Page 12 of There Are No Saints

“You offered me a tour of your studio,” Erin says, peering up at Alastor from under her long lashes. “But we never exchanged numbers . . .”

“I’ve gotta pee,” I say, slipping away from the pair of them.

I didn’t need Erin’s elbow to the ribs to remind me that she has dibs on Alastor. I wouldn’t need it either way—I’ve never dated anybody famous and successful, and I’m probably not secure enough to handle it. Not that Alastor seems like he’s much for dating.

For what he wants, I’m sure Erin will suffice just as well as me—probably better. I like sex but I’m not that great at it. I’m too easily irritated. If a guy eats a slice of pizza and then tries to kiss me, if he makes a clicking sound when he swallows, if a hangnail scratches my skin, if he even fucking thinks about kissing my ears, my pussy clamps shut like a bear trap.

I wander the rest of the galleries, trying to recapture that transcendent feeling I experienced looking at Blackwell’s work. Nothing else hits me quite as hard, so I circle back around to take another look at it.

The small placard reads,Fragile Ego.

I wonder what that means. Blackwell’s work is rarely self-referential.

I chat with a couple other people I know before sneaking out back of the gallery to take a hit off Frank’s vape pen.

It’s beginning to rain again, a light drizzle that barely dampens us any more than the usual fog. The droplets condense in Frank’s tight curls like tiny gemstones, and the smoke curls around his face with every exhale until he looks like Zeus with a beard made of clouds.

“I wish I had my camera,” I laugh. “You look incredible right now.”

“You’re high,” Frank laughs back at me. “I’ve looked like shit all week.”

Frank’s boyfriend broke up with him. He’s been miserable ever since.

“You want another hit?” he asks, holding out the vape.

“Nah,” I say.

Weed hits me hard. I can already feel that loose warmth working on my body and my sense of time. I’m no longer sure how long we’ve been standing out here. Only that Joanna’s velvet dress is heavy with moisture.

“Some of us are gonna grab drinks at Zam Zam,” Frank says. “You wanna come?”

“I’ve got to work early,” I say.

The Sunday morning brunch shift is insane. Arthur won’t thank me if I’m late tomorrow.

“See ya, then,” Frank says, leaning back against the brick wall to take another puff.

I head off along the tree-lined street, wondering if Erin and Shaw are on their way back to his studio yet. Or straight to his apartment. I’m sure I’ll hear all the gory details in the morning.

The route back to my house isn’t particularly well-lit.

The bodega on the corner sends out a bright beacon of light, but the thickness of the laurels, the tall row houses, and the narrow, winding streets obscure the sparse streetlamps.

I’d like to put my headphones on while I walk, but I think the better of it, even though I probably look too poor for mugging.

Instead, I examine the facades of the houses I pass, the brightly painted scrollwork and well-tended window boxes giving way to chipped paint, rusted railings, and sagging steps as I draw closer to my own ramshackle house.

Gritty footsteps sound behind me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy some large, dark mass hurtling toward me.

I barely have time to turn before I’m struck across the back of the skull.

* * *

I wakein the trunk of a car.

I can tell it’s a trunk from the vibration of the engine, the smell of gasoline, and the centrifugal lurch that presses me against the tire wheel when the vehicle takes a hard left turn.

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