I'm attending the investment banker bro sausage fest to watch my friend speak on a panel. There are five women in the entire auitorium, and she was only added at the last minute as she met the organizer on her flight over. In fact, there are a series of 8 chairs, and it's quite clear there is no space for the 9th, and its half hidden behind the podium. 

I had crashed because I hadn't seen her since she moved to Zurich, only to find as I get there that she is in the middle of changing her flight to leave early. "How could you F! You just got here and you're flying back out in 3 hours! What the fu k!" I forgot to use my inside voice, and the guy standing next to her turned, startled, at the expletive.

We both muffled our giggles that. She slapped his arm, and said "oh let me introduce you, you guys were both in the same school". 

She said his name - famous billionaires son, running the media line - i had heard of him of course.never seen him. The lean build, crisp white shirt that screamed of something because it wasn't rumpled like everyone elses, and those glasses. Uff. "Oh I was class of 99! Nice to meet you!" He blinked, checking me out, and I inwardly smirk because I know I look hot. My hair was done because of the thing I went to yesterday, and I was wearing that super expensive designer shirt that hid my newly acquired tummy roll . Casual, summery, yellow in a sea of black conference suits. I had to state my class year, by way of introducion. It's this weird jig we all do, trying to figure out who we are in the six degrees of separation. Which side of the snob line my pedigree lies in. Somewhere in the middle, thank you, he and his ilk are way cooler and way richer than me.

He's flumoxed. We all pause, confused. "Who were you..." he trails off awkwardly. "I was with ... " i mention the house captain everyone knew, and he recognizes it. 

"Oh how. She was much younger.." and then "Oh I was confusing that with my college year! I was with her elder brother!" 

"Ah yes! I just met him recently, he and T had flown up toghether for that school alum game we hosted". Social positioning established, I move back to my friend and we go back to talking. she walked on to the plane that morning with only one earring, and once I'm done with my laughing fit, I offer mine. She cannot go on to stage with that! But she insists, probably because she finds my large freshwater pearls too lahori for her taste.

He's listening to us, amused, but also pretending to be on the phone.

***

I'm in his hotel room. I have ducked out from the wedding i was attending in the other building. The drive over, I was jittery with excitement. I couldn't believe it. Me. It was going to happen! 

He was SO cute. From the second we bumped into each other at the conference, it was inevitable.

I've lost weight (thank you diet by design), without the GLPs that freak me out. My panties almost incinerate when he opens the door and hustles me in before someone sees.

So clandestine. We've been sexting all day. 

He latches the door behind me, his arm trapping my body close. Uff. I know I'll remember that cologne forever. 

He looks down at me, and I can tell he likes what he sees. He uses the lack of space to position himself between my legs, his strong arms hook my butt up, so I'm his height now. My legs wrap around him, and we both give a muffled erghm because we're old and not as flexible anymore but then settle into it. He's grinning. I'm grinning. 

Hello.

Hello to you too.

I have a fleeting moment to wonder if that lush head of hair is real or transplanted before I dig my hands into it, and pull him down to my mouth.

***

I've moved back to Karachi, home sweet home. Its a 12 month gig, one academic year, and was messy as hell manage Rs school year and payments, but we made it work because the money is helping me save for his college, because goddamn that kid isn't going to be getting any scholarships.

I enter the elevator to get to the gym on the 20th floor, typically I would avoid these expensive coed ones but this is Karachi and its broken shitty roads that take unnecessarily long to go anywhere, and this is literally 90 seconds from my house, and I'm not going to go out of my way to do something I loathe. So I suck it up, shifting uncomfortably pulling my tshirt down to cover my butt as I pass the security guard. 

I emerge and nothing, I mean nothing, beats the view. miles of concrete jungle, stretching into the horizon, soaring with the eagles. I'm momentarily distracted by a 20 yr old doing squats in a sports bra and what can only be described as underwear. The boy cut kind I liked to buy in middle school. I glare at the desk attendant who is staring at her through the glass doors, standing slack jawed ogling her bottom, but he has the courtesy of noticing my pointed glare and looks ashamed as he beeps me in. 

The trainer is waiting. I would have preferred a woman, but he was the only trained physiotherapist. Thirty year old gym bro trainers are someone I would typically avoid like the plague. Even with this one, I had to explain all the medical stuff three times, and he didn't quite take me seriously till I literally brought my x-rays and had my Lahore guy speak to him. Now he is super careful, and actually listens when I tell him not to push it. In fact he's more cautious then I am sometimes, and I caught him sweating in apprehension the last time I tried one of the more advanced stretches.

I discuss the plan for the session (he's recommeding extending the core exercises), and then warm up with a run. Never ever thought I could pull that off with my joints, but the miracle of modern medicine, apparently its good for middle aged women now.

So I'm red, sweating ungracefuly, in my voluminous tshirt, panting like I'm having an angina episode, when of course he walks in. Fucking billionaire media mogul fucker. The one who didn't have the courtesy to just cheat on me but had to honestly and earnestly confess that his wife wanted to reconcile, and actually asked me what he should do. Of course he needed to go back to his wife and kids. His father in law owned the media house he was employed at. No way in hell i could compete with blocking the reconciliation of two of the richest families in the country. And all for nothing, because they ended things a year later anyway. Fuckers. I squash down the memories, him taking off his glasses and putting them on the side of the bed so he could kiss me. Doing that thing with his mouth. Looking at me like I'm the hottest thing he's ever seen, but then going on post divorce to date a string of models like a fucking cliche. I wish I'd worn a nicer tshirt, this one keeps fucking falling off my shoulder showing the ratty sports bra straps. I've even used it to blow my nose 5 minutes ago.

