uh…no. Of course not, he’s the musical equivalent of backwash.”

Gil crossed his arms and huffed. The radio settled on the ’80s hits station,
I’m in Love with a German Film Star
by The Passions. I couldn’t recall ever hearing the song (or the band for that matter), and I distinctly remembered the ’80s. It was kind of a jam, though.

“Now
this
is shit.”

I brushed over the sour grapes and went for the subject change. “So then what am I, that you can’t take a bite, you picky bastard?”

“Why, a debutante, of course, and we’re off to your cotillion.”

“Quit fucking with me.”

“You’re a zombie,” he said.

“Am not.”
Wait…did he say zombie
? Mindless shuffling corpses, arms outstretched, chewing on hot intestines, bumping into shit—that sure wasn’t me. “Besides, there’s no such thing as zombies.”

He nodded, either in agreement or along with the song—so fickle. “Vampires either.” He pointed to his mouth and curled back his lips, revealing dark slits in his gums, above his canines. His jaw twitched. Thin daggers of bone slid from the black gashes, about an inch and a half long. He winked; they retracted with a slurp. “Trust me: you’re a zombie.”

“No way, it’s not possible. I just have a cold.”

“Okay, you’re a ghoul, then. But, the politically correct term is abovegrounder.”

I decided to play along. I wasn’t going to change his mind, and he was clearly insane. I mean really, Dave Matthews? I was a little chilly, though. I rubbed my arms, trying to produce warmth, but only achieved the chilling of my hands. “Well, I won’t be adding that to my everyday vernacular. Political correctness rubs me the wrong way.”

“Oh yeah? Call it what you like, debutante.”

I caught his eyes rolling and an unpleasant smirk, so I didn’t respond. The rest of the ride was silent and stuck in slow motion, like the goddamned projectionist went on break, right when the projector hit the skids. Gil played commando with the radio again, landing on some middle-aged soundtrack that kept rolling out the painful “hits.”

Me: scowling and judgmental.

Him: glib and nonchalant.

Us: stuck like that on a hanging swirl of flypaper.

Rain trickled in streams down beaded windows, at each stoplight. The air was damp, humid. It should have been cold, but wasn’t. Outside, pedestrians seemed more alive, sparkling as they passed, shimmery, almost haloed. Inside, I felt dull. Dead.
An astute observation, no
30
?

I drove us from outside Martin’s apartment on Queen Anne, down the hill toward the center, and through the soppy streets of Seattle, following the vampire’s one-word directions—left, right, right, straight, left, straight—until I could take it no more. Where the hell were we going? If it was for coffee, as I suggested, we passed the Starbucks on Denny, the SBC on Fifth, the Tully’s on Western, not to mention Café Lladro, City Perk, B&O, Grounds for Coffee, The Bean Tree, Jitterz, and a host of Photomat-sized percolator drive-thrus.

“You realize, we’ve
easily
passed twenty coffee shops.”

“Yeah?” The flat look on his face screamed boredom, his eyes nearly glazing over to punctuate.

“
Yeah!
This
is
Seattle, you know.”

“Hmm, right, and who said we were going to a coffee shop? Turn right here and find a space.” Gil checked his face in the vanity mirror and ran long fingers through his dense crop of hair.

I turned off Western, driving out of range of a pack of tipsy modern furniture purveyors; at this time of night, the employees of those stores littered the streets, like bums under wet newspaper, although it’s doubtful they’d been swigging grape Mad Dog, although, I could be wrong about that. I bowed into an alley, just past a particularly bland Danish furniture store, its front window awash in white on white.

“So where are we headed?” I slid the shifter into park and shut off the ignition.

“Just a little place, to meet a guy, and get you some coffee.”

“Would I have heard of it?”

“Unlikely,” he said and then sniggered.

Talking to him was like pulling grey hairs instead of going in for a CitySpa tint—cheap—and a complete waste of my lovely vocal timbre.

“Listen,
Gil
.” I lingered on his name like a freeway accident fatality. “I have specific places where I find coffee palatable. If you give me the name, maybe I can generate some enthusiasm.”

