Movin’ & Shakin’


Give me fuel
Give me fire
Give me that which I desire.
-Metallica-

Chris was a man on the edge.

When he had woken that morning to find himself sprawled across his keyboard and an email from Craigslist reminding him that his post would be public in fifteen minutes, Chris felt like he had been sucker-punched. He scrabbled at the keyboard, acid bubbling up in his throat, scared to death that he’d outed himself or said something stupid, or fuck, even did it at all. He hoped against hope that he had posted the wrong thing or even just fell on the keyboard and accidentally posted a bunch of nonsense.

Yeah, okay. This was his life in question. Of COURSE he had posted.

He scanned his post quickly, horror choking him.

“ACKNOWLEDGE?! WHAT THE FUCK?! DID I LAND ON THE ENTERPRISE?! FUCK!” He yelled, knocking his chair over in his rush to empty his stomach. Only until Chris had flushed, gasping, heaving, did he feel the migraine stabbing his forehead. His insides felt like he had greased them with engine oil.

“Okay, let’s calm down. Calm down, Kirkpatrick. At least you spelled everything right. Hey, she’ll probably never read it.” He muttered to himself, wiping the sweat off of his brow. Realizing the very probable truth of that statement, he felt himself filled with an unexplainable sorrow. Pushing that away, he rolled onto the floor of his bathroom and took a deep breath. He needed to regroup, revise, refocus.

“I’m going to hunt down some Advils, take a shower, and delete that post. And after, I’m going to sleep for about 32 hours. Yeah. Sounds good.”

Maybe after that, in the spirit of fixing yourself up, you could throw away all the liquor.

Chris raised his eyebrow, considering that course of action. Probably would be the wisest step he could probably take. Stop drinking. Actually go out and do some things for charity, stay in the studio more. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded.

Then again, he needed to think about this without bias. Which meant he needed to get rid of this hangover before he made any major plans about never drinking again.

Besides, he reasoned, that was a LOT of alcohol abuse.

He just wouldn’t go near his computer anymore while drunk.

After taking a shower and forcing himself to chase Advils with water and bread, Chris slowly entered his office. He eyed the computer warily, like it was a snake waiting to strike.

He sat down with all the intention of deleting it. He sat there with the mouse hovering over the DELETE POST button. But as stupid as he sounded in the post, he figured it could have been worse.

Here’s a crazy idea: just let it stay there. I mean, worse case scenario, she never gets in touch with you, never sees it. What have you got to lose?

The Undisputable Truth had a point. Then again, it always did, he just rarely ever listened. He slowly took his hand away from the computer. Fuck it. Let it stay there.

Lord knows, he couldn’t get the girl off his mind. It wouldn’t hurt to keep some sort of line out there for her to catch, assuming she did haunt those boards.

Chris smiled to himself. She had been fun. A lot of fun. Best of all, she really seemed to have no idea who he was, and he really believed that. Fans always showed themselves, in the end. It was just the way it was-Joey was a whore (or a reformed one), Justin once had a fro-fans always showed who they were. He was grateful. A girl like her wouldn’t be impressed by the fact that once he had been famous for playing a doll in a music video.

There had been attraction, yes. Tons of it. Her laugh, that lopsided smile. Her devil may care eyes, the red hair, the diamond glinting underneath her lip, enough to make any red-blooded man pant. Curves for days, satsuma, the drawl in her voice. There was definitely sexual attraction and enough chemistry to make someone gag, but something stronger was in front of all that. He had no idea he was feeling what would be the defining characteristic of their relationship to come-protective. He didn’t even know her Christian name, and yet-he felt an irresistible urge to...shield her? Shield her? He blinked, shaking his head in confusion. 

Shield her from what? She looked like she could chew up a guy and spit them out. Small she may hae been, but dainty flower, she was not.  

Chris rolled his eyes. “This is so stupid.” He muttered, burying his face in his hands.  Fantasizing about protecting a girl he didn’t know. What the fuck, was he REALLY that lonely?

Yep.

“Oh, fuck off.” He grumbled.

Fine, fuck, let it stay up there. But he was going to let the chips fall where they may, he wasn’t going to come in this room for the rest of the day, nope, no sir, he was going to lay down upstairs in HIS BED and not worry about this shit. If she found him, by some odd chance in fucking hell, great. He’d invite her out for dinner. If not, fuck it, life would go on.

