Page 9 of The Sin Eater
Next to the bathroom sink, a small plastic container keeps my hair product and makeup in a semiorganized place. I consider bronzer or maybe a light foundation to even out my skin tone. Nah. I’ll sweat it off. I settle for a thick line of kohl under my lower lashes and frosted peach on my lips. A dab of pomade gives my hair a swoop that’ll only last until I hit the dance floor. At least I won’t look like a total savage when I roll into the club.
What time is it? Damn. After eleven. I musta been out of it for a while before Damon found me. That’s fucked up. I shake my head, then hit the bottle of Jack again.
I’d kill for a smoke. All I have at home are chocolate Tootsie Pops, which wouldn’t be that bad with whiskey. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that lunch was long ago. I should eat something with actual nutritional value. The whiskey’s feeding my spirit, not my belly. One more shot and some of the jagged edges start to smooth.Thank fuck. Sometimes it feels like I’vegot barbed wire wrapped around my chest. Whiskey is my favorite antidote.
Taking my long, black faux fur coat out of the closet, I slip it on, grab some Tootsie Pops, and head back to Broadway, aiming for Dick’s Drive-In. After I’ve filled the tank with a cheeseburger and half an order of fries, I consider my options. I usually hit one of the gay clubs, knowing full well I can only look.No touching tonight. That penance thing again.
I tick them off on my fingers. Tugs will have too many punk voyeurs, and on a Friday night, Neighbors will be half full of bridal shower girlies. The Eagle will be stocked with old queers, and the Timberline only plays country after nine pm. Not my jam at all.
A booty-call text from my ex makes the decision for me. He’s out there lurking, and I can’t have sex. My need to hit the dance floor is growing by the minute, so I pick the Re-bar. It’s off Capitol Hill, in sort of a wasteland between the tech-heavy South Lake Union neighborhood and I-5, and while it’s not exclusively a gay club, the crowd is pretty open-minded. I hit my Uber app and while I’m waiting, I make a show of reapplying my shimmery peach lipstick.
In this neighborhood, a twink in an ostentatious fur coat putting on makeup in front of Dick’s might actually cause a traffic accident, and I’m in a mood.
It starts to rain—more of a light mist than actual drops—but the Uber driver’s only a minute away, so I don’t run for cover. I get a wolf whistle for my efforts and when my ride shows up, a couple of gay boys give me a round of applause.
Oh, yes, Iamin a mood.
It’s a state of desperation where I’m barely holding on, to be honest. Those sins are still a weight on my back, I saw a woman get fucking murdered, and I can’t decide if it’s worse or not that she’s been dead since before I was born. I’d be lying if I didn’twish Mr. Heroic Damon Who Wants To Make Sure I’m Okay would roll past and get an eyeful, but crushing on straight guys is worse than hooking up with my ex.
Both are bad, bad news.
One quick Uber ride later, I’m at the Re-bar. I know the bouncer so I jump the line to get in, check my coat, and slip onto the floor, working my way to the center. Maybe I’m more recognizable than I thought, because a few people give way, clearing me space.
The DJ’s spinning some techno trance thing that I might or might not have heard before. The only thing that matters is the beat, a pounding force that travels from my ears to my sternum to deep in my belly. It catches my hips first, then my shoulders. And finally, my soul.
Thank fuck.
Yeah, this is what I need. I might not be able to spend all weekend here—and it definitely won’t fix anything—but it’ll get me through tonight.
Chapter Four
Damon
The hospital is short-staffed – the hospital is always short-staffed – so I cover a shift on Saturday, even though it’s leg day and I’d planned to go to the gym. Jump squats and hamstring curls are harder after I’ve been on my feet all day, but I’ll make the effort after work.
Sure you will, asshole.
The gym closes at midnight, so I’ll be cutting it close if I can even motivate myself to get there. D-Clem never missed a workout, and some days I miss that younger version of myself.
Other days—when it’s cold and damp and what’s left of my throwing shoulder aches like a mother—I’m more likely to talk myself out of it.
The elevator arrives and I punch the button. I’ll start my rounds at the top and work my way down. I might even swing through the basement level, though I’m pretty sure Ezra Morgue’s not there today.
He’s gotten under my skin. Seeing him last night, all huddled up, made me want to get between him and whatever upset him so badly. It’s like, I barely know the guy, and while I admit to having a protective streak, I usually look out for strays of the four-legged kind.
Dogs. I mean dogs.
Which is a total lie. My track record with both men and women pretty much sucks. Shaking off memories of my bad choices, I head for the elevator. My route through the hospital is interrupted by a Code Grey on the fifth floor. Somebody’s baby daddy didn’t appreciate being stopped at the desk. This guy was still rolling from Friday night, too; eyes bloodshot, wreaking of some chemical smell that I don’t want to parse too closely.
A Code Grey means a show of force. Those of us in uniform – in this case it’s me and Zach and some agency dude I barely know—along with a couple of big guys from the psych unit and three or four charges nurses form a loose semi-circle around the guy who’s losing his shit. Our goal is to let him know the ward secretary he’s harassing has friends, not to antagonize him any further. We try not to intervene; generally, our presence sends enough of a message. If necessary, though, me and Zach will tag-team him, escorting him off the unit and out of the hospital.
So far I’ve never had to call the cops.
Baby Daddy keeps talking tough though his sidelong glances let me know he’s aware he has company. Sure enough, after another couple minutes of obnoxious posturing, he pivots and heads toward the elevator, hollering the whole way, “Y’all are assholes. I’m the one who should be calling the cops cuz you’re keeping me from my baby.”
Zach and I follow him, waving off the nurses. We don’t say anything. Our hospital-issue grey shirts and black leather utility belts do the talking for us. Once the elevator door closes behind him, we look at each other and laugh.
“When he sobers up, do you think he’ll even remember being here?” Zach’s smile nearly splits his round face in two. His hairline is higher than when we met, enough that he’s starting to look like one of those moon cartoons.