Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 1 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Jack Redhaven pulled into the parking lot of the only motel in Martaglio, California, and stepped out of his car into the July swelter. He checked in and carried his bags to his room. Thankfully, the air conditioning was already on, and doing a good job at fighting the heat. Jack was tired and stiff from the long drive. He would have loved to take a shower, change his clothes, and find someplace to eat, but there were still a couple of hours before sunset. Jack couldn’t let the sun go down if there was work he could be doing: Jack wanted to get a jump on his new project. He was anxious to see the lay of the land.

Jack is a liquidator. He goes into failed businesses, foreclosures, estates, and he sells everything. Everything that can be sold, Jack sells. Even things that can’t be sold, Jack sells. Things that no one else could even give away, Jack sells. And Jack loves his work. He loves digging into what any normal person would call a pile of trash and uncovering hidden treasures. When anyone else would say, “Haul it to a landfill,” Jack would say, “I know someone who is looking for that.”

It wasn’t about money. Sure, he loves the paycheck, and often the paycheck is very good, but what Jack really loves is making the connections: connecting the objects that one person neglected, abandoned, or left behind, to another person, who wants or needs exactly those items.

This time, the project was an old theater. Built in the last century, the Martaglio Theater was a stop on the burlesque circuit. When the days of burlesque ended, the theater hosted plays, concerts, and films. The building changed owners, management, and orientation at least a dozen times. As a business, it repeatedly died and came back to life. Unfortunately, it was time for the final curtain: there would be no more resurrections for the Martaglio Theater. The building was scheduled for demolition.

The problem with keeping the theater alive was that the town of Martaglio was too small and too far out of the way. There weren’t enough dollars in town or enough traffic from outside to keep the doors open. It had already passed a decade of disuse, and in that time it grew a carpet of dust, a canopy of cobwebs, and the stale air of neglect.

Jack was ready for all that: he was dressed to get dirty, in an old pair of jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and a pair of scruffy workboots. He took a set of keys from his briefcase and a manila envelope that contained the sale documents and power of attorney, in case he needed to demonstrate his authority.

This would be Jack’s first theater liquidation, and he was excited. He expected nostalgia, magic, fun -- remnants of the theater’s former glory -- and hopefully he’d find hidden secrets. Isn’t that what the theater is all about?

A good portion of that feeling -- the anticipatory magic -- dissipated when Jack caught his first sight of the building. The tall, dull red-and-white stone facade was not particularly beautiful. Jack knew the building was historic, but clearly it wasn’t historic for aesthetic reasons: it was only historic because it was old. It was built for size, not for beauty.

He parked in the lot behind the building and let himself in by the stage door. He quickly got the overview: 1000 seats, projection room, offices, concession stand… Jack was disenchanted. He’d been hoping for magic, but this theater was as prosaic as a old factory. He heaved a disappointed sigh, and ventured a quick look into the basement. Often, Jack would find one-of-a-kind treasures in attics and basements. Not this time! The theater’s basement turned out to be an enormous open space crammed with stage scenery that seemed more slapdash than artistic. There were ancient cans of paint, disorderly piles of building materials, various bits of machinery, and all sorts of… all sorts of… Well, there was only one word for it. For first time, even Jack had to admit: the place was full of junk.

He walked onto the stage and swept the beam from his powerful flashlight around the place. This was where all the beauty was: where the audience sat. He’d get a good look tomorrow, take some photos. This part, at least, he’d enjoy.

Behind the stage, Jack found a narrow corridor, carpeted with a thick layer of dust. The hallway was about ten feet wide, but a good share of the width was taken up by metal shelves. The shelves were filled with boxes, and the boxes, too, were covered with dust.

Luckily, all of the boxes were labelled, and -- as Jack soon confirmed -- the boxes were labelled correctly! When he pulled down a box marked SWORDS, it was full of cheap stage-prop swords. The ROMAN HELMETS box contained plastic Roman helmets. Everything was as advertised. He found smelly old wigs, judges’ robes that reeked with dried, ancient sweat, old shoes in every size, hats, fake handguns, plates and cutlery, baby toys… and then, on a shelf by itself, a box marked “zulo.” Unlike the writing on the other boxes, this word was all lowercase. Curious, he pulled the box down, carefully tipping it so the dust fell to the floor and didn’t spill all over him. The box was surprisingly light. In fact, the only thing inside was a necklace case. A beautiful, expensive-looking necklace case, covered in soft, light-brown leather. Now that’s got to be worth a couple of bucks, Jack told himself, regardless of whatever’s in it. He held it in his hand. It was nice find. At most it was worth $30, though he doubted he could get that much. Still, it was nice to find something real after looking through so many flimsy stage properties.

He popped open the case, and sighed again, disappointed. The lovely necklace case held nothing but a cheap, strange looking medallion. A medallion on a chain. Something a little girl might buy at a garage sale, Jack told himself in disgust. Everything in this place is just crap and fake. He decided to take the necklace case with him, and leave the cheap necklace behind. So he slid the cardboard box back on the shelf, lifted the medallion from the case, and tried to shove the medallion into the cardboard box. But he didn’t have enough hands to juggle the necklace box, his flashlight, and the medallion, and not wanting to set anything on the dusty shelves, he gave up and dropped the chain around his neck, laughing at himself as he did so.

The necklace case was too big to fit in his pocket, so he continued down the hallway with his light in one hand and the case in the other. I might as well head back to the motel now, he told himself, I’ve got the lay of the land and a good jump on tomorrow. At the same time, he was in no particular hurry, so he continued reading the labels on the boxes. Nothing piqued his curiosity until he saw a carton on a high shelf: a box marked SANTA’S HELPER (SEXY!) WITH BOOTS.

Feeling as guilty as if he’d discovered a pile of old Playboy magazines, Jack actually blushed and glanced up and down the hallway, as if to make sure no one could see. Then he looked around for a chair to help him reach, but there was no chair. There was a piece of metal, though, a broken piece from the shelving uprights. Jack moved a box on a lower shelf to make a clean space for his light and the necklace case. He stood on tip-toe and used the metal strut to try for a catch-hold on the box. But he couldn’t nab it. He jumped and tried to spear the box, but only succeeded in pushing it back, farther away from him. He tried to climb, but the shelves bent under his weight. Frustrated, angry, and feeling more than a little stupid, he was about to give up and go back to his hotel when he spotted a wire coat-hanger, with which -- after a good deal of work, cursing, and failed experiments -- he managed to hook the box’s front corner, and scarcely believing his luck, he was able to tug the box forward until it fell.

The box’s lid struck Jack on the top of his head, spilling dust and cobwebs down the back of his shirt. One of the boots hit him full in the face, and -- since he foolishly had his mouth wide open -- he got a good taste of the sole. He spat, and closed his mouth as a pair of red panties landed on his face. The last item to slide from the box was a brightly colored red, white, and green outfit, that cascaded down the front of Jack’s body.

It was one of those slutty Halloween costumes, the type that’s sexy this or sexy that. Sexy policewoman, sexy nurse, sexy maid, sexy devil. What they all had in common was a short skirt to show lots of leg, a low neckline to show lots of cleavage, and tight panties to show lots of... well, lots of those brightly-colored panties.

When the shiny fabric of the skimpy skirt and bodice touched the medallion, Jack felt an electric tingle through his body. It shot through every limb, including his penis, which jolted to attention for a startling instant. Then the tingle was gone. Jack attributed the sensation to his own embarrassment: he felt more than a little guilty, as though his interest in the sexy outfit was somehow wrong or dirty. He knew in his head that it wasn’t, but that didn't stop him from feeling like a teenage boy caught looking at porn.

Strangely, after a few moments, things began to change. As Jack gathered the costume back into its box, he noticed that the shelves were slowly and inexplicably sliding up the wall. Or at least that’s what he thought at first. Then, Jack’s shirt began to feel looser. His shoes, which fit him perfectly, now seemed like boats, they were so large. Jack looked down at himself, puzzled, wondering What on earth is happening to my clothes?

As the changes continued, Jack realized that it wasn’t his clothes that were changing -- it was his body. And of course the shelves weren’t moving up the wall: Jack was getting shorter. As he watched, the hair disappeared off the backs of his hands, and his arms, hands, and fingers grew more slender and delicate. While his shoulders grew narrower, his chest filled out, and his hips began to change from a rectangular block to a rounder, fuller shape. He had to undo his pants to accommodate his new hips. He felt his face and head: his head was smaller, and his hair was now long, dark, and soft. His face, too, was different: narrower. His nose and chin were quite a bit smaller.

Jack was confused and filled with fear. What was happening to him? Whatever had happened was still happening. He patted his new, ample breasts and hips, felt his narrow waist. He cried out loud, “What is happening to me? Is this real?” and when he did, his voice had changed. It was musical and high: a woman’s voice. What in blue hell was going on?

Jack remembered seeing a bathroom at the far end of the hall, so he grabbed his flashlight and headed in that direction. As soon as he took two steps, his shoes fell off. The laces were tied, he could see they were tied, but the shoes just fell right off! He slid his feet back in, but the damn things were too absurdly big. At the same time, his t-shirt had stretched to its limit. His breasts pulled the neck all out of shape. He’d undone his belt. His pants were wide open and unzipped, but his new hips easily held them up. His pant legs were way too long, though. Jack hauled up those too-long pant legs and clomped loudly and clumsily toward the bathroom in his oversized shoes. He was acutely aware of the sway of his heavy breasts and the tick-tock pendulum of his full, round derriere.

As he entered the bathroom, he hit the light switch without thinking. But there was light; there was no power. It was ages since anyone had paid the utility bills. He’d have to take care of that tomorrow. That and the water. His flashlight was bright and strong, but still, it was only a flashlight. With the limited light and the small medicine-cabinet mirror, he examined himself. But it wasn’t “himself” in that mirror -- it was a woman, a woman he’d never seen before. She had dark brown hair like Jack, and dark brown eyes like Jack. She could certainly pass for Jack’s sister if he had one, but whoever she was, she wasn’t Jack. He rubbed his free hand over his face, and the woman in the mirror did the same. His face was smooth: his razor stubble had disappeared. He stuck out his tongue and held up his middle finger, and the woman in the mirror made the same gestures. He let out a panicked wail, and so did she.

He turned the light to better see his chest, and found two full, round breasts hanging there. His narrow rib cage and smaller shoulders made the breasts seem even larger. He hefted them with his free hand, and the name Jane Mansfield came to mind. “Crap!” he breathed aloud. And yes, his hips were wider, and yes, his derriere was rounder and fuller, but no, there was nothing hanging between his legs. His cock was gone, and in its place he found a smooth mound with a frightening opening. He groaned in confused fear and pulled his hand away. Have I lost my mind? Could this be a weird sort of theater trick? A prank? Did I accidentally ingest a hallucinogenic drug? Am I really just lying on the floor in the hallway, imagining this? Or asleep in my hotel room, deep in a vivid nightmare? The movie Inception suddenly came to mind: a film that takes place in the world of dreams. Jack struggled to remember: what was it that the movie characters did when they needed to be sure they were awake, and not caught up in an intense subconscious world. In the film, waking up seemed to involve avalanches, floods, explosions, and hotels falling to pieces, but in spite of being in a theater, Jack didn’t have any of those items on hand.

“Oh, my God!” he cried aloud, over and over, and the frightened female voice he heard made him cry out again and again. At last, his back against the dirty wall, he slid down to the floor, but it was so disgustingly filthy that he leaped back to his feet in a single motion.

“Okay,” he said several times. “Okay, Okay,” and then “I need a plan, a plan. What I need right now is a plan.”

The first thing, of course, was clothing. He thought about the items in the boxes on the shelves, but his skin crawled at the thought of wearing any of them. Those clothes -- all of them -- were disgustingly dirty when they were stored in their boxes decades ago. The smell alone disqualified them from use. The only clean item he’d seen was the costume, the Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) costume, which was new, and appeared to have never been worn. He looked again in the mirror. Okay, the first thing, before clothes, was to get cleaned up a bit. He pulled off his t-shirt and used it to brush away the dust and cobwebs from his skin and hair. His hair? Her hair. Her hair. It was nice hair, by the way, falling just past her shoulders. She tried the faucet: there was a little water left in the pipes; with that she wiped the smudges from her face and arms.

The second thing, then, was clothes. She now realized (to her chagrin) that she might have gotten away with wearing Jack’s t-shirt as a daring, too-short dress, but now with its smudges and stains, it looked as though he'd cleaned the floor with it. She thought for a moment. None of Jack’s clothes would help, but she had noticed a second-hand store on the highway just before the town. Maybe it would be open in the morning. Maybe it was still open now.

But how did this happen? Her thoughts screamed at her, and she fought to calm herself. I’ll figure that part out tomorrow, she promised herself, and that promise helped to quiet the panicked woman she’d become.

Again: clothes. It became absurdly, unavoidably clear that at the moment, her only choice of outfit was the Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) costume, With Boots. Naturally, they weren’t real boots. They looked like boots, and they did cover her feet and legs up to her knees, but they were made from a flimsy plastic that threatened to come apart if she walked very far. Luckily, the costume itself was more robust and well-made, and that was a huge relief. Jack feared for a moment that the Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) costume was an outfit for strippers. The only thing worse than a Sexy Santa’s Helper costume would be a Tear-Away Santa’s Helper costume. Luckily, this one was meant to stay in one piece. She struggled for a minute with the lace-up ties on the back of the bodice, and finally gave up. After all, she only needed to get to the second-hand store, and this costume covered enough of her nakedness to let her do that. The panties, which she put on last, were surprisingly soft, and they fit her bottom perfectly. The feel of the smooth material gliding over her new and improved derriere gave her such an electric thrill that she slid them off and on again three times.

She stepped into the hallway and spotted a full-length mirror that she’d earlier passed without noticing, and gave herself a good looking-over. She didn’t look bad. Her hair was a little wild and needed brushing, but the boots were the only flaw, as far as clothes went. She remembered a box of women’s boots she’d seen on the metal shelves, and was able to swap out the flimsy costume boots for a pair of worn but serviceable black ankle boots.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror. Here it is the middle of summer, and I’m dressed for Christmas, she observed ruefully. Oh well. At the second-hand shop I don’t need to explain myself. I just need to buy some clothes.

Armed with Jack’s keys, wallet, and papers, she headed for the stage door exit. On the way down the hall she grabbed a cloth tote bag and stuffed her belongings into it.

When she opened the door, she saw that the world had changed while she was in the basement: the sun had set, and the street lights were coming up. Martaglio seemed a different town in the fading light of evening. The temperature had dropped a little; not a lot, but enough to feel the difference.

Taking her first few steps outside proved to be quite an experience. She’d already felt the sway of her breasts and hips, but now she was actually walking, not just taking steps. The strange tilt that the boots’ heels gave to her body, threw her balance off a bit, so she found herself walking more carefully and slowly. She took shorter steps. The most surprising difference was the air: there came a slight breeze, and every inch of her naked legs could feel it. A slightly stronger breeze followed, that softly rippled her skirt and penetrated the thin red panties underneath. I’m overexposed, she thought, I’m practically naked here. My butt’s in plain view, and my breasts are served up on a platter for everyone to see.

She stepped off the curb and discovered that the parking lot was more of an incline than she remembered. It required a little concentration to walk downhill in heels, but it was fine as long as she was careful. Then came the second great shock of the day: Where is my car? She fearfully scanned the parking lot. She was sure this was the same parking lot. This was exactly where she’d parked her car a few hours ago. When she entered, her car was the only one in the lot. Now the lot was completely empty.

Oh, no. There was a sign on a post. A sign Jack missed seeing when he parked earlier. It wasn’t entirely his fault: if you were standing in the parking lot, a tree branch hid the sign from view. Now, coming from the theater, Jack saw it plainly, and what it said was this: NO PARKING BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN. And in smaller letters below: VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S EXPENSE.

Okay, time for a new plan. The first and most important thing was still clothes. To get clothes, she needed to get to the second-hand store. But would it be open at this hour? She consulted her phone, found the store, checked its hours, and hallelujah, it was still open. In fact, it was open late: Mondays and Thursdays, open until ten, and today was Monday. But how to get there? The obvious answer was: a cab. Or an Uber. Or a Lyft.

She looked again at her phone, when suddenly a car pulled into the parking lot: it was, of all things, a yellow taxi cab, and it was heading directly towards her! This is like a demented fairy tale, she told herself. It became even more like a demented fairy tale when the rear door opened, and a woman got out. She was curvy. She had shiny blonde hair. But the truly remarkable thing was that she, too, was dressed like Santa’s Helper (Sexy!), but all in red, with white fur trim along the neckline and the skirt’s hem. Her costume was not as elaborate as Jack’s, but it certainly was sexy. The woman’s legs and shoulders were bare, and her outfit showed a very generous amount of cleavage. The skirt was extremely short, like Jack’s -- in fact, the woman’s shiny white panties were plainly visible as she stepped from the cab. Like Jack, she wore black ankle boots on her feet.

Jack could hardly speak. Was this another man who’d been transformed? Where had she come from? Why was she here? What were the odds that two women would end up in this parking lot on a hot summer evening dressed as Santa’s Sexy Helpers? Jack’s mouth worked silently as the questions struggled to emerge. The woman smiled at Jack. As she shut the cab’s door, she called out, “Oh, thank God! I thought I’d be the only one here!”

“Uh--” Jack croaked, bewildered. The situation was so totally confusing that he didn’t know how to grapple with it, let alone speak.

While Jack struggled to find his words, the cab turned and headed for the exit.

“No!” Jack cried, helplessly.

The other woman blinked, puzzled and confused.

Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 2 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The woman in the red Santa’s Helper outfit saw Jack’s distress and asked, “Did you want that cab, honey? Aren’t you staying?”

Jack, more confused than ever, glanced from the woman to the taxi and back again. She gestured mutely at the cab, which was about to leave the parking lot. Her mind was so overcome with questions, she was utterly unable to speak.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” the woman assured her, and putting two fingers in her mouth, let out an ear-splitting THWEE-aw-WHEET! THWEE-aw-WHEET! At the piercing sound of her whistle, the taxi’s brake lights flashed, and the driver’s head jerked back. He regarded the two women for a moment, then turned away. The brake lights went dark. The driver touched the gas. The car turned down the street and disappeared from sight.

“The bastard!” the woman in red shouted. “What a bastard! Did you see him? He heard me! You saw that, didn’t you? He stopped, he looked at us, and then he just up and left! What a god-damned bastard!” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag and offered one to Jack -- who declined. She lit, took a deep draw, and chuckled. As the smoke trailed from her mouth, she said, “Then again, he might of taken off ‘cause I stiffed him on the tip, heheheh. But you know what I say? I say, if you want ten dollars, you ask for ten dollars. You know what I mean? No pussy-footing around. Just say what you mean.”

She regarded Jack in silence, looking her over from top to toe. “Well, aren’t you a fine young thing! Hot off the presses, you are! Just look at you! Skin like fresh cream, and not a wrinkle on ya. And take a look at that outfit! Must have set you back a fair bit. It’s nice material.”

“Thanks,” Jack replied, nervously.

She blew the rest of the smoke from her lungs and asked, “Why did you want that cab, hon? You’re not getting cold feet are you?”

Jack felt immensely stupid and completely unprepared. Cold feet? Cold feet about what? “I don’t know what’s going on,” she confessed, and trembled as she spoke, as if she was cold. “I have no idea why we’re here -- why I’m here.” Immediately, even as the words came out of her mouth, Jack regretted saying them. But to her surprise, the woman in red had a strong positive reaction.

“Ohh!” she exclaimed, with a delighted smile. “A newbie! That’s why I haven’t seen you. That’s why you’re so fresh and clean. This is your first time, isn’t it? Your very first time?”

Still trembling, the woman’s positive response made Jack feel safe admitting it: “Yes.”

“Ever?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my. Well, I’d like to say it’s a wild ride, but unfortunately it’s not. You’ll see. But don’t you worry, hon! Everything’s going to be fine, just fine.” She patted Jack’s arm. “I’ll take you under my wing. I’ll keep my eye on you, make sure you’re okay. Don’t you worry one bit, do you hear me?”

“Um… okay. Thanks,” Jack replied. Then, confiding a bit more, he said, “I wanted that cab because I need to get some clothes.”

“Clothes?” the woman asked, puzzled. Then she glanced at Jack’s tote bag, which was pretty thin compared to her own bag. “Oh, I get it! You don’t have any clothes for after! Can’t you call your boyfriend? Tell him to bring you some clothes when he comes to pick you up?”

Jack blushed a bright red. “I don’t have a boyfriend. And what do you mean after? After what?”

The woman in red stopped, pulled back, and gave Jack a searching look. “What do you mean, what do I mean? Aren’t you here for the Hot Summer Christmas? You’ve got to be kidding me! Why else would ANYBODY be standing here, in this parking lot, right now, dressed the way we're dressed? And, by the way, if you don’t have a boyfriend, how did you get here? I’m guessing you didn’t come in a cab.”

“I drove,” Jack told her. “I drove here. On the way in, I saw this second-hand shop that’s sort of on the edge of town, and that’s why I wanted the cab--”

“Why didn’t you just drive there?”

“Because my car got towed, that’s why.”

“That’ll do it,” the woman commented. She clearly thought there was something fishy in Jack’s story; something that didn’t quite add up. She didn’t say so, but it showed on her face. Then another thing occurred to her, so the woman asked, “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the second-hand store at the end of the strip mall? The one that’s east of here, right after you get off Route 2?”

“Yes, that’s the one!”

The woman in red nodded, and drew on her cigarette. Just as she was about to speak, an old Cadillac pulled into the parking lot, and three more women got out, all of them dressed in sexy Santa’s Helper outfits. They waved a desultory hello, then gathered in a little pack by themselves to smoke and talk several yards away from Jack and the woman in red. “Bitches,” the woman in red commented, under her breath. Jack didn’t want to be judgmental, but he had more than a strong suspicion that all four of these women were prostitutes, and that the Hot Summer Christmas was some kind of prostitutional, prostitutionary, prostitutory gathering.

What kind of crazy nightmare is this? Jack asked himself. How and why and by whom would I be changed into a woman and shanghaied into a lurid sex party? He resolved then and there that — no matter what he had to do to get to the heart of this mystery he’d fallen into — he was not going to be a prostitute, not for an evening or an hour or even one minute. Further, there'd be no sex with anyone! Not for anything on earth!

But the woman in red was talking again.

“Well, that’s where we’re going,” she said. “The Hot Summer Christmas is taking place in that very same mall. It’s kind of an old mall, but whatever. It’s seen better days, but haven’t we all. Anyway, one of the big clothes stores has a huge back room -- a kind of warehouse, almost. The big store’s gone, so this great big back room is empty all the time. The maintenance guy rents it out for cash on the QT. I’ve done a couple events there -- so have the other girls. It’s not too bad.”

“How are you getting there?” Jack asked.

“A little bus will come and pick us up,” the woman answered. “Don’t you know that? How could you not know that? I mean, why are you even here if you don’t know that?”

Jack ignored the question. “Do you think I get off the bus at the second-hand store?”

The woman studied Jack’s face while she considered the question. After another pull on her cigarette, she answered, breathing smoke as she spoke. “Sure. Why not? If that’s what you want to do. But listen, don’t ask the driver. He’s kind of cranky, and he’s only coming to take us to the party. So don’t go asking special favors. You don’t want people asking questions, making a fuss. Here's what you do: wait until we all get off. Then you tiptoe off and go your merry way. You’ll see the store on the way in, so there’s no way for you to get lost.” She shrugged. “If that’s what you really want to do, go ahead and do it. There’s no harm done to anyone. You’ll just miss out on some easy money and free booze.”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, feeling much better. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“What’s your name? Mine’s Lucy.”

Jack knew the question would come sooner or later, so she went with the most obvious answer. “My name’s Jackie,” she said.

As the two shook hands, they heard a loud rumble and the sound of a clutch grinding hard against the gears. The noise came from a little school bus that had just pulled into view. It was yellow, and incongruously had the words THIRD BAPIST CHURCH misspelled in big black letters on the side. There were six women already aboard, each of them wearing a bright Santa’s Helper outfit. “Here we go,” Lucy said, stubbing out her cigarette and taking Jackie’s arm. “We gotta grab the seats in the way, way back, come on!” Clip-clopping in a hurry on her high heels, she climbed onto the bus, pulling Jackie behind her. She bustled her way to the back, where she and Jackie took the last two seats. With a loud squeak, clank, and a thud, the driver pulled the door closed, and the bus roared out of the parking lot to the sound of the clutch once again biting loudly into the gears.

“You sure you don’t want to come to the party?” Lucy asked. “It’s good money.”

“What will it be like?”

“A bunch of old fat guys and a couple of skinny ones who like to dress up like Santa Claus and get laid.” As she spoke, Lucy made an odd gesture: she interlaced the fingers of both hands and wiggled one of her pinky fingers. “I won’t kid you: it isn’t pretty. But the drinks are free, the food is edible, and you don’t have to work very hard. For the first hour or so, all you have to do is smile and pretend. After that, once the Santas are bombed, you don’t even have to do that. All you have to do is be there.”

“No, thanks,” Jackie replied with a shiver. “I just want to get some regular clothes and figure things out from there.”

“Figure things out?” Lucy rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Look -- I don’t know what ‘figuring out’ you need to do, but I can tell my hubby Wes to bring some clothes for you when he comes to pick me up. Hell, we can even give you a ride, wherever you need to go.”

Then, after a thoughtful pause, Lucy added, "And you know what? If you stick with me, I can ask my brother Grady to help you get your car back. He just got out of jail two weeks ago, so he knows the ins and outs of the system better than anybody. Plus," she added with a slow wink, "he's very easy on the eyes."

Jackie smiled but didn’t answer. Lucy shrugged and said, “Anyway, the offer’s there.” Then the two fell into silence.

Jackie gazed out the window. As she sat there, on the noisy little bus, Jackie began to feel the weight of what had happened to her. Here she was, going God knows where, to do God knows what with God knows who... half-naked in a silly Christmas outfit in the middle of summer. She was alone. She was a girl, but she wasn't a girl this morning. She was lost -- not in a geographical sense, but yes, even though she knew exactly where she was, she was lost: She didn’t know how she’d gotten into this situation and had no idea how she was getting out. Okay, she had time to get to the second-hand store and buy some decent clothes. At least she wouldn’t look like a two-dollar whore. But then what?

Who can I call? she asked herself. How can I explain this to anyone? Who am I now, anyway? Did I take over someone else’s life? Am I a person with a name and a family? Or am I someone brand-spanking new, created out of the blue? Is some woman out there now, walking around as Jack Redhaven? Did I switch bodies with some woman somewhere, or am I still me? Am I the only one in this predicament?

Jackie lifted her head and looked around the bus. She looked at the women, all of whom seemed a good twenty years older than her, and wondered to her horror whether this was where life was taking her. How could she make it stop? How could she get her real life back?

Somehow she felt certain that she was the only woman on the bus who’d been born a man.

An existential, rock-shattering fear welled up inside of her. She looked into the darkness outside the window, and felt the immensity of the universe all around her, on every side. She had never felt so alone. She had never been so alone. Nothingness in every direction, on every side, ahead and behind, above and below. Jackie closed her eyes and felt herself falling. Not falling physically -- but falling inside herself, dropping into a deep, endless emotional sinkhole: a hole with no bottom. The sky above her was black. The ground below her was gone. Jackie had never been so frightened; she never felt such desperation and terror in her life.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jackie felt Lucy’s hand on her arm. “Are you okay, honey? You’ve gone all white, and you’re shaking like a leaf. You’ve got a bad case of the jitters!”

“Oh,” Jackie gasped, almost unable to speak. She looked at her hands and saw the trembling in her arms and legs. Her throat was dry. It was hard to swallow. She felt that she’d just come back from far, far away, from the deepest boundaries of the darkness of outer space, and the cold emptiness was still upon her. She couldn’t stop shaking. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Oh, hon! You don’t have to be sorry about nothing! You’ve got your nerves up, that’s all.” Lucy cast a stealthy glance at the other women, and in a low voice said, “I’ve got something to help with that, but it’s just between you and me. I don’t have enough to share with everybody -- not that I want to share, but I don’t have much, so not a word, not a sound.” With another quick glance at the women -- to make sure they weren’t watching -- Lucy held out her hand, and there, on her open palm, were two small white pills. They were triangular, and embossed with an X. “One for you, and one for me,” Lucy said, and added with a wink, “They're good for what ail’s ya. And if nothing ail’s ya, they're good for that, too.” Jackie and Lucy each took a pill and popped them in their mouths. Lucy cracked open a bottle of water and gave the first sip to Jackie, who washed the pill down. Lucy did the same.

After another glance forward, Lucy fished in her bag again. “Maybe we ought to pop another, just to be sure,” she told Jackie, and held out two more pills. They each took one.

Jackie took a deep breath and straightened up a little. She tooked at her hands. The trembling had stopped. Lucy observed Jackie’s actions and smiled. “They don’t work that fast, little girl. I think they’ll kick in right when we hit the mall: that’s what I call perfect timing.”

Jackie nodded. Despite what Lucy had just said, she somehow felt better already. “So what was that pill?” she asked. “Is it Xanax?”

Lucy burst into laughter. “Oh, lord, aren’t you the funny one! Xanax!” and she kept on laughing until she was overcome with coughing. She looked at Jackie’s face and stopped, mid-cough. “Bless your heart, little girl! You’re not joking, are you!” she observed. “I thought you were pulling my leg! Xanax! Heh.” Jackie shook her head. “It’s X, baby. Ecstasy.” Lucy sighed. “Now, please don’t tell me you’ve never taken E before?”

Jackie shook her head, alarmed. “What will it do to me?” she asked.

“Hmm,” Lucy mused. “Looks like this is a day of firsts for you. Well, what’ll it do? What’ll it do? It will take those nerves away for one thing. And it will, uh, it will tune up everything: it’s like… well you know HD television? Right now you and me, it’s like we’re watching regular, old-fashioned TV… everything around us in black-and-white. When the pills kick in, everything will be HD: colors, sounds… Everything. Inside and out. Everything will be great. You’ll love everything, and everything will love you. You’ll be warm and wonderful and happy. You’ll see.”

Lucy saw the look of alarm on Jackie’s face, but she clearly wasn’t concerned. She sat back in her seat and muttered, “God, I need a cigarette.” She patted Jackie’s arm mechanically. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just remember to stay hydrated. I’ll keep my eye on you. Whenever I give you water, you drink.”

The rest of the trip was quiet. No one on the bus spoke. It was an odd, transitional moment, where everyone looked silently ahead, reading themselves for what was to come.

In Jackie’s case, there were two things that occupied her mind: In the first place, she was watching herself anxiously, on edge, waiting for the first effects of the drug to appear. She had no idea what to expect, really -- she knew nothing about Ecstacy, apart from the name -- so she was on the lookout for any new sensations, or new feelings, or anything out of the ordinary at all -- not that there was any ordinary left at the moment. She wondered whether the world would actually look different, or smell different, or sound different. Jackie was already in an unfamiliar body, so her baseline for what felt normal or different was already out of whack. Then, too, Lucy may have been exaggerating about the effects of the drug.

The other thing that Jackie was watching for was outside the bus: she was scanning for something familiar on the street, some signpost or landmark; something, anything, that might tell her she was near the second-hand shop.

And so she sat, literally on the edge of her seat, keeping an inward watch for any twitches or strange ideas, and an outward watch for the second-hand store.

Every few minutes Lucy muttered, “Need a cigarette. Bad. Kill for a cigarette. Really.”

The monotony was suddenly broken when Jackie spotted the second-hand store, the same one she’d seen earlier: the one she meant to go to, before she ran into Lucy! It was farther out than she remembered, but this was definitely it! She was finally where she hoped to be right now. For the first time since she’d been transformed, she felt a glimmer of hope. The lights in the store were on, the OPEN sign was hanging in the window -- which meant that she still had time. She still had hope of getting into normal female clothes and out of this ridiculous costume. If only she could get off the bus--

Jackie wanted to call out to the driver, but she remembered Lucy’s advice about simply slipping away. It made sense: no one would have understood why she’d gotten all dolled up just to take a bus ride.

The bus slowed, then turned into the parking lot, right in front of the store. It kept going, following the store fronts along the mall. Jackie looked back at the second-hand shop. It would be a bit of a walk, but she could make it. As long as the driver stopped soon--

Instead, the driver turned left after the last store, and then turned left again, so he could follow the backs of the stores. He headed in the direction of the second-hand shop once again, this time from the back. At last, somewhere near the middle of the mall, he pulled the bus into a loading dock. It was not very promising: the dock was dirty, lit by a few weak lights. It was squalid. There was an air of dirt, menace, and danger ,even though no one was around. The driver turned off the engine, which shuddered, sputtered, and lurched violently five times before it finally fell silent. Then the driver pulled on a lever, and with a clank and a thump the door opened.

“Last stop, ladies!” the driver called. “Ho, ho, ho!”

The women sighed wearily as they got to their feet. They stretched and groaned and clomped their high-heeled way off the bus, not in any hurry at all.

Lucy popped a cigarette in her mouth in preparation, and her hand twitched on the lighter as she walked to the front. Jackie followed, quietly waiting her chance to break off and run to the second-hand store before it closed.

A door opened at the dock entrance and a short, muscular man emerged. “Evening, ladies!” he called. “Welcome all! Come right this way! Ho, ho, ho! For those of you who don't know, or just plain forgot, my name is Dave, and I'm in charge this evening.”

The women moved forward as a group. Jackie hung back. Lucy lit her cigarette and turned around to look at Jackie, who was standing still, gazing down the row of rear walls of stores. “What’s up, hon? It’s too late to turn back. We’re here.”

“The clothes store…” Jackie replied, gesturing. “The second-hand store. I told you: I want to get there before it closes.”

Lucy stared for a moment, open mouthed, calculating. Then she asked, as if she’d forgotten, “The second-hand store at the end of this mall?”

“Yes,” Jackie replied with a nod. “I told you.” How many times had she said it?

“It’ll be safer and easier to get there from inside the mall,” Lucy told her. “Come on. Come inside. You don’t want to be walking all that way in the dark, alone. Especially dressed like that.”

“Can I do that?” Jackie asked. “Can I get there from inside?”

“Of course you can, darling,” Lucy lied. “I just said so, didn’t I? Come on, now. We have to get inside.”

Jackie followed Lucy and the others into the building, and her heart sank. The general theme and decor of the loading dock continued inside: the interior was just as squalid as the exterior. The women found themselves in a huge room with an immensely high ceiling. The walls were far off and dingy. Everything was dingy, dirty, funky, unclean, unhygienic. There were half-hearted Christmas decorations fastened by brown packing tape to metal bookshelves placed here and there, and a makeshift bar on a long white plastic folding table covered with red stiff paper. There were plastic cups, big bottles of off-brand alcohol, and a cooler full of ice and cheap beer. There were open bags of chips and other snack foods on the table as well. Folding tables and chairs were arranged carelessly in the center.

Apart from that, the only other furnishings were beds. Unmade beds, beds without sheets, mattresses lying directly on the floor, all of them divided by drop cloths suspended between metal supports.

“Get ready, ladies!” the Dave called out. “You can leave your valuables in the lockers over there. If you don’t have a lock, I’ve got one for you. Make sure you remember your combinations, because we’ll charge you if we need to cut them open!”

The women shuffled over to the lockers. Lucy whispered to Jack, “Listen, in a minute I’ll show you how to get to your store. In the meantime, you can lock your stuff in here with mine just to keep it safe. Okay, hon?” She snatched Jackie’s tote bag from her hands and locked it away.

“No--” Jackie began to protest, but she was cut off by Dave.

“All right, ladies, are you ready? We’re going to let the Santas loose now. Big smiles! Everybody’s sexy and ready and hot and horny! Here we go!”

At that, a thin fellow with a droopy moustache opened a door in the far wall, and about two dozen men emerged, each dressed more or less as Santa Claus. They looked more creepy than jolly; their Santa suits were cheap, cheesy, and half-hearted at best. Half wore the cheapest of white wigs and fake beards -- so fake, they wouldn’t fool even the most gullible child.

At the sight of the Santas, Jackie had no doubt about what was happening here tonight: the women were prostitutes, hired as a body to service these disreputable Santas.

Jackie’s resolve solidified. She told herself, Get out of here NOW. It’s now or never. Get your stuff back from Lucy and high-tail it to the second-hand store! She turned to Lucy, and was startled to see that, from one moment to the next, Lucy had changed. Instead of the shambling, older-looking, overweight hustle, Lucy was beaming, glowing. In fact, she was beautiful. Her face, her smile were radiant, otherworldly. In a dreamy voice she cooed, “Do you feel it, hon? Has it hit you yet?”

The sight of Lucy in this state made Jackie incredibly angry. She balled up her fists and tightened her jaw. She wanted to punch the woman who’d led her on, who’d thrown roadblocks in front of her. Jackie needed her belongings back, and had no time or inclination for dealing with Lucy on drugs. But then again, a wild thought hit her: This is the perfect time to ask the question! and so she did: Grabbing Lucy’s arm, she said, “Lucy? Lucy? Have you ever been a man?”

Lucy laughed lightly. “A man? No, hon. Me? A man? Never! Have you?”

“Yes,” Jackie replied, gritting her teeth. “Just a couple hours ago.”

“Wow,” Lucy sighed, amazed, without comprehending. She turned to Jackie and bestowed a beatific smile. “That’s unbelievable! But listen, girl, don’t tell the Santas! It will kill whatever tiny erection they’ve managed to work up.”

Jackie suddenly understood the pinky-wagging gesture Lucy had made on the bus earlier. “Oh, shit,” she sighed.

“Yeah, baby,” Lucy agreed, breathlessly.

At that moment, the drug exploded in Jackie’s brain. Lucy, the room, everything in it -- and even Jackie herself --- transformed and seemed to burst into living, holy flame.

Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 3 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

For the rest of Jackie’s life, she remembered the events of that night with revulsion, horror, and resentment. Each time it came back to mind, it was like reliving a nightmare, except that this nightmare actually happened. At the time, however, as it was happening, she saw and experienced all of it through the filter of the drug that she’d taken. While her brain chemistry was altered, the entire episode seemed a lovely, glowing, happy festival of life.

It could go without saying, but she never took drugs again, ever.

Some of her memories of that night are vivid and powerful, with strong tactile and olfactory elements. Others are fuzzy and indistinct. The near-forgotten, blurry memories are both a blessing and a curse: A blessing because the less she recalls, the less there is to make her cringe; a curse because *some* activity must have filled those gray, forgotten intervals. The parts that she could remember were bad enough; were the parts that she couldn’t remember far worse? There was no way of knowing.

What she did remember was hands and penises: lots of them, coming from every direction, touching her, poking her, everywhere. In her mind’s eye, like a high-definition video, she could see and feel two men undressing her while several other men watched. She remembered the electric, silky flow of her costume loosening and sliding off her body. She especially remembered the sensation of her soft, shiny panties slipping oh-so-slowly over her lovely round butt and down her smooth, shapely legs.

After that came the groping, desperate hands, digging into her breasts and ass and pussy -- very roughly at first, until Dave’s voice cut through the frenzy: “Be gentle, boys! Be gentle! She’s soft and delicate, remember! And there’s plenty for everyone! She bruises easily, so don’t damage the merchandise, or I’ll toss you out on your butt with NO REFUND!” The admonition helped: the groping slowed and the pain diminished. It was still equally invasive, but less hurried and less brutal.

Then, penises: it seemed that everyone wanted to put his penis on her face, in her face, over her face. In her mind’s eye she could still see them, like a mass of worms and sausages, wriggling and blocking her view. How so many dicks could fit so closely together was a mystery she never unravelled.

There was only one thing that managed to irritate her at the time, that succeeded in thwarting her high, happy, drug-induced state: One man kept rubbing his cock against her ear. It must have been a weird fetish all his own, and it bugged the hell out of her. She kept pushing him off, but he didn’t stop until she swatted his cock away with a swift, strong backhand.

One of her more tactile memories -- a memory she could still smell was the pre-cum on her face. She could still sense the slimy, slick, lotion-like wetness, and the crusty salt when it dried on her cheeks, nose, and forehead.

Of course there was no end to the sucking. A steady stream of men came to pop their cock between her lips. She’d suck and lick until they’d cum, go limp, or simply leave. There was plenty of sperm as well. She didn’t exactly remember the various tangs afterward, but at the time she remember thinking how differently they all tasted. Only one was truly bad, but even that flavor sent her on a string of hallucinated memories through the foods and condiments that could give his sperm that brackish tinge.

People sucked on her as well, and licked and kissed her various parts. When she’d suddenly become aware of someone sucking on her breasts, she’d rest a gentle hand upon their head. Truly, it was the only part that she was able to enjoy. It was meditative and peaceful; it was calm, without frenzy and without words; it was as close to wholesome as anything could be that night. If she could have spent the entire night that way, lying naked on a large, soft cushion while someone’s mouth worshipfully dwelled on her massive breasts, she would have been perfectly happy.

A number of times another woman came to lick the sperm off her chest for an audience of one or two men. Each time, one of the onlooking men would catch her eye and tell her in a boastful tone, “I paid extra for this,” as if it were a significant personal achievement. In Jackie’s altered state, that strange phrase seemed like a deep philosophical puzzle, a koan whose meaning hung just out of her reach: tantalizingly close, but always eluding her grasp.

There was one quiet interval in which she seemed to wake up. She lay au naturel, draped over a disordered couch. At first she thought she was utterly alone, but an unusual feeling made her gaze down the length of her unclothed body, and there, at the end of her sylphlike legs, crouched a fully clothed man, sucking on her toes. When he realized she was watching him, he looked at her with big eyes for a moment, and stopped long enough to tell her, “I paid extra for this,” as though that explained everything. Then he picked up her other foot and ran his tongue over and between all of her toes, before he began sucking on each one individually.

As far as actual sex was concerned, it seemed that most of the men preferred taking her from behind. She remembered lying on her stomach for what seemed like (and may well have been) hours, bent over a soft piece of furniture, while various Santas took turns laboring behind her, pushing their hips into her soft derriere, pumping and grunting and gasping, and in the end, growling and shouting and shaking.

Also, at intervals, she’d feel someone’s tongue at work in the area of her butt. She couldn’t see who it was, and she couldn’t help but picture a dog down there, going at her, licking with a long, strong tongue.

Quite often she’d find a cock in her hand; a random man would walk up and park his member in her fingers, even if she was distracted, unaware, or busy being used by someone else.

She counted herself lucky to not have had any anal penetrations that night, but there was one vivid memory that she couldn’t shake. It was the one that disturbed her most of all. She couldn’t recall what came before or after, but she very vividly saw the thing itself in her mind's eye, as though it only happened a moment ago. She was on her knees in what seemed like a gymnasium shower, kneeling over a drain. Five men stood around her in a semicircle. They all had their cocks out, and they were all squeezing their penises with some urgency. They fidgeted and danced, all of them about to burst with the need to pee. And then, one of them called, “Okay, sweetie, head up! Straighten up!” as he gently took hold of her hair and used it to guide her up and to tilt her head back. Then, “One, two, three!” and all five began urinating at her, on her, in her hair, on her face, all down her body. She kept her eyes and mouth shut as well as she could, but unfortunately she gasped and tried to protest, and in that moment three streams of hot liquid hit her tongue and filled her mouth. Without meaning to, she swallowed, and instinctively jerked her head down. Seeing that, one of the men held her nose, to keep her face up and her mouth open. They all seemed to have extra-large tanks, filled to the very brim.

“Worth every penny!” one of the men shouted when they were done, and the others agreed. After they zipped up, they left her there alone, on the floor. She got up and rinsed off in one of the showers. There was no soap or shampoo, so she let herself be soaked and cleaned as well as plain water was able to do. She rinsed her mouth, swilling and spitting, until at long last she turned the shower off.