He stood up with the full intention of dedicating his body for the long flight of stairs. He took a step. Another.

"You really wanna know my real name?” He nodded in anticipation. She crooked her finger, indicating for him to get closer. He leaned over the table. She positioned herself near his ear, and unconsciously, he shivered. She smelled like satsumas.

Chris refreshed his Gmail account one hundred twenty times that day, and Lord knows how many times that amount over the next three days.

As Chris Kirkpatrick doggedly hit the refresh button on his computer for the 65th time, I lay in my borrowed bed in my borrowed room at my ex boyfriend’s mansion a few houses away, gingerly moving my nose back and forth. Alan stood over me, shaking his head. “Well, Nyx, this is an all time low for you, you know.”

“Fuck, Alan, I’ll pay you back for the hospital bills. I’m sorry.” I groaned. My head ached like you would not believe. My nose felt like the Hulk had sat on it.

“You PROMISED me you wouldn’t bring it under my fucking roof. You adding lying to your many talents now, or has it always been that way?” Alan demanded, clenching his fists. I stared up at the ceiling.

“I’ve never lied to you before this. I promise.” I said quietly, and Alan sighed in exasperation, sagging onto the bed. “How am I supposed to believe you?” He whispered. I knew he wasn’t referring to just tonight. My hand closed around his wrist, and our eyes met.

“Alan, I never lied to you. I cared about you. I did, hell, I do. But I’m not going to suffocate in a life like this. You meant well, but please tell me you wouldn’t want to cage me in.” I begged him, and his eyes clouded over. “No, I don’t want that for you.”

“You have Christobel. She wants to be that person.” 

He made a noise like a laugh. “Yeah. Christobel. She loves me.”

Whew. Not going there.

“If I wasn’t rich, do you still think we’d be together, now?” Alan whispered, staring at the carpet. Christ.

I sat up and took his face between my hands. He was so young, and so rich, and so unhappy. It truly made me hate money, the way it made slaves of us all.

“Irony would have it that if you were the poorest person in the world, you would probably be a huge dick, so I doubt it. You are an exceptional person with many qualities to recommend you. Despite the money, I think the problem lies with me. I just…I don’t see myself as a part of anyone else.” I said gently, and he shook his head. “Nyx, you don’t see yourself the way I do.” I groaned and put my finger against his lips. “Stop. Don’t hold me up to some ridiculous standard that I’ll feel guilted into trying to live up to.”

He laughed, a real one now, and took my hands. “You would be last person I’d ever try to guilt into anything.”

“Good. But for the record, if you were poor, the one upside would be that you wouldn’t wear clothes with farm animals on them.” I cracked, and Alan rolled his eyes. “I was feeling quite cuddly towards you at that moment, and then you had to go and be a massive bitch.”

I shrugged. “At least I’m fun.”

“True,” He attested with a smile. “but goddamn, you’re a pain in the ass. You also look like shit. You have raccoon eyes.”

“Saves me having to put on eyeliner.” I laid back and rested my arm over my face, which felt hot. Silence.

Alan broke it first. “Look, my dad has a friend of his who owns this party hosting company. They handle corporate parties and stuff like that, bartending, waitressing. He’s going to get you a job there.”

“Tell Daddy thanks.” I said from underneath my arms. He snickered. “I will. First, let’s get those black eyes fixed. It doesn’t exactly scream EMPLOY ME.”

I mock gasped. “I would never subject the rich to having to see something as white trash as a broken nose and black eyes. Quelle horreur!"

Alan rolled his eyes and stood up. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

“You love me, though.” I stretched lazily, and he huffed. “I suppose I can’t help it. I’ll send up Maria with some icebags. And I’m stationing a very big, scary man in the kitchen tonight. If you try to get liquor, he will extract your brain stem, do you hear me?”

“Oh, now you’re just talking sexy.” I giggled.

He gave me a look. I sighed. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Ew. Go to sleep. Tomorrow, actually put something in your stomach besides liquor, please?”

“God, Naggy McNagson, get the fuck out of here. Worse then my Ma, you are.” I threw a pillow at him and he tossed the bird back at me as he exited the room.

I fell back onto my pillows and sighed, reaching up to gently poke my nose. It hurt like a motherfucker. I always heard that getting your nose broken was one of the worse things you could feel, next to getting shot in the kneecap. When my head had hit the five hunderd year old English bedframe, I had literally seen stars, galaxies, little green aliens on a planet, far far away, laughing at me.