I see in the mirror that he clocks me almost instantly and freezes, pole axed. Someone bumps into him from behind and jostles him out of his double take. He didn't know I've moved here. I smirk, but he recovers and carefully avoids my side of the gym. Good. Fuck him.

I'm doing floor work on a yoga mat, which is apparently also something only women like to do, because even after months of this I still get the side eye. I'm not doing weighted leg lifts on some gross gym floor mats thank you very much. I swat the physios hands away as they hover solicitiously near my back, one of the unfortunate side effects of him knowing the number of rods in there. "You can do it maam, just 40 more", he says cheerily, and I want to kill him.

At the 30th rep, I stumble because my knee gives up a bit. Maybe the hip, hard to tell where it starts sometimes. The trainer has a heart attack trying to grab my elbow, and I become completely unstable as I try to shove his arm away. I detest it when medical aides treat me like a patient, because fuck that. Unfortunately, that means I stumble into the back of the guy resetting some weights on a machine helping sports bra chick who had been effortlessly out squatting me. He turns around, and fuck me sideways it's Z, ex husband, father of my child. Deadbeat of the decade, and general all around  asshole.

What the fuck is this, the ex boyfriend convention. What is up with the traffic in here today.

He grins good naturedly, and I realize I said the last bit out loud. He looks me up and down, stripping me down to my soul like he always does. He takes in my red sweaty face, ratty tshirt and has the audacity to smirk. 

How is A doing I smile and ask cheerily right back, and that knocks the smile off his deadbeat face. I'd heard that they were having martial problems, not that it surprised me in the least. I'm surprised to see you here, I also add. The gym membership.is fucking expensive, and he hasn't paid a lick of child support for Rs entire life. I watch the comment land, satisfied Ive twisted the knife sufficiently. 

"Oh yes, just gym buddying with my friend from work", and he smugly jerks his head towards underwear girl. Of course he is. That fucker. I can't help but glance over, and we both know there is no way any body that's churned out another human can hold a candle to that midriff. He smirks with satisfaction at seeing the comment land, knowing exactly what I'm thinking. I huff and mumble about cradle snatching and go back to the trainer who's now holding a lighter weight and my knee brace. Damnit.

*

I'm still in the damn knee brace when I'm rooting around the locker. They had kindly given me the ones closer to the floor once they realized with my height, I couldn't reach the top level, but it's super awkward trying to pull my gym bag out with 40 yr old knees and I spill stuff out. Dammit. The guy with the locker above mine of course approaches at that minute. I am at sock level. A lipstick had rolled over to his shoe. He bends down and picks it up, and crouches down to help. I look up gratefully into beautiful brown eyes. Shit. Its media mogul Mr. famous last name. Oh for fucks sake. What is up with meeting my exes today.

He blinks rapidly, and I realize I said the last bit out loud. He quickly looks around, and is received to see no one else around. He smiles his beautiful sweet open honest smile, and just looks so... happy... to see me. The fucker.

Of course he's in the locker above mine. I try to take a deep breath, but get a wave of that damn cologne. 

And that moment, with my sweat filled work out clothes, my shirt falling off my shoulder, hair in a French braid, he's looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He holds my elbow and gets me up, and picks up the pieces, puts them into my open gym bag and puts it on my shoulder. We are standing way way too close, but I can't help it. It's like graviational magnets. He's this black hole and I'm the star going nova, about to be sucked in. He raises his hand like he's going to touch me, but catches himself and stops.

I hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching and we both jump back guiltily.

I don't even thank him. I don't even try to keep my dignity. I turn and run.

the witch

Born on 27th ramadan, a holy night. Under a month old, she nearly died. She was without oxygen for 15 minutes. Maybe 5, 15 seems unlikely. Her mother was holding her in the emergency room waiting room in the shitty but expensive third world private hospital. A world where money doesn't buy quality. where life is cheap. Blue. Unbreathing. while her mother screamed, nurses ran around trying to find the doctor in the middle of night - he was probably sleeping somewhere they didn't know where - her father with his flight aviation job on the other side of the country. They may have listened to a man when if he had been there, but let's not dwell on that. it was a time when women reared children, and men went away to work, and all were ok with the arrangement.

the resident was about to do a trichotomy when the emergency room doctor finally showed up. he stopped them as the scalpel was raised, and told them to administer oxygen. how had they forgotten such a basic thing. maybe her mother didn't remember it as clearly. maybe she didn't remember the story as clearly. with a combination of some drug and the oxygen, she came back. there must have been a worry about cognitive deficits. her mother never told her.

She survived. but she was different. touched by the light. before she could count, when playing card games with her grandparents and parents and older sisters, she used to often notice the King. she couldn't look at his face, it was too bright. Too much light. Just like God. She didn't know it was blasphemous, she was too little, she just knew that that kindly old man on the cards struck a chord in her soul she couldn't understand.  

Then the night terrors came. she wet the bed, almost every night for seven long years. the horrors in the dark. she initially slept with her parents and that kept some of it at bay. cuddled up in the middle of her two favorite people, a valley of peace among two mountains. but then once at the breakfast table she asked them why they didn't wear clothes the night before and her father sprayed the orange juice in his mouth across the table and her mother choked on her toast, she was moved to her sisters room, her parents door locked. the terrors worsened, she tried banging on her parents room some nights, when she could make her way from the vast empty black chasm of horrors from her bed to the door and make it to the next room. she was sometimes allowed entry, sometimes not and had to often make her way back running through the black to leap on the mattress.  