“You know, Amanda, these are treacherous times for coffee snobs. The Starbucks Gestapo will be knocking on your door.”

“Very funny, asshole.”

But he continued, “They’ll take you
auf
to
ze
camps.”

He laughed and snorted; I sneered and pretended to ignore.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I bought the whole vampire thing. There was some residual fear, although with every one of his crap-ass jokes, it dwindled. Anyone in close proximity to those fangs and his cold grip would have no difficulty with belief. What I didn’t buy was my own undeadness. When, exactly, did that happen? The fall was an obvious choice—a single lousy head-bump. No way, it wasn’t bad enough. How was that possible?

“So where were you leaving, when I ran into you? A boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

His gazed drifted off seeming to be lost in the black and grey swirl of cumulus. “I’d settle for a ‘sort of.’ I haven’t had a boyfriend since the ’80s. Not one that has lasted longer than a month.”

“What are you doing? Bleeding them dry?”

“No!” he snapped, then relaxed. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe, figuratively. I’m just lonely.”

Forlorn and lovesick, a pathetic vampire, he could be fun. Project!

Instead of heading off down the sidewalk, Gil led me deeper into the alley, where the stink promised piss puddles and trannylicious crack whores with butterfly knives. About halfway into the alley, amongst drifts of broken bottles, rat smear and unmarked warehouse doors, Gil turned to face an ordinary brick wall.

“Here we are, princess.”

“Suck it
31
.” I looked around, asked, “Where is here?”

“The Well of Souls.” He gargled the words like a ’30s horror voice-over.

“Is that your
best
spooky?” I asked. “I believe what you’re going for is scared shitless, not bored to tears.”

He smirked, pressed both hands flat against the wall, backed off and then traced the mortar between the bricks. His fingers found a gap there, a deeper space. He dug in. It gave a bit, releasing puffs of dust into the night. Columns of light revealed a door shape in the brickwork. The rectangle of bricks opened into a glow of fog. The incandescence spilled out, squeezing around Gil’s silhouette.

“Impressive,” I said and followed him in.

The interior was straight out of
Frankenstein
—the black and white one, pre-HDTV—including the centerpiece of the room, a stone well, that could have done double duty in that pseudo-Japanese horror remake a few years back. The walls were, on one side, veneered in grey stone, where a fire code travesty of sconces sputtered with gaslight. On the other a realistic forest grew from the walls. Columns of bark and roots spread out under a canopy of leafy green. The ceiling was a high dome painted to resemble the night sky. Rows of banquettes sat on levels like a stadium, which spoke to the massive size of the place, made all the more spacious by a lack of patrons. A shiny dance floor surrounded the Well; it could easily sustain two hundred grinding whores and their drunken penis-afflicted partners. To the right of the trees, a waterfall dropped into a frozen constriction of spray. The bar was carved from the block; behind it stood the tender. He was a tall man with a stare as icy as his surroundings.

Gil walked right up to the man and started talking. I straggled, taking in the atmosphere. The tall man glanced at me a few times, head tilted in interest, I thought.

I caught the tail end of their conversation.

“She’s brand spankin’ new,” Gil said.

“Well bring her over, I suppose we’ve got some talking to do.” He polished glasses from a row of highballs. He finished up and forced the blue and white striped towel through a belt loop.

“Amanda Feral,” Gil said, gesturing to me with an open palm. “Meet Ricardo Amandine, proprietor of The Well, statesman, and all-around great ghoul.”

Ricardo winced, but then softened. “Hello, Amanda, it’s a pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand.

He took it, squeezed, and lingered long enough for me to become uncomfortable.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you sense anything?” His voice was deep and soothing like a steaming mug of dark Sumatran spotted with half-and-half, sugary. “Anything between us?”

I looked around. Gil watched from nearby. The bar was between us. It seemed an inappropriate time for a pass.

“No, no,” he said, and squeezed my hand, again. Then, again, tighter. “Here.
Between
us.”

