Underneath a curt smile, she cusses his name. Every hetero male over the age of thirteen and a half would die to get into her jewel-studded panties. Rife makes her beg for the privilege. She doesn’t beg long though—not after she guides his hand up her sculpted thigh, fingers navigating around lace and rhinestone until he’s knuckle-deep inside her.
“Please,” she moans, lips barely giving breath to the word. It angers Riya Natrajan that he has this effect on her—but in all fairness, Rife knows a thing or two about addiction.
And now he fills her up, both literally and figuratively, their flesh occupying the same space in a slick dance of primal urges. Her fingertips slip across the muscles of his bare chest and then glide down the ripples of his abdomen, traveling over the scars of his livelihood so boldly on display . . . unlike all of hers, hidden neatly away. He’s as tough as they get, but now he’s gentle. Too gentle. She tells him so.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, warm breath sliding past her ear and down her neck.
“I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”
“True, mama.” Rife doubles the beat, slipping deeper inside her. “Sing to me.”
She does, and together their moans form a melody so sweet that the world beyond them disappears completely. And then there it is, that lyrical crescendo in high C, when all her body knows is pleasure. It ripples through her, a fading rhythm, an echo, then nothing.
He crashes down beside her, and they both catch their breath, like two sardines pressed together on that thin chaise lounge. She wriggles her skirt back down to cover her thighs and tucks her B-cup breasts into a miraculously padded D-cup bra.
Rife’s not one for warm good-byes. He fishes around on the floor for his boxers. “You’ll fly, mama,” he says, then presses the vial back into her palm.
She grasps it weakly and closes her eyes, daring to relive that sweet moment a dozen times. When she opens them, he’s gone.
“I’m Felicity Lyons and I’ll be singing ‘Ass Without a Name’ by, well, you.”
Riya Natrajan rolls her eyes. “No, you won’t,” she says, then dismisses the auditioner with a flick of her hand. If she has to hear that damned song one more time . . .
“Please, Ms. Natrajan. If you’ll just let me perform a different song, I promise you won’t be sorry.” She’s got impressive calves in those heels, Riya will give her that. Beefy girl, but a diva to the nth degree.
“Go ahead. Give me a couple bars of something.” Oh, she’s getting too soft. Underneath the table, she fondles the vial, pops the top. She’ll fly, Rife had said. She shudders at the thought of him, phantom throbbing causing her to moisten all over again.
She taps a small amount into her palm, then feigns a yawn and snorts it. It stings good, and she feels lighter almost immediately. Happy birthday to her.
Felicity does a number, old old school, Aretha Franklin. She’s amazing, tromping around in that golden sequined dress, voice hitting pure notes Riya Natrajan hasn’t heard in a long time. Her foot starts tapping, the groove resonating through her bones—toes to legs to spine to arms. Then Riya Natrajan does the unthinkable. She claps her hands. Only they’re not hands. They’re wingtips. Shit, Rife! Could have warned her about the hallucinations. Her heart flutters around in her chest, mind moves a million ways at once. She feels buoyant, like her body is working with her instead of against her for a change.
She jumps out of her chair and gives her wings a flap. Behind her trail long feathers, the most beautiful blue with black eyelets staring back at her and details to rival any couture gown. A peacock. Prized symbol of India, the homeland of her ancestors, so many generations back now. Fitting in so many ways . . . well, besides the cock part.
She joins Felicity onstage, cutting in and riffing together, harmonizing and upstaging each other all at once. “Respect,” “Chain of Fools,” “A Natural Woman” . . .
“She’s the one,” Riya Natrajan proclaims after they wrap up with a chord sharp enough to crack glass.
“Indeed,” says Adam, smiling ear to ear.
Felicity squeals and wraps her arms around Riya, their bodies pressing together with a force that would have crippled her any other day. Whatever this new drug is called, it’s nothing but a godsend. The pain is gone, not just covered up, but gone. And her mind is sharp, maybe sharper than it’s ever been. Riya imagines her new concert tour—bigger routines, longer sets, more extravagant choreography. Bless this peacock!
And speaking of cocks, they’re going to have to do something about Felicity’s. A less clingy dress would be a good start, but don’t worry, dear. Riya Natrajan is good at keeping secrets.
Chapter 8
Sydney
Sydney’s a sucker for old movies. She remembers the first time she’d seen one, in black and white, when movies were starting to get sound. Even back then she hadn’t had more than a handful of believers, but South Africa was filled with strife, injustice, fear . . . and fear can recharge a demigoddess’s powers in a pinch if there’s enough of it. So she’d willed her skin white, unkinked her hair, and had just enough ire left over to draw herself vaguely European facial features. She’d looked a hot mess, but no one blinked an eye when she’d strutted past the yellow sign proclaiming for use by white persons only in English and Afrikaans, straight up the plush red carpeting to purchase her ticket, and then sat down in that theater with a smuggled bag of popcorn in her lap.
And now, those old movies have become her escape from this dull excuse for an existence. She watches her television now, rapt in her hovel of an apartment as the corny, old-time music crackles through her stereo speakers. She laughs at the slapstick comedy and tries to put her crappy day at the nail salon behind her, while avoiding thoughts of the custodial overseer job she’ll go to this evening.
“Please,” comes a weak voice from the man currently stretched across her coffee table. “I beg of you. Let me go.”
And then there’s that distraction.
Sydney’s surprised he still has the strength to speak, much less the will to live with all the hell she’s put him through—skin flayed like a tuna, legs bent at half a dozen impossible angles. She tunes his moaning out and savors the fear lapping at his skin like viscous waves breaking on the beach after an oil spill. She absorbs it—foul, thick, and dark.
“Please,” he begs again.
“Shhhh!” Sydney says to her meal, though she keeps her gaze affixed to the screen. It’s just getting to the good part. She props her feet up on the coffee table, her heels smearing through his blood. That coffee table is the only connection she has to her former glory as one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the face of the earth. At the table’s base is an ancient slab of ebony wood with thick iron spikes jutting up in a simple yet pleasing checker pattern. Suspend a man over it, and it becomes an effective torture device, breeding fear by the bushel. Top it with a nice piece of beveled glass, toss in a couple of coasters, and ta-da! Perfect place to rest a drink or TV dinner.