2. Lor also really needs therapy
LOR ALSO REALLY NEEDS THERAPY
Lor
I grip the woman’s hips and pull her tighter against me, slotting my leg between hers as she fists a hand in my hair and drags her tongue along mine.
Her breasts are soft, her lips taste like tequila, and she’s cute as fuck in a sparkly pink dress.
It barely covers her ass, and she doesn’t seem to mind that it rides up even further as we grind on each other’s thighs.
I’ve been aching for exactly this kind of distraction all week, but apparently her tongue tasting mine isn’t enough to push back the darkness in my head, even with three shots to help.
I try to stay in the moment, focusing on the music reverberating around us, the feel of her fingers as they tease the bare skin between my black pants and crop top, but as one song rolls into the next, I slowly give up.
The darkness bleeds into the edges of my mind, threatening and sapping my strength.
Her hands still as she feels my energy change, and she pulls back, inquiry in her gaze.
I try to offer a smile, but it feels more like a grimace.
She shrugs and steps back, and I match her movements.
We part ways, no words needed, and I’m back to dancing alone while she finds a new partner for the night.
I pretend for a few songs.
Pretend to have fun, that I’m dancing my heart out, that I’m enjoying myself and lost in the music.
This club has brought good luck in the past, and I was hopeful someone would catch my eye tonight.
That maybe someone could spark something inside me.
Anything to distract from the desolate loneliness yawning through my soul, but nothing fills the void.
Sometimes I can escape for a few hours with a night of lust, but even that is losing its effectiveness lately. Nothing works, and the burden of being profoundly alone creeps ever closer, increasingly darker, weighing heavier.
There’s a moment of deliberation when I consider trying again, and another when I wonder if more alcohol is the answer. I know it in my bones though—neither will help.
So I call it a night.
I don’t even turn the lights on when I get home, knowing the sight of my empty, undecorated apartment will only depress me further. I strip out of my clothes, drop them in the hamper, then swish some mouthwash before falling into bed and hoping for oblivion.
The next morning is more of the same, a dull ache deep inside.
I wake up late to a bleak apartment, poor job prospects, and the unwelcome sound of loud meowing outside my third floor bedroom window.
I roll over and push it open, letting in the stray tabby cat that seems to have decided it lives here.
The cat leaps inside, then sits primly on the floor and glares at me with startlingly evil looking green eyes.
“What?” I say, defensive that it’s mad at me for doing what it wanted. Why are cats so hard to please?
Its tail twitches.
I groan and get out of bed, noticing there’s also a relentless hum in my blood today. It brings a wave of relief, followed quickly by resentment. I don’t know if I’d rather feel this, the persistent urge to follow—to seek—or nothing.
I think numb is worse, so I welcome the unrelenting urge for now.
The coffee maker splutters and I inhale the aroma of a cheap medium roast as I pull open my laptop.
The buzzing hum running through my veins tells me another star has fallen, and about time too.
I’m low on funds, and my employer/evil boss man who I suspect might be part of the mafia won’t wait on me forever.
He hasn’t given me any sort of name other than ‘boss’ but he seems to hate it when I call him ‘partner’ instead, so naturally that’s what I do.
We both know we aren’t partners.
After all, it’s hard to be partners with someone who is blackmailing you.
Especially when they’re also your only source of income.
It’s my fault he figured out that I’m a star-chaser, a rare descendent of the stars.
I don’t know of any others besides my mom, and most people think we’re a myth—that’s how uncommon we are.
We’re ruled by the curse in our blood to retrieve the remains of fallen stars.
I wasn’t careful enough when I sold the stardust I found, taking the quick and easy way of making money by selling to my ‘partner’ repeatedly instead of finding other buyers.
Stardust, it turns out, has magical properties that few people know about.
I mentally kick myself again for being such an idiot in the past. I know not to trust anyone.
It’s one of the only things my mother was ever consistent on: never trust anyone, ever.
Yet here I am, blackmailed by a mob boss because I forgot the most important rule of star-chasing and sold to him a few too many times.
Now I have no other choice.
It takes me the better part of the day, but eventually I scrounge up enough information from NASA on a couple leads and wonder how my ancestors did this.
I know how to follow the urge when I get close enough to a fallen star to find the stardust—the remains of my ancestral beings—but I need to at least know what direction to go in first. How did they survive this buzzing without the internet to tell them where they needed to go?
In the end, I guess they didn’t. That’s the one other thing my mother consistently warned me of: my fate.
Star-chasers go mad. Always.
Every.
Single.
One.
I decide to check out the leads tomorrow since it’s already late afternoon, and the urge to move, to find, to go, settles a bit now that I have a plan mapped out.
I won’t be able to resist it for long, but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better not to go out unprepared.
The last thing I need is to get lost again, or caught in a tornado on my bike.
I make a mental note to check the weather before I head out tomorrow.
The cat scratches at the table leg across from me and I scowl down at it.
“Stop that.”
It turns narrowed green eyes on me, then slowly extends one paw and digs its nails into the wood of my second-hand table. I groan and flop back in my chair. This cat is impossible and I have no idea why I keep letting it inside.
Seemingly satisfied with its destruction of both the table and my will, the cat hops onto the kitchen counter in search of food.
My phone rings from the other room, and I point a finger at the cat as I walk past it.
“Keep your claws to yourself. I’ll find you some food in a minute.”
I swipe up my phone, then freeze when I see the words ‘Partner AKA Evil Blackmailing Boss Man’ on the screen. I brace myself for the threats before answering.