Then a second group of men came in, clutching their groins and dancing with need, and it all played out a second time, in much the same way.

That was her last memory of the night.

The next thing she knew it was morning. Daylight filled the enormous room, and Jackie found herself lying, uncovered, on a huge piece of sailcloth. It was incredibly white and incredibly clean. Jackie herself was no less clean. She ran her eyes and hands over her magnificent anatomy: there were no bodily fluids to be seen or felt or smelled. She touched her back and her derriere, and they, too, were as clean as could be. She sniffed her arms and hands; she took handfuls of her hair and smelled deeply. Every part of her was factory-fresh, soft and clean, shiny and manageable.

Behind her, Dave and Lucy were talking. She could hear Dave easily enough. His voice came through loud and clear. Lucy, on the other hand, was muttering, speaking low. When she spoke, Jackie could recognize Lucy’s voice, but wasn’t able to make out the sounds or the sense of it. Dave was telling her, “Lucy, listen to me: don’t fuck with that girl. She’s new, she’s good, and I don’t want you ripping her off and scaring her away.” Lucy protested, but he cut her off. “Don’t steal her money. Don’t tell her she owes you anything. Next time I see her, I’ll ask her if you took anything off her, and if you did, you’ll pay her back double. Do you understand? DOUBLE.” Lucy murmured something that Jackie couldn’t quite hear or make out. She went on for a long while, until Dave cut her off with a scoff. “A finder’s fee? You want a finder’s fee?” Lucy spoke again, and Dave answered, “Lucy-- Lucy, listen: I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Next time, you bring her. Next time, if she comes, AND if she tells me you didn’t take any of her money or cheat her or anything, THEN I’ll give you a fucking finder’s fee. You can’t get a fairer deal than that, and even if you can, that’s the only deal you’re going to get from me. Understand? Do you understand?”

Lucy grunted her assent, then came forward in front of Jackie. She smiled as though Jackie was her favorite person in the whole wide world. “Well, look who’s awake! How’re you doing, sleeping beauty?” Dave came and joined her. He smiled down at her, clearly enjoying the view of her unclothed body. “You know what the French would say, Jackie? They’d say that you’re in dish-a-billy. Have you ever heard that word? Dish-a-billy. That’s you to a T!”

Jackie still had enough of the drug in her system to not notice, or at least to not mind that Dave so openly consumed her with his eyes. Some part of her mind worked out the word dishabille from Dave’s encomium. She stretched and yawned. “How did I get so clean?” she asked.

Dave snorted with laughter. “One of the Santa’s, one of those geezers, paid extra to bathe you while you slept.” Jackie blinked. “In fact, there was a lot of paying extras with you last night, so even after my cut, you have a tidy little haul here.” He tossed an envelope full of cash to Jackie. It made a full, satisfying slap! as it landed, signifying all the dollars inside. “Now, ALL OF THAT MONEY is yours. You understand? You don’t owe anybody anything out of that cash there. Understand? I wrote the total right here.” Lucy’s mouth twisted to the side, but she said nothing.

“Yeah, I understand,” Jackie replied. “Thanks.”

“Come back anytime,” Dave told her, and he handed her two bags: One was a little shopping bag that held her boots and her Santa’s Helper costume (including the panties). The other was the tote bag that Lucy had taken from her the night before. “Better check that bag, make sure nothing went missing,” Dave observed with a wink and a jerk of his head in Lucy’s direction.

Lucy’s husband, Wes, arrived soon after. He didn’t bring any extra clothes for Jackie, but Dave found her a pair of pink flip-flops and a man’s extra-large t-shirt. It was way too big for her, but as it draped down as far as her mid-thigh, it covered all the necessary bits. The shirt was turquoise. In white letters it said I SURVIVED SHARKNADO!, and was illustrated by a white drawing of a tornado with four sharks being thrown from it.

Jackie was still in a passive, open state from the drug, so she followed Lucy and Wes as if she was their little pet lamb. They brought her to their double-wide manufactured home in the hills above town. Except for being outdoors, it was not much better than the room where they’d spent the night. The windowless body of a car was rusting away in the front yard. There was a pile of half-rotten wooden pallets, along with broken boxes, bags of trash, and a big old console TV whose finish was eaten away by time, sun, and rain. The house needed paint and repairs, but, at the sight of it, Lucy crowed, “Here it is! Welcome to our home, in all its glory!”

“Yep,” Wes agreed, “Home, sweet home. Love it or leave it be.”

“Like it or lump it,” Lucy said.

“Use it or lose it,” Wes contributed. Lucy didn’t have anything more to add, so Wes opened a little refrigerator that stood just outside the front door, and took out two beers. He popped the tops off with his thumbs, gave one to Lucy and offered the other to Jackie. When she shook her head, he shrugged and said, “More for me!”

Lucy put on some coffee and fried up a pile of egg sandwiches. They sat on the front porch to eat their breakfast and to wait for Lucy’s brother Grady. According to Lucy, Grady was "fresh out of jail," and “knew the system better than anyone.” He would help Jackie get her car back without having to pay the impound fee. “I’m not promising,” Lucy said, “I’m just saying. I know he’s done it in the past.”

As they sipped their coffee, and Jackie was looking for somewhere to wipe the grease from her fingers, a big black shiny Silverado rolled up, and Grady stepped out. Grady was a broad-shouldered, square-jawed, good-looking man in his early thirties, who stood about six-two and weighed two-something, all of it muscle. His hair and eyes were light brown. All in all, he looked like a quarterback. He greeted Lucy and Wes, and his eyes settled on Jackie. Jackie felt something move inside her, and had the feeling Grady could feel it, too.

After introducing Jackie and Grady, Wes and Lucy stood up and shuffled into the house. Shortly after, a series of moans, cries, and rhythmic rocking made it clear what they’d gone inside to do.

Jackie looked up at Grady and realized that she was still a little high. She couldn’t account for how or when she’d gone from sitting on the porch looking at the shine on her fingers to standing next to Grady, close to Grady, with Grady’s arm around her, but somehow it happened, and somehow it seemed very natural. From there, it was just as natural to become aware of his big, strong hand, underneath her oversized shirt, resting on her naked ass.

“I hear you need some help getting your car back,” he said, and his voice resonated in her chest. In that moment, it was the sexiest thing on earth that any man had ever said.

“Yes,” she replied, hoping he could detect all of the heat and desire that she’d loaded into that word. He turned and looked into her eyes.

“You are shockingly beautiful,” he told her, and as he locked his eyes on hers, his thumb rode up her spine, lifting her shirt up in the back, and dragging it up the front of her torso. By the time his hand came to rest on the back of her neck, her shirt had bunched up underneath her breasts. The two of them looked down at her belly and at what lay beneath. “You’ve got a cute little belly button,” he told her, and slowly pulled her toward him. As his head moved down to bring his lips to hers, he added, “And you’ve got a sweet pair of lips... between your legs.” His mouth locked on hers. They kissed for a long, hot time, and their tongues reached out to caress each other. His hands gripped her derriere, and he lifted her briefly into the air. Then he gently set her down.

Once again he slid his hand up her back, carrying her shirt along with it, leaving her completely exposed, except for her breasts and shoulders.

“When those two finish rutting, they’ll fall asleep,” Grady told her, jerking his head toward the house. “We should get out of here. There are much nicer places to be.”

He guided her, with her shirt still halfway off, to his truck. He opened the door, and lifted her with ease into the passenger seat. “Where’s your stuff?” he asked.

They drove to a beautiful A-frame, all wood and glass. The yard was clean and well-kept; nothing like Lucy and Wes’ place. “This looks like something out of the 70s,” she observed. “Like a ski chalet. Is this your house?”

Grady snorted. “No. It’s not my house. It’s not my truck, either. I’m just using them while the owners are away.”

A few questions occurred to Jackie, questions she refrained from asking. But she did say, “Oh! I forgot to borrow some clothes from Lucy!”

“Yeah,” Grady said. “That’s not an immediate problem.”

He opened her door, set her bags on her lap, and carried her toward the house. He gently sat her on the steps. He sat down next to her and took his boots and socks off. He took a hose and washed Jackie’s feet and dried her feet on his shirt. “In this house, you leave your boots outside, and your clothes at the door. Come on, let’s go in.” When she stood up, he gave her an affectionate swat on the butt.

As she walked through the door, she pulled the big t-shirt off over her head, leaving her completely bare once again. It was beginning to be her habitual state. She dropped the turquoise t-shirt on a chair and walked into the living room in a state of awe. The ceiling went all the way to the top, maybe 30 feet. The front of the house was all windows, all one big room, from floor to roof. The kitchen, the bedrooms, the second floor, were all in the back of the house.

Jackie turned toward the sound of Grady closing the front door. He set her bags on the chair with her shirt. She was about to observe that he hadn’t left his clothes at the door, but Grady spoke first. “You need to take a bath,” he said. “Get the smell of last night off of you.”

She was surprised, and reflexively sniffed at her arms and hair again. “I’m not saying you smell bad,” he told her with a smile. “But upstairs there is one huge bathtub and plenty of hot water. You’ll thank me later.” With that, he walked over to her and scooped her up, with no effort at all. He carried her up the stairs as if she weighed nothing, and set her on her feet in the bathroom. He knelt down and started the water running. After pouring in some bubble bath, he swished it around to make suds while he tested the heat with his other hand.

“Just watch that it doesn’t get too hot,” he told her. “I need to go downstairs and make myself some breakfast. You want anything?”

“Some coffee would be good,” she said. “Coming right up,” he replied. He put his hand on the small of her back as he kissed her, and they both smiled.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, put on some coffee, and ate a handful of granola. By the time he brought the coffee upstairs, Jackie was sound asleep in the steaming hot suds, just as he’d expected. Grady left her cup on the edge of the tub and quietly returned to the living room. There, he took Jackie’s tote bag and emptied the contents onto the kitchen table.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said to himself.

Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 4 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

When Jackie awoke, her eyes opened to the sight of Grady, who was sitting on the bathroom floor, looking at her. His back was against the wall, and his head rested against the window sill. He’d perched his mug of coffee on the edge of the sink, to his right. She could see its steam curling up into the air. Her bathwater was still hot. She reached for her coffee cup, and that, too, was pleasantly hot. She took a sip. “Good coffee,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “They’ve got pretty decent stuff here. I had to reheat it a few times while you slept. It’s nice that the flavor survived all that nuking.”

She sipped and smiled. “Oh God, look at my fingers! They’re all wrinkled and pruny!”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Bath water will do that to you, when you’ve been in there for a while. Hey, tell me something,” he ventured, catching her completely off guard. “That car that you have to get back... does it belong to Jack, by any chance? Jack Redhaven?”

She froze. “Yes, um… Jack. Right. Yes, it’s Jack’s car.” She looked down and sipped her coffee. She tried to not show her surprise at hearing her real name. How did Grady come to know it? Did he know anything about her transformation? Would he believe her if she told him the truth?

“Won’t Jack want his car back?”

“Right, yes, he would.”

“What makes you think Jack isn’t going to go get the car himself?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, I guess he would… if he could… I guess.”

“You guess,” he repeated. He held her with an even, neutral gaze, silent, waiting for her to add something… anything. He learned this technique when he was interrogated by the police: guilty people tended to talk, if you simply waited and didn’t prompt them. The more they talked, the more were likely they were to slip up and tell you things they didn’t mean to tell. So he waited, expecting her to feel the need to fill the silence. But she didn’t. She sipped her coffee, looking down at the bubbles in the tub, uncertain whether to own up to her crazy, true story or just go with the flow, as she had so far. She shoved the bubbles around with her hand. At last, Grady could wait no longer. He had to ask her, “Who is Jack?”

Jackie let out a big breath. She had to tell him. “Okay. Who is Jack. That’s… that’s a story. It’s… quite a story. Can I get out of the tub and get dressed and then I’ll tell you?”

“You can get out of the tub, but you can’t get dressed. After you tell me the story of Jack, well, then we’ll see.”

She nodded, and stood up. He lifted her out of the tub and set her on the bath rug. He wrapped her from her neck to her toes in a huge, white towel -- the biggest, thickest, softest towel she’d ever experienced -- and draped a second, smaller towel over her head like a hood. He gently patted and caressed her body until her body was still humid, but not dripping. Then he vigorously rubbed her scalp and hair with the smaller towel, pressing the water from her hair. She watched his face closely as he held her. As he did all this to her, she tried to read his expression, but he was unreadable. She didn’t think he was angry or upset. He looked and acted with a maddening calm. He lifted her, all warm and cocooned in her towels. He cradled her in his arms, and carried her gently downstairs. Before he set her down, he dropped a throw pillow from the couch onto the floor in front of an armchair. He set her on her feet and took the big towel from her, leaving her naked once again, except for the small towel that covered her hair. I’ve been spending a lot of time naked since I became a girl, she thought. I don’t think that’s normal. But what is normal any more? Though the house was pleasantly warm, her nipples stood at attention. He put his hands on her hips, and as he lowered himself into the armchair, he pulled her toward him. With his chin, he gestured at the pillow between his feet and told her, “Kneel there.” She knelt between his big bare feet, resting her hands on her naked thighs. Her body was still warm and moist from the long, hot bath. Her skin was soft and lovely and utterly without flaw. She blinked and looked up at him, realizing yet again how long her lashes were. “Now, tell me all about Jack,” Grady told her. “But before you begin, I’m going to guess something: Jackie is not your real name. You’ve taken that from Jack.”

She nodded her lovely head. Then after a big, deep breath, she slowly began, “I know this is going to sound hard to believe, but…” From there, once she started, it was like diving off a cliff: she couldn’t stop. The story spilled out of her in one long, continuous flow. Grady didn’t interrupt her; he didn’t ask any questions. He let her run all the way through the events she’d been waiting to tell, dying to tell. She told it exactly the way it happened. She told him how Jack was hired to liquidate the theater, how he drove into town, how he found the box with “zulo” on the side, how the costume fell, and -- guess what! -- Jack became Jackie! She told him about her panic in the bathroom, the plan to get clothes, how she put on the costume, how her car was gone… about Lucy, the bus, the drugs, the Santas, …

When she reached the end, she stopped, surprised that she had no more to tell. She ended by telling him, “It’s all true. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened.”

He looked into her face without talking for two beats. Then he asked, “What did it say on that box? Was the word ‘zulu’?”

“No -- it was zulo,” she corrected, and she spelled it for him.

“Why didn’t you keep the necklace? Why didn’t you bring it with you?”

“Why would I?”

“It’s obviously connected to what happened to you. Isn’t it?”

Jackie blinked. “No, it was the costume that made me change. Wasn’t it? I mean, I had the necklace on for a while, and nothing happened. It wasn’t until the costume fell on me…” Suddenly she felt immensely stupid. It *was* obvious, wasn’t it: it was the medallion. “Oh, what an idiot I am.”

“Let’s put a pin in that for a minute,” he said. “I need a little time to think. Yeah. Time. And I need Jack’s phone unlocked. What’s the code?”

She fetched the phone and unlocked it for him. He pulled up a search window and began typing. She stood by his side, waiting, but soon it was clear that the phone had taken all his attention. She felt a rumble in her stomach, and went into the kitchen to find herself a snack. After she ate and drank, he was still reading something on the phone, so she wrapped herself in the big towel, lay down on the couch, and slept some more. When she woke, Grady was there, waiting for her, looking a little impatient. “I have one question,” he said. “Does Jack have a criminal record? Is he married? Is anybody looking for him for anything? Debts? Alimony? Child care?”

“No, none of the above,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a little bit,” he said. “But I have a plan that will solve both our problems: yours and mine. And if you don’t like it, I have a plan to fix that, too. But we have to move. We have a few errands to run and not a lot of time. First, let’s get you some clothes to wear.”

In the master bedroom, they found a top, a skirt, and a pair of sneakers that fit well enough, but the underwear was all too small. “Leave the underwear,” Grady told her. “We’ll pick up some later.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get a move on.”

They climbed into the truck and drove about a mile to a mobile home that was in worse shape than Lucy’s. “Good,” Grady observed. “Buddy’s not home. You wait here and don’t unlock the door until I tell you.” He ran inside, and Jackie could hear him, even through the truck’s closed windows, banging around, looking for something, rapidly opening and closing drawers and doors. While he was still searching, a beat-up pickup truck pulled into the yard, and a skinny young man jumped out. He had to be Buddy. He looked beaten down, sad, alone, abandoned. His face evoked pity and pain, as though he’d been crying for years. He stared at Jackie with big round eyes and shouted, “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

Then, hearing the noises from within, he dashed into the house. The banging and crashing sounds increased in tempo, with the addition of shouts between Grady and Buddy.

Then the banging stopped, and Buddy cried out, “No! No! Put that down, God damn you! Put it down! Put it back! You got no right! It’s all I have! You can’t! My God, you have no heart! Stop! Stop! STOP, damn you!”

Grady burst out of the front door and ran for the truck, signalling Jackie to unlock the driver’s door. He jumped in, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.

Buddy ran up and hammered on Jackie’s window, crying and shouting. “You’re a grave robber, Grady! Do you hear me? You’re a goddam grave robber! You’ll rot in hell, you S.O.B. You got no right! YOU GOT NO RIGHT!” They could still hear him shouting even after they drove out of sight.

Grady didn’t make a sound or look at her. After a pregnant silence, and once they reached a paved road, Jackie asked, “What was that all about? Why did he call you a grave robber?”

“Okay,” Grady said after a glance at her. “I’ll tell you. You ought to know. But you cannot tell a soul. Not one, single soul. This is a deep, dark, terrible secret. If anyone comes to know it, the person who will suffer most of all is Buddy back there. It will tear him apart, and hurt him more than he can bear. Do you swear you’ll never tell?” Jackie agreed, and crossed her heart. Grady sighed again, then said, “That kid back there is Buddy Gammisen. I mean, he’s grown up, he’s an adult, but in his head, developmentally, he’s just a kid. He’s not a bad kid, but he’s not very bright. He’s kind of a simpleton. I’m not being unkind; I’m just telling you a fact. He had an older sister, Zadie, not much older than Buddy… a few years younger than me… anyway, she was a nice girl, a lovely girl, beautiful inside and out, with a good head on her shoulders."

Grady paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "Well, Buddy and Zadie's parents died in car crash. The two of them, mom and dad, all at once. Their father was a no-account fall-down drunk. One night, that night, drunk as hell, he drove his car straight into a tree. Killed himself and his wife -- Buddy and Zadie’s mother. After that, she and Buddy moved to that… to that shack back there, although it looked a lot nicer while Zadie was alive.

“Obviously, they never had much money, and up here in the hills, it’s very common for people to grow pot or to cook meth. It’s one of the few ways to earn a living. One day Buddy took it into his head that he was going to cook meth. He figured that’s how he’d contribute. But he didn’t understand how dangerous that business can be. I mean, sure, everybody’s heard about meth labs exploding and all that... Buddy knew that making meth is dangerous, but he figured he’d start small and that way he’d be safe. Somebody told Buddy about ‘shake and bake’ -- do you know what that is?" Jackie shook her head, so Grady explained. "It's when you mix the ingredients in a bottle and shake it. I don’t know the details, but if you do it right, eventually you get a small batch of meth. Just to say it like that, to describe it that way, it sounds simple, but the grim reality is that you’ve got highly volatile chemicals in a very potent reaction. The two most important things are that you know exactly what you’re doing, and that you pay close attention, and Buddy didn’t do either of those things. He didn’t learn all the details, and he got distracted. He left the bottle on a tree stump out back of their home. He forgot all about it and went off to look for me, so we could get some beers.

“Zadie came home while we were gone, and she went out looking for him. She ventured out back. She saw the bottle, didn’t know what it was. She touched it or picked it up or maybe it just went off by itself, but however it happened, the damn thing blew up and burst into flames.” Grady fell silent and looked off in the distance until he was sure he wasn’t going to cry. “Buddy wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. There was nobody there to help her, so she died, all alone. She burnt to death in that shitty little backyard there.

“Of course, we had no idea. We’d been drinking, and I dropped him home. The two of us were standing near the house, peeing in the bushes, laughing. All of a sudden he remembered about the bottle, so he ran back to get it. He figured by then it had to be ready, and that’s when he found her. I heard him screaming, so I...” Grady drew some deep breaths to steady himself before he went on. “God Almighty, it was horrible. It was the worst thing I’ve seen in my entire life. It shook me the core, but Buddy, he went all to pieces. He couldn’t stop screaming. I had to slap him in the face to make him stop.

“By rights we should have called someone. The police, the sheriff, somebody. But we didn’t. I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t see Buddy in jail. I just couldn’t. So the two of us buried Zadie.

“Even so, poor Buddy was determined to mess it up and land himself in jail. He wanted to mark her grave with a cross, a wooden cross with her name on it and the date. Of course I couldn’t let him do it. I told him why, but the next night I went back to check, and sure enough he’d put up a marker. Zadie Gammisen, RIP, and the date. I took it down, and burned it. I dug her up and buried her a second time, far off, in a spot that Buddy wouldn’t know or ever find. Then I went and told him, and he went wild. He was desperate. He couldn’t understand. He wanted to honor her gravesite, and didn’t see that it would land him in jail.”

After a few moments of silence, Jackie asked, “Didn’t people wonder what happened to Zadie?”

“Oh, sure, of course they did.” Grady replied. “But me and Buddy spread the word that she’d gone East.”

“Gone East?” Jackie repeated. “What on earth does that mean?”

Grady gave her an irritated look. “East is that way,” he said, pointing with his finger. “You start walking in that direction, and you’ll hit one big city after another, from Carson City to Chicago, and beyond. She went East. It’s something people say around here. People do go East, you know.”

After about twenty minutes of driving, Grady pulled up in front of a sporting-goods store. He told her, “You stay here, don’t open the door for anyone. I’ll be right back.”

He returned fifteen minutes later with a big shopping bag, which he tucked behind the driver’s seat. One of the items was poking out the top of the bag. “Is that a woman’s bathing suit?” she asked.

“Yep. And a few other things. Luckily there was a salesgirl who was just the right size and shape.”

The right size and shape for what? she asked herself, but aloud she said, “Hey, can we stop somewhere? I really need to pee.”

“Yeah,” he said. “How do you feel about some food?”

“I could eat again,” she agreed.

“Okay, let me run over to that drugstore, and then we’ll get some food.”

He brought her to a diner. The place was bright and shiny and clean, and the menu had every possible kind of food on it. She ordered a chef’s salad and he ordered a steak. While they waited for their food to come, she asked him, “Do you believe me? Do you believe that I’m really Jack, or that I used to be Jack?”

Grady smiled. “Let’s say that I don't disbelieve you. I did a little research on your phone while you slept, and there’s quite a bit online about the Medallion of Zulo -- hence the ‘zulo’ on your box -- and what I read fits with your experience.”

“Really!”

“Yes, and also, a little closer to home, there was a story, happened right here in town. In fact, the story connects the medallion to the theater. It was back in 1961, way before I was born. As a kid, I was never clear on the details, but I found them after a little searching. There used to be an elite prep school for boys over in Premsby -- that’s the next town over. Back in those days the boys would put on a play every year in the very same theater where you found the necklace.

“That year, the play was Lady Windermere’s Fan. Since it was an all-boys school, the female parts had to be played by the younger boys. The drama teacher, who was a woman, apparently put the boys in their costumes every chance she could. Seemed she got some kind of thrill out of dressing boys in girls’ clothes. Anyway, the interesting part is that some way, somehow, she came into possession of the medallion, and -- either by accident or on purpose -- she turned one of the young boys into a young girl.”

“Oh, my God!” Jackie exclaimed, just as their food arrived. The waitress smiled and refilled their water glasses. After she left, Grady continued.

“Of course, no one believed her about the medallion. She wanted to change him back, but no one would let her near the child. The whole business ended very badly. The boy’s parents didn’t believe that this strange young girl was actually their son, transformed, so she became an orphan and went into the system. The teacher was charged with kidnapping, and they threatened to bring all sorts of other charges against her, including murder. See, everyone actually thought and believed that it was a double kidnapping: that she’d kidnapped a boy and a girl. In the end, the teacher and the girl disappeared, along with the theater’s maintenance man.”

“And nobody knows what happened to them?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“If the medallion could do all that, why didn’t they take it with them?”

Grady shrugged. “Maybe they figured it had caused enough trouble in their lives.” He chuckled to himself. “Maybe they didn’t have sexy Santa Baby costumes back then, so they couldn’t imagine what else to do with it.”

“Hmmph.” Jackie crunched her lettuce thoughtfully. “So, do you think the medallion can turn me back into Jack?”

Grady hesitated before he answered. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want! Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Honestly? You don’t seem to mind being a girl. In fact, you seem to like it quite a bit. The way you walk and talk. The faces that you make… You’re all flirty and sexy and cute. Like, when you were in the bathtub, you were batting your eyes and saying in that little-girl voice oh, my little baby fingers are all pruny and wrinkly! Everything about you screams girl. But at the same time…” Grady hesitated again. “I don’t know how much of what I’m seeing is really you.” He scratched his head. “Look: I have to tell you something. I love submissive women: Passive, obedient, pliable women just drive me wild. And you are the most submissive, feminine, docile woman I have ever met or seen in my entire life. BUT -- and this is a big ‘but’ -- and even apart from the whole business with the medallion -- I don’t know if this is really you. I’m afraid that everything I’ve seen and experienced with you is just the effect of the drugs that Lucy gave you.”

“Wouldn’t that have worn off by now?” Jackie asked. “I don’t feel high at all. I haven’t for a while.”

“For most people, yes. It would have worn off hours ago. I’m no expert, and I’ve never taken ecstasy, but I do know that for some people, E can have an aftereffect that lasts for days, even a week, where the person is all happy and open and just --- well, just way too open. They’re… well, they’re like you are now. Face it, I’d love to fuck you every which way. I’d love to do all kinds of things to you. You must know that. You must feel that I want it. And God, I know I’ve taken liberties with you that I probably shouldn’t have, but there’s a good reason that I haven’t gone all the way. And believe me, it’s been a battle. Inside of me, it’s been a fight. Lord knows. But there’s one thing about submission that’s very important to me, and it’s this: submission has to be honestly and intelligently given. It’s all about consent. It’s a fully informed and conscious agreement between two people. And I’m not sure that you’re in a state where you can truly consent. I’m not sure you can authentically consent to anything, I mean.”

Jackie considered this in silence. It did make some sense. The way she behaved as Jackie was nothing like the way she behaved as Jack. Jack had zero trouble saying no. In fact, he liked saying no. Jack was kind of an asshole, really, and proud of it. Jackie, on the other hand, loved people and fun. Yes was the word that was written on her heart.

Grady continued:

“At the same time, I think about the things you did, before you took the drugs. You didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to get rid of your new girly self. You didn’t even try to explore why and how it happened. Think about it: What were the first things you did after you changed? What were the first things you wanted to do? You wanted to look in a mirror. You wanted to clean up. You wanted to get some nice clothes to wear. And then, what DID you wear? What was the first and only thing you even tried on? In a building full of costumes of every imaginable kind, you went and put on that sexy Check-Me-Out-and-Fuck-Me-Santa Baby-Doll outfit, with the shiny red panties. That’s what you did.”

Jackie blushed crimson, and responded, a little hotly, “And what would YOU have done?”

Grady laughed. “I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t have done! I wouldn’t have left that theater until I got my cock back! That’s for damn sure.”

Still flushing red, Jackie demanded, “And how exactly would you do that?”

Grady smiled and held up Jack’s phone. “I’d do it with this, exactly the way I did up at the house just now. I did a little searching, starting from the word z-u-l-o, and pretty quickly I knew all about the medallion and how it works. If you had done that, you’d know that if you just sat down and waited twelve hours, you could change yourself back.”

“But it’s been twelve hours,” Jackie protested. “It’s been MORE than twelve hours, and I haven’t changed back.”

“You can only change once every twelve hours, but you need the medallion to do it. Don’t worry, I’ll show you. I’ve got a plan.”

They took a few bites of food in silence, then Jackie asked, “Your plan -- you said you had a plan that would solve both our problems, yours and mine. What’s your problem?”

“Mmm,” Grady said, swallowing. “My problem is probation. I’m supposed to meet my probation officer tomorrow morning, and I know he’s going to violate me.”

“Violate you?” Jackie asked, alarmed. “Do you mean, like, rape?”

Grady almost choked on his coffee. Laughing, he told her, “No, no -- I mean, he’s going to throw me back in jail for violating the terms of my parole. I don’t want to get into the particulars. Let’s just say it would be immensely useful to me if I could be somebody else for a while. Or even permanently. Being me hasn’t been working for a while now. It’d be nice to have a clean slate.”

Jackie nodded.

They finished their food, than made a quick stop at the theater to pick up the medallion. They put it inside the necklace case to keep it safe and to prevent accidental transformations.

That was the last of their errands, so from the theater, they went to Jack’s motel room.

Jackie looked around. Everything was exactly as she’d left it -- or, as Jack had left it. Although only one day had passed, it seemed like years since she’d been in that room. Jack’s suitcase was exactly where Jack had dropped it. Jack really hadn’t used the room at all; he’d only checked in and run off to the theater -- the theater, where everything had changed. It seemed as though she’d lived an entire lifetime as Jackie. Was she ready to change back? Did she want to change back?

She looked at Grady, who was busy laying clothes and other items on the bed. She saw the bathing suit he’d just bought, and now he was opening and unrolling a condom that seemed impossibly long. “I don’t know if I’m up for that,” she found herself saying.

“That’s interesting,” Grady observed. “It sounds like you’re starting to come back to yourself. That’s the closest you’ve come to saying ‘no’ since I met you. Anyway, don’t worry -- this isn’t for what you think.” He stopped and surveyed the items on the bed. Then, realizing what was missing, he opened Jack’s suitcase and took out a pair of boxer shorts. “Jack *has* worn these, right?” he asked. Jackie nodded.

“Okay, here we go,” Grady said, rubbing his hands nervously. “Now we’ll see if this thing works as advertised.” He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt. As he started opening his pants, he nodded to Jackie. “You should take your clothes off, too.”

By the time they were both naked, her breasts were freely bobbing, and he had an erection of considerable size. Grady saw her looking, so he said, “You know that I want to, but let’s do this medallion thing and see if it really works. Because if it doesn’t, I’ll need to high-tail it out of here. There may already be a warrant out for my arrest.”

Grady sat Jackie in a chair, and then bound her hands with zip ties. “What happened to consent?” she quipped, only half-joking.

“This is just a precaution,” he replied. “If you touch the medallion in the wrong way at the wrong time, we’ll be screwed.” She nodded. He took a breath.

Jackie asked him, “You’re really nervous, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I am,” he responded. “I’m afraid it won’t work -- and then what? I’ll be on the run. And I’m afraid it *will* work. If it really works, it’s going to be a whole new life, with all that it entails.”

“Okay,” she said in a doubtful tone.

“Listen,” he told her. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to change us both, and if you don’t like the result, we can change again tomorrow morning. It’s almost six now. It’ll probably take a half hour each to transform, so that’s seven. We can change again at seven AM, or twelve hours after we’re done changing. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m going to change first, then I’ll change you. Now, I told you that I think the drug is still affecting you, so I’m going to change you into somebody -- a real somebody with a birth certificate and other documents, so you can live a real life.” She frowned, not understanding. “What I’m thinking is that that is what you really want: you want to be a young, good-looking woman. This way, you can do that. I might be wrong; we’ll see. After you change, the drugs should be out of your system, and then you can tell me what you really want.”

“And who are you going to change into?” Jackie asked.

“Watch and you’ll see,” he told her. He put the medallion around his neck, and touched Jack’s boxers to it. He gasped slightly as the tingling sensation hit him, then slowly the changes began to spread over his body. Jack was a tall man, but not anywhere near as muscular and wide as Grady. As the two of them watched, Grady grew slimmer. Fine lines appeared around his eyes and mouth. His lips thinned. His hair darkened, and his shoulders narrowed. His neck and face got smaller as well. Grady looked down at his penis, and saw that it was growing shorter as well.

“I kind of thought so,” he commented, and picked up the long condom from the bed. He held it against the medallion until his cock grew to what seemed to Jackie an unnatural length. “See? Once you're transformed, you can use the medallion to do some tweaks." He looked at himself, hefted his cock in hand experimentally. "That’s better,” Grady said, approvingly. “Now we do you.”

He hung the medallion around her neck, and touched it with an old cotton dress that he picked up from the bed. Grady dragged her chair closer to the mirror on the back of the door so she could see her reflection. As she watched, her hair grew shorter, curlier, and lightened to a sandy, reddish brown. Her breasts began shrinking and her hourglass figure widened to a narrow rectangle. She had a cute face, but the rest of her… Oh, Lord! “I’m flat as a board!” she cried, “and I’ve got big feet!”

She looked at Grady, who was stunned by the transformation. It was a shock for him to see Zadie’s face again. “Don’t worry,” he said, coming back to himself. “Zadie always hated her figure and her feet, so we’ll fix that now. Like I told you, once you're transformed, you can use the medallion to do some tweaks.” He touched the medallion with a small-sized pair of womens sneakers. Then, once Jackie’s feet shrank to fit the sneakers, he touched the medallion with the bathing suit he’d bought earlier. Jackie’s figure began to morph once again, filling out to match the bathing suit’s measurements. In moments, the medallion returned to her the curvy hips, narrow waist, and generous breasts that Jackie had so quickly gotten used to.

Once the changes were complete, Grady cut the zip ties from Jackie’s wrists, and the two took stock of themselves and of each other.

“Shit, it really works!” the new Jack whispered, in a voice filled with awe.

“What the hell?” Jackie asked, once again startled by the new voice coming out of her mouth.

Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 5 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

“You’re me!” Jackie exclaimed, incredulous.

“That’s the idea,” Grady said, nodding.

“You’re ME!” Jackie repeated, stunned at seeing herself, hearing herself -- Jack, a man -- while she remained a woman.

Grady nodded. He was watching her closely, studying her reactions.

“So who *I* am supposed to be?” demanded Jackie.

“You’re Zadie Gammisen,” Grady replied.

“The dead girl? Zadie Gammisen? How can I -- She --- I can’t be her! I’m -- she’s -- she’s DEAD!”

“Evidently not,” Grady replied, gesturing at Zadie’s new incarnation. “Look: in that bag on the bed, there’s her birth certificate, social security, drivers license… there’s even her vaccination record and her high school diploma. There’s some old family photos in there, too.You can see what your parents looked like. You can see what you looked like as a little girl--”

Jackie cut him off. “I don’t give a crap about any of that! I’m still a woman!”

“Right, I know,” Grady said. “But look: a couple of minutes ago, you were nobody. You didn’t even have a real name. Now you have an identity, and an amazingly hot body to boot!”

“I don’t want a new identity! I don’t want an amazingly hot body! I don’t want to see what I looked like as a little girl! I want to be ME! I want to change back to Jack! I’m Jack Redhaven! I’m supposed to be Jack Redhaven. You don’t get to be me!”

Grady’s expression showed his disappointment and surprise. His face actually went white with dismay. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. There was no way for me to tell for sure what you wanted, no matter which way I asked you. You were in a state where you’d agree to anything. I couldn’t trust that any choice you made really reflected what you want. If you recall, I said all of that to you, at the time.”

Jackie fumed. She could see the justice in Grady’s remarks, but at the same time, she was angry. Angry at herself, mostly, but angry at Grady as well. She’d been so stupid! Stupid to put on the silly outfit. Stupid to go outside in those clothes! Stupid to get on the bus! Stupid to take those pills!

Grady was eyeing her. He was full of caution, uncertain what exactly she was feeling. More than that, he wasn’t sure what was safe for him to say. “I’m guessing you’re not too happy,” he ventured, lamely.

“That’s an understatement,” she shot back.

“I really thought you wanted to be a girl,” he told her. “You seemed so natural at it.”

“Because I have such a small dick?” she said hotly, turning red as she spoke.

“Hey, you’re average, I suppose. But how could I know? I didn’t see it until I changed.”

“But you assumed!”

“I didn’t assume. I just brought some insurance. I didn’t want to be caught short down there.” After a pause, he added, “You can do the same for yourself when you change back to Jack.”

Jackie looked away, offended and embarrassed. In spite of her strong emotions, she did her best to try to calm down. “All right,” she said, trembling slightly from anger and adrenaline. “Let’s discuss this rationally. Let’s talk about next steps.”

Grady told her, “Until now, I was thinking that the two of us could do the theater liquidation job, and see if we liked being together. I felt that we had good chemistry. We’d do that, and take it from there. With the medallion, we could always redo our choices.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, what do we need to do for me to get my body back. I need to be Jack Redhaven, and I need to be the ONLY Jack Redhaven. You said that if I didn’t like this, you’d fix it. I want to know how and when.”

Grady was embarrassed. He never intended to go back on his word, but he also never thought he’d have to live up to it. “Okay,” he said. “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning, you get to be Jack again. We’ll do what we did just now, pretty much.”

“And who will you be?”

Grady replied in a small voice, “I guess I’ll have to be Zadie.” For now, he added silently.

Jackie nodded grimly. “That sounds about right. We’ll see how natural it is for you.” Then she set her lip, gave him a fierce look in the eye, and walked into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She had the feeling she was about to cry, and she absolutely did not want to cry in front of Grady.

It was almost exactly a day since she turned into Jackie, and here she was, back again, turned into a woman again. A different woman, but still, a woman... again. This time was different, though: this time she knew how and why it happened. She also knew how it would end: she’d go back to being Jack.

At the same time, now that her confrontation with Grady was over and she was alone, now that the drug and its effects was fully out of her system, she began to feel and recall all that she’d been through in the past 24 hours. All the indignities, the assaults… all those god-damn dirty Santas. The memories didn’t unfold like a story: they burst one at a time like little neural explosions on the view screen of her mind. Faces, hands, smells, sensations, tastes… oh God. It was awful. She was cringing so much that she wanted to vomit.

She sat on the closed toilet, her fists curled into two tight balls, her head bowed, her eyes tight shut, her jaw clenched like a bear trap.

After the horrible backroom Santa orgy had ended… then came Grady. He was nice enough and good enough. He wasn’t ugly and creepy like the Santas. He did treat her to that lovely bath and that soft towel rubdown, but he kept her naked nearly the entire time he was with her! She recalled, blushing furiously, the way he slipped his hand under her shirt -- which happened to be the only clothes she was wearing -- how he lifted it up to show her ass, her pussy, her stomach and back… everything but her breasts. But he’d seen her breasts, too. She remembered how his blue eyes rested there, on her twin beauties.

And she knelt at his feet! Actually! Literally! No metaphor there. She was naked, on her knees, on the floor between his feet!

She wanted to hate him and resent him. He had used her. He’d stolen her identity, for Christ’s sake! But he did seem at heart to be a good person, someone who tries to do right by others. He had protected Buddy, even if Buddy didn’t understand it.

But on the other hand, he stole from Buddy! She saw him do it. And didn’t Grady say there was there a warrant out for his arrest? Why was he on parole? No, not parole, the other thing -- probation, right. Probation. He must have done something wrong, broken some law. You don’t get on probation by being a good person.

What had Grady done? What crime had he committed? As the question came bubbling up in her mind, displacing all her unpleasant memories, another question quickly took the fore: What was Grady doing right now? She’d left him all alone. For all she knew, he’d run off with the medallion and her face.

She jumped to her feet and whipped open the bathroom door, still naked, her breasts swinging.

Grady was sitting on a towel that he’d draped over a chair. He was looking at the floor when Jackie emerged, and slowly lifted his head to look at her. She was taken aback. He was still here: he hadn’t run. Clearly (since he hadn’t bothered to dress), he had no intention of going anywhere. That was reassuring. But his face looked so sad! Jackie was stunned. She was looking at her own face, Jack’s face. She’d seen sadness on that face before: she knew what it looked like, and she knew how it felt.

Why was Grady so sad?

Earlier, when Jackie ran off to the bathroom, Grady was glad to be left alone for a moment. He needed to think. But first, there was something he needed to do: he needed to hide the medallion. He didn’t want to leave himself open to anything that Jackie might do to him, either for revenge or out of good intentions. After a quick look around, he popped the medallion back in its case, and stashed the case on top of the closet, where she wouldn’t be able to reach or even see it.

Then he put on a pot of coffee. He felt like he hadn’t had a cup all day, even though he’d just consumed two at the diner. But… now he was Jack, and Jack hadn’t had any. The water bubbled and dripped in the coffeemaker.

He looked at the pair of Jack’s boxers, but he didn’t put them on. There didn’t seem to be any point to getting dressed, especially when he had no idea how Jackie might react to seeing him in her -- or Jack’s -- clothes.

He draped a towel over one of the motel armchairs, and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was time to review his options. His best hope was that Jackie would relent, and decide to remain Zadie. He wouldn’t force her or trick her. He couldn’t bring himself to do that, especially now that she had Zadie’s face. Oddly, he didn’t feel the same love and connection that he’d always felt with the real Zadie. Sure, Jackie was Zadie now, but only physically. There was a different person inside. The same body -- more or less -- but a different driver.

There was probably no way he could talk her into remaining as Zadie. If she was going to go for it, it would have to be her idea. Or at least seem to be her idea. Maybe if they slept together? That might sell it for her. He had caught her glancing at his cock more than once, and though they were quick looks, her face betrayed her interest. He could tell she was curious. If he had what looked like the right timing, he might coax her into enjoying her last night as a woman. So far, she hadn’t experienced sex without drugs, sex without Santas.

He was pretty sure none of the Santas had a cock as impressive as the one he was now wearing. It was bigger than Grady’s, and Grady’s was pretty big.

On the other hand, he might couch it as a plea for himself: since he was sacrificing his manhood for her, could she grant him one last wish as a man? Could he use his cock before he had to lose his cock? Before he took the role of Zadie?

Grady did NOT want to be Zadie. If there was any way to avoid it, he would have to try. Zadie meant too much to him. It was bad enough seeing Jackie walking around with Zadie’s face. How could he bear to look in the mirror and see Zadie’s face there?

But honestly, what other options were there? Whatever they were, they had to be in this room. Clothes were the key to the transformation. He looked at Jack’s boxers again. But that was out of the question: he couldn’t be Jack. He looked at Jackie’s little bag with the Santa’s Helper costume. That idea, too, was a nonstarter. Not only because he didn’t want to be a bimbo: The real problem was that the person he’d known as Jackie wasn’t a real person, a person with an identity, a name, a social security card. Grady needed all those things, or his immediate future would be a little more complicated.

Another possibility was to go out and buy some new clothes. Then he could be anyone. He could be an 18-year-old boy, if he wanted. But again, he wouldn’t be a real person, a person with documents.

The more he thought about it, the more clearly he saw was that his only real possibility was to be Zadie. He needed a drivers license to get out of town, and he needed a name and a social security number to open a bank account. Zadie had all those things.

And sure, Jack had those things as well, but…

That was as far as his thoughts had gone when Jackie whipped open the bathroom door. He looked up at her, at Jackie with Zadie’s face, and realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. Buddy had spoken the truth: he had no right. Jackie, with Zadie’s face, was a sacrilege. Zadie was a saint, an angel from heaven. Jackie -- well, Jackie wasn’t a bad person, but she wasn’t going to win any Nobel Prize.

Jackie stood in the bathroom doorway, a little surprised, a little confused, but still with an undertone of anger and resentment, she asked, “What’s wrong? Why so sad? Is it because you don’t want to be a girl?”

As she said those words, she instantly regretted them. Not because they were unkind and unnecessary, but because her returning to being Jack did depend on Grady. No, revise that: now that she understood how the medallion worked, she could turn back to Jack by herself AND add inches to her penis, but Grady could still screw things up if he wanted. All he had to do, in fact, was leave, and there would be two Jack Redhavens. Or one, who wasn’t her. So she apologized. There was plenty of time to be a jerk AFTER they both changed again.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I’ve been through a lot in the past few days -- I mean, the past DAY, but I have to say, I haven’t seen my face look that sad in a long time. What’s wrong?”