Alan was right, I WAS getting out of control. Before this, my drinking had usually resulted in the usual behavior, passing out where I stood, falling off the bed, getting brought home by a friend of a friend of a friend. And the coke, well, I had done that before too, combined with the drinking, and nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. Of course, children, this is called denial. It's never that bad. Everyone drinks. You're not out of control. It's just a broken nose.

It’s funny, but you would have thought at that point, I would have wanted to STOP.

The thought never crossed my mind.

I’m sure you’d love to hear that I immediately emailed Chris back. Any sane woman would.

Well, sorry to disappoint, but I spent three or four days zoned out on the pain pills from the hospital. I slept a lot, ate a little, and didn’t drink at all. Not by choice, so don’t get proud-that redwood tree of a bodyguard stayed in Alan’s kitchen, calmly reading War & Peace. If he hadn’t been rooted there, I would have been drunk out of my gourd that entire time.

In fact, I forgot all about Chris those three days. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was sitting on my borrowed bed, dazed, fucked up out of my mind. When I told him about that, much later, he had laughed, but pretended to be hurt that I had forgotten him so easily. I don’t think he was pretending.

Around the seventh day, I can’t remember, I finally got bored enough to get on my computer and rejoin the world.

The Craigslist post was still open.

I stared at the words, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them-they were like dead bodies, the pull they had.

I was an alcoholic and a coke addict. I had sucked off a pervy idiot off of at a impound lot to get my car out of hock. I was a selfish and hateful person, so why the FUCK was I being summoned by a boy band popstar off the Internet?

And what’s more, what was wrong with me that the thought of replying made me sick to my stomach? Chris had been cute, kind, funny. The rules I had for my guy friends back home did not seem to apply to him-they saw me as one of them, he saw me as a girl. He hadn’t been there to pick me up, our paths had crossed because of a simple nosebleed. Was our easy conversation a product of the heavy liquor, or did the man actually get me? Stupid. Nobody *gets* anybody.

Only one way to find out, and that was to mail him back. I still look back on that moment and think the pain pills strengthened my nerves. I doubt if I had been straight, I would have done so. But that was the point where I said “fuck it” and clicked his email address, which had been scrambled by Craigslist, of course. I wrote quickly and sent it before I could stop myself. What’s the point, I snickered, turning off the computer-he’d never check his email address, anyway.

Yeah. Okay.

Chris had been buying a box of extra strength Tylenol at CVS when his phone had made the wooshing sound that accompanied the arrival of an email. He yanked it out of his pocket and squinted at the screen in the bright sunlight, people coming and going all around him. Which was probably a good thing in hindsight, because if he hadn’t caught himself, he would have freaked out, right in public.

He hadn’t left the house too much since he had posted that fucking thing, going without a lot of staple items like Poptarts and shaving cream. He had been checking his email like a man possessed when he remembered, DUH, that his iPhone had email, and he had never set it up before. The first thing Chris had bought when he had been released from his prison was a fifth of vodka. And fudge smores Poptarts.

Chris hadn’t really expected an answer, so he really didn’t know why the fuck he had sat around and waited. Many times he called himself an idiot and a fucktard and made himself leave the computer room, but he couldn’t focus on anything else. He didn’t know why the fuck this girl would not stop monopolizing his thoughts. Fuck, it didn’t mean anything. Chris had had plenty of drinks with plenty of girls over the years, and nothing, obviously, had come of it. So why now, why her?

But when he checked his email and saw the Craigslist reply, he didn’t know whether to puke right there on the sunny sidewalk or scream like a girl.

Scott Baio-

You looked better with dreads.

????

-Captain

Chris stood there like an idiot, gaping at those words, until he finally noticed people giving him really weird looks. He shook himself out of it and forced his rubbery legs to walk to his motorcycle. He straddled it and stared down at his phone. She knew who he was, which meant she had remembered their conversation, which meant she had Googled him.

Should I answer? He wondered. She could be insane. He might have had beer goggles. Who knows?

No, you only went without a shower for three days just so you could pray to your email account. Yes, idiot. Answer.

 What if she had laughed at him when she figured out who he was? God knows Chris had tons of pictures on the Internet and he had no way of knowing which one she had looked at, or knowing what the hell he had been doing in said picture, considering his reputation.

