Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
ROONEY
Going to Bowlcut McFuckface’s apartment at three in the morning is the worst idea I’ve had in a while, but Friday evening he texts me apologizing for ditching me at the fancy shitass club last week and asks for a do-over.
Says he has my coat, which is manipulative as fuck, but it works better than the fishscale would.
I want my shit back, damn it. So, after I get off shift at two, I gather what’s left of my wits and hop into the taxi he sends to take me to his penthouse.
The elevator is nice; the guard at the fancy desk was not.
Bowlcut didn’t deign to meet me in the foyer, so I fidget my way to the top floor, trying not to dwell on resentment.
Why does this pungent turd get to live in luxury while nice people like Nova have to strip for a living in a club located a block down from the biggest crack den in the city?
I’m not mad on my own behalf. I deserve this life. Never was destined for anything better.
Bowlcut’s décor leaves much to be desired. It’s a mishmash of expensive-looking gaudy shit, none of which matches with any element of elegance or, I don’t fucking know, fengshui.
When I wander deeper into the penthouse, it’s to see Bowlcut lounging on an ugly-ass couch with a highball glass in his hand.
He’s got his bare feet propped on an expensive-looking coffee table, one that doesn’t deserve to be molested by his pale, sweaty skin.
Neither do I, in fairness, but I don’t suppose it matters, since I’m here and all.
“Rudy!” he greets, lifting his glass so the amber liquid sloshes inside.
I don’t correct him on my name—it’s only fair he fuck it up when I didn’t bother to remember his, not even something that rhymes. I guess actually wanting to fuck someone lifts the bar an inch or two.
“Come sit next to me,” Bowlcut says, patting the leather cushion with a hand so moist it leaves sausage finger-shaped smears on the matte black surface.
Thank god I wore leggings here. The evening cold was so severe it forced me into my only pair of jeans for the moped ride to Caution, even though I hate the feel of denim against my skin.
Then, at the end of the night when I was loath to climb back into them, I found the leggings folded neatly with the rest of my belongings.
Blue-toned grey, the inside lined with soft fleece.
I didn’t question their appearance, since it seemed obvious, and was happier than I’ll admit pulling them on before leaving the club.
I paired the grey with a baby pink off-shoulder crop top to maintain the slutty persona I knew Bowlcut would expect when I arrived.
Now I’m here, resenting him for getting hand-grease on the ass of my new leggings. Couldn’t enjoy the fresh, stain-free fabric for more than an hour before sullying it, which is about right for my grody lifestyle.
I settle gingerly next to Bowlcut on the couch, offering a grimace in place of a smile when he hands me an empty highball glass. I watch him swish the contents of a half-full bottle of double-malt whisky, then hold out the glass to receive a suspiciously generous pour.
“Thanks,” I mutter before throwing a mouthful back. I gag against the burn, embarrassed but unable to conceal my reaction. Must be stronger than the cheap watery garbage I’m used to.
Bowlcut watches me ride out the flare of heat with an odd intensity, offering me a napkin only after I’ve sputtered all over myself. “Good?” he asks.
I choke out an insincere “Great,” muffled behind the napkin swiping across my spittle-slick lips. “Where’s my coat?” is the first thing I ask once I’ve composed myself.
Frowning, Bowlcut says, “It’s in the closet. Why don’t you relax, and I’ll grab it.”
Unable to inform him there’s no way I’ll relax in this poorly curated cumdump of a penthouse, I nod. Then I take a smaller, much more careful sip of whisky. Bowlcut’s expression tips into a satisfied smile, and he departs with an overdone swagger.
Careful only to avoid dripping on my own hand, I set my glass directly on the surface of the fancy wooden coffee table.
Across the way there’s a wall-length window, but much of the late-night cityscape is blocked by a TV screen so large it’s tacky.
I don’t possess any appreciation for classy things, though, knowing they’re far above my societal rank, so I stare at the dark, blank surface rather than admiring the lights beyond.
Who wants to gaze in awe upon a city that treats them like a penniless trollop anyway?
Not that it’s unfair, considering that’s what I am.
Still, the stars are more visible here than the soggy-newspaper sky above my apartment.
Smog and smoke from weed and burning trash cans, light pollution turning the sky dingy grey instead of properly dark.
A bruise upon the atmosphere. Here, with the windows so high, I don’t even have to tip my head to see the purplish-blue swirls embracing pinprick stars in the black canvas.
I heard that stars twinkle due to meteor showers whizzing through space between us, blocking their ancient lights from our tired eyes. Some of the stars beyond this window might be dead by now and I’ll never know. It feels oddly sentimental; I know the feeling of burning out while people watch.
A heightened sense of alarm washes over me when those precise points of light, the ones I keep telling myself I’m not going to stare at, begin to blur.
The stars can’t all be shooting at once, right?