When she was six she learned the ayat ul qursi, and that helped with the night terrors. it allowed her to put up a wall of light around her bed. the relief. the dreams still came through, but it allowed her to rest. that's when she noticed baba. or kaka. can't believe I've forgotten his name. her jinn friend, the little one. her age, shadowing her life in a parallel existence for a little while. he was a friend. he especially liked playing with her brothers dinky cars. he disappeared eventually, probably around 12 years old. that was as far into the future she could see. something happened after that. the line on her hand was short, so she just assumed she would die. She was right in her own way. it was the death of her childhood. the echoes of that power stayed behind in little memories, deja vu, dreams of the future coming true, like way points in the darkness. but she never saw the future as clearly again then when she was a child.

she could see light in some people also. shining blindingly out of their faces, like the King of Spades at that time in the past. like that stranger at the airport luggage counter. or the boy she eventually married. their features would disappear, and a beacon of light blinded her instead of their face. 

but eventually it all faded, and the only thing left was the dreams others had through her. memories of a past lived. the one she had made a dua that she wanted to see, only to see again and again humans living the same stories again and again, the cycle of life.      

the office

I'm sitting across the desk from his fancy curved monitor. we'd met at that fancy crypto guys dinner, but I had emailed him a few weeks before about something else, and serendipitously apparently my face had been displayed on the CS building as esteemed alumni (they didn't tell ME that), so all three layers on in-yun leading to some sort of culmination to that meeting.

i'm waiting for my colleague to join me. in my mind she's much richer, and therefore much more succesful. I love that she's single, flitting from one european country to the next, thin, had her 40th in thailand and rented a yacht with the best booze and food i've ever had in my life. i haven't had such a nice weekend in my life. she lives in one of those insane estates only people here have, in a separate area designated only for her.

she finally comes, sits and we start discussing. The attention he's giving my words is flattering. the way he's looking at me, I have to try hard to ignore it. and as she's talking, I'm suddenly seeing her through his eyes - no real academic accomplishments, a nepo baby doing a minor role in her family business. Run of the mill. he sees me, my grades, my awards, my work, and is more impressed, and it takes his kind brown eyes for me to see this.

its shocking how easy the conversation is. we want to introduce a course which will give university credit. he wants me to teach it. she is dying to teach it, but he kind of dismisses her and asks me directly. I look over at her, and say let's discuss. I'm cautious, I know how much most of my undergrad profs knew. the caliber of faculty in this place is nuts, they're doing cutting edge research, know about the latest shit and there is no way in hell my non-PHD ass is going to ever achieve that level of mastery. she's talking, but really wasn't ever a good student and studied in some tier 2 local university so really wouldn't know either.  his warm enthusiasm wins the day and it gets pushed through.

somewhere in this process i have a dream. I'm teaching in that university classroom. I am way underqualified. for some reason he is there. there is some coffee, a request for advice. I go into that office with the curved monitor, and since its safe in my dream (i know even then its a dream), there are no cameras, no ethics, no students, no wife of his probably, no staff, no real room even in this shadow realm. I know i could end it, wake myself up, pull myself out, but I allow it for the briefest of moments, acknowledging the outside conscious world where Z broke me - tore me apart limb from limb with his beatings and his lies and his mental torture - and how i am whole again like some pottery kitsungi-d together with lines of gold glueing back the pieces of my spirit - and that for that one briefest of moments in my dream I can allow his kind brown eyes to come real close, hold my face, and allow a man kiss me again.   

Superman

Who is he? A manifestation of white savior complex - a white colonizer rescuing brown shalwar kameezed people. Horrified right wingers disturbed that brown terrorists portrayed as victims. brown ppl angry at being type cast yet again.

Who is he? a manifestation of an age old primal story - big strong good man rescues the girl. So good looking. So nuanced. So flawed and human. So broad shouldered. A fantasy. Because we don't get rescued, we all have to rescue ourselves, and we try to taste the fantasy for a runtime of 2 brief hours, hoping the caramel-salt popcorn mixture overrides the bitter ashes of adulthood in our mouths.

Who is he? A good role model for boys. Better than some stupid race car driver who likes fast cars. Better than some stupid stoic beefcake who doesn't feel, who is cold, who murders, yet also does some cute scenes with little girls as a nice foil to his machismo. He loves. His girlfriend. His dog. His robots. His parents - adopted or otherwise. He is respectful. And introspective. And lives his life trying to do good.

Who is he? A manifestation of manipulation, the very architects of the hateful broken world they commentate on.

Mikaeel

From deep within my dreams, I wake. My eyes are still closed, but as long as I can remember, I always wake up, exactly at fajr. Always. My earliest memories are from when I was 5, and still believed that a jinn kept me company. He was my age, and we played together into the night. While his friends were frightening, he was nice.

But I am 30 now, and pregnant, and my eyelids feel like rocks. My feet, swollen from the babymoon plane ride back to Lahore. My consciousness submerging again, when I feel a presence at my bedside. My friend Ns mother, calling me "Wake up, it's fajr. Time to pray. It's Ns mom, N..."

