Monday 6:14 PM
I opened my eyes again. It felt like it had been an eternity since I had them closed. They burned a little. It was one of those wake-ups where your brain is stuck in neutral. My surroundings were totally unfamiliar. As I glanced around slowly, nothing made sense. For split seconds my soggy brain tried to send panic waves throughout my body until something finally registered. Yeah, Joy, stupid brain.
I drew a deep breath and let it out, yawning at the end and stretching my arms. Whatever movement I had made in the process of waking drew Joy's eye, and she spoke, getting my instant attention, for a good reason too. Her movement actually startled me. I sat up on one elbow as my eyes adjusted better to the lights in her bedroom. Our eyes locked, and I was nearly speechless.
During my sleeping absence, Joy had dressed and how. She faced me in a red number off one shoulder, above the knees, and snug in the right places. She had brushed her hair out and pinned it back on one side, opposite her bare shoulder. It hung beautifully in ringlets down the bruised side of her face, neck, and back. Large silver hoop earrings and a heavy silver chain choker completed the ensemble. Her make-up was uncharacteristically dark, her eyes in dramatic shades of brown and traced expertly in black with a cat-eye effect which seemed to make her eyes look larger and even more sultry than usual. Her cheeks, shoulders, and other areas of exposed skin had a beautiful shine I could see in the dim lighting of the bedroom. Gone were any traces of the beating she had received the day before. But I knew they were there.
She smiled demurely as I took her in and brushed her hair to one side, exposing her bare shoulder.
"Holy," I couldn't finish, dumbfounded. The words couldn't make their way out.
"Thank you, Nick. How do you feel?" She said as she approached with a warm and comforting look in her familiar brown eyes.
She ran her fingers through my hair gently as I woke. She knelt on the bed, brushed my hair back, and felt my forehead and neck. She smelled like heavenly ambrosia of powder and sage. It was intoxicating.
"Wow, fingernails too," I said, admiring her glossy red nails.
She smiled a near laugh and kissed me gently on the forehead.
"You've been out a while," she said.
"I bet you're hungry."
"Come to think of it, I am. I'm thirsty too."
She handed me a glass of water that had been sweating on the nightstand for who knows how long. I took a swallow or two, and it felt so good going down. My throat still burned from the power puking, which thankfully seemed like weeks in the past.
"Nick, I went into your trailer and got you some clothes. I didn't think you would mind. I was just really looking for something clean. I found some cool stuff. I brought them in, brushed everything off, and hung them up. I want you to take me to dinner before we go to the party. This is our last night before the big payoff."
My head was swimming; too much information coming at me too rapidly. That was Joy, though. I was still taking her in, sight, scent, and touch; she had left the moment and moved on to other things.
"This would look the part," she said, laying my creamy-white dress jacket on the bed with a pair of black pants and a clean white shirt.
"This is a classic look, my boy. I love it! You're gonna be one handsome fellow tonight."
I looked up at her.
"How long have I been out?" I asked.
She glanced into the kitchen at the clock and then back to me.
"A little over eight hours, you were really gone there, Nick. I even made you sit up a few times and drink water. I guess you don't remember any of that either?"
I shook my head no. I didn't either. That's how kidney's go missing.
"Come on," she said.
"I'll help you get dressed."
She led me to the bathroom, where she left me to brush my teeth and clean up a bit. In just under half an hour, mainly due to my lack of speed, I had one of the most enjoyable dressing experiences of my life. Aside from my face starting to scab over and being clinically dead for several hours, I didn't look too awful. Also, aside from being dehydrated, dizzy, and a little weak, I didn't even feel too terrible. I wish I had been in better form.
Joy even put all this goo on her hands and ran them through my hair. It made my hair shiny and spiky and looked cool. She put on her dark red lipstick and made me stand in front of the mirror with her. I cleaned up nicely and have to admit we looked good together. I didn't even force a smile; it came naturally when she put herself as close to me as possible and pulled my arm around her waist. Her dress was soft, silken, and formative, feeling to my touch. My mind wandered to the obvious places. Despite all the frustration and worry, Joy had a way of making those hard feelings malleable enough to turn them into something else until she was ready to move on.
I looked down at her feet.
"High heels, huh? You think you can drive in those?"
"I doubt it," she quipped, pulling a small clutch from her dresser, "but we'll see."