Of course she wants you to, idiot. She put a winky face, that usually means RECIPROCATE!

“I am NOT sitting in the middle of a CVS parking lot analyzing an email like a fifteen year old girl.” He muttered to himself.

You are, The Undisputed Truth affirmed, and he rolled his eyes, stuffed his phone in his jacket pocket, jammed his bags into the compartment, and started his motorcycle.

The entire way home, Chris ran through what he could possibly say back to her, what right words would trigger the correct reaction that could possibly make this girl want to meet with him again. Everything sounded stupid. Why had he posted that fucking thing anyway? He growled in frustration and smacked the handle of his motorcycle.

You were drunk. Stupid.

He chose not to listen. Chris drove up into his garage, ripped his helmet and goggles off, grabbed his stuff, and slammed the door as he entered the house.

After making a Poptart, Chris stood at his counter, chewing absently, staring down at the email. Nothing he could say would sound even remotely impressive, so what was the point, he reasoned? Really, even if he did respond, and they DID have dinner or something, the whole thing had probably been easier because of the liquor. It was a social lubricant-what if the girl was boring in real life? Hell, as drunk as he was, she could have been a fucking troll. No. She couldn’t be. He remembered that smile. Trolls did not smile that way.

He swallowed and straightened up. “Fuck it.” He muttered, pressing reply. Chris composed a very short, very to the point message that could not be construed as idiotic or stalkerish, boring at worst. His hands were shaking and he misspelled almost every word, but he blamed most of it on the fact that his fingers were way too big to press those little buttons.

Before Chris could lose his nerve, he punched the SEND button. The phone wooshed. He swallowed his Poptart, guzzled milk straight from the carton, turned the volume off on his phone, and made himself sit down on the couch for the rest of the fucking afternoon, staring at an old Steelers game without really seeing it. Fuck the computer. If she answered it, she answered it.

Nevertheless, he checked it thirty more times.

I started my new job about two weeks after I sent a reply to Chris’s post. The day after replying, I had snuck past the big hulking of meat in the kitchen to nab a bottle of Patron, got sloshed, and accidentally spilled tequila all over my Mac. It promptly died and when I woke up the next morning puking my guts out, I yelled to any maid that would listen that Steve Jobs could suck my invisible dick.

True to his word, Alan’s father had gotten me some kind of position with a friend of his who ran a hosting business. I had drawn the dutiful position of a cocktail waitress, with potential to move up to a bartender, if I continued sucking corporate America’s cock. I wasn’t happy about it but I was desperately seeking a way to occupy my time and maybe put some money away for a new fucking Mac. Plus, the redwood had been replaced by big locks with keys that I would never see, so I needed to do something to occupy the time that I wasn’t drinking. My black eyes had gotten better, and I was able to hide some of the damage with a few stolen tubes of Christobel’s fifty foundation. My nose was an experiment in agony, I was out of pain pills, I had no insurance. 

My uniform rotated-it all depended on the theme of whatever party I was working at the time. After working a few stuffy black tie affairs, I ripped off the stupid black dress, marched into the boss’s office, and told him that I had huge tumors. On my legs. And they bite. So could I please fucking wear something that didn’t show my legs? You would think I would have kept my mouth shut, since the job was a big favor of Alan’s, and I WAS wrecking the man’s house and life. But favor or not, I don’t do dresses. Luckily for me, the boss thought I was hilarious, so I somehow finagled my way into wearing black dress pants and a black shirt with a red tie all the time. My fellow cocktail waitresses hated me for it. I didn’t care. The red tie was cute. Plus, I didn’t have to restrain the urge to kick guys in the nuts for staring at my legs.

I did the job without thinking-it was a paycheck and it was easy money. My mind was clouded by alcohol withdrawal, so I really didn’t think about Chris.

Until that fucking day. There's always a day.

And it always comes for you. 

It was fucking miserably hot the day that I had to work one of Crane’s Shipping soiree parties. Alan’s father liked to think he was cool and hip, so he hosted the damn thing in a tent on the beach. The tent was air-conditioned, but in Florida you drink the air, not breathe it, AC or not. The whole party was centered around the fact that Daddy Crane had drawn some sort of contract to ship paintball supplies. The paintball company in question had responded with a sponsored death match to honor the deal. The rich people looked on in amusement-honey, aren’t poor people just ADORABLE?

