"Misery loves company"
-Anonymous
There was a swanky little bar on the Santa Monica strip, right on the corner of You Didn't Hear It from Me Street and My Lips are Sealed Avenue that swallowed the darkness dwelling inside its patrons and filled that void with music, merriment, and Moscato. It was a place you went when you wanted to forget, when you needed to lose yourself, and Divinity couldn't have dreamed up a better place in her sleep. If only she could get there.
Falsetto, named partially for its status as a karaoke piano bar, and partially in honor of its signature drink: The Screamin' Demon—which featured your typical gin, melon, ginger ale combo but spiced things up with the juice of three Grenadine soaked habanero peppers—loomed dim and inviting on the other side of the street as Divinity dodged a mini-skirt wearing, Christina Aguilera wanna-be belting Adele's "Someone Like You."
More like butchering, Divinity thought as the girl stepped into her path for the third time and made yet another sweeping hand gesture to the business cards and homemade EP lying in her empty guitar case. She had been two measures early the entire time, and if Miss Platinum Blond Barbie in a Tube Dress sang "Sometimes it's laughs and love, but sometimes it hurts instead," one more time, Divinity was going to flip shit.
For Christ's sake! The girl was reading the lyrics off her phone, yet she still couldn't seem to comprehend that the words were actually "Sometimes it lasts in love" not "laughs and love." It was pissing Divinity off to no end. But then again, she'd been in a pissy mood since even before the party.
Oh, it had started off pleasantly on the surface. Sure, there was the fifteen-page paper, work, school, an internship, and other...activities to make Divinity wonder what it was that was keeping her from keeling over into an early grave. Well actually, she knew exactly what that something was, as it was the same thing that had inspired her to double major in Anthropology and Folklore even though her psychology studies were more promising upon graduation. Generally, though, she could have handled that in her sleep.
It was the things that she found herself dealing with once her eyes grew heavy that caused so much discord to her night. Things that had her out at one a.m. looking for relief at the bottom of a bottle and made sure that she couldn't even look at another bed without feeling both hungry to return to it and full of dread at the sight of it. Of her apartment. This city in general. And that was a thought that made her sick to her stomach because Divinity loved living in Los Angeles.
She loved walking past tree-lined restaurants like Thai's Dishes on Broadway on the Santa Monica strip watching people eat spicy Emerald Bay Shrimp Noodles while having conversations like:
"So then I was thinking we'd have Trevor open up a wormhole in the middle math class and jump inside—"
"Okay, have you seen our funds? This is an indie film, not one of your fantasy dream sequences where we have an unlimited Black Card and tons of CGI effects."
And:
"What if we get a bunch of hair and makeup students from the community college and pool our money together to rent the studio downtown?"
"Yeah, and where are we going to get the models?"
"This is Los Fucking Angeles, Land-o-Dreams, my friend. Every chick with an Instagram account claims to be a model. All we have to do is slide into those DMs, claim to work for some hot shot talent agency, and WHAM! The rest of the story tells itself!"
Everyone in the city just seemed so driven, so inspired, so hungry to become the next overnight success. So...alive.
It was a feeling that Divinity hadn't felt in a very long time. If she were being honest, this walking dead existence was why she and half of Los Angeles—succubus or not—frequented party upon party. Because they didn't have anything to go home to and it was better to have artificial love than no love at all. So with a side step and shoulder check to Miss 90s Pop Star, she charged across the street.
But torment followed her into the bar that night, taking her hand and pulling her to a table in the corner where the liquor flowed as freely as the lyrics of the Ripsy's current song of choice.
The world was on fire
And no one could save me but you.
It's strange what desire
Can make foolish people do.
And I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you.
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you.
And I
Don't want to fall in love...
Her voice was both sandpaper and satin, scratching over the fresh scabs of everything these people were running from and soothing them over with a salve of sweet distraction. But all it did for Divinity was remind her of that which she sought to forget.
Perhaps, that was what accounted for the slight harshness in her voice as she said, "A little maudlin, don't you think?" upon the song's end. She fluffed her black motorcycle jacket as she took her seat, fully aware of the heated gaze she was garnering from the bar's patrons. One gaze, in particular, made her both regret and delight in her choice to pair the jacket with a thin grey t-shirt dress.
"You like to play tic tac toe with your wrists; I like to sing. You're not the only one who can cling to the banalities of humanity," Ripsy implied with a condescending smirk. Twins, a man, and a woman, equal only in their blondness and their glazed-over red eyes, lifted their heads from where they'd been suckling Ripsy's neck and threw their heads back in hearty laughter at the small demon's wit.
Ripsy returned their ass-kissing merriment with fake laughter before pushing their heads back to her collarbone. With an eye roll, she mouthed sycophants as though the very existence of her lovers disgusted her when Divinity got the feeling that they were her favorite part of the day.
"That's our little Tipsy Monster; only happy when her mouth is open," slurred a tall, lithe man in the corner, the only one at their table who was neither a sex demon nor prey. Carter and Ripsy weren't strangers to the art of the argument and usually, there was love behind the barbs and stabs. But that night, there was true, unadulterated bitterness in his tone that could have rivaled the tenth shot he'd downed that night. He was smashed!
