Live Girls (19 page)

“I have to go back to work, Davey,” Anya said softly. “You can rest. I got tonight off at the club, so I'll be home by nine. You can stay here until then if you like, or you can come back. But be here."

Davey lifted his head and watched her cross the room. She was fully clothed and buttoning her coat. He tried to speak, but his voice would not come; he could do no more than exhale.

“Remember,” she said, turning to him at the door, “it's very important that we be together tonight. We'll have the whole night, Davey,” she added with a slow smile. She turned and left.

The sheet was sticky beneath him. He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at himself. There was no blood, but he could feel the familiar sting. She'd probably cleaned it all off, like a mother washing her child. In fact, she seemed oddly motherly in other ways, too. Her kiss before leaving had been just a light touch of her lips with her hand resting gently on his chest, almost as if she were tucking him into bed.

The bedroom window was open and hazy daylight shone through the narrow space between the shifting curtains. The room's dimness was strangely comforting.

Davey's stomach suddenly cramped and he hugged himself and retched violently. Nothing came up.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but the thought of food repulsed him. He put a hand atop the nightstand to brace himself as he stood. Before taking a step, he noticed a thick book with a black padded cover, like a photo album. Curious, he switched on the bedside lamp and opened the book at random.

A newspaper clipping was pressed beneath plastic. The headline read, DANCER WORTH THE PRICE OF ADMISSION. It was a review of a nightclub in New Orleans where Anya had apparently been a dancer. The critic praised her performance at length. But the paper was slightly yellowed.

Davey looked at the top of the page and saw the date: December 2, 1962. On the adjoining page was a photograph of Anya on stage in a dark bodysuit. She looked not a day younger in the picture than she did now.

Frowning, Davey flipped a couple of the stiff pages over. Another article and another picture, these from a Chicago paper dated June 8, 1956.

Davey exhaled slowly as he lowered himself to the bed again. This could not be the same Anya...

He turned another page, making his way to the front of the book. There was another article. San Francisco, May 12, 1949. The years had tinted the page a spoiled-fruit yellow.

He turned another. Los Angeles, January 24, 1946.

“What the hell is going on?” he breathed.

He turned the pages in the opposite direction, thumbing to the back of the book. The final clipping in the book was fresh, the paper was white and clean. It was from the
Times
and dated eight months before. A review of the Midnight Club, praise for Anya's dancing, and a picture...

Davey began paging through the book frantically, something that would give reason for what could not be. All he found were more articles, more pictures.

The oldest of all was on the first page. The edges of the clipping were tattered and creases cut through the type. It was dated August 9, 1920. In the grainy, blurred picture was the same Anya
—
just as beautiful, just as young
—
who had left the room minutes earlier.

C
ASEY STOOD ON A CROWDED BUS WITH HER FINGERS
wrapped securely around the sticky handrail. Standing beside her was a fat wheezing man with a cane. He smelled like a dog kennel; the odor made her wince.

One annoying person after another
, she thought. She'd spent the whole afternoon dodging Chad Wilkes after the incident in the elevator. Now she had to stand next to a walking sewer.

Casey had decided to go straight to Davey's rather than to her apartment first. If he wasn't any better, she was going to insist he see a doctor. Sick people made her very nervous. Her father had died of cancer when she was twelve. After he'd died, she'd learned everyone had known he was dying but her. Now whenever someone close to her got sick, she feared there was something she wasn't being told, and it made her anxious. She couldn't imagine Davey keeping anything that serious from her and tried to tell herself that it was, indeed, just the flu. But she'd never seen the flu have such a drastic effect on someone's appearance.

A hand came to rest on her ass and she stiffened. Turning to the fat, smelly man beside her, she saw him smirk. The fingers touching her squeezed ever so slightly.

Casey's teeth clenched, and she said, “If you don't take your hand from my ass, I'm going to rip it off and stuff the fingers down your throat one at a time."

The man's eyebrow, speckled with snowy bits of dried skin, rose slowly, and the hand relaxed but did not pull away.

Casey swung her hand down and grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard. “How do
you
like it?"

He pulled his hand away and moved as far from her as he could.

“You shouldn't live in New York,” her mother often told her. “Your mouth is going to get you killed. You're the kind of person who would slap an armed mugger in the face and tell him he was out of his mind because you don't seem to realize that when you have a gun, it's
okay
to be out of your mind, it's okay to be anything you damn well
please
."

When the bus came to her stop, Casey got off and hurried down the sidewalk with her umbrella at her side. The darkening sky was still filled with clouds, but at least the rain had stopped.

Upstairs in Davey's building, she knocked on the door of his apartment; it swung gently open. She frowned; it was very unlike Davey to leave the door open.

When she stepped inside, she heard the voice of Mister Rogers on the television.

“...and Mr. Cogswell is an electrician. Can you say ‘electrician'? I knew you could."

“Davey
”—
she laughed
—“
what the hell are you watching?"

He was sitting on the sofa, his back to her, facing the television. His hair was mussed; spikes of it sat upright.

“Davey?"

He turned to her slowly. The white of his face stood out against his brown hair.