There was nothing, his hand was rough, and mine was, obviously, perfectly moisturized and smooth. He wore no rings, whereas, my index finger was garnished with Mother’s emerald.
Silly, she thought the maid took it
. What the hell was he talking about?

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” I said. This man piqued my curiosity. He was good. “We’re the same temperature.” He squeezed my hand once more and released. “Sixty-eight degrees, Amanda. Room temperature. That’s the first lesson.”

Seattle’s Holy Communion

 

or

 

Venti® Triple Shot Decaf NTH Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte

 

Steam 15 oz. half-and-half. Press three shots. In the mug, add 1–2 shots of sugar-free vanilla syrup.

 

Add cream.

 

Pour shots in a row, leaving three dots of stain in the froth.

Gil smiled. “The lady was hoping for a coffee, Ricardo.”

“A triple decaf, not too hot, sugar-free vanilla breve latte, if you can manage it?”

“Comin’ right up, sweetheart.” And then turning to Gil, he said, “It’ll be lesson number two.”

At that, they both broke into a disgustingly proud brand of maniacal laughter. Apparently, death has no effect on testosterone-fueled idiocy.

I came out of the bathroom cursing under my breath.

“Goddamn motherfucking dead people.”

“What’s wrong, princess? Can’t hold your coffee?” Gil asked, grinning, Cheshire-like.

“Cut that smile, man. You look like a retard.”

I had spent twenty minutes rocking and heaving brownish fluid from my ass; it burned as though I’d been raped with the serious end of a red-hot poker. When there was nothing left to pass, I dabbed, yelping at each thunderbolt of pressure. I stood at the mirror a good five minutes, clutching the vanity, then ventured out to be humiliated.

“Lesson number two,” Ricardo said, sliding a vodka martini across the ice in front of me. “There are only two things you can consume and coffee’s not one of them.”

“No doubt. It’s a good thing alcoholism runs in the family.”

“That’s the spirit!” He either ignored my joke, or took it as sincere. “Alcohol and human flesh, blood, muscle, sweetbreads, and bone marrow is particularly tasty, but primarily for the epicure. Pig will do in a pinch but plays havoc with the bowels.”

“Are you trying to gross me out?” I asked. But I found I was not in the slightest queasy or disgusted, just kind of sad. His words meant no more pizza, garlic fries, coconut cream pie, and greasy
churros
dipped in hot chocolate. I would need to beef up the black in my wardrobe for the mourning period.

“Nope. Until they come out with Zombie Chow, those are your options.”

I thought back to my temptation to bite into Martin. It explained so much. The pangs in my stomach, prickling like a bag of thumbtacks; my inability to self-lubricate
32
; the ghostly pallor of my skin, not to mention the bluing of my veins, now visible through my foundation; and the chill coming off me, like an ice storm. It sunk in then, the death. Or I sunk into it. Either way, I was dead.

“Hungry?” Ricardo asked.

My head snapped in his direction. I was unsure how to respond.

“I guess the real question is: hungry enough, right?” As in: hungry enough to eat a person, Amanda? Hungry enough to kill? Hungry enough to go balls-to-the-wall
Night of the Living Dead
-savage on a human being?

Ricardo resumed polishing cocktail glasses; he studied me over his work. A sly grin danced across his mouth.

“I don’t think so,” I responded. “Not yet.”

“You will be. Soon. But, it’s not a problem. Luckily, for you, you live in a city—a state, really—that houses a significant underclass. The best thing for us, as hunters, is a welfare state. And, you live in a prime example of that concept. The tri-county area spreads out like stockyards of human castoffs.”

“So—let me get this straight—we feed on welfare recipients?”

Gross, right? Where do you procure one, the Dollar Store? Jesus!

“Welfare recipients, criminals, runaways, the homeless, those who, once gone, go unnoticed. If there’s one thing you can count on in this town, it’s people not noticing. There’s a plague of self-absorption, self-help books, yoga studios, on-call psychotherapy and twenty-four-hour massage. For Christ’s sake, we’ll never go hungry.” Ricardo was laughing, hard. A hearty bellowing laugh, the beef stew of laughs. Gil hunched over in silent glee, seizing in fits.