Page 23 of Succubus

He always thinks everything is the key to everything.

“It’s just a guess,” I say. Rock stars definitely have power over other people. And he’s always seemed vaguely evil. But so do a lot of selfish people. “There’s no evidence that it’s related to him. That he’ll know anything helpful.”

“Yeah. If he’s just a regular, maybe he’ll at least sign your shirt and you can, like, sell it.”

I smile. “That’s comforting.”

“Maybe you should bring a bunch of shirts.”

CHAPTER 8

I’m on a plane. I am probably, maybe, finally going to meet my father. Who I know will not turn out to be a good person.

Who I’ve never really wanted to know at all, except for when I was very young.

“If I find him, should I tell him anything for you?” I asked Mom on the drive to the airport.

“Yeah, tell him to go fuck himself,” she said, and laughed. She doesn’t usually swear. “And tell him I look fantastic. Did you see that photo I posted yesterday, from lunch with the girls?”

“Mom, I’m not on Facebook.”

“Oh yeah. I always forget. Who isn’t on Facebook?”

“Me.”

“Oh, Tempest, you’re so funny.” Mom is many things— flighty, self-centered, addicted to Facebook, disorganized— but she loves her family fiercely. “Okay, I’ll text you the photo. You can show him that. See what he’s missing.” She smirked, fished for her pink lip gloss in the cluttered cup holder.

“Sure,” I lied.

“I know you won’t do it,” she said, apparently knowing me fairly well. “But you should. Tell him we’re doing great without his money.” He had paid child support in the early years, or at least his lawyers had handled it for him, but it had stopped when he disappeared.

“Okay, Mom.”

“You don’t have to do this, Tempest.”

I bit my lip.

I’ve never even tried to tell her the truth. Which maybe seems stupid. But I’ve asked probing questions, many times, and she’s been vague, angry, metaphorical. I can tell she doesn’t know anything useful.

After all, she didn’t actually know him.

(Mom was a groupie. It’s a gross story that conveniently just tells itself; whatever you’re imagining based on that is probably right.)

But sometimes she’s bizarrely intuitive. She said then: “You’re trying to figure out why you have such bad luck, aren’t you?”

I hesitated and then nodded.

She nodded solemnly back.

“I was in a bad place, spiritually, during that pregnancy. I may have brought it on you myself—your bad luck with men—as much as I hate to admit it. Through my misalignment. It wasn’t until you were two that I started doing energy work, you know that. And seeing Madame Samantha. That’s probably why Chickadee is fine. Except for her weight.”

I sighed inwardly. “It’s not your fault, Mom.” (I feel sure of this.) “And I should still meet him.”

“There’s not some law about it.”

“I want to.”

Here’s what happened: I spent hours and hours poring over the threads Grub linked to, reading every comment by the poster called OldMAGIK2001. He did indeed sound drunk. He did indeed ramble about Gila, the deceased MMA fighter, but a lot of his posts were political rants. Grub and I found the references to a local campaign at the same time. Florida. Miami. Maybe South Beach. I had a feeling it was really him, despite the fact that coincidences are common, especially when you’re looking the way we’re looking—like a sixteen-year-old whose best current theory is aliens. (I don’t know what my excuse is.)