Her question sank deep into his heart, and it set loose a realization that had been cooking inside him all evening, starting from when he saw Buddy and stole the last remnants of Zadie. He realized that he couldn’t leave Jackie as Zadie. He couldn’t bear it. And at the same time, he didn’t want to be Jack Redhaven any more. He didn’t like Jack.

Jack was old, for one thing. Not “old” old, but older than Grady. Grady missed the energy and power his own body possessed. Jack had all sorts of little aches and pains that he’d probably gotten used to over the years, but those pains and problems were new to Grady, and he could feel them all. Jack had flat feet and bunions. His hamstrings and calves were so tight, they were hard as rocks. His shoulders, too, were a solid mass of tension, and his right shoulder pulled up higher than his left. Probably Grady could work out all those kinks if he had to, but he didn’t want to. Jackie wanted to be Jack, so let her be Jack.

That’s what Jack was feeling when Jackie asked him what was wrong, but there was no way Grady was going to tell her any part of that.

He also wasn’t going to tell her all of the thoughts he’d just run through, the evaluation of his options. He didn’t need to lay his cards on the table. So he told her something else, something she might find reassuring, since it meant he’d give up being Jack.

“I’m thinking about what it will mean to be Zadie,” he said.

“Are you thinking about pretty dresses and makeup and going whoring with your sister Lucy?”

A brief flame of anger lit in Grady’s chest, but he let it die. “There will be a lot to learn, yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve realized that if I had to be any woman in the world, I’d want to be Zadie.”

“You really loved her, didn’t you?” Jackie asked, not unkindly.

“Yeah, I did,” he said. “And so did Buddy.”

“Ohhh,” Jackie said with a nod, thinking she understood. “Now that you see me as Zadie, you’re feeling guilty.”

“Guilty?” Grady didn’t understand what she was getting at.

“About the things Buddy said, the names he called you. Graverobber.” She smiled at him, smiling with Zadie’s face, but with a cruel twist that Zadie would never have given, especially when talking about Buddy. She wanted to hurt Grady, to torture him even, and she suddenly saw a way to do exactly that.

Jackie walked to a spot between Grady and the bed, and turned her back to him. Then she crossed her ankles and bent over, so that he not only had a complete view of her excellent backside, but also of her pussy and her butthole. She smoothed out the bed with her hands, wiggling a little, making the moment last as long as she reasonably could. Then she turned to face him, letting her breasts bob and sway. She didn’t say a word. She simply stood there waiting for her breasts to stop moving.

Grady licked his lips. His impossibly long penis was sticking straight up in the air. “You don’t have to arouse me,” he told her. “I’m already aroused.”

She laughed and threw herself backward, onto the bed, opening her legs wide. Unfortunately for her seductive technique, the mattress let out a fearful set of squeaks, and the wooden headboard leaned dangerously and frighteningly down, as if to strike her face. Then after a heart-stopping pause, it swung back to hit the wall twice, with a sound like a baseball bat.

“Hey! Goddamn it!” the man in the next room shouted, and he pounded three times on the wall. “There’s other people in here, you know!”

“Sorry!” Jackie shouted. After a pause, she added quietly, “Guess that killed the mood.”

Grady shrugged. “I really wasn’t in the mood, to tell the truth.”

Jackie shook her head, not sure whether to believe him. “So, if we’re not going to have sex,” she said, “What can we do until 7 AM? I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

“We can watch TV,” he suggested. “I’m sure there’ll be some terrible movie on.”

She shrugged. “Or we could talk.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he agreed.

“Because I do have a question I’ve been wanting to ask you: what did you do that put you in jail and left you on probation?”

“Mmm,” he said. He chewed on his lip for a moment and nodded. Then he said, “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s all a matter of public record anyway. Remember I told you that somebody gave Buddy the idea to make meth, but didn’t really explain it to him? So… I got Buddy to tell me who that was. It was a pair of brothers, drug dealers, kids from out of town, smart alecks. I knew what they looked like. They were young and skinny, and I figured I could take them both. I went over to this garage they owned. I didn’t mean to kill them. I only meant to beat them up.”

“Only?” Jackie echoed.

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t go there to kill them. Sure, I meant to leave them lying on the ground, maybe send them to the hospital, but that’s all. I blamed them for telling Buddy enough to hurt him, and I blamed them for killing Zadie. I wanted to hurt them bad, I wanted to fuck them up, but you know, these guys weren’t stupid. At their place -- the place where I went looking for them, they had inventory -- drugs -- and they had cash, so they weren’t just hoping that no one would rob them. They were ready… not for me in particular... they were ready for anybody who might come around, trying to cause trouble.

“I went in, hot and fast. I was in such a rush that I only saw one of them. I thought he was alone. So I knocked him down, but his brother popped out of nowhere and hit me with a pipe. Needless to say, that turned the tide in their favor, and they started to beat the hell out of me. They really did a number on me. And yes, the irony wasn’t lost on me: They were doing to me exactly what I wanted to do to them.” Grady paused.

“It got to a point, you know -- it became clear that they weren’t going to just teach me a lesson. They were going to kill me: Finish me off, throw my body somewhere, and forget I ever existed. So I got desperate, and I got lucky. I got one good punch in, a sucker punch, and that turned the tide in *my* favor. This time, I didn’t waste time beating on them. I killed them. I killed them both, as quick as I could. Then I left.”

“You didn’t clean up? Destroy the evidence? Make sure the police couldn’t find you?” Jackie brought to bear all of the experience she gained from watching CSI shows on TV.

“Not at all,” Grady explained. “I was hurt too badly. Plus, I’m not a forensic scientist. There’s no way I would have found every single trace. It was too much of a mess. My blood, their blood, was everywhere. Anyway, I wanted to turn myself in.”

“What!? Why would you do that?”

“I knew I’d never get away with it. I needed to get ahead of it: if I was going to plead self-defense, turning myself in was a good first step.”

“But it didn’t work, right? I mean, you went to jail.”

“Yeah. I was found guilty, and now I’m a felon. But remember: I was beat to hell, and the story I told was basically true and fit all the facts, so I got a pretty light sentence, considering. That’s why I was let out on probation.”

“But you said there’s a warrant…”

“Yeah, my probation officer thinks that I belong in jail, so he made something very clear from the outset: He’s going to keep finding pretexts for throwing me back inside.”

“Can he do that?”

“He can do whatever the hell he likes. He owns me. That’s why not being Grady would suit me just fine.”

Jackie nodded, taking all this in. Grady sighed and looked at the floor. There was more, but he wasn’t going to tell Jackie… or anyone else, for that matter. After he’d killed the brothers, Grady went looking for a sink so he could wash the blood off his face, arms, and hands. On his way there, he found a room where the brothers had been counting cash. Grady didn’t know how much money was there. It wasn’t a million dollars, but it was more money than he’d ever seen. Grady grabbed a small backpack and filled it, starting with the big bills.

He wasn’t greedy; he didn’t take it all. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d taken anything. He was careful to touch nothing but the money that went into the backpack. Then he left. Before he went to the police and turned himself in, Grady hid the backpack. No one knew about the backpack or the money, so no one was looking for it. Right now, the backpack was tucked away in the black Silverado that Grady had appropriated. The owners of the truck probably wouldn’t miss it for at least a month, and by then he had intended to be far far away.

Now that he was someone else, the “far far away” wasn’t as urgent or important as it had been an hour earlier.

After he told Jackie the story (minus the bit about the money), there didn’t seem to be anything else to talk about, so they sat on the bed, naked, side by side, watching one black-and-white movie after another. At three in the morning they tried to call for pizza, but both pizzerias in town were closed. They drank another pot of coffee. Each of them went through all the TV channels three times without finding anything to watch… and then they fell asleep in each others’ arms.

Jackie woke first, at six AM. Her eyes snapped open, and the clock’s glowing numbers were right in front of her. She eased her way out from under Grady’s arm and tiptoed to the bathroom. She meant to not flush, but forgot and did it anyway, out of habit. She was trying to be quiet, to not wake Grady.

She knew there was still an hour to go -- or at least that’s what Grady told her -- but she wanted to try to change back on her own. Maybe the timing wasn’t as strict as Grady believed. She’d change back, then change Grady in his sleep. See how he’d like it!

But she couldn’t find the medallion! She looked everywhere, until she realized: Grady had hidden it. Asshole! She sat in a chair, wiggling impatiently, watching the numbers on the clock slowly change.

Grady woke at ten to seven. Without a word, he used the bathroom. Then, slowly and carefully, he laid the various items on the bed: Jack’s boxers, the long condom, Zadie’s dress, the little sneakers and the bimbo-esque bathing suit. He paused and looked them over.

“You’re killing me!” Jackie cried. “Let’s just do it!”

“Let’s take the extra minute or two to do it right,” he told her. “We don’t want to mess up and have to wait another 12 hours.” He paused, as if trying to remember something. “There is one thing I have to tell you, so we don’t screw this up--”

“Where’s the medallion?” she demanded, cutting him off.

“This is important,” he said. “It’s just one word of caution. Be careful--”

“The medallion!” she said tensely, balling her fists and gritting her teeth. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“Okay,” he said, slowly taking the necklace case down from atop the closet. “But listen, don’t--”

“I got it, I got it,” she told him. “I saw what you did last time. We’ll do the same thing. Except this time, you won’t tie me up!”

Grady blushed at that, but he tried one more time to warn her, “Just don’t touch--”

Jackie hissed in impatience and grabbed the medallion off the bed. “WE’RE DOING THIS NOW!” she growled. “NO MORE TALKING!”

Grady put up his hands in surrender, and she dropped the necklace around his neck.

Santa’s Helper (Sexy!) With Boots : 6 / 6

An Altered Fates Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Grady was seriously concerned. Jackie was upset and in a hurry, and she didn’t exactly know what she was doing. This is when things go badly wrong, he thought. This is how Zadie got killed: when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing and they aren’t paying attention.

Grady kept his hands up, chest height, palms out. The pose was apparent surrender, but what he was really doing was staying ready in case he had to grab Jackie’s hands. He had to make sure she didn’t grab the medallion. He tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. She was animated, angry, moving too fast, and talking the whole time.

“You want to make some BIG MYSTERY out of this,” she said. “You pretended that you needed to tie me up yesterday so I wouldn’t screw things up. Fuck that! You just wanted to have me naked, tied to a chair, so you could get off on it. Maybe we’ll do that to you after we’re done with this, huh? I can tie you up, naked, to a chair. How would you like that?”

Grady to humor her. It seemed the safest tactic at the moment. “I guess I owe you,” he told her.

“Yes, you do!” she exclaimed as she pressed Zadie’s dress against the medallion. Grady felt the strange tingle go through him, lifting his penis in a final salute. Jackie watched with greedy eyes as Grady’s body and arms became more delicate, as his head and shoulders narrowed and his hair grew longer. But she crowed with vengeful satisfaction as Grady’s balls got smaller and smaller until they disappeared beneath his cock. Then his cock shrank away, turning thinner as the two watched it shrivel away. As it lost thickness, it lost inches as well, until it seemed like a tiny worm, two inches long, then one inch, until it finally receded inside his labia minora. “Look at you!” she cried, mocking him. “Isn’t that cute! Not so extra-large now, are you! No, not any more you’re not!”

Grady gasped at the sight of his crotch. His eyes went up to his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Zadie’s face, of course, was perfect in his eyes, but seeing her square body, her small breasts, and her big feet, he felt an awkward, empathetic distress for the real Zadie, who -- as lovely as she was -- had never liked her body.

“Let’s tweak a few things, now, huh? Let’s take that fixer-up and fix her up!” Jackie continued. “You need some pretty little feet, don’t you, girl?” She pressed the sneakers against the medallion, and as Grady’s feet became more petite, Jackie picked up the bathing suit. “And now for the pièce de résistance! You can’t go out whoring with your sister Lucy with a body like that, can you? You won’t have the boys prodding and pawing and pissing on your if you look like that! You need a little more bimbo in that body, don’t you? Time to pump up those breasts and put some oomph into that behind!” Jackie laughed loudly and unkindly, holding the swimsuit a few inches from the medallion, prolonging the tease and the mockery. Then she went in for the kill, holding the swimsuit against the medallion, pressing hard, as though more pressure would squeeze out more humiliation and shame.

Grady flushed red from head to foot. When he bought the swimsuit, he honestly believed he was doing Jackie a favor: that she’d appreciate having her a hot, hourglass shape, with those generous breasts, and that spectacular ass. But now that it was happening to him, now that he was taking on that shape, he felt humiliated and stupid. Above all, he was ashamed that he’d done it to Jackie. He dropped his arms and stared at himself in the mirror. Zadie, back from the dead. It was sobering. More than sobering, it was shocking, and it made him realize how dangerous the medallion was. He wondered what Buddy would think if he could see this new Zadie. Would it throw him over the edge?

Jackie read the shame and regret on Grady’s face. At first, Jackie felt a strong sense of justification and satisfaction. Those feelings were quickly followed by pity and compassion. She took a step back and dropped the swimsuit on the bed. “Look,” she said. “I know that I was angry when I did this to you, but I think you deserved it, at least a little.”

“I understand,” Grady replied. “I didn’t take into consideration how you would feel when I did this to you.”

“Yeah,” Jackie agreed. “I know you didn’t. Well, how about this: you live like this for a day like I did, and see if you can figure out someone else you’d rather be. If you do, and you want to change, we can make that happen tomorrow morning. Okay? Does that sound fair?”

“Yes,” Grady replied, heaving a sigh of relief. “It sounds more than fair.” He was pretty sure he’d already considered all his options, but maybe there was something he hadn’t thought of. Maybe in the space of a day, he’d come up with something better, someone else he’d rather be.

“Now, it’s my turn!” Jackie exclaimed. She reached out and abruptly seized the medallion with her hand.

“Nooooo!” Grady cried, lifting his hands uselessly in what seemed like slow motion. He was too late to stop her, too late to grab her wrists or swat her hands away.

Jackie gasped as the tingle ran through her body. “What the hell?” she asked. “What’s happening to me? WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME NOW?”

“You shouldn’t have touched the medallion,” Grady explained. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. This is why I tied you to the chair last night.”

“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!” Jackie repeated, verging on hysteria. “So who am I now?”

“If you touch the medallion when someone else is wearing it, the two of you exchange forms.”

“Oh, fuck!” Jackie shouted. “You’re just making this shit up now!”

“No, seriously,” Grady told her. “You’re going to be Grady, at least for the next twelve hours.”

“No, no, no! This doesn’t make any sense at all!” Jackie exclaimed, and as she shouted, her voice grew deeper. Her body filled out, muscles growing as her arms and legs lengthened. Her hair shortened and her eye color changed. Her pussy parted, and a small penis emerged. As they watched, it slowly grew, and a pair of balls dropped beneath and behind the brand new cock. Jackie fell silent as she watched it grow to a decent size, silently comparing what she could see to what she remembered having as Jack.

The two of them glanced at the condom on the bed. Jackie shook her head. “I’m not going to bother. I’m not staying this way.”

Then Jackie gave a suspicious, sideward look at Zadie. “And how come you’re not turning into Jack again, if we’re ‘exchanging forms,’ as you put it.”

“It’s because I just changed,” Zadie replied. “I can’t change again for at least twelve hours.”

“Oh, FUCK THE TWELVE HOURS!” Jackie shouted, and gave way to a fit of angry cursing.

The new Zadie looked at the new Grady. She suddenly realized how small she was, and how physically weak in comparison. She could almost feel the rage radiating out of him, and saw bewilderment mixed with angry frustration written on his face. She didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel safe at all.

“Listen,” she told him. “Now that you’re Grady, you should probably keep out of sight. I’ll get dressed and pick up some food, and then at--” she glanced at the clock “--at, like, say, eight o’clock tonight, you can finally change back to being Jack.”

Jack shot Zadie an intense look, flaming with anger and -- could there even be murderous intent in those eyes? Could he be so violently upset that he’d want to do her harm?

“Fuck you! Fuck you and all your stupid words and plans!” Jack growled in a low animal tone, “Fuck your twelve hours and your secret, idiot rules! You’re nothing but trouble! All you do is use me and trick me and mislead me, and I’ve had enough! Do you understand me? I have had enough!” With that, he grabbed the bag from the sports store. Zadie quickly perceived what was coming, so she snatched the Silverado’s keys and the bag with Zadie’s documents. Jack tossed the sports clothes out the motel door. Then he scooped up the other items of women’s clothes off the bed, and tossed them out the door as well: the sneakers, the old cotton dress, and the bathing suit.

Jack took Zadie’s arm, squeezing so hard that it hurt. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Jack pulled her to the door and shoved her outside, naked as she was.

“You kept me naked, you bastard. Now let’s see if you enjoy it, you goddamn motherfucker!” Jack slammed the door loudly and locked it, leaving her alone, naked, standing on the motel balcony, overlooking the parking lot and the street. She looked down at the street and the stores, but no one appeared to have noticed her yet. Then she jumped at the sound of a soft cough behind her. “Sorry,” a man’s voice softly said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man was standing in front of the room next door. He looked to be in his forties. He was smoking a cigarette and trying to not be too obvious about enjoying her nakedness.

“Sorry,” she told him. “Obviously we’ve had a little fight.”

“No need to apologize,” he replied with a smile. “I’m sorry for your troubles, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You’re really making my day.”

“I can imagine,” she muttered. She reached into the sporting goods bag and pulled out a set of black nylon panties and a bra. Before she had time to break off the price tags off and put them on, she heard Jack unlocking the door. Oh, thank God! He’s relented! He’s changed his mind! Zadie thought. But no, he only opened the door a crack, only to shove through a few more items: the Sharknado shirt and the flip-flops, and the top, skirt, and shoes that they took from the house in the hills, and -- the item that started it all -- the Santa’s Helper costume, complete with shiny red panties. Then he slammed the door again and locked it once more.

Because it was the quickest thing, Zadie tried to put on the skirt and top. They were a bit small, so she threw on the Sharknado shirt. It hung longer on her than it had on Jackie, but where it was loose on Jackie, it was a snugger fit for the new Zadie.

Her neighbor lit another cigarette.

She asked him, “You’re the guy who banged on the wall, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied. “Listen, if you want to use my room to change or to organize your stuff, go right ahead. I can stay out here if it would make you feel safer.”

“Uh, that’s okay, thanks,” she replied, “but do you have a knife or small scissors I could use? I need to cut off some price tags.”

He pulled a swiss-army knife from his pocket and handed it to her. A few minutes later she was putting on her underwear beneath the Sharknado shirt. Then, after a deep breath and a quick look around, she pulled off the shirt and slipped on a bodycon dress that seemed like a good idea in the store -- when she thought that Jackie would be wearing it. It was black, sleeveless, and came down to her mid-thigh. A red stripe ran from her left shoulder and came to a point at her right hip.

“That’s some dress,” the neighbor commented. “After all that, I feel like I owe you dinner.”

Zadie chucked mirthlessly.

“What about breakfast?” he ventured, gesturing to the coffee shop across the street.

“No, thanks,” she replied, “but do you have another cigarette?”

She took the Silverado and drove it around the block, out of sight of the motel. Then she walked to the coffee shop, feeling with every step the sway of her new body parts. She realized, to her great embarrassment, that she hadn’t considered the feelings of the woman who’d have to wear these clothes. She hadn’t considered that at all, and from that realization she began to understand what an ass she’d been (as Grady) to all the women she knew. After the business with Jack was completed, she’d have to get some more normal, less revealing, clothes. Yeah, just like Jack, she realized, with a wry smile. The very first thing is clothes. She threw away most of the clothes Jack had thrown at her, but she did keep the red panties from the Santa’s Helper outfit. They were so red and shiny and soft, they nearly seemed magical.

At the coffee shop, she sat at a table a bit back from the window. From there she had a good view of Jack’s door, but wouldn’t be too visible to people outside. There was also a side door, so she could duck out unseen if Jack decided to come have breakfast himself. If Jack had any brains, though, he’d stay inside for the next twelve hours until he could change back. At that point, after an entire day in that little room, he’d probably be desperate to get out, and that could give Zadie the chance to sneak in and steal the medallion.

On the other hand, Jack had shown himself to be very impatient, and he might not have the same visceral sense of danger that the real Grady would feel about a possible arrest warrant. Jack was far less likely to sit and wait, and far more likely to pop out of that door and go somewhere.

Zadie ate her way slowly through a full breakfast, and was nursing her third cup of coffee, when Tom Schurheid walked in. His eyes lit up when he spotted Zadie. Grady remembered him from school, although he never knew Tom well. He was in Zadie’s class, three years behind Grady.

“Zadie Gammisen, as I live and breathe!”

“Hi there, Tom.”

“Wow, you’re looking good! You really… filled out… in a nice way.”

“Err… thanks. You look good, too.”

“Mind if I sit?” Tom sat and ordered breakfast. “Oh, my God, that is one hell of a dress. You must have picked it up in in one of the big cities you’ve seen! I’m really surprised to see you back here! You never came to town much anyway, but a while back I heard that you’d gone East.”

“Oh, yeah,” Zadie agreed. “Yeah, I did do that.”

“How far did you get? Did you see Chicago? Did you like all those big cities?”

“Naw, I missed being home,” Zadie lied. “I’m not a city girl. Martaglio is big enough for me.” As Grady, she’d never traveled far from home. The only “big cities” he’d ever seen were Sacramento and San Francisco.

“Well, great, great!” Tom enthused. “It’s good that you’re back! How’s Buddy doing? I bet he missed you bad.”

Zadie was caught unprepared by the question. After a moment she replied, “Yes, yes, I’m sure he did. But, listen, I haven’t seen him yet, so please don’t tell him that you saw me. He’ll feel bad if he hears that someone else saw me first, that I didn’t go straight home when I got here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tom agreed. “Hey, is Buddy any better? Or is he still-- uh--” he wasn’t sure what words to use to describe Buddy’s condition. Challenged? Slow? Child-like?

“He’s the same,” she replied in a low voice, looking at the ground as she spoke.

Tom fell silent, kicking himself for forgetting that Buddy was a sensitive topic. Zadie had spent most of her life taking care of her brother, and consequently didn’t have much of a social life or a dating life at all. Tom couldn’t blame her if she wanted to get away from here. Hell, she probably went East to escape from Buddy. But now she’d come back...

“Are you going to stick around?” he asked her.

“At this coffee shop, you mean?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “Here in Martaglio.”

She leaned back, considering her options once again. She could leave; actually and truly go East, driving the Silverado and ditching it somewhere along the way. If she did that, she’d be leaving Buddy to his own devices. But then again, he’d been on his own since the day she died.

As she had that thought, she pictured Buddy, wild-eyed, crying, shouting, “You got no right! You got no right!”

On the other hand, if she stayed, all her money and time would sink into taking care of Buddy. And Buddy would probably live to a ripe old age. “That little bastard’s going to outlive us all,” Buddy’s father used to say.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Zadie told Tom, “But I’m inclined to leave town tonight.”

Tom couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he tried. “I’m sorry to hear that. I, uh-- oh well…” His voice trailed off. Then, casting about for something else to talk about, asked her, “Hey, uh, speaking of old flames, did you hear about Grady?”

“About the murders and going to jail, you mean?” she asked.

“Yeah. I heard he got out.”

“Right,” Zadie ventured, uncertain whether her lie would fly, but sensing that she’d better cover her bases, “I, um, stopped in here because I’m pretty sure I saw him go into that motel over there.”

“Really?” Tom asked, with a glance over his shoulder. “And what were you doing in this part of town?”

“I was thinking about getting a room at the only motel in town,” she said, “but then I saw the place and changed my mind.”

Tom laughed. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jack’s door and gave Zadie a funny look. “You’re on a stakeout, aren’t you? You’re waiting for him to come out.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but it’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think?” he asked.

She didn’t answer his question. She simply told him, “He’s got something of mine. A necklace. I want it back, if I can get it without a fight.”

She saw a series of questions stack up inside his head, but he didn’t ask any of them.

They talked some more. They asked for more coffee, but didn’t drink it. At long last, the waitress very pointedly set their check on the table, telling them, “My shift’s ending, so I need to cash that out.”

Tom’s car was parked outside under a shady tree. It was pointing in the right direction, so they sat inside it, watching Jack’s door.

After a while Tom asked, “Why don’t you go on up there, knock on his door, and tell him that you want that necklace back?”

Zadie squirmed. “Because we’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

“So how do you plan on getting--- oh!” he exclaimed, the light suddenly dawning. “You’re waiting for him to leave so you can steal it! Aren’t you!”

She looked at him in silence, trying to keep a poker face. He looked right back at her with a twinkle in his eye. Then they both burst out laughing.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m in. I never liked that guy anyway.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“No, just kidding. I like him just fine. But I like you better.”

However, after an hour, Tom began to feel seriously bored, and was just about to offer to go for food -- or something, anything -- when the Jack’s door opened, and Grady emerged, holding the necklace case in his left hand.

“There he goes!” Tom said. “Once he’s out of sight, we go in, right?”

“No,” Zadie said. “See that case he’s carrying? That’s it. That’s it. That’s got the necklace in it.”

Tom blanched. “Okay, Zadie. I’d like to help you, but I can’t take it out of that guy’s hands. He’s built like a quarterback and I… well, I’m not.”

“Don’t worry,” Zadie assured him. “I hate to lose it, but I don’t want a fight. Maybe I can find a peaceful way tomorrow or the day after.”

“So does that mean you’re sticking around? At least a little bit?”

Zadie sighed. She continued tracking Grady as he crossed the parking lot. She figured he was heading for the theater. “I’ll need to do some shopping and find a place to stay,” she said.

“I can help with both those things,” he told her, in a bright tone.

“I’m sure you can,” she said, in a dry tone.

“I’m not suggesting anything! No strings,” he began to say, then suddenly, “Oh, crap!”

A kid on a skateboard, a kid wearing a backward baseball cap and a pair of dark glasses, shot out of nowhere. He crossed the parking lot and zoomed past Grady. As he passed, the skater bent his knees to crouch down low, and snatched the necklace case right out of Grady’s grasp. Then he executed a hard U-turn, throwing sparks, and rolled back in the same direction he’d came from, exiting the parking lot, and sailed down a hill and away.

Grady swore loudly and shouted insults and demands at the fleeing thief. He didn’t run after him; he knew he’d never catch the kid. So he pulled out his phone.

“Oh my God, what the hell is he doing?” Zadie exclaimed.

“Probably calling the cops,” Tom ventured.

Not very smart, if they’re looking for you, Zadie said to herself.

Minutes later, as Tom and Zadie watched, the police rolled up, talked to briefly to Grady as he mimed the robbery. Then the cops spun him around, cuffed him, and stuffed him into the back of their squad car.

I warned him! Zadie silently exclaimed. I warned him repeatedly!

“Well, there goes your necklace, Zadie. You know, if you want, we can go right now and report it stolen. Then you might have a chance of getting it back. A chance is better than nothing.”

“No,” she replied, “it’s gone. It’s been a world of trouble, anyhow, so let’s let it go.”

Tom looked confused. He scratched his head. “You waited all this time, staking out his room, and now you’re just going to let it go?”

“It’s complicated,” she told him. “Better to just let it go.”

Tom was silent for a few moments. Then he asked her, “What now, Zadie? Are you still leaving town?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Right now, all I know is that I’m worn out from this crazy day. I really need to stop and think for a bit, and consider my options.”

“Okay,” he said, “Options are good. In fact, let me give you another one. You know my mother. Do you remember the house I grew up in? Well, now that we’re all up and grown, she’s been watching all these home-improvement shows, and she decided to turn her basement into a rental unit. A mother-in-law apartment. It’s pretty nice -- it’s a daylight basement, with its own entrance and everything, so you’d have privacy. And you know my mother -- she’s not nosy. She’ll leave you to yourself. It’s quiet and clean, and everything is brand new. It’s even furnished! She’s just about to advertise for a renter, but you could live there! You and Buddy!”

“Buddy,” Zadie said, looking down. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, if you want him living with you. But I have to tell you: I always thought that living up in the hills made everything harder for you. If you lived in town, you could get help taking care of Buddy. My mother works for social services, you know. And it would be easier for you to have a job.” After a pause he added, “And a life.”

Zadie heaved a heavy sigh. It was true. Zadie never did have much of a life. Neither had Buddy, honestly.

Zadie considered her options. “When can I see the place?”

“Now,” he replied. “If you want. And, uh, I can help with the rent, if you need it.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Tom. That’s very sweet of you, but I can handle it.”

Later that day, just a little before sundown, Tom gave Zadie a ride up to Buddy’s shack. He was home, alone, and she could hear him crying as she walked up to the door. She took a deep breath and braced herself. She knew Buddy was “simple” but she wasn’t sure how he’d take seeing Zadie alive again. Zadie hadn’t known until that moment how much Buddy understood about life and death and the things that went on around him. She was about to find out.

When he saw her, his mouth fell open.

“Zadie! Zadie! Are you back? I thought that you were dead! Me and Grady--”

“I know, I know,” she told him. “I was hurt, but now I’m better.”

“I knew it! I knew it! I told Grady!” Zadie knew full well that Buddy had done no such thing, but of course she let it go.

“Yes, Buddy, I’m home,” she said, and pulled him into a hug. His arms hung limp at his sides at first, but then he hugged her and squeezed her almost painfully tight. Neither bothered to fight back their tears.

“Never leave me, Zadie! I’ve been so alone!”

“I’m not going to leave you, Buddy, never.”

Then she felt Buddy’s fingers explore her tiny waist, and his tears stopped. He pulled back from her, and after looking deeply into her eyes, he took in her new figure: the abundant breasts, the generous hips. He stared at her, big-eyed, mouth open, and asked, in a voice like a child, “Have you had work done?”

She burst into laughter. “Oh, yes, baby. Lots of work done! Inside and out!”

Buddy grinned. “I thought so! I got an eye for these things! I can tell! You look good!”

“Thanks, Buddy. Listen, let’s get a few of your things together. I want to show you a nice place in town where we can live.”

“Okay,” he agreed, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

The Plan-B Bust: 1 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The music in the bar was loud — too loud — and that’s exactly the reason the three men were there: they didn’t want to be overheard. For the most part, they weren't. In fact, they could barely hear each other. Still, they persisted: leaning forward, shouting into each other's faces; getting the gist, even if they missed the precise meaning or the exact words. In a way, none of what they said mattered. It was all a huge unloading of frustration over wasted effort.

Suddenly, ironically, in the midst of the cacophony and confusion, someone dropped an empty wine glass, and the sound of its shatter traveled to every corner of the room. As if by magic, all conversation stopped, frozen, and in that unexpected silence, one of the three men shouted, “Fuck the rules! Fuck 'em! We need to break the rules on this one!”

Jaws fell open. People turned to stare. But only for a moment. Then, just as suddenly as time had frozen, it began to move again. The shouted conversations picked up exactly where they'd stopped. The too-loud music, the milling about, the general noise washed over the bellowed indiscretion. The clamor, the hubbub covered it over like a wave of sand, and the careless remark was quickly forgotten.

“Joe, goddam it, you have to be careful!” Bill cautioned.

“This isn’t working,” hollered the third man, Andy. “It’s impossible to talk here. Let’s go to my place. I’m 1000% sure it isn’t bugged.” Why was Andy so sure? He was an expert in electronic surveillance. One of the best in the state. For Andy, sweeping for bugs was a natural thing; part and parcel of ordinary housecleaning.

Joe hesitated. “Your place is too complicated,” he complained. What he really meant was that he didn’t want to deal with Andy’s wheelchair, Andy’s van, and Andy's handicap-accessible apartment. Andy understood and resented it, but he bit his tongue. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m tired of shouting myself hoarse and none of us hearing each other. I’m going. If you two want to come, you’re welcome.” He unlocked the wheels of his chair, dropped a twenty on the table, and gave a mock salute. He popped a wheelie, turned a 180, and propelled himself out of the bar.

He had just lowered the ramp from his van when Joe and Bill trudged into the parking lot to join him. They were tired. Spent. All three of them looked like hell, and with good reason. None of them had eaten a decent meal or slept for more than an hour or two in the past three days. Before either of his colleagues spoke, Andy preempted them, saying, “I need to eat some real food. I’ve got some steaks and salad fixings at home. AND, I’ve got plenty of booze.”

“Salad sounds good, after three days of fast food,” Bill admitted.

“I don’t understand why we have to eat that shitty crap, every goddamn stakeout,” Joe added. “It plugs me up.”

“Thanks for sharing that,” Andy commented drily. He rolled his chair onto his ramp and activated the motor to lift him inside. Before he shut the door and worked his way into the driver seat, he called, “See y’all there!”

It didn’t take long to cook the steaks, to throw together the salad, to toast some bread, and to uncork two bottles of wine. Soon the three were sat at table, digging in. Normally Bill and Joe wouldn’t touch a salad, but they all felt the need to change things up, and change them for the better. After the failed stakeout, none of them would be working tomorrow, so once the wine was gone, Andy set three glasses and a bottle of bourbon on the table. The hard alcohol had the paradoxical effect of sobering them up, and they began to seriously dissect their recent failure.

“There’s only one explanation,” Joe said. “It's something we all know is true: somebody’s dirty. Somebody’s tipping off Handsome Dan.” Andy and Bill nodded in grim agreement. “Somebody on the task force is in his pocket. They’re on the take. It’s the only explanation.”

“It’s likely there’s more than one mole,” Andy observed. “Plice is pretty damn careful. Judging from past experience, we have to figure he’s got at least two informants, and I’ll bet you they each think they’re the only one. That way, Plice can compare what they tell him, and know right away if one of them turns.”

Bill swore in agreement. He'd been burned that way before.

Joe Balisk, Bill Marazion, and Andy Niskin were members of a large, special task force whose mission was to put “Handsome Dan” Plice behind bars. Plice was a notorious, vicious criminal with a long reach. He was suspected — no, he was known — to be behind 27 murders. It was known; it was very well known, but it couldn’t be proven. He was also known to have his hand in drug and sex trafficking, as well as illegal gambling, arms sales, “protection,” and money laundering. If it was wrong, if it was bad, if it was illegal, Handsome Dan had a hand in it.

Even so, Plice had never been arrested, never charged, never indited. He was both too careful and too ruthless.

“We can’t even pin the guy on tax evasion, the way they did with Capone,” Bill said.

Joe swirled the liquid in his glass, and his face took on a very dark aspect. “I don’t trust anybody on that damn task force, except for you two,” Joe declared. The task force was composed of members from every law enforcement agency with an interest in Plice’s activities: including (but not limited to): FBI, ATF, HSA, federal, state, county, and local police, and some powerful but little-known law-enforcement entities. The stated aim of the task force was to make the efforts to bring Plice to justice more effective: it meant to do that by eliminating jurisdictional battles, sharing resources, focusing efforts… In reality, the taskforce seemed to sandbag every worthwhile effort, and to waste man-hours with paperwork, reports, protocols, and processes. Bill, Andy, and Joe came from the county’s Major Crimes Division. They’d worked together, chasing Handsome Dan long before the task force was created.

“This task force is holding us back,” Andy said. “We could have moved last week on the information we had. When we finally DID move, it was obviously too late. We didn’t need to waste three days on that stupid stakeout. We’d already given Plice all the time he needed to scuttle our plans.”

“We should have stayed by ourselves, at Major Crimes,” Joe said. “We should have kept our own council and laid our own traps. Loose lips sink ships, and boys, the ships are sinking.”

Bill tapped the table pensively. Then he spoke in a low voice. “Listen, boys. I got a tip late today, and I know what I’m supposed do with it, but it’s not what I want to do with it. I’ve got some information that could be a treasure trove of intel on Handsome Dan and associates. By rights, by all our high-falutin processes and protocols, I ought to turn this lead over to the task force, but after today’s shit show, I’d rather not. I’d rather we keep it to ourselves, and run with it ourselves. What do you say? Are you with me?”

“What do I say? I say hell to the fuckin’ yeah! That’s what I say!” Joe replied.

“I’m in,” Andy agreed. “What is it?”

“It’s about Plice’s girlfriend,” Bill began.

“Caresse Desmesne,” Andy said, with a smile.

“Jesus, what a hottie!” Joe declared. He traced the curves of an hourglass with his hands, followed by some vulgar thrusting motions with his hips.

“Right. You know who I mean. This is the deal: the day after tomorrow, Plice is going to close on a condo he bought for his girl. It’s in the Innovaer Tower.”

“How can he do that? Isn’t the building still under construction?”

“It is, yeah. But it's basically finished. He's buying it before the units are actually on sale. I've got a guy who works security for the building, and he can get us in there. My idea is this: as soon as the place is drywalled and painted, we swoop in and wire that place up the wazoo. We’ll use Andy’s latest and greatest cameras and mikes — the undetectable ones — and we will watch and listen to everything that happens there. I’m betting that once the place is set, and he starts visiting, we’re bound to hear something useful.”

“It’s kind of a long-term, long-shot effort,” Andy commented. “We might not get anything out of it.”

“But it’s doable. And we can keep it quiet, keep it ours,” Joe said. “We check the tapes once or twice a day, and if nothing happens, nothing happens.”

And so it began: Bill got the floor plan. Andy marked it up. Bill and Joe installed the hardware and wired it to the phone lines. They used the copper lines, the land lines. See, the thing that made Andy’s surveillance equipment “undetectable” was exactly that: rather than broadcasting on detectable radio frequencies, Andy’s equipment silently dialed out on old-fashioned phone lines.

When Andy turned on his computer and brought up the cameras, he balked. “Hey, whoa, fellas! — this is a no-no: You guys put four cameras in the bathroom. We can’t do that. Aside from the privacy issue, you know how hard it is to get anything useful over the sound of water.”

Joe laughed. “Loosen up, boy wonder! You’re forgetting that this whole thing is strictly illegal! Whatever we get here, whatever we learn, we can’t use any of it as evidence. It has zero legal value; it’s all intelligence, background. Unless we can attribute it to some other source, we keep it all to ourselves.”

Bill added, “We can delete the bathroom videos every day, after we’ve seen them. Unless of course, there’s something we’ll want to see again and again. Seriously, though, you never know: something — or somebody! — might go down in that bathroom, if you know what I mean.” Bill and Joe laughed, and Joe shouted, ”Ooolala! Zut allors! Comment allez-vous, suckers!” which was all the French he could manage to say. Although he had no idea what any of it meant, he felt sure it was dirty, or at least suggestive. The two men laughed uproariously and made coarse gestures. Andy only shook his head.

Now that the equipment was active and online, Bill brought his tip about the condo to the task force. He only did it for cover, but it turned out to be a clever move. Knowing it would never fly, Bill told the team, “We ought to bug the hell out of that place. I’m going to apply for a surveillance warrant.” Naturally, a judge turned the application down. And just as naturally, Handsome Dan was given the entire story by his task-force moles.

The unexpectedly happy result was that — since the task force refused to bug the place — it convinced Handsome Dan that the condo was a safe place to talk business. Right away — even before Caresse was able to move in — Dan and his lieutenants began holding all of their meetings there. Those meetings were a gold mine of information for Joe, Bill, and Andy. None of it was actionable, but it allowed them to create lists of associates, map out connections, track conspiracies, and record confessions of crimes, including murders. It was exciting but frustrating at the same time.

Speaking of exciting and frustrating, and in spite of Andy’s original misgivings, the three gave a LOT of attention to Caresse’s shower videos, and in fact, to anything she did in the bathroom. “Oh my God,” Joe said each time, “Look at her! Even the way she sits on the toilet is sexy! That goddamn woman is a sex bomb! If the atom bomb could be a woman, it would be Caresse Desmesne.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever,” Bill would reply, “but I know what you mean, brother!”

Caresse had a tiny face with high cheek bones, great big eyes, a wide, smiling, mouth, and a small chin. Honestly, it was an odd combination of features, but it was incredibly attractive. Her hair was long, straight, platinum blonde. She stood about five-five, so she always wore skyscraper heels, which gave even more shape to her already shapely legs, and accentuated her lovely round ass. Her waist was tiny, and her breasts were huge. In a word, she had a perfect hourglass figure. Although her breasts, hips, and derriere were large, they weren’t gigantic. The three Major Crime detectives all agreed: Her proportions were perfectly pleasing. There wasn’t a moment of the day when she didn’t look good.

The detectives were greatly surprised to discover that Caresse was having an affair with one of Plice’s henchmen: a leg-breaker named DeRay Reagan, better known as “the Gipper.” The Gipper was surprisingly well-endowed: his tool was far larger and longer lasting than any the team had even seen, though none of them confessed to their own shortcomings. The three detectives watched in dry-mouthed silence whenever the Gipper and Caresse made love.

Then, after weeks of watching, listening, and cataloging facts, the three were finally able to act. At last, the chance arrived:

Plice decided to firebomb a certain store on a certain night at a certain time. It was clearly an idea that was known outside of Plice’s tight little group, so Joe used a voice scrambler and called in an anonymous tip. He timed it so closely that Plice’s moles weren’t able to send out a warning. The would-be arsonists were caught. The building (which was historic) and its businesses (which were many) were saved. Several insurance firms were spared a major outlay. As small a victory as it was, it was still a victory. It was, in fact, the first time in several years that anyone associated with Handsome Dan was ever arrested and successfully charged.

And so it began: Andy, Joe, and Bill would choose a bit of intelligence. If it could be attributed to anyone outside of the group that met in Caresse’s condo, Joe would make an anonymous tip, timed as close to the crime as possible. Arrests were made; guilty verdicts were handed down. Sure it was small stuff: It was nothing like a round-up. They couldn’t pretend they were bringing down Plice’s criminal empire, but they were whittling away at the edges of his activities. After more than three years of inaction and failure, it was nice to put some ticks in the winning column.

The arrests began to irritate Handsome Dan, and he wanted them to stop. No one had any idea that Andy, Joe, and Bill had anything to do with the new information and consequent arrests. Everyone — whether task force or mob — assumed that somebody in Plice’s gang, or somebody close to somebody in Plice’s gang, was talking. Whoever that “somebody” was, that somebody needed to shut up.

Plice began selectively spreading disinformation. He chose a couple of stories, a couple of fake leads, things that were likely to leak. He told one story here, another story there, and waited to see which lead the task force jumped on. It turned out that they didn’t jump on either one. Plice thought some more, and realized that he hadn’t considered his lieutenants as possible leakers. So he gave some stories to them as well, and waited to see which one ended up at the task force. Again, nothing happened. So, Plice thought some more, and found that he was left with only one possibility: Caresse had to be the leak. Caresse must be talking to the task force.

As much as Handsome Dan loved Caresse Demesne, he also knew that it was easier to find another girlfriend than to find another criminal empire, so he sent the Gipper to kill Caresse. He was completely unaware of the irony: he had no idea that the two were seeing each other behind his back; he simply trusted Reagan to “do the right thing.”

And so Reagan did. Andy, Joe, and Bill happened to all be present at Andy’s house when Caresse got a call from DeRay, telling her that he was on his way up. Joe called to Andy and Bill, “Get ready, boys, the porn is about to start rolling.” In fact, Caresse had already slipped out of her clothes, put the door ajar, and knelt on her couch, looking like the most adorable, innocent, big-eyed, sex kitten in the universe. The Gipper walked in and closed the door, but instead of pulling down his pants, he put his hands on Caresse’s neck and held on until she was dead.

It was a horrible thing to witness: her face, filled with fear and incomprehension, looking up at his expression of brutal efficiency and deep self-loathing, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Jesus God Almighty!" Joe cried. "What the hell is going on? Has everyone gone crazy?"

Andy, too shocked to speak, stared unblinking, open-mouthed, at the screen.

