Chapter Text
“It’s really too bad,” Ike Meyerhauser said, leaning back to prop himself more fully on his cluttered desk. “I’m sorry, Poppy, but we just don’t have the funds since the downturn…it’s not just you.” He leaned his face into one hand, massaging his temples. The man looked downright exhausted. “They’re having us lay off more than half the company,”
I nodded, looking down at my white-gloved hands, rubbing my fingers in circles as I tried to process the conversation. No more City View , I thought to myself, but aloud, I said,
“How long until the layoffs?”
Meyerhauser cleared his throat and looked away, clearly upset. I made an “mm” sound, nodding. “It’s today, then?” He nodded, and then looked at me again, clearly steeling himself for the upcoming unpleasant news he had to give out to 32 employees.
“I have official letters regarding the layoff, and your unemployment options, here,” He said, reaching back on the desk and handing me a sealed white envelope that was addressed to “Our Valued Employee” from City View’s owners.
Standing, I brushed my skirt off a bit in a nervous habit before thanking Ike for the news, and leaving his office. The cubicle spaces for the magazine’s employees were the usual: gray-brown padded walls, pressboard desks with faux wood veneer, all set up in little rows in the enormous office. Some people had decorated theirs more than others, but otherwise, they were all the same. I didn’t mind so much, overall, since I like the order and predictability of it all.
My desk was two rows down, and four desks over, from Meyerhauser’s personal office. As I stood looking down at the things I had brought in to “personalize” my desk (a large wall calendar, some colorful pens, a mug shaped like a fat cactus, my laptop, and a label maker), I sighed. It was not difficult at all to box it all up, and walk away. I’d likely have to toss the calendar, I thought, since it was a 16 month “December to July” type, and it was already the middle of April. I felt happy to bring the fat cactus mug home to add to my odd tea mug collection.
Quietly, I unlocked my car, placed the box in the back on the floor, and got into the driver’s seat. Always a habit: lock the doors, lean my head back, close my eyes, sigh deeply. It felt so good to release the pressure inside, and I took a few more deep breaths before I started the car and drove off.
When I reached my apartment building, I stayed in the car for a few moments, just staring at my gloved hands on the wheel. These gloves were newer, made of calfskin, and finished with one small pearl button each. What would I do for a job? Admittedly, I had a good deal of money saved up, since I rarely traveled, didn’t eat out much, and shared the rent and utilities with my roommate, Cecily. I would be fine without a job for likely six months at least, but I’d prefer to have one just the same.
The old brick apartment building looked rather glum against the overcast sky, although I had always greatly appreciated the gilded age-era accents of brass and black wrought iron. HEMLOCK VIEW large brass letters proclaimed over the arched brick doorway and red canopy awning. There were very few hemlocks these days; they had mostly been replaced over the years with thin birch trees, and some firs. I had paused many times to admire the aged brass lettering, but not today. Box in hand, I entered the foyer and began to climb the brick stairs to our third floor apartment.
My apartment was 3B, marked with brass on the door. I propped the box on my hip and took the keys from my pocket, unlocking it. As soon as I walked into the space, Cecily made herself seen.
At 6’1”, Cecily towered over me, and although her height was imposing enough, her dark makeup and pale skin did nothing to lighten the effect. Her waist-length black hair was tied back in a braid that trailed over one shoulder, and she was wearing pajama pants, black-rimmed glasses, and plush slippers that looked like calico cats. Her shirt was a leftover from her on-again, off-again girlfriend; the tee was black, with white lettering across the chest “SEPULTURA” and some orange insignia underneath which looked to me like an unfortunate cross between a crustacean and the biohazard symbol.
“Poppy,” she said, sighing. I cocked my head as I hung my keys, placed the box on the dining table, and began taking off my shoes. “You left more mugs in the living room again,”
“Oh, Cecily, I’m sorry!” And I really was. My bad habit of leaving mugs littered throughout the small space was annoying to my roommate, and I tried hard to remember them all, but I had a terrible habit of getting an idea for an article and running off to type it up…only to leave my mug, usually half-full of tea, behind me. Quickly, I went around picking up the four mugs scattered, including my fat cactus mug from my office box, and began to dump their cold contents into the sink.
“Don’t forget, Poppy, it’s the second Friday of the month,” Cecily noted, and I nodded to let her know I had heard. Cecily and her friends played Dungeons and Dragons twice a month, but the second Friday was specially reserved for a terrible B movie before the roleplaying, and subsequently began earlier than usual.