Eyes still closed, I say "ugh go away I don't like N that much" I hiss, too tired to care about being jostled by imaginary voices. I feel her recoil in shock, and - oh there's a man next to her - she tells him, let's go.

I feel bad - "I'm sorry!" I manage to yell out as they flit away. "I do love N!" she turns and hears me, and I feel a little less guilty. 

---

Well bollocks I'm fully awake now, might as well open my eyes. I turn on the lamp, and decide I might as well pray. I drag my swollen feet to the bathroom for wuzu, and then say my 2 sunnat and 2 farz. I can't sit too long for the dua, my legs are already numb with the baby pressing into my spine now. My first thought it for N and her mom. Terminal pancreatic cancer, discovered 2 months ago. N has been going nuts importing every single cure from every corner of the planet - from ayurvedic medicines from the far east, to a root from East Africa, to manuka honey from Australia. Allopathic medicine had given up hope from the moment it was diagnosed.

But for the first time in two month, the words praying for a miraculous recovery don't come. "Whatever happens, let it be for the best Allah mian, let Ns mom not be in pain anymore, and help N and her family find peace with this"

I finish up and go sit on the bed, but before I close the lamp I impulsively pick up the BlackBerry and message - "Love you, said a prayer for aunty, thinking of you guys" I hesitate - will I wake her up - but I decide to send it anyway.

Within one second, my phone lights up. It's N, and she's howling "She's gone! She's gone. It just happened a little while ago and you messaged! How did you know!"     

I don't think I was supposed to see that man. I don't think anyone living is supposed to.

------

I'm standing in a porch on a sunny day. It's not my house, maybe an old house I don't remember, or somewhere I'm going to be in the future. I'm holding a baby in my arms. I'm only 23, it's March, and I know this is a dream and I'm asleep at home in my bed in Karachi. 

I'm barefoot, and the baby's fat chubby cheek is pressed in my mine. i love it. i walk out on to the car porch, and I see my grandmother standing at the gate. But she has my face. How odd. She looks at the baby in my arms, and gives the most beautiful smile, full of light and love. I step from the car porch towards the gate, I want to show the baby to ama. 

Ama looks alarmed as I almost step into the hot sunlight. the baking heat, the ground like fire, and it's only March in Karachi, but it feels like May in Lahore. Maybe ama is worried about the baby being in the sun? I stop at the edge of the porch roof shadow, in the shade, and she walks up and looks at me, and we're both crying and smiling as I hold the baby in my arms.

ammmbbaaaaa a muffled distorted slow-mo type voice comes through like a loudspeaker. I'm in bed now, more asleep than awake, and my eyes are still closed and I can't control them enough to open as yet, and i know it must be fajr, but I'm about to go back down. Is that the azaan i hear? a muffled ammmmbbbaaaaaaa droning in my background. Aba? My father? So strange I think as sleep takes over.

When I stumble out of bed to go to work, no one is there. I pull out my Nokia and turn it on, and pour some tea and butter my toast while it boots up. I'm halfway through my toast when the phone finally turns on and sure enough there are several tell tale beeps. SMS is too expensive, so I know it's not my brokeass friends. It's my father - Ama passed last night. Take the next flight out to us, soyem is today. I've told the driver to be there to take you to the airport.

Gangster chick lit

I'm glad to get out by 2am. Closing the bar and collating tips typically takes till 4am, but I've been letting the manager handle it.

 

Barra makes a big deal of the body guard thing like he always does, walking ahead of me, clearing the way with his elbows, making the most of his huge frame.

 

Sal walks next to me, handling the call to the driver. He's dying to take me through last quarters sales, and I've been avoiding because I don't quite give a fuck. Don't think I'll be able to avoid it now, his jaw seems pretty set.

 

We step out past the red carpet of the club entrance, onto the gray filthy city side walk. I would have preferred the side entrance, but the dark alley gave Barra a conniption. I'm intent on avoiding the puke and broken beer bottles - people are disgusting - so I think it's Sal grabbing my arm. Barra's howling and Sal's spluttering behind me that make me look up, into the grey green eyes of the broad who's clutching my arm.

 

"What the fuck" Barras already flung himself out from behind the car door he was holding, and grabs her arm, pushing me back but also locking us all into this three way tango. Sal gets his feet trampled behind me, swearing too.

 

"Pls. Pls help me" she rasps.

 

"For fucks sake Barra what the hell is a chick going to do to me..." I start saying, but Barra elbows me aside, without letting go of her arm.

 

He folds one of her stick like arms painfully behind her back - theatrics of that man I swear - and frisks her with the other. I'm about to smirk something out till Barra pulls out the halo tucked behind her jeans.

 

He holds it to her throat, and she stills completely.

 

He tosses her bag to Sal, who wasn't expecting it so drops it. I can almost feel Barra's eye roll. As the purse drops to the floor, the contents spew out, a lipstick rolling past the carpet near my shoe. But sure enough, the telltale butt of a gun is poking out of the bag.

 

I grab Barra's arm before he can go apeshit. It takes a minute of jostling, he's trying to body slam her into the ground, but he has a knife in his hand and he nearly slits my wrist as I stick my arm in there.

 

"What the fuck J" he's in neanderthal mode.

 

"Barra - she's just a chick. If she wanted to kill me she wouldn't be trying to talk" I manage to get that out in a reasonable tone as he's trying to put her in the ground.

 

She's still standing - I don't think she's taken a breath since B grabbed her.