As we walked out of her small apartment, I noticed something different. I paused, staring at the warehouse for a moment. There was an auto carrier trailer backed into the warehouse! Every damn car in the Davenwood collection, including the Ducati, had been loaded onto the trailer. I looked at Joy in astonishment.
She nodded proudly.
"I've been planning it for a couple of days. It came early this morning. I worked on it today before I picked you up and while you were out."
I looked back at her in her silky feeling form-fitting dress and retook her hand so she could lead me out. She really was something. And God almighty, I must have been really out.
Monday 7:50 PM
Joy had, in fact, kicked off her shoes before we even left the driveway to the warehouse. She struggled to strap them back on correctly as I sat beside her on the tailgate of the Jeep.
"I should have worn my fucking boots," she grunted.
"Oh yeah, that would have been really cute. It's nice to see your little red toenails. You have pretty little feet."
She stopped fiddling with her strappy shoes for a split second and snorted a smile at me, giving me a sideways glance of approval.
Finally, with everything where it was supposed to be, she led me out of the small parking deck to the Peachtree Street sidewalk. We were near the radio station of my previous employ. I knew the area. I had no idea where we were going though, but she walked with purpose, and I held her hand, walking beside her. She knew right where she was going, always did.
Cafe Sebastion, as it turned out, was our destination. I had seen the innocuous sign many times in passing. The smaller the sign, the more exclusive and, dare I say, pretentious the restaurant. Nonetheless, I was not to judge where she chose. We had definitely dressed for the part; no argument there at all. But I was wrong!
We approached the restaurant, sure. But just a few yards before the door, Joy pulled me into an old English-styled telephone booth standing against the wall between Cafe Sebastion and what looked to be a dance studio. This was different. She smiled confidently, glancing over her bare shoulder back at me, just waiting for my usual barrage of questions. Not this time, though. I held my tongue. Whatever was coming would be interesting; she never failed me there.
It was pretty close quarters with both of us in there, but I wasn't one to complain. I remained stoic, although, at that point, it was tough, especially when she nonchalantly picked up the receiver and spoke into it.
She never let go of my hand, and I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly there was an audible heavy click. Then as if she had done it a thousand times, Joy pushed the false back wall of the phone booth open to reveal a rich wood-paneled hallway replete with changing benches and hat and coat racks.
I followed her inside the dimly lit hall and down the end of the corridor. A gentleman stood behind a simple wooden lectern holding a large leather-bound book. The wood-paneled walls gave way to a Kelly green color at the podium. The gentleman snapped to attention. His clothing was period select, only I didn't know what period. His hair was slicked back, mustache trimmed neatly. He was very polite and checked our names off his guest list, then pulled back a heavy curtain to our right and held it for us to pass through.
She took my hand once more, and I followed. As we passed under the heavy curtain, I felt like I had stepped back into the nineteen-thirties. The place really opened up too. The walls were brick, and from the first room, you could see the length of the restaurant through three bricked archways. The ceilings were low, maybe ten feet, and coated in flat black. The floors were polished and stained cement. Old wooden crates were stacked throughout various places, giving the place an old hidden warehouse feel.
The bar was incredible! It was a dark and heavy wooden piece, maybe twenty feet long, with bright copper trim work at each corner and a copper kick plate for the barstools. On each corner of the bar stood what had to be antique glass and pewter Absinthe fountains. I had never actually seen one in operation. Behind the bar were two men in period clothing, their derby hats hanging neatly on pegs. The bottles were neatly stacked in the wooden fixtures behind them, and they both moved studiously and efficiently.
There was chaotic jazz coming from an ensemble at the back of the restaurant presumably, and the most amazing stained glass chandeliers in every room. I was still taking it all in when a stubby man approached in full tux and tails. Like the other fellows employed, he also had slicked-back hair and tiny gold-rimmed spectacles. He politely led us to a quiet table in the next room, which was more sparsely decorated than the bar room and was set up for intimate dining.
The tables were heavy square-cut wooden, and the chairs hefty and padded in soft brown leather. The room was dim save the candlelit tables and the single beautiful stained glass chandelier of ivy and pink roses.
We sat. I was feeling suddenly melancholy despite our elegant and mysterious surroundings.
