Exit, Stage Left
Jens Schaefer caters to the fantasies of others. What happens when a client proves to be his own?
Jens Schaefer caters to the fantasies of others. What happens when a client proves to be his own?
Originally published in Taboo_, which you can still get from FurPlanet. A standalone story, with the usual Rob fare. Questionable decisions, flawed people, Russian literature, a Lockheed Constellation..._
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"Exit, Stage Left" by Rob Baird
Blueprints sprawled across the teak desk, joined by photos of my latest prize: an old airliner, a Lockheed Constellation I'd found abandoned in a desert junkyard. Now there was only the matter of adapting it to our purposes.
This wasn't without complications. "A flatbed truck big enough to haul a cross-section from Arizona, two rear-projection screens, the stewart platform from Bay 7--and, of course, the proper uniforms. I give it about a hundred and twenty man-hours of labor."
"'Kin 'ell," my harried assistant swore; his dry British accent lent the oath a touch of unwarranted class. He scribbled briskly in his notebook, triangular ears swept back like sails in a stiff wind. "Be needin' the machine shop, I suppose?"
I chewed on my lip, watching the dip and flicker of my whiskers. "Yeah. For finishing touches, at least. Blank work order for the guys we used last month. And make sure we have enough power for the whole operation this time. Get somebody in to check the wiring in D Room--I don't trust the three-phase lines after what happened in the space shuttle op."
"Got it." The corgi nodded, and I allowed him a brief pause to click a new lead into his mechanical pencil. "Cameras?"
"Three fixed, one free-articulating."
"Stills too? Big one like this, they might want to use it in a brochure or somethin'."
I waved my paw airily. We wolves are big picture thinkers. "Fine. Bill it to Marketing Ops, though. It's not coming out of our commission."
"Dare I ask the final bill?"
"Twenty-six thousand. Three for overage, but I think we can do without that. The airplane was the biggest new expense, and they were scrapping it anyway. We got off easy--easier than 566 is going to, at least." And when I grinned, the corgi grinned back at me.
Client 566 had taken a fancy to the golden age of air travel. "I want to fly first class from New York to Chicago," he'd said. "But with, you know... real service."
"Real service," I'd asked, with a raised eyebrow. "You mean, like a willing stewardess or two?"
When his ears had pricked, and he'd echoed that last word again, I knew I had the sale. "Could you... do that?"
Of course I could. Wish fulfillment for a price was the job of Jens Schaefer (and associates). Late-night office fling with that cute new secretary? A brief trip back to regency England? An intellectual coffee-shop conversation with a fellow aspiring poet that actually does turn into something, for once? Earth from space, with a bit of sensual distraction on the side? We could make it all happen: the sets, the actors; a script if desired. And as simple as that you get your fantasy brought to life, and sufficient film to relive it all later.
Wish fulfillment for a price, that was all. I was most assuredly not running a brothel.
And I had reason to take pride in my work. Six days later I stood in the first-class cabin of a Pan American airliner in authentic 1960s livery. The monitors to either side showed the world passing by in perfect, lifelike definition, and the pneumatic jacks beneath us let the whole thing move in six degrees of freedom.
Cheryl McGraw, a shapely young leopardess, joined me in the cabin and spun once, showing off the uniform we'd created. "Looks good on you," I said, entirely truthfully.
"Thanks, boss. You said it's me and Tricia?"
"Sure. You and Trish are the very best Pan Am has to offer," I grinned, spreading my arms in a grandiose gesture. "Got your 'seat backs and tray tables' speech memorized?"
"Yeah, yeah. I know my lines--for what it's worth." Cheryl rolled her eyes and recited a few phrases from memory. "Why do you suppose he didn't want to be the pilot, anyway?"
"More fun this way," I shrugged. "'Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight'; let somebody else take care of all the details. I bet it's--what is this?" I leaned down to fish out a magazine, some of the reading material that had been provided. "Ben!" I shouted out the open cabin door to the floor ten feet below.
A moment later his orange head poked around one of the hydraulic struts. "Yes?"
"This Life is from 1972. I specifically said 1961." I flipped the magazine to him like a Frisbee, and he caught it, looking over the thing with just as much disgust as I.
"On it!" Ben bowed dutifully and departed my vision.
"See? Details," I winked to Cheryl. "That's why you need to know your lines, hon."
We wound up coming in two thousand dollars under budget, which I handed back to Client 566 before he left on his 'flight.' This was another means by which we ensured that word of mouth was positive: there's no advertising quite like a satisfied customer. From one of the control rooms, I leaned back in a worn leather chair and watched the monitors.
Everything came together. There was no trace of doubt or hesitation, nothing to suggest a flaw in the mask, when Cheryl walked through her safety instructions. Or when Tricia set an authentic first-class meal from the galley in front of the client. Or when the plane briefly encountered "turbulence" and the leopardess had to take a seat next to him to steady herself and strike up a bit of conversation...
After the former airplane reached Los Angeles, a crew of six people had turned the whole thing around in only three days. Dismantling the fuselage, fixing it to the hydraulics, remodeling the interior, sewing the uniforms, tracking down the menus--and finding a new magazine, of course; Ben was indispensable for the little things like that. When Cheryl started to unbutton her blouse, I shook the corgi's paw. "Good work, as always."
"As always, boss."
Sometimes I stuck around to see how the sex would play out, but Client 566's fantasy was bland enough that I didn't see the point. If anything came up, Ben would give me a call. I strapped myself into my car, dropping the 300SL into first gear and roaring out of the parking lot, long nose angled towards Sunset Boulevard.
At first I thought the house was empty, and just enjoyed that solitude, with the spanish tile cool beneath the muffled thump of my footfalls. It had been a good day. I strolled past the foyer and into the kitchen to mix up an old fashioned. I'd just added the orange slice when I caught the sound of someone behind me--and then the feeling of warm paws encircling my belly.
"Evening, handsome."
I turned to regard the jaguar with a grin, setting the glass aside to wrap her up in my arms. "Hey, Mags. How was work?"
Magdalena was a branding consultant down in the city--an occupation, really, no cleaner than my own. "Oh, babe, you know how it goes. Think I got the account, though..."
I tried to remember what 'account' that was for long enough to decide that it didn't really matter. "Grats," I smiled to her, leaning down to give her a light kiss. "Tough job, consultancy... all that telling people the obvious and charging 'em out the ass..."
She grinned wickedly. "Oh, is that all it is?"