That would be… apocalyptic, but I’ve no idea what force could send stars smearing across the slate sky like lines of chalk that failed to teach an important lesson.
“Doin’ alright there?”
I turn from the window, my eyes struggling to focus when they settle on Bowlcut, who is leering a bit too suspiciously for me to reason I magically became a lightweight on the drive over.
“Just great,” I tell him, before returning my gaze to the no-longer-sacred night.
Maybe it’d be nice to leave the city, if I could ever get out.
Strip away the layers of grime and smog obscuring the moon’s glow, meet more stars and hope some of them are still alive…
Shit, there’s a whole fucking universe out there.
And here I am, in a pretentious, shit-assed city, inside this pretentious, shit-assed apartment building, sitting on some dude’s pretentious, shit-assed couch, fairly certain I just got roofied.
Damn.
Bowlcut looms, scanning my prone form. The plush leather cushions have all but swallowed me, leaving me stuck staring up at him, his round face obscuring the view. His shadow falls over me. “You don’t look great,” he says, seizing my chin with damp fingers so he can inspect my face.
After only a brief, half-hearted struggle, I go slack, somewhere between horror and acceptance. This fucker can’t defile me any more than what I’ve already allowed from the rest of the world. It won’t be the first time I’ve been raped, although the GHB is new. What’s another level of regret?
But then there's a flash of blues, a cooling bath of light, and a shadow rises behind my assailant. It’s Shard, but different than I’ve ever seen him. His chest is bare, and several stretches of his body are nearly transparent, fractals of light winking in their depths. Like stars.
“Get your foul hands off of him,” Shard snarls, hundreds of voices whisper-screaming just below the familiar baritone.
“What the fuck is that?” Bowlcut cries out, staggering backward.
Shard snatches the front of his shirt, reeling him in.
“A being whose jewel you dared to touch,” he answers.
Then his mouth falls open, far wider than human anatomy could, exposing sharp rear fangs at the back of an unexpected maw.
His lips thin as his jaw unhinges, and in one great gulp, Shard rips Bowlcut from throat to navel, tearing a massive chunk from his portly frame.
Strips of meat and sinew stretch until they snap, leaving bits of skin and intestine hanging from the fresh corpse’s crushed ribcage.
When Shard’s jaw closes around the hunk of torso, his teeth crack its elbow joint, severing the forearm so it falls onto the floor with a heavy thump.
Unfortunately, I’m unable to get my legs out of the way before my new leggings are splattered with blood and fragments of bone. I clap my hands over my mouth. My head spins from the sudden movement and I’m trying desperately not to hurl.
Shard makes quick work of the rest of my would-be rapist’s body, devouring every bit, with the exception of the disembodied arm.
He sways a bit before opaline eyes lock with mine, his gaze penetrating to my core.
The translucent expanses of his skin seem light-years away, even as his solid body draws nearer.
His blue-tinted thumb traces the line of my jaw where Bowlcut touched me, purging the lingering sensation of rancid grease.
I try to say something, though I’m not sure what, but I gag around the words.
Shard’s palm curves to fit my cheek, stroking gently.
As if reliving the shrooms-and-shrimp incident, I feel the fog clouding my brain start to fade away, leaving a sharpness in my awareness.
Leaden limbs grow lighter, so I’m able to press my hand against my stomach until the nausea leaves as well.
Licking my dry lips, I croak, “Did you really just—”
Stalk me here? Eat a guy in front of me? Save me?
I don’t get the chance to decide what I’ll ask, because Shard’s face shifts from teal to an unflattering chartreuse. His expression crumples, and he reels back, clutching his throat.
Gasping, I yank my feet up onto the couch, folding my legs beneath my chin as Shard staggers down to one knee.
A torrent of neon green ectoplasm ejects from his mouth, plopping to the floor in revolting chunks that wobble like hot gelatin.
When Shard heaves again, whatever substance his body is rejecting pools on the ground around the abandoned half-arm, which steams upon contact.
A few messy contractions later, Shard appears to be getting himself back under control.
He wobbles at his first attempt to stand.
Without thinking, I jump to my feet, barely missing the oozing puddle.
I find myself at Shard’s side, holding his arm to steady him while the palm of my other hand presses against the cool, crystal-smooth space between his shoulder blades.
Glancing down, I see the shadow of my fingers through his chest.
“Are you alright?” Shard asks, voice scraping in his raw throat.
“I should be asking you that.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t spare it a thought.
I’ve been through far worse.” He brushes a few strands of nervous sweat-damped bangs behind my ear, expression so tender it alarms me.
Emotions I never thought myself capable of eliciting reflect across his features.
It gives me a moment to study his eyes—without a pupil or iris, an idiot might call them blank, but I know better because in their depths I see the fiery birth of new stars at the farthest reaches of the galaxy.