It was enough to make me want to kick myself in the head. We couldn’t sneak any drinks, or else I would have been passed out on the table displaying the huge paintball gun cake. Couple that with the fact that I was wearing black (my uniform change had come back to bite me in the ass) and I desperately wanted to throw my tray in some mongoloid bitch’s face, throw off my clothes and start paintballing every motherfucker in there. But, I didn’t. I just stood there at the opening to the tent, holding the fucking tray, smiling like a dumbass whenever I was approached. I watched the paintball range, sighing with longing.

My boss ducked out of the tent and nudged me. His name was Wade, and he made pieces of shit work hard for the title. He had had sex with every waitress in the bunch, except for me, and he alternated between making work miserable and trying to get me in the sack. He was good at the former and at the most amusing at the latter. I mostly ignored him. I do that to insects.

“Hey, you need to come and refill. There’s some sort of gathering of celebrities on the paintball range, and Mr. Crane wants to bring them a round of drinks.” 

“The man is a opportunist whore if I ever see one. He’d bring drinks to a shark.” I muttered, spinning on my heel to enter the tent. Wade caught my elbow. “Think about my offer?”

“You mean the one where I go back to your shitty apartment and we have forgettable, shitty sex? Yeah. I did. I’m going to take a rain check.” I said sweetly, pinching his chin. Wade chuckled, my rejection never fazed him, which was amusing to one of us and annoying to the other. “Fine. Be that way. But you can go and bring the drinks to these fruits, since you look so bored out here.” He grinned back at me, just as cheerfully. I wanted to shatter his jaw, but I just clenched my teeth and headed into the tent and wormed my way through sweating millionaires to the bar.

After making a tray of drinks that were stronger then necessary, I exited the tent via the back way to avoid Wade, who I planned to poison later. On the way past the Port O Potties, I intercepted Christobel, who was another person I would have happily separated from her larynx. She was looking fresh, summery and bulimic in a pair of $300 khaki dress pants and some fucking pristine ruffled blouse. “Aw, look at you, the hired help.” She said sweetly, picking a mojito off of the tray. “You look so cute, Nyx. I think you may have found your lot in life.” I showed my teeth in a grimace that hurt my jaw. I wanted to uppercut the bitch, but I couldn’t say a damn thing to her at one of these functions. When one last disdainful look at me, she slithered away to mingle. I fucking hate my life.

I stalked around the edge of the paintball range, squinting through the haze of dirty kids, looking for these alleged celebrities. How Wade expected me to recognize anyone was beyond me, I wasn’t exactly studying People Magazine these days.

And then I noticed a tent at the far end with older guys, who were in their late 20’s, early 30’s, clad in black suits and black gloves. I didn’t recognize anyone in the group, but I figured they had to be the target. I wasn’t exactly sure Daddy Crane wanted to get preteens intoxicated. Maybe. He was a disgusting old shithead.

I walked into the tent, my intent to put the tray on the table, rattle off some COMPLIMENTS OF CRANE INC story, and go back to the tent to find a bucket of ice to submerge my head into. The only guy in the tent was bending over, back to me, tying his shoes. I tapped him on the arm, a drink in my hand, ready to offer.

He spun around to face me.

My mouth fell open, and the mojito fell into the paint splattered ground at my feet. My throat felt thick. God, I needed a drink.

“Holy fuck.”


“YOU!” We both yelled at the same time, pointing at each other like idiots. Chris yanked his helmet off and gaped at me.

 My legs felt like jello. This was not happening. Seeing him had reminded me of that night at Lager’s, when everything seemed more serious then it really had been about two strangers having a drink. He looked fantastic, and I didn’t want him to see me like this, sweaty and rumpled and lower class. Fuck fantastic-he looked good enough to eat-black shorts, black t-shirt, purple bandanna over his dark hair. I wanted to BITE him. 

Chris stepped in front of me, close enough to actually take a piece out of him. I edged backwards. I DID NOT trust myself in front of this man.

“Captain, is that you?” He asked, blasting me with his solar smile. Fuck. Fuck, he was so perfect. Even covered in paint. Even sweaty. Perfect.

I sighed and grinned weakly. “In the flesh.”

“What are you doing here?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow at the tray of mojitos.

“Um, I’m here to tell you that Mr. Mark Crane, of Crane Shipping Inc., offers you and yours a complimentary tray of mojitos. For what reason, I have no clue. Enjoy.” I recited, feeling like a fucking idiot in my dress pants and black boots.