"There's more?" I asked, giving her a teasing, devilish smile. "Hell, even I could do it."
"You think?"
I nibbled the tip of her nose. "Try me."
The jaguar grabbed my paw, taking it past the edge of her clinging dress and guiding it beneath the fabric, bunching the sheer material against my wrist. Her fur was soft, silky and warm--so was her voice, when she stretched up on her tiptoes to find my ear. "Let's start easy," she purred. "Do you suppose I'm wearing anything underneath this?"
She was not.
Afterwards, as we sprawled in my bed in a nest of rumpled covers, her sharp claws stroked through the fur of my cheeks. "What are you doing after work tomorrow, babe?"
I shrugged drowsily. Magdalena had a way of wearing me out. "No plans yet, why?"
"The Carters are having a gallery opening, to which you are..." her brow furrowed as she considered the appropriate phrasing. "Cordially invited."
"Do I have to?" Stuart Carter was a high-profile and terminally dull entertainment lawyer. His husband Moss created works of avant-garde 'art' that the couple assured me were very deep. The previous installation had consisted of taxidermied housepets engaged in superfluously carnal acts; it was called guernica too and evidently represented, in Moss's grating drawl, "the casualties of class warfare."
I knew that Magdalena was not so tedious as to feign alignment with this particular artistic school; still, she patted my neck consolingly. "Of course you have to. Everyone will be there, Sebbykins--it's important to make a good impression."
"The whole time?"
The claws grew sharper. "The whole time, Sebastian Jens Schaefer."
Whenever my full name came into play I could consider the battle as good as lost. "Fine," I sighed. "Not that I care about being seen. What do I get out of it?"
Placated, she retracted her claws, wrapping me up in a hug. "A much more exciting after party, for one..."
So the next morning found me wearing my best suit, and looking rather out of place. Most of us wolves are bulky enough to be just this side of "used car salesman" in a sports coat. Me, I'm pretty slim; I can carry the look pretty well. Not well enough to keep Ben from snickering--but he's never passed up an opportunity to, as he puts it, "take the piss."
"Come off it," I grumbled. "How did 566 end up?"
"Weather went south over Chicago--plane had to circle for nearly a full hour. He had some stamina in him--but I must say, he looked rather chuffed when he left."
"That's a good thing, right?"
"Right."
"Cheryl and Trish?"
"Gave 'em the day off. Figure they deserve a chance to spend their tip."
I rolled my eyes. "He tipped?"
The corgi gave me a cheeky, bright-eyed smirk. "Maybe he just enjoyed the in-flight service. Anyway, what's next, boss?"
I turned on my tablet computer, looking through my notes. "Starts with simpler fare: 571 is a standard type 28 with a C modifier."
Ben grunted. "We had a 28 last week. The poodle skirts are still at the dry cleaners."
"Well, get 'em back. And make sure the Pontiac is ready to go."
"Anything else besides the C mod?"
"He wants to be the entertainment in the joint. Says he's got a good voice. 'Dean Martinesque.'" I reached into my satchel, pulled out a small USB stick, and tossed it across the table to the dog. "It's not bad. If you want to round up a few bystanders for dinner and music, I don't think they'd throw tomatoes. Ooh--get a vinyl pressed and put it in the jukebox."
"Sure; good idea. Monday soon enough?"
"Monday's fine. I make the whole operation at three grand."
Ben flipped his notebook over to a clean sheet. "Call it four, just in case. And 572?"
"More of a challenge. Bank robbery ends in a hostage situation; he's called in as the negotiator. The robber turns out to be a dom, and more than he can handle--imagine that." Ben smiled, and from the strokes of his pencil I could guess what name he was writing down as a recommendation. "Then, after the Stockholm syndrome is good and ready, they escape into the sunset, pedal to the metal."
"Present-day?"
"Yeah. I figure we'll use the Z4 for the getaway car--it's got enough flash."
"We can turn E Room into a bank vault easy enough. We need any extras?"
"A police officer or two?" I leaned back in my chair, trying to script the story in my head. "No! Wait! Couple guys in SWAT gear! We'll use the Crown Vic and pick him up at the county airport, and they can give him a 'briefing' on the way over."
"Does it need to be authentic? We've got those uniforms from the 'space boarding party' scene a few months back."
"Yeah," I decided. "Spray-paint and re-decal 'em, but those'll work. A few hostages, too--and we'll need those for the whole day. He says it's important that they watch. Otherwise it's not as... degrading." We were too jaded to find such things perplexing; my partner merely wrote this down, and asked me what else he needed to know.
By mid-afternoon, Ben and I had the whole scene conceived and scripted. The specialty ops, the ones where we had to build part of a space shuttle or plan a mock trial, were my favorites. They let us flex our creative muscles, and they made for good publicity. I rather enjoyed the sight of Cheryl McGraw in a stewardess's uniform, and I fully intended for it to show up on our website as soon as possible.
Of course, these scenes didn't make us the most money. The more common scenarios were our bread and butter, and those we could serve up on a few hours' notice. I mean, your fantasies are probably pretty mundane: screwing some gorgeous specimen on a beach. Or being a rock star and making the best use of your groupies. Or getting out of a traffic stop the lascivious way. Or joining the Mile High Club. These were so common we had special codes for them--Code 28, for example, was anything set in the 1950s, which often started at a diner and ended in the back of a hot rod.
My own fantasy, as far as I was concerned, was to make a living without having to wear a suit and report to some overbearing asshole of a middle manager. To do my own lone-wolf thing. To live life on my terms, and to have the most fun possible while doing so.
It was to this fantasy that I escaped, standing in the middle of the most excruciating cocktail party I have ever attended. Moss Carter was patiently explaining that the dehydrated In-n-Out cheeseburgers he had staple-gunned to the wall represented "rampant consumerism," while his audience listened with dead eyes.
"The food is both food, and an idea of food," Moss declared. "By showing it as it really is, I force viewers to confront the duality of consumption."
"It reminds me of that piece Brendan Sim did for the Portland public library." This insipid suggestion--for one, you know as well as I that Brendan Simms works exclusively in metals--came from a tigress who seemed manifestly unaware of her ignorance. She went on to compound the error by describing Simms' Cornucopia, with its stylized junk food done in bronze, as "you know, the ice cream cone with the hot dogs in it?"
"Well it's certainly inspired by Sim," Moss allowed sniffily. "But it's more visceral, because I'm using real food."
"Oh, of course."
