JUST A REMINDER. THIS CHAPTER WILL FEATURE A VIOLENT SEXUAL ASSAULT. IF YOU DON'T HAVE THE STOMACH, SKIP.
“Thanks for letting me keep my stuff here,” Brent replied.
Stephanie waved it off. “It’s a big place. I was so intent on buying a showpiece I didn’t think of what I was going to do with all the space.”
Omri sat back. Stephanie could have drifted right off a Vargas painting. She looked exactly like a 1940’s pin-up girl. Instead of sharp angles and alien-looking features, she was curves and bosoms and long, long, legs, with a small, pert mouth and large, doe-like eyes. Put her in some thigh-highs with the seam up the back and she’d be every World War II soldier’s wet dream (the straight ones), exuding an innocent, but constant, eroticism. She was the next Betty Page. Only better.
That she was a dyke was supremely ironic.
Although, by her own words, she was a “futch”—a “femme butch.” No dresses, minimal make-up, short bob of a hair-do. Unless she was on a catwalk, in which case, all bets were off.
“So tell me,” Omri said at length. “What are we celebrating again?”
“You shitting me?” Stephanie asked.
Brent was matter-of-fact: “Good riddance to Vagabond. We can now get on with our lives! Whoopee!” He took a swig of Barolo.
“Says us,” Omri replied.
“What are you talking about?” Stephanie put her bottle down.
“Come on. Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“Vagabond isn’t in our heads anymore.”
“And that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, but he’s not shielding us anymore. We’re in the open.”
It was the one thing Stephanie had gone out of her way not to think about. Omri, however, always one to think too much and enjoy too little, was just the man for the job of Official Buzzkill. Both of them shot a look to Brent.
Brent Xenos was actually one of the best people they knew. He was thoughtful of others, generous when he could be, the most non-judgmental person on the planet. If there was a wounded bird to shelter, an old lady to help cross the street, or a cry for help in the darkness, Brent was the man who came running. That he got used every single time didn’t at all dent his eternal optimism in his fellow man. For a time.
But why the man even set foot into daylight was beyond anyone. He was, without question, absolutely, 100%, a complete loser. Which was perhaps a harsh thing to say (if only Brent wasn’t the first one to admit it) if it wasn’t for the fact that the man was a bull’s eye for disaster. His professional life, his personal life, everything about the man was a pile-up of tragedy, each more bewildering than the next. No matter how much effort he but into something, no matter his commitment, no matter the credit to his name, it was simply never enough. God loved to torture him. Period. And it was much too fun a show to stop.
Boyfriends? He actually got the lines, “I love you but I love somebody else more” and “You’re too normal in a weird sort of way.” Getting dumped by text? Brent. E-mail? Brent. The fade-away game? Brent. Catching his BF in a mass orgy? Brent. Finding out that the boyfriend who espoused monogamy to the point of a cult was actually addicted to both sex and meth? Brent. Getting blacklisted as poz because he didn’t want to bareback a guy who was already poz? Being good enough to fuck but not good enough to commit to? Brent, Brent, Brent, and Brent-in-spades.
And, when he decided to have a go at bodybuilding contests and devoted himself to hard 6 months at the gym—he had already been impressive at that point, just not competition grade—and could NOT come running at the drop of a hat like he used to, he was dumped cold for being selfish.
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