“Thank you, Cecily,” I responded, stacking the mugs in the dishwasher. Neither of us ate much, or cooked often, so the dishwasher normally had extremely light duty. Thankfully, I thought, looking down at the brown and yellowed plastic facade of the appliance, since it’s ancient. After filling my water bottle, I picked up my office belongings box, and walked across the living room to my bedroom. Cecily had sat down at the dining table, flipping through papers to memorize notes before the game started, ignoring me. I enjoyed her desire to interact as little as possible; it wasn’t personal or upsetting to either of us, since we both delighted in an arcadian space.
In my bedroom, I set the box down on my vanity, then took off my gloves and laid them beside it. I reached back, unzipped my yellow polka-dotted dress, and hung it on a hook I’d placed on the wall. Next came my hairpins, dropping one by one with a dull clink into their jar, the rose-shaped cut crystal beauty sitting on my vanity. Once my dark hair was down around my shoulders, I fell back on my bed, closing my eyes as I sighed softly. This space felt like such a sanctuary: the bright high ceilings, my carefully-made bed with its soft white and royal blue applique quilt. My mother had handmade it with her mother many years ago, and I had brought it with me everywhere I went. I knew my brother, Tony, had one too, but his applique and border were a vibrant emerald green. The soft comfort of it felt delightful against my skin, and I rolled over onto my side, feeling the delicate stitching through my thin stockings. In my undergarments, I was just cold enough to want a blanket. It seemed interesting to me that a bra, knickers, a high-waisted garter, and stockings all covered so much area on my skin, yet never seemed to bring warmth the way a simple blanket could.
Thankfully, I kept a soft woolen throw folded at the foot of the bed, and pulled it over me, curling up on my side. Closing my eyes, I contemplated my position. I had loved my job at City View, but that time was done. I’d been there for six years now, starting as an intern during my college years, and finally becoming a fully-fledged writer a year later. As I tucked my feet more firmly against my butt for warmth, I thought of my brother Tony, who had introduced me to the editor at City View. He worked for a law firm downtown, and had a vast amount of helpful acquaintances who seemed to owe him an awful lot of favors. What a strange thing to be, a lawyer, I thought, letting my mind wander. Tony had spent several years at Yale earning his degrees before he traipsed back here to the West coast. It must have been chilly in Connecticut in winter…maybe not as soggy as–
I fell into a deep and comfortable sleep as I let my thoughts wander away.
* * *
I was dreaming about Tahiti, the last time we had visited with our mother, about five years ago. Tony was sunning himself on the beach, his Gucci sunglasses glinting in the sunshine every so often when he turned his head this way or that. The sound of the surf was gentle and pleasant, and I could smell salt and flowers on the breeze.
Our mother, swathed in a diaphanous silk kaftan the color of ripe mangos and wearing an enormous wide-brimmed sun hat, languidly beckoned me with a wave of her perfectly tanned arm. Most of her face was hidden behind oversized dark sunglasses, aside from her full red lips and tumbling waves of glossy black hair.
“Poppy, darling, you’ll have the worst tan lines if you don’t take those silly gloves off,” she murmured, the French accent heavy in her words. I looked down, seeing myself through a haze of golden shimmer, wearing the gloves I always wore: tight, white silk gloves. This pair in particular had a small ruched section on the back of my wrist, and closed tightly on the opposite side by way of a small mother-of-pearl button. I glanced back at my mother: she had one leg up, one lying flat, while the wind began to blow harder, making the kaftan’s delicate material float and dance against her body.
“Poppy, just take it off,” she urged, reaching for me, plucking at the gloves. I shook my head and stepped back, trying to tell her no, but the words came out in a soft gasp.
As the wind picked up, a knife-like edge of chill set into it, slicing across the beach faster and faster; sand began to dust up around us in a cloud, and my mother nonchalantly reached forward to pick again at my gloves. Her hand reached up to grip the back of her head, weighting her hat down so it did not fly away in the building gale. I tried to turn, but the freezing wind pressed against me, pushing me, and when I looked back at my mother, she was sitting up, sliding her sunglasses down, and her mouth opened.
What came out was not admonishment of my improper clothing, but an odd musical sound. I recognized it from somewhere as she stood, mouth still moving in speech, even as the music grew louder, and louder.
I snapped back into consciousness and shivered violently, curling up harder as I tried to find warmth. My blanket had slid off to one side and I groped for it blindly before realizing that I was still hearing the music from my dream. It was my cell phone ringing, my brother’s name flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
“S’Bout time you answered, Poppy,” Tony’s smile was easy to hear, even over the phone, and I nodded sleepily.