Once the beautiful blonde was limp and dead, the Gipper let go of her and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The three men watched, barely breathing as Reagan, crying, wheeled a recycling bin into the apartment, and dropped Caresse in, head-first. Then he went through the apartment, picking up anything that could tie him to her, even going through the trash to pick out an old gum wrapper. He tossed her toothbrush in the bin, because he’d used it once.

He gave a last go-around of the place to make sure he'd erased all this traces, then flipped the cushions on the couch where he'd killed her.

"He should come clean my apartment," Joe sardonically quipped.

Then Reagan left, wheeling his blue bin, and Caresse was gone. The apartment was sadly empty.

“It’s like a fucking light went out on the Earth,” Joe observed philosophically. “I will never be the same. I swear to God.”

Andy shook his head in silence, and drew a long, heavy breath.

Suddenly, Bill straightened up in his chair. He seemed to have startled himself awake. "What an idea! Oh, dear God, boys! Dear God! You will not believe this!"

The other two men turned to look him, filled with incredulity. What on earth was the man talking about?

“This is a BREAKTHROUGH, boys! A breakthrough!” Bill shouted. “A 24-carat, 24-hour, gold-encrusted, fuel-injected breakthrough! Hang on to your hats, I'm telling you! Now... now..." he glanced around Andy's apartment, as if searching for something.

"I need... I need...," he said, absently, snapping his fingers.

"Bill, I think you need to sit down and take a few breaths," Andy counseled. Bill shook his head and waved Andy's comment off.

"Have you got a duffel bag someplace around this place, Andy?” he demanded. "Quick! Quick! Time's a-wastin'! I need to get over there! Now now now! Strike while the iron is hot!"

“Are you out of your mind?” Joe said. “What the hell are you smoking? A duffel bag? What are you going to do? Kill Reagan, and stuff him in the bag? You can’t confront that guy! He’s a fucking murderer, for Christ’s sake, and for another, how are you going to explain to anybody that you knew anything about this?”

“I’m not going to confront him,” Bill said. “It’s too late to stop him, anyway. I need the duffel bag because I have an unbelievable Plan B. Wait for me here. Watch for me on the little screen, okay? This is gonna blow your minds.” Clutching the duffel bag, he ran out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, Andy and Joe watched Bill enter Caresse's apartment and go into the bedroom. There, he began taking clothes out of Caresse’s closet: dresses, shoes, a jacket: all of them sexy, all of them her favorites. Then, from her bureau, he chose underwear and pieces of lingerie.

“What the hell?” Joe said.

“Don’t ask me,” Andy said. “Maybe he wants souvenirs?”

Bill, on the screen, took one last look around, then threw some of her perfume and cosmetics into a plastic bag. The bag went into the duffel, and Bill, with a mock salute to the camera, left the apartment.

“I think he’s lost his mind,” Joe announced.

"Looks that way," Andy agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, Joe’s phone rang. It was Bill, so Joe put him on speaker. “Listen, guys,” Bill said. “I’ve lined up something that will blow your minds out of their sockets. It’s my amazing, unbelievable, super-powered Plan B. Wait till you see!” He gave an address and asked Andy and Joe to meet him there in two hours.

The address turned out to be an empty office building. The place was run-down and not very clean. Joe and Andy entered through the loading bay. The floor was broken in places, so Joe (to his great irritation) had to help push Andy’s wheelchair. They found Bill in an otherwise empty, windowless room. Bill had laid a tarp on the floor. Andy’s duffel sat on the tarp, next to a wooden table. Bill was busy spreading a clean white sheet over the table. There was another man in the room, a strange-looking fellow. He was rail-thin, had a droopy brown moustache, and straight dark-brown hair that needed washing. He was wearing a limp white shirt, a bolo tie, and a pin-stripe suit that looked as though he bought it at a second-hand shop several years ago. The man was sweating. He looked nervous. He glanced fearfully at Andy and Joe, cleared his throat, and said, “I don’t have a lot of time, Bill. I need to get back to work before they miss me.”

“Right, right,” Bill assured him. “I'm almost done setting up, and then I need to have two words with my colleagues.” He straightened the tablecloth, though it was already straight, and began digging in Andy’s duffel bag: he pulled out one of Caresse’s favorite outfits and laid it on the table. It consisted of a coral-colored lace bra and panties, silver pumps, a pale blue skirt, and a blush top. He gave it a final appraising look, and mimed a chef's kiss.

The man in the bolo tie let out a loud exasperated sigh. Bill gave the man a calm down gesture.

Then he scurried over to Andy and Joe and spoke in a very low voice.

“Listen, boys, this guy is from WITSEC — but not from your regular Witness Protection — he’s from a special classified branch. Do not ask him his name or title or anything about him or his job. He’s going to do his thing and then he's going to blast off out of here. After that, we will not see him again until it’s time to to undo it.”

“What the hell—” growled Joe, while Andy asked, "Undo what?" but Bill cut them both off. “We don’t have a lot of time, so just listen to me. What this guy does is miles beyond ordinary witness protection. He doesn’t give you a new name and new documents. What he does is turn you — physically change you — into another person. He can make a black man white, or an old man young. He could turn a child into a old Chinese fella. He could transform you into a younger or older version of yourself, or make you into your own mother.”

Andy began to object: “Have you lost your—” Bill again cut him off. “Look: what’s important is that right here, right now, he can turn one of us into Caresse Demesne, and as Caresse Demesne one of us can testify to everything that the three of us saw and heard happen in her condo — except, of course, her murder. No, no — let me finish. I know you won’t believe me until you see it happen, so right here, right now, one of us is going to become Caresse Demesne. Obviously, it’s going to be Andy.”

“What? Why me?” Andy asked. “Apart from the imposs—”

“Why you? Why you, because you’ll get the most out of it: as Caresse, you’ll be able to walk. Also, you have the best memory of the three of us, so you have the best chance of pulling it off...”

“Plus, you already know how to cook and clean,” Joe quipped.

Andy scoffed in disbelief.

“Okay,” Bill said, wheeling Andy closer to the table. “Let’s just do this. Don’t anyone argue, don’t anybody say anything. Let’s just do it. Once you change, once you see it, then we can talk about it. If nothing happens, you can kick my ass and I’ll buy everybody dinner. Okay?”

The unnamed man asked Bill and Joe to take “three giant steps” away from Andy and the clothes on the table, and he instructed Andy to sit on his hands. “Just in case.” Then he opened his briefcase and took out a medallion, which he carefully lowered around Andy’s neck. It looked like a cheap piece of costume jewelry, and Andy opened his mouth to comment on it. An impatient glance from the strange man, and Andy closed his mouth. Then the man picked up Caresse’s underwear from the table, and after carefully making sure that his fingers were covered by the shiny cloth, he pressed it onto the medallion on Andy’s chest.

Andy gasped, and his back arched. Joe instinctively took a step forward to help his colleague, but Bill blocked him with his arm. A wave of warmth rolled through Andy’s body. He gasped in amazed pleasure as the warm surge flowed from his head to his toes. His toes! Andy hadn’t felt his toes in decades, not since he was hit by a drunk driver on the night of his high-school graduation. He could feel his toes now, though! He could wiggle them now. He could move his feet and lift his legs. His body felt good — oh, God, it felt so good, like it was budding and opening and ripening and maturing.

“You might want to open your pants,” the strange man suggested, and as odd as it sounded, it was good advice. Although Andy’s waist was shrinking visibly, his hips were widening and his derriere were getting larger and rounder and softer. Andy felt the buttons of his shirt strain, then pop open as his bust expanded. A pair of luscious globes grew and swelled on his chest. Andy’s legs were moving — moving! — and he shifted forward in his chair because his feet no longer touched the wheelchair's footpads.

“Don’t get up yet,” the man cautioned. He glanced at his watch. “Wait until the transformation is complete.” The thrilling waves continued to wash over Andy, warming him, caressing him, molding him, healing him, charging him, changing him. Hair cascaded down from his head, touching his forehead, his face, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders.

His shoulders shrank, no longer the widest part of his body. His arms thinned, and his hands grew dainty.

The transformation took an entire thirty minutes. At last, the changes stopped. Only a pleasant tingling sensation remained. The strange man continued to hold the lace underwear against Andy’s chest for a few seconds more. He checked his watch and nodded. “Mmm,” the man grunted, and Andy could see an erection tenting the man’s pants. He set the underwear back on the table, and gingerly took the medallion off Andy’s neck. Mesmerized by Andy’s new-found cleavage, the man fumbled with the medallion, and dropped it on the floor. Embarrassed, he hastily picked it up, babbled something incoherent, and — eyes still locked on Andy’s chest — he dropped the medallion again. On his third try, he managed to put the medallion back into his briefcase, and muttering some sort of goodbye to Bill, he closed the briefcase on his hand. Ignoring the pain, he closed it again — this time, correctly — and stumbled toward the exit, to the last with his eyes glued to the transformed Andy. He very nearly walked into the door on his way out.

“Holy crap!” Joe shouted.

“Yeah, holy crap indeed,” Andy echoed, and was startled to hear the voice of Caresse come out of his mouth.

“Right,” Bill said. “What did I tell you? Amazing, huh?” Andy stood up, for the first time in 20-odd years, and started crying.

“Oh, no — oh, no,” Joe said. “You're ruining it, ruining it! No crying, for Christ's sake! Come on now, no fucking crying! You’re a woman all of two minutes, and already you're crying!”

“It’s not that,” Andy/Caresse snuffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ”I can walk again!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Bill said impatiently, pressing his handkerchief into her hand. “Look, now, look: you need to get out of those clothes so we can get a good look at you.” And the two detectives started pulling at her clothes, Andy's clothes, that no longer fit her, and now hung comically on her. Bill and Joe practically ripping the clothes off her, until she was standing naked, completely naked, on that tarp, in the middle of that filthy room. Andy/Caresse was still in a state of shock, so she stood there, not knowing what to do or how to react.

“Dear God, will you feel that skin!” Joe marveled, as he passed his hand over her stomach and thighs. Bill let out a deep, groaning ohhhh as he lifted and released her buttocks, watching them bounce back into place. He prodded and kneaded her butt, and then placed a hot hand over her right breast. Joe, his face inflamed with desire, bent to put his mouth on her left breast, but —-

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” the new Caresse shouted, waving her hands, and pushing the detectives off her. “Hit the brakes on the grope-fest, you — you — just stop! Stop! STOP! What the hell!”

The two detectives, embarrassed and confused, watched her as she quickly struggled into the unfamiliar garments. “Fucking bra,” Caresse growled, but then remembering how the real Caresse used to do it (bending forward and gathering her breasts into the cups), she got it done and fastened. She straightened up, her face flushed.

“Sorry,” Bill said. “Didn’t mean, uh—”

“We just figured that since you’re a guy you’d be alright with that,” Joe blurted out.

“Well I’m not!” Caresse declared, as she secured her skirt button and zipped up the zipper.

“You are Andy in there, though, aren’t you?” Bill asked, tip-toeing into the minefield.

“Yes, I’m Andy in here,” Caresse growled. “But that doesn’t mean you can fucking grope me. I’m not some kind of sex doll, for fuck’s sake.”

“Okay, okay, got it,” the two detectives stammered in chastened tones.

“Alright. So what is the plan?” Caresse asked.

“It’s pretty simple,” Bill replied, and in two minutes he explained the whole thing. When he was done, he asked, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s fine,” Caresse replied, still feeling testy. “And when it’s done, your friend will change me back?”

“Yes, of course, yes,” Bill assured her. Then, watching her face closely, he ventured, “That is, if you want to change back.”

Caresse replied with a tight-lipped glare of flaming indignation. Bill quailed. Joe congratulated himself on being out of the line of fire.

“Now can I get something to eat?” Caresse asked.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the two men said at once, picking up and setting down the duffel bag together, then reaching for the empty wheelchair at the same time. They walked into each other, bumping heads. They apologized together, and both reached for the duffel at the same time again.

“I’ll meet you at the van,” Caresse told them, and walked out of the room. When she reached the exit, she heard Joe’s voice echo down the hallway. He asked, “Could she possibly be on her period already?” Bill nervously shushed him.

Caresse set her jaw and clenched her fists, and then she left the building.

The Plan-B Bust: 2 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Once you accepted the transformation of Andy into Caresse Desmesne, the rest of Bill’s "unbelievable Plan B" made perfect sense. Seriously, once you got over the impossible first step — Andy's transformation — the rest of Bill's scheme was pretty darned simple. The basic idea was as far-fetched, as outlandish as can be, and yet, as far as ideas go, it wasn't half bad.

Years ago, Bill had the opportunity to buy a cabin in the woods, near to a place his grandfather once owned. Bill had some money from his father's insurance, and he had plenty of nostalgia for his boyhood visits to the area, so he bought it, cheap, and did some fixing up. It was a nice enough place, with two bedrooms upstairs and a detached garage.

Even so, the place was isolated, not particularly scenic, and nearly impossible to reach in winter.

Consequently, Bill didn't visit often, or mention the place to friends, and now, the cabin could serve quite well as a safe house, or a hideout. At least for a while. At least until "Caresse" unloaded the knowledge the boys gained by their surveillance.

That was in fact the next step in the plan: the new Caresse would lay low at the cabin in the woods, and use her time there to make videos in which she’d repeat and explain the contents of the surveillance material. Bill and Joe would feed the videos to the task force. In this way, they’d lay bare Plice’s org chart. They’d fill in names and make connections that so far no one had been able to establish. It would be invaluable intel. Legally, none of it could be taken as evidence, or proof of crimes, but she could provide details that might be corroborated by other means. It wasn’t likely, but if necessary, the new Caresse could testify in court, even if she could only testify to conversations she'd overheard at her condo.

"Plice — and anyone else who knows that the real Caresse is dead — won’t dare to call her identity into question or say that she’s dead, because it would implicate them in a murder. They won’t be able to say that you aren’t the real Caresse, because your DNA, fingerprints, etc., all PROVE that you are Caresse Demesne. That's the beauty of it! You don’t have to pretend to be her, or even try to act like her, because you ARE Caresse Demesne."

The moment all the information from Caresse's condo was transferred to video, the project would be complete. The work would be over. Once that happened, once all the information was given, as soon as there was nothing more for Caresse to say, they’d pretend that Caresse had been relocated by WITSEC. In reality, Caresse would simply revert to being Andy.

In the meantime, Andy’s absence would be explained by his working with Caresse, organizing information, helping make the videos, and acting as security guard. Bill and Joe would visit on an irregular basis to drop off supplies and pick up videos.

Now that the three detectives were all on the same page, as far as Plan B was concerned. The boys loaded Andy’s wheelchair and Caresse’s duffel into Andy’s van, and left her to drive to the safe house and remain there. Joe and Bill returned to the task force, but they were only killing time. They decided they'd wait a week before reporting that Caresse had "turned." It was better to let Caresse get settled first. And that’s exactly what she did.

However, the new Caresse did not drive directly to the safe house. The new Caresse was in an extremely foul mood. First off, she was hungry. Whatever he'd eaten as Andy was gone, he supposed, and he knew that Caresse had eaten such a small breakfast, it was practically symbolic. Being hungry made her irritable, and she had plenty to be irritated about. She’d been changed into a woman without having really been asked… and turned into not just ANY woman, but the dead girlfriend of the biggest mob boss in the state. Even worse than that, her colleagues took for granted that she’d have no problem being pawed and groped… and no doubt used as some sort of sex doll! Her jaw was clenched so tight, she was afraid she’d crack a tooth. She wasn’t just mad; she was hopping mad. She was boiling mad. She was red-hot flaming-lava mad! The worst thing of all, the thing that made her angrier than anything else was the fact that the pawing and ogling had actually excited her, sexually. The new Caresse was burning with sexual tension and unfulfilled carnal desire. She was a kettle of hunger, anger, resentment, and lust, and that kettle wasn’t just boiling over, it was on fire, shaking, and ready to explode.

Still, she would be DAMNED ALIVE if she’d let one of her idiotic colleagues touch her again. Ever.

Caresse suddenly realized that she was tearing across town in her van. She actually hit 75 mph on a residential street. Calming herself, she took a deep breath and loosened her white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. She practically had to peel her fingers off the wheel. She reminded herself that she didn’t have a drivers license that matched her appearance. She couldn’t afford to get stopped — or worse, to hurt someone by her own inattentive driving. Remembering the old advice about pretending there was a raw egg between her foot and the accelerator, she gently pressed her way forward, and did her best to pay attention to pedestrians and to give way to other drivers.

Truth to tell, there was something else that was eating her up inside — something that no one else on earth knew — and this "something else" made her kettle of anger and desire burn hotter than the summer sun: Andy Niskin had never had sex in his life. Never, not once. He hadn’t even come close. Andy was a life-long virgin. Mainly because of his religious upbringing, he hadn’t take advantage of several delicious opportunities when he was young. He had always been an attractive person, so he had plenty of material for regret. Then, when he was finally eighteen years old, and had only just begun the delicate process of shedding his inhibitions, a drunk driver struck him, and striking him, put an end to all that. Not only did the accident disable his legs, but it also rendered Andy impotent. Now, that damage was undone. He was good — or better — than new. Now, as Caresse, he not only had a new pair of working legs, beautiful legs, and a body as attractive as anyone could wish, but he also sported a fine set of garden-fresh genitalia that — as far as Andy was concerned — had never been used. The new Caresse wasn’t just anatomically correct; she was switched on and ready to go.

Uppermost in Caresse’s mind was the fact that once she entered the safe house, she’d be stuck there. And not just stuck there, but stuck there for a fairly long time. Weeks, at least. Maybe months? Worst of all, the only company she’d have would be those two assholes, Bill and Joe. The pair of them were never Andy’s friends; they were only colleagues. Today, with Andy's transformation, Bill and Joe had morphed from colleagues into predators. Andy recalled with some bitterness that when the task force was being formed, Bill and Joe didn’t want him on their team. They were vocal about it; they made no attempt to hide their feelings, and in fact, they actively worked against his being selected. The only reason Andy was eventually chosen was that no one else in the state could match his expertise in electronic surveillance.

Caresse decided that there were three things she absolutely had to do before heading to the safe house: the first was to get laid; the second was to pick up some more of Caresse’s belongings; and the third was to get a good strong lock for her bedroom door at the safe house. She had seen the clothes that Bill shoved into the duffel bag: they were, without exception, sexy items: dresses, short skirts, high heels, lingerie… all of it food to feed his fantasies. Caresse had plenty of other clothes as well, but Bill had passed on all of it: sweatpants, shorts, sports bras and t-shirts, loose dresses, and comfortable pajamas. For shoes: there were sneakers, ballet flats, slippers, sandals. She needed to load up on *that* kind of clothing: Caresse was not putting on any shows for her colleagues. And another thing: those sexy clothes didn't look particularly comfortable, and there was no point whatsoever in her being uncomfortable.

She didn’t have the key to Caresse’s apartment, but she knew from surveillance how to get someone to open the apartment door, and she was pretty sure she could get that same person to fill her other need as well.

She parked Andy’s van around the corner from the condo. After climbing into the back of the van, she emptied the contents of the duffel bag into a pair of big black trash bags. She tucked the folded-up duffel bag under her arm, and entered the Innovaer Tower through the front door. Why shouldn’t she? None of the staff knew she was dead. The doorman smiled and greeted her by name, and she smiled back at him, making his day. The concierge greeted her as well, and smiled broadly as she approached his desk. He made it all too easy: "Hello, Ms. Desmesne," he said. "Let me guess: you’ve forgotten your key again, haven’t you?" Caresse was surprised to find herself blushing with embarrassment. She nodded and said, "Yes, I’m so sorry! I swear this will be the last time!" The concierge smiled and assured her, "That’s never a problem, Ms. Demesne; it's why we're here. I’m sure that Henry will be more than happy to let you in." Henry, who had been listening and waiting in hope, rose to his feet with feigned nonchalance, and declared that he was glad to oblige.

Caresse was sure from watching surveillance that it would be Henry. It was always Henry when Caresse forgot her key (which happened a lot), or when Caresse needed help with packages, or when she had some other silly problem that she wanted a man to deal with.

Another thing that the new Caresse knew from surveillance was that Henry wanted Caresse, and he wanted her bad. Caresse never actually did anything with him — not even a kiss — but she mercilessly led him on. She’d get him all worked up, then send him away, frustrated, with a bulge in his pants. Back when Andy was Andy, he and the other two men had long discussions about whether Caresse’s torture of Henry was purposeful or unconscious. Joe often (and unsuccessfully) tried to start a pool, taking bets on when Henry would finally have his way with her. He should have bet that today would be the day, Caresse told herself, with an angry laugh.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Henry glanced at Caresse’s cleavage, and smiled at her. She smiled back, and opened her top a little wider, to give him a better look. His eyebrows danced. Caresse held his arm to steady herself, and pulled off her shoes. She lost a few inches in height. Looking up at him, barefoot and big-eyed, she moaned, "I need to get out of these clothes so bad."

"Mmm," he replied, as his eyes and his smile widened. He wrapped his arm around her. "I’m sure I can help you with that."

"That’s good," she said, sidling closer, so that her soft body pressed into his muscular frame. Her voice grew husky. "I need a lot of your help today, once you get inside."

Throwing subtlety to the wind, she peeled off her underwear just before the elevator doors opened. Henry picked her up with one arm and swept her toward her door. Without putting her down, he unlocked the door, carried her inside, and threw her on her bed. She opened her legs in a big capital V, and said, "I can’t wait another second, Henry. Fuck me first — I’ll undress later." Henry’s pants were already down, and his considerable cock was pointing to where the wall meets the ceiling. He crawled across the bed and slid inside her.

Because of all her built-up tension and desire, Caresse came almost immediately. Henry was surprised, but glad. He assumed the result was all due to him, and he congratulated himself on his sexual prowess. He kissed her and gently fondled her, giving her some moments to catch her breath, before he started moving again. Henry glided in and out of her, pumping gently, slowly, undressing her as she squirmed and moaned. Her face changed every moment, as she gasped, as she felt sensations she’d never felt before. The idea — the experience — of having a man’s cock (and such an enormous cock) inside her body was both mind-bending and glorious. Henry ran his hands over her wonderful breasts. Caresse trembled, and her skin flushed red all over her body. When at last their two bodies teetered on the brink of a mutual orgasm, Henry started pumping a little harder and a little faster. He reached down and massaged her clitoris. He sped up a little more. Her body arched and bucked. He seized her butt with both hands, drove his full length deep inside her, and held it there. They were pelvis to pelvis, and he used his pubic bone to rock against her clitoris. She clawed the bed and tried to say something, but all that emerged from her mouth was a high cry. The two of them shook and shouted at the same time. Caresse felt fireworks explode in her brain, over and over. The shaking, the explosive sensations, the feeling of being wide open and laid bare to the universe lasted for over a minute. Then she lay there, spent, her mind a blank, feeling the exquisite weight of his body on top of her. They smiled at each other. Then…

"Oh, God! — I'm so sorry!" Caresse said, embarrassed and wiggling. "I suddenly have to pee! Real bad! Oh, God! Sorry! Sorry! Excuse me!" and she pulled herself out from beneath him, amazed at the length of his glistening cock as it glided out of her. She ran, naked, into the bathroom. Her desperate-to-pee jog set her breasts and butt jiggling and shaking. It was a strange new impression, a strange new sense of self: feeling those soft shapes, and knowing they were a part of her. She touched her breasts, her butt, and between her legs, and realized that she’d need to sit to pee. When she finished, she checked her face and hair in the mirror, and walked back to the bedroom, still naked.

What she didn’t know was that while he was alone, Henry had placed his phone so it rested on top of a mirror frame. It had a perfect view of the bed, and it was recording.

"One more time?" he asked Caresse.

Her eyes widened. "Can you?"

He gestured to himself. His cock was at complete attention. Was he ready? He was SO ready. He’d been ready ever since the first time he laid eyes on her. He couldn’t stop being ready. Henry led her onto the bed, on her hands and knees, facing the camera (although she had no idea). Ironically, in that exact moment, as Henry placed her in his frame, she considered the placement of her surveillance cameras, and knew she wanted a copy (from all angles) of her entire session with Henry.

"Look at yourself," he said, gesturing to her reflection. "Look how beautiful you are." He wanted her to look into the camera. Once her head was up, the moment she looked in exactly the right direction, he put one hand on the base of her spine, and used his other hand to position his cock. He said, "Ready?" but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he grabbed her hips with both hands, and pressed forward, pushing inside… slowly, irresistibly…

"Oh, God! Into my butt?" she cried out in surprise. But it was already too late to object. He was plugged in, and he kept driving forward. She felt her anus stretching farther and farther open. "You won’t fit!" she cried, "You can’t fit! Pull it out! Pull it out!"

He groaned in pleasure. "Just watch your face, baby, watch your face. Relax. Relax. Look in the mirror. Look at how beautiful you are. It’s natural. It’s beautiful." She looked at her face. She saw her discomfort, her surprise, her uncertainty and pain, but as he slid in and out, the feeling changed, as did the expression on her face. As his strong hips pushed into her soft butt cheeks, her face, her expression, were still contorted; they still showed her doubt, but now the doubt was mixed with pleasure. She felt her butt-hole relax. His cock was still gripped by her tight little hole, but the pain was slowly giving way to a strong sexual fire. She watched her pendulous breasts swing. She looked at the animal lust in his face and felt his strong hands holding her in place. She was exquisitely aware of his long hard cock. If she closed her eyes, she could see it sliding so deep inside her, she hardly believed that it could fit. She opened her eyes and saw herself staring at herself. She saw her mouth open, and a low moan came out from her core. She kept staring. She kept moaning; she couldn’t stop. Henry moved faster, bouncing his thighs off her beautiful derriere. He reached down and grabbed her breasts, squeezing them as his cock grew even larger inside her ass. When it seemed it could swell no further, she felt it pulse, hard, like a jackhammer beating within her. She cried out in pleasure and alarm. As Henry came, Caresse came as well: a hard, body-shaking, breath-taking orgasm. For her, it was an orgasm decades in the making — all the pent-up desire, the frustration of impotence, the renunciation and resignation to never being able — at long last the dam broke, and a life-rocking, life-affirming orgasm hit her with everything it had.

A few minutes later, when Henry returned from the bathroom, he saw that she was crying. "Are you okay, baby?" he asked. He was fully dressed now; he had to return to his duties. Henry was not very bright and not very patient, and when women cried, it always confused him. He never knew how to react, or what to say. Especially now, when he needed to get back to work. He didn’t have time to waste on what he considered "female emotional shit." He didn’t understand why girls couldn’t wait until they were alone to get into this stuff. But he did know that he had to at least pretend to care, didn’t he? He was not a bad man, was he? So he sighed impatiently and asked, "Baby? Are you alright? Talk to me, baby."

"I’m just happy," she said. She didn’t hear his impatience; she heard only concern. "I’m really, really happy. Thank you. Thank you, Henry. It was wonderful."

"Oh, that’s all right, then," he said, still confused but enormously relieved. He kissed her, first on the cheeks, kissing her tears (which he thought was an inspired move), then a long, promise me we will fuck again kiss on her soft, full lips. "I gotta get back to work," he told her. "But you know, any time you need me…" He squeezed her butt, then fondled her breasts for a moment. He found her hard to resist. He wanted to put his cock in her mouth, but at the same time he really had to leave. "Okay," he said aloud, more to himself than to her. "Time to go."

The moment the door closed, Caresse leaped out of bed. She took a quick shower, then went through the condo to collect all the things that Bill neglected to take. She grabbed Caresse’s wallet and checked that it had her drivers license and all her cards. She took a folder full of Caresse’s other documents. She took her tampons and panty-liners. She piled all the comfortable clothes onto the bed. Figuring that the real Caresse had already gone to the trouble of knowing what worked for her, the new Caresse grabbed all the cosmetics, all the hair and skin care products, the razors — ALL the toiletries, and she made note of the brands. She took a couple of handbags. Then, on a last-minute inspiration, she took all the jewelry, and a cache of currency, gold coins, and a gun that Handsome Dan had hidden in the condo. The real Caresse hadn’t know it was there, but the new Caresse had watched Dan hide it.

She dressed in a pair of soft, comfortable jeans, a loose-fitting top, and a pair of bright-white sneakers. Then she filled the duffel so full that she couldn’t get it closed. Luckily, one of Caresse’s rolling bags was big enough to contain the overflow.

Back in the van, she used her laptop to log into the condo’s surveillance system. After copying her session with Henry to a USB drive, she set all the recordings back two hours so her visit and her activities would all be overwritten. "Fix those motherfuckers," she muttered, meaning Bill and Joe.

She drove to the safe house, and took a quick tour. It was surrounded by woods, which was good for hiding, but not so good if they needed to fend off an attack. There was a separate garage that easily accommodated Andy’s van. Half of the garage seemed to be a workshop, although most of the tools were for yard work or painting. The house itself was small, but not cramped. It was fairly clean, though dusty, but not half as dusty as Caresse expected. The first floor consisted of a living room, the kitchen, and a mudroom out back. The kitchen was fairly complete as far as pots, pans, knives, dishes, etc., but there wasn’t any food at all, except for a dozen cans of beans years past their expiration dates. Caresse made a mental list of what was needed. The second floor had two bedrooms and the only bathroom. One of the bedrooms was empty. The other was the larger of the two, and was furnished with a bed and a big table that could serve as a desk. It also faced south, so it had plenty of light. Caresse sniffed at the mattress, and hauled it and its box spring into the empty bedroom. She brought her bags in and stashed them in the nicer room to lay her claim. Then she drove two hours north to a shopping mall just over the state line. She used Caresse’s cards for the first and last time, knowing that Plice would pay the balance. He was that kind of guy, one who doesn't leave loose ends.

She joined a bulk-goods club and bought a new mattress, a box spring, and a simple bedframe. She got a office chair, a vacuum cleaner, and plenty of feminine hygiene products. She stocked up on laundry detergent, dish detergent, and cleaning supplies. She got a computer and a big monitor screen. She bought large packs of legal pads, pens, and USB drives. She bought sheets, blankets, towels, and pillows. There was still loads of room in the back of the van.

I probably haven’t come anywhere near the credit limit on this card, she reflected as she entered another store, where she picked up skin care and hair care products, as well as magazines, books, and movies. On a sudden inspiration she bought a gym bag. She bought a door lock, and some tools. She stocked up on bulk items like rice, canned goods and other foods with a long shelf life.

The last purchase she made was a week’s worth of fresh food, along with two big coolers and four bags of ice to keep the cold stuff cold for the trip back to the cabin.

Back at the Innovaer Tower, Henry was on cloud nine. He had finally seen Caresse naked, and at last had touched her naked body. Best of all, he’d fucked her naked body, three times, and would likely do it again. He watched the recording on his phone, and congratulated himself on the quality. You could see her amazing breasts shaking. You could watch that lovely face, plain as day, and that huge all-thanks-to-Henry orgasm playing across her features. And yes, you could see Henry, too, with his earnest, hardworking face, diligently pounding away at her amazing ass. It was a work of art… in spite of being taken by a cell phone placed in haste.

There was something else making Henry happy, although if he had an ounce of brains he would have let it go: Henry believed he was about to earn $1000 in cash from Handsome Dan Plice. When Caresse moved in, Plice came to speak with Henry. He asked about Henry’s family, his history, his hopes and dreams, and then he gave Harry a handsome tip. He gave him two hundred dollars in cash to "keep an eye on Caresse." Every month Handsome Dan would find the time to visit Henry. He’d ask a few questions, and slip Henry another two hundred.

Plice, who was insanely jealous, was pretty specific as to what he meant when he said keep an eye on Caresse: he meant, of course, to help her when she needed help. Things like carrying her bags, opening her door when she forgot her key, picking up her dry cleaning… little things like that. But there was also another thing, the real thing, and this other thing carried the possibility of a neat, tax-free, cash bonus of $1000.

Henry was supposed to keep an eye out for any male visitors Caresse might have. And, if possible — maybe by listening at the door or some other way — to find out whether any of these visitors had sex with Caresse. If Henry ever brought news of that variety to Handsome Dan, it would be worth $1000 on the spot. If he could identify the man, or even better, if he could take his picture, it might be worth even more.

Henry was good looking. Henry was tall. Henry worked out. Henry was strong and smooth and incredibly male and all that, but one thing Henry was not, and that was clever. Henry was never the smartest guy in the room, no matter what room he was in.

When Plice spoke to Henry, Henry didn’t understand that some of the things Plice said were serious, and some of them were jokes. Not particularly funny jokes, but jokes nonetheless. Plice never challenged Henry to try it on with Caresse, but that’s what Henry understood him to mean. He thought that Plice had thrown down a personal challenge: Could Henry seduce Caresse? When Plice asked Henry whether he was up to the task and did he think he could do it, Henry replied, "I will do my absolute best," and he really meant it. Plice shook Henry’s hand and told him, "I can’t ask for anything more than that!"

And that is why Henry, at the end of his workday, went straight to Handsome Dan so he could deliver what he thought was good news. As they watched the video together, Henry could see that it hit home with Plice. It evoked some pretty strong emotions. Still, it never crossed his mind that any of Dan’s indignation and sense of betrayal were pointing in his direction. He wanted to know whether Caresse is unfaithful, Henry told himself. I gave him the proof that he wanted.

"This is you!" Dan exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yeah," Henry nodded, smiling.

"Fucking my girl!" Dan was incredulous. He stared at Henry in a way that should have made Henry fear for his life. But Henry smiled, proud of himself.

"Yeah, that’s me."

"And you’re fucking her — in the ass?"

"Ohhh, yeah." Henry replied, drawing the words out with great pride and a truckload of swagger.

Plice paused, so he could get a grip on himself. Then he asked, "And this happened today."

"Yeah."

"Today. Monday. I mean, since the sun came up this morning. Today."

"Yeah," replied Henry in a puzzled tone. "Today." He pointed to the date and time.

When Plice got really angry, it wasn’t fire. It was blackness. It was a cold, empty void, as lifeless as outer space. It was finality and death. It was silent annihilation, without a breath of mercy or compassion.

"Has anyone else seen this?" Plice asked.

"No," said Henry. "I came right here, to you. So… about my reward…"

"Oh, yeah," Plice said. "Right. Your reward! Can’t forget about that. I promised you a reward, and now I’m going to give it to you. Let’s go downstairs, Henry. I have a special room where I hand out rewards." He brought Henry to a basement room, a tiled room with a drain in the floor. They called it the "dog-washing room," although no one had ever washed a dog there. Henry looked around, puzzled but still proud, happy, and hopeful. Plice told him, "You’ve got balls, kid. Great big balls. Either that, or you are dumbest motherfucker to ever fall out of a woman’s womb. Stand right here, in front of me." Plice took a garotte from his pocket, and strangled the young man. Then, after a rueful shake of his head, he called the Gipper on the phone. "Come downstairs — I need help with a cleanup."

When the Gipper arrived, Handsome Dan asked him, "You did kill Caresse when I asked you, didn’t you?"

"Yes," the Gipper replied, a little puzzled by the question. "Why?"

"When?"

"This morning."

"What time?"

"Around nine."

Dan nodded. He sighed. He punched the buttons on Henry's phone and called up the video.

"Take a look at this," Plice told him, and put the phone in Reagan's hands.

The Gipper was more than a little nervous. In his first glance, he saw the naked Caresse. His heart lost a beat. His mouth went dry. Was this going to be a video of him doing the deed with Caresse? He breathed a little easier when he saw that the man hard at work behind Caresse was not him at all. It was someone else. He relaxed.

"This video was taken today," Plice said softly, "This afternoon. See the timestamp? Shit, you can even see the clock on the bedside table. According to you, she was already dead at that time. Have you got an explanation?"

Reagan didn't know what to say. It didn't make sense; it didn't add up. "I... I...," he began, helplessly.

But it also didn't matter. He felt Dan's garotte fall around his neck and quickly tighten.

The Gipper was strong, but he'd been taken by surprise, and Dan knew was no novice at choking the life out of someone.

After the Gipper stopped moving, Plice wiped off the garotte, wound it up, and put it back in his pocket. He checked both bodies to make sure there was no pulse.

He washed his hands. He closed his eyes so he could enter that black unfeeling void inside of him.

"Oh, Caresse," he said. "Caresse Desmesne, you devil on heels. Why did I ever meet you? Why the fuck did I ever fall for you? I love you and I hate you, and now I have to kill you a second time. Why did you have to be such a life-changing bomb? Why are you such an evil, back-stabbing whore?"

Plice clenched his fists and rested them against the wall. He stood there in silence, without moving, for half an hour.

The Plan-B Bust: 3 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Plice took out his phone and called Larry, his right-hand man, and told him to come down to the dog-washing room. Given the location, Larry expected some kind of unpleasant mess, but he never expected to see Reagan lying lifeless on that floor.

Even so, and knowing Plice as well as he did, he controlled his reaction, kept a poker face, didn't show surprise, shock, disgust, or disapproval. He simply waited for Dan to speak.

Plice's jaw was working vigorously — a sign of some kind of strong emotion — and after a few moments he snorted, and spat a copious gob at the drain in the center of the floor. Only then, in a quiet voice, apparently calm, he gave his orders:

"First thing: the moment I'm done talking, you go back upstairs and spread the word that there’s a price on Caresse Desmesne’s head: $100,000 dead, $250,000 alive."

Larry's jaw dropped open, and he blinked several times, astounded by the figures and the target, but he wisely said nothing.

"Next, when you're done with that — and only when you're done with that, I need you to set up three meetings for me TODAY with each of my informants on the task force—"

"Face to face meetings?" Larry asked in surprise. This was a first.

"Yes, face to face." Plice had been avoiding eye contact with Larry; the words face-to-face reminded him. He lifted his face and fixed his eyeblinking gaze on Larry. "Face to face," he repeated. "I need to look each one of them in the eye when I talk to them. I need *you* to make sure the meets happen soon, today, but they need to be at different times, different places, so there’s zero chance of their seeing each other."

"Right," said Larry.

"That's one and two: the price on that bitch's head, and the face-to-face meets. After you do those two things, and only after, get somebody to come down here to clean this crap off the floor. I want this place sparkling. Understand? But only AFTER. I want the other two things done first, in the order I said. And I want it fast. Fast and first. One, two, and THEN the bodies. Now go."

Back at the safe house, Caresse was unpacking the van. The first thing she carried in, of course, was the food. The frozen items were a little softened, and the fridge needed some serious cleaning, but for the most part everything was still pretty cold. And the cleaning could wait.

The next order of business was a bit more delicate. Caresse wanted to get it done while there was still daylight but while she was still alone and unobserved. An idea had occurred to Caresse after she left Bill and Joe: she realized that one way or another, there was a strong chance that she’d end up as Caresse for the rest of her life. There was one key fact that she couldn't ignore: her only connection to the guy from WITSEC was Bill. If anything happened to Bill, she’d have no way of finding the guy who had the medallion. Joe didn't know him; that was clear. Joe could still help and protect her to some extent, and between the two of them they might be able to find the WITSEC guy, but that was only a distant maybe. if anything happened to both Bill and Joe, she’d be totally alone as Caresse, with no way to change back and no one to help her stay alive. No one would know who she really was. No one would ever believe she was actually Andy.

That huge potential mess was somewhere in the back of her mind when she grabbed Caresse’s documents. At the moment, the idea wasn’t fully articulated, but the basic feeling was there. It was all about survival: when she became Caresse, she crossed a bridge, with no way of knowing if she’d have a way back. She might never be Andy Niskin, ever again.

If she did end up alone and on her own, she’d need money: which is why she took the cache of currency and gold that Plice had hidden in the condo. She knew that taking it was illegal, and yet, stealing from someone like Plice hardly felt like a crime. She recalled Joe’s shouted declaration, Fuck the rules! We have to break the rules on this one! She would have liked to say that she didn’t have a choice in the matter, but of course she had a choice. There was always a choice. And given that choice, she decided to steal. Yes, all three of them — Joe, Bill, and Andy — had broken rules, but Caresse had broken more than her colleagues: unlawful surveillance, failure to report a crime, identity theft, and now grand theft. She could even be charged with grand theft auto, since she was in possession of Andy's van. This is where we are now, Caresse told herself. To catch a criminal, we’ve become criminals.

Another reason Andy might end up as Caresse forever was something that Bill pointed out: walking. Caresse could walk. Andy could not. Caress could have a normal sex life. Andy could not. It was a pretty compelling difference; one that might convince Caresse to never go back to being Andy. Bill implied that she could make that choice. However, that choice — to being able to walk and have sex — had one huge downside. Caresse was not only well-known, she was the well-known girlfriend of a mob kingpin, a man you could call, without exaggeration, the worst man in the state, and one of the worst in the entire country. Also, Caresse was easily recognizable, not only for her mob connection, but also for her striking beauty. Even people who had no idea who she is, or was, would notice and remember her. For that reason, the new Caresse needed a Plan C — and maybe even a Plan D — in case Bill’s "incredible Plan B" fell to pieces. Whatever the plan, she’d need money, and she’d need a place to go.

The second part, where to go, was a question that would take a lot of thinking. The first part, the money, was already resolved. She had the resources; she simply needed to package them up: she needed a go-bag.

What is a go-bag? If you have to run and you have no warning, you need a go-bag: a bag you can simply grab and run away with. A go-bag ought to have everything you need. The point is, if you need to disappear at a moment's notice, you won’t have time to stop, think, and consider what to take with you. The go-bag solves that problem. You do all the thinking, the choosing, and the packing well ahead of time. Once you're done, your go-bag already has your essentials. In the critical moment there will be nothing to think about. You just grab it and go. The choices are already made: that’s the beauty of a go-bag.

Caresse opened her new gym bag. Into it went the money, the gold coins, and (after checking it) the gun she’d taken from Caresse’s apartment. She added all of Caresse’s documents and cards — except for her drivers license. She kept that out in case she needed to do some driving. She placed it in a drawer of the desk, along with Andy's gun, and the USB drive that held the video of her and Henry. She smiled as she set set down the USB; it seemed to magically return her to those moments.

As for clothes: She put three complete sets of clean clothes in a vacuum-storage bag, rolled it up small and tight, and added that to the gym bag. Then, after a look around the room, she zipped up the bag and enclosed it in a plastic trash bag. She climbed into the crawlspace under the house and quickly found a suitable spot. After a bit of DIY work with the tools in the garage — measuring, cutting, nailing — she installed a little shelf under the floor. It wasn't visible unless you were practically underneath it. She tucked the go-bag on the shelf and glued a pull-off door on the end. When she needed the bag, all she’d have to do was yank off the little door, grab the bag, and go. Until then, the bag would remain a well-hidden secret.

That was done, the next order of business was the bed. She brushed the cobwebs and dirt off her clothes and hair, and stood in the garage, looking into her van. She took a deep getting ready breath and assessed the situation. She didn’t relishing the thought of the next set of efforts. She needed to lug upstairs not only the box spring and mattress, but also the computer, the monitor, and the office chair. She was already tired, and considered letting it all wait until tomorrow, but that would mean sleeping either on the floor, or the iffy mattress upstairs. The couch and the cushions in the living room were also out of the question. She suspected that everything in the house that was either soft or stuffed was full of bugs, or worse. It would be fine for Bill or Joe, but her skin crawled at the very idea of touching any of mattresses or cushions.

Oh well. Thinking won't move the boxes upstairs.

She sighed, gripped the box spring, and said aloud, "Here I go!" but she didn’t go. The box spring was far heavier than it looked. It hadn’t been too hard to push it *into* the van off the shopping cart, but pushing was one thing. Lifting and carrying it by herself was quite another. Looking around the garage, she wondered whether she'd be able rig up a rope and pulley somehow... and maybe use the ramp's motor in the van somehow? But she didn't see any rope and couldn't find any pulleys.

