Author's note:
This section begins with a sub-plot. These chapters are short, and all in italics. They're woven into the narrative from here on. It all fits together.
All characters over eighteen.
Part 2 of 6.
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CHAPTER 6
She pulls my hair into her fist, and opens my mouth with her tongue. I squeeze her breast, and she kisses me harder. Five sharp talons rake my back, then curl around my neck, as she grinds her hips against me. When I pinch her nipple, she bites my lip.
The receptionist clears his throat.
My sister pulls back, and the clerk behind the desk is making a face that is half scowl, half grin. He slides our ID cards toward us, along with a Visa and two room keys. His accomplice appears at his side, wearing a matching burgundy uniform. The receptionist motions at our ID cards as we take them, and the two behind the desk exchange a comment I can't quite hear. The accomplice skirts around the desk, and rolls her eyes. She tries to hide it, but not very hard.
The woman looks at us. "Do you have any luggage?"
"My bag," says my sister, pointing to the oversized purse giving a squished lean against the front of the desk.
"This way," says the woman. She lifts the bag, and starts across the black and gold marble floor. The sleeve of her blazer pulls back, as she grips the underside of the strap. An Emerald Dragon coils around her wrist, yellow smoke billowing from its nostrils onto the back of her hand.
My sister and I follow, hand in hand, passing back against the line we once led. A column of souls praying to glowing rectangles. Suits, pencil skirts, pinstripes, every item blue or grey, every corner and angle tailored, crimped, pressed, dry cleaned, though now relaxed from however many days of wear. Each person stands next to a double decker closet bound in exotic animal hide. A baby blue dress shirt grows wrinkles on the last man in line. He slings his jacket over the blue, holding it by his thumb and a single finger, while working hard to appear more relaxed than he is. The tight black skirt in front of him secures his attention more than his glowing holy symbol.
The elevator hums and we're up several floors. White marble tiles two paces wide gloss under our feet, as we pass numbered doors. The woman in burgundy stops, and leans to balance the weight of my sister's bag, as she pushes a card into a slot.
"Here's home," says the woman. She recites an incantation, and orange light bathes the chamber from above. She sets the bag on a table next to the two biggest beds I've ever seen, and bottles clang inside our luggage.
We follow inside, and my sister veers away from me into the bathroom. Silver fixtures and bright tile frame a tub as deep as my chest that could soak an entire NBA team.
The woman with the dragon tattoo aims the TV remote and talks about how the screen on the wall works.
I'm looking at "fuck me" eyes next to the shower.
My sister swoops back into the entryway, and leans against me, pushing her breasts into my chest. She looks up and says, "I couldn't find your swimsuit."
"I don't own one. Did you bring yours?"
"No."
The Dragon Lady turns off the TV, and presses a button on the wall. The blinds open part way, wiping a black mirror across the floor-to-ceiling window. Then the curtains close again, and she says something about how you have to work the inner and outer drapes in some way I don't quite listen to.
My sister points her eyes up at me, while her chin tilts down to her chest.
"Can I get you anything?" The Dragon Lady is standing by the front door.
The lasso of my sister's gaze comes loose, and she pulls a zipper on her bag.
"Sorry, I have to ask," says the woman. "Did you two just get married?"
"No," I say, "but we're close like that."
My sister grips my ribs, holding me tight around the side. She presses some folded dollars into my palm, then wet lips touch my neck. Hot breath on my skin, and she licks my ear. I hand the money to the woman without looking at how much it is. This is my sister's party. Or at least it starts that way.
"Do you have any questions?" The Dragon Lady tucks the money away.
"Is there a last call for room service?" asks my sister. "And which way is the pool?"
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CHAPTER 7
The house is a tomb.
I lay enshrouded in my bed for most of the morning, but I have to keep rolling onto my side, because my back burns where Jessica raked her nails. The breakup with Rachel was strangely un-stressful. It turns out it's easy to dump someone if they cheat on you and you're smitten with someone else in the most fucked up way imaginable.
I haven't seen my sister since we got dressed after the shower. After a day and some I don't know what to think. I don't regret doing what we did, but I don't know what to do now. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to look at her. Will I act differently and not realize it? Does she want to see me? Maybe that's why she was out all night and now the next morning. Maybe she'd shacked up with some guy, and she would never speak to me again. I have no idea how she's taking it.
I finally roll out of bed and go in search of nothing in particular. All we have is the dirt coffee, so I don't bother making that. The front door slams, and I freeze, before I recognize the sound of padded shoes across the wood floor.
"Is that coffee any good?" asks my mother. She rinses a plate under the kitchen faucet, and stacks it on the rack next to the sink to dry. Her sandy blonde hair is sculpted up in a pixie cut. She's had it short for as long as I can remember. A dark stain covers the front of her scrubs, but I know better than to ask.
"I liked the other one better." I offer my best diplomacy.
"I don't have time to go to the store today, but you or Jessica can if you want. I'm only home for a minute. I'm meeting someone at the clinic." Mom dries her hands and looks at me. "What's wrong?"
"I split up with Rachel last night. I'm fine." The first part is true.
"Oh." Mom picks up her keys off the counter. "I'm sorry to hear that. We can talk later if you want. I'll be home late. Probably after one." Mom pushes the kitchen door open, and it latches shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
That's one interview done. The next one will be much harder. I don't know what to do, so I go out in search of coffee.
Home is a flat lot on the sparse outskirts of northwest Portland. Blackberry vines and poison oak envelop the backyard in an impenetrable hedge. A side yard sits outside the bathroom window, with a similar level of aggressive foliage. My mother has aspirations of clearing out both yards and making a garden, but that hasn't happened yet. Our driveway stretches into a paved road that leads to a bike path through a public park.
Down the street, a shop is nestled in across the corner from the park. Next to the shop, a wide foot-bridge arcs over the bend of a stream. Some tributary that pours into something else, and eventually ends up in the Columbia River. The shop houses a deli and a grocery section, and serves fish and chips to go. People take food across the street to picnic tables and benches by rose bushes in the park. Or they stand on the bridge and watch the water while they eat. The top of the railing is perfect for holding food. I'd broken up with Rachel in the parking lot right outside the shop.
I weave through a grid of people on the park's grassy lawn, then cross the street to the store. The bright October cold accompanies me past a line of people standing on the bridge, waiting for their food orders to come up.
The shop doesn't stock the old coffee I'd been drinking, but anything is an improvement over the stuff I'd choked down all week. I find a new brand with a gold crown stamped to the front. The label would have you believe it's the coffee of African royalty, which is actually what my anthropology class is covering, though we're discussing much older varieties than the current rulers. Ancient Egyptian dynasties, and their activities. They did some wild stuff. Much wilder than making out with your sister in a shower.
I wander along the path through the park, procrastinating my way back to the house. When I eventually get up the steps to the kitchen door, I find Jessica eating a bowl of cereal over the sink.