“I’m sorry…I was asleep, I think,” I replied. Pulling the throw around my shoulders, I sat up with my legs crossed, blinking the haze from my eyes. Tony was still talking, and I only caught the tail-end of what he said.
“-- DeLaurentis said he has a good spot available,”
“A spot for what? Who?”
Tony sighed and chuckled. “A spot for you, Poppy, with Niccolo DeLaurentis,”
“I…I don’t know that name,” I frowned, looking around my room as if it might give me some clue. “Niccolo DeLaurentis?”
“Yeah, he’s a friend of a friend. Ike told me you might be looking for work soon,”
I sighed.
“Soon? More like now,” I muttered, as the day’s events crashed back down on me. “They laid off more than thirty people, he said,”
“Yeah, he told me…I’m so sorry, Poppy. I know how much you liked City View,” Tony’s words were sincere, though the unspoken truth of his meaning rang fairly clearly, even for me: I know how much you despise change, and now it’s been forced upon you. “But!” His tone brightened. “I’ve been looking around, and Nick’s magazine is taking off like wildfire. He’s in need of more writers for his pieces, and needs more women on staff,”
“Oh, okay. What’s the magazine about?”
Tony laughed, not at me, but very pleasantly. “You should ask him. He’ll be able to explain it better than I can. He’d like to interview you tonight, if you have the time,”
I heard Cecily drop something outside, and recalled that tonight would be another night holed up in my bedroom avoiding her awkward friends if I did not leave soon.
“I can meet him tonight,” I said, perking up at the thought of another potential job so quickly after the layoff.
“Great!” Tony replied, and then I heard a murmur somewhere on his end. “What?” The sound suddenly muffled as he clearly placed his hand over the receiver for a moment. “Ah, Poppy, I have one last meeting I guess before I leave. Nick’ll be at the White Swallow tonight around 7pm. He says to ask the bartender for DeLaurentis and you’ll find him,”
“Okay. Thank you!”
“No problem Pops. See you later,”
Tony hung up the phone and I took a moment to shake the sleepy cobwebs from my brain before I started to get ready. The White Swallow was a bar downtown that Tony frequented, which was about all I knew of it.
Carefully, I assessed my dress options. I wanted something that seemed appropriately serious, so any fabrics with tiny pigs, dachshunds, or other small animals were out. Black felt so boring…I owned exactly one black dress, and only donned it for funerals. My penchant for color felt obvious as I slid the velvet hangers back and forth, appraising my wardrobe. This was all, of course, my spring wardrobe; winter, summer, and autumn colors would all be inappropriate for the time of year and weather. All the winter and autumn dresses were made of slightly thicker materials, although every dress I owned, no matter the season, had a lovely smooth feel. Nothing to ruin a perfectly good day like the claw-hooked feeling of microfiber scraping along the skin, I mused before pulling out a royal blue dress with white lapels and gold-chased ebony buttons.
The foundation garments I had worn with my clothes at work earlier that day were not going to feel right with this dress, so I changed into a black bra, black underwear, plus a high-waisted garter belt that cinched as a corset. All of the steel boning and gentle tension helped me feel much more secure and sure of myself. Over these went a thin silk slip, white as bleached bone. I stepped over to the mirror to do my makeup and hair before it got too late. My dark hair was a mess, a combined effort of the hairspray and my nap earlier. Brushing it out was not difficult, but required a good amount of concentration. Once that was complete, I wiped off the makeup from earlier, reapplied it, and pulled the blue dress over my underclothes. Lastly, I pulled on my favorite pair of gloves, placed two small golden pins connected with a chain to the collar of the dress, and leaned in to put some deep red lipstick on. From my closet I pulled a charcoal gray mid-length trench coat, as well as a pair of heels to match my lipstick, and finally a small clutch to hold my wallet and phone. I also placed a small notebook inside, as well as several folded copies of my past articles, and a pen.
That night, the weather was dismal out, rain pelting the windshield like an invading force. Finding parking was an absolute chore, and I hesitated once I turned the car off, trying to relax. I wasn’t good with crowds of people; I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been out to a nightclub or busy bar. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my clutch and got out, grabbing an umbrella before closing the door very deliberately.
The White Swallow’s entrance was under a brick archway set into the wall, leading to a steep brick staircase heading down. Its only advertisement was the small white neon sign of a swallow, the light within it jumping and flickering. Gingerly, I made my way down, trying hard not to grab the aged wooden and brass rail, worn glossy-smooth from decades of hands. At the base of the stairs was a wide hall leading to a brick alcove, where two large men stood, flanking an intricately-carved solid wooden door. One was bald, tanned with a large mustache; he was wearing a black mesh tank top and jeans, as well as two leather straps, one around each bicep. His companion was taller and thinner, possibly middle eastern, with a carefully-coiffed beard, wearing a black t-shirt that seemed two sizes too small for his muscular build. On the t-shirt was a white swallow, just like the neon light above.