Just then, she heard a cough, and footsteps crunching loudly on the gravel driveway. She panicked. Here she was, alone in the woods, and — stupidly — without a gun handy: her own gun (Andy's gun) was upstairs in the desk drawer. Caresse's gun (or was it Plice's gun?) lay hidden under the house in her go-bag. She took a step back and peeked around the van to see who was there. As it turned out, her visitor was a tall, good-looking, well-built man standing a few feet from the garage doorway. He seemed to have chosen an unthreatening distance: close enough to talk, but too far to make any kind of aggressive move. He was well out of arms' reach: there was no way he could grab her or strike her. He smiled for a brief moment. He had a nice smile. "Did you call a moving company, ma’am?" he quipped.

She opened her mouth, not sure how to respond, and when she said nothing, he told her, "Sorry — the moving-company crack was meant to be a joke. An ice-breaker. I live in the next house — or the next shack — down that way." He pointed down the road to his left. "I saw you drive past, so I came to say welcome and see if you need anything.

"If you don’t want any help, just say so, and I’ll walk away. Otherwise, I can carry whatever you want, set it down wherever you want, and the moment you say stop, I’ll turn away and head for home. No pressure, no obligation." Then he took a step back, a step away from her, and stood there, waiting for her answer.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t try to charm her. He was big, but didn't seem intimidating, and he didn’t eye her up and down as if she was a fresh piece of meat.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

"Reacher," he replied.

She couldn’t help it; she scoffed. "Oh, really! Reacher? You’re not Jack Reacher, are you? Like the guy in the books?"

"No, ma’am," he said. "Just Reacher."

"Is that your real name?"

"No, ma’am," he replied. That answer surprised her. He had an absurdly obvious fake name, and he stood there and admitted it! He told her he was using a fake name. Andy had never encountered that before. It was a weird kind of honesty: to lie and admit that you were lying. It was also pretty weird for a grown man to call himself after a fictional action hero, but at least he owned it. At least he didn't say he was "Bond, James Bond." He did look strong, and he was certainly sexy — sexier by far than Henry... and again, he didn't appear to be pretending or posing. He said that he’d walk away if she told him to, and she believed him.

So she swallowed the risk and said, "Yes, thanks, I do need some help carrying these things upstairs — could you help me with this box spring and mattress? Do you mind taking the bottom end?"

In response, he picked up the box spring as if it weighed nothing. He carried it up the stairs, unwrapped it, placed it in the bed frame, and carried the plastic wrap back down. He lugged the mattress up by himself with pretty much the same ease. When he returned with the plastic wrapping from the mattress, he asked, "What next?" She pointed to the chair, the computer, and the monitor. He brought them up and opened the boxes, but didn’t unpack them.

"I’m no good with cables and crap," he told her. "If you’ve got other lifting and hauling to do, I’ll do it, but that’s the limit of my ability."

She asked him to carry up a few more bags — mostly her clothes, then told him that it was all the lifting and hauling she needed at the moment.

"Okay," he said. "Then I’ll be off. I’m around if you need me, but if you need me, you’ll have to come by, because I don’t have a phone. You can walk down the road that way, and watch for the first driveway on the right, but it’s faster to come by the path that starts near your back door. Remember to be careful, though, because there’s a tripwire just when you come in sight of my house."

"A tripwire? What happens if I hit it?"

"You’ll trip," he said simply. "It’s just a wire. It’s not connected to anything. At best, you’ll just fall down. At worst, you’ll get a sprained ankle or wrist, or a bump on the head, depending on how you fall."

"Okay, I’ll keep my eyes open," she said, and found herself smiling.

"And — important safety tip: don’t go into my house if I’m not there," he cautioned. "It’s booby-trapped up the wazoo."

"Got it," she said. "Tripwire. Booby traps. Wazoo. So how do I find you, once I get past the tripwire?"

"You can call my name once or twice, or you could wait for me. I’m not usually far from the house. Except around dawn. That’s when I go for a run. In fact, I wanted to invite you to come along tomorrow, if that appeals to you at all. I can be at the end of your driveway at six. If you’re there, we can run together. If you’re not, I’ll run alone."

"I’d like that," she replied, "but I’m not sure what my fitness level is. I don’t know how far and how fast I can go."

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "That’s fine. I’d rather run slow with company than fast by myself." With that, he smiled, turned, and walked away.

Caresse stood in silence, watching her strange neighbor as he ambled down the road. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Even with the goofy, obvious alias — or maybe in part because of it — he did seem to be one of those people who were exactly what they appeared to be. Of course, you can never tell. What was he really up to? Why was he living in the woods? Was his house really booby-trapped? He seemed to be living a little boy's fantasy. At the same time, he did save her a lot of time and effort by hauling those things upstairs. She looked around at the items remaining in her van. They could all wait until tomorrow. She closed and locked the van, then closed and locked the garage.

Caresse spread her new sheets and blanket on her bed. She wrestled her new pillow into its new pillowcase. Then, with the help of a power drill and screwdriver from the garage, she installed the deadbolt on her bedroom door. She also serviced her side arm, and put it in a big plastic bag, which she brought with her into the shower. Thankfully, the water was good and hot, and there was plenty of it.

After her shower, she made and devoured a quick dinner (two turkey burgers, an avocado, some salad with fresh tomatoes and olive oil, and a cold beer). Then she double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, put on a pair of soft pajamas, and fell into a deep, well-deserved sleep.

After making sure that the word had gone out about the bounty on Caresse’s head, Handsome Dan had a meeting with the first of his moles.

"Why haven’t you told me that Caresse Desmesne is cooperating with you guys?"

The mole was surprised and puzzled. "Because she isn’t! At least, as far as I know, she’s isn’t. Where did you hear that?"

"I’m telling you that she is cooperating. I’m paying you to keep me informed, so it shouldn’t be ME telling YOU about this: you should be telling me. Okay. That's the past. We move on. Now that you DO know, what I need from you is details: Who is she talking to, when did she start talking, what has she said, and — above all else — where is she now?"

The conversation with the other two moles went pretty much the same way, except that the third mole DID remember something significant. "A month ago... six, eight weeks, maybe, somebody mentioned her name…" She thought for a moment until more of the memory surfaced. "It was about that condo you bought for her…" Plice drummed his fingers impatiently, but he waited for the rest of her memory to appear. "Okay, yeah… it was one of those guys from Major Crimes, the county unit. An asshole by the name of Bill... Bill Marazion, yeah. Asshole. He didn't say how, but Bill found out that you bought Caresse a condo somewhere downtown —" To her relief, she remembered something else: "I passed that along to Larry, right when it happened; he must have told you. It was one of my regular reports. Bill applied for a warrant; he wanted to bug the place, but we — uh, you — got it quashed. Right? I mean, I assumed it was you who did it?" She watched his face until he gave the briefest, slightest of nods. The mole searched her memory, looking up, down, in every corner, but found nothing more. "He's the only one," she concluded. "He's the only person who’s mentioned Caresse lately." She thought some more and added, "Yeah, in fact, he’s the only one who’s *ever* mentioned her."

"Good," Plice said. "Tell me about this county guy. Major Crimes, you said? What’s his name again?" He had a lot of questions about Bill: who are his colleagues, who he gets along with, what kind of cop he is, and so on. "Sound him out on the subject of Caresse," Plice said. "Find out everything you can, and tell me everything you get, whatever tiny detail you flush out, the minute you get it, you get it to me. ASAP. Don’t save it, don’t sit on it, even if it seems insignificant. On this, I need to know in real time. You call me directly. Understood? If I don't pick up, leave a message or send a text."

The mole swallowed hard. This was new. This was a whole 'nother level. This was only the second time she'd ever *met* Plice, and the first time barely counted. Now he wanted her to call him on the phone. Whenever. It was a little scary. Passing notes to Larry was one thing: it was like leaving post-its on the wall. Talking with Plice was different. It felt like walking into an atomic core. Radioactive. Harmful just to be there.

She'd need to keep her wits about her.

The next morning, Caresse woke at five, well before her alarm. She brushed her teeth and hair and dressed in her running clothes. She put her keys, phone, and gun into her fanny pack. It was still early, so she unloaded the dishwasher and made her to-do list for the day. Then she stepped outside and was stretching her glutes and hamstrings when she spotted Reacher jogging toward her. She met him at the road and matched his pace. They jogged in silence for about ten minutes.

"How are you doing?" he asked her.

"Good!" she replied with a smile. "This is so much fun! I’ve been cooped up for so long, it’s wonderful to be moving again!"

Wonderful was the word. Yesterday she’d been too angry and too busy to marvel at it, but the fact that she was standing and moving under her own power — and now RUNNING! After decades in a wheelchair, this was nothing short of miraculous. "I want to run a hundred miles!" she shouted.

"Uhhh, yeah," he replied, "That’s fine, as long as we do it in small increments over many days."

She laughed.

"Look," he said, "Another ten minutes and there’s a fantastic view. We can stop there and take a breather. Depending on how you feel, we can either turn back or go on."

"Great!"

From that point forward the road was a gentle incline. After five minutes, despite her enthusiasm, Caresse began to feel the effort. She fell a little behind. "Hey, Reacher," she called, "I think I need to quit. I'm going to turn around and walk back."

He left off jogging and walked back to meet her. "Are you in pain anyplace?" he asked. "Cramps? Shin splints?"

"No," she said, "Just out of breath. I've got a stitch in my side."

"Okay," he said. "Straighten up. Take deep, slow breaths. Lift up your head. Look up. Do you see that tree up there? The one with the red dot painted on it? That’s how far we need to go. Can you walk with me that far? The view is stupendous. It's really worth it. Once we get there, you can sit down and rest for as long as you need."

"Okay," she agreed, but after they'd taken two steps, she stopped again, leaning over, hands resting on her thighs, and said. "Hey! I betcha I can hit that red spot with a rock."

He glanced down the road. "From here? I don’t think so. That’s like 100 yards, uphill."

Caresse picked up a rock and weighed it in her hand. It was about the size and weight of a baseball, and fairly uniform in shape, even if it wasn’t a real sphere. "What do you want to bet?" she asked.

He looked her up and down for a moment, considering. "I don’t want to take advantage," he told her, "I know you’re going to lose, so let’s just say a kiss."

She laughed and let fly. Andy had been a decent shortstop in high school; he had a good arm and good aim. Caresse hoped there was some transference of that to her, even if it lay dormant for decades.

She was rewarded with a resounding thock! as the rock connected with the tree.

"Heh," she chuckled. "Too bad I forgot to make my side of the bet!"

"You lost, though," he told her. "You hit the tree, yes, and that was an amazing surprise, but you missed the red spot."

"No, I—" she began, but he swept her into his arms and kissed her, full on the mouth. He was a head taller than her, so her own head was bent back. One of his hands rested just below her shoulder blades, holding her up, and his other hand rested held her arm. One of her feet was off the ground; the other was tip-toe. The whole pose and position was entirely spontaneous. She felt as though she was floating in the air. Caresse surrendered to his kiss; she let her body go, all relaxed and supple. She closed her eyes and felt his heat. She let him kiss her for as long as he wanted.

After what seemed like a warm, exciting infinity of time, he let her come up for air. She licked her lips, and they looked into each other’s eyes. She saw the question in his eyes, so she asked, "Again?" and he was on her, kissing more passionately this time, pressing his open mouth on hers, kissing her cheeks and chin and throat, passing his hands over her hair and back. It seemed to last an even longer time than the first kiss, and when they came apart, he had an erection and she had a big wet spot.

He took her hand and in a husky voice said, "Come on, you have to see this view."

They walked the few remaining feet to the place where the road crested, next to the tree with the red spot. A group of boulders painted red and white blocked the end of the road, to keep cars from driving off. Beyond the boulders, the woods opened to a huge, unspoiled valley with an enormous, long, narrow lake at its bottom. "It’s the reservoir," he told her, as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"It’s beautiful," she told him. She could feel his cock, pressing hard against her derriere. She took his hands and placed them over her breasts. "Jesus," he moaned. She leaned her head back into his chest and reached behind her to feel his cock.

I’m going to have to start thinking about birth control, she told herself. And I’m going to have to stop being so damn easy. She put her hands on her waistband and slid her tight shorts down. The sensation of the cloth sliding down her ass, the exposure of her intimate skin to the air, was exhilarating. I need to quit doing this, she told herself. After this, I need to get some control over my libido.

Grunting, he pulled down his shorts and brought her hands down to rest on one of the boulders. She bent at the waist. He slid his hot hard shaft into her wet, warm pussy. The two of them went at it, standing, there at the end of the road on the crest of the hill, staring out over the vast, beautiful wooded valley, hidden in the hills. When the orgasm came, they both shouted at the top of their lungs and heard the echoes from distant hills.

After he pulled out, he knelt and kissed both of her ass cheeks. "You are so amazingly beautiful," he told her. "Every part of you is simply unbelievable." She laughed lightly and turned to face him, and — their pants still at half mast — the two kissed again, a strong, lustful kiss, their naked hips and thighs brushing against each other as they embraced. His cock knocked against her thighs. They put their hands on each other’s behinds, and looked into each other’s eyes, smiling.

"That was nice," she said.

"That was better than nice," he replied.

After a little more kissing, they pulled their shorts up, held each other in a long, silent embrace. Then they trotted back down the hill. He left her at her driveway, but not before one last kiss. And not before he stopped and said, "Hey — could you do me a favor? Don’t tell your law-enforcement friends about me. Okay?"

She looked at him warily. "How do you know I have law enforcement friends?"

He laughed. "Look — I know who you are. You wouldn’t come out here for vacation. You must be working with John Law. Besides, that funny van’s got a cop radio in it. That’s how I know you have friends in law enforcement."

"Okay," she said.

"Does okay mean you won’t tell them?"

"Yes, I will not tell my law-enforcement friends about you, if you won’t tell your friends about me."

"That’s easy," he said. "I don’t have any friends." Then, with a smile and a wave, he was gone.

Bill stopped in the office that morning, but very briefly. He had some paperwork to drop off. Then he ran around the city, checking in on his informants. That done, he took off for the safe house, to see Caresse. She hadn’t sent any message, so clearly she hadn’t set up her computer yet. He didn’t bother trying to call Andy’s phone — he knew there was no signal out in those woods.

After the morning run, Caresse took a shower, ate some breakfast, and threw her running clothes in the laundry. Sure, it was as very small load, but she couldn’t afford Bill finding evidence of her sexual activity, and Bill was too good a cop to not sniff it out.

That done, she went upstairs and assembled and connected her computer, monitor, and chair. The house was equipped with cable, so she had phone, internet, and TV. She didn’t bother connecting the phone — it was too insecure. Once her computer was up, she logged onto her VPN and sent emails to an encrypted account that Bill and Joe would periodically check.

She had placed the desk and the computer in a spot where she’d have a bare wall behind her. She did that because she’d be making videos, and didn’t want any visual clues as to where she located. After shutting the window and the door to keep out any auditory clues, she sat down to narrate her first video.

She jotted a few notes before she began, but mainly she spoke extemporaneously. This video was meant to be a general introduction. She began by stating her name, the place and date of her birth, and the date and time of the recording. Then she talked about how Dan Plice had gotten her the condo, and how he began having meetings there. She said it was her first glimpse into his criminal enterprise, and this glimpse had shocked her enough to make her want to cooperate with law enforcement and testify, if she could, against Dan Plice.

She named the people who usually came to the meetings, described each one physically, talked about their relationship to Plice, and what she understood of their place in Plice’s organization. She spoke about when and how often the meetings took place, how long they lasted. Usually during these meetings she had to sit in another room. Some times she’d bring them drinks. There were times when the men ordered food, and she’d have to set up a buffet or serve it up on plates.

After an hour of talking, she ran out of things to say. Now she had not only a video, but also a transcript, automatically generated by the recording software.

It was only ten AM at that point, so she took a break from the computer and spent an hour cleaning the bathroom. She went outside and walked around the house, taking a good look at the building, checking for vulnerabilities. She checked all the approaches. There were really only two: the driveway and the path to Reacher’s house. All the rest of the property was ringed by fairly dense woods.

Then she went back upstairs, where she corrected the transcript of her video, and made notes. She had three pads: one to keep track of what she’d talked about; another to list loose ends she’d left dangling, and a third for questions.

She realized as she spoke, and even more so as she read her transcript, how little she knew about Caresse: Did she have any family? How long had she known Dan Plice? When and how did they meet? How aware was she of his crimes — before the meetings in her condo? Did she have a criminal record? Had she attended college? Where did she attend high school? Once she began asking, the questions had no end.

She copied the video and transcript onto two USB drives. One for Bill to take, and the other a backup for herself.

Then she had lunch, drank a lovely cup of coffee, and played on the internet while she waited for Bill to show up.

He arrived at two in the afternoon. He seemed charmed by the house. "I haven’t been here in a while," he mused. "I used to come out here during summer when I was a kid. We’d rent a place in the area. I never stayed in this house in particular, but when it came up for sale a few years back I knew it would be a perfect safe house. Every so often I come sweep it out and check on things." He was pleased at the setup of Caresse’s office, and didn’t seem to mind the mattress on the floor in the second bedroom.

He also brought dinner: a tray of lasagna, a container of salad, a box of breadsticks and two bottles of red wine. He put the food in the fridge.

He watched the video and pocketed the USB drive. He had a few comments and suggestions for future videos, and Caresse jotted them down. One of his suggestions, which she intended to follow, was that she review Plice’s meetings on the surveillance videos, and to make a video summary of each one. That way, even though the task force could never be shown the original surveillance, they’d know exactly what happened and what was discussed each day, in a neat, chronological order.

"But how will they believe that I can remember meetings from months back?" Caresse asked.

"Say that you kept notes, like a diary," Bill replied.

It was a great idea.

It was nice having Bill there. They had never gotten along so well. He was behaving very professionally. He was very positive and supportive. Caresse would even have gone so far as to say that Bill was downright charming, for a change. He was solicitous: he asked how she was doing, if she minded being alone out there. He asked whether there was any of Andy’s business that needed taking care of.

Surprisingly, Caresse hadn’t thought about Andy’s life at all! She made a note to check Andy’s online bank account, to make sure his bills were getting paid. Bill offered to stop by Andy’s apartment every three or four days to pick up the mail and make sure everything was ship-shape.

"Do you need anything out here?" he asked.

"Not right now," she said, "but I will need food and supplies in future."

"Okay," he said. "Just send your shopping lists to that email account, and either me or Joe will bring the stuff out to you."

"Great!" she said. "There is one more thing… I’ve been realizing how little I know about Caresse Desmesne. Things like, does she have any family? How did she meet Dan Plice? Where did she grow up?"

"You don’t really need to know all that stuff," he said.

"I know that I don’t need to," she agreed, "but if I ever have to testify, or if I have to do an online meeting with the task force, they could stump me with the simplest question."

"Fair enough," he said. "I hadn’t considered that. The thing is, I don’t know anything about her. You can ask Joe. He’ll come out day after tomorrow. He’s the real expert on all things Caresse. In the meantime, I guess you can Google her. Then you’ll know what everybody else knows, or thinks they know."

Things went pretty well for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Bill proposed that they take a walk, and led Caresse up the road, on the same route that she’d earlier jogged with Reacher. Bill knew all the trees and birds, and he delighted in pointing them out. It was honestly quite interesting, and he showed Caresse how the history of the forest was written all around them: evidence of fires, of huge storms, new growth, old growth… He pointed out an old cabin that was completely overgrown and hardly recognizable as a human structure. Nature had reclaimed it. "My grandfather went to live in that little place when I was a kid, but look at it now: the forest is consuming it; it’s disappearing into the ground."

Every so often Caresse would pick up a baseball-sized rock and sling it at a tree. She missed a few, but her aim and the speed of her throwing arm were still pretty impressive.

Dinner went well, too. The food was surprisingly good. The lasagna reheated well. Bill talked about the task force. He told Caresse the day’s gossip, and filled her in on some of the office relationships that Andy hadn’t picked up on.

Everything was going really well. In fact, it was going perfectly well, and then Bill decided to ruin it. After the first bottle of wine was emptied, Bill opened the second, and standing, with the bottle and his glass in hand, he asked, "What do you say we take this upstairs for a little roll in the hay? We can try out your brand new bed, break it in together. We can try out that fabulous new body of yours."

"No, Bill," she said. "Can you please put that out of your mind? It's not going to happen. I am not going to have sex with either you or Joe. Ever. There’s no point in pressing it."

"Why not?"

"Why not? I don’t want to — that’s why not."

"Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" he asked in a irritated tone. He sounded genuinely puzzled. And offended.

"It’s not a big deal," she said. "It’s just out of the question."

"What’s the problem? Do I need to romance you?" he sneered. "Do I need to bring flowers and chocolates every time I come? Do I have to pretend I’m in love with you?" He gave a scoffing bark of a laugh.

"No," she said, irritated. "I don’t want any of that."

"Then what?" he asked. "It’s a simple, human thing. We should just be able to do it. Just take our clothes off and do it. Bam! Simple. Why do you need to make it complicated? What difference does it make to you? You’ve been a guy, you know that sex is just sex. It’s only women who want to turn it into something..." He waved his hand as he searched for the word... "incomprehensible. Yeah, incomprehensible. To get into a woman's pants, a guy has to pretend that he doesn't want to. Explain that to me! What the hell! You've been a guy, you can still use your brain, right? So what the hell is the problem? Now that you have breasts, do you need to play a role? Are you pretending to be hard to get? Because I have to tell you: it's not a good look."

"I’m not playing at anything!" she snapped back. "I just don’t want to. I don’t want you using my body as a toy!"

"Why not? You’re not doing anything with it! Aren't you curious what it feels like? Having sex as a woman? Let me tell you something: I've gotten good reviews on my sexual performance. I've never left a woman unsatisfied, believe you me. I've always left them with a smile on their face. So what it is, then? Are you afraid? It isn’t going to hurt you. I'll be so gentle. And think, for just a moment—" he struck his forehead with his fingers to emphasize his point "— it isn't going to cost you anything. I’m just talking about a friendly fuck. We don't need to sleep together, if that's your problem."

He took a deep breath, ragged with frustrated desire. "Think about this, for a half second — think about this: Caresse Desmense wasn't a virgin. That body you're wearing, you saw what the Gipper did with her." He pointed at her, wagging his finger. "That body... her body... your body.. it's already been used. She was no saint! She wasn't a god-damned virgin! So why should you be? God almighty! It shouldn’t matter to you! You've seen her do things — oh my God! Can you consider for a moment... just entertain the possibility that You might even LIKE it! You don't have to make any kind of effort. All you have to do is just relax and let me do all the work. You know what? You could try to look at it with a little sense of humor. Could you try that? A sense of irony, maybe? Anyway, it's a little thing, for fuck's sake! It shouldn’t matter to you."

"Of course it matters," she replied coldly. "Look: What if I told you that a friend of mine, a guy, wanted to fuck you up the ass — no romance involved, just a simple thing. In and out. Would you simply relax and do it? What if Joe asked you, as a friend, to let him give it a try?"

"Oh, you're sick! That’s not the same thing! It's not the same thing at all, and you know it!"

"It IS the same! It’s EXACTLY the same!"

"No, it isn’t!"

"What if Margaret — you know Margaret?"

"Granny Margaret? On the task force?"

"Yes. And come on, she's not that old!"

He scoffed. Caresse pressed on, "What if Margaret wanted to have sex with you? Nothing romantic; a one-time thing and forget it... just take off your clothes and bam! Would you just do it? Or would you make a big deal about it?" Joe and Bill had often made very negative and unkind comments about Margaret's lack of appeal.

Bill scowled. "Now what are you saying? That I'm ugly? Like Margaret?"

"No! I'm just saying that sex isn't as simple as you think. It has to be mutual, consensual."

"Right! I'm asking you to take off your goddam clothes and consent! What is the fucking problem?"

"The problem is that you're acting as though I don't have any choice, and that I shouldn't have any choice."

"So... what? I'm not good enough for you?"

She considered for a moment, and then said, "Yeah, okay. Let's go with that: you're not good enough for me."

"Oh my God! OH MY GOD! You know what? Do you know what? You're being a little too precious about this, Missy. You should be more humble. You should be more GRATEFUL. You have been given a great gift — BY ME — and you should be more generous with that gift. Especially to me."

"Generous?"

"Yes, generous!"

"So I should fuck you because you turned me into a girl?"

"Yes, to put it simply. Yes."

"Well, to put it simply, I won’t do it!"

"Look: you're not just a girl, you're a living, breathing sex bomb. And you're not doing anything with it!"

"I'm not obliged to do anything with it!"

"Then what's the point of your being this way?"

"Was that the point for you? Is this why you did this? So you could have sex with Caresse Demesne? Was that why you did all of this?"

"God dammit!" he shouted. "I gave you LEGS! You can walk now! You were in a frickin' wheelchair, for Christ's sake, and now you can WALK! You should be on your knees, sucking my dick in gratitude, every fucking time you see me!"

"Fuck you!" she shouted back.

"Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy!" he fumed, as he paced up and down the room. He took a swig of wine directly from the bottle. "You know what? Do you know what?" He appeared to be wrestling with himself. He took another swig. "Oh, there’s something I could tell you, boy! And if I did, then you’d get down on your knees! If you knew, you’d be on your knees to me every chance you got!"

"There is no way," she told him coldly.

He set down the bottle and stood directly across the table from her. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward until his face was an inch away from hers. They were eye to eye, nose to nose. She didn't flinch. He fumed silently, still uncertain as to whether he ought to say... whatever it was he was threatening to tell her.

"Okay," he said, nodding vigorously. "Okay." His voice was calmer now, but still very intense. "You know that guy from Witness Protection? The one with the medallion? The weird guy with the bolo tie? The only guy who can change you back? Well, guess what! He doesn’t work for WITSEC at all. In fact, he's got nothing to do with law enforcement whatsoever. Let’s just say that he’s a friend of a friend of mine. It's actually more complicated than that. The point is: he's a hard man to find. A very hard man to find. Joe wouldn't be able to find him, and neither could you. You don't even know his name! Nobody knows him but me. So if you don’t play ball, if you don’t make nice with me, you can forget about ever being a man again. Let me tell you what's gonna happen if you want to keep your knees pressed so goddamn tight together: You’ll be stuck as Handsome Dan’s ex-girlfriend, and you know what I think? I think that if he wanted you dead once, I’m pretty sure he’ll be happy to kill you a second time, and this time he'll make damn sure you're dead. And I'll bet he'll want to make it hurt. You just think about that. Without me, you're dead. Without me, you're stuck: you got nowhere to go and no one to help you. You’ll just have to sit here, protecting your precious pussy, in the middle of the woods, all alone, until you starve to death. What do you think about that? Huh?"

She looked at him in silence for a few seconds, hanging fire. Then, just as he was about to speak again, she said, "I’ll tell you what I think: you can load the fucking dishwasher."

She left the table, went up the stairs, closed the door of her bedroom, and threw the deadbolt. She could hear him shouting in fury in the kitchen below. He stamped, he kicked things, he growled in fury and frustration. At one point it sounded like he was banging on a pot with a wooden spoon. Caresse checked her weapon and slipped it under her mattress near her head. After about thirty minutes, Bill finally quieted down, and she was able to fall asleep.

The Plan-B Bust: 4 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

When Caresse woke the next morning, she wasn’t angry or hurt. For the first few moments of being awake, she felt determined, strong. Soon, however, those first few moments passed, and the events of the previous evening came flooding back into her mind. As William’s shouts and threats replayed in her memory, she found herself overwhelmed with fear. Yesterday, her anger kept her fears at bay, but now in the light of morning, while she was open, alone, and vulnerable, those fears came rushing in, unstopped.

William was right: as soon as Handsome Dan comes to know that someone claiming to be Caresse Desmesne is alive and cooperating with law enforcement, he would want her dead, even if it meant killing her a second time. If William and Joseph -- out of sheer sexual frustration -- cut her off and left her alone in the woods, what would she do? Sure, now she had money, but how could she spend it? Where would she go? Where could she go? She was one of the most recognizable women in the state. She couldn’t simply drive out and buy gas and groceries, or sit down in a restaurant to have a meal. She’d be recognized. She’d be hunted. Everything she could possibly do would leave a blazing trail behind her.

She lay on the bed, her eyes squeezed tight shut, her fists balled up and pressed to her temples. She trembled and shook. She tried to calm herself by taking deep, slow breaths. It didn’t help. She had no inner walls or barriers to block the flood of anxiety that was filling her mind and her soul. It felt as though the entire world, and life itself, was collapsing in on her. She had never been so frightened in her life.

… or had she?

The fear was overwhelming, yes, but it had a very familiar taste. She had been this frightened once before -- honestly, she had been frightened far worse than this. It happened back when Andy was eighteen, and had to come to grips with the fact that he would never walk again, and never experience sex… not even for the first time. He couldn’t even masturbate. Not ever. Never. Never ever. Never had abruptly become the central pillar and foundation of his life. He was scared out of his wits then, even worse than he was scared now. Back then, he was sure that he would die. And if he didn’t die, he might kill himself. And if he didn’t kill himself, what kind of life would he have? He remembered the sensation of endlessly falling into a dark, whirling pit of electrified despair, into a pit that had no walls and no bottom. There was no light above him and nothing but darkness beneath his feet. He was lost, trapped, alone and alive in the frozen vacuum of space.

And then? What happened after that? He hadn’t died. He didn’t kill himself. He fell asleep and woke up the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. He was still Andy. He was still the same person inside. He’d gone on to have a successful career in electrical engineering, electronic surveillance, and high levels of law enforcement. He’d done well for himself and his community. He’d been afraid like this before, yes -- so deeply and thoroughly afraid -- but he was just a kid, and the had fear passed, in the same way that the fear was beginning to pass right now.

Because suddenly, something distracted Andy’s (or Caresse’s) mind. A question hit her: Why did Plice want to kill Caresse the first time? She and Joseph and William had seen it happen. They were sickened, shocked, and horrified, but they didn’t stop to ask why it happened. William had run and kicked off his crazy Plan B, and the real Caresse, the dead Caresse, was forgotten in the mad unfolding of Andy’s transformation.

Caresse sat up on the edge of her bed. Her fear by now was nothing but an ebbing electric tingle. She asked herself again: Why did Plice want her dead the first time? It wasn’t because he was tired of her and wanted a new girlfriend. There were no signs of any issue between them. Plice seemed to be genuinely in love and truly happy with Caresse. He had no obvious reason for killing her. Why, then, had he sent the Gipper? The Gipper certainly wouldn’t have killed her on his own initiative. He had no reason to kill her. He was clearly quite happy with Caresse. Her murder wasn’t a crime of passion. It was clinical, professional, detached. And afterward, the Gipper had cried like a child.

Could Plice have suspected that Caresse was his leak? That she was the one tipping off the task force about the arson and the other crimes that were foiled? Is that what turned him against her? All of the tips had come from conversations at her condo, it’s true, but Andy, Joseph, and William were always careful to choose intel they were sure was known outside of Plice’s tight inner circle. It was important because they needed to safeguard against playing their hand, and revealing where the intel originated.

Maybe Plice had tested for leaks in his outer circle. He was crafty and careful enough for that. Maybe he went looking for a leaker and didn’t find one. If he did, he could have eliminated every other potential traitor, and found himself left with only one possible explanation: Caresse was the leaker. It wasn’t true, but Caresse could see how Plice could have arrived there.

Which meant that William, Joseph, and Andy had gotten Caresse killed.

So, sure: Once Plice knew that another Caresse was alive, he might wonder why -- he might even know she was a fake -- but he’d certainly want her dead.

However, now that the wave of fear had passed, Caresse was no longer frightened by the thought. It was simply a disagreeable fact that she had to face and deal with. She’d already thought about it, and the remedy was clear: she needed an escape plan, in case all of this was shot to hell. She needed her own Plan B.

Plan B? She was already living William's Plan B. She needed Plan C. And maybe even Plan D, in case Plan C didn't work.

Caresse looked at the clock. There was just enough time to get ready and possibly meet Reacher for a jog. She hoped he wouldn’t wait for her at the end of the driveway. William might see him, and that would cause another big issue.

She dressed in her running clothes and quietly opened her bedroom door. The door to the other bedroom was wide open. William had pulled his mattress into the direct line of sight with her door, so she couldn’t miss seeing him. He was lying, completely naked, on the funky mattress. He had an erection sticking up at an angle.

She rolled her eyes and went into the bathroom. After quickly finishing her toilette, she went downstairs. The general disorder was no surprise. Last night she’d heard William knocking the furniture around, up-ending things, and making a general mess, but as she surveyed the disorder, it didn’t look as though he’d broken anything. She went outside. The air was crisp and clear. The world was quiet. Even the birds were silent. It was six, and there was no sign of Reacher. This was a good thing and a disappointment at the same time.

She took her time going up the road. Once again, she started to get a stitch in her side when she came in sight of the tree with the red dot, so she walked from that point forward. Where the woods opened up to the view of the valley, she saw Reacher sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree.

“Pull up a piece of Mother Nature and have a seat,” he said, with a smile.

She ran over and kissed him, just a quick one. Then she sat down, leaning into him. It was amazing how quickly she’d gotten comfortable with being an affectionate, loving woman. “What time did you pass my house?” she asked him.

“I didn’t pass your house,” he replied. “I didn’t go near your house. There’s another path -- it’s the long way around. I’ll show it to you later. It misses both your place and mine. I saw your friend drive in yesterday, so I kept out of sight.”

She turned to him, and they began kissing. “God!” she said. “I’m glad that making out is still so much fun.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know some other things that are lots of fun, too. How long is your friend going to be around?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “He should leave soon, I think, and then the next visit won’t be until the day after tomorrow.”

“Nice,” he said. “So we’ll have some time to ourselves, I hope?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I have a little work to do, but it won’t take up too much time.”

He nodded. “I guess you can’t stay too long right now, either.”

“No,” she said, with a pout.

“Alright,” he said. “Then I’ll see you later. We need to talk about your security arrangements. You’ve got some serious vulnerabilities.”

“Do I?” she asked.

“Yeah, for real. Don’t worry, though -- we can fix them.” He dusted off his backside. “Laters, babe.” Then he took off, running away from the road.

She watched him go, watched until he was out of sight, and then she returned to her house. To her surprise and relief, William’s car was gone. He was probably only pretending to be asleep when she left. Caresse wondered whether he’d ever come back. But then again... It’s only awkward if we make it awkward, she told herself.

When she went inside, she saw that William had done a hasty straightening. All the furniture was right-side up and more or less in place. The dirty dishes were all in the sink -- he hadn’t gone so far as to load the dishwasher, but at least he’d collected them and piled them up.

He also had left a note: Sorry about last night. I apologize for everything I said and for my offensive attitude. I was way out of line. I hope you can forgive me. -- William

She wasn’t entirely convinced, but at least the note was civil. She took a shower, loaded the dishwasher, and got started on her next video.

Back at task-force headquarters, Joseph was surprised to see one of his female colleagues smiling at him. This woman had literally never given him the time of day before. She’d never returned his greetings, his nods and waves, but now, today, she was smiling at him. He checked to make sure there was no one standing near him or behind him -- he didn’t want to make an ass of himself by smiling back if she was actually smiling at someone else. But there was no one near him or behind him. So he smiled and waved back at her. She walked over to him, carrying two coffees.

“You’re from Major Crimes -- the county division, right?” the woman asked.

“Yup!” Joseph agreed, struggling to look and act more cool, intelligent, and appealing.

“You're the one who had that tip about Caresse Desmesne’s condo, aren’t you? That was a great tip! Too bad we couldn’t move on it -- we could have gotten a lot of great intel.”

“Yup!” Joseph agreed again. He hated being monosyllabic, but nothing more was coming to him.

“So, are you the guys who turned Caresse?”

“Turned her?” Joseph asked with a gulp. How could she know about Caresse? Had William already let the cat out of the bag?

“Yes,” the woman said. “She’s cooperating, isn’t she? Telling us what she knows?”

All Joseph managed to say was, “Uh--”

The woman smiled, and seemed to notice for the first time that she had two coffees in her hands. “Oh, hey, do you want a coffee? They gave me two by mistake downstairs, and I was looking for someone to give one to.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” Joseph took a sip and was surprised to find it had just the right amount of sugar and just the right amount of milk. How did she know how he took his coffee? Had she been watching him? Stalking him? Was she interested in him? This looked promising! She smiled again. Joseph felt like a king.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman said in an undertone. “I didn’t realize it was still on the down-low. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Joseph assured her. “We were supposed to keep it under wraps, but…”

“Cat’s out of the bag!” she laughed.

“Yeah,” Joseph agreed, but he felt a little uncomfortable. Something about this wasn’t right.

The woman laughed again and said, “We should have a no-bag policy in this office.”

“No bags!” agreed Joseph with a laugh. “Just cats. Cats everywhere, cats without bags.”

“Cats without bags,” the woman said, and she touched her coffee cup to his, as if it were a toast.

Later, while Joseph finished his coffee alone, he pondered the exchange. He wondered why William hadn’t told him first, before he spilled the beans. Then his heart began to pound as he realized: he may have made a big mistake.

After lunch, Caresse saw Reacher walking up the driveway. She met him at the door. He was carrying two bottles of beer in his left hand. “Only two?” she asked.

“It’s not for parsimony,” he told her. “I need to keep my head clear. I think you do, too. But there’s no harm in a postprandial libation.”

“Oh, my,” she said with a smile, “Someone’s eaten their word-a-day calendar for lunch.”

“Don’t mock me for trying to improve myself,” he replied, smiling. Then he pulled her into a kiss.

“Look,” he said. “Let’s drink these and talk about security. We need to do this sooner than later. It’s important.” He pointed out that there was only one way in or out of their houses: the single road. “You turn left out of your driveway -- that’s north. It’s a dead end in that direction. You turn right out of your driveway -- that’s south. Anybody can block that road; all they need to do is to park a truck on it somewhere south of my driveway. We’d be trapped in here. Your path only goes as far as my house, it’s not a way out.”

“What’s the solution?” she asked.

“South of here, our dirt road meets another dirt road that has exits in both directions: east to the turnpike, west to route two. You need to park your weird little van off THAT road. Then you’ll have two ways out. I know a perfect place, and it’s close to where the other path comes out -- the one I mentioned this morning: the long way around from the crest of the hill.”

“Do you have a vehicle down there?”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I shouldn’t tell you, but yeah, I have a motorcycle stashed in the bushes down there. The point is, if we get blocked in, you can run up to the crest, take the long path down to the road and drive out.” They finished the beers and he stood up. “Come on, let’s do this now.”

“Now?” she asked.

“Now,” he replied. “It’s important. This could mean life or death.” The two of them got into her van and drove south on their dirt road, then west to the spot he mentioned. With his help, she backed the van into a small clear space. She was able to pull in far enough that it was pretty well hidden, but they added a tarp and some branches to completely camouflage the vehicle. Then they took the long walk up the other path, ending at the crest of the hill. After a little rest and a short vigorous session of sex against a tree, they started down the road to her house.

While they walked, they talked. He asked her whether she had an escape plan. “Not entirely,” she confessed. “The thing that stumps me is where would I go? I think I’m pretty recognizable. I don’t know how far I’d have to go for people not to know who I am.”

“The way I see it,” he told her, “Is that you have two choices: one is to do like the fictional Jack Reacher, which means to be always on the move.”

“He was a good guy, though, wasn’t he? He wasn’t on the run, was he?”

“No, but he didn’t want to be findable. He didn’t want to be weighed down by possessions, which is what happens if you stay in one place too long.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“You go somewhere where everybody looks like you,” he said. “Like, if you were a redhead, you could go to Ireland or Scotland. You’d just be another piece of hay in the haystack. For you, some places that might work are Miami, Los Angeles... maybe Vegas. I don’t know.”

“I see,” she said. “That makes sense.”

“You want to go somewhere where you’re a dime a dozen.”

They were silent for a few moments, then she asked, “So why are you out here? You’re not on the move, and there’s no one who looks like you around here.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For Dan Plice to find me.”

“How would he find you? Did you leave this as your forwarding address?”

“Funny,” he scoffed. “Do you think it’s really that hard to find anyone? If somebody’s looking for you, even if they only halfway know what they’re doing, they’ll find you soon enough.”

“Is that why your house is booby trapped?”

“Yes.”

“Up the wazoo? I didn’t know people still used that phrase. My grandfather used to say it.”

“Umm,” Reacher said. “I can guarantee you: if you go in my house, and you find the wazoo, take a look up inside it. You'll see a booby trap.”

“What kind of booby trap?”

He considered for a moment, then said, “Traps. Plural. They’re non-lethal. If you happen to be there when they go off, just remember that there are five. That’s a very helpful and important tip, so make sure you remember.”

“Five, up the wazoo,” she said. They walked for another moment in silence, then she asked, “Why is Plice looking for you?”

“There are two reasons,” he replied. “The first is that I took out one of his hit men. The other reason is that I stole money from him. A lot of money. I took it so he’d come after me.”

She looked at him in silence, then she took his arm and moved in close, her body against his, as they walked. He freed his arm, put it around her, and held her until they arrived at her driveway.

When William got back to town, he called his colleague. “Joe, meet me at Andy’s house. Right away. I’ve got something I need to show you. It’s important.”

“Okay,” Joseph agreed. He wanted to ask whether William had spoken about Caresse to anyone on the task force, but he knew better than to say anything sensitive over the phone. Besides, there were people working nearby who might overhear, so he hung up and drove to Andy’s.

When he entered Andy’s apartment, he saw William sitting at the table, scowling at his laptop.

“William,” Joseph asked, “Did you tell anybody on the task force about Caresse? That she’s cooperating?”

“Huh! Cooperating,” William repeated with a sneer.

“Did you tell anyone?” Joseph repeated.

“No, of course not!”

“Well, one of the investigators from--”

William interrupted him with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Come here and look at this, will you?” He was watching the video of Henry and Caresse. William had already watched it several times already. This time, the video was at the point where Henry placed his phone atop the mirror and Caresse was returning from the bathroom.

“Oh, Henry, you dog!” Joseph crowed. “I knew his day would come! Damn! I should have made that bet! In the end, Caresse could not resist!”

“That’s not Caresse, you idiot,” William growled.

“What?”

“It’s not Caresse! Look at the date and time: it’s Andy.”

“Holy shit!”

“That lying bitch! She screws this clown, but then she whines you’re not good enough for me. She opens her legs for this nobody, this IDIOT, and then she pretends that she doesn’t like sex. Fucking hypocrite!” His voice was full of bile. “I’m so angry! SO FUCKING ANGRY!” They watched until Henry left and the video cut off.

“And then what happens?” Joseph asked.

“What do you mean, then what happens? That’s it: That’s all there is,” William responded.

“But she’s naked on the bed,” Joseph pointed out. “Something happens next. She gets up and runs around, she masturbates, I don’t know. But something happens next.”

William, still muttering an undercurrent of curses and imprecations, logged into the surveillance system. He was so upset that he typed the wrong password twice. Once in, he rolled back to the date and time of Henry and Caresse’s tryst. On the video, the condo was empty. The bed was unmade, but no one was there. William fast-forwarded and rewound several times, until he finally noticed the jump in the hours. In one moment the bed was made, and the next moment it was completely undone. “That little bitch!” he shouted. He rewound and played it again, just to be sure. “That lying, deceitful, hypocritical little bitch from hell! She set the recording back two hours! Do you see that? Everything she did was overwritten! Can you believe that? Who does she think she is? She turns into a woman, and she immediately becomes a devious, conniving hellion. She’s full of lies. Sweetness and lies.”

“We can get those hours back though, can’t we?”

“Andy could, yeah, but I can’t. He’s the frickin’ expert.”

“Hmm,” Joseph mused. “So... can I get a copy of that video?” William groaned in response. Joseph picked up a clean USB drive from a box on Andy's desk and began making his copy. Then he asked, “Hey, where did you get that video, anyway?”

“I found it when I searched her room this morning. It was on a USB drive, so I made a copy.”

