Page 11 of Succubus

Yesterday I met with a prospective client—a woman named Tamar, all curly hair, linen shift dress, and double-dimple grin, described by her husband as “a birthing rock star.” She’s pregnant with her third.

“I set fire to the rain,” I sing. I look at Joel. He’s looking directly into my eyes. “Watched it pour as I touched your face.”

No no no. Damn you, Adele.

Where is Ella? It’s like she’s evaporated just when I need her to stop me from—whatever I’m doing right now. Having some sort of ruinously romantic moment on a cat-related playdate. Oh, she’s actually right there, picking up the trying-to-stay-asleep Mr. Button like a baby and rocking him to the beat.

“Do you sing professionally?” Joel asks when we stop.

“No.” I think of my father, of course. He sang professionally.

That’s an understatement.

I stand up but then am not sure where to go. I resist the urge to put my hands on my face, to try to blot the heat out of it.

“I could listen to you all day,” Joel says with an earnestness that seems to catch him slightly off guard. He pushes his hair back from his forehead, busies himself with setting the cello down. He stands with me, sudden and large, and he smells so good my eyelids grow heavy; it’s like a drug.

“Titi,” Ella whispers, flickering up beside me like a spirit I didn’t mean to summon, and I bend down so she can speak directly into my ear. “I have to pee. And I might also have to poop, I’m not sure yet. Is it okay if I go in the bathroom here?”

“Of course,” I whisper back.

She looks relieved. She’s always asking if things are okay.

“We should head out in a minute,” I say as we follow his directions to the bathroom. Joel calls after us, “You guys want to stay for lunch? I make a pretty good grilled cheese. It’s very cheesy.”

He has such a warm voice. It would say Hey, honey really well. It would say I love you really well.

Yes. I just thought that.

You know what else I thought? I’ll tell you. Maybe it will be different this time.

That’s the mentality of an unhinged woman. A woman who might kill again. Because sorry, Your Honor, the murder victim was just too sexy. His voice was too warm and nice.

“Anyone hungry?” Joel is asking.

I am. I am so hungry.

* * *

“Aw, fuck,” says Grub, his face big on my laptop screen. The eyeliner is heavy and smudged today. “You win.”

It’s movie night, and the theme of the month is sci-fi that takes place entirely on board a spaceship. I bet him that the captain would be the first to die. He said she’d last longer because she’s important, but I know short-haired women are rarely important in movies.

He’s lying on his back, holding his phone over his face while we video chat on our computers. He rolls toward the screen. “I ran into Nate.”

I mute the captain’s agonized screaming, which I would’ve muted anyway because I hate violence. “Oh yeah?”

I’m on alert. Nate was Grub’s closest friend before Grub figured out he couldn’t have any.

“Hang on, how did the spores get on the ship?” he deflects.

I wait.

“He wouldn’t even look at me. I’m like a fuckin’ piece of dirt to him now.”

“Grub, you know you chose that, you know you’re protecting him.”

“I know! I obviously know that.” He turns away, and there’s an undead clown face stenciled on the back of his black hoodie: tongue out, rotting holes where the eyes should be.