Another martini later, the conversations were at least all running together, and I could ignore them en masse. Something about a yoga studio with "authentic Mayan spiritualism," and a new café that only sold beans from a "hyper organic" farm it owned in Costa Rica, blended into gossip about a few of the absent high-society couples and a profoundly uninformed declamation of the UN.
The only thing that made it bearable was Magdalena's attire, a tight black outfit that clung to the jaguar's curves in a very flattering way. I stared at her over the shoulder of an amateur engineer who felt compelled to explain the details of the newest Lamborghini's transmission. My heart wasn't in it, but I nodded at the appropriate times.
"I was thinking about buying a Bentley Mulsanne instead--you know, like it was time to settle down?"
Mags, I thought, you really do have a fantastic body. "Mm-hmm."
"But I mean, I hear the Lambo is just fine as an everyday car."
As soon as we get home that dress is coming right off. "Ah, yes, I heard that too. Very practical."
"You really think?"
My phone was buzzing. I patted the raccoon on his shoulder with my martini-glass paw while I fetched out the instrument of my salvation. "It'll be great." Then I tapped the screen to answer the call. "What's up, Susan?"
"New client, sir. Are you available to meet now?"
Some sixth sense had told Magdalena that my phone had gone off; I caught her glaring at me across the room. "No, unfortunately," I told Sue, disappointment soaking into every syllable. "Does tomorrow work?"
"Tomorrow's fine. I'll make a reservation at your usual place. 11:30?"
"11:30," I echoed, staring at the jaguar who now pantomimed hanging up the phone. "Need to get going now--thanks, Sue."
"So as I was saying," my erstwhile conversational partner immediately started up again. "The V12 develops nearly seven hundred horsepower, which is less than the one in the Ferrari, but somebody told me that it..." With the promise of a new client this was even more agonizing; I gritted my teeth. A quiet evening, a gin and tonic, King Benny Nawahi on the turntable: was this too much to ask for?
Client 573 proved to be another wolf, which was not unusual. Client 573 also proved to be a woman, which was. We met in a quiet café that I considered to be a regular hangout. Something about it had a way of putting people at ease.
Her name was Naomi, she said, and she had been a little hesitant to come to us. "But I kind of thought... maybe..."
Like Ben, I tended to write by hand when taking notes--I'd transpose it onto the tablet later, but for now I liked the personal touch afforded by the fountain pen. Plus, it let me write backwards, so that my notes weren't completely obvious. Client 573, I wrote, and then glanced up at her. "Maybe what?"
"It just seems a little ridiculous when I say it out loud." She stared into her bowl of fruit, taking her fidgeting out on a helpless bit of honeydew.
"Of course," I smiled reassuringly. "Fantasy always seems ridiculous. If it didn't, we wouldn't have to dream about it--it would just be our everyday. You remember that TV series from the early '90s--cartoon about a gang of kids who go around saving the world with the help of some weird ghost monster?"
"I guess..."
"Last month I had a guy in here who wanted to be tied up and whipped by the ghost. That crazy two-legged hairless chimpanzee thing? Said it was the only way he could get off."
Naomi's blush darkened the flawless white fur around her ears. "I don't want anything like that," she murmured. "It's a bit less... kinky."
I nodded, and leaned back unhurriedly, as though we had all the time in the world. It was the kind of look that said I know you're a little anxious, and I understand that. No pressure. When she didn't rise to the bait, I prodded further: "You know, the best way for me to understand is for you to tell me."
"It's my husband," she blurted out--then her ears went back, as though shocked by her own outburst. "I mean--it's not--er. It's not him specifically. B-but... you're a wolf, right?"
"Guilty as charged," I told her. My pen was still lightly tapping at my notebook--I couldn't quite figure out what hang-up was in play. "You and your husband as well?"
"Yes." She stabbed at a grape, using the difficulty of the maneuver as a stalling tactic. "He's not very good at being the... you know, at being in a pack. All he cares about is work. He's the CFO for a bank down in the city. All he ever talks about is work. Or... things around work. Even the things he says he does for fun, it's all with his work buddies. Golf, or tennis, or lunch at the yacht club..."
I, of course, couldn't imagine anything like that, but even though memories of the party from the night before still lingered like a bad smell in my brain, I simply nodded. "Not enough time for you?"
The fork held Naomi's interest for several seconds. "It's not that he doesn't love me," she clarified. "But I was kind of a trophy for him. From a good family, all that nonsense..." I could see it: even now she had a well-bred wolf's gorgeous, stately grace; ten years and thirty pounds earlier she must've been absolutely breathtaking.
"So the time he does spend..."
"It's always at some dumb party, or asking me to do something around the house. I feel a lot like an accessory, Mr. Schaefer."
"Jens, please. Or SJ." Only Magdalena was allowed to call me by anything resembling my first name. "What would you want him to do?"
"I can't make him change anything," she shrugged. "I've tried that for the last decade. But I was thinking..." Her expression became more wistful. "Well, dreaming, I guess. I was dreaming about what it must be like to have someone who really, um... who really cares about you. Who's, you know, interested in you..."
"If not your husband, then someone like..."
The white wolfess sighed. "I don't know. The poolboy, right? Isn't that how it's supposed to go?"
I chuckled. "You can't trust everything you see in the movies." Poolboys, and other dalliances with the hired help, just barely rated a code in our index. "A coworker, perhaps?"
"That seems so... so tawdry. I was thinking maybe somebody I might meet at a restaurant or a café--not like a bar, not a hookup, but..."
Now, pen at the ready, I leaned forward. "Just take a step back. Your exact, perfect scenario. What would it be?"
Naomi took a deep breath. "I sometimes have this daydream, where I go to a coffee shop and somebody's playing some music I like, and I catch the attention of one of the other patrons, and it turns out we have some deep, shared interest. Maybe about books or poetry? And when we start talking, it turns out we have everything in common, and when he asks if I wouldn't mind going to dinner with him there's just something in his eyes. Something where I can't help myself. Or... or it's okay to not help myself..."
Even saying something so simple, so poignant as this requires baring your soul, and when folks are done explaining themselves they often look at me warily, like they're waiting for me to criticize their desires.
That was what she was expecting: "don't you think that's a bit cliché?" or "can't you think of something more realistic?" or "real people don't act like that, do they?" Instead I wrote a few lines in my notebook, and then tilted my head to her inquisitively:
"What kind of music?"
"Guitar. Classic guitar--not Spanish, a jazz guitar. Like Django Reinhardt, if you know who that is. Something you could just listen to, and enjoy..."