“Are you lost?” The bearded man asked, his voice thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place. Persian, maybe? He glanced back at his companion, who shrugged. I was busy closing my umbrella and lightly shaking the worst of the rain off.
“I–no, I’m not lost,” I replied, and then looked down at my shoes: red heels to match my lipstick. I glanced back up to look the Persian man in the eye, and attempted a smile. “I’m here for an interview with…Nick. Uh, DeLaurentis…Niccolo DeLaurentis,” I finished rather lamely.
There was a moment of silence, and then the two men burst into laughter, clearly finding something extremely entertaining. I frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“Ah, nothing, I suppose,” the Persian man’s companion said, wiping at his eyes. He was still chuckling deeply, but held out a hand. I paused, uncertain of what he wanted.
“Your ID,” the Persian man stated, and I nodded, taking the card out to show the bald man. He checked my birthdate, glanced up at me, and then nodded before reaching back to open the thick wooden door.
“Welcome to the White Swallow, miss,” he said, and I stepped into the loud darkness beyond.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark bar within. Thick smoke hazed the air, curling around me like a rancid cashmere blanket, and I coughed. The space itself wasn’t enormous, and had a row of deep leather booths on the leftmost wall; the bartop was on the right, near the entrance. Bass-heavy music seemed to fill every corner of the room. There were orangey Edison-type bulbs hanging from the ceiling in a few places, the hot glass surrounded by black metal cages. They did an absolutely terrible job of actually lighting the space, and I moved slowly until I could get my night vision adjusted, so I didn’t knock into anyone. This was an almost impossible task, though, since the White Swallow was filled with so many men I could hardly see past them.
I am not a tall person by any stretch of the imagination; if I topped 5’2” in my three inch heels, it would be a miracle. And it seemed at the moment that every man in the bar was at least six feet tall, completely blocking my view. Moving through the crowd, I tried hard not to touch anyone more than was necessary, although I did have to touch a shoulder with one gloved hand every now and again to nudge past, making my way to the bar.
All the architecture in the place was old and beautiful. The ceilings were surprisingly high, arched brick spaces that absorbed the warm glow, reaching up into darkness beyond. Even the bartop was gorgeous: a thick, wide slab of mahogany, polished to within an inch of its life, gleaming as well as it could in the dull light. Striding up to it, I placed a hand on the bartop and tried to get the bartender’s attention.
“Um, hello!” I said, waving a hand. He gave no response as he poured drinks and handed them out, never even looking up to check if the drink went to the right patron. He was chewing studiously on a toothpick. “Hello?”
“You’ll never get his attention that way,” a voice in my ear said smoothly, and I almost jumped out of my skin. A feeling like an electric current ran down my spine as I turned slightly to see the glimmering blue eyes beside me. He was older than me, in his late forties maybe, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, a white t-shirt, denim jeans, and leather harness boots. A pair of aviator sunglasses were folded and hanging from the collar of his shirt. Stepping past me, he leaned onto the bar, thumped the tabletop, and shouted over the bass,
“Bill! The lady here needs your help,”
Bill immediately looked up, nodded (still pouring a beer), and then made his way over. The man grinned at me, blue eyes vibrant in his dark face, and melted like a shadow back into the crowd. I gaped after him for a second.
“Miss,” Bill grunted, and I looked at him, my brain trying to switch gears.
“I’m here to meet Niccolo DeLaurentis,” I finally shouted, and Bill nodded, taking the toothpick out of his mouth to gesture towards the booths.
“Last one,” he said. The toothpick was chewed down to within an inch of its life, and I wondered how many he went through in a night. And then, “what d’you want to drink?”
“Oh, water is fine,” I said, and Bill shook his head, pointing to a sign.
“Two drink minimum,” he grunted. “Water doesn’t count,”
“Oh…oh no,” I don’t drink alcohol frequently at all. Frantically, I tried to draw up my limited knowledge of cocktails. “Um, can I get two lemon drops and a glass of water delivered to the table?”
Bill nodded, turning away, and I guessed that was the end of our interaction.
Slowly, I pushed through the crowd, making my way toward what felt like the back of the room. Eventually, I spied a booth through the haze, and then followed along to the end of the line.