“Don’t know the guy. Do you work for him?” Chris wanted to know, watching my face closely.

“Not exactly,” I amended, feeling very fluttery under his intense gaze. “He’s throwing some sort of really fucking boring party for rich people. He must have heard you were out here, wanted to impress you. He’s a mover and a shaker of sorts. He's kind of the reason you guys are here in this whole situation."

“So he sends me you? Smart guy. I like the way he does business." Chris teased, and I turned the color of a Coke can. I am not used to flirting. At all. I have to be drunk in order to do it and my flirting usually consists of calling guys fuckheads.  I was probably the most sober I had ever been and I wasn't about to call Chris Kirkpatrick a fuckhead. 

“Yeah, well.” I muttered, scratching the dirt with my boot.

“So you know who I am, huh?” He leaned against the side of the table and sighed, as if this was regrettable.

I laughed. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I don’t know anything really about you except for the fact that you don’t lie, you once had dreads, and you look REALLY fierce in a Jackson 5 ensemble.”

Chris groaned and put his head in his hands. “That would be my luck. Please understand it was for a paycheck. PLEASE.” He peeked between his fingers at me.

“Oh, so it wasn’t for the sake of art, huh?” I teased, and he snorted. “Hardly.”

“Aw, I’m not gonna bust your balls for that. I would know about doing something purely for a paycheck.” I rolled my eyes and gestured to my outfit.

“I think yours looks a hell of a lot better then a taped on afro and bellbottoms.” He grinned at me, showing those teeth. I laughed nervously. I needed to get away, he was too good for me.

“Yeah, well. Um, enjoy your mojitos.”

I moved around him, cursing myself, hurrying out of the tent.

“Hey, wait, wait!” Chris ran after me and stood in front of me so I couldn’t go anywhere. His hands went to my shoulders to hold me in my place, and I swear, my skin tingled. I groaned internally, finally looking up at him. Those soft brown eyes were warm, concerned. Like my nose was bleeding again. Was it? I resisted the urge to check.

“Hey, look. I still don’t know your name. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, okay? Where are you going?” He asked softly, and his gaze felt like a warm blanket. My heart felt...fuzzy? Fuzzy. Jesus.

“Back to work.” I managed to answer, biting my lip.

“That tent?” He tipped his head in its direction, but he didn’t take his eyes off of me. I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“What time do you get off?” Chris wanted to know, and at that point, I should have ran. I should have saved us both.

But I managed to laugh. “How long you gonna be here?” I teased, but I told myself it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t come back. I couldn't come back. 

Chris grinned broadly and took his hands slowly off of my shoulders. “I’ll be here until I learn your name. Captain is a cute nickname, but I can’t call you that forever.”

I grinned sweetly and tapped him on the nose. “Hope you brought a sleeping bag.” I maneuvered around him and started to walk towards the tent.

“Captain!” He hollered, and I turned around, walking backwards.

“What, Baio?” I yelled back, with a grin.

“You either come back here when you get off, or I’ll go in there and find you myself. And I don’t back down.” Chris winked at me, then turned to run off.

Somehow, I didn’t doubt that he’d turn the place upside down until he found me. It should have made me puke, but shivers of severe anticipation rolled through my body in all the right places. Fuck. I needed to stop it.

When I got back to the tent, Christobel made a scathing comment about how the hired help spent too much time playing on the job. I felt so elevated, that for once, the comment rolled right off my back. I spent the rest of my shift delirious, trying not to stare in the direction of the paintball compound.

If I had known then what I know now.

With an hour left of work to go, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. The Portapotties were full of trophy wives puking up finger sandwiches, so I went around the side of the tent to see if there were more. There was none, but I forgot about my urge to pee when I saw Wade sitting on a box of jumbo napkins, toking up. I slipped out my cell phone and opened up my camera.

“Naughty naughty.” I whispered in his ear, and he screamed like a girl, dropping his joint and spinning around to face me. But, I got the picture I wanted.

“Wow. What the fuck was that?” I could barely get the words out because I was laughing so hard, and he glared at me. “Goddamn it, you scared the living fuck out of me. What are you doing back here?”

“I had the urge to purge, but now it has left me. Getting some green, WadeyBear?” I teased, holding up the camera phone. Wade groaned. “Fine, you got me. What do you want? I’ll give you all the good shifts, I promise. Just don’t rat me out. I need this job. My wife will fucking kill me.” He slumped down on the box of napkins again.

