Vincent clicked through the half-dozen channels over and over again. He barely saw the parade of sitcom actors, newscasters, and revolutionary products that promised to make life easier and happier.
Jerry was out “picking up supplies,” but Vincent had volunteered to stay at the apartment in case Paish and her friends arrived before he returned. Never mind that their guests had to catch a bus from UWM and that the nearest liquor store was only a couple of blocks away.
“Anything in particular you want me to get?” Jerry had asked. “My treat.”
“No…just whatever,” Vincent had replied quickly.
As though not making the choice myself absolves me…
Sitting on the edge of the Low Rider, hammering his foot against the hardwood floor, he tried to focus on the evening traffic report, but the aerial shots of slow-moving vehicles only reminded him that while hundreds of other people were driving home from work, he had no job.
He turned off the TV and started flipping through one of Jerry’s Maxim. Instantly, he was aware of the sound of someone coming up the side door. He spun around on the couch, craning his neck to get a clear view of the building’s only communal entrance, just in time to see the door slam shut.
Vincent came into the kitchen at the exact moment Jerry opened the apartment door, but he could think of nothing to say other than, “Hey.”
“Greetings and salutations.” Jerry set a case of Milwaukee’s Best on the kitchen table. From a tall paper bag, he produced a two-liter of cola and a bottle of whiskey. “You strike me as a whiskey guy.”
Jerry set the liquor on the table and put the beer and soda in the fridge.
“Works for me,” Vincent muttered.
Let’s get this over with.
“I’ll start with a beer, though,” he added.
“Ah, the Beast.” Jerry handed a can to Vincent and then took one for himself. “Even more vicious when it’s warm.”
Vincent cracked open the can but just stared at it.
Am I really going to do this? All those months of sobriety down the—
“Down the hatch!” Jerry took a few gulps and wiped the white foam away with his sleeve.
Vincent raised the can to his lips. The skunky smell alone made him lightheaded.
Sorry, Clemmy. I’ve failed again.
He took a long drink. The nearly forgotten but instantly familiar taste lingered on his tongue. He didn’t fall to floor, dead. The world didn’t end.
He smiled and took another drink.
They both were on beer number two when the doorbell buzzed—a loud, horrible noise that never failed to scare the shit out of Vincent. Jerry went down to open the side door while Vincent waited in the kitchen. He leaned against the refrigerator, but the pose felt phony. He polished off the rest of his beer and was reaching for another one when Jerry returned, trailed by three guests.
“Anybody want a beer?” Vincent asked.
“Or if you want something a little stronger…” Jerry gestured at the table. Four shot glasses formed a semicircle around the whiskey bottle. Lost souls worshiping at the foot of an idol.
Paish approached the fridge. “I’ll have a beer.”
A turquoise barrette held her bangs up to one side. Vincent thought that maybe she had gotten a haircut but didn’t ask.
“You’re Vincent, right? I’m Tara,” a small young woman with light blond hair said. “I’ll also have a beer please.”
Both of the girls wore hoodies, but their difference in taste was immediately apparent. Paish’s sweatshirt was a solid dark gray, while Tara’s was pink and brown and studded with rhinestones. Paish’s jeans were snug and featured several small factory-supplied holes. Tara’s were at least two sizes too big, a fashion statement that reminded Vincent of his brother’s skater phase as well as his subsequent gangster stage.
The final guest—a hefty, dark-haired guy with baggy pants and a long wallet chain—made a beeline for the whiskey.
“Who wants to do a shot?” he asked.
“No way, Marc,” Paish said. “That stuff kicks my ass.”
Jerry also declined.
Tara set her beer on the counter. “Why not? Let’s get this party started!”
Vincent thought that one shot might be enough to start and end the party for the petite woman.
“How about you?” Marc asked, turning to Vincent.
The question kickstarted Vincent’s pulse. For a moment, he could only stare dumbly at the bottle. Keenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat and said, “Sure, why not?”
“Right on,” Tara chirped.
Vincent watched Marc filled a third shot glass. He had never seen the set before. Each glass was adorned with a big-headed bird in a different stage of drinking—from thinking to having an idea to guzzling down a bottle of liquor to lying legs-up on the floor. Marc handed him the last one. Vincent considered the bird’s X-shaped eyes.
“Not planning on being a good boy tonight, huh?” Paish asked slyly.
Before he could answer, Marc shouted, “Cheers!”
I deserve to feel good for once.
He pounded the shot. The fire that flowed down his throat and into his veins made him feel alive.
Tara coughed and stuck her tongue out.
“How about another one, T-dawg?” Marc asked.
Tara, eyes watering, shook her head. “Maybe later.”
Marc turned to Vincent. “Whaddaya say?”
“I’m game.”
As Marc filled the two glasses, the others moseyed into the living room. Vincent downed the second shot, and a happy fog drifted into his mind. He closed his eyes and basked in the buzz.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Marc grabbed a beer and went into the living room. Vincent followed, whiskey in tow.