 

It takes a minute, but the panic resides and order is restored. Sal picks up the bag and the contents, holding the gun and halo securely in his binder. Barra clears his head, and is still holding the chick, but no longer trying to kill her.

 

I'm about to get in the car so we can move on, but something in her eyes makes me stop.

 

"Well miss, you sure picked a shitty guy to proposition. What do you want" she's clearly been waiting, what, four hours since I went in. May as well find out.

 

-----------------

 

You fucking moron. This is me, on repeat, swearing at myself like the mother fucking moron I am. This fucking chick was a time bomb, and I should have just lobbed her to the street like the fucking grenade she was.

 

Barra looked at me bug eyed in disbelief when I told them to get her in the car. Sal, resigned, giving me a look that said he'd discuss my poor choices later. Even C, staring, mouth agape, had to be reminded to get in the drivers seat and start fucking driving.

 

She's sitting between me and Sal. He's scrunched all the way to the corner, clearly regretting his committment to presenting the quarterly variances, trying not to let the chick's jeans touch him.

 

I side eye her, noticing the layers and layers of bruises. She's wearing a thin tank under her threadbare jacket, jeans, and open toed sandals, in the middle of fucking winter. I had stripped down to my tshirt and made C turn the heater on full blast, something that made him raise his brows because he knew I hate the heat.

 

I didn't quite know what the fuck to do with her, it's not like I'm running a halfway house for domestic abuse victims. I'm taking her back to my place, and will deal with her in the morning. At the point, we all need sleep.

 

You're just a fucking bar manager. Stay in your lane. You have no goddamn business meddling with those psychotic fuckers. Just give them their cut every fucking month, and fuck off. Why the absolute fuck would you get involved. Why.

 

Barra tries to come with me, and I have to hold on to the car door from the outside to stop him from fucking getting out. One house guest is all I can handle, don't need his fat ass on my couch.

 

We go up the lift, and she hasn't made a sound. I'm guessing she didn't have much of a plan, other than escaping that murderous shit. She's probably running on fumes.

 

As we exit into my apartment, I'm flummoxed. Do I let her just run around the fucking place. What if she slits my throat in my fucking sleep? I'm not going to underestimate the desperation of someone backed into a corner with nothing to lose. I suddenly regret letting Barra go home, I could have used another person to keep an eye on her. Yeah and who's going to keep an eye on him? He'd be a zombie tomorrow - worse, a PTSD-ridden gun-toting zombie. Didn't need that shit around. He needed to sleep, I'd have to manage.

 

Best to feed her first. She's a little unsure of what to do as well. She kicks off her shoes at the entrance, following my lead.

 

I flick on the master switch, and light floods the living room. I gesture at her to sit on the kitchen stool. I pull out some pasta, throw it in the microwave, then toss in a fork and hand it to her.

 

She hasn't lifted her eyes from the counter, nor has she said a word. She silently takes the fork, and starts eating, somehow still not making a sound. I'm guessing she's had years of practice of fading out of sight so she's not noticed. Given the age and size of tits, I'm guessing she's a call girl. Caught the eye of the wrong guy, and then got embroiled in seeing too much shit, unable to get out. A frequent and old story. One that ends way too many times with death, from drugs, suicide, collateral damage, or murder.

 

"You can take a shower, and then we'll talk in the morning, ok"

 

Her eyes - now silver - flick up at me, then quickly go back down. She's trying to gauge how mad I am. Despite myself, I feel a twist of pity, what a fucking shitty world. What asshole get his rocks off on hurting people for no reason other than their sick twisted pleasure.

 

--------

 

 

She comes out of the bathroom, her face less gaunt than a few hours ago. Nothing in the world hot food and a warm shower can't help, mum always used to say. She's wearing my sweatshirt, it flops down to her thighs, comically dwarfs her arms. Her hair is wet, but she's dried her hair and her cheeks are getting some pink back instead of being ash grey.

 

 

-------

 

 

I am deep deep fucking asleep, so when I hear a click of an unfamiliar step somehing tells me to wake up, but before I can surface I feel the hand on my throat.

 

Shit. That crazy bitch led her batshit boyfriend to me and he's going to kill me. I'm moving on pure instinct, I manage to open one bleary eye and grab the arm and flip him under me before I get knifed or shot or whatever the fuck he has in mind.

 

Oh shit it's the chick. The "killer" squawks as she's flipped on the bed under my arm. She's goes down as well as a cat in a bath, she's scratching the shit out of my arms and trying to kick my balls. I'm now fully awake, and realize my mistake, but if I let go of her now she's undoubtedly going to scratch my eyes out, so I lean in as gently as I can to restrain her hell cat hands - is she a fucking octopus - and use my legs to stop her from kneeing me in the cojones.

 

"STOP! Sera. Fucking stop." I'm out of breath, because who the fuck wants to wake up like that.

 

It takes a few seconds, but she realizes what's up, and finally stills. And opens her eyes. Well shit they're emerald green today. And I realize I'm so close I can see the fascinating flecks of brown in them. I'm suddenly aware that I'm lying down on top of her. My legs have squeezed hers into submission, and my arms are holding hers above her head. Her sweatshirt - mine - jostled up to her waist so we're pretty much underwear to underwear. Let go, you moron. But my body - it's not moving. Post adrenaline slump?

 

I force my fingers to unfurl, one by one. Is she going to slash me again? No, seems not.

 

I avert my eyes and lever up on my elbows, moving my legs off her, then manage to manoeuvre off the bed without touching her any further.