"Right," I said, even as my heart skipped a beat. It didn't serve to show your emotions to a client. "I've heard of him. And who are your favorite authors?"
"I studied Russian literature in college."
Like Tolstoy? Chekhov? Or more like Pushkin and Lermentov? Grigorevich? Turgenev? Or are you more of a Bulgakov type, Naomi? "Oh--so like, uh, what's his name? Dostoevsky?"
"Sure."
"What would he do for a living?"
"He's..." My receptiveness had warmed her up a little, and she seemed to be genuinely thinking about the question. "He's a teacher. Maybe a professor--but not a stuffy professor. Really down to earth."
"A wolf?"
Naomi sighed, her voice quieting. "Yeah... just an honest, nice, caring guy. This city is so shallow... and I know I'm shallow, too, wanting to act it out like this... but... just once, you know?"
I knew. "We can do that."
The cardinal rule, of course, is that you don't fall for your clients. Still, it was hard not to feel a little jealous as I spelled out the details of the scenario to Ben. He picked up on a bit of it, smirking quietly to himself as we worked over the script. Marko Koskinen, one of our few male leads, was the only one even remotely suitable.
"Sounds pretty simple," the dark wolf shrugged. "Girl wants somebody to show her a little attention? Ain't that complicated."
I dropped a stack of books on the desk. "Read these--and be able to speak about them. Authoritatively."
"The Master and his Margaritas?"
"No, you philistine. Read the title again. Get the Bulgakov and the Gogol read by Monday, and I'll set up a teleconference with a Russian professor. He can make sure you don't say anything stupid."
Marko flicked an ear impassively. "What do I teach again?"
"European history."
"Then why'm I reading this stuff?"
"Because attention to detail is part of the act," I said curtly. "Now can you get this done, or do I need to outsource?"
"What does she look like again?" I turned the tablet around--we'd taken a few pictures outside the café, in what I considered to be rather flattering light. Marko grinned fangedly. "Yeah, I can get it done. Nice guy wolf brainiac; likes guitar and Google, long walks on the beach..."
"Gogol," I repeated.
"Whatever. Sure, boss, I got it." He scooped up the books, dropped them into his satchel, and padded off.
"Bit passionate about this, for a type 6 with an E modifier," Ben remarked drily.
"Hush," I snapped. "It's important that he be able to play the part, that's all."
That wasn't 'all,' clearly, but that was my problem, not Marko's and not Ben's. I sent Koskinen a few more notes over the weekend, until he finally told me he was no longer looking at his work E-mail and I had to admit my need to take a step back.
I found a gypsy jazz performer and booked him into Needleman's, the fusion pub. Wednesday night, I watched as the disguised cameramen followed Naomi to her seat. The music sounded tinny through the video link, but from the look on her face I wished dearly I could've been there.
Marko had smoothed out his toned form with an Aran sweater, and when he took the seat next to the white wolf he did it with such a self-assured smoothness that I felt a slight pang. He delivered his lines damnably well: "sure, but you have to admit, Kafka had his own sense of humor. No, I'm serious! Read Metamorphosis again..." said with a grin and a heart-melting chuckle.
"She looks like she's getting into it," Ben gestured to the screen.
"Doesn't she? Wait 'til she gets into his car." The pristine Subaru had Stephane Grappelli queued up in the CD player ("oh, this? Yeah, I have to admit, I really love this style..."). That was part of the act, of course--the most important part, even. The unexpected surprise, the twist that makes it seem less like a daydream and more like something that's really happening; that grabs your client and holds them fast.
They skipped dinner, and for the second review in a row I stopped watching when the clothes came off--this time because I could scarcely bare to keep my eyes on it.
And life went on.
"What do you think of Thelonious Monk?" I was at a nondenominational holiday party, a week or so later, abruptly changing the conversation from the tedium of hot tub maintenance.
The squirrel seemed a little bemused; her tail curled and flicked with befuddled agitation. "Who?"
"Thelonious Monk," I repeated.
"Oh, you know. I don't really follow the Middle East very much. It seems so violent and angry..."
Over Magdalena's protests I excused myself from the gathering to sit behind the wheel of my car, staring at the lines of the parking lot in front of me. When I was a kid, I'd done the same in my mom's station wagon--imagining that the road before me was really moving, and that I was going somewhere.
It's a little harder as an adult, when the weight of unrealized fantasy becomes a heavy and heavier burden. And that was my job: who the hell was I to complain about having the curtain pulled back?
The next day, trying to puzzle through Client 576's need to consort with a comely Indian lass in the Wild West, I confessed to Ben that I wasn't sure why Naomi had struck such a chord with me, but that I couldn't get her out of my thoughts.
"It's because," the corgi said with a shrug, "she happens to be your fantasy."
"What do you mean?"
"Haven't you ever thought about that? What do you really want, boss?"
I frowned at him. "You tell me, Ben. You seem to know."
"You figure that you spend your whole day inventing stories for people to enjoy, and you know that it's not real. It's all scripted, all planned--nobody acts like this in real life. That's what you're missing, an' now some bird's shown up says she wants the same damn thing. Somethin' genuine. Just some simple, honest bloke with a cardie and soft eyes. 'Course, we invented that, didn't we? Right in this room. And she didn't seem to mind."
There was an edge in the corgi's voice; I pricked an ear at him. "You don't buy that's what she wanted?"
"I'm just saying that in your line of work, boss, even the truth is made up. An' if she was looking for something genuine, there's a lot of real cafés out there."
It was true enough. "You think this is a bad idea."
Ben smiled. "It don't matter. You've got half a mind to run around on your girlfriend with a married woman who happens to be one of your clients. If you think that even needs to be argued, you're already sold more'n I can talk you out of anything. And besides..."
He trailed off, reconsidering, and I had to ask him: "'Besides' what?"
"Everyone's got to have a daydream. If this is yours, well... What'd Oscar say? 'The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it'? Of course, he was a sodding idiot, but maybe..."
"You're a bad influence."
At this, Ben snorted. "We're pornographers, boss, not pastors."
The degree of the space between something that you know is a bad idea and something you do anyway is either addiction, or stupidity, or both. I was stupidly addicted to thinking about Client 573, and the next day I finally broke down and dialed her cell.
Briefly, I had entertained thoughts of subterfuge--pretending I needed to talk to her about the contract, showing up at her office posing as a businessman; 'accidentally' bumping into her on the street. But wasn't the point to be honest?