Ripsy, who had tossed her caramel brown bangs out of her smoky copper eyes and opened her legs a little to grant Blonde Boy Twin's hand access to her inner thigh, cooed, "Aw, someone's just being a salty bitch because his little fuck toy's mommy grounded him and now he's forced to sleep on the streets."
Divinity ignored the twins' sluggish cackles in favor of turning toward her best friend, concern shining in her eyes as she put her hand over his. "Oh, Carter, baby" she murmured, trying and failing to hide the moroseness in her voice, "what happened?"
Last she'd heard Carter had come home to find his seemingly straight roommate with his hands down his pants in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, an open dress shirt, and a pair of black socks. An open beer completed the image as dishes piled up in the sink behind them: plates, glasses, forks, and knives all digging a hole in his nerves, because really, mother fucker? He'd had enough energy to walk his lazy ass into the kitchen for a beer but couldn't pivot the forty-five degrees that it would have taken to put himself in front of the sink and wash the dishes?
It was a fight that had ended with Nick suggesting that Carter eat a dick if he had a problem with Nick's housekeeping habits and Carter dropping to his knees and taking the challenge. And take it, he had. "Deep-throated that shit like a 115-pound hot dog-eating champ," Carter had bragged to Divinity over sushi one night, chopsticks poised in the air like a vintage cigarette holder. "Closet Case loved it so much he cleaned the dishes, the bathroom, vacuumed the floors, and swept the bird shit off the patio."
And Divinity, who had gotten the feeling that Nick—the kind of homophobe who used the "No, hate man, my roommate's a homo," excuse when issuing his latest insult to unsuspecting bystanders—would pull a stunt like this, should have warned Carter instead of high-fiving him for his sexual prowess. The guilt sat heavy in her stomach and mixed with the thousand other feelings she'd experienced that night.
But Carter wasn't in the mood for self-pity. That had come and gone after the first three shots of Jameson. He was now on number ten, and there was lighter fuel on his breath and in his veins. "She changed the locks! Nick's bitch of a girlfriend, that is. Said I was a bad influence on her boyfriend and was only out to seduce him over to my team. Can you believe that, Divvy? Like I want anything to do with a closeted ass-clown who's too much of a puss to stand up to me on his own. He can spin around in circles on my middle-mother-fucking-finger for all I care! And before you say anything, no," he glared at Ripsy, "that's not just where I want him."
To her credit, Ripsy kept quiet, holding up her hands in mock surrender as another one of her lovely admirers signaled for a waiter to bring another round.
"Well I may not be the infamous Nicky Echols, but I've got an inflatable mattress with your name on it and no girlfriend to kick you out if you decide to get a little frisky," Divinity joked. "If you want, that is."
"Stupid cunt-bag. I hope she gets a yeast infection and starts popping loaves of bread out her twat!" Carter sulked, picking up a shot glass that had just been set ablaze and dropping it in pain. "But I'll get frisky with you on your couch any day."
The boy thanked her, prompting Divinity to assure him that Nick didn't know what he was missing out on as she reached for a cocktail.
"You were late, bitch. Get your own," Ripsy drawled around a maraschino cherry and slapped the hybrid's hand away to which Divinity groaned. One of the selling points that had prompted the girl to go out that night was that Ripsy had promised to buy all the drinks. She knew how tight money was for Divinity, and every time the petite student walked up to Elliot, the bartender, things got even tighter.
Like the atmosphere, and her nipples.
All she could hope was that he had gotten over her since last she'd seen him. But a slow walk to the bar that felt every bit like the guillotine under his lustful gaze knocked that theory right out of the park.
"Hey, there stranger. Haven't seen you in here in a while." She could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant, passing the comment off as small talk as he wiped a few tumblers down with a dish towel, but the strain in his voice gave him away. He was trying and failing to keep things between them light.
"I've been around," she replied, putting in an order for a Shirley Temple Black, her usual, and a cinnamon fireball for Carter.
She plunked a fresh twenty dollar bill down onto the bar only to have Elliot slide it back to her. "For you, it's on the house. Him, on the other hand," the tall man pointed to where Carter was now dancing on the table to Robyn's "Dancing on My Own," "I'm cutting him off. Drunk asshole nearly took my right hand off, trying to get a damn refill," Elliot recounted bitterly.
Divinity chuckled at the story of her friend's antics and defended him light-heartedly, "Right hands are overrated anyway."
"Not if you're single," the bartender sighed under his breath. His tone was playfully disparaging, but the twinkle in his eye was flirty, a clear invitation for something more...fulfilling.
This was why Divinity had dreaded talking to Elliot. Not because he was unattractive or even that she was put off by the insinuations.
Hardly!
Blue Eyes, Dark Hair, and Strong Hands was sex on two legs with the nicest pair of lips she'd ever seen—at least until Senator Donald's party—and if she had been the type to let go like Ripsy was often begging her to do, she'd have let him take her after hours over the bar the first night they'd met.
But she wasn't that girl. And even though the subtle offers always made her want it to the point of craving, she wouldn't let them cloud her judgment, couldn't let them distract her from her main goal.