 

Her eyes follow me as I stand, and for the first time she really looks at me and I see her eyes get big as she realizes I'm in only my boxers.

 

I suppress the sudden urge to explain why. It's my house for fucks sake, I'll wear what I want when I fucking sleep.

 

"What do you want" we both wince at how harshly that comes out. She's still lying there, wearing her goddamned thong in my bed, her legs miles long, pale white against my dark grey sheets.

 

"I made you breakfast. And I can't find my clothes" her voice is a little shaky, her cheeks bright pink at the manhandling, but she seems to be coming round, pulling her clothes straight and sitting up and avoiding my eyes.

 

"Errr sure. I'll be right out" I'm rubbing the back of my head to get rid of the embarrassment I've made of myself, as she scurries out of my room.

 

--------

 

I walk out respectably clad from my room, wondering what color her eyes will be, but I'm met instead with the unpleasant sight of Sal sitting in my breakfast nook. Sera is giggling at something he's said, and she's serving him some scrambled eggs, completely at ease. She seems to have found the recessed laundry room door and is wearing her tank and jeans, now clean, and I have to give it to Sal, whatever he's said to her has put a lightness to her shoulders even food and warmth hadn't managed.

 

"What the fuck Sal" Sera nearly jumps out of her skin at my expletive, and I almost feel bad.

 

"I thought this would be a good time to go through the variance reports" his flinty eyes brook steely determination. "Sera was kind enough to let me in and give me this lovely breakfast". He smiles at her as she passes him a coffee, and puts another down for herself from the other side of the kitchen counter.

 

Well nothing to be done about it. I lift my chin and glare right the fuck back at him. If he's going to chew me inside out over low sales numbers at 7AM, he'll have to wait till I've fucking eaten. I saunter over, make some coffee and noisily make my protien shake not caring that they both wince at the sound.

 

There's an awkward silence as I catch up on my emails and ignore them completely. Carter sent the closing report - good, want to shove that up Sal's ass - and the new client rep has some good ideas for the campaign which promises an 80% increase in footfall. I slowly give her my feedback, not giving a fuck that Sal is sitting back eyeballing me, and Sera is becoming jittery shuffling from one foot to another as she sips her coffee.

 

I saunter over and load the dishwasher, taking my time. Toss my laundry into the machine. Vacuum the kitchen even though I know Lourdes will be around later today to do the cleaning. And finally, when I think I can't push it any further, causally turn around and say "I'm done now let's go to the office".

 

Sal, to his credit, hasn't whined, and his face tells me he knows exactly that I'm trying to rile him and it won't work. Fine.

 

I hesitate before shutting the door - not sure if I should leave Sera unattended. She's not a fucking prisoner. It clicks shut, and the sound proofing immediately silences everything.

 

"Say what you want to say". Sal takes the wind out of my sails, I was expecting him to launch into the graphs he's holding in the ipad on his lap.

 

"I know we're down 25%, and that seems like alot, but footfall will be back up this quarter. You can tell your boss to calm the fuck down"

 

"The boss doesn't know or give a shit. I do. If you lose your footfall, your little operation becomes useless to me. When you do that, I will have the unpleasant job of arranging for your assassin, disposing your body, and even worse - finding and training some other chump to take your place.

 

"Oh just fucking kill me already. I made you an investor because I needed the capital to revamp and stay in the game. You have your pound of flesh, and I'm turning a blind eye to the assholes selling blow on my floor and moving product in my warehouse because of you. But Sal - I will not get involved in whatever the fuck is happening with the women. I am shutting this shit down right now."

 

"And how are you going to do that? You have Manual's fucking girlfriend in. your. fucking. house". Sal almost never swears, so this lapse means he's really riled. Good.

 

"Girlfriend!? Shes a fucking call girl. A goddamn concubine. He and his thugs did unspeakable shit to her. Repeatedly. Against her will. And when they murdered her friend in front of her, she's just expected to shut up and sit on her hands till it's her turn!? That may happen in your world, it does not fucking happen in mine." I wince internally at how histronic that sounds.

 

Sal calls my bluff. "You don't have any plan, other than thinking with your dick. A little like Manual may I add, keeping her alive when she could be a key murder witness. Keeping her here will make things worse - for her, when she's eventually found, and for you, for getting involved in shit above your pay grade. You're the hired help. Stay out of sight, and do your fucking job, and stay alive. It's as simple as that". Every word Sal spits put spears into me.

 

I take a deep breath, inhaling deeply because this conversation is out of control. What a fucking shitshow. I know he's right. But it's just not sitting right. But what choice do I have? I'm a fucking bar owner with an MBA. I don't know anything about this world. What the hell can I do. Turn myself over to the police? The long line of Sal's regulars include everyone from the police department foot patrol to people in mayor and prosecutors office who regularly do press on TV. I pinch my nose, hoping it will relieve the drowning I'm feeling trying to punch above my pay grade.

 

Sal sees an opportunity and pushes forward. "I can fix this for you, but you need to go over, in person, to see him. You will fucking apologize for your shitty numbers, and promise 150% sales increase over the next 3 months. With royalty. You will not breathe a word about the woman. Understood?"

 

It feels like I'm swallowing hot bile. I manage to nod, not trusting myself to speak. I may be sitting behind a desk, but Sal casually lounging on the sofa has all the fucking power and he knows it.