"Hey, Naomi? It's Jens. I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner tomorrow night."
A long pause. "Tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Maybe Vietnamese?"
"I... I don't know..." she said. "I'm busy tomorrow." I let the silence hang on the line, trying to think of what to say. It's hard to read people over the phone. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah."
"What about Saturday?"
Saturday I was supposed to go to a friend's house with Magdalena--but hearing the voice in my ear suggest the date overruled any hesitation. "Sure. Should we meet somewhere? Do you want me to pick you up?"
Now she went quiet again. We were both thinking about how to avoid suspicion. How to sneak, like rats moving in the shadows at the edges of streetlights. "How about at that café?"
"Sure. At 5?"
When I pulled up outside the café, I found the wolf already waiting. Naomi did not carry a dress so well as Magdalena--cats gain a natural bonus to all things slinky--but her attire was still a notch above the nuong xien place I had in mind. I guess some people have reputations to keep.
"It's good to see you again," I said, and she smiled softly. "Where are you parked?"
"I took a cab," she admitted. "I, uh... I didn't want to take the car." She didn't say just in case I got discovered, because neither of us wanted to admit that there was something just a little bit illicit about the whole thing.
I graciously said nothing further. Pulling open the gullwing door of the Mercedes for her, I stepped back to let her into the car. This was not quite chivalry--wolves can handle themselves--but the doors were a bit out of the ordinary, and I was myself no longer as entranced with them as I'd been when I bought the car. I let her buckle up and then settled in, turning the key and watching her pointed ears twitch to the sound of the inline-6 growling to life.
"Different," she said.
"Unique," I countered. "And maybe a bit anachronistic."
Naomi smiled, and settled into the cool leather of the seat. "Like the music? Who is this? Sol Ho'opi'i?"
Traffic was light, and the Mercedes glided up Santa Monica Boulevard to the sound of steel guitar. "Henry Allen," I told her. Allen's "Kalele" flowed over us in gentle waves, pooling warmly around our feet before receding, and I shifted up a gear in time to the ebb of the rhythm, so that the purring engine reached out to pull the horizon steadily closer. I think that's what I loved about the 300SL, too: its raw simplicity, the connection between my paws and the road sliding smoothly beneath us. "You like Sol?"
"He's the only Hawaiian I know," she admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "It was just a guess."
But then, most people wouldn't have even managed that, would they? It gave us something to talk about, something beyond the banality of the city, and the weather, and the current events for which one is occasionally asked to feign concern. She was more animated by the time we pulled into the steakhouse--completely booked, naturally.
Knowing the owner has its perks.
Finally, at a small table in the corner, she leaned forward. The candle's flame caught blue eyes that were dark and pensive in the subdued light, and her white fur was subtle and luminous. "So... what is it that you wanted to talk about?"
I had no answer, shaking my head softly. "Nothing--or anything. I just... ever since we met, I... it's been hard to stop thinking about you." Her head tilted. "Maybe it's something you said. Everyone I meet is always... they always have a mask on. And sometimes, when I get a glimpse beneath it, it's like..." I shrugged, trying to feel for the words.
"It's like there's nothing there. Or worse..."
"Worse?"
She, too, fell quiet. "You see that hollowness there... and the more often you see it, the more often it seems like a mirror. Sometimes I'm talking to someone and I look in their eyes and I feel so terrified."
"When I was young, my folks owned some land in central Washington. In the summer mornings, before it got too hot, I used to lie on my back and look up into the sky. Wouldn't be any clouds, most of the time, just this infinite, beautiful blue emptiness. And I'd stare at it until I could feel it tugging at me, and I held on to the ground because I thought that I might fall upwards and lose myself forever."
"Do you still do it?"
It felt a little childish--I knew now why people were so reserved, confessing their own secrets to me across huevos rancheros in a tiny diner. "It's the exact opposite, but sure. The chaos of the city, you know... you see a crowd of people, or a traffic jam, and... if you're not careful, you could lose yourself in that, too."
She cocked an eyebrow. "You think we're kindred spirits, Jens?"
"It sounds stupid, but... you know. Fuck." Stupid or not, I had to say it; I balled my right paw up until the claws dug sharply into my palm. "It was when we were talking. You like Don DeLillo and your eyes light up when you hear Django Reinhardt and I saw the way you saved your pineapple for last in the fruit salad, and I--I do that too, and... I know how it feels to like those things; to do those things... and it's like... it was like I was staring at a crowd of people, all seven billion people on this planet, and for this briefest moment you were real, and they weren't."
I felt like Eliot's Prufrock, impotently declaring _it is impossible to say just what I mean--_but she just nodded. The waiter arrived, and took our orders, and by the time he left again I worried at first that the spell had been broken. "In the café," she asked, "how much of that was Mr. Koskinen, and how much was you? Pulling some... some Cyrano de Bergerac on me?"
"The acting was his. The thoughts were mine--at least, in the café. I don't know what happened afterwards."
"It sort of felt like that," she mused out loud. "Like it was just a fantasy."
"And this?"
"This is more real. You're less... hmm. Polished."
I laughed softly. "I wanted to try life without the mask, for once."
Naomi's smile was so subtle, so perfectly contoured to her snowy muzzle, that I couldn't doubt it for an instant. "It's nice. Seeing someone without those shadows in their eyes. I don't like shadows."
"A bit dangerous, no?"
"Dangerous?" She tilted her head quizzically.
I grinned. "Trees and living things cast shadows, too. Would you tear everything from the surface of the world, because in your imagination you wanted to enjoy the naked light?"
Naomi froze, and blinked. Her laughter held the sound of sudden realization. "So you were behind the Bulgakov too, hmm?"
"Yeah. Though I'm no expert like you--just a fan. I'm more partial to the absurd, myself."
"Camus?"
"More Ionesco."
"Comme c'est bizarre, et quelle coïncidence!" The wolfess laughed, nodding lightly. "But I guess in your line of work the bizarre must be pretty ordinary."
"Not that it doesn't still have some surprises."
"Like an unexpected return visitor?"
"Like that," I grinned.
I'm not even sure I remembered the rest of dinner--when we left I offered to drive her home, and she agreed with a shy nod. It was more steel guitar, all the way back, and our banter was light and unburdened.
I pulled the car to a halt, turning off the key and getting out to open her door again. In the caramel light of evening, the other wolf's demureness drew me closer, and she took my paw with the gentlest of touches. "Hey..." she began. "Ah... Do you want to come inside for a bit? The place feels a bit empty. I'm alone here for a few days."