"Elliot, there's a group of girls right over there who've been eye-humping you the entire night," she pointed to a circle of groupies wearing tight, barely there dresses in the sixty-eight degree Los Angeles weather. "And I've got it on good authority," Divinity leaned in real close, taking pleasure in the death glare that the brunette in the front was shooting her as a result of her proximity to Elliot, "that the Kendall Jenner-wannabe probably wouldn't think twice about letting you butter her muffin without a raincoat. I heard her use the phrase, 'just stocked up on Plan B' in association with your name as I walked in." Divinity took a sip of her drink, praying to God that this classless tidbit was enough to seal the deal.
Unfortunately, Elliot seemed more repulsed by the idea than turned on. "And risk siring yet another clone of Hollywood's royal family? I think not." He filled a shot glass to the brim with a splash of 1800 Silver from the top shelf and downed it in one swallow as if trying to cleanse his palette before doubling down. "Besides," Elliot wiped a large tattooed arm across his mouth, "I see about a million Kardashian/Jenner replicas in here a night. But there's only one Divinity Parker. And I'm willing to wait for that."
Divinity looked at Elliot with a skeptical smirk, expecting to see the lust-filled gaze that she was accustomed to seeing from most men, or at the very least, his signature flirtatious twinkle. Only to find that he'd dropped all the bullshit and was now sucking on his lip ring in an act of self-consciousness. It was endearing in a way that took her back to the first time Carter had brought her to Falsetto, back when she'd first moved to Los Angeles.
Back then, she was just another pretty little thing, imperfect in all the ways that humans were and looking for a brand new start. Without the threat of draining his life, she'd had no problem with the thought of bringing Elliot home. Had fantasized about it during more than one lonely night alone in her apartment, and had even almost done it.
In fact, if Carter hadn't introduced her to Ripsy—who'd in turn taken her to that ill-fated party that would forever change Divinity's life—she would have. Now she'd never know what those strong hands felt like upon her skin, never look up into those blue eyes as he whispered the same sweet nothings he'd issued from behind the bar into her salty skin. Never know what it felt like to fuck this man into the mattress until she could no longer remember her first name.
Who says? Lamia wanted to know. In fact, if you give in right now, I promise not to kill him. That way, I get to feed, and you can keep playing with him for as long as you like.
She almost took Lamia up on her offer. After the night she'd had, it would have been well-deserved, but Elliot didn't deserve to become a walking sex toy/food bank, even if she was sure he'd enjoy every second of it.
"You should go get your boy," he said, taking her silence as yet another rejection and swallowing the burn down with a gentle pat to her hand and a wish for her to have a nice night that did nothing but throw salt into his wounds.
Divinity reluctantly tore her eyes away from Elliot's disappointed countenance to find Carter standing on a table, threatening to "expose this bar for the shithole it is, the house down, boots!" if he didn't get another refill.
"Carter, baby, let's get you home," Divinity cooed, as she struggled to drag him from the restaurant and load the boy into his blue Toyota Camry. The beginnings of a headache forced her to focus more closely on the road ahead, and she was glad for Carter's chastised silence as she merged onto the 10 and then the 405 that would take her to her place in Long Beach.
But her reprieve ended as the sign for Exit 26 came into view. "You tired, sweetie?" Divinity asked Carter at the same time that Carter lifted his tired eyes to Divinity and said, "I don't mean to clock your bartender booty-call back there, but Elliot's gay."
Divinity nearly swerved into a median lined with tall palm trees. "Excuse me?"
He fixed her with a look of incredulity, the yellow of the streetlights making his face little a little jaundiced. "Divvy, the man wears more eyeliner than Tipsy Ripsy and can tongue tie a cherry stem better than I can." Divinity laughed, ready to protest these obvious stereotypes, but then the car turned onto her street, and Carter grew serious. "Look, Div, I just...I don't want you to get hurt chasing after a guy that you can't have. I know what that feels like, and it sucks."
Divinity found a parking space on the street, and Carter exited the car without another word. And even though his confession made her heart ache for him, she knew better than to run after him and offer false sentiments. I'm sorry's wouldn't give him his dignity back nor would it grant him access to his apartment. He needed solutions, not empty words.
So, instead, she raced ahead to catch up to him, entering the maze of apartment complexes that led to her own and opened the door to the modest-yet-nicely furnished two-bedroom apartment that she wouldn't have been able to afford had it not been for the settlement she'd won against her last foster father.
Carter's words followed her to the closet, where she kept the air mattress, pillows, and extra blankets. They ricocheted off her skull as she washed her breakfast plate, wiped down the kitchen counters, and turned off the light. They showed on her skin as she squeezed a dollop of her favorite face wash on her hands and rubbed away the day's events. And it bounced freely in her mind as her head hit the pillow.
I don't want you to get hurt chasing after a guy that you can't have, Carter had told her.
"Yeah," Divinity whispered in the darkness of her bedroom, her mind flying back to a pair of hazel eyes that had somehow seen past Lamia, if only for a moment, "but what if they go chasing after me?"