“Hello?” I say.
“Alorra.” His voice is gruff and angry, which is exactly how he always looks in person too.
“Yes, hi.”
“I expect good news. When will you be dropping by?”
“Ah, yeah…” I chew my lip, trying to figure out how to tell him I don’t have any stardust yet.
He tsks, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
“Okay, so I don’t have any right now,” I rush to keep talking. “But I have a lead! A couple leads to follow up on. I’ll have more soon.”
“You have two weeks to get me double.”
“Wait, double?” My voice rises with alarm, an octave too high, but there’s no answer.
I pull the phone from my ear to see he’s already hung up.
I don’t know if I can get any more in two weeks, let alone double.
Just because I have a lead and the urge to follow it doesn't mean there will be any usable stardust at the impact site.
My neck prickles, the sensation of fighting off tears when I have no tears left to give.
The phone drops from my limp fingers onto the bed and I shuffle back to the kitchen.
I pull a can of chicken breast from a worn cabinet and pop the top off for the cat, then slouch back in front of my laptop.
I don’t even have the energy to open it, which is apparently unacceptable to the refueled cat.
It hops from the counter to my table, then sits right in front of me on the other side of my computer, staring me down, tail flicking side to side.
“Fine,” I huff, and open the laptop.
The cat flops onto its side and rolls around, looking at me upside down around the side of my screen. I twist my lips to the side to hold in what feels suspiciously like a smile; this cat will not break me.
After a few more hours of research, an entire pot of crappy coffee, and two slices of leftover pizza, I have four destinations to check out starting tomorrow.
It’ll be a multi-day trip on my bike, but that’s nothing new.
If I’m lucky, I’ll find some salvageable stardust and the evil boss man will lay off me for a while.
The cat has long since disappeared after demanding to be let back outside, and I don’t expect to see it until after I return.
My brain is exhausted, but my body is wired from too much caffeine.
I didn’t get the escape I was looking for last night, and that pathetic, hopeful part of me wants to try again.
So I hop in the shower, scrubbing my scalp and rinsing the anxious sweat of today from my body.
I dry my hair and let it hang straight down my back, then wing out my eyeliner, dab an extra layer of mascara, and swipe blood red lipstick across my lips. I loop a jangle of silver bracelets around my wrist, and that’s the extent of my jewelry.
Then I pull on my usual outfit: skintight black pants, a black crop top, and black riding boots.
I have very few colors in my closet—okay, I have no colors in my closet—and that’s exactly how I like it.
Quick, easy, no threat of decision paralysis.
Plus, fewer people mess with me when I’m dressed like a badass.
I walk the few blocks to Tempo and notice the dance floor isn’t as busy as usual. I wonder what day it is? It must be a weekday. There’s plenty of space at the bar, so I lean against it and order my usual, three shots of tequila.
The bartender catches my eye, and I remember him from the previous night. A few inches taller than me with messy, brown hair and a smile so bright it makes me cringe. No one has the right to exude so much happiness, especially not in a nearly empty bar.
I haven’t seen him here before this week. He must be new, although he clearly knows what he’s doing, moving around behind the bar like it’s second nature. I take another look, drawn in by the dark eyeliner accenting bright hazel eyes that almost glow in the dim lighting.
I eye him up and down, taking in his colorful look.
An eclectic mix of hot pink nails, a tattoo of a moth on the back of one hand, a loose purple shirt with the sleeves cut off and fishnet over the shoulders, and too many piercings to count.
My eyes snag on the silver lip ring glinting on the right side of his lower lip.
He’s hot, and if the heated look he’s giving me is any indication, he’s also more than willing.
I consider it, slamming the shots back, and decide to hit the dance floor while I scope things out.
I sway my hips to the beat, reach my arms above my head and close my eyes as I try to let the music take me.
Hands land on my hips, but I don’t acknowledge them, waiting to see what the mystery person will do.
I know they’re not the bartender’s hands; they’re much too small to belong to him.
Soon enough the hands leave, and I’m swaying on my own again.
I feel eyes on me, prickling the hair on the back of my neck, so I tip my head back down and open my eyes to peek over my shoulder.
The bartender is watching me.
I tilt my head to the side as I spin toward him, trailing one hand down my body as I dance.
His throat bobs as he pauses shaking a cocktail, arms raised and muscles tense while his gaze blazes heat down my body.
I trace my eyes over his biceps, appreciating their definition, but ultimately deciding I don’t want to wait.
Another night, perhaps, he’d be what I want, but tonight I don’t want it quick and dirty in a back room. I want hours of oblivion, ideally in someone else’s bed so I can sneak away when I’m satisfied.
No one else here is doing it for me, though.
I wrinkle my nose as I make the decision to walk another couple blocks to the more popular, more expensive club.
It’s a swanky place that tends to draw more tourists than this one, so I probably have a decent shot of finding what I want there, even if the drinks are pricey.
Before I leave, I saunter back to the bar, and the bartender scrambles over to serve me.
It’s kind of cute, and my lips twitch up before I can stop them.
“More shots?” he says.
“Nah, closing my tab,” I reply, dropping a few bills on the bar.
His face falls and I almost feel bad, until I remember that I don’t owe him anything and he’s hot enough to bag any hookup in this place. I turn away, my gaze roving over the crowd one last time.
“You’re all set,” he says.
I don’t reply, and I don’t look back, not wanting to see his sad puppy dog eyes as I leave.