"It's a speakeasy," Joy finally said, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Isn't it neat! I've been dying to come here. Sasha gave me the code. It's tough to get. In fact, you can't get in without it."
She was happy, excited, and didn't even seem nervous. In her beautiful mind, the deal was done, only one more car to pick up, and she was home free. I was glad for her too. I just didn't know where this was going to leave me, leave us; hell of there even was an us.
I reached across the table and took her hand, forcing her to look at me, which she seemed to have no problem doing.
"Maybe now would be a good time to catch me up on things. I've been out of the loop a little while."
Every now and then, a group of men dressed in non-descript slacks and suspenders, all wearing pressed white shirts, trench coats, and Fedora's, would slowly walk through the establishment carrying Tommy guns and puffing away on cigars. It was all for effect, but it was fantastic. We watched them pass then Joy turned her attention back to me.
"I did what you said, Nick. I called Sasha. I didn't have to go through a lot of bullshit either; she picked right up like she was expecting me. She was super apologetic about our fight at the club."
"She fucking should have been," I muttered in disgust, looking at the stunning job Joy had done in covering her bruises.
"Anyway, we talked a while. I explained things to Sasha, and she understood. She loves that goober Mystic like devoted loves him, Nick. Whatever the hell he is, he is the human form of everything that girl's attracted to, everything she wants, God help her."
"I don't get it," I said, shaking my head.
"There's a chance he's gay too. Does she realize that?"
"No, I don't think so, and I don't think it would matter. Crazy fucking Sasha has finally met someone she actually loves more than herself. She actually wants to talk to Steve too, can you believe it?"
Joy's eyes were bright and beautiful and shimmered in the candlelight. I had seen them before, and sure they were always attractive to me, but then they seemed excited and, maybe for the first time, absent of the worry I had always seen in them.
"Steve, who?" I asked, mind still doggy paddling through what she was telling me.
"Wolf-man dumbass, your drinking buddy and fellow connoisseur of bad Atlanta movies," she quipped.
The thought of what she said made my head hurt and my stomach slightly unsettled. Instantly I could taste and smell the tequila, or was it ancient battery acid? Either way, it was a horrible and burning feeling going down and much worse coming back up. I pushed my martini away momentarily and opted for plain iced water.
"Sash put our names on the guest list, all our names. I had to get Steve's clinger on there, too, just in case. When we get there, we're all going to meet up in private and talk, just the four of us, maybe five if Mystic is there."
She reached across the table with both hands and held my left arm. This is it, Nick; this is really it. I can't tell you how excited I am. I mean, it's going to be like starting over fresh."
She leaned to me for a kiss, her eyes half-closed in expectation. I more than met her halfway. She smelled so good. Our lips parted, and she wiped her lipstick from my mouth with her thumb and gave me an intense and unblinking stare.
"You've been, well, you've been a prince, Nick. I know I'm hard to live with, hard to talk to, hard to love, hard to understand, just hard," she finally smiled.
I remained as quiet as possible. Sure I wanted to tell her that I had enjoyed every moment of our time working together. That was a lie, though. I could have said I enjoyed every moment of my time with her. Again, a lie. I could have said I enjoyed getting to know her, but I didn't know shit. What I knew I liked, good and bad, but I'm accepting of people more often than they are of themselves. I knew I wanted to know more, but she was so guarded.
"I was just along for the ride, Joy, your go-to, remember?" I finally came out with it and took both of her hands in mine, remembering the anxious kiss I got that nearly knocked me off my feet when she first met Davenwood.
"I remember Nick, and thank you."
She squeezed my hand a little, and I looked up into her glassy brown eyes focused on me and me alone.
"Thank you. Thank you for being there the whole time."
We had a fantastic dinner of bootleg hooch, pan-fried pork chops with honey-lime glaze, mashed potatoes, and smoked tender green beans. The fellows with the Tommy guns even made an appearance at our table to tell us that if we were unhappy with our service, let them know. They would "take care" of any problems we had. Joy got a kick out of it, and it was nice to see her laugh comfortably.
Over a shared dessert of creme brule, I listened to her plan to get the Peart home once we found it. Knowing all the strange actors in this play, I was still a little more worried than Joy. I tended to be that way, but this was her circus, her monkeys, and she seemed to have it all under control as usual. Par for our course together, I was, in fact, just along for the ride.