I raised my eyebrows. “Wife?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound too happy about that. I sat down on an upturned crate of plastic platters.

“Didn’t know you were married.” I said softly.

“Wasn’t my idea. The condom broke. Had to do the right thing.” Wade said morosely, inspecting the roach to see if it was still worth smoking.

“Love. Thems the breaks.” I muttered, and he snorted as he lit up. “Nothing like that.”

A moment of silence passed in which I contemplated my boss Wade and his shitty situation. I felt kind of bad for him, you know, that was a crappy deal. Oh well. 

Wade finally spoke. “So, I guess I’m at your mercy now, huh?”

I nodded. “Fraid so.”

“What do you want?” He asked evenly, looking up at me.

I smiled sadly and pointed to his joint. “Got anything stronger then that?”

He exhaled loudly. “Jesus Christ. Like what, Raoul Duke?”

I just looked at him.

Wade sighed, dug in the pocket of his black Dickies, and held out a twist of cellophane that had once hugged a box of cigarettes. I took it, inspected it. Not bad. Purple Fuck You’s. Okay substitute for Percosets, for now.

“How much?” I made to reach for my wallet.

He waved me off. “Don’t worry about me. Call it an apology for being such a dick to you.”

“Thanks, but you never really bugged me.” I pocketed the little twist of happiness.

Wade blew out smoke. “Well, all the same.”

“Hey!” We heard someone behind us yell, and Wade nearly choked on his joint. I looked around to see Alan standing at the corner of the tent, beckoning me over frantically.

“Stay here, Cheech.” I slapped Wade’s back  and walked over to where Alan waited.

“Yeah, Richy McRich, what do you require?’

“I came to find you to say that the party’s over.” Alan said, looking past my shoulder at Wade.

“Ah, your Dad schmoozed all he could schmooze, huh? Well, thanks for risking grass stains to come out here and tell me that, but why did you bother?” I wanted to know, stepping in front of his suspicious gaze.

“Figured I’d get some fresh air.” He shrugged.

I looked at him sympathetically. “Christobel had too much to drink, huh?”

He sagged. “Something like that.”

“I’m afraid you just traded one alcoholic for another, my friend.” I patted him on the shoulder and discreetly steered him away from Wade. Gotta protect my connect.

“Yeah, well at least you don’t start relaying details of our sex life to the CEO of Toys R’ Us.” Alan said wryly.

“What a fucking bitch. Wait, forget I said that. She’s your intended.”

“At this moment, I’m inclined to ignore you said that. What are you doing back here, fraternizing with the help?” He wanted to know, wrinkling his aristocrat nose. “Fuck you, Crane. I AM the help, remember?” I pinched him.

“Yeah, well, I can stand you. That little fucktard back there thinks nobody knows he goes back there to smoke out. First chance I get, I’ll report that little motherfucker.” He muttered.

“Oh, leave him alone. Man’s got a wife, kids. Plus, he gave me some pain pills.” I winked at Alan and raised my eyebrows.

“Oh Christ. What kind of pain pills?”

“Feel good stuff!” I jeered, poking him in the belly.

“Okay, well, you break your leg next, I’m not taking you to the hospital. I don’t trust that little fuck, though, so show me what you have.”

I widened my eyes and turned my body away from his, giggling. “Honey, not in PUBLIC, Jesus!”

Alan rolled his eyes. “My God, you are demented. Seriously, show me.”
I pouted and handed over the little twist of cellophane. “You’re no fun.”
Alan squinted at them, cursed all of a sudden, and clenched his fist around the little packet.

“Good God, Nyx, this is a fucking felony. Quick, take it back.”

I scowled, reaching out my hand for it.

“Hey! There you are! Finally!”

And that’s when I turned my head to see Chris Kirkpatrick approaching me, holding Ecstasy in my hand, beside my ex boyfriend in the shade of a tent, while my boss smoked a blunt.

Yeah, that’s when I fainted.

Hello little boys, little toys
We’re the dreams you'll believe in
Crawling up the walls
Running down your face
Razor sharp, razor clean
Feel the weapon's sensation
On your back...
With loaded guns


Now hold on to me pretty baby
If you want to fly
I’m gonna melt the fever sugar
Rolling back your eyes

Shiny Toy Guns

'Le Disko'