I adored that woman. She was fun and open and absolutely genuine. And, for some unfathomable reason, she cared for me. Deeply.
My one female customer, a shabby-chic blonde with a bag big enough to sleep in, paid out and left. About two minutes later, Mr. P wandered to the register, ticket in hand, his face infused with a soft pink, his eyes watering with humor. Cookie had entertained the whole place. The stripper followed him. He thumbed through some bills, shaking his head, still amused with Cookie's antics. The stripper took advantage of the moment to explain.
"He saved my life," she said from beside him. She'd wrapped her arm in his, but every time he moved, her incorporeal limb slipped through. She linked her arm again and continued. "About a year ago. I'd … had a rough night." She brushed her fingertips over her right cheek, giving me the impression her rough night involved at least one punch to her face.
My emotions did a one-eighty. My chest tightened. I fought the concern edging to the surface. Tamped it down. Ignored it the best that I could.
"I'd been roughed up pretty bad," she said, oblivious to my disinterest. "He came to the hospital to take my statement. A detective. A detective had come to see me. To ask me questions. I figured I'd be lucky to get a patrol officer, considering … considering my lifestyle."
"Here you go, hon," Mr. P said, passing me a twenty. He folded up the rest of his bills and pocketed them as I punched a few buttons on the cash register, then began pulling out his change.
"It was the way he talked to me. Like I was somebody. Like I mattered, you know?"
I closed my eyes and swallowed. I did know. I had become acutely aware of the nuances of human behavior and the effect it had on those around them. The smallest act of kindness went a long way in my world. And there I was. Ignoring her.
"I cleaned up after that. Got a real job."
She'd probably been ignored her whole life.
She laughed to herself softly. "Not a real job like yours. I started stripping. The place was a dive, but it got me off the streets, and the tips were pretty good. I could finally put my son in a private school. A cheap private school, but a private school nonetheless. This man just -" She stopped and gazed at him with that loving expression she'd had since she'd popped in. "He just treated me real nice."
My breath hitched, and I swallowed again. When I tried to hand Mr. P his change, he shook his head.
"You keep it, hon."
I blinked back to him. "You had coffee and ate two bites of your breakfast," I said, surprised.
"Best cup I've had all morning. And they were big bites."
"You gave me a twenty."
"Smallest bill I had," he said defensively, lying through his teeth.
I pressed my mouth together. "I saw several singles in that stash of yours."
"I can't give you those. I'm hitting the strip club later." When I laughed, he leaned in and asked, "Want to join me? You'd make a killing."
"Oh, honey, he's right," the stripper said, nodding in complete seriousness.
I let a smile sneak across my face. "I think I'll stick to waiting tables."
"Suit yourself," he said, his grin infectious.
"See you tomorrow?"
"Yes, you will. If not sooner."
He started toward the exit, but the stripper stayed behind. "See what I mean?"
Since no one was paying attention, I finally talked to her. Or, well, whispered. "I do."
"My son is with his grandma now, but guess where he's going to school."
"Where?" I asked, intrigued.
"That private school, thanks to Detective Bernard Pettigrew."
My jaw dropped a little. "He's paying for your son to go to school?"
She nodded, gratitude shimmering in her eyes. "Nobody knows. My mama doesn't even know. But he's paying for my son's schooling."
The tightness around my heart increased threefold as she wiggled her fingers and hurried after him, her high heels eerily silent on the tile floor.
I watched her go, giving Mr. P one last glance before he turned the corner, wondering for the thousandth time if I should tell him about the demon coiled inside his chest.
2
Alex, I'll take The Slightly Less Traumatic Life for $400.
-JEOPARDY! CONTESTANT
It was thick and shiny and dark, the creature inside Mr. P, with razor-sharp teeth and claws that could rip through a chest in a microsecond. A niggling of recognition tingled at the back of my neck. I'd seen something similar before, but I didn't know what it was. Not really. I only called it a demon for lack of a better explanation. What else would enter a human body and lie dormant? As though waiting to be awakened? As though waiting for its call to arms? And what would happen to Mr. P when that call came through? My only reference was the fact that I knew, probably from movies or literature, that demons could possess people.