A brunette with a round face and high bangs has replaced the previous redhead.
She rests herself against a pine dresser, a caramel Stetson perched on top of her head. In the background, a thin red curtain casts a crimson glow across her collarbones, fledgling and slight, as she stares out from the screen of my laptop; heavily made-up eyes like pits of smoke, one hand resting on her slim waist. Her other hand turned into an imaginary gun as she blows.
Scroll down, the screen instructs.
I reach her denim cutoffs, worn beneath a holster containing a faux gun. Then another message appears: Fantasy Friday! Come and meet all of our beautiful entertainers in your favorite wear. I feel an awkward strain between my legs.
Above me, Monica’s footsteps pad across the bathroom floor, a rose oil bath run by me earlier hoping it might soften her mood—and buy me some time to research the Electra.
I try, unsuccessfully, to picture Monica’s face morphed on the screen. Monica Cowgirl. The brunette’s brown eyes replaced with Monica’s blue. But her presence is too powerful to be recouped by another, so she remains—eyes lingering with silent inquiry. Her smile large, wide and perfect.
Vibrating in my front pocket I feel the insistence of my phone. I reach inside. Hardness grazing my hand.
Alexa Wú.
I feel a sharp sense of alarm.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Talky?”
“Dolly?”
I stand, eyes still locked on the screen. The cowgirl still insisting on my attention.
“Dolly, is that you?”
I hear the shrill in my voice. Stay calm, I tell myself, erection now wilted.
“We caught Ella with the Bad Man. Doing Bad Things. Grace is in the house too. Alexa’s very upset. She’s going to hurt herself.”
“Dolly, listen to me. You have to call out Runner,” I order, Mohsin’s words, Intervention is needed, ringing in my ears.
A pause.
“I’m frightened,” she whispers. “Alexa wants to run in front of a car.”
“Where’s Runner, Dolly?”
“Not sure. All confused. My stomach hurts. Alexa is going crazy in her head.”
I gather myself.
“Dolly, you need to be brave and call out Runner. Show her the Light. Tell her she needs to take control.”
“Be brave. Call out Runner. Take control,” she repeats.
The cowgirl hasn’t moved. Her face suddenly appears to me like it is sealed and fixed. A digitalized mannequin of compliance, disdain in her eyes.
“Dolly?”
Silence.
“Dolly, are you there?” I speak louder.
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
Silence.
“Dolly. Alexa. Are you safe? DOLLY!”
“Relax, Doc. We’re all safe, for fuck’s sake.”
Just like that, the phone call is ended. A flatlining silence filling my right ear.
Relieved at Runner’s intervention, I feel my eyes close. My breath searching for a slow and steady rhythm.
It’s not until I hear Monica enter my office that I realize I have my head in my hands, my elbows resting before my laptop. Legs clenched together at the knee, my ankles cramped. A strained contortion of pain shooting up my shins before finally reaching my thighs.
I eventually turn.
Swaddled in a white terry-cloth robe and smelling of rose, Monica stares at me, at my laptop—the cowgirl still there, hand resting on her slim waist. Her contempt filling the entire screen.
Monica’s eyes narrow, their blue turning green. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Research” is the best I can muster.
She exhales. “I’m leaving. Too many deal breakers. Don’t come after me.”
I do not wait to watch the door or go after her, part of me knowing she had already left anyway.
Forlorn, I finally let go. My inner boy surrendering as I cradle my body with self-parenting arms. The same relief drenching my whole shape as when my mother would rock me at night when I was unable to sleep. Her cotton nightdress damp with my night terrors.