Several flights of stairs later, Leslie dashed into the first floor restroom, next to the bar area, ignoring the demon onlooker who asked if she had the shits. She leaned against the sink, dwelling on her own breathlessness.
What just happened?
This was not allowed.
Leslie smacked her hands against the ceramic. No, no, no. No panicking. She had to keep a level head. Right now, Leslie needed to be her own best friend: the person who slapped her in the face and delivered inconvenient truths.
Being bitten was all the reason she needed to rescind this contract. Alastor had shown his true colors with disturbing rapidity. Yes, she'd known bad men in the past, but their grosser qualities had crept up after long periods of dating, and they never hurt her in the literal sense. One ex, Ranajay, would hit walls and desks, and Karl threw a roll of toilet paper at her head, but that was it. Alastor bit her, for God's sake. He seduced her into making an agreement, then latched onto her like a leech. What kind of person did that?
Leslie examined her lip in the mirror. No pain, no mark, nothing. She almost wished she could see the damage, so it felt less like her imagination. The only evidence was a tiny red speck on her dress, and the taste of blood and cognac still on her tongue.
Then there was the memory of the kiss, fresh in her mind, and it made her sink to her knees, and she laughed through tears. Unbelievable. God help her, she'd never had such a rush in her life. So many weeks of doubt and suspicion as he toyed with her, looking over with a smirk and heavy-lidded eyes. What did he want? He couldn't possibly want her, not in the same way. But tonight, he kissed her. Alastor kissed Leslie. It didn't feel begrudging, either: by the contract's terms, he could have given her much less.
However, speaking of the contract (and the disturbance again eclipsed her joy), he certainly did what he could within the letter of the law. What had she written? Soft biting. Maybe that meant something else to Alastor, comparatively - soft could be taken as 'anything less than the force necessary to cut steel'.
This was a nightmare. Leslie didn't want to give up the highest high that Hell could possibly give her… but why did he have to make her bleed?
Unless she did something, she'd be up all night agonizing about it. Come on, bitch, she thought, we've got to fix ourselves. Solution, tonight, NOW.
Her immediate instinct was to march back upstairs and push the Radio Demon beyond his comfort zone. Historically, this was a poor tactic for resolving fights with bad boyfriends: a mixture of hate-fucking and blind, stupid ignorance. It never fixed anything. Besides, she reasoned, Alastor would not be open to angry, passionate sex of any kind. Not yet. He would also never apologize. Men like him thought it was beneath them, or it showed weakness.
She could go to her room and spend the night with a pillow… but it would be pathetic, especially after tasting the real thing.
Then, a thought squirreled its way into her brain: she wondered, hypothetically, about finding someone else. Someone who would be generous instead of sparing, and blatant where Alastor was merely suggestive. Maybe it would help her. Maybe it would get to him. There was nothing in the agreement about mutual exclusivity, but she judged him to be the possessive type. Yes, she thought, that'd show you: there's more to life than Al's temptations.
But who was there, really?
Her first thought was Kain from the weekly powwows. At the very least, Kain was well-educated, and less brutish than others. He'd take her; he'd take anyone with a pulse. But he also seemed like the sort of guy who would tell everyone what they did, in gruesome detail. As if her reputation wasn't tarnished enough.
Leslie wiped her face clean and left the restroom. Her eyes scanned the Front Desk, examining the clientele. They comprised barely humanoid beings, with bizarre spikes, too many eyes, an Egyptian headdress… not the most attractive. Unknowable entities.
She approached the bar, where Husk was hunkered down below the taps, pouring Guinness into his snaggle-toothed maw. He chased it with whiskey, and Leslie immediately ruled him out as a candidate too. The only benefit to sleeping with Husk in his current state was that he wouldn't remember.
"Hey," she said, "you seen Angel Dust anywhere?"
Husk shook his head, as though doing so could ever neutralize the effects of a devil's brew of hard liquor and Irish stout beer. "Maybe outside the kitchens," he said, and collapsed.
o - o - o - o - o
She found him at the rear of the hotel, smoking a slender pink cigarette. "Hey," she said, arms folded in an attempt to self-soothe. "How, er… how was your day?"
"Ah, you know," he said, "can't complain." He looked at her. "What's up? Ya gotta face like a peach cobbler. Fuck, what kinda day you had?"
Funny, the way he contracted some of his 'you's and not others. She looked at him, that slightly irritable frown as he dragged on his cigarette, and knew that what she wanted to ask was simply impossible. It would be absurd to… what, ask if he knew anyone who might be interested, treat her nice for an evening?
He looked concerned. Leslie knew she'd have to respond.
"I've had a really shitty day," she said, "and it's not something I can talk about. I just…" She grappled for the nearest euphemism. "I want to go out and dance my ass off and fall into some stranger's arms. Just some distraction? But people down here could hurt me. I'm scared something would happen… and-"
"Hey, hey, Les! Hey." So much for not worrying him. Angel got up and put a hand on her shoulder.
She didn't look at him. She stared down one of the rats by the dumpster, her face screwed up as she fought the tears. "I hate that I'm crying. I hate it."
"Les, it's alright! Jesus. Look, I get it, OK? I totally get it. Didn't wanna say nothin', but…" Angel finished his cigarette with one impressive pull and flicked the end of it into the shadows. He walked her to the step where he'd been sitting and helped her down. "Ya know what your problem is, right?"
"What?"
"You're fuckin' lonely, that's all! You're just sexually frustrated. And I get it, I really do. That stuff ya said about bein' over Al, like the second I told ya he was frigid? It was bullshit, wasn't it? Don't lie to me, 'cause I know it was. An' then he ends up swayin' the results of the contest with that shadow, dancin' with ya like that… like fuckin' that? Yeah, I know he don't mean it, but gimme a break! I'd be tied up in knots too, 'specially if I wasn't gettin' it elsewhere." He shook his head.