“Why were you searching her room?”

“She put a lock on her bedroom door. Can you believe that? I tried her door in the night, and it was closed up tight. This morning, though, she went out for a jog, and left the door unlocked. So I had a good look around.” Then William told, in great detail, of his failed attempt to bring Caresse to ground. Joseph swore in disbelief.

“The thing is, Joe, she is dead set against sharing what she’s got. She’s stingy and spiteful and SO ungrateful.”

“We just have to be persistent,” Joseph said. “We need to find the right ploy, or play, or whatever. That’s how it works. Persistence.”

“No,” William said. “She will never play ball. She made that abundantly clear.”

The two discussed the matter for hours. They ate Andy’s food and drank his beer. They felt that he owed them that much at least. Then, in the interest of a full and frank discussion, they opened his most expensive bottle of Scotch.

Joseph gave his summary: “What you’re saying is that we can’t get there by being nice; we can’t get there by being mean. The fact that we’re her friends and co-workers means nothing to her. The fact that she received this enormous hot-ass gift means nothing to her. We can’t get there by trickery; we can’t get there by guile. Bill, I don’t want to say I’m stumped, but I think I am. Or -- my head says I’m stumped, but my heart tells me that there has to be a way.”

“What I want to know is: what does that idiot Henry have, that we don’t have?”

Joseph regarded his friend in silence. He knew the answer, but he certainly wasn’t going to say it. The explanation was pretty simple. Henry had quite a lot that they didn’t have: (1) he was two decades younger than either Joe or Bill, (2) he had a full head of hair, (3) he was tall and good looking, (4) emotionally, he was as simple as a dog, and (5) Henry didn’t expect or demand anything. Henry was actually the male version of what Joseph and William wanted Caresse to be.

When the conversation between the men degenerated to a low enough point, Joseph broke their logjam by making a startling admission: he had a bottle of rohypnol. “I was on a raid,” he said, “And I found a little bottle. It wasn't relevant to the search, so it wasn't really evidence, you know? One minute, I was standing there, looking at the bottle. Then something happened -- the suspect made a break for it -- and without thinking, I dropped the bottle into my jacket pocket. I forgot all about it until I got home and heard the pills rattling. At that point, it would have been embarrassing to turn it in. Anyway, like I said, we didn’t need it as evidence, and the suspect wasn't about to report it missing, so I just -- uh, put in a safe place.”

William had his doubts about the details of Joseph’s story, but he was interested in the possibilities. They discussed the practicalities and got down to specific tactics: they worked out the dosage (“we don’t want her unconscious; we just want her pliable”), they decided on the delivery mechanism (“we can crush it into a powder”), and noted the speed of effect (“it should take about 15 minutes”).

Once their plan was worked out in detail, the two men were so excited that they wanted to drive out at that moment, or at least the next morning. However, they weren’t scheduled to visit the safe house until Thursday -- the day after tomorrow. Arriving earlier -- especially on the heels of William’s disastrous visit -- might make Caresse suspicious and watchful. That was the last thing the two men wanted.

While Joseph and William wove their net of deception, their apartments were being searched by Plice’s men. Plice’s team had already searched Joseph’s and William’s cars, and had attached tracking devices. At the same time, one of the moles was going through their desks at work. There wasn’t much to find. The next day, they searched Andy’s apartment. His surveillance equipment was certainly interesting, but Plice’s men didn’t take anything or disturb anything; they didn’t want anyone to know that they’d been there.

“It’s nice to sleep in a real bed,” Reacher told her.

“Don’t you have a bed in your house?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s not really a house, per se. It’s a big mouse trap.”

“Full of wazoos,” she laughed.

He squeezed her and kissed her.

“Tell me,” she said, “How much are you like the guy in the books?”

“Jack Reacher?”

“Yes.”

“Well… we’re both men, both Army, both know how to fight. That’s about it. In everything else, we’re complete opposites. He went to West Point; I was a high-school dropout. He was mustered out as a major; I was dishonorably discharged. He’s a marksman; I don’t like guns. He likes coffee; I drink Coke.” He paused. “There’s probably more differences, but the main thing is that I’ve been a bad person all my life and a criminal my entire adult life. The only thing that ever made me want to be different was when that little girl was shot.”

Caresse caught her breath. She didn't need to ask which girl he meant. Instead, she asked, “Did you know her?”

“No, not at all, but it was so fucking senseless that it hit me like a knife in the heart. You know the girl I’m talking about, right?”

Caresse nodded. At the time, the story was in all the papers. Amabelle Pressy was a nine-year-old girl who heard a noise and ran to see what it was. She ended up witnessing a murder by one of Plice’s men, and since she was a witness, she was killed on the spot.

“She was a complete innocent. A tiny angel.” Tears formed in his eyes. “It took me three months to find out who did it and to put him down. I put him down like a dog, and I really made it hurt. I had to put down some of Plice’s other men on the way there. I didn’t really want to kill them, but I had to do it. At that point, I thought about turning myself into a Punisher-type of character and taking out all of Plice’s organization, but that was a crazy thought. I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t have that ability.”

“Who’s the Punisher?”

He sighed. “Don’t they teach anything in school nowadays? The Punisher is another fictional action hero. Frank Castle. His family was killed by the mob, so he kills every bad guy who was even peripherally involved.”

“Sounds pretty sick.”

“Not if you know the story.” He sniffed, wiped his eyes, and went on. “So… knowing I was not THAT guy, I thought about what I COULD do, and I started doing that: I started robbing him, disrupting his business... I made myself a pain in his backside. Once they figured who I was, I came out here.”

“Did you leave a trail?”

“I’m sure I did, but not on purpose.” He looked at her for a few moments, then said, “I have to tell you something: I recognized you right away, and I figured you were on the run from Plice. I was happy, because I figured your being out here would increase my chances of seeing Plice out here. I figured he might get irritated over me, but he’d go absolute nuts over you. When I came up your driveway that night, I just wanted to have a look at you. I was ready to hate and despise you. Man, was I wrong. With my past, I never should have thought that I could judge, but I never -- never thought I’d end up liking you so much. You’re such an -- you’re such a wonderful person. You really are. At first, that night in your driveway, I only saw you as bait to lure Plice out here. Now I want to do everything I can to make sure you get out of this alive. I need to know that when it all comes down, you’ll be able to get away.” He raised himself up on one elbow and looked her in the eyes. “Promise me, Caresse, if it comes to it, that you will just go. Don’t look for me, don’t call my name, don’t say goodbye. Just go. When the shit hits the fan, the only way out is to leave, in that exact moment. You have to leave the dead to bury their own dead.”

A cold shiver ran though her like a icy knife as she heard those words.

“What about you? Don’t you want to get out of here alive? Don't you want to get away?”

“Naw,” he said. “I’ll be fine. And if I’m not fine, that’s fine, too. I’m a spider, sitting on my spiderweb, waiting. I just want to take out Plice. That’s all I want. I want to end him permanently. Guys like him are a problem that can only be solved by a bullet in the head.”

She regarded him in silence for a moment. Then she said, “You said that you don’t like guns.”

He laughed. “We all have to make sacrifices.”

William and Joseph set off in Joseph’s car on Thursday, just after lunch. They were followed at a distance by Plice’s people. Joseph and William never saw them: partly because the followers were so professional, but mainly because William and Joseph were distracted and excited about the crime they were about to commit against Caresse.

When the two men arrived, William apologized again to Caresse for his bad manners, and Joseph apologized for the “grope fest” when Caresse was first transformed. She didn’t entirely trust their apologies, but they did behave themselves. They brought dinner -- Chinese food. They brought wine, but only one bottle.

William managed to drop the drug into Caresse’s wine without being seen, and the fine powder dissolved pretty quickly. He stirred it to be sure, and almost licked the spoon out of habit.

The two men tried to not focus on her wine glass. They didn’t want to give themselves away. She was maddenly slow to drink the wine, but once she did, she quickly began to feel groggy, and she heard herself slurring her words. She glanced at the men’s faces and immediately understood. Realizing that she had only moments before she’d fall completely under the spell of the drug, she muttered that she needed to use the bathroom, and headed for the stairs. The two men watched her as she struggled to ascend. They were afraid that she might fall, but they were equally afraid of playing their hand by offering to help. It took a long, suspenseful time, but luckily, after great physical effort, she made it to the top of the stairs without incident. She stumbled into her bedroom and threw the deadbolt before succumbing to the drug and falling to the floor.

“That goddam bitch!” William shouted, when he heard the deadbolt click. Pounding his fist on the table, he said, “She’s outsmarted us again, but not for long! Come on, Joe, let’s break down that goddamn door!”

“Wait,” Joseph said. “I think I saw a ladder in the garage.”

He was right: there was indeed a ladder in the garage, a relic of the last house-painting. The two men carried the ladder out and propped it up against the house. It was just high enough to reach the sill of her window, and her window was open. They ascended the rickety ladder, which bowed and wobbled comically and came perilously close to breaking. With some difficulty they lifted and pushed themselves through her window opening. Then they began their pitiful rape. Caresse, as Joseph had said, was not unconscious. She was nearly awake, but impaired and unable to resist.

If Joseph and William could have seen themselves, they wouldn’t have wanted a video of their act. No one wants to see the spectacle of two flabby, middle-aged men abusing a barely conscious woman. Neither man was at his best, neither had the ability or the stamina to go very far. For the most part, they ended up groping her and taking photos.

While they were so absorbed, one of Plice’s men was bold enough to climb the ladder and peek into the room. He took two or three photos, and climbed back down. He chose the one that best showed Caresse’s face, and sent it, encrypted, directly to Dan Plice. Plice replied, telling the watchers to take no action. They were to continue watching. Then he instructed his backup team to be out there by dawn.

The Plan-B Bust: 5 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Caresse woke up groggy, feeling… hungover. Hungover? No. Drugged. It was the aftermath of being drugged. Her whole body sensed the disgusting chemical in her blood. It was in her head. It was on her skin. It soaked all through her, in her viscera, in her bones. The whole world felt nauseous and shaky. Her head slowly cleared, and as it did, she gradually realized what crimes had been done to her. Every part of her was sticky, dirty, sordidly unclean. Her vagina, her ass, her mouth had all been used without her knowledge or consent. She needed water, a river of water, to rinse her mouth and to wash herself clean. She sat up and saw the two culprits, Joseph and William, lying naked on the floor next to her bed, their middle-aged bellies sticking out like perverse unliving pregnancies. William, inexplicably, was still wearing his socks and shoes, which somehow made him even creepier than before.

She was angry: angry in a way she’d never felt before. It was an existential anger, a profound sense of wrongness that nothing could correct. A wrongness as wrong as death. Was she angry enough to kill the pair of them? Angry enough to find a stick and beat them with it? No -- it was not that kind of anger. It was a mournful, offended, god-like anger. She could happily see them both dead, but she was not their executioner. She did not want to be bound to them in that way. However, she was angry enough to do something else. She stood up, naked as she was, and went downstairs. She wanted to find the drug they’d used on her.

It didn’t take long to find it. The bottle of rohypnol was in Joseph’s jacket pocket. She had no idea of the proper dose, but one pill per man ought to do something. It ought to impair them a little; long enough for her to get the hell out and gone. With the flat of the biggest kitchen knife, she crushed two pills, and gathered the powder on two folded pieces of paper. She filled a teacup with water, and carried it, a teaspoon, and the the two powdered pills, upstairs.

Luckily, the two men were sleeping on their sides, with their stupid mouths open. She dumped the powder inside their cheeks. Then she spooned a teaspoon full of water over the powder. Each man licked his lips and swallowed. She spooned another teaspoon of water over the powder, and they swallowed again. She did this six times, pausing once to refill the cup. I’m not sure this will do anything, she told herself, but at least it’s something.

She picked up Andy’s gun, checked it, and put it in a plastic bag so she could take it with her into the shower. It was only 4:10 in the morning, but there was no way she was going back to sleep. Not with those two assholes in the house. She was going to leave, just as soon as she could get the filthy stickiness off her.

She didn’t hurry in the shower, but she didn’t make a day of it. She just wanted to get clean, and each time her hand touched the remnants of her ex-colleagues’ debauchery, she trembled with renewed fury.

When she emerged, wearing clean clothes and drying her hair with a towel, the boys were still snoring, so she threw a few toiletries and a few more clothes into a tote bag, along with her police laptop and charger. She went downstairs and took the blanket off the couch. She went outside and spread the blanket on the ground in the crawlspace so she wouldn’t get dirty while retrieving her go-bag. She shoved the tote bag and her gun into the go-bag so she’d only have one thing to carry.

She stood outside the house for a moment, breathing hard. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the sun wasn’t quite up yet. She could see well enough to get around. The birds were quietly chirping, and a soft wind made the trees rustle, as if some giant was breathing softly over the landscape.

I should tell Reacher goodbye, she thought, even if she wasn’t sure she’d find him. She started down the path to his house. If she didn’t find him right away, she’d just leave. He’d understand. At least, he said he’d understand.

About halfway down the path, she had a sudden intuition. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to hide the go-bag. She tucked it behind some bushes, and checked from different angles to make sure it wasn’t visible. There were two baseball-sized rocks on the ground, and she picked them up. As she walked, she tossed the ball-like rocks and caught them, and clacked them against each other. It didn’t make a loud sound, but maybe Reacher would hear her coming.

Just as she caught sight of his house, she stopped, remembering his warning about the tripwire. She looked along the path, following it with her eye from where it began and all the way to where she stood, and then she spotted the tripwire: it was right in front of her feet! She clacked the rocks twice, pleased with herself.

She heard footsteps approaching from beyond the head of the path. She couldn’t see him, but it had to be Reacher. She smiled, happy that he was there; happy that she’d get to tell him goodbye. But it wasn’t Reacher. It was a man about as tall as Reacher, but thinner. And unlike Reacher, he was ugly, inside and out. He was wearing khaki pants, a blue t-shirt, and a light jacket. Underneath the jacket he wore a gun. Slowly he reached for it. As he did, in a soft voice he crooned, “Caresse Desmesne, as I live and breathe! Danny Plice is going to be so happy to see you!”

Without thinking, she let fly with one of the rocks, and beaned him in the head. It bounced off his right forehead, where a blotch of blood appeared. He swore, but he didn’t fall down. “You goddamn bitch! I’ll make you pay for that!”

She turned and ran, as quickly as she could. He took off after her. She wanted to make him move fast. His footsteps pounded into the ground, one, two, three, four, five, six -- then ooof! thud! He fell heavily to the ground. The tripwire had done its work. She stopped and turned to look. He’d done a full faceplant into the ground. Before he could recover, she was back on him, and smacked him in the back of his head with the other rock. It took three blows before he stopped moving. She looked at the blood on the rock, and the spatter on her hands and clothes. Then came the sound of more footsteps, and she looked up to see Reacher standing nearby. “Nice work,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get him first. I did take care of the other guy, but this one was a lot sneakier.”

“What other guy?” she asked.

“Let me finish this one off and I’ll tell you,” he said as he dragged the unconscious body off the path.

“What do you mean finish him off? You don’t need to kill him!”

“Do you want him to jump back up and come after you again?”

“No.”

“Then I’m going to finish him off.”

She didn’t see exactly where Reacher stuck the man or cut him. She didn’t want to see. She saw what came after, which was Reacher wiping the man’s blood off his blade.

“Who was the other guy?” she asked again.

“There were two guys watching your house last night. I couldn’t do anything about them until now, when this one broke off to get ahead of you. They have to be Plice’s boys, and that means that Plice is on his way. You need to get going. You need to get far from here.”

“Plice?” Caresse went white. “Shit! My colleagues!” she whispered. Joseph and William were no shape to confront Plice and his men. They'd be sitting ducks.

“Your what?” Reacher asked. “Did you say colleagues?”

“Long story,” she replied. He took a breath like he was about to ask for the long story, when Caresse noticed a bow and a set of arrows lying on the ground behind Reacher. “Are those yours?” He nodded, and reddened a little. “Are you any good?”

He shrugged. “If the guy is standing perfectly still and isn’t too far away, then yeah, I’m great. It’s how I--” He was interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the dirt road way too fast. He grabbed Caresse and held her to the spot. It was unlikely they’d be seen from a quickly passing car, but the two of them could plainly see four men in a black car, with a huge cloud of dust following behind.

“Right!” Reacher crowed. “It’s go time! Listen, you stay here. You can hide behind my house, or I can carry you to a safe spot inside. I--”

“Hell, no!” she told him. She bent down and picked up the dead man’s gun off the ground, and checked it. “I have to help my--”

“--your colleagues?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “My colleagues.”

“No,” he told her. “You need to get the hell on out of here. Leave the dead to bury their dead.”

“Fuck that!” she said, and started up the path.

“Okay, then,” he called after her, “I’ll flank you from the road. Good luck.” He picked up his bow and arrows and headed off.

She could hear banging and shouting well down the path. When her house came into view, she could only see one of the four thugs. He was standing with his back to her, watching the kitchen door. From the noise, it sounded like the other three were inside, beating on William and Joseph. Caresse moved her gun to her left hand and picked up a rock with her right. She silently worked her way forward. When she felt herself at a sure distance, she set the gun on the ground and whipped the rock at his head. He jerked, stumbled, then fell with a sickening thud, his face landing in a puddle of water.

She picked up the gun and ran to the prostrate man. Instinctively she almost pulled his face from the puddle, but stopped herself, hearing Reacher’s voice in her head: Do you want him to jump back up and come after you again? She didn’t have a knife, and she recoiled at the idea of pounding him to death with a rock. Then he started twitching, and she knew she had to act. She quickly pulled a heavy outdoor chair and up-ended it on the man’s head, its cast-iron weight trapping his face underwater. He lamely struggled for about two minutes. Caresse looked away until the sound of his struggling stopped.

There was still shouting from inside the house, and she could hear the sound of William and Joseph falling and being kicked and dragged down the stairs. She quickly pulled the chair off the dead man’s head and dragged his body behind the house. She couldn’t see it, but she heard the front door burst open. She moved cautiously up the back of the house so she could see what was going on.

She took a quick glance around the corner of the house. There were two naked, semi-conscious men on the ground -- William and Joseph -- and three thugs standing over them. One of the men had his back to Caresse, but the other two were facing her. In fact, if they hadn’t been looking down at William and Joseph, they would have seen her face.

Caresse didn’t know what to do. If she worked her way back around the house, she’d be in a worse position, because she’d be farther away from the men. She could get to the back door, go upstairs, and shoot down at them from inside the house. Still, it wouldn’t take long for them to flank her. She heaved a big breath and listened.

“Look at these assholes!” one of the men shouted. “They’re all doped up! What the hell were they doing?”

“Do you think Caresse did this to them?” another asked.

“Whatever the fuck is going on, these two are useless to us like this. Drag them over to the bushes and give ‘em both a bullet in the head.”

“Wait! Maybe they know where Caresse is.”

“You want to wait until they sober up and ask them?”

Caresse could almost hear the shrugged response.

“Fuck.”

The thugs stood silently considering, until one asked, “What is our next step here?”

“Go fuck yourself. That’s the next step here.”

“Nice, very nice. I’m asking what we're supposed to do now? We don’t want Plice to show up while we're standing here with our thumbs up our asses.”

“We wait for Plice. In the meantime, we look for Caresse. We look in the bushes. We check what’s down that path…”

“We could drive down to the end of the road, that way.”

“No, if we do that, we'll give her a way out. The car stays here.”

“Okay. In the meantime, speaking of bushes…” Caresse heard a loud unzipping noise.

“Jesus!” another man said. “You got a loudspeaker in those pants?”

“Wait until you hear me fart,” the other replied. “I don’t need no loudspeaker.”

Caresse crouched low and ventured another quick peek. The man with the loud zipper was walking toward the bushes at the end of the driveway. Another was lighting a cigarette, and the third was standing aimlessly. As the first man reached the bushes, he exclaimed, “Holy crap! I found Charlie!”

Caresse ventured another look. The farthest man was bending over the bushes, looking at the ground. The other two were looking after him, their backs to Caresse. Suddenly there came a swiss--thock! and the man by the bushes twitched. Then, after four seconds, he began to lean, and in slow motion he fell to the ground. Reacher had taken him out with an arrow.

“Fuck!” one of the men shouted. While they both had their backs to her, Caresse stepped out, safety off, and took aim at the closer man, the one on her left. She aimed for his heart, and squeezed off two shots. He went down. The last man turned and fumbled for his gun. Her heart froze. Caresse shot and missed. He grinned. Then he extracted his gun and his face told her that he was ready to fire. Another swiss--thock! was heard, and an arrow bit into the side of the house. The man was puzzled, confused for a moment, so Caresse fired again, this time grazing his left tricep. He stumbled back a step. His head jerked back toward the source of the arrows, and he fired two random shots in that direction. “Come here,” he commanded Caresse. “Drop the fucking gun and come here.” She lowered the gun slightly and took a step closer. Then, when another swiss--thock hit the house, she raised the gun and shot him twice in the chest. The man fell, his face convulsing with pain and confusion.

“Thanks for saving me!” Caresse shouted.

“Hey, fuck,” Reacher responded. “I didn’t want you to come back here. Anyway, I counted four hostiles. One of them is missing.”

“He’s out back,” Caresse boasted. “I drowned him.”

Reacher raised his eyebrows in question, but he bent down and checked each body.

“Don’t want ‘em jumping back up again,” she commented.

“Nope,” he said. He checked the man behind the house, then came back to look at William and Joseph. He nudged their naked bodies with his toe. “These are your colleagues?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“So what are you, FBI?”

“No. Major Crimes, county unit.”

He nodded silently. “I hope you’re not planning on bringing me in,” he commented.

“I don’t even know who you are,” she said.

“True enough. Anyway, as I was saying -- before the bloodbath -- you really need to go. Cop or not. Plice is coming, and he is no joke.”

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” she asked. “You’re not going after him with arrows, are you?”

“No, fuck the bow and arrows. I told you, I set a trap, and I want you out of the way.”

“Okay,” she agreed. She wiped her prints off her gun, and swapped it for one of the unfired guns on the ground. She checked it, and tucked it into her belt, at the small of her back. “I just have to pick up my go-bag. I stashed it down the path there.”

He looked at her for a moment. “A go-bag? A cop, with a go-bag? A cop on the run? Something doesn’t add up here.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “It’s a long story.”

He considered a moment, then spread his hands and shook his head. “Okay. Cool. It’s none of my business. We’ve had our fun, we’ve killed some bad guys. We’ve had some good, sweaty, wholesome fucks. You’re the most beautiful and amazing woman I’ve ever met, and ever will meet. And now, whoever you are, wherever you come from, it’s time for you to go.” He turned started walking down the path to his house. She followed him in silence to the place where she’d hidden the bag. Then she followed him to the end of the path, just over the tripwire, in view of his house.

“Why don’t you just go?” he asked in a strained voice. “You have to go. If you stay, you’ll distract me.”

“I want one more kiss,” she told him. “I want to feel your hard body pressing into mine one more time.”

He groaned and turned to face her. His eyes were glistening, and a single tear rolled down his left cheek. She grabbed him and held him and they kissed with a desperation and a passion that wiped their minds and canceled time. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I think that kiss just made me pregnant.”

He laughed and gave her ass a playful swat. “Go now. For real. Get out before the shit comes down.”

They heard the sound of car tires angrily biting into the dusty dirt road. A car was coming: it was coming way too fast, and it sounded pretty damn angry. “Fuck,” Reacher said. “It’s Plice.” As he said the name, the car turned into Reacher’s driveway, and its two front doors burst open.

“No time to run,” Reacher told her, and scooped her up in his arms. He strode to his house and kicked open the door. Two bullets bit into the door frame, one on each side. Reacher entered and kicked the door shut behind them. Two more bullets hit the house.

Still carrying her, he made his way carefully through the front room and the kitchen, as if he were stepping around invisible obstacles. “Booby traps,” he whispered to her. “Five flash grenades: when those two walk in, they’ll be temporarily blind and deaf.” He entered a little bathroom and laid her down in the tub. Then he lay on the floor and said, “Mouth open, fingers in your ears, eyes screwed shut, facing that way--” here he pointed to the wall-- “and don’t open ‘em until you’ve heard five bams. Then we’ll go out. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.” She put her fingers in her ears. Reacher pulled one of her fingers out and said, “Just remember: Plice is mine.”

No sooner had they closed their ears and eyes that the first grenade when off. Then, a few seconds later, the two more. A pause of five seconds, the fourth. The fifth came soon after. Reacher tapped her twice, and they both stood up. He unsheathed his knife; she readied her gun.

When they came out of the bathroom, the room had a light fog of smoke and it stank of gunpowder. Plice and Larry were like blind men: one hand over their eyes; the other gesturing, reaching with their guns -- ready to fire, but afraid to fire, unwilling to waste bullets by firing into the dark. They moved in stiff, stilted steps, bumping into things, barking their shins on the furniture.

Like fish in a barrel, she thought. Don’t get cocky, though -- nothing can be this easy. Carefully she made her way to Larry’s side. He kept jerking around, swinging his gun to try to connect with something. He almost caught her, twice. Then, she realized she’d been walking on tip-toe, as if he could hear. Throwing caution to the wind, she stepped behind him and, aiming away from Plice and Reacher, she shot Larry in the head.

Then she moved toward Plice and Reacher. Plice was canny. It seemed as though he’d done this sort of thing before. Caresse tried to recall whether Plice had a service record, but she didn’t know. It had never come up. Plice kept his gun low, and used it to make purposeful sweeps, some quick, some slow -- quite unlike Larry’s fearful jerking stabs. Reacher blocked one of Plice’s moves, and stabbed him in the arm. Reacting quickly, Plice angled his wrist into the block and fired a shot that glanced off Reacher’s left shoulder.

Reacher grimaced. His response was to punch Plice in the throat with his right fist, the one holding his knife. Plice’s head came down, and his body tensed from the blow, but he drove that tension into his next move: he clasped his gun with both hands, and pushed the gun into Reacher’s inner thigh, where he let off another shot. Reacher gasped and cried out. He let his knife fall. He punched Plice in the chest, a powerful blow that drove Plice backward. As Plice stepped back, grunting from the blow, he let off two shots into Reacher’s gut.

Jesus Christ! Caresse screamed internally. This is a massacre! Aloud, she said nothing. She didn’t want to distract Reacher. She’d kept moving, looking for a good shot. She didn’t care what Reacher said. If she could take out Plice, she’d do it. Unfortunately, the space was so small, and the two fought so close to each other, that it was hard to get a decent angle. The situation kept changing.

In a last desperate move, Reacher grabbed Plice’s head with both hands, his right hand on Plice’s chin. It took him three tries before he broke Plice’s neck, and by that time Plice had emptied his gun into Reacher’s body. The two men fell to the floor together.

Caresse ran to him, wanting to staunch the blood, but she didn’t know where to begin. He seemed to be bleeding from everywhere.

“Oh, fuck, he got me. He really got me,” Reacher said. “Jesus!” He sniffed and smiled. “But I got him, didn’t I.”

“Yeah, you did,” she said, blinking as her tears began.

“He is dead, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “You killed the hell out of him.”

He looked at himself. “I’m bleeding out,” he observed. “You need to get the fuck out of here.”

She groaned.

“Let the--” he began, but she interrupted.

“Don’t tell me that shit about the dead burying their dead! I don’t want to hear it!”

“But it’s my best line,” he protested with a weak smile, and then he was dead.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, crying and holding him, but at last she stood up, soaked in his blood. She looked around her. Apart from the three dead bodies, it wasn't a bad-looking place, considering.

The word forensics came into her mind. She looked at her feet. Her shoes were clean. She wasn’t leaving bloody footprints. The only thing she’d touched was the gun in her hand. She carried it outside, undressed completely and washed the blood off her with the garden hose. She put her shoes back on and balled up her clothes.

Back at her house, she threw her bloody clothes in the laundry with a shot of bleach. She took a shower and let the water wash Reacher’s blood down the drain.

Forensics, she thought again. There's so much here that points directly to me! But there was too much to undo. There was no way to erase every trace of Caresse from the house and the situation, no matter how long she worked. On the other hand, there was nothing to implicate her in any crime, at least as far as she could see. She got dressed again and went outside.

There were four men lying dead on the ground, and one more in the bushes. William and Joseph were still alive and breathing, naked and stupid. She resisted the urge to give them each a well-deserved kicking. She pondered for a minute whether there was any inconvenient thing she could shove up their butts while they slept, but nothing came to mind. So she left them lying there. Let the dead bury their dead. They’d have a lot of explaining to do, once they woke up.

It was time to go. She took the path to Reacher’s house for the third time that day. She retrieved her go-bag, stepped over the tripwire, got into Plice’s car, and drove away.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 1 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

This is about me, Max, and Amber. Mostly me and Max, with Amber agitating in the background, on the margins, and in every place we couldn't see.

I'm Elliot Beekman, and I'm a guy. Or I was a guy. It's something I'll have to figure out, and by the end of this story, you'll understand my perplexity.

Max and I are friends since kindergarten. Best friends. I'd like to say that we've been through a lot together, but honestly, we haven't. We've been lucky. Although Max's family has money and mine not so much, we both have parents who cared and did their best for us. Our lives followed the plain vanilla suburban template until we hit our late twenties, when our lives took different directions. We lost touch for about three years. On my side it was because of my job: I was working as a programmer for a tech startup. When you work for a startup, that's all you do. It's not a normal job. You don't simply put in your eight hours and go home. In a startup, the work never stops. When duty calls, you're already there. It doesn't matter if it's Saturday, Sunday, holiday. All-nighters are routine. Every employee has a toothbrush and change of clothes in their desk. The work/life balance isn't a question. There is no balance. Work gets 100% of you. Life is deferred.

Knowing that, why on earth would anyone sign onto a startup? Is it the pay? No -- the pay isn't any better than a normal 9-to-5 job. Is it the overtime? Ha! There is no overtime! I mean, you work plenty of overtime hours, but there's no overtime pay.

The appeal of working for a startup is the idea that you could strike it rich. That one day, after you've worked like a dog for a couple of years, the startup will take off, with piles of money spilling everywhere in its wake. Once the startup becomes fabulously, outrageously successful, you get the reward, the big payoff. By "payoff" I mean literal money: bonuses, lump-sum payments, or stock options that turn to gold. That's the model: if you work like a dog, you'll get a big bag of money. The startup I joined definitely lived up to the first part of the promise: they made me and my colleagues work like dogs. Twelve-hour days were a minimum. No one worked less than seventy hours a week. And it was mad. I mean crazy. Abrupt changes of direction, poor planning, poor direction. Me and most of my colleagues spent nights and weekends in the office just so we could get some silence, so we could get things done. The "normal" workday, the eight-to-seven, was a basket of nested interruptions, one interruption on top of another. You'd start off the day on one task, get interrupted and switch to a second, get interrupted and switch to a third... when you'd finish interruption number 5, you'd go back to interruption number 4, and so on.

It wasn't overtime. It was an attempt at keeping a semblance of sanity. I've already said there no such thing as overtime pay: we were all salaried. We got the same size check whether we worked 60 hours or 90. Bonuses? Don't make me laugh. There were no bonuses.

The insane hours completely erased my social life, but like my co-workers, I didn't complain. I stepped into this servitude with my eyes open. It's only temporary — that was the idea. That was our mantra.

Max, for his part, met Amber just as I joined the startup, and they began dating right away. I didn't know Amber exactly; she and I had some friends in common. I had heard stories about her. I'd seen her at parties, or out at clubs and bars. It's probably unfair to judge someone at a distance, but Amber wasn't like her friends. She was attractive, physically, but psychologically, she was an odd duck. I never mentioned it to anyone, and back then I never heard anyone say it, but at some point I got the definite feeling that Amber had a screw loose. It's hard to say why. Maybe it was her hairstyle? She had it pulled up high, straight up from her forehead, then back. Kitty told me that Amber was trying to "correct" for her low forehead. The effect resembled nothing so much as a nun's veil.

There is one thing I probably ought to keep to my self, and maybe it's totally unwarranted, but after all the lies that Amber told about me, I'll just put it out there: Max comes from a well-to-do family. I often found myself wondering whether Amber was more interested in my friend's money than his heart. It's not that she seemed particularly greedy — it's that she didn't seem at all affectionate — or even kind. She didn't treat him as though he was special to her. She treated him as though he belonged to her.

Apart from her looks, it's hard to know what Max saw in her!

I had brunch with Amber and Max three times in those three years, and I learned three things: the first was that Amber didn't like me. She really didn't like me. If that fact wasn't clear from the way she talked down to me, or the way she spoke of me as if I wasn't there, she left no doubt about her negative judgment with by saying, more or less explicitly — and more than once! — that any time Max spent with me was time he'd thrown away. She actually told me, in so many words, that I was holding Max back — whatever that meant!

The second thing I learned about Amber is that she could not abide being contradicted. Anyone who differed from her was mistaken, even in the smallest things. According to her, she "didn't have opinions; only facts."

The third thing is that Amber is intensely jealous. For example, I asked Max how his parents were doing.

"Do we have to have this meaningless chit-chat?" Amber complained.

"I want to know how his parents are," I pointed out. "We spent a lot of time at each other's house growing up, and I have a lot of affection for his parents. His mother, especially. I'd like to know how they are."

Max replied, a little sheepishly, "I haven't spent much time with them lately, but I'm sure they're fine."

Amber, with an air of triumph told me, as if she was instructing a child, "It's strange the way that parents feel they're part of our lives, even when we've outgrown them by far."

I was so taken aback, I could hardly find words. At the time all I could say was, "You find it strange that parents care about their children?"

"Yes, of course I do," she said, as if to say It's obvious! How can you even ask me that? "Do you consider yourself a child? I'm not a child, and neither is Max."

It wasn't evident to me at the time, but both our lives — Max's and mine — were being consumed. We each had a parasite stuck on us, sucking the life out of us. Mine was the startup. Max's was Amber. It was a strange symmetry.

When I hit my one-year work anniversary, I'd just spent three nights in a row at the office. The HR lady searched me out to congratulate me. It was 7:30 in the morning. I was slouching, barefoot, in a beanbag chair, eating a bowl of Wheaties and milk. "There he is!" she exclaimed in a hearty voice. "Employee number eleven! Happy one-year anniversary!" She shot off a confetti gun, said "Yay!" She tossed me a t-shirt with the company logo and left me there, still trying to wake up. As I picked the confetti flecks out of my cereal, it hit me: I was living at the office. I was here pretty much all the time! I realized in that moment that my apartment had become superfluous. It was a huge, unnecessary expense. I was never there to clean it, maintain it, improve it, or enjoy it. It wasn't even fully furnished.

Taking stock of the situation: I was eating Wheaties. The Wheaties came from the company kitchen, where the cabinets were full of cold cereals, packets of instant oatmeal and instant grits. We also had five kinds of bread, English muffins, regular muffins, and fresh egg sandwiches (delivered every morning). There was fresh fruit and plenty of coffee. There was always plenty of food: healthy food and junk food, as well as well as soft drinks and beer. If we wanted any sort of snack or drink, like a particular brand of beer or a certain type of snack, we could make a request online and it would show up the next day. The company provided lunch and dinner, and we had an unlimited tab at a nearby pizzeria. It was all on the house. That is to say, the company was happy to feed us.

They also provided scrubs (the kind that doctors and nurses wear in hospitals), along with socks and slippers. Underwear was never mentioned, but there was a little washer and dryer for small personal loads. The scrubs and socks went to a commercial laundry; we could always pick a clean set out of the stacks. Some of my associates stopped leaving the building, even if they weren't working.

"It's like being a monk!" one of my co-workers enthusiastically observed.

"Or a prisoner," another offered, less enthusiastically.

"Or a slave," a third muttered, looking around him as he spoke.

"At least they don't beat us," the guy next to me quipped.

As far as I was concerned, it wasn't as bad as that. At least *I* still left the office sometimes. And I didn't stoop so low as to rotate my wardrobe from the common pile. Early on, I picked out a couple sets of scrubs and washed them myself at home. Home? I mean, at my Dad's place. Soon after my realization that I was living at my job, I let my apartment go and moved back in with Dad. Rents were creeping up, and my landlord was VERY happy to let me break my lease. It gave him the opportunity to charge the next guy more. Dad didn't charge me anything. I offered, but he wouldn't hear it.

Dad liked having the company, and I liked seeing him. I needed a normal home. Dad was my touchstone, my link with reality, with normal life. God knows I couldn't stay at work all the time. I craved other influences.

Every so often Dad would gently chide me about working too hard. Each time I'd tell him it was only temporary, just until the company took off.

My life settled into a predictable grind until two winters ago, when Dad started talking about moving to Florida. "I don't want to go through another New England winter," he said, and started shopping online for a house down there. Several of his friends had already made the jump, and he visited them on his exploratory trips down South.

In June he began feeling his way toward selling his house. He found a real-estate agent who pointed out with great frankness that the house would sell for quite a bit more if he put a little work into it. "Honestly," she told him, "your house has good bones, but it's very dated. When potential buyers walk in, they're going to see projects, projects, projects. They'll cringe at the cost of re-doing the kitchen and the bathrooms. Generally the house needs a good refresh."

"Face it," she said, "If you'll spend a *little* money, you'll make a lot more money." To prove it, she brought me and Dad to a couple of open houses at places similar to our own. The kitchens and bathrooms were updated, there wasn't any clutter, they were freshly painted, and there were no obvious repairs needed. It made a world of difference.

"If you want to ask the same price that these people are asking, you'll need to do the work that they've done. It'll kick up your profit margin, and your house will sell a whole lot faster."

Those updated, more desirable homes provided a strong contrast. Those houses were clean, bright, and move-in ready. Our house, on the other hand, had a dead tree in the backyard, a rusted-out swing set (left over from my childhood), a garage that looked like it might collapse from fatigue, a LOT of clutter throughout the house. Mainly, our house had a lot of old. The furniture was probably as old as I am, but it hadn't aged as well; it seemed neglected and heavily used. I'm sure the house hadn't been painted in twenty years. There were little repairs to do everywhere: peeling wallpaper, ripped linoleum, dusty light fixtures, and on and on.

A contractor did a thorough walk-through, and gave us an itemized estimate. He said, "I can get this done in three weeks, if you let me start on Monday. If you make me wait, I'll have to make you wait as well." He was more than a little pushy and fairly obnoxious. He didn't radiate trust.

"We need a second opinion," I told Dad.

He held the estimate in his hand like it was the Magna Carta, fresh off the press. "This is a pretty good list," he observed. "I wouldn't have known what we needed, but it's all written down, right here."

"Dad? A second opinion? Come on. We need another estimate. Maybe two?"

He smiled and waved me off, his eyes glued to the paper. "Give me a little time... I need to... investigate a little."

I didn't know what that meant, but he deflected my follow-up questions. "I'm not ready to talk about this yet," he insisted. "Give me a few days to noodle over this. Or maybe a week."

Around the same time, things began to lighten up a bit at my job, which meant that I was home before nine most nights. When I'd come in, Dad would be at his computer looking at YouTube videos, the contractor's estimate close at hand. It had become his Bible.

"Hey," he called to me when I got home on Thursday night. "Do you think you can get off early enough tomorrow to have dinner with me? I'll take you to Hoof and How! We can get T-bones with all the fixings."

"Uh," I temporized, taken utterly by surprise.

"Come on!" he cajoled. "When was the last time you had a drink with your old man? We'll make a time of it! We'll take one of those Ubers there and back, so we can drink like we mean it. Friday night! Come on!"

"Okay," I said. "Sounds good."

"You won't get in trouble at work?" he teased. "They'll let you slip off the ball and chain for just one night?"

"Sure," I said. "Things have actually quieted down a bit."

"Yeah? Even so, they still work you too hard."

"Dad—" I began, but he waved his hand. "I know, I know — it's temporary."

We don't have set hours at work, but in spite of that, it's unusual to see someone to leave before seven. I didn't bother to tell anyone I was leaving early, and didn't see the need to ask for permission. My colleagues were lolling around, playing video games or ping pong, or reading. Clearly, nothing was happening that couldn't wait until Monday, so I didn't anticipate an issue when I packed up my things at five. To my surprise, my boss actually gave me some attitude, and wanted me to stay at least until seven, but not for any good reason. I pointed out that I'd never arrived late, never left early (aside from today), and have never taken a single day off. "I think I'm due," I told him, and after fifteen minutes of pointless discussion, I left. I left angry. I'd never been so angry.

It made me feel that all my hard work counted for nothing.

I tried pretty hard to cool off before I got home. I didn't want to spoil Dad's evening. At one point, while stopped at a red light, I silenced the ringer on my phone: one step toward being unreachable. That helped improve my mood. At another red light I turned the damn thing off entirely, and that made me feel massively better.

Dad was pretty happy when I got home. He was as excited as a little kid on his birthday. He was particularly pleased when I set my phone down on the front-door table and left it there. He patted me on the back and put his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the Uber.

Hoof and How! is a pretty hokey, old-timey steakhouse. The walls are red. The trim, posts, and rafters are mahogany-colored. There are no windows. Every space on every wall has a large black-and-white photo, each one a view of Town Center a hundred years ago. The restaurant has that particular old-steakhouse smell: decades of grilled beef and other food aromas that permeate the carpet, walls, and ceiling. I doubt that they've ever opened the doors and given the place a good airing.

Still, Dad was as happy as a child at Chuck E. Cheese's, so I smiled and went along. It was nice to see him so cheery and animated.

Dad ordered a T-bone for each of us, along with a small mountain of thick, hand-cut fries, onion rings, and other sides. We drank a nice Cabernet, and everything was good. It was the first time in ages that I'd been without my phone, and I didn't miss it at all. And after my second glass of wine, I actually relaxed. It felt like I hadn't exhaled in three years.

We ate until we'd gone past eating too much. Still, after the dinner plates were taken away, we shared a slice of New York cheesecake, accompanied by by coffee and shots of bourbon.

Then Dad said, "Now, here's what it's all about. Humor me, okay?" He pulled out his new-found Bible: the contractor's estimate. "Now look at this, Elliot: I want you to look at each item on here. I agree that this work will help me sell that house, and I think this fellow's asking a fair price. But I don't like the guy, and I don't want to get a second estimate. Let me show you." He turned the pages to face me, flattening out the sheets so I could see the list of work. "See — all of this stuff — every one of these things — are jobs that you and I can do. None of it requires the trades, and none of it requires an inspection."

"What do you mean trades?"

"Plumbing and electrical."

"Oh. Uh, okay, but, Dad!" I protested. "I'm working! and more than full time! You know that. I would love to do this work with you — honestly, I would. I think it would be a blast. But I don't have the time."

He scoffed. "You should quit that job. Elliot, believe me. There's never going to be a big payoff. They're just stringing you along. It's pie in the sky, by and by."

To my own surprise, I didn't contradict him.

"Now, listen — I was talking to your Aunt Betsy—" I groaned aloud. Dad waved my protest off. "Your Aunt Betsy is nobody's fool, and she thinks you're suffering from burnout." He said the word carefully, as if it were a strange, foreign, technical term. "Do you know what burnout is?"

"Yes, I know what burnout is—" (in fact, I'd been looking up burnout on the internet earlier that week: what is burnout? and how to deal with burnout) "—but come on — I haven't seen Aunt Betty in years!"

"Yes, but *I* have seen you," Dad said. "I see you now. I'm no expert, but I worry about you, son. Working on the house is healthy, decent work, with a worthwhile result." He bent closer, put his hand on mine, and in a confidential tone added, "If you come work with me, I'll pay you."

"You don't have to pay me," I told him, getting a little choked up. "I haven't been spending money on anything, so I've got a fair amount in the bank."

"Okay," he said. "I'm not going to push it. I don't want to ruin the evening. Drink up your bourbon, and unless you want something else, we can head for home."