Jerry was already settled in his recliner, and since Vincent was the last one out of the kitchen, the couch had been claimed by their three guests. No vacancy.
“You can sit on my lap,” Paish offered.
“I’ll grab a chair from the kitchen,” he replied. “But thanks for the offer.”
When he returned, Jerry was handing Paish some money. He took a moment to examine the leafy contents of a Ziploc baggie. At last, he took a big, satisfied sniff. Tara, perched with her legs tucked under her on the opposite end of the couch as Paish, rolled a joint.
“What’s up with the pinner, T-dawg? Do you want to get high or what?”
“Shut up, Marc,” Tara scolded with a smile.
Vincent wondered if the two of them were dating. He hoped so.
“It’s always so hot in here,” Paish said to Jerry. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, nearly removing her blouse with it. She pulled her blouse back down, but not before Vincent caught a glimpse of her pierced navel.
I take back all the bad things I said about those radiators.
Jerry surveyed everyone on their music preferences. Vincent hadn’t heard of any of the undergrads’ suggestions and promptly stated that he was cool with whatever. He laughed as the small talk about bands evolved into smack talk. Through context clues, Vincent worked out that Tara and Paish had met freshman year, and he was pretty sure Tara and Marc had lived in the same dorm. Whether the two of them were a couple remained unconfirmed.
When the joint came around to him, Vincent was a little tempted to take a hit. Part of it was that he didn’t want to look lame, but more than that, he wanted to feel good.
In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Drugs—even small-time stuff like marijuana—always reminded him of his mother, a former addict, and his father, who had cut out just before Vincent’s memories kicked in. Then there was Danny…
He did another shot of whiskey, clinking glasses with Marc, and made the most of his vantage while leaning over the coffee table. He almost didn’t care if Paish caught him checking her out. The low-cut shirt had been designed specifically to complement cleavage. And hers definitely was worth showcasing.
Patience McFadden wasn’t as pretty as Bella, but she was sexier or, at least, more provocative. A wardrobe that emphasized her curves. The lip ring that hinted at a rebellious streak. A thong that made an appearance every time she reached for the joint from Jerry.
Nothing wrong with looking. We’re all adults here.
“What are we listening to?” Tara asked. Her eyes looked sleepy, and her lips her fixed in a perma-smile.
“Of Montreal,” Jerry said.
“I’m really digging their sound,” Tara confided. “Good stoner music. Are they from Canada?”
“Band names don’t mean anything.” Paish played with her barrette, repeatedly snapping it open and closed. Finally, she stuffed it in her pocket and let her hair fall over one eye. “It sounds a little like disco. Not in a bad way, though…just reminds me of the ’70s or something.”
Jerry chuckled. “It reminds you? You weren’t even alive in the ’70s!”
Marc took a deep drag off of the joint and started coughing, spewing out puffs of smoke. He swallowed a mouthful of beer and said, “They’re not bad, but I’m not a fan of synthesizers.”
“Why not?” Paish asked.
“I don’t know. Fake drums are like…like fake tits. The real things are so much better.”
Paish adjusted her bra. “No argument here.”
Everyone laughed at that. Somewhere around midnight, Marc had the idea to play a drinking game with a deck of cards. Throughout the game, Paish fired more than a few suggestive comments Vincent’s way, and he flirted right back. Why not? It was all in good fun.
Later—how much later, Vincent couldn’t say—Tara lay passed out on the couch. In the kitchen, Jerry and Marc searched for munchies and waged an earnest debate about what the number nine would be called if numbers had names like people.
“Nathan,” Marc asserted. “It’s totally Nathan.”
“No…no…” Jerry droned. A few seconds later, he shouted, “Lenny!”
The two of them broke into uncontrollable laughter.
Beside him on the couch, Paish giggled. “Those two are fucked up.” Glancing over at Tara, who was breathing loudly though not quite snoring, she asked, “What time is it anyway?”
Vincent squinted at the blurry blue-green mess that should have been the clock. He blinked a few times, and the shapes settled into something recognizable.
“3:07,” he replied. “You have somewhere to be?”
“No,” she said, standing up. “I’m just wondering how much longer I’m gonna have to wait before you make a move.”
Vincent tried to say “huh” and “what” at the same time. It came out “wha-huh?”
“Just thought I’d cut to the chase.” She strolled, almost stumbling, over to the doorway of his room. She turned back and smiled mischievously at him.
A voice from somewhere far away shouted warnings about the nine-year age difference and the fact that he was still married. Meanwhile, Paish crossed her arms, which caused more freckled flesh to peek up from her low-cut shirt.
Barely married…
No sooner had he closed the door than the two of them were pressed together, kissing frantically. Her lip piercing felt strange against his mouth, but not in a bad way. He reached a hand up under her shirt while devouring her neck.