 

I’ll be goddamned if I let that stop me.”25% increase. One month. No fucking royalty.” And I’m pleased to see his jaw tick in annoyance. I’ll take that as a victory.

 

-------

I’ve been dragged along to kiss the ring. I’ve met Manual only once, the first time I had to make the money run. That fucker made my skin crawl, and I made Sal swear I would interact with him again. What he lacked in stature he made up in fucking psychopathy, the kind that makes your skin crawl. If Sal and I were playing chess, Manual was the thug lobbing rocks at our board. If I had known Sal came with strings attached to Manual, I would never have agreed to get into bed with his lot, no matter how desperate I was.

 

It takes us an hour’s drive to reach the estate, and a further 30 minutes just to get to the house after driving into the gate. Fucking rich assholes. I spot the helicopter first, landing behind what can only be described as a fucking castle.

 

“Oh good, Manual’s here then” Sal says cheerily “we won’t have to wait too long then.”

 

We dismount, a fucking butler opens my car door, and I’m trying not to shit my pants as I walk in and see that greasy little fucker. I don’t even notice whatever ornate shit is around, I just try not to touch anything and blend into the background so we can be done and out.

 

Sal shoots me a look to behave, as we walk in to a basement office that feels like a dungeon despite what must clearly be an obnoxiously expensive interior. He looks at the ever present iPad, no doubt telling me to stick to the numbers and fuck off. I notice he’s white knuckling the device, which is unnerving because not even Barra rattles the man.

 

It’s not a business meeting, it’s a fucking Al Capone style showdown. Manual has two beefy fuckers armed to the nines behind him, sitting like a fucking Bond villain behind the desk.

 

“Hola Uncle” Manual get up, kissing Sal’s cheeks, with a smile that doesn’t reach his beady little eyes at all. “I hope you bring me good news about this beautiful city”

 

We sit, and I can see Sal is on his guard. He angles his body so he can see Twiddledum and Twiddledee, two more guards who have come up to stand behind us.

 

“Not too bad, but getting better as your know.”

 

“Good, good.” Manual is keeping up the charade of small talk, but somethings not right, Sal is on edge and I can feel the hair at the back of my neck stand up. I see Manual gesture to a door, and yet another beefcake opens it.

 

Holy fuck, it's Carter, the bar manager. He just emailed me the report. He’s frogmarched in, with the new chick, one of the evening shift bartenders. She is ashen grey under the blue hair and tattoos. Sal next to me is unnaturally still, his hawk eyes watching everything, calculating.

 

 “I have a present for you uncle” Manual sees our expressions, and he likes that what he sees. Abject fucking terror.

“Come come, sit sit” Manual says, his hideous dead eyes crinkling in a mockery of a smile.  I’m yanked into the horror movie tea party, Carter avoiding my eye contact sweating bullets, and the chick – what is her name – cracks first. She’s blubbering, snot dribbling down her nose.

 

Manual doesn’t need a weapon, he’s terrifying as it is. He steps over, jovial, avuncular, and smiles at the girl. “Hello, little girl. Have you been naughty?” he asks like one would address a toddler. Her terrified eyes rise and fall down, her face crumples. “No no no no we haven’t I swear” she says, clutching Carter’s hand. He shifts uncomfortably – “No senor, we would never do anything we swear. We run a clean shop” and then Carter’s face crumples and he’s crying too, his breath hitching like a toddler.

“Then who the fuck has stolen my money” A gun appears in Manual’s hands, glock, nondescript, silencer muzzle on it. He taps my head with it, and I’ve had enough.

 

“Hey, I run a clean shop Manual. There isn’t any stolen money” you fucking psychopath. I manage to look him in the eye, and see only madness, no logic or reason.

 

He moves his gun to Carter’s girlfriend, who starts caterwauling. “Was it you senorita” She nearly collapses, shrieking her denials, and I know I have to do something, because it’s clear Sal isn’t.

 

I stand up, but a muscled hand shoves me down before I can rise even an inch. “Hey! Manual. I get it. This is a shakedown. You come down, show us who’s boss, and make sure we toe the line. But we run a clean shop. You have the numbers, and they don’t l----”

 

Before I can finish, Manual pulls the fucking trigger, and the bartender's brains are over the wall, the sofa, and mostly on Carter. It’s like a bomb has gone off, the sound is fucking loud, even with the silencer. Sal jumps up, protesting, I think I scream, and Carter’s mouth just gapes open as brain matter leaks down his nose into his mouth. It’s opening and closing, and words are coming out, but I can’t hear. The guards are still standing over us. Cater’s braced for the next bullet, and he’s screaming “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”.

 

I look over incredulous, and Manual lowers the gun to Carter’s forehead “How much” he says, with deadly composure. Carter is babbling about his kid, "I have a child i have a child" begging for his life, not listening, till Manual rolls his eyes and cuffs him on the head hard. “How much”

 

“A million. A million!” Carter shrieks, his hands up defense. There’s a wet patch in his pants, he’s pissed himself.

 

“How”

 

I don’t think I can breath. How did I miss this. He’s doomed us all.

 

Carter seems to get a second wind. Between the piss, snot, and tears, he straightens his spine. “We swapped the liquor. We didn’t touch the drugs, I swear. It was just me and Barbe. Troy and Sal had nothing to do with it” Oh Carter. You fool.

 

I close my eyes, as Manual shoots Carter in the face. Shit my eyes are watering. He was a good fucking kid. I should have kept a closer eye on him, goddamnit.

