Page 50 of Succubus

“Sorry it’s just me,” I mutter, becoming oddly aware of the Moana 2 soundtrack playing tinnily from hidden speakers somewhere above me.

“Well, don’t take it personal. There’s still a bunch of you out there. Gotta do it sometime. Okay, give me your address. I’ll send it to you.”

I feel deeply uneasy. “Um, what does it actually do?”

“Don’t worry, kid. I got this. I’ll—I TOLD YOU I’M COMING, ASSMOUTH!—make the instructions clear to it. You need to make the instructions clear, is the trick.”

I definitely don’t trust him to do this. Whatever it is.

“What instructions? What do they have to be?” I ask a little frantically. I can tell I’m losing him.

“Nah, I got this. You just hang tight. It’ll be there tomorrow. Or maybe a couple days.”

“No, wait— ”

But he misinterprets and interrupts me all at once: “It takes at least twelve hours, Stormy! At the minimum! I can’t help that! You want me to change all the rules? The world has rules, okay?” He’s angry again.

“My name is Tempest.”

“I know, I know, but Stormy is cuter. It’s like a nickname.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t like it.” I hear how petulant I sound. He brings out the absolute worst in me.

The pounding increases in the background of his call, accompanied by muffled yelling.

“Bye, kid. Hang tight.” He’s gone.

It takes me a few extra seconds to realize he doesn’t have my address. I text it to him. This is probably a huge mistake. Or maybe it’s like Taskrabbit. For demons. Either way, I don’t know what else to do.

“Any luck?” Mom stage-whispers, appearing around the trunk of the fake tree. “Are you calling him?” She lowers the unnecessary sunglasses (the whole park is technically and grotesquely indoors), and before I can respond she says, “You should stop at Macy’s.”

Somehow, she seems to have remembered a lot of the conversation from last night, but she hasn’t asked any followup questions or tried to have me committed to a psychiatric facility. I have sworn her to secrecy, and she seems to be enjoying it.

“They have good deals on matching sets. With your coloring, you shouldn’t try for pink.”

“I don’t think lingerie is really— ”

“Tempest. Listen to me. I was thinking about it. You should enjoy yourself a little, if you can.”

“What!” I cry.

She widens her eyes at me, like I’m the one being ridiculous. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m just saying, this might be your only chance—this is the only man you can— ”

“Mom!” Dick Face and my mother within minutes of each other is maybe too much for me right now. And also every other time.

“And you like him.”

“Liked! I don’t think you’re understanding.” I start to walk away through a small herd of children rushing toward the pools, the hot dogs in their hands dripping bloody ketchup. I don’t want to say what I’m thinking: Lingerie or not, I might not survive my next encounter with Joel. Of all the details for Mom’s slippery brain to release, it has to be the one about my possible impending death?

“Everything okay?” says Dee from behind me. Her work-bag is over her shoulder; Ella is trailing moodily after her.

“Just talking lingerie,” chirps Mom.

Dee’s forehead creases. She looks like she doesn’t want to know. Which is definitely better.

“Little bit of a prude,” Mom murmurs to me. “Not my fault.”

“No,” I say deadpan as a passing my-age dad contemplates her cleavage.