Tigger levels an insulted look at Harry.
Clarice looks constipated. “I believe ‘swallowed’ is the correct nomenclature,” she says in a choked voice.
I don’t know if I should be jealous of Hannibal, grossed out, or worried about half-tiger, half-Persian kittens.
This does set a bad precedent. Next thing you know, the cat will crave human milk. Or blood. Also, bodily fluids might be the perfect gateway to flesh, especially for a creature that shares 95.6 percent of his DNA with lions and tigers. Clarice already jokes that she needs to feed Hannibal well, or else he will feast on our eyeballs.
Tigger’s spine straightens, like he’s about to lead troops in a parade. “Allow me.” He reaches for the tongs.
I hand them over, careful not to release the condom.
“I’ll go dispose of it,” he says, then looks at my roomies. In an imperial tone, he adds, “I’m Tigger. And you are?”
They look like they’re straining to hold in laughter as they introduce themselves.
“It was nice to meet you, Harry and Clarice,” Tigger says with a courtly bow, the tongs clamped firmly around the condom.
“Likewise,” Harry says bashfully.
“Come again,” Clarice says with a giggle.
I make sure Clarice can see my eyeroll before I turn to Tigger and say, “Let me walk you to the door.”
My friends hang back, though I know they’re hanging on to every word.
When we get to the door, I unlock it for him.
Tigger shakes the tongs, making the empty condom flap like a flag in a breeze. “That was memorable.”
I try not to look at it as heat spreads from my face down to the recently stimulated regions. Instead, I latch on to the most neutral topic I can think of. “Are you up for your training tomorrow?”
A smirk dances on his lips. “You up for yours?”
The blush covering me spreads down to my toes. “Sure,” I say in a strained voice.
“Good.” He opens the door. “I’ll text you.”
He heads for his Lamborghini, his posture all dignity despite the burden he’s carrying, and I watch him rocket away at the speed of sound.
“Nice car,” Harry says from behind me.
“Nice everything.” Clarice gives me a mock pout. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry puts her hands on her hips. “Spill.”
I heave a sigh. “Wait in the living room. I need to change first.”
By the time I’m hazmat suit-free, all my roommates are waiting in the living room, not just Clarice and Harry.
With another sigh, I launch into the story, which is made easier because, unlike my blood sisters, my sisters in magic know all about my issues with intimacy.
When I’m done, everyone starts talking at once, and all I can make out is, “Can’t you kiss him through some plastic wrap?” and “Can’t you do it with a condom?”
“Thanks, but I’ll figure out what to do,” I say sternly.
Clarice shushes everyone and gives me a pitying smile. “You poor thing. You must feel like a diabetic at Charlie’s chocolate factory.”
“You have no idea,” I say, then bid them all good night and head to my room.
As I put my room back in order and go through my nightly routine, a dozen questions coo frantically in my head, like a dule of doves at a feeding.
Why did he offer to train me? What did it mean to him? Will I be able to face him tomorrow? Train him? Let him train me? I tremble feverishly at the thought.
Speaking of his training, did it work? Am I any closer to being able to be intimate with a guy?
It’s hard to say, but the idea of being intimate with some hypothetical rando doesn’t appeal to me anymore. I have someone specific in mind, someone who reminds me of beer commercials such as: “He once brought a knife to a gunfight… just to even the odds.” Or “When in Rome, they do as HE does.”
No. That’s crazy. He’s a client. And a playboy prince.
That brings me back to the question of why he even offered his services. What’s his goal?
Clearly, the end game of the training is for us to sleep together—unless that is wishful thinking on my part. But why would a guy who can have any woman bother with me? Is the difficulty piquing his interest… for the moment? Am I some sexual Everest he’s decided to conquer? Going where no man has gone before by fucking the unfuckable?
Unable to come up with satisfying answers to any of it, I get into bed and toss and turn for hours before falling into a restless sleep.
I wake up very late and check my phone.
Nothing from Tigger.
I hope he hasn’t changed his mind about further training.
Pulling out my laptop, I research what I can teach Tigger if he does turn up. When I get hungry, I grab a coconut yogurt for breakfast—another minor type of exposure therapy, in a way. Yogurt is teeming with bacteria, but since it’s the beneficial kind, I let it into my body… with only a minor reluctance. It really helps that since its founding in the eighties, this brand of yogurt has never been the cause of a foodborne illness.
I just wish I didn’t have a strange fuzzy sensation on my tongue with each spoonful, one that feels eerily like the tiny tails of millions of Lactobacillus shaking as they dance to “The Final Countdown.”
Just as I finish up, I finally hear from Tigger:
I’m going to see a doctor this morning. Can we meet later today? Maybe 4 p.m.?
Ah, so he is seeing a doctor to make sure he’s allowed to free dive. I’m glad. This way, I’ll be less concerned about him drowning.
I’ll see you at the hotel, I reply, and the stupid doves flutter in my belly in anticipation.
I return to my free-diving research, but a text distracts me just a few minutes in.
It’s from Blue.
Your card expert friend didn’t make it to the brunch we scheduled. I called and texted her but never heard back. Is everything okay?
Hmm. It’s so not like Clarice to flake on a business opportunity.
I walk over to her room and knock.
No answer.
When I open the door, all I see is Hannibal with his eyes closed—no doubt sleeping off the heavy meal from last night.
I’m careful not to wake him as I close the door. I have an unspoken agreement with the cat. I don’t bother him, and he doesn’t smother me in my sleep, eat my face, or rub himself against me.
Where is Clarice?
I call and text her.
She doesn’t reply.
I start knocking on the doors of my other roommates, but they’re all out.
Just as I prepare to call everyone at random, I get a group text from Harry.
Clarice is in the hospital.