Each booth was U-shaped, done in brown leather with a table in the middle, a drop ceiling over the top of them to create a cozy atmosphere. Maybe not cozy so much as tight, I thought, peering into the booth with trepidation. The lights in the drop ceiling were more of the terrible Edison bulb variety, doing a very poor job of illuminating the contents of the booths themselves. However, the person sitting in the last booth didn’t seem to mind at all. He had a tiny book light propped up and was smoking a slim cigarette as he flipped through a notebook full of what looked like diagrams.
“Ah, Mr. DeLaurentis?” I shouted, trying to be both quietly respectful and be heard over the crowd. Without looking up, he nodded, gesturing to the stretch of seating available in the small space. I hesitated for a moment before taking off my coat, folding it onto the seat, and sliding in to sit across from him.
Inside the booth, it was shockingly quiet, as if I had stepped into a private room. I looked around, confused but delighted at the sudden silence.
“It’s some sort of acoustic trick Igwe managed,” DeLaurentis said, waving his cigarette at the drop ceiling, still scanning the diagrams in his notebook. He adjusted his glasses slightly before looking at me.
Niccolo DeLaurentis was a small man, thin and olive-complected with slicked-back hair. His thick dark eyebrows were hawkish, hanging over his eyes, setting a shadow over them. He had a large nose, several days’ worth of stubble on his chin, and a look on his face that was extremely skeptical as he eyed me over his wire-rimmed glasses.
“You’re Tony’s little sister?” He asked doubtfully, taking a drag of the cigarette. I nodded, smiling.
“Yes,”
“You two don’t look a thing alike,” Niccolo observed, blowing a smoke ring out into the air. I glanced down at myself and nodded. This was not new information to me by any stretch of the imagination.
“Are you adopted?” he asked bluntly.
Heat ran into my face like a flood, and I shook my head. It was not an uncommon question, but it had been more usual when Tony and I were children; less so now that we were adults.
“Ah, no, we both have the same parents,” I replied. “I’m just…well, Tony got the nice tan from our mother. I…ended up with our father’s coloring,”
Niccolo gazed at me for a long moment, taking puffs of his skinny cigarette every once in a while. I waited patiently for him to speak when he was ready. Eventually, he stubbed out the cigarette in a brown glass ashtray and gestured to his notebook.
“Tony tells me you’re a writer; I’m in need of good columnists for the magazine,”
“He didn’t tell me what your magazine is about, Mr. DeLaurentis, but I have been employed with City View for six years now as a columnist,”
DeLaurentis paused, smiling a bit. “City View has a good following,” he chuckled. I wasn’t quite sure what the joke was, but he seemed to find it amusing. “You spent your time writing about high-end lofts and what color to paint an apartment to up the buy price?”
His tone felt a little derisive, but I shrugged.
“My pieces are rather widespread in topic, but yes, we do a lot of pieces on real estate tips…it’s a popular subject for a magazine that focuses on urban living. I worked on realtor and investor interviews, though, more so than anything else.”
I reached into my clutch and drew out the copies of my pieces. Probably I should just start calling it a writing portfolio, I thought as I handed them over to DeLaurentis. He spread them out on the table, pushing his notebook to the side, and smoothed the pages out flat. With a blunt finger, he pushed the glasses up higher on his nose, skimming my words.
A moment later, a large man bearing a drink tray appeared at the side of the booth, and set down several glasses. Two martini glasses for the lemon drops, a beer stein full of water, a rocks glass with some amber liquor in it for DeLaurentis, along with another glass stuffed full of lemon wedges and maraschino cherries. I went to give the man my credit card, but he waved it away.
“Already been paid for,” he grunted, and I frowned.
“By whom?”
“Me,” DeLaurentis said, not looking up from the papers. I thanked him and smiled, placing some bills on the drink tray as a tip for the large man before he moved away.
Niccolo took a while to carefully read over my pieces, and as he did, I took the opportunity to look around at the patrons nearer to us.
The bearded blue-eyed man who had helped me at the bar was leaning against a table in a rapt conversation with a boy drinking from a tiki glass with a paper umbrella. Paper Umbrella was giggling coquettishly as Blue Eyes leaned forward, whispering something in his ear. Everything about the older man shouted confidence and certainty, from the relaxed authority of his stance to the way he smiled graciously at Paper Umbrella. Those eyes flicked over my way and I froze, struck dumb for a moment by the predatory glint there. Blue Eyes gave me a languid grin that was both pleased and anticipatory. I couldn’t even breathe, watching him, and he me. Even if I had wanted to pull my eyes away, I wasn’t sure I could have managed, and–
Niccolo cleared his throat and I jumped hard in my seat, dragging my eyes back to him with what felt like visceral force.