I slept like a log that night, and uncharacteristically didn't wake up until ten o'clock. The day was overcast, but Dad was sunny and bright. He talked me into walking to the Train Stop Diner, and the two of us had the Full Lumberjack breakfast, which is two of everything: two pancakes, two pieces of french toast, two eggs, two strips of bacon, two sausages, along with toast and coffee. Somehow, even after the previous night's excesses, we managed to do the breakfast justice.

All weekend Dad hummed and sang to himself, doing silly little busywork around the house. He never mentioned the work on the house or my job. It was an incredibly restful weekend. All we did was eat and sleep and hang out.

I forgot to turn my phone back on until Monday, just before I got out of my car at the office. My boss had called me more than a dozen times, and left four voicemails. The time was only ten minutes to seven, so I figured it would be more efficient to see him face to face and find out what was up. Inwardly, I felt convinced he had only called because I'd left "early" on Friday.

The moment I walked in, he said, "My office. Now."

He chewed me out. He kept using the word "unacceptable." My leaving at five was unacceptable. Turning off my phone was unacceptable. He went on for several minutes. It didn't make much sense, so I figured it was all pro forma: he felt he needed to do it, so I stood and listened, nodded where appropriate, and at the end told him it would "never happen again." He asked me sign a paper acknowledging that we'd spoken. I read it quickly. It was worded strangely and vaguely, but as it didn't say I'd done anything wrong, I signed it. He smiled, shook my hand, and I went to my desk and got to work.

It left a strange taste in my mouth. Even my mantra ("it's only temporary") didn't help.

Things only got stranger.

I went to get a coffee and a muffin. While I waited for the coffee to brew, it struck me that I hadn't seen Dave yet. Dave amd I joined the company on the same day. He was a great guy, and a person whose work I respected. Denise wandered into the kitchen area, so I asked her if she'd seen Dave. She glanced around to be sure no one was near, and told me sotto voce, "Dave's been let go."

"Really? Why?"

Again she leaned in and, barely audible, explained, "They're prepping for the buyout."

"So it's happening?"

She nodded. "A French company wants our intellectual property."

"How does letting people go make anything better for them or for us?"

She shrugged. "What I heard is that the buyers need to see certain numbers on the company's spreadsheet, and somehow, firing Dave helps them get to those numbers."

I returned to my desk. The admin/receptionist stood there, waiting for me. In a quiet, barely audible voice, she asked me to follow her to my boss' office. Once there, they sat me down and told me that I, like Dave, was being let go.

A little irritated, I asked, "Is this because of what we talked about before?"

My boss seemed to be thrown by the question. "No, of course not," he said. "Why on earth would it?" In retrospect, I see that I'd thrown him off his script. That was all. He explained that they were "lightening" the company, "adjusting the company's profile," and that this was "no reflection" on my work, on my performance, or anything else. The head of HR explained the "algorithm" that selected who should go.

They offered a surprisingly good severance plan. They spent a lot of time discussing my stock options and how they would be paid. It was pretty complicated.

In the end I signed a bunch of papers, they handed me my last paycheck, and someone walked me to my desk and watched me pack up my stuff.

It was weird. It was nothing but weird.

I mean, why did my boss need to go into his unacceptable tirade, knowing I was going to be let go less than an hour later? The HR lady seemed utterly unaware that I'd been chewed out and made to sign an acknowledgment of the fact. With the help of graphs and explanations, she went to great lengths to try to demonstrate that my being laid-off wasn't personal; for all intents and purposes it had nothing to do with me. The way she told it, nobody deserved to be let go, but after they fed some numbers into a program, the computer spit out a list of names. My name, for instance, and Dave's. I knew for sure there was nothing wrong with Dave, and yet he'd been let go. That was the lesson. At least I was in good company.

I unlocked my car, put my box of crap in the back seat, and sat down behind the wheel. From there, I could see the office windows. No one was looking out; they were all busy working. They were probably keeping their heads down, worried that they would be called next. From here, the office resembled an ant farm. Watching my ex-coworkers walk pointlessly back and forth made me feel a little better about getting fired, but I couldn't sit there. If anyone happened to look out and see me, I'd feel pathetic. I'd switch from being the guy watching the ant hill to someone on the outside looking in — the object of a worker-ant's pity. I had to get out of there. But where could I go? I drew a blank. It had been so long since I had free time, I hardly knew what to do with it. I started the car and pulled out the parking lot. Then I drove, choosing turns at random, until I found myself in front of my elementary school. I shook myself and drove on, and in a couple of minutes I skirted my old high school. I passed through Town Center, but didn't feel like stopping anywhere. I drove by Max's parents' house, which brought me close to Dad's house.

I wasn't ready to go home and tell my Dad. I wanted to call Max, but what if Amber was there? She wouldn't want me "wasting" Max's time. So I didn't call.

Why didn't Amber like me, by the way?

I drove to McDonald's and almost went inside. But I wasn't hungry, and somehow I felt that going inside would make me feel depressed.

In the end I went to the Train Stop Diner and ate some hot apple pie and drank some coffee. I read the menu with great attention. I dawdled as long as I could, and drank coffee until I trembled. At last, and at a loss for any better destination — I went home.

Dad wasn't there.

I needed to DO something, and of course my mind went to the list Dad got from the contractor. I didn't know where the list was, but I knew that the first item was DECLUTTER, and there was one pile of clutter Dad would have a hard time approaching. Or at least, I assumed he would, since he'd never even mentioned the task.

I put on some old clothes, got a big black trash bag, and attacked the upstairs bathroom. Nothing in there was mine, and very little of it belonged to my Dad. It was all left over from my Mom. Clearly Dad never had the heart to go through it after she died. There were just over two dozen bottles of nail polish, some of them utterly dried out. One had broken and leaked all over the shelves. I tossed them out, along with all the other cosmetics, the nail-polish remover, the two broken hair driers, and countless samples: tiny one-by-three-inch packets of shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, eye cream, and God knows what else. There were all sorts of oils and bottles and brushes and contraptions. Anything with a date had long since expired. Buried in the back under the sink was an empty first-aid kit. There were three bottles of peroxide. I was able to combine them into one. I did the same with the two bottles of rubbing alcohol.

There were empty bottles whose contents must have evaporated. There were toothpaste tubes, hardened over time.

There was nothing embarrassing or revelatory in there.

After I'd finished with the medicine cabinet and the vanity, I went through the shower, getting rid of all the stuff that was too girly for me or Dad to use.

Tuesday morning is when the trash is collected, so I dropped my bag in the bin and rolled the bin to the curb.

At that point, I told myself, Now I'll do the same to the kitchen! but I didn't. Instead I opened a beer, went into the back yard and sat down on the rusty swing. I sat down carefully, looking up at the supporting bar — I didn't want it coming down to smack me in the head! The swing groaned like an old man under my weight — not that I'm heavy; not by a long shot. I took a few sips, then spotted my neighbor, Mrs. Irving, watching me from her window. I considered the beer in my hand. It was just past three in the afternoon. I sighed. I raised my beer to her in mock salute. She quickly retreated, but too late; she'd already spoiled the mood, so I went into the house, grabbed a second beer, and fiddled with the TV until Dad got home.

Good old Dad. When I told him what happened, his only visible concern was that I was alright. If he felt any glee, or relief, or hopes for the two of us working together on the house, he kept all that to himself.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I'm hungry."

"Dad, it's only quarter to four!"

He shrugged. "I have to train for Florida," he joked. "You know, the early-bird specials?"

"This is early even for them," I said. "But honestly, I could eat."

"We can always eat again later," he told me. "If we need to."

He took a pyrex container out of the freezer. It contained four generous servings of eggplant parm. There was also a frozen loaf of garlic bread. "I've finally mastered the DEFROST setting on the microwave," he boasted. "It takes a long time, but still not as long as just letting it thaw." He dumped a bag of prepared salad into a bowl and dressed it with oil, vinegar, and salt.

Dad looked at his dozen or so bottles of wine and scratched his chin. "Let's go for a Sangiovese," he said, and uncorked the bottle.

"When did you become a connoisseur?"

"Watch your language!" he joked, pretending I'd said a bad word. "I didn't. There's a guy at the grocery store who knows his stuff. I ask him questions and follow his recommendations. It's worked out pretty well for me."

"Nice."

Later, after we'd gotten some food and wine inside us, I said, "Dad, just so you don't have to tiptoe around the subject, I'm ready to start working on the house. Tomorrow, I mean. Might as well get right into it."

He sipped his wine thoughtfully. "You might want to take a little vacation first."

"No, I want to keep busy. After three years of sitting hunched over a desk, I need to use my muscles. If I need a break, I'll let you know."

"Fair enough," he replied, and clinked his glass against mine.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 2 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

You must have seen a cartoon image of a man sitting on a tree branch, sawing diligently. It's funny — or supposed to be funny — because he's sitting on the wrong side of the cut. He doesn't know he's going to fall. You know it; it's obvious. As soon as the saw gets through the branch, down he goes! He doesn't know, though, so he keeps on working hard. We don't need to see him fall. It's inevitable.

That man was me. I was living in my Dad's house, spending my days fixing the place up, getting it ready to sell. It never occurred to me that I was sawing away the branch on which I was sitting. As soon as we finished our tasks, the house would go up for sale. There was no doubt: the house would sell pretty quickly, and after the closing Dad would head off to Florida. He took to spending two or three hours every evening looking at the Florida housing market, while his friends down there kept their eyes and ears open on his behalf.

"If I find the right place down there," he told me. "I'll buy it right away."

"Like right now? Before you sell this place?"

"Sure! My buddies can look it over for me and keep an eye on it until I get there," he said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Although there is another way it could work... Listen, how would you feel about this? I could give you power of attorney on the sale of this place, and that way you could handle all the documents up to and including the closing."

"I've never done any of that," I protested. "What if I screw it up?"

"Don't worry! I have an agent and a lawyer on my side. They'll send me copies of everything. Whatever it is, they'll read it, you'll read it, I'll read it, and if I say it's okay, you sign it for me." He patted me on the shoulder, then added, "It doesn't make you liable for anything. Power of attorney makes it so your signature stands for my signature. That's all. You can talk to the agent and the lawyer about it if you got any doubts."

"Okay," I agreed, uncertain. "But wouldn't it be simpler to send the documents directly to you in Florida so you could sign them yourself?"

"The delay. They send the documents. I read them, I find a notary, I sign the documents. I send them back. That's a minimum of three days. If you have power of attorney, it could be a matter of minutes." He started to walk away, then stopped himself with a little smile. "You can look up real estate power of attorney on the internet. Isn't that what your generation does?"

Actually, I *did* look it up on the internet later that night, and it was pretty much as he described.

Working on the house was fun. I had no idea that Dad knew how to do and fix so many things. Together, we insulated the attic. We pulled up carpet upstairs and tore out linoleum in the kitchen. We put in all new windows. We re-tiled the bathrooms and put in new fixtures. We painted the kitchen cabinets and got new cabinet doors. We took out the old kitchen counters and put butcher block in its place, along with a new kitchen sink. We cleaned everything.

We found enough room near the back door to create a decent-sized mudroom.

Dad got a deal on some second-hand doors, and those doors gave a whole new look to the front and back. We painted the entire house, inside and out.

After clearing out the garage, we realized that shoring up the building might be a bit beyond us. "Honestly, I'm a little afraid to be standing inside here," Dad confided, and the two of us quietly exited the structure. Dad did a bit of networking and four guys who were friends of the brother-in-law of one of Dad's friends came and set the garage to rights in the space of three days, including roofing, painting, and hanging a new garage door.

The only other things we didn't do ourselves were (1) re-roofing the house, (2) removing the dead tree in the backyard, and (3) pruning and trimming the live trees and bushes.

When at last all the work was finished, and the house was bare of pretty much everything except for two beds, a table, two chairs, and the TV, Dad looked over the numbers and pronounced himself satisfied. "We did pretty well," he boasted, rubbing his hands together. "We came in way under the estimate from that bossy contractor."

"We didn't pay for labor," I pointed out.

"True, and we saved a lot by using second-hand finishings. That contractor wanted to go will all-new, high-end materials. But I think we did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

"I think so too," I said.

"I guess it's time to call in your friend Kitty," he informed me with a broad grin.

Dad liked Kitty. Everybody liked Kitty. I know *I* did, and Max did, and pretty much every boy in our high school class. There was something about her: a quiet confidence, an understated girl-next-door look, an open, accepting personality... Unfortunately for us, Kitty paired up quickly with Claus, whose family moved here from Germany in the middle of freshman year. Claus and Kitty made a very quiet, low-key couple. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and after that, no other male had a chance with her. It was quite some time before I realized that no other female had a chance with Claus, but it was a long time before I stood on that side of the equation.

They were like an irreversibly covalent molecule: when a molecule like that forms, you can't break it apart again. It's incredibly stable, and (I suppose) perfectly happy.

That was Kitty and Claus: as soon as they touched each other's hands, they were bound together for life. Perfectly happy, perfectly stable.

It made Kitty very easy to be around: where you've got zero chance, there's zero sexual tension.

So, why call Kitty now? Backing up a bit, to a month before Dad and I finished our labors, I ran into Kitty at the grocery store. We chatted, we caught up a bit. We went to get a coffee together and caught up some more. She asked me about the startup, and my answer was probably a lot longer and more emotional than she expected or wanted, but once I finished, I had the presence of mind to ask, "What's up with you?"

As it turned out, among her other news, Kitty told me that she ran a fairly successful staging business.

"Is that something to do with the theater?" I asked. She laughed.

"No. I suppose it could, if someone wanted to hire me to dress a stage, but usually what I do is go into a home for sale, and make it look more desirable. I bring in furniture, wall hangings, knickknacks... Basically, I make it easier for potential buyers to imagine themselves living in that home."

"When the house is sold, does the furniture go with it?"

"No. All the furniture is rented. Or it comes from my warehouse. I take it all away once the house is under contract."

I took her card and passed it on to Dad, but at the time I didn't think he was interested.

Now he was.

Kitty came with her helpers, and they absolutely transformed the house. She made it beautiful, livable, desirable — just as she promised.

"Do people ever want to buy... the whole look?" I asked her. "I mean, I'd love to live in a house like this."

"I guess you will live in it — at least for a little while," she giggled. "But yeah, one time a buyer from overseas bought everything, all the way down to the knickknacks. The whole kit and kaboodle. Sometimes people want individual pieces, but most of the time I end up hauling it all back to my warehouse."

Dad was so pleased with how it all looked, that the very next day he gave me power of attorney over the sale. He had whittled his earthly possessions down to a size that fit in his Toyota. We stood in front of the house next to his car to say our goodbyes.

"I won't let you down, with that power of attorney thing," I assured him.

"As long as you sign your name legibly, that's all you need to do," he laughed.

Then he drew a long breath, stood up tall, and said, "Two last things: wherever I live, there'll always be a place for you, kid. You're welcome whenever you feel like coming."

I teared up a little, and said, "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. But— and no offense, but I don't think Florida's quite the place for me."

"Naw," he agreed. "It's the state for old people and crazies, am I right?"

We laughed. I hugged him.

"Oh, what's the other last thing?"

"I love ya, kid."

"I love you, too, Dad."

I slept on an air mattress that night, which I carefully stowed out of sight in the morning. Today, like every day this week, was going to be an open house, and I needed to stay out of the way of potential buyers.

"My idea is to show the house for a week," the agent said, "and we'll accept offers from Monday morning to Saturday night. Sunday we'll evaluate and hopefully decide."

After making sure I'd left no mess, no trace of my presence, I got out of the house and into my car.

Once again, just like the day I was fired, I felt at loose ends. For the first time in months I had nothing to do and nowhere to be. It was autumn, and too chilly for the beach. I didn't have the right shoes for hiking, so that was out. I hadn't had breakfast, so I went to a cafe in Town Center. I took my time. I dawdled. I window-shopped in the nearby stores.

At first I thought I was only killing time. Then I realized what I was really doing was hoping I'd run into someone. It wasn't happening.

I got in my car again. I drove by my old startup, but I didn't pull into the parking lot. I drove by my elementary school, then my high school. I considered driving to my old college campus, but it was too long a trip. I considered stopping at the Train Stop Diner, but I had no room in me for food.

I drove by Max's parents' house. To my great surprise, Max was pulling up to the curb. He was alone. So I pulled in behind him. He was genuinely glad to see me. We didn't hug; we gave each other a manly handshake: a firm grip, shaken meaningfully. Max's mother appeared at the door, called us both by name, and said, "Get in here!" laughing, happy.

It was like old times. She hugged him. She hugged me. She sat us at the kitchen table and tried to feed us. She stood behind us, one hand on my shoulder, one hand on Max's shoulder. We talked, all three of us.

Max's mother didn't have a lot of news of her own, just a few family things. She mentioned that Max's cousin Nessa would marry in the Spring. Asked whether Max had RSVP'd.

"Elliot, I wish you could come, too!" she told me. "It would be so nice to see you there!" I thanked her for the sentiment. I shrugged.

"You can't invite everyone," I replied. "Besides, I don't know Nessa at all."

"She's a nice girl, you'd like her. And that boy she's marrying — he's perfect for her."

"Doesn't he have a dog's name?" Max teased. "Fido or Rex or..."

"...or Max?" I suggested.

"His name is Tag," Max's mother informed us, swatting her son's shoulder in mock disapproval. "I don't know what on earth it's a nickname for, but the invitations read Nessa McLanahan and Tag Curran. Tag. Who knows what his birth certificate says."

"Probably something embarrassing," I offered.

Max's mom fell silent, and fixed her eyes on her son for a bit. He noticed her stare, and said, "What? Did I do something?"

"I don't know," she replied. "But if you did, I don't know why you didn't tell your own mother."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, genuinely confused. In response, she picked up his left hand and looked at his fingers. He still didn't respond, so she rubbed his ring finger with her thumb.

"Oh, Mom — come on!" he protested. "I'm not getting married."

"A lot of people think you are," she informed him.

"A lot of people are wrong," he told her.

"They sound pretty sure," she said in sing-song. Max shook his head.

"If I was getting married, *I* would be the first to know."

"Then where are these rumors coming from?"

Max looked down for a moment, considering. Then, in a quiet, serious voice he said, "It must be Amber," he admitted. "She wants to get married. She tells me every day, in one way or another."

His mother looked dubious. "Do you want to marry her?"

"No. I think we're fine the way we are."

"Apparently she doesn't agree."

"Right. Like I said, she wants to get married. I don't. She ought to quit pushing." He looked me and his mother with an expression that asked can we talk about something else? His mother nodded and asked me what I'd been up to.

I gave as brief a version as I could of my startup woes, then talked about my work with my Dad, power of attorney and all.

"Sounds like fun," Max commented.

"It was," I said.

"When the house is sold, are you off to Florida with your Dad?"

"No," I laughed. "I couldn't live in Florida."

"Then where are you going to go?"

Okay — I know it sounds stupid — it probably *is* stupid of me — but the question never occurred to me before that moment. I confessed my perplexity, and Max's mother immediately had a solution:

"You could stay at Max's house!" she declared. Max smiled.

"With Amber?" I couldn't help but blurt out my objection.

"On the basement level, there's a mother-in-law apartment," she explained.

"Suite," Max corrected. "It's a mother-in-law suite."

"It has its own entrance," she pointed out. "And its own kitchen."

"Kitchenette," Max said. "Don't set his expectations too high!"

"Kitchenette — whatever!" she concluded. "It's nice! If I didn't have this house, *I* wouldn't mind living down there."

"Won't Amber mind?" I objected. "I'd be a live-in third wheel. It would really encroach on your privacy."

"Not if you don't go wandering through the house," Max told me. "It's supposed to have good insulation, and that deadens sound."

"But I'd be right underneath you!"

"You wouldn't be under the bedroom. I don't think Amber would mind. I don't think she could mind."

"You'll love it!" Max's mother enthused. She gripped my arm. "You have to do it! It's a perfect solution!"

I hesitated. I didn't want to tell them that Amber despised me. "I don't know... If you really think I won't get in her way..."

Max shook his head. "The only place we'd cross paths is the driveway. It's not a big deal." Then, struck by a thought, Max asked, "You don't have a car, do you?"

"Yes, you saw it — it's right outside."

"Oh, yeah — of course! Stupid me. Well, you'll have to find a place to park it. That's the only problem. I mean, I have a two-car garage, but Amber's car and my car are already in there. So — no room for a third. You can't park in the driveway, and there's no on-the-street parking in that neighborhood."

"I'll figure out something," I said. "I think one of my Dad's friends..."

Max's mother clapped her hands, happy that she'd helped to resolve a problem.

Or did she create one?

Max could see that I felt uneasy. He assured me that after I saw the setup, I'd feel more comfortable about the arrangement.

"Listen," I said. "You have to ask Amber how she'd feel about it. If she has ANY qualms about it, I don't want to do it."

"She won't," Max assured me.

Oh, how wrong he was! In retrospect, this was the trigger event, the one that inevitably led directly to the Silent Big Bang on Christmas Eve. If I'd never moved in, none of what follows would ever have happened.

Amber is a deep study. On the one hand, many of her moods are right there on the surface. They're very plain to tell. For instance, you know when she's angry, happy, suspicious, offended — in other words, obvious stuff is obvious. On the other hand, it's impossible to tell what she's thinking. Most of us follow habitual lines of logic and association. If you know someone well, you can often predict what they'll say or do, or how they'll react. You can count on it, and if you're wrong, you're surprised. If your friend knows A, B, and C, you assume they'll get to D. Amber, on the other hand, if she gets A, B, and C as inputs, she'll disregard them. Instead, she'll look at the person who told her fact A, and ask herself, "Why did she tell me that now?" and that question will lead her off into an internal wilderness. Relying on what she calls "intuition" and "emotional perceptions" she arrives at an outlandish conclusion. In other words, she mashes together unrelated facts and cooks up implausible theories about "what's really going on." Although she doesn't call them theories. She regards her crazy convictions as solid, uncontestable facts. You'll see what I mean.

Also, Amber's moods and emotional states live on a subterranean level deep, deep inside her. You can't see them or feel them. Friends who are very empathetic admit they cannot read Amber. She buries her reactions, her true feelings, under some internal concrete, tucked way out of sight.

I wasn't there when Max informed Amber that I would be moving in downstairs, but much later — months later — he described the scene for me vividly. They were in their bedroom. Both were still fully dressed; they'd just finished dinner and come upstairs. He explained how the work on my father's house was complete and that soon the house would be sold — the market was pretty hot, so it was expected to sell quickly.

As he went through his presentation, he stopped to tell her, to emphasize and repeat, that if she had any qualms about my being there, for whatever reason or even for no reason, that I wouldn't move in. I'd find someplace else to live.

She listened without interrupting, her face set, impassive, cold. Then, when he was completely done, he looked at her, and waited a few moments for her response. When none came, he said, "Well? What do you think? Is it a yes or a no?"

Her backbone ramrod stiff, she told him in a steely tone, "I see what you're trying to do here."

Puzzled, he asked, "What am I trying to do?"

"You're trying to trick me into a ménage à trois with this Elliot person," she replied, and rose to her feet.

"WHAT!?" he exclaimed. "I'm doing no such thing!" Bewildered, shocked, and stunned, he waved off what she'd said. "No, no. That's ridiculous."

"That's my emotional perception," she informed him — which was to say, I've read this situation, and no matter what you say or believe, what I've said is the underlying reality. Amber could never be shaken from one of her "emotional perceptions."

Max picked up his phone. "I'm calling Elliot right this minute and telling him to find another place to live!"

"No," she commanded. "Don't call him. I need to think." She rose to her feet. "Don't follow me."

With that, Amber went downstairs, all the way down. She looked through the mother-in-law suite, entering every room, opening every closet, cabinet, and drawer. Then she went outside, into the garage.

From there, she called me — of all people! She asked me to come by the next day so she could show me where I'd be living. She explained that she wanted to give me the tour herself, and that I should meet her in their driveway at eleven. Of course, I agreed. She told me — note that I'm saying told, not asked — she told me not to tell Max. She wanted it to be a surprise.

Knowing her distaste for contradiction, I didn't point out that Max had already invited me, so it could hardly count as a surprise. I didn't say any of that. I just thanked her and told her I'd see her tomorrow.

She returned to Max after a half hour's absence. She told him that she'd worked it out, that she'd spoken to me herself, and that Max wasn't to "call or otherwise interfere" by getting in touch with me.

The next morning at nine the real-estate agent called to say she'd already received several attractive offers to buy Dad's house. "I'd like to keep showing the place, but I think we can stop on Thursday. Friday we can evaluate the offers."

"Won't we just choose the highest bidder?" I asked.

"Maybe," she said, "Probably. But we also have evaluate whether the buyer can make good on their offer, and see whether they set any conditions that we may or may not like.."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about that," I confessed.

"That's why I'm here!" she replied brightly (emphasis on the *I*), and rang off.

The next morning was a little brisk; I wore a light jacket. My Dad's house was a little more than a mile from Max's, so by the time I got there, I was carrying my jacket over my arm.

The whole way I kept trying to prepare myself for my one-on-one with Amber, although I had no idea what I should or even could do to be ready. I'd only met her two or three times, and we hadn't spoken much. Mainly I was surprised that she wanted to meet with me — after all, she'd made it pretty clear that she had nothing but disdain for me. She'd told me to my face, more than once, that she considered me a waste of time.

And yet, she wanted to show me around, give me the lowdown, on where I'd be living. That meant she was okay with my moving in. At least, that was a reasonable inference, if you could make reasonable inferences about Amber's thoughts and intentions.

Although I arrived ten minutes early, Amber was waiting. She stood in the driveway, wearing her strawberry blonde hair loose, like a mane. She wore jeans, a loose red top, a shiny black leather jacket, and high-heeled black ankle boots with pointed toes. It was a casual ensemble, but somehow she made it intimidating. She smiled when she saw me, but her smile ran a chill through me.

Without preamble, she said, "Follow me." She turned and walked toward the garage.

"Uh, Amber," I called, "Why are we heading toward the garage? I won't be needing a parking sp—"

"Good!" she interrupted. "I was sure you didn't own a car."

I let that comment blow by. "Anyway," I continued, "Isn't the mother-in-law suite down in the—"

"You're not going to be staying down there," she said, interrupting again. "What kind of sense would that make?"

Her bluntness threw me. Later, of course, I came up with plenty of responses; reasons why it made perfect sense for me to live in a house, in a separate space in a house, in a house owned by my best friend, who'd specifically invited me to live there.

In the moment, however, I was struck as in a hit-and-run. Amber wasn't stopping. She opened a door on the side of the garage. For some reason I noticed there was no way of locking the door: There was no lock built into the knob. There was no deadbolt, or even a hook-and-eye.

A few steps inside, and she ascended a rough set of unfinished wooden stairs. By "unfinished" I don't mean that any stairs were missing. I mean that the wood had no finish on it. There was no stain, no paint, no polyurethane. Just plain, unfinished wood. At the top of the stairs was a door without a doorknob. Clearly, there used to be a doorknob, but someone had taken it out.

Amber had led me into a room above the garage. She stood in the middle of the floor and gestured with her hands, turning both palms up as if to say, behold!

It was a dump.

"You just finished fixing up your father's house, didn't you," she stated. It didn't sound like a question, but I replied, "Yes."

"And how did it come out? Good?"

"Better than good! It looks great now. Better than it ever looked."

"So you know how to fix places — how to fix them up." She nodded as she spoke, and without giving me a moment to answer, continued, "Here's your chance to fix a place up for yourself, and to do me and Max a big favor at the same time."

My mouth fell open. Sure, I could do it. In fact, as I glanced around, I found myself automatically making a list: insulation all around (including the floor), new cabinets (the current ones had no shelves), new sink, new fridge...

Yes, I could do it, but it was pretty shitty of her to ask me to live in such a place, all the while acting as though she was doing me a huge favor.

I hadn't said a word yet. Amber was watching my face, and enjoying the show. "You won't be paying rent, so it will be your way of contributing, right?"

"Yeah, right," I said. Clearly she wanted to screw me over -- and I knew that, but at the same time, I began looking forward to the project.

Also, I got the idea that she was trying to scare me off, but her challenges were having the opposite effect. She wanted me gone? I just dug my heels in deeper.

"Good!" she said. "After all, beggars can't be choosers, right?"

I let that one blow by. Beggars? Clearly, Amber thought I was broke. She probably thought that *I* had asked Max if I could move in, rather than the other way around. In actual fact, I had a pretty nice pile of money saved up — after more than two years of not paying rent (Dad wouldn't accept it), of not buying clothes or food (the startup provided all that). Although I had a car, it hadn't needed repair, and in fact nowadays I'd gotten in the habit of riding my bike or walking everywhere. I could afford to remain unemployed for several years, and with my experience, I could get a job as a programmer in a minute. I was the opposite of broke. But she didn't need to know that.

I just had one question. "Does Max know that you're putting me out here?"

Her face hardened.

"Why do you ask that?" she demanded. "That's between me and Max. It's none of your business! Not your business at all!"

"Fair enough," I replied. She'd thrown down the gauntlet, and I happily picked it up. "Thanks for the opportunity, Amber."

"Hmmph," she said. She finished by saying, "Don't screw it up, and don't make a pest of yourself. They'll be no need for you to come sniffing around the main house."

"Understood," I said. The main house? Where were we, Downton Abbey?

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 3 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Amber was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when I suddenly remembered to ask whether there was a bathroom. (Kind of an important feature!)

"Oh, yes, of course!" she replied, sounding strangely delighted. "It's down here."

I came down the stairs. She stood behind her car. The empty spot for Max's car was on the far side of the garage. Amber pointed over my shoulder, into the corner under the stairs. I frowned, not understanding. Was she joking with me?

"You'll have to move all that lumber and assorted goodies," she said. "There is bathroom in that corner. It might need a few tweaks or whatnot, but in any case, you won't have any reason to come into the house for that, or for anything else. You'll have everything you need out here."

I get it, I said mentally. I get it. You don't want me in the house. I get it.

While she returned to the house, I made my way to the corner under the stairs. The "lumber and assorted goodies" that stood in my way was all rubbish that needed to be thrown away. Clearly I was wading through the clutter, the cast-offs, the discards of the previous owner. There were a lot of children's toys — old, broken, and dirty: a tricycle missing its handlebar and a big wheel without its seat. A ripped badminton net wrapped around a single smashed racket. I came across an ancient rusted wheelbarrow with only one handle. I had to shift a lot of old, heavy lumber — 6x6 beams in various lengths. Nothing was worth saving. Nothing. Luckily, the garage was roomy enough that I could muscle the trash out of the way without impacting the parking.

When I finally managed to free enough space to pry open the bathroom door, I burst out laughing. It was the height of absurdity. The room was a meager eighteen inches square and just over six feet high (there was a reason for the low ceiling, as you'll see). It contained a toilet, a sink, and a medicine cabinet with a door that wouldn't stay closed, which, in that tiny space, took up some valuable real estate. In other words, it only served as something to bump your head on.

Sitting on the toilet worked fine. In fact, if you wanted to shave or wash your face, it was the best place to be, if you could shave without using the mirror.

Standing up, on the other hand, didn't work so well. Apart from having the medicine-cabinet door in your face, the toilet would push your calves forward and the sink would push your thighs backward. There was no standing up straight.

To my immense surprise, there was both hot and cold water! And a bit of soap. After shifting all that debris, my hands needed washing. But where did the hot water come from? As it turned out, the ceiling was low to make room for a small water header above.

Some genius had set a drain in the floor, and I found a cut-off garden hose that could be screwed onto the faucet. Obviously, this was a primitive shower. At the same time, it was a particularly disgusting bit of hose; all covered with black crud. I didn't want to touch it without gloves.

Lastly, this was another door with no lock. There was nothing but a rope loop you'd have to hang onto if you wanted to preserve your modesty. Or dignity. Or whatever.

I smiled. I laughed. I wiggled my way in and out of that contortionist's bathroom, grinning. Amber's game was pretty obvious — or at least, that's what I thought at the time: she wanted to embarrass and humiliate me. She figured I was so desperate that I'd have to live in those shitty conditions. Little did I know! Her plan for me (and Max) was far from being simple. Amber was operating on a whole other level of which I hadn't the least inkling. It would be three or four months before I even began to understand the game Amber was playing.

As Sherlock Holmes liked to say, the game was afoot. Invisible to me, but already afoot.

Back then, as I stood in the garage, it seemed absurdly simple: she wanted to drive me away by offering a place no reasonable person would accept — OR (imagining I was destitute and had no alternative) she wanted to humiliate me by sticking me in that dump.

In either case, I felt that she'd thrown down a challenge, and it was a challenge I knew I could meet.

I raced back to Dad's house. We had a lot of material left over from our renovations that I could use here. I grabbed the old door locks, a length of garden hose (I'd need it for showers until I moved the bathroom upstairs), a broom and dustpan, some trash bags, and all the cans of expanding foam we had left. The foam would keep out the cold and the mice. Oh, yes, and a box of filter masks. I'd want to wear one while sweeping up the dust and mice droppings. Last of all, my measuring tape, a notebook, and some pens. Time to get back and get cracking!

This isn't a story of home renovation, so I'll spare you the details of my labor. I'll just throw in the fact that my Dad sent me a healthy chunk of money from the sale of his house, thereby increasing my cushion of savings. I was grateful, both for the money and for the freedom it represented. After my burnout at the startup, I was in no hurry to get another programming job. If I continued to live frugally, I could go for nearly a decade without working. My only expense was food. I knew that eventually I'd have to allocating money for clothes, but for now, work clothes would do.

Amber was perversely vigilant, and — her schedule being much like Max's — she did her best to prevent Max and me from even saying hello. Despite her efforts, she couldn't be there at every moment. Max and I were able, a few times each week, to have brief, opportunistic chats: some mornings she'd leave for work before him; some evenings he'd arrive home before her.

In spite of my intention of using the windfall from my Dad to pay for the work I was doing, Max insisted that I keep receipts, and every week he wrote me a check.

I'm glad he did, though. The work quickly got expensive. Unlike Dad's house, this little loft required electrical and plumbing work that I didn't know how to do, and online videos didn't bridge the distance between my ignorance and the job at hand.

Luckily, one of Dad's friends knew a guy... He went by the nickname "Duck."

Dad told me not to ask Duck about licenses or permits. And not to broadcast the work Duck would be doing.

After he looked the place over, Duck shook his head and told me, "You know this dump is VERY illegal. I mean, so much that's going on here isn't just wrong. It's dangerous! For one thing, it's a fire trap. You see that, right? Plus, you're living above a garage! With all the fumes, the exhaust! What kind of rent are you paying here?"

After I explained the situation, he seemed to brighten up, as though the challenge appealed to him. We talked about what was needed, how much I could help, the possibility of scavenging some materials, and so on.

Then he made me an offer. I made a lame attempt to bargain, which he rebuffed, so I folded. I took a deep breath, shook his hand, and wrote him a check. That's the only bill I didn't pass on to Max. It was also the biggest check I'd written in my young life.

Looking back at that moment, I'm surprised at myself. I just signed my name, handed over the money and went on working on that loft. I mean, it was a lot of money! The most money I'd spent at once. Why didn't I stop and think about what I was doing? It would have been the perfect moment to stop. I could have taken that same amount of money and rented and furnished a small house for myself. But I didn't. I kept barreling down the road that Amber set my feet on.

But I enjoyed working with Duck. Not as much as I enjoyed working with my Dad, but even so...

First, we took those old 6x6 beams to beef up the structural integrity, especially under the new bathroom.

We redid all the pipes and wires. We put in vapor seals and insulation, then installed baseboard heat.

Time passed. Work progressed.

I got so caught up in the renovations, that suddenly it was Thanksgiving!

It was the first Thanksgiving I'd ever found myself alone, without any plans and without any food. It was simply a lack of planning on my part. At that time, doing what I was doing, one day was pretty much like the next. I never knew which day of the week it was, let alone the date. That's why such a big holiday was able to creep up on me, and catch me unawares. I wandered around Town Center for a few hours with a growling stomach. In the end, I went to the only place I found open, which was a submarine sandwich shop. I ordered two hot sandwiches and hid at a table in the back to eat them. I had no real need to hide: After all, the guy behind the counter seemed totally indifferent, and there was no one else around. Even so, I was embarrassed that I'd forgotten one of our biggest national holidays, and had no one to share it with.

Weeks passed. The renovation advanced. Eventually we came to the day where this story finally starts: Christmas Eve, when Amber's game at last came above ground.

Christmas Eve snuck up on me in exactly the same way that Thanksgiving had. Without any warning (or so it seemed), boom! it was the day. I know it sounds ridiculous, but — apart from my brief occasional conversations with Max — I led a very simple, separate, solitary life. My only concern was to have my abode totally winter-proof before the weather turned seriously cold.

What happened is this: for some reason, the moment I opened my fridge and found it more-or-less empty, a voice in my head told me, It's Christmas Eve. Today.

Again, I had no plans for the holiday. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Which was fine. But still, I'd have to eat. I pulled on my coat and hoofed it to Town Center.

Calculating that I'd need two evening meals (one for Christmas Eve and one for Christmas day), one big midday meal for Christmas, plus a festive breakfast tomorrow, I picked up pretty much any food item that caught my eye, as long as it didn't required any cooking beyond a microwave's ability. I also grabbed four bottles of wine and a bottle of bourbon. I doubted that I'd get through all that, but it was better to have leftovers than not enough.

After struggling with my bags as far as the sidewalk, I wrestled my phone from my pocket. Just at that moment, Kitty strolled up, smiling broadly.

"Oh, hey! Merry Christmas!" I called, kissing her on both cheeks. "How are you?"

"Merry Christmas! Really good," she replied. "Do you need help getting that stuff to your car?"

"Oh, I walked here," I told her. "I guess I wasn't thinking ahead. I'm just about to call an Uber."

"Don't do that — I'll give you a ride! I owe you, anyway, for that great gig you got me at your Dad's place."

"Oh, come on," I laughed.

"Seriously! It's only the second time that someone's bought the whole look! Knicknacks and all! I made a tidy profit off your Dad. Claus and I want to take you out to dinner, any place you like. We'd take your Dad out, too, if he was still in town."

I demurred, but she hefted one of my bags and started walking. "My car's over here."

In the car, on the way to Max's house, Kitty said, "I hear you're living like Cinderella."

"Huh?"

"You're living in Max and Amber's garage, aren't you?"

"Technically, it's a room above the garage, but yes. I've fixed it up, though — a lot. You should come up and see." I laughed. "I'm almost done — in another couple of weeks I could hire you to stage the place."

"Huh," she laughed, sounding doubtful.

As we approached, I told her, "You can pull into the driveway. Max and Amber won't be home yet." She gave me a strange look that I didn't understand, but replied, "Okay."

She insisted on carrying one of the bags, although once we got inside, she confessed she wouldn't be able to haul it all the way up the stairs.

"That's okay," I told her. "You run up ahead and see what I've done to the place. I'll deal with the bags."

I clumsily negotiated the narrow steps with two of the bags, leaving the third one down below for a second trip.

Kitty was my first guest: the first person to see my work. Not even Max had been up there yet. I was pretty proud of the transformation I'd effected, so I was grinning from ear to ear when I stepped inside.

She had her back to me, and turned to face me when I entered. I can still see her face, as if it was a moment ago. She had an expression of horrified surprise, of sadness, of pity. "Oh, Elliot!" she cried.

"What?" I asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"This place! I can't believe that you— that they *let* you— oh, Elliot! I know you want to be near Max, but this..."

It was an odd moment. I thought I'd done so well in making it livable! "I've done a ton of work on this place," I protested.

Kitty's face went white. "It used to be worse?"

"Oh, Kitty, come on — it's not as bad as all that! It isn't awful, is it?" Her pained expression answered for her.

She heaved a deep breath and looked at the floor.

"I have to get the other bag," I said. "And put this stuff away."

As I stowed my purchases in the fridge, I told her, "Why don't you sit down?"

She glanced around quickly, nervously. When I realized what she was looking for, I got irritated. "There aren't any mice," I told her.

"Oh, I know," she replied, lying, still skittish.

"Oh, well," she said. "Eventually you'll move into the main house, right?"

"Huh?" I chuckled. "Main house? There's only one house — but why would I move in?"

Up to this point I'd been pretty confused, but now the shoe was on the other foot. Kitty looked positively puzzled. I couldn't make sense out of her reactions or from anything she said.

Looking for some kind of common ground, I told her, "I'm surprised, Kitty, Seriously. I thought I did a good job here."

"I guess," she ventured. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know... I guess I expected a lot of other things."

"Like what?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm sorry.." She came over, and on tiptoe, kissed my cheek. "Listen, for tomorrow, I'd invite you over, but Claus' parents and mine will be there, and—"

"It's fine," I said. "I'm fine. I'm happy. I like it here. If I didn't, I'd move."

"You mean to Florida, with your Dad?"

"No, I mean to someplace else, here in town."

"Would you be able to afford that?"

"Able to afford it? Kitty, what on earth are you talking about? You don't think I'm living here because I'm broke, do you?"

"Oh, no, no, of course not!" she said hastily, though her face betrayed her doubt. "Okay. Well, I guess I better go. It was nice seeing you, Elliot. take care. And Merry Christmas!" She took a last uncertain look around her, as if she expected a rat to leap out of the furniture.

"Merry Christmas, Kitty. I'll walk you to your car."

"No, it's fine," she said, waving me off. I listened to her footsteps as she fled down the stairs. She slammed the side door — probably without meaning to. Then I heard her car door open and close, her engine start, and finally the sound of her driving away.

Of course, the conversation replayed in my mind over and over. It didn't get any clearer, though. It didn't make any more sense than when she first said those things. I had no idea what she was getting at. Oh well.

Max came home first. I went down to say hello and to wish him Merry Christmas. I told him about Kitty's visit and her strange reaction. I asked him, "Max, could you come up and take a look at what I've done? I mean, I think I did a good job, but—"

"I'm sure it's fine," he told me. "I'll come up, but not now. Amber will be home soon. I found a recipe for a Christmas cocktail I want to surprise her with."

"Cool! I hope she likes it."

"Yeah, me too." He laughed. "Merry Christmas, buddy." He gave me a few manly whacks on the shoulder.

"Merry Christmas."

I saw down on the middle step and watched Max go into his house. Even though I don't smoke, for some reason I wished I had a cigarette. I sat there, without a thought in my head, just sitting, until Amber pulled into the driveway. Not wanting to cross paths with her, I was about to jump up and retreat to my room when she killed her lights and engine halfway up the driveway, next to the house. Odd. She always puts her car away. Always. Oh, well. There's a first time for everything. She got out of her car and walked into the house without seeing me.

Kitty's visit left me deflated. There didn't seem any reason to move from the stair, except that it was a little chilly, that it smelled like a garage. Also, I began to feel hungry. I went upstairs, got out some cheese, some wine, some bread. As I ate, I kept looking at the clock, watching the numbers change. I lay down, I got up, I ate some more, I drank half a bottle of wine. All of that took twenty minutes. Then I heard Amber's car in the driveway. I waited, expecting her to open the garage door and pull inside, but she didn't. Instead, it sounded like she pulled out and drove away. Very odd. On Christmas Eve! I opened my door and descended a few steps. Through the little windows in the garage door, I could see that the driveway was empty. Amber was gone. Oh well! Not my business. I returned to my room and lay down. It was too early to go to sleep. I wasn't tired anyway.

I never should have had Kitty over. Her reactions threw off my equilibrium and spoiled my mood. I didn't know what to make of her weird comments. Living like Cinderella... wanting to be near Max... eventually you'll move into the main house... — what on earth did it mean? That "main house" nonsense could only come from Amber. Amber, giving herself airs, as though she was some great lady, to the manor born. Main house, indeed! There was only one house, Max's house, and the garage, where I lived. It was hardly a house. And why would I be moving into the house? Amber would never countenance that!