The moment of truth. I hesitated, keenly aware that the appropriate thing to do was to politely excuse myself. Instead I smiled--yielding to temptation--and followed her up the stone path to the front door.
Naomi's house was larger than mine, and furnished in a rather more modern style: clean, with white carpets that matched her fur like camouflage, and hardwood floors that spoke to timeless elegance. There was little in the way of furnishing, and no television--nothing marred the walls save for a few paintings too heartfelt to be professional.
"Would you like a drink? You seem like a civilized soul." The door of the liquor cabinet slid open without a sound, and she retrieved a bottle, eyeing it thoughtfully. "I'm very fond of this Martell."
"Cognac would be lovely."
Her back was to me; in the hazy glass reflection I saw her muzzle turn in a gentle smile, and her tail waved lightly. She poured two glasses, and then dipped her head towards a balcony that looked out on trees hinting at the valley around us. I followed her through the door, joining her on a heavy wooden seat.
I took a moment to drink in the heady scent of the cognac, and then allowed myself the smallest of sips--letting the smooth taste spill over my tongue and closing my eyes for a moment. "Magnificent, that."
"It's a ritual, sometimes... in the evening I come out here, and I... well, you can't watch it, exactly, but I feel the sun go down. By myself, most days--I think I'm a romantic, at heart."
"Good cognac is an argument for romanticism," I pointed out, and took another sip. Fiery orange light filtered down through the leaves, so that we saw the world as if trapped in amber. "It's the belief that there's a value in patience, and tradition, and doing things right."
"Doing things right," she echoed, nodding. A bird called. She turned to look at it, which brought her body closer to mine, and when she straightened up again she didn't move away. "I was a little hesitant when you called, you know?"
"Yeah, I figured."
She twisted around to look at me, her head tilted. "Did I make the right choice, do you suppose?"
It was a question posed so innocently that I couldn't help myself. I lowered my muzzle, pressing my lips to hers in a firm kiss. She tensed--then relaxed, canting her head further to bring our lips closer together.
When I pulled away, she sighed, like wind on autumn leaves. It had a longing melancholy to it I couldn't permit to stand. This time there was no tension; I heard the clink of glass on wood as she set the cognac down, and her arms intertwined behind my back.
I could taste sweet warmth and the faint hint of the brandy as I slipped between parted lips and into her mouth, exploring her; our tongues met, and she teased me with soft, warm velvet. I slid my paw down her side, feeling the silky fur give beneath the smooth cotton of her dress, and she gasped into my muzzle.
Our eyes met. For a moment I saw hesitation, as we both realized that saying anything would bring it all to an end--that all it would take to save our virtue was a single word. Then those deep blue eyes closed; her ears swept back, and she crushed her lips to mine with a renewed hunger.
I pressed her back and into the bench with the weight of my body, half pinning her so I could roam with a little more freedom over her frame. Beneath her dress the wolf's thick pelt gave way between my fingers; I dragged them up her thigh to her hips, taking hold of her rear and squeezing it firmly. Naomi moaned. Her breath was hot and ragged as it spilled into my muzzle.
"Stop," she finally gasped--jerking away from our embrace an inch or two. I had my paw somewhat awkwardly up behind her back, undoing the catches of her bra with my fingers, and it took me a moment to bring them to a halt.
"Naomi?"
The white wolf nuzzled into my neck, muffling her panting. "We should--should go back inside."
"Rr?" It was a wordless, questioning grunt.
She summoned enough resolve to untangle herself from me -- her dress now rumpled and out of sorts. Standing, she offered a paw to pull me to my feet as well, and then smiled shyly: "I, uh... I didn't want to get the cushions wet."
Two unfinished glasses of cognac stood vigil as their owners slipped back into the warm house. I followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom--clean as the rest of the place, nearly bereft of anything that suggested a shared life. At the edge of the bed she turned again, and unzipped her dress--stepping from it like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.
Age--she must've been in her late 30s, at least--had treated her well. The dress had hidden her ample curves, and now I stroked down her sides appreciatively, feeling her solid warmth under my fingers. Wolves have never been able to carry that rangy, skinny look--which is fine by me; leave it to the jackals. I guided her back and onto the bed, and she fell gracefully, pulling me atop her. This time she didn't protest when I undid her bra, working with me to help get it off her; my claws dragged through the fur of her full, heavy breasts and she shuddered in delight.
I arched my back to press my muzzle to her breast, lapping gently at the pert nipple, and was rewarded with the feeling of sharp claws digging through my shirt and into my sides. I had no particular desire to damage the shirt, and when I unbuttoned it to shrug it off the wolfess giggled approvingly, stroking my back like a housepet as my lips closed around her, suckling lightly. She squirmed a bit, all soft, pliant fur and yielding flesh, and lifted her hips up to help when I worked my paw lower to tug at her silk panties.
That proved to be the impetus she needed--with me distracted by her warm fur about my muzzle, the subtle hint of perfume and the teasing musk of her own scent filling my nose, Naomi took the opportunity to run her inquisitive paws over the rather prominent bulge in my slacks. She found the zipper by feel--a rather theatric feel, I thought--and pulled it open, stroking my stiff length with the flat of her palm. I growled, nosing into her breast a bit more roughly than I'd intended, and she snickered hoarsely, guiding my boxers over the rigid erection that stretched them taut.
I started to growl again, but then she put her paw on my shoulder to push me over and into the middle of the bed, where I sprawled in an ungainly heap. She straddled my thighs, and I could see the pale red flesh of my shaft jutting up, stark against her immaculate white fur. The wolfess pressed her muzzle to mine in a deep kiss, and I felt her scoot forward, dragging my throbbing length through thick fur until it prodded at hot, wet, yielding flesh and we both gasped.
Naomi's ears twitched and her breath escaped her in a throaty moan as she slid her hips back and I sunk deep inside her in one firm push. She gave me a moment to adjust--moist, slick folds pulsing around every inch of me. Then she lifted her hips up, dropping them again in a fluid rhythm that rocked her solid form above me. I arched up to meet her, bringing our hips together with a wet squelch as her arousal soaked into the fur of my crotch and thighs.