“This is quite good,” DeLaurentis said, peering back at me over his glasses. His large nose did an excellent job keeping them up, I thought, as he fished into the breast pocket of his shirt for a holographic box of skinny cigarettes. Lighting one gracefully, he continued, tossing the spent match into his ashtray,
“You certainly have talent, Ms. Williams, and I need talent on the team staff. But I won’t lie to you: I’m not sure you’ll be comfortable with the topics we present in Inquisition,”
He reached down under the table near his feet and brought up a black leather messenger bag. Carefully, he appraised the contents, gently bouncing his cigarette thoughtfully, and then chose one magazine to lie flat on the table, glossy cover side up. DeLaurentis slid the magazine across to me, and I reached out to take it, observing the vibrancy of the color contrast.
An extremely muscular man stood in a richly-adorned room with red velvet walls. He had one foot up on what appeared to be a gunmetal-colored ammo case, his black harness boots clean and bright. The leather pants he wore were like a second skin, and his extraordinarily chiseled chest and shoulders were on display, accented only by a black leather harness, one enormous metal ring through each nipple. His teeth were bared in what could have been a grin, or a smug expression, and he had a fat dark cigar clamped between them. One brawny arm he propped on his raised knee, and the other hung down near his body, a silver chain looped and clutched there in his considerable hand. At the end of the chain, attached to a heavy and rusted wide collar, was another man, positioned sideways on all fours. His face was covered in a leather mask, the mouth unzipped to allow him to lean down and lick the shiny harness boots of his captor. One knee was carefully positioned forward enough to hide his genitals, but otherwise, he appeared totally naked. If I looked carefully, I could see the dainty glint of a nipple ring on his chest. A tattoo on his rib cage read “Master Dax’s bitch.”
DeLaurentis hadn’t made a sound since he pushed the magazine towards me, and I ignored him as I studied it. Carefully, I pulled a handkerchief from my clutch to wipe the rim of the stein before taking a sip of it. My companion began studiously squeezing the lemons into his drink, popping maraschino cherries into his mouth before taking a sip.
“Aside from the lovely background, this doesn’t seem to be anything close to home decor and urban living,” I said finally, glancing up at DeLaurentis. He seemed to be holding his breath. “What sort of pieces would you need from me?”
“Well,” he said, taking another swig of his strange concoction. “We do a lot of interview pieces with BDSM lifestyle and community pillars…famous porn stars, educators, toy makers, that sort of thing. Since Inquisition is focused on us, that is, gay men; we almost exclusively feature folks in those areas of the sex industry, as well as lifestyle masters and slaves, etcetera.”
I nodded, glancing back down at the magazine cover. It was well-constructed, with high quality paper, made to be collected and kept, as well as read. With one hand I opened it, flipping the pages one by one. This edition featured an interview and photoshoot with Master Dax, who owned and produced Primal Gods, an apparently very lucrative porn company. Along with Dax were three of his “bitches,” named Two, Five, and Seven. Two was the slave featured with Dax on the cover; the skinny man looked very different in his normal clothing, a wiry freckled grin with a mess of ginger hair. The photos were glossy, raunchy, and beautifully composed, but as I skimmed the article, I could tell the author was not on par with the rest of the work in this magazine. Dax’s interview was routine, tired, and lacked heart.
“I can see why you’re hoping for a new columnist in these interviews,” I mused, and DeLaurentis nodded, rolling his eyes as he tapped more ash into the brown glass tray.
“Yes…we had hopes, but, uh, this boy just isn’t working out,”
I pushed the magazine back towards my companion and smiled.
“If you’re comfortable with it, Mr. DeLaurentis, I’d be delighted to try a few interviews and see how you like them,”
Niccolo took a long draw of his cigarette and smiled as he exhaled, politely turning to the side to keep the smoke out of my face.
“Well then, Ms. Williams, I-”
“Nick! Poppy!”
We both turned to watch as Tony muscled his way through the crowd toward us. As usual, Tony had a dazzling smile on his face, green eyes bright even in the terrible lighting of the bar. Scooting in, I made room for my brother, who flung himself down into the seat, grinning.
“So, Nick, what did I tell ya? She’s good!”
DeLaurentis smiled, seeming a bit surprised by Tony’s appearance, but not displeased.
