but take time to push the curtain
back in place. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You gasped pretty loud.” She flips on the inside
light and pushes the curtain to the side. There she stands, illuminated to the
parking lot. “What were you looking at?”
“No!” I duck from view of the window and fumble
for the right switch. It isn’t like the light switches at my house, it’s a
slide and there’re three in a row. I turn them all on before I can get the room
dark again.
Her laughter isn’t so beautiful right now. She
heads back to the light switch, intending to play.
“Don’t. There’s a guy.”
“Oooh,” she says.
Where do I start? “I used to work at the Wild
Lily.”
She stops moving. I can see her from the ambient
kitchen light, but I can’t quite work out her expression.
“The guy out there is a cop.”
Cori runs to the kitchen and turns off the light.
She flies through the house checking every curtain, the French doors. We move
together to the front window and, using the drape to hide us, peer out. Hayden
is gone.
“Do you see that purple truck?”
“The fifties-style?”
“Yeah.” I answer. “1947, actually. First post-war
vehicle.”
She bursts with a comical guffaw. “The stalker?”
“Huh?”
“From the TorchLight, last night?” Cori walks back
into the kitchen and turns the light on again. “Come drink your Manhattan.”
I don’t move right away.
“Hellooo? Come in here.”
I walk back to the bar and take the offered drink.
“He was at the pawn shop, too.” I try.
“Maybe we should invite him up.”
I hold the wide rimmed, triangle glass up and
slowly but continuously drink to hide my face. I don’t have to answer. Hayden
and this life don’t need to meet.
“Since no one else came,” she continues, dejected.
I never thought someone as fascinating or beautiful as her would be without a
party following. I don’t look up. Poor Cori.
She walks over to the drawer where the letter
waits. She opens it, looks inside, then closes it.
“Why do you dance?” She still faces the closed
drawer.
I don’t answer immediately. How much should I
share? “I need the money.”
“Of course.”
“You?”
“I love it.” She begins to mix two more
Manhattans.
“Is it a sin?” I keep expecting Hayden to knock on
the door. “Does it steal souls from children?”
“What?” She looks like a skeptical clown the way
her right eyebrow shoots up and her lips flare out.
“If there is a such thing as a sin.” She shakes
her head. “No. It’s kosher if it’s consensual.”
“Yeah.” I’m starting to feel really good: loose,
tingly.
“You asked about my place, Sparrow.” She enounces
my name like she is trying to give it as many syllables as possible.
“I entertain.” She pauses. Reconsidering?
“Friends?”
“Clients.”
She looks impatient, like I’m the little sister
she always has to wait for. “Cosmetology clients?”
“Discrete, gentleman clients.” She sets down her
drink. “That’s why it isn’t me here.” She walks toward the bookshelf and twirls
slowly, still holding her drink, “It’s Bella.”
“Oh.” I can’t bring myself to call her a
prostitute.
“I have something they want, they have something I
want.” She takes a drink. “Consensual, baby.” I can’t tell if she called me
Baby or just said baby. “But my parents would call it a sin.”
The letter. “In Utah?” I hope my voice sounds
casual.
“Yep.” She walks back to the kitchen. I accept
another drink because I want to maintain this feeling. I have never had this
much. Thom. No, don’t think about him. I’m in control.
“Just call me Jack.” She smirks. “The Jack
family.”
“I thought your last name was Reese.”
“No, we were definitely the Jack family. Non-practicing
Mormons.”
I remember Lorna arguing with either a Mormon or a
Jehovah’s Witness once. I’m not sure of the difference between the two.
“It would be better to be raised
back in place. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You gasped pretty loud.” She flips on the inside
light and pushes the curtain to the side. There she stands, illuminated to the
parking lot. “What were you looking at?”
“No!” I duck from view of the window and fumble
for the right switch. It isn’t like the light switches at my house, it’s a
slide and there’re three in a row. I turn them all on before I can get the room
dark again.
Her laughter isn’t so beautiful right now. She
heads back to the light switch, intending to play.
“Don’t. There’s a guy.”
“Oooh,” she says.
Where do I start? “I used to work at the Wild
Lily.”
She stops moving. I can see her from the ambient
kitchen light, but I can’t quite work out her expression.
“The guy out there is a cop.”
Cori runs to the kitchen and turns off the light.
She flies through the house checking every curtain, the French doors. We move
together to the front window and, using the drape to hide us, peer out. Hayden
is gone.
“Do you see that purple truck?”
“The fifties-style?”
“Yeah.” I answer. “1947, actually. First post-war
vehicle.”
She bursts with a comical guffaw. “The stalker?”
“Huh?”
“From the TorchLight, last night?” Cori walks back
into the kitchen and turns the light on again. “Come drink your Manhattan.”
I don’t move right away.
“Hellooo? Come in here.”
I walk back to the bar and take the offered drink.
“He was at the pawn shop, too.” I try.
“Maybe we should invite him up.”
I hold the wide rimmed, triangle glass up and
slowly but continuously drink to hide my face. I don’t have to answer. Hayden
and this life don’t need to meet.
“Since no one else came,” she continues, dejected.
I never thought someone as fascinating or beautiful as her would be without a
party following. I don’t look up. Poor Cori.
She walks over to the drawer where the letter
waits. She opens it, looks inside, then closes it.
“Why do you dance?” She still faces the closed
drawer.
I don’t answer immediately. How much should I
share? “I need the money.”
“Of course.”
“You?”
“I love it.” She begins to mix two more
Manhattans.
“Is it a sin?” I keep expecting Hayden to knock on
the door. “Does it steal souls from children?”
“What?” She looks like a skeptical clown the way
her right eyebrow shoots up and her lips flare out.
“If there is a such thing as a sin.” She shakes
her head. “No. It’s kosher if it’s consensual.”
“Yeah.” I’m starting to feel really good: loose,
tingly.
“You asked about my place, Sparrow.” She enounces
my name like she is trying to give it as many syllables as possible.
“I entertain.” She pauses. Reconsidering?
“Friends?”
“Clients.”
She looks impatient, like I’m the little sister
she always has to wait for. “Cosmetology clients?”
“Discrete, gentleman clients.” She sets down her
drink. “That’s why it isn’t me here.” She walks toward the bookshelf and twirls
slowly, still holding her drink, “It’s Bella.”
“Oh.” I can’t bring myself to call her a
prostitute.
“I have something they want, they have something I
want.” She takes a drink. “Consensual, baby.” I can’t tell if she called me
Baby or just said baby. “But my parents would call it a sin.”
The letter. “In Utah?” I hope my voice sounds
casual.
“Yep.” She walks back to the kitchen. I accept
another drink because I want to maintain this feeling. I have never had this
much. Thom. No, don’t think about him. I’m in control.
“Just call me Jack.” She smirks. “The Jack
family.”
“I thought your last name was Reese.”
“No, we were definitely the Jack family. Non-practicing
Mormons.”
I remember Lorna arguing with either a Mormon or a
Jehovah’s Witness once. I’m not sure of the difference between the two.
“It would be better to be raised
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