“Case?” he said softly.

She closed the door and stepped toward him. Davey stood, pulled the front of his robe together tightly, and took a step back.

“Maybe you shouldn't come in,” he said. “This might be catching."

She stared openmouthed at him. He actually looked like he'd lost more weight in the last day or so than she could lose with a week of serious dieting and he was so pale his skin seemed almost creamy.

“How are you feeling, Davey?” There was something odd about the way he was standing.

“Not bad. Really.” He rounded the sofa, but kept a distance from her. His movements were jerky; he seemed tense and nervous. “I'm going to see a doctor tomorrow."

“Who?"

“Remember the guy I was with today? Walter Benedek?"

She nodded.

“His wife's a doctor. I'm calling tomorrow."

Davey didn't seem to be telling the truth. His tongue poked out between his tightly pressed lips and moved back and forth like a small, quick animal.

“He left his home number,” Casey said. “You should call tonight."

“...time to go to the Land of Make Believe,” Mister Rogers was saying.

Davey always kept loose phone numbers by the phone on his nightstand. Casey hurried into the bedroom, found the slip of paper, and began to dial the number. Davey came in behind her. He put a hand on her arm and pulled the receiver from her ear, using the other hand to push down the button on the cradle.

“Please, Casey, I'm going to call her in the morning. Early. I'll call her at home before she leaves. Would that make you feel better?"

She turned to see him smile. It was forced and stiff.

His nostrils flared and he leaned toward her. Hanging up the phone, he asked softly, “What's that smell?"

“What smell?"

“I don't know. I smelled it when you were here earlier. Kind of, I don't know, maybe musky?"

“Well, it's not my perfume."

He put a hand on her shoulder and said, “It's you. It's on you.” His grip tightened and he moved closer to her, sniffing. “Take off your coat,” he said, unbuttoning it for her.

“Davey, what's
—
"

“It's on you. I know it is."

He pulled her coat down over her shoulders; it slipped to the floor. His smile slowly grew, wide and genuine.

“It smells good,” he breathed. He leaned forward and kissed her, long and deep.

“Davey,” she murmured, pulling her mouth away, but he kissed her again. He slid his hands over her breasts and began to unbutton her top. His touch left a brief tingle just beneath her skin, but it scared her, too. Something was wrong. She pushed him away hard. “What's the
matter
with you?” she said with an unintentional laugh.

“You smell so good,” he whispered.

“Well, you've certainly had a change of heart, haven't you?” She started to rebutton her top.

He stopped her. “Please don't.” He leaned forward and kissed her neck, clumsily got her top open and reached beneath it, passed his hand over her skin.

“Davey..."

He moved her to the bed and began to undo her skirt, but then gave up. He pushed her back on the bed and slipped a hand beneath her skirt, moving it over her thigh.

“Davey, I can't,” she said.

He didn't seem to hear her. His hand moved above her thigh, above the top of her stockings, to her panties.

“Davey, I said I
can't
. I'm on my period."

He exhaled suddenly; there was a moan behind his breath as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers. He slipped his fingers beneath her panties and pulled them down. She trembled at the feel of him touching her there.

“Davey,” she gasped weakly, “please..."

He kissed her neck and her chest, her belly, her thighs. He lifted her skirt, pressed her legs apart, and nuzzled her. His fingers explored for a moment, found the string, and pulled it out smoothly. His tongue moved over her folds, her body stiffened with pleasure, and she moaned.

Casey heard the sounds of his mouth on her, smacking sounds, slow and wet, and she felt the movements of his lips and tongue, nicking, sucking. Heat rose from between her legs and spread throughout her body.

Mister Rogers's voice droned placatingly in the next room.

“...can't always be happy, can we, boys and girls? We must remember that it's okay to be sad sometimes. It's natural. Can you say natural? I knew you could."

As Davey lapped at her like a dog, she heard him mumble between her thighs.

“...what I needed ... so good..."

He reached up and covered her breast with his hand, pushed aside the material of her bra. The combination of his fingers on her nipple and his lips and teeth and tongue flicking over her clitoris made her cry out.

Why is he doing this? There's something wrong ... something wrong...

“ ... tastes so good..."

“Davey..."

She felt his mouth pull away from her as he lifted himself up. Casey raised her head and looked at him. She sucked in a breath to scream, but the sound lodged in her throat.

Davey was propped up on stiff arms. Clotted, viscous blood was smeared around his mouth, on his nose and cheeks, even in his hair. His eyes were sparkling in the dim light and his smile was broad and rigid.

It was that smile, that smile she'd never seen before, and the look in his eyes, a lusty, exhilarated look that was so unlike Davey it made his whole face seem unfamiliar.

In a low, guttural voice, he said: “Can you say men-stru-ation? I
knew
you could..."

His mouth opened to its limit and his lips pulled back over his teeth, until they were all exposed, shining white and red, and he leaned his head far back and she
knew
without a doubt that Davey was going to plunge that soft, kind, gentle face downward and sink his teeth into the lips of her vagina until they broke through the tender skin. Casey screamed and began frantically pulling herself away from him.