“She’s quite good, Tony. We were just discussing when she could start at Inquisition,”
“Yes!” Tony cheered, and then gestured to the two lemon drops on the table. I pushed them towards him, and he swiftly swallowed the first in one gulp, then took the second in his hand. “And you pay her properly, Nicky, not those pittance wages you were giving Yuri when he worked there,” Tony continued, jabbing in DeLaurentis’s general direction with the glass before taking a sip.
“Oh, Tony,” I flushed, looking down at my hands. He knew how uncomfortable I felt discussing money matters.
“Hush, Pops,” he replied, squeezing my shoulder. “Money makes the world go ‘round after all,”
DeLaurentis may not have noticed, but I saw Atherton Williams, Esquire, take over where my brother Tony had been. He was good at his job, no doubt, although the flinty look in his eye always startled me when I saw attorney Tony come out to play.
“So, Nicky, brass tacks: what are you offering her?”
DeLaurentis placed his spent cigarette into the ashtray and immediately lit another, bouncing it thoughtfully.
“We do ten issues a year, plus the potential pieces once we open up Inquisition online,” he said musingly. “We do a benefits package…small, but it’s there, and that tends to mean lower salaries in exchange,” he cautioned. Tony shook his head, tapping the table as he drained his glass and motioned to a passing server for another.
“Hard numbers, Nicky,” he said firmly, licking some of the sugar off the rim of the glass. “What are we talking? Seventy?”
DeLaurentis choked mid-draw on his skinny cigarette and laughed. “Seventy? You mean seventy thousand? Tony, be real,” he chided.
“I’m absolutely serious, Nicky. I know how many copies you sell, how much profit you bring in, your profit margins…you can do seventy,” Tony said, and DeLaurentis gave him a slightly wary look.
“I can do fifty, with benefits, no expenses,” he said finally.
Tony sat back as if struck, and then began laughing. I was watching the two of them like a tennis match, one face to another.
“You can do sixty-five, benefits, and paid expenses,” my brother countered. DeLaurentis looked away, contemplating as he bounced his cigarette a bit. The booth was quiet as he thought, and I nervously picked at my gloves. Tony knew how terrible I was with discussing money; it was one of the few places I truly had no skill.
“Sixty,” Niccolo finally said, and then held up a hand when Tony went to protest. “Sixty, benefits, paid expenses, and we’ll match her 401k contributions dollar for dollar for the first five years, then 50% thereafter,”
Tony sat back, fiddling with his glass a moment as he contemplated.
“Alright, Nick, you’ve got yourself a deal. Have your lawyer write it up and send it my way, and we’ll get it signed,” my brother flashed Niccolo a dashing smile. DeLaurentis couldn’t help but smile back; Tony was a particularly charming man, it was hard to dislike him when he turned his glamor on you.
Sticking his latest cigarette between his lips, DeLaurentis began placing the papers and notebooks back into his bag. He reached for the copy of Inquisition, and I raised a hand gently.
“Do you mind if I keep this copy?” I asked. “It’ll give me a good idea of your flow and article preferences to be able to study it on my own time,”
Niccolo nodded, and then picked another copy out of his bag, handing it to me. “For comparison,” he said, and I thanked him.
We all stood, shook hands, and DeLaurentis thanked Tony, reiterating that he would have their lawyer draw up the contract and send it to Tony’s practice as soon as possible.
As soon as DeLaurentis disappeared into the smoky haze, Tony turned to me and swept me up in a bear hug. He was six feet tall and lifted me easily off the ground as he kissed the top of my head.
“What did I tell you, Pops?” he asked excitedly. I couldn’t help but laugh, hands on his shoulders. “You’re on your way to much greener pastures with this one. Inquisition has been making money hand over fist lately…they’ve gotten so popular that they had to double their print numbers in the last year.”
Now that was impressive. I had not known that, but felt it boded well for me and my writing career. Maybe I would be able to stay with Inquisition for a long time.
Tony placed me down carefully and I held onto him a moment to steady my legs. I began assiduously wiping my dress, straightening the wrinkles, fluffing out my skirt. Patiently, Tony waited for me to finish my primping before he started talking again; he knew how difficult it was for me to talk while I was in what he called my ‘preening mode.’ As soon as I had checked that my hair was in place, I smiled up at him. My brother’s green eyes were lovely, and I had always felt so envious of their vibrancy. Mine were a pale dull gray, “like cement” as my mother had never failed to point out. Everything about Tony was reminiscent of warm beaches and clear sunshine: his tan skin, richly colored like toasted hazelnuts, his shining green eyes with amber rings around the pupils, and hair the color of perfect dark chocolate. Girls swooned over Tony wherever he went, and he was delighted by it. Though, to be fair, Tony was a good-natured slut: he was delighted by anyone and everyone fawning over him if it meant he would eventually get them in his bed. He had our mother’s sultry good looks, our father’s intelligence, and existed in the world as if he owned it. I would not say I was jealous of Tony’s good fortune, but to me, it seemed almost unfair to the rest of the world that he could be all these things at once.