She started to move faster, her hips rolling with a growing insistence. I put one paw at her hips to guide her as she rode my straining shaft. The perfect white triangles of her ears splayed as we worked together on her bed. She kissed me, hungrily, and I could see the pleasure flicker over her features every time our bodies joined. Captivating--absolutely wonderful, watching her... fighting to stay in control of my own feelings... just a little longer, a little --
"Jens," she gasped, tearing herself from my muzzle. Her thighs were trembling, the rise and fall of her hips growing shaky and uneven. Her claws dug into my shoulder so hard I thought she might break the skin--then she moaned my name again, and I felt her tense up, clamping down around my shaft in a vise. The pressure ebbed a little--resurged--relaxed--and as she spasmed wetly around me the wolf fell forward, panting raggedly into my neck.
When she had finally stopped bucking I leaned down to nibble on the rim of her ear; she answered with a soft moan, and her hips ground weakly back into mine. "You okay there?" She grunted, and I hugged her heaving body close.
"Did you--ah..."
"Not yet." But I was still buried to the hilt in her, aching for release. She teased her hips in a little rolling circle and I couldn't help the little growl that escaped me. She seemed to have recovered enough. I squeezed her rump firmly. "Get on all fours?"
It took her a second before her limbs seemed to obey, but she nodded, sliding off me and settling down on her knees with that full, round rear lifted obligingly. I pushed myself up, nudging her thighs wider as I got behind her. She flicked her tail teasingly, and I wasted no time in guiding the tip of my shaft back into position, pushing forward to drive sharply into that welcoming, slippery warmth.
Both paws on her hips, I started to thrust quickly, bucking against the wolfess's raised rump. I pulled her back into my thrusts, rutting her urgently, listening to her gasp every time the growing knot at the base of my shaft forced her lips wider. When I pulled back now it was with a wet, lewd pop; she jerked a little each time, and I felt her starting to quiver again beneath my paws.
I changed my pace--pressing in hard and deep, holding there a moment to let my knot swell further. I knew it wouldn't be long until I couldn't pull out at all--so I was trying to make the most out of every thrust, feeling the hot velvet of her folds part around me.
When my jerking backward tug found me trapped I gripped her rump in both paws, pulling the white wolf's squirming hips back and into mine. I bucked once--twice--then gasped out heatedly, a ragged snarl leaving my clenched jaws. Bent over her, I stifled a strained howl in the fur of her neck.
I hadn't really thought to ask if she wanted the tie--but it felt so damned good, so wonderful to be knotted properly to a comely she-wolf that as I growled her name, my throbbing shaft spurting warm seed deep inside her, I didn't care one goddamned bit. And from her gasping moans, the way she shuddered and bucked in my paws, I rather suppose she didn't either.
I filled her in strong, hot pulses, feeling the warmth spill into her, trapped by the solid bulk of my knot. Her tail thudded against my belly, and then she howled with me, her paws grasping desperately at the covers as her quivering body milked me.
Then--spent, the waves of pleasure ebbing to a dull glow--I pulled her down with me, wrapping my arms around her waist to hold her close. We were both still panting, and neither of us tried to speak for a good minute or two. I was just trying to catch my breath, filtered through the lustrous fur of her shoulder.
"Jens," she mumbled muzzily into the sheets. "Jesus, you were amazing..." I nibbled the wolf's ear, and when she flicked it reflexively I took it lightly between my teeth. "My god..."
For the purposes of my self-esteem I decided she had, naturally, not been nearly so effusive with Marko Koskinen. And I, with the lassitude of the afterglow melting whatever cynicism I still had left, was the happiest I've ever been. "You are just... god, wolf, you're just perfect..."
Naomi was warm in my arms, comfortable and reassuring, and I was so overwhelmed by her that it took me a moment or two to realize that she'd said something. My ears perked: "What?"
She turned about in my embrace, a little awkwardly because we were still tied, and then smiled shyly. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything."
"When are we... you know... done?"
"Done? I mean... it'll..." Had she and her husband never actually slept together? "Twenty minutes? Maybe a bit less, or more?"
"No, no. I know about that. I meant... that... I... I thought I had only paid for the one... um, the one scene. Back in the café."
I blinked a few times, feeling my ears sweep back. "You did. That was it. That was the entire contract."
"Then..." She faced away from me, but not before I could see the deep blush beneath her white fur, tingeing her ears. "I just thought that this was..."
"No." I was almost at a loss for words: "I--no, this wasn't an act. This was real. I mean... for me."
Her paws had been resting atop mine; now they came to her muzzle, hiding her face. "Oh, god." Her voice was muddy, muffled in her fingers. "Jens, I... I'm married, for god's sake."
"But you... you ordered the fantasy, and then there was dinner tonight, and --"
"Because I wanted an escape," she broke in. "Because I was tired of my life and I wanted something better, but I can't just... I can't just run away from it. That's how daydreams go, sure, but it's not how life works. I'm married, and you're... well..."
"I'm what?"
"You're a... well, your business..." You're a pimp. She didn't say it, but the word was thick and ugly, trapped on her tongue. "N-never mind." There was nothing I could really say to the implication, and so I said nothing. Now her ears were also lowered. "This is... um... This is slightly awkward, isn't it?"
"A bit." I had not felt such antipathy for my knot since my awkward junior high years--preventing me as it did from making even a graceless exit.
She had the same thought as me, squirming a little--I was still held fast. "I, um... look, I'm sorry for giving you the wrong impression, Jens."
"It's okay." Sort of. It wasn't, really, but what the hell was I supposed to do? "I got... carried away."
"Because I was... because you..."
"Loved you, yes," I said curtly. "I think. And I thought we had some... shared... something." I wasn't even able to put my thoughts together.
"Well..."
"I'm not actually interested in having this conversation right now," I managed. "If you don't mind."
"No, of course." And we waited the awkward minutes until I could withdraw in complete silence. When I drew myself from her, the wolf's breath caught a little, reflexively. She rolled to face me, still looking chagrinned. "I, um... I'll clean up..."
"Thanks."
She sat up, and I could tell she was trying to think of the right thing to say--the right way to end it with some mutual understanding. "I do like you," she insisted. "I enjoyed your company a lot..." Even if the tense had been right the sentiment was not.
I smiled--and now I was acting. "I enjoyed yours, too. It could've ended better, but... it was fun."
"You know," she said, sprawled on the bed we'd shared. "You will find someone..."
But I could've heard that from any two-bit advice columnist. "One of these days," I nodded. The lying was getting easier. "I, ah... thanks for dinner, and the company. You, uh... should check out, um, that guitarist. I think you'd like it."
