When Alastor dropped her home at the end of their too-eventful night, Leslie asked for some time to process and make herself sensible. She didn't want to go to pieces in public and make people suspicious, she said, and he agreed.
They shared a final rusty kiss at her door, and she was alone at last. No more red light, no more chirping and croaking. She backed against the cold, comforting stone of the wall. What had happened? What had she just allowed to happen? It wasn't all bad, not by a long way, but… Leslie's hand went to her shoulder. Healed, like nothing. Still hers. She should have cried, but the tears didn't come. Instead she took a shower, exhausted and glad to get everything off: the sweat, the remaining dried blood, and every trace of Alastor.
Characters from movies always sat under the shower spray in times of crisis. For this reason, she abstained. It was too clichéd... and besides, her sister once got a UTI from doing something similar at a public pool.
Leslie kept the dress with her in the bathroom, hung over the curtain rail with the handkerchief still in the pocket. Something for Rosie, if she decided to take her offer. That would be dangerous. Sure, it might get Leslie out of this bind, and give her some powers, but Alastor would be immediately suspicious. Nobody else got that close to him, except for his barber. Nobody else could give Rosie what she wanted.
Then, atop the crumpled dress on the dusty floor beneath her bed, Leslie lay still, quiet. She made herself a twistedly idealized fantasy version of the night's events, and waited for morning.
o - o - o - o - o
In the following days, Leslie coped better than she expected. While her previous traumas in Hell affected her quite directly, she felt herself burying what happened in the bayou, and that was fine with her. She didn't need to dwell. Denial was fine. She was quite good at it.
It was tricky during dance sessions - which recalled her brush with oblivion in Alastor's office - and it got trickier still when she actually saw him. As he roamed the halls as usual in his confident way, antagonizing the guests, it was hard to tell anything had changed. Happy, smiling and singing was his default. The signs were subtle - practically invisible, if you didn't know what to look for. And most people wouldn't look; they wouldn't think him capable of such subtlety.
During one of Leslie's teaching sessions, he lurked in the doorway, watching her, picking his teeth with the claw of his pinky finger. Reminding her of their sharpness. His eyes sparkled almost imperceptibly, like a gem stuck in some stony riverbed. So hard to catch, but Leslie saw it. Oh yes, little bunny... I have known you so very, very well...
He was a goddamn panther when he wanted to be.
On this day, annoyed at the provocation, she gave a pretend idle stretch, and rubbed the side of her neck, close to her shoulder, like it was sore. Maybe she did project weakness, but she could at least tease him a little, knowing exactly what he desired about her. Let him think about biting, just when it wasn't possible.
Another stupid decision. Leslie saw his eyes narrow before he swept off; Alastor would get her back for that little display.
o - o - o - o - o
Leslie began to sleep exclusively in low-traffic areas of the hotel. Usually she picked an armchair in the library, or curled up by the fireplace in the lobby. A different place every time. It wasn't that she was scared, she told herself; Leslie just wanted some control over the meetings with Alastor. Her room was linked to his, after all - it was too easy for him to come a-creeping and find her in her bed.
When she did sleep, she dreamt about him. If she was lucky, they were together in some cozy, darkened space with a glowing exit. Mutually exploring, making heat, swallowing lava. There were good memories from the bayou, buried in her subconscious, and sometimes the theatre director in her brain gave them center stage.
More often though, Leslie was bitten, maimed, even torn in half by Alastor in full demon form, and she'd scream awake, covered in terror-sweat, with a sense of horrible guilt she couldn't pin down. It happened tonight, on a chaise longue in the eighth-floor hallway, and a demon yelled at her to shut the fuck up. Leslie hugged her knees, listening to a nearby ticking clock to bring her back to reality.
The grandfather clock in Alastor's office… was it still standing silent, after he stopped it?
Thursday night. The weekend would soon be here.
o - o - o - o - o
When Decider was still Karlton, kicking the habit had been absolute death. Lellybean did the right thing, of course she did, but she had no fucking idea. She didn't know what a fish-hook in the mouth that stuff really was, long term. Big deal, she quit drinking after college. Big fucking deal.
"Some people just need to be on," he told her. Yeah, pushing it, but he was in a rotten mood. "Fucking creative types? The level of stuff those guys need to function. Denis Leary. What, that was energy drinks? Bullshit. He couldn't have done his thing without the-"
"What is your thing?" Leslie snapped. "I don't see you doing anything, except killing yourself and running through our fucking money."
Jordan's money, mostly, but he didn't say.
"I'm doing it, aren't I? Haven't taken a fucking thing!" he snapped back. He was sweating like a mule, and the roll of toilet tissue he pressed to his face was barely helping. "Why do you gotta make me feel like shit? A'ight? I know I'm a fucking waste of skin. Like everybody says."