“Thank you,” I said to him, smiling. He smiled back, and leaned against the edge of the booth.
“Anything for you, Poppy,” he replied, and I blushed, nodding. Tony was kind to me in ways no one else was; he understood me, and did not judge my peculiarities. I had been teased frequently in school for my unusual habits, and Tony had always been the one to stand up for me against them when he saw I was too quiet and shy to do it myself.
“Are you going to stay here tonight?” I asked, and he nodded, crossing his arms.
“Aren’t you going to stay?”
“I…what? Why?” I probably looked as startled as I felt, and it made him laugh.
“Because you probably haven’t been out to a bar since you left college, goose,”
“Tony, I–” I tugged nervously at my dress, repetitively smoothing and scrunching the fabric. “Tony, I’m…not a gay man,” I finally answered lamely, and he laughed harder.
“I mean, yeah, I didn’t think so,” he said. “But you never know: some of the boys here like ladies just fine,”
Nervously, I shook my head. It felt rude to step into such a masculine space to begin with, bringing my dress and curled hair and lipstick with me. It was like placing the exact wrong offering on the shrine of a god: what good could come of it?
“Alright,” he finally said, looking me over carefully. My brother’s stance had gone from playful to serious fairly quickly; he knew when I had made up my mind, and knew it was deeply unlikely to change. “But before you leave, are you going to tell me what’s up with you and Price? He’s been watching you since I got here,”
I shook my head, confused, as I began folding up my writing samples, placing them carefully back into my clutch.
“Price? Who?” Tony pointed with his chin, and I turned to look.
“Price,” He was talking about Blue Eyes. Price?
“Um, he helped me get the bartender’s attention today,” I replied, trying to figure out if I could fit the pair of Inquisition copies into my clutch (absolutely not), or if I would have to carry them under my coat to keep them dry between here and the car (likely). I seemed to have misplaced my umbrella somewhere between here and the door.
“Hm, that’s all?” Tony’s sharper tone made me look up at him a bit more carefully, puzzled. It sounded a bit like a father grilling his daughter about a boy at school.
“I mean, yes. Why?”
“No reason, I guess,” he said, and I shrugged, going back to packing up. At one point, I glanced over my shoulder again, and there was Blue Eyes, watching me with odd interest. He had one hand idly playing with his beard as Paper Umbrella tried desperately to get his attention back. I smiled and could feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. My brother was clearly feeling a bit restless all of a sudden. “Maybe it’s good for you to turn in early tonight,” he said, and I nodded. I felt exhausted after the day’s events.
“Yes, I’m going to bed,”
Holding it out, Tony helped me put my coat on, and I buttoned it up, beginning my straightening and smoothing process again before tucking the Inquisition editions under my arm, cover side facing my body, and picked up my clutch. I felt ready.
Taking my arm, Tony helped push through the crowd towards the door, to let me take my leave. I took one last peek back at Blue Eyes, feeling like a silly schoolgirl the way the blush rose in my face again, especially when his eyes met mine. The familiar tug was unsettling in its strength, making me want to break away and dash back to him, to just stand near him and drink in every line of his features. Quickly, I snapped my eyes shut to cut it off, and turned back to my small trek. Once outside, Tony waved me off with a dazzling smile, speaking briefly to the bouncers before he disappeared back inside.
My drive home was uneventful. The rain had slowed to an unwavering gray drizzle, making everything soggy and slick, but allowing a much better field of sight than I had dealt with on my way to the White Swallow. Once inside Hemlock View’s foyer, I paused, leaning against the cold brick wall. After the roar of the bar, my car’s silence had felt like a sanctuary, but I knew the apartment would still be buzzing with people. It was only nine pm, and Cecily’s combination movie and game nights tended to last into the wee hours of the morning. I usually did not mind at all, since I would either be up writing new pieces in my room, or sleeping, but suddenly the thought of facing so many people felt like a trial. It was almost enough to make me wish I had stayed at the bar with Tony…almost. What would you even be doing? I chided myself on that silly thought. Sitting around staring at Blue Eyes? I thought a little too intensely for a moment about the contrast between his white shirt and dark skin.
Not Blue Eyes, I thought, but Price. Was that a first name, or a last name? I would likely never know. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes and climbed the stairway to our apartment.