Before I can explain, she turns on her heel and bounds down the stairs, ponytail swaying behind her.
“Fuck you, too,” I mutter.
She didn’t call me last night. It was probably the first night in weeks we haven’t spoken over the tinny connection, one or both of us usually shoving our hand down our pants and coming apart as the other breathes all hard like a stalker creep into the speaker. I’m smart enough to see those calls for what they are. We walk around here all day tense and restless, orbiting each other in liminal spaces, and a nice orgasm is the closest thing we have to a catharsis. I wasn’t awake long enough this morning to dwell on my disappointment, exhausted and queasy with the craving for an oblivion I won’t let myself give in to.
It’s not that she automatically thinks the worst of me. I’m pretty sure I’ve earned that. It’s that she’s hitching some kind of expectation onto me, like I should stay sober for three days because I care about and want her enough. Like the thought of her getting a full night’s sleep beside me in bed is easily worth the hassle.
Mostly, I’m annoyed because she’s probably right.
Since my luck is demonstrably dog shit, she’s nowhere to be seen when I heave it all into the kitchen and start pouring it down the sink, watching angrily as the liquid disappears down the drain. It’s a waste of perfectly good liquor that Tristian or Killer could easily enjoy, but suddenly the sight of the bottles makes me want to hurl.
“Don’t you dare.”
I look over my shoulder to see Ms. Crane walking out of the pantry. “You want them?”
She doesn’t even look at the bottles. “The only thing I want is to not be cleaning up whatever rancid sludge is currently occupying the bottom of your stomach. If you throw up, then you can find the bucket and mop yourself. Got better things to do.” The ‘better thing’ would appear to be the unlit cigarette she’s got pinched between her fingers.
I turn back to the sink, dragging a wrist over my brow. “Don’t sweat it. There’s nothing left to come up.”
There’s a long beat of silence, and then she lets out this loud, long-suffering sigh. “Finish that up and follow me.”
I stare down at the Formica tabletop, stomach rolling once again. Even the sight of the crackers and ginger ale makes me want to blow chunks, but Ms. Crane just pushes them closer.
“Doesn’t look it now, but it’ll settle it,” she assures, looking annoyed that she needs to. Her rooms are tidy and dimly lit, and I keep looking around, surprised to be invited in here. Ms. Crane isn’t exactly the mothering type, but she has her rare moments. Unfortunately, I seem to have fallen prey to one of them. “You think you’re the first soggy drunk I’ve had to nurse back to the land of the living?”
“I’m not drunk.”
She flaps a hand until I warily crunch on the corner of a cracker. “I’ve seen worse. Once had a girl so strung out on dope that she looked possessed by a goddamn demon. Took a week to get her back to something coherent.”
I gnaw on the cracker, wondering, “Yeah? And where is she now?”
Ms. Crane nods at the ginger ale. “She’s running the Velvet Hideaway, evidently.”
“Augustine?” I can’t tell if my grimace results from the cracker hitting my stomach or the mention of Daniel’s shiny new madam. “I didn’t know she used to be a junkie.”
“Some of my girls did,” she responds, her eyes faraway. “Pimps like that, you know. Get a girl hooked on dope, and you’ve got yourself a nice little pet. You can pay them with it, punish them with it, keep them on a short leash with it.”
“Your old man used to do that to his girls?” Usually, I wouldn’t ask her about Mr. Crane, but usually I also wouldn’t be in her private rooms. The questions never do anything but put her in a shitty mood, which I guess is understandable. When you stab your husband to death, you probably want to just forget he ever existed. But their old setup was a thing of legend, and even though Mr. Crane owned the operation, Ms. Crane was the icon behind it.
She doesn’t look put off by the question, giving me a slight nod. “Oh, yes. No leash was beneath him. Can’t even tell you how many beatings I took standing between him and whatever sorry new piece of stock he’d dragged in there.”
Well, fuck.
Now I’m in a shitty mood.
It doesn’t get any better when she adds, “She’d be good for you.”
“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.