After another couple minutes of mutual groping, he felt her hand brush against the front of his pants. She pulled at the button and unzipped his fly.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” she asked, tugging his waistband down to his knees.
Vincent sat back on his bed and watched Paish pull off her shirt, then reach back for the clasps of her bra. He removed his shirt too, suddenly wishing his gut didn’t look so chubby. On a whim, he reclined back, resting on his elbows. The position somewhat lessened the beer-belly effect.
Then Paish, naked from the waist up, leaned over him, and his body was the last thing on his mind.
“Told you they’re real,” she said, cupping a considerable breast in each hand and squeezing. She leaned in, kissing him on his lips…neck…chest…lower. Slowly, teasingly, she flecked the tip of her tongue, bringing him to full attention. Vincent closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.
At first, he didn’t think anything of the room’s spinning. After all, drinking a quarter of a bottle of whiskey and countless cans beer had a way of messing with the scenery. But then he could no longer feel the warm wetness of Paish’s mouth. When she spoke his name, it was as though her voice were drifting from a great distance away.
“Vincent? Are you OK?”
He tried to answer but couldn’t. The room, the bed, Paish—everything was gone. There was only darkness.
From miles away, from across the vacuum of space, Paish said, “Hey, wake up!”
Vincent wanted only to obey, but he was too busy falling into nothingness.
I drank too much. Son of a bitch, I’m passing out!
“Wake up. Please wake up!”
Paish’s voice sounded louder now but different.
“You must wake up, Valenthor!”
Not again! Not now!
* * *
The elf stood with her back to him, arms outstretched and palms pressed flat against the stone blocks of the cell’s back wall. The capacious sleeves of her gray cloak had fallen back, exposing pale, slender arms. Hair the color of honey flowed down her to the small of her back. It was the first time he had seen her without the hood.
Vincent pulled himself up onto one elbow. The vague feeling of annoyance that had followed him from whatever dream he had been having fizzled away as he strained to hear her whispers. The long blond tresses seemed to ripple in an unfelt breeze, occasionally covering the peculiar points of her ears.
His breath caught in his throat when a white glow washed over her. She appeared to be bathed in moonlight despite the wall of stone separating her from the sky. The sight was so eerie he couldn’t have called out her name even if he knew it.
Slack-jawed, he watched as widening circles of light spread from her fingertips along the rough surface of stones. Her voice grew louder and more passionate with every syllable. The words meant nothing to him, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. When the ground began to tremble, he finally stood up and took a tentative step toward her.
Her final word was a cry of anguish or elation. She spun around. For a moment, the glow of false moonlight lingered in her eyes, and she didn’t seem to recognize him. Then, once more in a whisper, she said, “We must flee.”
She managed two steps toward him before her knees buckled. Vincent dove forward, scooping an arm under her neck before her head could hit the floor.
“Hey, are you OK?”
She didn’t answer. Eyes closed, body limp, she might have been dead except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. He adjusted his hold and pulled her up against him. His face mere inches from hers, Vincent thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful.
The ground shook again, and the rumble was underscored by a loud crack. When the dust settled, he saw that a crisscross of deep fissures marred the far wall precisely where the elf had touched it. Smaller fractures continued to spread outward like a wayward spider webs.
“What fell sorcery hath yon demon wrought?”
Vincent spared a quick look at Sir Angus, who stood on the other side of the bars. “A damn good question.”
A giant chunk of wall fell to the floor, leaving behind a dark hole the size of a human head. A second later, two larger pieces crashed down. Sir Angus swore and called out for someone to bring the keys. Glowering at Vincent, he unsheathed his long, thin sword.
“Entertain not the notion of escape, Valenthor!”
Vincent knew he had an important decision to make and not a lot of time to make it. He could stay and surrender to the ornery knight or risk his own life by making a run for it.
He suddenly hated the elf. If not for her, he would be back at the tavern, drinking. She had gotten him arrested in the first place, and now, after starting a jailbreak, she was forcing him to finish the job on his own. As if to emphasize the thought, more rubble dropped from the hole in the wall. The chilly night air caressed his face. He took a deep breath and tasted freedom.
I don’t owe her anything.
The jingling of armor or keys grew louder. Several more stones toppled to the floor.
But I don’t want her to die either.
Heart pounding, he carried the elf over to the hole in the wall. She was far lighter than he expected, considering she wasn’t much shorter than he. Carefully but quickly, he pushed her through the gap. He was forced to yank out several loosened stones before he could squeeze after her.
No sooner had he extricated himself than Sir Angus’s helmeted head appeared on the other side of the hole.
“Halt!”
A metal-covered hand reached for Vincent, but he pulled back beyond reach. Sir Angus tried to climb through the hole. His armor scraped noisily against the stone before catching against the jagged edges. Wedged firmly in place—half in, half out of the cell—the knight growled in frustration. With some effort, Sir Angus reversed directions and pulled himself back into cell.
Vincent, with the elf draped over his shoulder, was already running.