The abandoned storefront's grimy front door stuck but Becky, her shoulder hard against it, pushed it open. And Valerie followed her into the dimness.
"Oh, what are we getting ourselves into," Becky asked. Her jeans and sweatshirt were loose and plain. Work clothes bag in hand, she turned in a slow circle and took it all in. Dust, cobwebs, half-fallen wall shelves and debris covering the floor.
"It's the best we can afford." Valerie's Daisy Dukes and halter were tight. "So, let's not complain too much. 'Let's open a bookstore,' you said..."
"Okay, okay. Where's the Realtor?"
"The handsome realtor? He said he'd be right behind us."
Becky eyed her friend, head shaking. "He's got a wedding ring."
"I saw it," Valerie said dismissively. "So?"
Rolling her eyes, Becky returned to appraising the store. "I'm going to find the bathroom and put on some work clothes. You?"
"I'll wait for the realtor," Valerie murmured, twisting one dangling orange lock.
The bathroom was at the end of a cramped, dark hallway. Becky fumbled for the light cord and shrieked at the exposed mouse.
"God, this is even worse," she muttered to herself, setting her clothes bag on the toilet and kicking off her heels.
Stripping, she contemplated her reflection in the dusty mirror over the sink. She was cute enough, in a large-glasses-and-textbooks sort of way. Long, sensibly-cut brown hair. Freckles. A conservative touch of lip gloss. No beauty, certainly. Not like Valerie.
The two had met at the Community College, had shared a dorm room. They'd always gotten along well but down deep, Becky had always envied Valerie's popularity. The guys never stopped.
Unhooking the maiden bra's clasp between her perky breasts, she shrugged it off. That was another thing. Valerie had plenty upstairs to make the guys all drool. Becky -- she made a face in the mirror -- was a petite. Bs, at best.
And loose! Valerie was the most promiscuous girl Becky had ever known. Once, after studying at the campus library, Becky had swung into their dorm room only to find Valerie on her knees, happily blowing a complete stranger. "He's thinking about enrolling here next year," Valerie had later explained.
Before pulling up the painter's pants, Becky looked back and down over one shoulder blade at the red rose tattoo on her left cheek. The one wild thing she'd done in college.
Zipping up the pants, Becky exited the bathroom and came face to face with a dingy stranger.
"Oh! Who are you?" she demanded, startled.
He grinned, "They call me Zachariah. We've got the basement, and we've been using this upstairs entrance instead of the alley one." He pointed.
"Well, we're moving in, now," Becky stammered.
Zachariah nodded. Then took Becky's arm. "Come here." Smiling, winking. "Come here."
"Hey!" Becky protested, becoming scared. "I'm not alone!"
Zachariah released her arm. "I'm offering you a glimpse at something most people will never see, never experience." He smiled. " You won't regret it, believe me. And it will only take a minute."
"I'm not alone," Becky repeated. But she moved with him toward the basement door. Fearful, but curious.
The old wooden stairs creaked. "Who Murdered Sex?" demanded blue grafitti on the crumbling, reddish basement brick wall.
Becky's eyes became accustomed to the darkness. She became aware of about a dozen people -- men, women, white, black -- huddled in the shadows. The men wore plain black robes. The woman, though, were bedecked in the flashiest, most stylish goth and bondage gear. Leather bras, fishnets, black fingernails, wildly-done makeup, big, frizzed-out hairstyles.
A man in a crimson robe stepped forward, clapping twice. "Bring her to me," he instructed. Zachariah's grip on Becky's arm steeled as he pushed her forward.