 

Manual looks at me, and I see my death. He raises his gun, and the black barrel comes towards me. Fuck.

“Sera! I know where Sera is.” I screech with no dignity. my knees are on the ground. I feel more than hear Sal’s sharp intake of breath. 

 

Manual’s gun doesn’t stop. It’s on my forehead, and I stop breathing. Goodbye mom. I’ll see you soon. I feel tears drip down my cheeks to my chin. I can hear the rustle of bodyguards yanking what’s left of Barbe and Carter out the door, completely unbothered by predicament. he's leaving a streak of blood and bone in their wake. My hearing goes out, and my eyes see black, and I fall to the floor because I can’t sit up anymore.

 

Someone is talking. Words. Garbled. What.

 

The guard props me up to my knees, and slaps me. I open my eyes, I’m alive. I look up, and I can see Manual’s lips moving, but I can’t hear anything.

 

“What” I manage to bumble out. He’s looming over me.

 

“What the fuck do you know about Sera” Oh.

 

I look him in the eyes, and they’re not so dead anymore. Something about Sera has made them spark. He doesn’t know what happened to her. Is it possible he didn’t order it!?

 

“Your guards gang raped her and her friend and then murdered them. Sera got away. She came to the bar.” Sal suddenly speaks up. Finally. It’s clear I’m not able to string a coherent sentence. “If we had discussed this first, instead of these… theatrics, I would have told you, just like I told you I had a plan for the lost sales.”

 

I can’t hide my rounded eyes, as I stare agape. Sal fucking knew. The thought it quickly followed by the realization of what played out here. This is why he was so fucking antsy about the quarter sales. He knew. “You knew!?”

 

Sal’s eyes laser in on me, and flick over dismissively.

 

“He’ll make it up in two months. And up your volume by 10%. And I need him to do it” Sal nods my way, dismissively.

 

 

“Make it 25%. In one month.” Manuel says and casually raises his gun again. But this time, he swings his arm and aims behind me. He lets off two shots. And I feel two thumps as the guards behind me die.

 

Sal doesn’t even blink as the blood pools near his Italian loafers.

 

And just like that, Manual walks out without a backward glance.

 

----

 

Heat

His tongue. It's inside me doing unspeakable things. 

Yes. YES. FINALLY.

After nearly a decade as dry as the sahara. Penance. Finally. YES.

His salt and pepper beard, soft, not scratchy. His hand at. Just. The. Right. Place.

There hasn't been time to talk. To explain ourselves. I haven't been interested. He was... older, but had lied on the apps. Typical. Had the right passport. And the Brit version of an Ivy league degree. And ambition, even if it was in an industry that was traditionally associated with stodgy old men. Like him actually.

He was acting like a teen in his voracious post divorce rebounding, hitting on everything vaguely female (and not, by accident). Yet a terrible boomer at the same time. And a little too proud of his conquests of girls nearly his daughter's age. Ew.

Post nut clarity apparently applies to women too. But in my defense, it seems I already knew it, but the volume had just been turned down waaayyy low because, well, mama was thirsty.

Does he even see me as anything other than a hole? God that voice in my head is annoying sometimes. Now that it's louder, I can't help but realize that it's making so much sense.

He's still enthusiastically hoovering my vagina, not having realized that I'm done, and had time to mentally pack my bags and leave.

I gently tap his head, "errmmmmm". 

Dear lord he's not letting up.

"Hey! Stop!" Oops, my parent voice leaked out.

He stops, and looks up from between my thighs, questioning, but happily clueless, and very very much still raring to go. Awkward.

"Errrr... I think I'm done" I gently scootch out before he can say anything, and start putting on my clothes. Uff asshole, had told him not to yank the lace, his ham fisted pawing at the hook has torn it a bit.

He's a little confused, still in a horny stupor, and I can see he hasn't understood.

By the time his brain catches up, I'm tucking my shirt into my pants. 

"Errr what. Wait" he's scrambling to sit up, and untangle himself from the sheets.

I'm putting my shoes on.

"Are you freaking out?"

"Nope!" Bag in hand, I do a quick check because damn I don't want to forget anything. Well maybe I am freaking out.

"Maybe I am"

His confusion clears a little bit, and it seems he's cottoning on to my mental state. 

"Ok wait. Let's talk about this" 

That fucking British accent. That's the one that got me into this trouble. No way in hell that's happening again.

"Sure! Sure! I'll call you. Actually you know, you message me once you're back in London. Have a safe flight!" Am i babbling? I'm babbling. 

"No I meant right now. Let's talk right now" he says gently, bed sheet thankfully covering nether regions, but leaving his torso mostly uncovered. Holy shit he's not fat, I'm not used to men his age without a paunch. I just manage to stop myself from asking him gym routine. Or the brand of protein supplement he's clearly using.

"NoooOoo I think that's a terrible idea, I think I'm going to go" I say as I scramble out the hotel room.

He tries to stand up, now concerned, but sees my face and pauses midfold, then sits back down.

I take that as permission to escape. I speed walk like the crazy person I am, out the door, down the hall, down the lift, past the wedding guests, and am gone gone gone gone. 

Have a horrible, horrible moment when the guard clicks closed the car door. Will they be able to smell sex on me. Of course not. I think.

I take my travel perfume and spray myself surreptitiously. And don't breathe properly till I'm back home, and have blocked and deleted his number. And blocked and deleted that damn app.

Never again.