It was about as close to the truth as Leslie could admit. "You're right," she said, letting her head fall into her hands. "You're completely right. Fuck."
"Plus, ya feel like ya gotta be good, bein' a hotel guest. But redemption, y'know, that's takin' its sweet old time. Punch all that into a calculator, it makes a big ol' sad face."
Leslie reflected bitterly on the past four months. Angel had a point. Weeks upon weeks of hard work, after what she suspected was an administrative error placing her in Hell in the first place, and no feelings of absolution, no signs of moving Upstairs. Maybe Alastor was right. Maybe the heavenly deity was an indifferent prick.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she sniffed.
"Nobody knows what they're doin'," Angel replied, " an' 'specially down here." Leslie watched him fumble for a book of matches in his breast pocket, and he used one to light another cigarette - cheesecake yellow this time, with the same golden trim around the filter. "Les, can I be honest for a sec?"
"Sure, why not?"
"OK. Ya helped me with that bad trip, I wanna help you. We're here to go clean, yeah? Not find new an' interestin' ways to self-destruct… and I don't think fuckin' a rando is gonna make ya feel better. Take it from me! I do it all the fuckin' time," he said. "Sure, it's what I'm good at, and the money's nice, but… like Charlie and Vags have bin sayin, that shit never fulfills ya in the long run."
Leslie managed a smile. "Hey," she said, "you've converted."
"I wouldn't go that far! But I know ya, and ya don't strike me as the kinda broad that goes for hookups. It's better to wait for someone who'll treat ya nice. 'Cos you're right, there is bad people down here. I've worked next to some real characters in my day. Like, there's…" he trailed off.
"What?"
Now it was Angel's turn to sigh. "Val has some of his underlings run deals for him," he admitted. "Double duty."
"Alastor does what?"
"Val, not Al. My boss, Valentino - the overlord? He has to do a lot to keep his empire tickin' over, deals he has to run. I've volunteered plenty, but he rarely lets me do shit. Tells me not to worry my pretty head about it."
"Wait," Leslie asked, "so you'd rather be-?"
"Rather be promoted to doin' real business and not stuck in the studio? Sure! Be a nice change of pace." She watched him inhale from the new cigarette, which became a long cylindrical ash in only two drags. "Of course, I can't not report to him," he said, "since Charlie told everyone where I was holed up, on live TV no less."
"Oh man."
"Yeah. Guess she didn't think it through. See what I mean? Even Charlie makes mistakes. Nobody knows what they're doin'," he said.
One last time, Angel tugged on the second cigarette before disposing of it, and Leslie wondered if he was strung out from something else. Maybe he was finally going clean, and the smokes were his way of adjusting.
"You're doing well," Leslie said. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
"Thanks."
"Can't be easy for you. I mean, no offense, but if you're redeeming yourself - if the sex and drugs and violence is out - what's your safest occupation?"
"Ha! That's the million dollar question, ain't it. I dunno. Drag? Findin' a husband, settlin' down? Shit, even those things are out."
Leslie shrugged. "Maybe not. That holy book was written a long time ago." Her next thought made her smile. "You could settle with Husk. He could use some looking after, I'll bet."
"Yeah. I've gotta lotta time for that cat. But how the hell do ya help someone havin' literal Vietnam flashbacks?"
Leslie sat on her hands. "The same way you help someone through a bad trip, I imagine."
"Maybe. Guessin' you've done that before, by the way."
"Uh, yeah," Leslie muttered, "once or twice. Hey, Angel, I'm sorry I came and dumped my problems on you. I didn't mean-"
"Ah, don't worry about it. Your problems ain't even that bad. Just get yourself a good vibrator, you'll be fine."
She laughed. "That's still being… well, you know, sinful or something."
"Lesser of two evils. 'Sides, if God didn't want us to jerk off , he'd have made our arms shorter."
"Angel?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad we're friends."
He shrugged. "Yeah, well… too much mutual dirt on each other now."
Leslie sat with her thoughts for half a minute. It was all too much. Was she overreacting to this whole thing with Alastor? She was fine now, physically. The burst of pain from her lip was long gone; yet here she was, going out of her mind by the hotel exit with Angel and the rats.
"Y'know," he said, "you don't have to leave this place to dance your ass off."
She nodded. Good point.
"Goodnight, Angel."
"Night."
Leslie wandered back inside, close to the Front Desk, where Husk announced the last call and confronted a few demons as they scrambled for the bar. Finding the studio, Leslie tested the door. Unlocked. The light was off, and the air was cold. For a moment she lingered in the doorway. Shadows everywhere. Possibly an unseen presence lurking nearby, spying on her.
She flicked the light on, but that feeling didn't go away. Alastor once claimed to have watched her dance: was he capable of invisibility, then, or just looking on as the Shadow Man? Her skin was crawling at the thought of being watched. The only way Leslie could be comfortable was to tie a slip of fabric over her eyes as a makeshift blindfold. Lights back off, music low (so as not to disturb other guests), she tore through some angry routines, flicking, stabbing and crashing against the floor. She knew the steps so well, there was no danger of getting acquainted with the walls.
Not once did she remove that blindfold until she was done. Even as she felt minute, barely-excusable gusts of wind; even as a cool jet of air whistled against her face, she stayed blind. Her leg snaked out to kick the phantom blower, to no avail. Fuck you, she thought. Whoever is there, even if you're not, even if I'm imagining it because I'm tense… fuck you.