"If you bring up your mother again, I swear to God…" She got up, dragging her hair out of her face. Somehow it looked ashier when she was upset. She turned and walked away.
Karlton stood. "Where- what are you doing?"
"Are you going to be like this whenever I leave the room?"
"Maybe!" he yelled, suddenly spiteful. "That's you, now, isn't it? Li'l Miss Drastic! You happy I'm like this? You get what you wanted? I sure hope so!"
"FUCK YOU!" She stormed towards the bathroom, her progress only halted by the toilet roll he threw towards her head. It bounced harmlessly off the wall; at first she was startled, her arms raised and her hands bunched into fists. Then she glared, seized the roll and pitched it back at him like a baseball. It hit him on the nose, and left a trail of paper halfway across the room.
A bad day, honestly.
But that was then, and Karl had deserved the venom. Fuck, Lellybean was doing the right thing. All Jordy ever did was kick about and suggest they quell the boredom in the same old way. All his family did was pretend he didn't exist. Leslie carried him through the fucking fire, and that was love, real love.
Now in death, he was dealing with his mistakes yet again, trying to make things right. But he had faith in the hotel, and in himself this time. It'd be just like a movie: clean up, regain her respect, maybe get back together, he hoped. He hoped.
Naturally, Decider shunned his old vices, but there were a few legal substances he wanted, to put the psychological hankering to bed. So he headed for the nearby smoke shop; there were some strains of kratom that might help. Cutting through a red-brick alleyway, he was surprised when a tall figure poofed into his path. Easy to tell what this guy's favorite color was; he was drenched in it head to toe, and carried both a cane and a leather suitcase.
"Hello there!" the figure said, in a fuzzy yet spirited voice. "Decider, isn't it?"
"Uh…" Decider nodded minutely. "Do I know you?"
"Co-owner of the hotel!"
Relief. "Oh, great! Er, you wanna get out of this alleyway to talk?" He tried to move past the stranger, who matched his sidestep.
"Hmmm, no! I think we'll stay here awhile."
Now Decider was concerned. The taller guy's smile remained friendly, but his eyes had that fuckhead cop, your-ass-is-mine kind of look. "Listen," Decider said, before the guy flicked him in the mouth, catching his lower lip. "Hey! A simple shush would've-"
"How have you been?" the figure asked, leaning in closer and closer with that creepy smile. "A little strangled? Wrestling with your conscience, or maybe you're just missing that sweet nectar of yours! You know they have it in mechanical dispensers down here? This is a paradise for zealots like you, if you remove people from the equation. Sartre was right, you know!"
"Zealot? The fuck are you talking about, man? I'm clean."
"Oh, I'm sure. You could even stay that way, if you had the support… but that won't be the case. And you know it, don't you? She as good as said."
Decider took a moment to process. "Are you… talking about Lellybean? You don't know a thing, man. She's my girl."
He laughed. "False!"
"Fuck you, we're working on it! She can make her own decisions... In fact, she'd be pretty mad, knowing you're speaking for her. That's presumptuous." He squared up to the guy. "I don't care how tall you are. Fuckin' stuffy old white dude, what would you know about Leslie?"
"First of all," the guy said, "don't presume my background, and second, you must forget about her. I know you, Decider! You placed an each-way bet with women you claimed to love. That was cowardly, and look where it's got you. I don't think you belong at the hotel!" He slung the suitcase at Decider's feet. "Your belongings. Consider yourself evicted."
How did this guy know so much? Every sentence out of his mouth was like a new confusing slap in the face. Then it clicked.
"Ah fuck," Decider said, tumbling back. "You're him, aren't you? The new guy."
For a second, the prick's eyebrows fluttered, and Decider was gratified to have dented his armor, even a bit. "I don't follow," he said.
"Yeah, you do. She told me, OK? In love with someone else, wouldn't say who. No wonder, huh? Abusive son-of-a-cunt like you! Fuck you! You ain't kicking me out."
"Already have," the guy countered. "Don't worry! She's in good hands."
"So we're fighting then."
"What did you say before? She did mention… Ah! 'Like Novocain for a broken tooth'!"
Decider already had his fists raised, but the guy pointed his cane, and something socked Decider hard in the mouth. A bright spark of pain sent him falling to the ground. He swallowed something hard and pointed. Tasted blood. As he groaned, air rushed against the exposed pulp of his front incisor. His head rang. Decider doubled over, screaming with his mouth closed. Somehow, despite all that, he heard the other guy's closing remark.
"Perhaps demon teeth regenerate," the guy said, leaning condescendingly. "Perhaps not! Perhaps only if they're fully dislodged. You have no idea! My question is this: what is a homeless piece of scum like you going to do about it?"
More muffled screaming.
He tossed Decider a couple of hellar bills. "Something to get you started," he said. "The machines are that way."