It was a stab at normalcy, and it failed as strongly as hers had. I gathered my clothes up, pulling them on hurriedly, and made my way from the room without saying anything further.
I had thought that I might cry, back in the car, or give voice to my emotions in some way. But instead I was irrationally angry--at her, by which I really meant myself, by which I guess I meant the world. I stopped at the gym to shower, hoping to wipe away every trace of her, and I let the water run cold until I was drenched and miserable.
And still the worst of what she'd thought of me. What right did I have to judge anyone? What high ground could I possibly have? Who you really are, unfortunately, isn't something that easily washes off.
I tried to be discreet, but the next day at work Ben noticed something in my mood. The corgi lifted an eyebrow, shaking his head at me. "Good night?"
"Neither here nor there," I said crisply. "Now, ah... Client 577 is looking for a camping trip--we still have the old arctic explorer equipment, right?"
He didn't even have his notebook open. "Do you want to talk about things, boss?"
"Are you my therapist?"
"Close enough, aren't I?"
I snorted--not that Ben would leave me alone, he cared too much for that. "Really."
"Look, if you want to talk..."
I looked at him sharply. "The temptation," I growled, putting a cold emphasis on every word, "has been gotten rid of."
He didn't ask what had happened, my girlfriend didn't ask why I'd stayed at the office so late, and Naomi did not see fit to contact me. This was fine. It let me focus on the conclusion I'd given Ben, who, unable to draw anything further from me throughout the day, permitted me to return to work.
Of course, like everything else about me, it seemed, this return to the status quo was fictive. My desire. My fantasy. And my melancholy wasn't about Naomi herself. Really, I suppose, Ben was right: it was all just my foolish hope for something beyond shallow acting.
If all the world's a stage then, no offense to the bard, nothing really matters--our whispered affections are no more meaningful than the order we place at a coffee shop. Maybe less--after all, you get something tangible out of the latter.
And if I was in the business of reducing something so potent, so primal as basic desire to a commodity, then who the fuck was I to complain anyway? But I did, sulking quietly behind my desk.
Maybe there was something to be said for shadows.
Because the problem, really, was me. I was just as shallow as any of them; just as much of a liar, just as much of a sinner. Just as hollow. Just as vulnerable. Plucking at my mask, worrying it like the edges of a scab and wincing at how it felt.
The answer, I decided, lay in striking some quixotic blow for honesty. Not like admitting what I'd done--where would that get me? But one step at a time, away from the masquerade, because eventually someone would see beneath it. There are people in the world, after all, who matter. Really matter, and if they put up with me... well, it's almost as good as putting up with myself.
"You don't want my honest opinion."
I'd told Ben, in brief, what had happened--of course this was nothing he hadn't already guessed. And I'd asked him what I should do. Be straight with me, I'd said. Give me your honest opinion. "I do."
"It was a fucked up thing to do, boss. What's the first goddamned rule of this business? We don't mess with the clients. Can only hurt. 'Kin 'ell, boss, how do you forget that?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Ben shook his head. "Don't make excuses. You of all people ought to know not to get led around by your dick. It wasn't a good idea, not even then."
"I wasn't the one who brought up Oscar Wilde, was I?"
Immediately after I said it I realized it was, in the end, just another excuse. The corgi gave me a second or two to dwell, fixing me in knowing eyes. "I look like Jiminy Cricket to you? If you want to stop treating people like shit, that's on you, boss. I can't make you. I'm not your bloody conscience."
My ears wilted. "I'm... okay to people." Ben was silent. "I'm okay to you..."
"Well, you don't want to sleep with me," he snorted, and let that wound smart until I opened my mouth to reply. Then he continued: "Look how you treat your girlfriend. I'm not even talking about the bloody cheating."
That would've been enough on its own. "What are you talking about, then?"
"Stringing her along? Your whole life's a bloody act. I don't hear you talk about anything you two have in common other than your high society shindigs and that's just so you can get up on your blasé, better-than-you pedestal."
"Maybe..."
"Do you love her, boss?"
That's such a strange word. I used it, on occasion, with Magdalena. It felt natural enough. Then again, I'd thought that I loved Naomi, too. "I... don't know." And then, in a softer voice, I admitted the truth. "I guess I don't know what it even means."
"It means you're better together than you are apart. She deserves better than 'I don't know.' For that matter... well, for that matter, so do you, boss. But you have to be honest, first. Could let her see the real you."
"A miserable son of a bitch?"
Finally, Ben smiled--just the hint of one, turning up one side of his muzzle. "You have your moments, on both sides. But you could try, at least."
I looked at him in silence for ten or twenty seconds, until the word that I was looking for appeared on my tongue. "Thanks." And I tried to reach for my tablet, to end the impromptu therapy session.
Ben reached out, and took my wrist. "Boss. Go home, okay?"
He couldn't be my conscience, but he was still the closest thing I had to a friend. Slipping through the mid-afternoon traffic, I turned the radio off and left myself with my thoughts. The jaguar was already home when I got there, picking through a magazine slowly. We greeted each other, with warmth she didn't know was unearned, and then settled back into the quiet of familiarity.
Or was it? Were we familiar? I was willing to admit that Magdalena probably deserved better than me, although I couldn't quite agree that I did, too. 'The real me,' Christ--did that even exist? Perhaps there was only one way to find out.
"Hey, Mags?"
The jaguar's head tilted. "Mm?"
"Let's go to a concert tonight."
She paused. "Tonight's that fundraiser, I thought?"
"It is. But I don't feel like going. I don't feel like standing with a cocktail in my hand listening to some halfwit prattle on and pretending I'm 'networking.'"
"I see."
"I hate those people," I continued. "Everything about them. So do you."
"I see," she repeated, neither confirming nor denying what I'd said.
"Ferrau Quirion is playing downtown--he's a jazz violinist, practically a prodigy. Fifteen. I think we should go."
She didn't wholly sound convinced. "Is anyone going to be there?"
"No. Just us. We're not going so that we can be with people, or to make ourselves 'seen.' We're going to be together, and enjoy a lovely night on the town, and not worry about any damned soul besides ourselves."
"Jazz, huh, Sebbykins?" I nodded--we'd never really talked about it before, and what she said next was no great surprise. "I don't know anything about jazz."
I smiled. "And?"
The jaguar leaned back to eye me closely; her head canted, her short ears lifted with that examination. "And," she finally decided, stepping closer again and returning my smile. "I guess it's as good a time as any to start?"