While I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I heard the garage's side door open. Max called my name from the bottom of the stairs. He swore, then came quickly up the stairs, still calling my name. He burst into the room. I looked up at him, blinking.

"Have you seen Amber?" he demanded. He seemed confused, upset, impatient.

"She never comes up here," I told him. "but I heard her leave about—" I glanced at the clock "—about forty minutes ago."

"Forty minutes ago..." he repeated, seemingly more confused. "I didn't hear the garage door open or close."

"She parked in the driveway."

Max was clearly startled by my answer. "The driveway?" He ran halfway down the stairs and looked out the little windows into the driveway. "She's gone."

"Right," I said. "You didn't know she was going out?"

"No, she said she'd be right back."

"So? Then she'll be right back. Right?"

"No, no — she said it like she was just going downstairs for— something, I don't know. But not I'll be right back like she was driving off somewhere."

"Okay." He seemed surprisingly upset. I felt he was making a mountain out of a molehill. "Have you tried calling her?"

"Yes, and I think she's blocking my calls. I don't know."

"Blocking your calls? What makes you say that? Do you get a message that says your call has been blocked?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. I'm not sure how it's supposed to go, but I get a voicemail message."

"Sounds pretty standard."

"No — it's not. It's not her normal voicemail message. It's different, like the one that comes with the phone. You know, the one with the weird guy's voice? In any case, she's not picking up and she's not calling back."

"It's only been forty minutes," I pointed out.

He rubbed the side of his thumb against his beard stubble in a distracted way. "I don't know, man. I've got a bad feeling about this." Then he stopped and looked around the room. "Hey, wow — you did a nice job up here. This is quite a upgrade. Can I open this door? Is it a closet? My God! You've created an actual bathroom!"

"Yeah," I said proudly.

Max shook his head. "Don't get me wrong — it's no reflection on your work. I mean, what you've done is fantastic, but in spite of all that, this place is still a shit-hole. It's part of a garage! You have to move into the house, man. Down to the mother-in-law suite, the way you should have from the start."

I shook my head.

"I don't know why you talked Amber into letting you live out here."

"Max, Amber is the one who put me out here. She told me to fix it up."

"What!? Why didn't you say something to me about it? I thought you wanted to live out here!"

"I asked Amber if you knew she told me to live out here, and she said it was none of my business. She said that was between the two of you."

Max sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, man," I told him.

"You're sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry! This is ridiculous. Elliot, I had no idea." He looked around the room. "All this work, all this time..."

"Max, seriously, I didn't mind."

Max frowned. "Listen," he said, "Come into the house now, right now, and have a drink with me. I'm going to make this Christmas cocktail, the one I was going to make for Amber, and you and I will drink it."

"I think you're overreacting," I told him. "She'll be back any minute."

He shook his head in response.

"What if she comes home while I'm in there?"

"Fuck her!" Max declared. "It's my house! You're my friend! What right does she have to separate me from my friends? from my family? On Christmas Eve no less!"

"Uh..." Clearly there was more going on than I knew.

"Come on, Elliot! Join me in a Christmas toast. Come on."

I followed him down the stairs and into the house. After months of living above the garage, the experience of stepping into Max's kitchen took my breath away. Just as a general overall impression, it was a hell of a lot nicer in the house than it was in the garage. For one thing, it was warmer. And prettier. And — it smelled a lot better. That was for damn sure.

"First, the Christmas cocktail!" Max exclaimed, placing himself at the kitchen island, where an assortment of bottles awaited, along with two martini glasses and a shaker.

"Does this drink have a name?"

"Yes, of course it has a name! It's called a Mistletoe Martini. There are several versions, but this one appealed to me." He paused for a moment, then: "Full disclosure: I haven't tried it yet."

I glanced around, half-fearing that Amber would pop out of the woodwork and throw me out.

As if reading my mind, Max growled, "Quit worrying. She's not coming back tonight."

"Has she taken off like this before?"

"Not exactly like this, but yeah, she has a tendency to up and leave. Not often." He considered for a moment. "This is maybe the fourth time since I've known her. One time she got impatient about something and just walked away from me. I was trying to read the map on my phone, but without a word, she took off. She had no idea where she was going. She ended up walking for hours in a straight line until she finally... I don't know... came to? and realized she had no idea where she was." He sighed. "I should have known when she said I'll be right back. She never says that."

I frowned, not understanding.

"She says that, and you figure she'll be right back. If she said, I'm leaving, she wouldn't make a clean getaway."

"I don't know what to say."

Max put the lid on the shaker and hoisted it near his shoulder. "Then don't say anything. We'll just drink." He smiled and started shaking the drink.

I looked at the bottles he'd used: cranberry iced tea, orange juice, lemon juice, vodka, cherry brandy. After pouring out two martinis, he garnished them with fresh raspberries and handed one to me. "Merry Christmas, man!"

"Merry Christmas."

We each took sips, nodded approvingly. "It's refreshing," I told him.

"Whatever," he said with a laugh. "It does the job. Come on, let me show you the mother-in-law suite. You're done with that garage. I'm sorry I let her do that to you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not okay. It's just that, with her, it's easier to go along. She's like a wall, if a wall could be aggressive. An aggressive wall. An aggressive, pushy wall. I am SO done with that."

"Do you mean you're breaking up with her?"

"No. I mean I'm done giving in to everything she wants or says. This is my house, and you're my friend. I mean, it's not as though you're moving into the bedroom across the hall. You'll see. It's a totally separate... uh... living space."

The tour only took a few minutes. The suite consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, a sitting room, and a kitchenette. There were two big closets, a wide chest of drawers, and lots of cabinets in the kitchenette. The suite was as nice as Max's mother had said. It was clean, bright, and comfortable.

After we knocked back the rest of our drinks, Max insisted we move all my belongings, right then, without waiting a moment.

I would have been happy to carry over a couple of items, to symbolically move in, but Max insisted on carting over everything — not that I had that many possessions. "I told you: you're done with the garage, man! Welcome back to civilization!"

Then he fixed another pair of martinis. "It needs a little more booze this time," he said. "Do you think Triple Sec would help?"

"I think they were fine the way you made them. In fact, I feel a little loopy already."

"Huh. Well, you can't fly on one leg — am I right?"

"I dunno—"

"Triple Sec it is!"

While he mixed the second pair of martinis, I wandered into the living room and admired their Christmas tree. It nearly filled the bay window at the front of the house. It was the most beautiful tree I'd seen. It was exactly the right height, with three inches between the star on top and the ceiling. Its proportions were perfect, a symmetric cone, adorned with blinking lights, festive draping, huge glass balls colored deep green, blue, and red. I couldn't help but exclaim, "This tree is beautiful! It must have taken an entire day to put all this together!"

"I guess so," Max answered. "Amber hired someone to do it." He shrugged.

"Really? It's something I always liked doing — it's something I used to do with my Mom." My eyes misted (an effect of the alcohol).

I leaned down to look at the presents under the tree. There were five, different sizes, all perfectly wrapped in golden paper with red ribbons. "Did she hire someone to wrap the gifts, too?" Just being nosy, I poked at the labels. To Amber, From Max, To Amber, From Max — all five said the same thing. To Amber, From Max...

"Hey, Max, all these presents are from you to her. Doesn't she give *you* any presents?"

"What?" he asked in a sharp tone. He entered the room with the second pair of drinks and handed me one, a little roughly. I repeated my observation that all the presents were from him for Amber; none from her to him.

"There were presents for me yesterday!" he exclaimed, mystified.

"Huh," I said.

He knelt down and put his head near the floor, examining the entire space beneath the tree and finding nothing.

I don't know why I did the next thing that I did, but I did it. I walked over to the front closet, the one next to the front door, and opened it. Maybe I thought the presents would be hidden there, I don't know. In any case, the closet was half empty. Like, exactly half. It was easy to see that everything in there belonged to Max. All the coats, shoes, everything was obviously masculine. None of it was Amber's. When I pointed this out to Max, his jaw fell. He swore. Then he set his drink down and cried, "Come on!" He raced up the stairs. I quickly followed.

Max entered their bedroom, and ran to a bureau. "Check that closet!" he told me, pointing. As I opened the door, I heard him behind me, opening drawers, swearing, and saying "Empty! Empty!" I could tell by the hollow sound that each drawer he opened was empty. In fact, the closet, too, was empty. Completely empty. It was a walk-in closet with shelves and rods and hooks and drawers, but there were no clothes, no shoes, no jewelry. Not even a handkerchief.

Max came, peering over my shoulder. "How did she— how could she— it's—" He half-sat, half-collapsed onto his bed. "She must have been planning this for days... for weeks, even! Do you realize? The extent of this? She moved all her stuff out — everything — without my noticing! Right under my nose! And she had a LOT of stuff. A shit-ton of stuff! She couldn't have done this overnight!" Turning to me, he asked, "Did you ever see a moving van? A truck? People carrying stuff out? Boxes? Bags? Anything?" I shook my head no.

Max looked around him, stumped. Then he sidled over to one of the bedside tables and opened the drawer. "Nothing. No note, no message, no clue, no warning. What the fuck?" He sat there for a space without speaking, his shoulders hunched, squeezing the fingers of his left hand with his right.

"I'm just... floored," he whispered at long last.

I waited for what seemed a decent interval, then asked, "Have you eaten? Max? Have you eaten?" He shook his head. "Then I'll prepare something. It's Christmas Eve. We should have a meal. Like Martha would say, it's a good thing."

"Martha?"

"Martha Stewart."

He turned his head to look at me. It was as if I'd spoken an unknown language.

"Never mind," I said. "I'll bring up your drink, then I'll get some dinner together." He replied with an almost imperceptible shrug.

The food I bought earlier only needed a little microwaving. I found some leftover lasagna in Max's fridge, so I heated that up, too. Then I managed to carry two wine glasses (shoved upside-down between my fingers), my half-empty wine bottle and a full, uncorked bottle. I laid the two plates full of food along my left forearm, and draped a pair of napkins over my wrist.

When I entered the bedroom, Max murmured, "We shouldn't eat in here."

I said, "I won't tell if you don't."

We sat on the edge of the bed, the wine on the bedside table. When we were ready for second helpings, we went back downstairs, and turned on the TV in the living room. Miracle on 34th Street was just about to start. I was shocked to hear that Max had never seen it. His lip curled in disdain. "That's the one where Rock Hudson dies and it screws up everybody's life, isn't it? And every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings? No thanks."

"No, no — you're thinking of It's a Wonderful Life and it's James Stewart, not Rock Hudson. You're right, that *is* a terrible movie. Miracle on 34th Street is the best. It's totally opposite. It starts off with a drunken Santa. With a whip."

Max managed to finish most of the wine, and then moved to tequila. I switched to water. I didn't want to be drunk and stupid if Amber happened to show up. I knew it was unlikely, but with her you never knew.

By the time the movie ended, Max was sound asleep in his recliner. I took his shoes off and covered him with a blanket. I had my back to the window as I did those things, and when I turned again toward the tree and the window, I saw something that froze my blood within me. In the lowest right corner of the window was a face, surrounded by a mane of hair. The face had a fierce expression, and it stared unblinking at me. It was the most frightening thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

It was Amber's face. Shocked, startled, even shaking, I was unable to speak or move. Then I blinked and the face was gone.

I ran to the window and looked outside. There was nothing; no one. I ran to the side windows. There was no one there. No car in the driveway. No trace of anyone. The sidewalks were clear.

Unnerved, I ran around the house, throwing the deadbolts on all the doors, locking all the windows. Not that it would do me any good — Amber had the keys to the house.

I poured myself a shot of whiskey to steady my nerves. Could I have imagined it? I had been drinking; I could easily have imagined it. After all, it was a very emotional day. That face — it probably wasn't real, was it?

Then came an idea that helped calm my nerves: a primitive alarm system. I found some folding chairs in a closet. I pressed a chair tight up against each door, then set two wine glasses on the seat of each chair. I figured that if she came in, the glasses would fall and break. I was sure to hear it, no matter what. I didn't want her sneaking in on me while I slept. Even if she wasn't really there.

Then I found a blanket, wrapped myself in it, and lay down fully clothed on the couch in the living room. Trembling, I listened to Max's snoring, which I somehow found reassuring. It soothed me until I fell asleep.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 4 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

When I woke up, Christmas morning, Max was already up and moving. I could hear him in the kitchen, making breakfast. There was the wonderful pots-and-pans sound of someone cooking, along with the homey smells of coffee, bacon, and toast.

Under the Christmas tree, all the presents were gone; the five boxes wrapped in golden paper with red ribbons had disappeared. Still groggy with sleep, I wondered for a moment whether Amber had come in the night like the Grinch and collected them. It was silly of me, but as I've said, with her you never know.

I made my way into the kitchen. Max was at the stove, flipping pancakes. The table was set with plates, cutlery, glasses, butter, jelly, honey, sugar and cream...

"There he is!" Max exclaimed. "Merry Christmas! How's the head this morning?"

"Not bad," I replied. "I switched to tequila when you started drinking water. Wait — I mean the other way around." He laughed. "How come you're so chipper? I expected you to have a massive hangover."

"I've got a high tolerance, I guess," Max said with a grin. He lifted the last pancake onto a plate, completing a pile. Then he pushed a mass of scrambled eggs into a bowl. "Help me get this food on the table."

As we filled the table with plates of food, he explained, "I was going to do all this for Amber, but you end up being the beneficiary."

"This is great!" I said. "The bacon is perfectly crispy, and everything is good and hot! And these pancakes are so light and airy! I had no idea you could cook, Max!"

"I can't, really. Breakfast is just about my limit. I had to learn because Amber doesn't cook at all." He stopped to suppress a chuckle. "Speaking of which — I saw your burglar alarms. My wine glasses perched precariously at every door? Were you afraid of burglars? Or did you think that Amber would come and cut our throats in the night?"

"Uhhh—" I wasn't sure how to answer. One thing was certain: there was no way I was going to mention seeing that particular face in the window... although I could tell part of the truth. "Uh, keep in mind that I had been drinking... but I thought I saw a face looking in the window." *A* face — I didn't say Amber's face. Just a face.

Max burst out laughing. "It was probably Santa Claus, you goof!" He threw a piece of toast at my head.

"Oh, yes, of course," I replied drily. "Why didn't *I* think of that?"

"You should have piled the wine glasses in the fireplace. When he came down, the shattering crystal would have woken you up."

I sighed. "Very funny."

"Seriously, though, Elliot, seeing what you did made me realize something — I do want to change the locks. All the locks. And the code to the garage. Can you do that? I mean, can you change the locks? The code I can do myself."

"Sure," I said. "I have some locks left over from my Dad's house. They ought to fit. If not, I can get some other ones on Monday, but if mine work, I can change them all right after breakfast."

Max smiled, amused by my haste. "You're not worried, are you, Elliot?"

"Worried? No, of course not. Worried about what?"

"I don't know. That Amber — or someone — might break in?"

"No, no — of course not!"

"That's good, because you're going to have the house all to yourself this week. I'm going to make the rounds of my relatives — I wasn't going to, because Amber hates that stuff—"

"You mean family stuff?"

"Yeah. So, now that she's definitely gone, I'm free to see my cousins, aunts, and uncles. I'll be back on New Years, in time for Diane's party."

"Okay," I acknowledged, with a tone of uncertainty.

Max chuckled. "Don't worry! Get those locks in, and Amber won't bother you!"

Max's house seemed like a mansion after my months in the garage. While he was away I watched a lot of TV and ate and drank a lot. There were still some small projects I could have worked on in the garage, but I couldn't motivate myself to go out there. Much like a prisoner recently set free — I had no desire to go back to my cell. Not even if I was "just visiting."

Also, I realized there was a huge problem with the room over the garage: the water line. It wasn't buried very deep, and in winter, it could easily freeze. I'd have to shut that line off and drain it before the freezing weather arrived.

Anyway, the days alone in that big house — well — those, I could handle just fine. I didn't mind being alone while the sun was out. I managed to keep busy. I washed all my clothes to get the garage smell out. I threw the worst of my work clothes away. I did some cleaning, I did some poking around. But the nights... Well, I didn't sleep well at all, the entire time that Max was away. It's not that I was afraid — I'm not a fearful person. I was just... uneasy in that big house, alone. It seemed like the ghost of Amber was everywhere: in the walls, in the windows, in the closets and floorboards. I can't explain it... as if she left an afterimage I could almost smell. I'd tell myself it was only my imagination, but that assertion didn't help. I tried sleeping in almost every room in the house — I even tried sleeping on the floor, hidden behind the couch — but I'd wake at every sound, not knowing whether the sound was real or part of a bad dream.

Diane's New Years party was Friday night, and I expected Max back on Friday morning. Thursday night (my last night alone) I had the idea of sleeping in the tub in the upstairs bathroom. I know it's stupid; you don't need to tell me. In part I got the idea thinking about panic rooms, and also in part from the Beatles' song Norwegian Wood. ("She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh / I told her I didn't, and crawled off to sleep in the bath.") Just as an idea, it had a lot of appeal, like sleeping behind an armored wall.

Again, it's not that I honestly believed Amber would break in and try to hurt me. I mean, I know how to defend myself. It's just that with her, you never know.

The tub was an old one — cast iron with an enamel coat. Consequently, it was uncomfortable and VERY cold. I put a blanket under me and a second over me. I shoved a stopper in the drain in case there were spiders (or worse!) down there. I tossed and turned, unable to find an unpainful position. Then, just went I'd decided to give it pass and sleep in a real bed, I fell sound asleep and slept until morning. I wasn't rested at all. There was a terrible crick in my neck and dark circles under my eyes.

Max got home just before lunch. As soon as he came in, I went downstairs to the mother-in-law suite and slept like a dead man (which is a good thing!) for six hours and woke up feeling perfectly refreshed and ready for the New Years party.

About that party: I should explain that in our town everybody knows everybody, more or less. More specifically, I'm trying to say that — although Amber herself was little more than an acquaintance to me — I knew most of Amber's friends pretty well. Kitty was a good example. It would have been next to impossible for Max (or me) to have any social life whatsoever and NOT run into Amber or one of her friends.

So, everyone we knew, including Amber, was invited to the same New Years party. This year, the parents of our friend Diane were hosting, and the party had a secondary theme: Diane's boyfriend proposed to her two weeks before Christmas, so we'd be celebrating her engagement as well as the New Year. It was a great party. We all had to admire Diane's ring, and pretend to commiserate with her boyfriend (as men do). Amber was there, but in such a crowd of people, it was easy to avoid each other.

Still, Amber didn't show any hostility — no staring daggers, no muttered insults, no veiled threats — so I got the feeling that she'd already moved on, in her own crazy way.

Max clearly enjoyed himself, and he seemed buoyed up by his family visits, so after seeing Amber acting neutral and Max looking happy I naively thought that their break-up was a non-event. Maybe he was even relieved to be free of her? That was my take.

Until the next morning, January 1. On New Years Day he started processing what had happened.

And he crashed. He crashed hard. I found him sitting at the dining room table holding an empty, unused coffee cup. His face was empty and expressionless. If he wasn't wearing pajamas, I could have easily believed he had just crawled from the sea, the only survivor of a shipwreck. He seemed in a state of shock and nervous exhaustion.

I asked him how he was feeling, and his response was, "Like I'm filled up inside with dead wood: and it's all thin, spiky branches. Spiky like daggers, but dead."

"It sounds like you're describing a honey locust tree," I said.

He shrugged and shook his head in response. "It's just an image, man. I don't care if there's really a tree like this anywhere. If there is, it ought to be burned down and buried."

Whatever pain these imaginary daggers caused him, he kept it hidden for the most part. He continued to go to work every day. He kept up with his personal hygiene: He showered each day. He shaved. He wore clean clothes. The thing was, his life dwindled down to a minimal, functional routine. He didn't talk — much. He didn't smile at all, or laugh. At least... well, we'll come to that.

Tired of living like a hermit, and afraid of being dragged down into Max's dark mood, I found a job for myself, a part-time gig as handyman for a property management company in Town Center. There was simple stuff, like cleaning and painting, and a lot of DIY. Most of my experience with my Dad was applicable, and the things I wasn't familiar with, I learned from online videos. Every day I learned something new. I hung two chandeliers and felt like an expert. I hauled a lot of trash to the dump, and made some home repairs that I never thought I'd be capable of.

I was working, out among the people. The pay was nominal, but I didn't need money. I could have paid rent if Max would let me, but he wouldn't let me.

Max lived a sad repetion. He'd come home from work, pour himself a generous glass of wine, pile two sandwiches on a plate, and trudge upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes we'd get home around the same time, and I'd sit there in the kitchen, to be with him. At first I tried to make conversation, to reach out to him, but most nights he'd put his finger to his lips. He'd say, "I'm glad you're here, but I don't want to talk." Or, "Can you keep me company but not talk? I like knowing you're there, but I don't have the energy for—" and then he'd sigh.

So that's what I did. I sat there. Sometimes I *did* speak. Sometimes he didn't react at all, as if he hadn't heard. Usually he answered verbally in monosyllables. At other times, he'd just put his finger to his lips or shake his head.

Three times during that month, he lifted his head and fixed his eyes on me. I don't know what he read in my face, but he said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself."

Well, I never thought he would, until he said it. Happily, it never came to that.

It was awful, really. Have you ever been close to a person who's depressed? I don't mean sad; I mean depressed. It's like they collapse into themselves, and become a black hole. No energy comes out of them, and whatever energy you give gets sucked away into some negative zone. It's never reflected back to you, not even minimally.

It was like he'd fallen into a pit, or was sitting at the bottom of a well, looking down. I could see him... see the back of his head so to speak. I could say things to him, but mainly I was scared that he was never going to come out of that hole.

I tried, but I couldn't understand or relate. His state seemed out of all proportion to what happened. Okay, Amber left. But Amber was a horrible person. How could he be so wounded, so down, so hurt? I've felt bad, I've had my heart broken, but I've never fallen into myself like that. I never suspected that Max carried this abyss inside himself — this unmeasurable, uncrossable distance that separated him from himself, and him from me.

I started reading a lot, to pass the time. I'd sit in the living room, so I could hear him if he made a sound. I could tell that he was watching movies, and so one night as he assembled his sandwiches, I asked him what he was watching.

"Truffault," he replied laconically.

"Francois Truffault?" I asked, a little uncertainly. I was surprised I knew the name.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He stared at me for a while before answering. He wasn't angry or irritated or... or anything. He just stared for a while, his face impassive. Then he answered me. "The only thing that's keeping me together right now is my routine. Getting ready for work, working, coming home, sandwiches, wine, movie. Don't ask me for more or ask me for less. Don't ask me to change anything."

"Sorry. I won't."

He shrugged.

"I'll get over it eventually," he said. "I realized that I've never been dumped before. I was always the one who... ended things, the one who did the dumping, and now I see that it's hard when you're the one who got left. The dumpee." He set a slice of bread atop his sandwich pile, then he cut the two sandwiches in half along the diagonal. "Also, I've never had a rejection that was so... total... so... surgical... so... absolute. And without any explanation or warning. It's like a nuclear weapon was deployed in my... in my... world." He gave me a half-smile and a shrug. "Okay," he concluded. "I've got a date with Monsieur Truffault." He raised his glass in salute and walked heavily up the stairs.

The depth of his feeling astounded me. I'd never seen him so dark and depressed. Even though Amber was a very taxing and difficult person, Max must have been heavily invested emotionally in their relationship. "It's not that I miss her," he said on another evening. "I don't. I don't miss her at all. In fact, I'm glad she's gone. A huge weight has been lifted. But I feel as though something died in the world, and something died inside of me."

As I sat by the front window reading, I'd listen for the sounds from his room. Sometimes I'd hear him laugh. Sometimes I'd hear him cry. But most of the time all there was to hear was the low murmur of the characters in the film.

It would have been horribly depressing for me as well, if I wasn't busy at work and spending my days with other people.

His funk ended abruptly toward the end of the month. I was sitting as usual in the living room, with The Three Musketeers open on my lap. Max was upstairs, communing with "Monsieur Truffault." He was up there about an hour and a half when I heard him swear, and he burst out of his room. "I'm done!" he shouted. "I am DONE!" He came downstairs, looking more alive and alert than he had in weeks, although he was still pale, needed sleep, and was a little too thin. He bristled with indignation or anger.

"Have you seen The Green Room?" he demanded.

"No, I don't think so," I said. "It doesn't sound familiar. Is it that classic porn movie? I don't think I've watched any porn."

"No! What the hell! No! It isn't porn! It's another damn French film. Francois Truffault? Oh, my God, it's horrible. Now I've had enough! It's given me cinematic indigestion. No more French films for me. God! In fact, no more movies for a while."

He made himself a pot of coffee and sat with me, talking nonstop for two hours. "I feel like I've come back to life," he said. "Back from the dead."

After that, Max gradually returned to his old self. It was as if he'd recovered from a serious illness. It took about two weeks, but each day he was a little better, a little more hopeful, a little more smiling.

And that was January! I remember telling myself, Now it's over! Meaning, Amber was gone, Max had finally moved on, and my living situation had stabilized for the present.

Unfortunately, it (whatever it was) had only just begun. Out in the general community, Amber's plan had unfolded, completely. Her spider's web was everywhere, covering everything, and we were already living in the aftermath. Blissfully unaware, but living in the aftermath.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 5 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

My job — working as handyman for a property management company — made me quite conscious of the calendar. Not so much the individual days, but the months: people moved in and out of their apartments at the start and end of the month, which became the busy time for me. February first was a Tuesday, and happened to be a light day. All I had on my schedule was a quick inspection of a recently-vacated property and a little bit of clean-up — specifically, washing the windows. It's remarkable the boost an apartment gets when the windows are clean.

Of course, that didn't take all day. I was done by eleven, and whlle casting about for something to do, I decided I'd cook dinner. Max had just spent a couple of weeks eating nothing but sandwiches, and that can't be good for anybody. I asked what he (and Amber) did for dinner when they were together, and he replied, "We always either went out or or sent out."

That's not such a healthy choice, either.

Aside from his diet, Max seemed to have fully recovered from his January post-breakup depression. He was smiling again. The darkness that hung beneath his eyes was disappearing. He had a spring in his step. In fact, he was grinning pretty broadly when he arrived home and found me in the kitchen.

"Hey, Ma!" he joked. "Whatcha got cookin'?"

"I was going to boil some pasta and pour some sauce on it." I held up a jar of tomato sauce to show him. "You interested?"

He lifted the lid. "There's broccoli in here!"

"Yeah, um, once the water boils I'll throw the pasta in and they'll cook together."

He scratched his head.

"It's an easy way to get some vegetables in your diet."

"I'll give it a try," he said, voice full of doubt.

"It's good," I assured him. "Hey, you're home a little later than usual. Did you go for a drink with your office buddies?"

"Yeah, I did, and it was fun. They're nice people. I had one drink, then paid for a round of shots. After that, I took off. I'm trying to ease back into the social scene. Take it a little slow."

"Sounds wise."

He picked up a piece of raw spaghetti and gnawed on it. "You know, I never went out with my office mates when I was with Amber."

"Never?"

"Nope. Never."

"Why not?"

"Amber always made me feel guilty about it. Like I was choosing them over her."

"That's pretty heavy! Did she think you had something going with someone from work? You didn't, did you?"

"I didn't. No, I never cheated on her. And yes, she thought I did. If I went to a bar instead of coming straight home, she'd outright accuse me of having sex with another woman. In her mind, if I didn't come straight home, I was avoiding her. To her, it meant I was already balls-deep in a torrid affair."

"Whoa — talk about being jealous!"

Max shrugged and gave a rueful grin.

The lid of the pot began dancing as the water boiled. I lifted it off and dumped the spaghetti in, stirring to get it all submerged.

"It gets worse! You know how simple my life is. It's all work and home, home and work. Anyone could easily account for every second of my day: I was either at work, at home with Amber, or going from one place to the other. And yet, she once accused me of having a secret life!"

"A secret life!?" I laughed, but it wasn't really funny.

"So I said When? When would I ever have time for this secret life? I'm either at work or with you!"

"What did she say?"

"She didn't have an answer for that." He took another uncooked piece of spaghetti from the pack and crunched on it meditatively.

"Anyway, enough about Amber! I took another small step today back toward normalcy," he confided. "I asked someone out — this woman in my office, Daphne. She has this quiet cool... looks a little like Kitty, you know? I've always been attracted to her, and I thought she had a thing for me, too."

"What makes you think she doesn't?"

"I asked her out for a drink, and she said no."

"Maybe it's just 'no' for now." He shrugged. I continued, "Anyway, you can't expect EVERY woman in the world to go out with you."

"True." He looked doubtfully at the bottle of sauce. "Aren't you going to heat that up?"

"No, I figure it will heat up when I pour it over the pasta."

"Do you have any Parmesan cheese to grate over it?"

"Mmm, no. Tomorrow I can pick up one of those shakers, you know?"

"Grated fresh is better," he said. I didn't reply. I suddenly recalled what a great cook his mother is. Max was used to eating well.

He chose a bottle of red wine. As he uncorked it, he asked, "Have you thought about learning to cook? I mean, real food, not shortcuts like this?"

I shot him a dirty look. "I'm not the girl in this situation, you know."

"Hey! Don't look at me like that! Don't get all sensitive! I'm not trying to offend you. It's just that, you know, it might be interesting for you to explore... while you're trying to sort your life out. It's a chance to learn something new and creative."

"Hmm," I replied. "Couldn't it be something interesting for you to explore, and be new and creative and all?"

He took two glasses and poured some wine into each. He grinned as he handed one to me. "It's my house," he said. "and I've got a full-time job. I don't ask you to pay rent, or to clean, or..." he laughed "or to sew, or wash windows. It would be nice for both of us if we had real, healthy meals. I'll spring for the groceries." Then he stepped closer and gave me a hip bump. "Don't be mad, man. It's just division of labor. If you really don't want to do it, we can send out for food." When I didn't answer, he gave me a gentle elbow nudge and said, "By the way, cooking is not a gender-specific activity."

I gazed into the pot. The spaghetti was still stiff and stick-like. I glanced at him a couple of times, not saying anything, and sipped the wine. It was pretty nice.

"Like the wine? Tasty, huh?" he grinned, seeing my reaction. "I'll provide the wine, too."

I sighed, resigned. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Great!" he said. "I'll ask my mother to get you a good cookbook."

I twisted my mouth to the side. He grinned and chuckled, and gave me a playful push. I sipped some more wine and looked at the pot. The spaghetti were beginning to stick together. "Why do they do that?" I murmured, a little frustrated.

"Don't worry — patience and practice are the keys."

"Okay," I told him. "I said I'd do it. Don't push it."

Two days later, Max's mother was waiting for me when I got home. She got out of her car, and gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. "It's been so long since we've seen you, Elliot! You're looking well."

"Thanks, Mrs Errison, so are you. You always look great."

In spite of my compliment, she winced at my greeting. "Elliot, I feel so old when you call me Mrs Errison — can you call me Melissa?"

"Um, I'll try," I promised. "Melissa." It sounded weird when I said it, but she smiled when I did.

Melissa opened the rear door of her car and pointed to a shopping bag. I picked it up. "I hope you don't feel that I'm ambushing you. I wanted to call, but I don't have your number."

"It's fine," I told her. "I'm happy to see you."

"Good! Max told me that you want to learn to cook. You'll be happy you did. Cooking is very rewarding, and it's lots of fun. It's a great way to express yourself and make other people happy."

"Um, yes," I replied.

"Do you want to know something? The best way to be happy is to make other people happy."

"I guess," I replied.

"I got you this great beginner's cookbook," she said, full of enthusiasm, "and I brought the makings of a nice risotto — that's my go-to dish."

"Oh, yeah, I've had your risotto — it's fantastic."

"Good! I'm glad you like it!" She took my arm, and leaning close, confided, "Soon it will be your risotto, too!"

I set the bag down on a chair in the kitchen. Mrs Errison — I mean, Melissa — moved to the far side of the island, away from me, the stove, and the food. Hmm. I was kind of hoping that she would be cooking, and I'd learn by watching. Guess not!

She didn't say anything, she just smiled at me. I poured two glasses of wine. She took the tiniest sip.

"Okay," I said. Obviously, she was waiting for me to unpack the bag. There was the book: How to Cook Everything. "Looks promising," I said, and pushed it to the side, so it could stay clean. "Tonight you can pick out a recipe for tomorrow," she suggested. I nodded. "You can always call me if you get stuck or have questions."

Melissa directed me step by step through the recipe. It wasn't hard if I just did what she said. A couple of times she stopped me from rubbing my eyes after I'd cut the onions.

"Have you ever used a pressure cooker?" she asked. I shook my head. She rooted around in the cabinets until she found it. "Aha! I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"This pressure cooker — I gave it to Amber. That girl... Of course she didn't take it when she left!" With a angry clatter she set the pot on the stove. "It still looks brand new. I'll bet she never used it!" Her jaw was clenched, her knuckles white. I watched her in silence, not sure what to say. It seemed a bit of an over-reaction. She caught my look, and stopped what she was doing.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but that damn girl makes me so angry."

"She wasn't a nice person."

"No, she wasn't. Isn't. She's not dead yet — is she." I smiled, then the two of us burst out laughing.

"Do you know what she did? She isolated my b— my boy, my Max. She did her best to separate him from us, from his own parents! She wanted Max all to herself, as if there wasn't enough of him to go around. She had to have him all. Body and soul."

"Yeah. She was pretty weird that way."

Melissa looked me in the eyes and smiled. She ran her hand through my hair. She was always an affectionate parent. As a kid, I often wished she was my mother, especially after my own Mom died.

"You've always been such a good friend to Max."

I shrugged. "It isn't hard. He's a great guy. And a good person... a good friend."

Her eyes watered. She sniffled and grabbed a tissue. "It's the onions," she joked.

"Yeah."

She pulled me into a motherly hug. It was so nice. I caught the scent of the floral perfume that she wore so lightly. She came out of the hug, but held me by my shoulders, looking me straight in the face.

"You know, there's something that I often thought... I've thought so often, that I want to tell you even though it's silly... but I don't want to offend you or hurt your feelings."

"What?" I felt a little alarmed. Was there something I'd done or said?

"It's nothing bad!" she assured me. "It's just that..." she sighed. "Oh! I often wished you were born a girl, because you would have been so perfect for Max."

"Oh," I said, feeling a light red coloring spread across my cheeks. What she said startled me so much that I had a brief fit of coughing.

She patted me on the back, then put her arm around me. "What I really mean is, why did my boy end up with someone as awful as Amber? Why?"

"I don't know."

"Why couldn't he have found a girl — you know — a girl like you. I mean, you know, your personality and kindness and all..." She fumbled, her cheeks reddened. "Do you know what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes, I think so. I never understood what he saw in her."

"Mmm. Me neither." She smiled ruefully. "But you— you're not offended are you? By what I said. I just mean that — you know, there are nice people in the world. People like you. Why couldn't he find—"

"I know. Someone like me. I get it."

"Okay!" she said. "Back to our recipe! If you don't have a pressure cooker, this takes about 40 minutes. In a pressure cooker, ten."

"Wow."

"Yes, it's very wow."

Among the grocery items were salad greens. She showed me how to mix a vinaigrette, "You prepare the dressing in the empty bowl, see? but don't toss it with the salad until you're ready to eat it."

She gave some final instructions about the pressure cooker, and put on her coat. "Are you leaving!?" I cried.

"Yes, you've done everything," she replied. "You don't need me. Once the pressure cooker starts hissing, set your timer. When the timer goes off, turn off the flame, let out the steam, let it sit for a minute, and open it. That's all. Add the grated cheese, stir, serve. You don't need my help to do all that — you've done the hard part already!" She gave me a hug. "I'm glad your cooking for my baby boy!"

"Yeah," I said. She held me and looked me in the face, her eyes twinkling. "He's lucky to have a friend like you."

"I'm lucky too," I told her.

"Oh, hey!" she called, stopping in the doorway. "Does Max — do you boys have dates for Valentines Day?"

"Um, when is it?" I asked.

She grinned, "February 14, just like every year. It's a week from Monday. Eleven days away."

"Oh. Well, I don't. Max probably does. Or he will. I mean, how could he not?"

She nodded and left, crossing paths with Max on his way in.

I had trouble convincing Max that I had done the cooking, so at last I told him, "Wait until you see what I make tomorrow!"

"Oh, what?" he asked.

"You have to wait and see!" I repeated. I'd have to find something in that "Cook Everything" book tonight.

Halfway through dinner, Max took a breath and told me, "It happened again today: I asked somebody else out. Tina, who coincidentally broke up with her boyfriend on Christmas Eve. I figured, wow, what are the chances? It could be a nice, discrete rebound thing for both of us."

"But she said no?"

"She said no. That's not the weird part. What was weird was that she seemed surprised that I asked her."

"Why is that weird? Did you think she was just standing around, waiting for you to ask her out? Who knows what was on her mind in that moment? Maybe she had a toothache or a migraine, and you say, Hey, wanna go for coffee? and her first reaction is What does that have to do with my tooth?"

Max stared at me, wordless, for a few long seconds. He opened and closed his mouth as if he wasn't sure what to say.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "That sounds absolutely crazy!"

"Oh come on! Why not? There's nothing weird about someone saying no to a date, or being surprised at being asked."

"I guess you're right," he said. "It's just that I feel so... out of the game, you know? After three years with Amber, and... you know, we were actually considering marriage there at the end."

"Marriage?"

"Yeah, is that so weird?"

"Yes, that is weird. I thought you said it was strictly *her* idea."

"That's—" he stopped, considering. "Well, honestly, it was hers. She was always hammering on that that one note, and after a while it started feeling like my idea as well. It did make some kind of sense, though."

"I seem to remember you saying you didn't want to get married."

"Right, yeah, I did say that."

"Did she ask you to marry her?"

"No. She just dropped hints, day after day. Suggestions."

My eyebrows went up.

"Yeah, she was a piece of work," he agreed.

"You're lucky to be well out of it," I told him. "But hey, do you think maybe she left because she realized you wouldn't marry her?"

He thought about it for a while, and said, "No." He didn't elaborate. "At least I don't think so." After a short pause, he admitted, "Maybe."

While we chomped on our salads I told him that his mother wanted to know whether he had a date for Valentines Day.

He groaned and covered his face with his hands. "I think I'm going to have to give it a miss this year."

I didn't believe him. His current frustration clouded his expectations. I was sure he'd have a date for Valentines Day. It was impossible to picture Max without a girlfriend, or at least without a date. He wasn't that kind of guy.

By the time we got to Friday morning of the next week, three days before Valentines, a few things had happened. I'd cooked seven different dinners for me and Max. One failed terribly, filling the house with smoke and a lingering smell of burnt fish. We resorted to pizza that night. Max asked out three other women in his office; all three said no. The second one giggled when Max asked her. The third looked angry and told him, "I heard that you're asking every single woman here and now you've asked me? I'm last? I'm at the bottom of your list? Even if I ever wanted to go out with you, I'd have to say no. N-fucking-no."

Max looked baffled. "What does that mean, even if ever *wanted* to go out with you?" he asked me.

"I think it means she did want to go out with you," I offered.

"She could!" he spouted. "If she wanted to, she could! I asked her! If she said yes, she would!"

"Okay, she was pissed off at being asked last."

Max shook his head. "She wasn't last. There are other women in the office I haven't asked." He scratched his head.

"Is there a yet on the end of that sentence?"

"Huh?"

"There are women in the office you haven't asked yet?"

"Naw, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I've fished that pond dry."

It turned out, though, that there was more to the story of today's dating mishaps: Max had forgotten, or skipped over somehow, one particularly cute, amazingly feminine woman: Kass. I didn't know her; I knew who she was. I knew what she looked like and what she moved like.

Kass is a dancer. The moment you see her, you know it. She has a dancer's body: lithe, long, lean. Strong, without being overtly muscular. Her posture: perfect. Her movements: graceful. Everything about her is precise, controlled, beautiful.

Max didn't run into her much because she worked in what he called "the back office."

On Friday morning, Max looked up, and there she was, standing in front of his desk.

"Do you know what Sunday is?" she asked, in a low, throaty voice.

"The thirteenth?" he ventured. She bobbled her head, meaning yes-and-no.

"It's Desperation Day," she informed him. "It's when every single person of dating age tries desperately to line up a date for Valentines Day. It's the last chance."

He started to say, "I'm not des—" but she cut him off.

"I need a favor," she told him, and in a voice so low that only he could hear, she added, "I'm gay."

Max's eyes sparked in surprise. "You are? I had no idea."

"I'm not out. Hopefully nobody has any idea." She smiled. "Apart from my girlfriend."

"Okay." Max shrugged.

"So...," Kass continued, "Months ago, a small group of my oldest friends reserved a table at the Celestial Lamb for Valentines Day."

"Wow. I'm impressed."

"I need a date for that dinner. I can't bring my girlfriend. Even if I was out — which I'm not — she can't come. For complicated reasons. Basically, her mother is pretending to be ill and is demanding attention."

"Sorry to hear," Max told her, not unsympathetically. "But I'm not your guy."

"Look, you don't have to pretend anything. You don't have say you're my boyfriend, or be affectionate, or pretend that you know me well. You're just a guy from work who's my date for the evening. It's simple. And you get a free dinner at Celestial Lamb."

Max drew a long breath and looked at Kass. She was obviously nervous. There was a look on her face that was nearly pleading.

"Look," she said. "Think about it. You would be helping me out in a big way."

"Why don't you just tell your friends who you are?" Max asked.

"I don't... I don't know if they'll accept me that way," Kass responded hesitantly. "I don't feel... in a safe enough place in myself. I don't feel brave enough."

Max didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Kass looked around, a little impatiently, and said, "Look, you think about it. I don't know what I could ever do to pay you back, but if there's something, anything reasonable, I'll do it. I'm just asking you to come sit at a table and make conversation with a few nice people. Nothing more." She handed him a card with her name and number on it.

"What happens if I don't go with you?" Max asked. "Do you have a plan B?"

Kass laughed. "I'm so far down the alphabet, I'm somewhere past L-M-N-O-P. If you don't come with me, I do have a date of last resort, but I really don't want to call him. I'd rather go alone, but that won't fly with my friends." She tapped on her card. "Think about it. Please."

"Why didn't you say yes?" I asked him.

"I don't know," Max said. "I guess it bugged me to know that she knew I didn't have a date."

I almost pointed out that every woman in the place probably knew he didn't have a date, but I knew it wouldn't help.

"Am I being an ass?" he asked me. "I don't know why I want to say no."

Again, I almost ventured homophobia? but again, it wouldn't help.

Max looked at me, perplexed. "If you were me, would you do it? Would you go with her?"

"In a heartbeat!" I said. "Help somebody out of a jam? Sounds good. Rescue a damsel in distress? Sign me up. Free dinner at a high-end restaurant? Check. Go on a date with a beautiful, ultra-feminine dancer? Yes, please!"

"Okay," Max said. "You've convinced me. I better call her before I change my mind."

Max drew her card from his pocket, dialed the number, and said he'd be happy to be her date for Valentines Day.

Kass, as you can imagine, was grateful and relieved. I could hear her giving him her address (which he wrote on the card) and the time to pick her up.

Then she said something I couldn't hear, to which Max replied, "Oh, really? How do you know my cousin?" And he stood up and walked into another room to continue the conversation. I couldn't hear him very well and couldn't hear her at all.

When he came back in, he was smiling and radiating positive energy.

"I'm glad you talked me into that," Max told me. "You're a genuinely good person."

"So are you," I rejoined. "You know what shows that? Kass hardly knows you, right? And yet she trusted you. She confided in you."

"Yeah," Max acknowledged. "How about that? I guess I'm not a total asshole."

"So what was the rest of the conversation? Why did she bring up your cousin?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's funny... She happens to be good friends with my cousin Nessa. Do you know Nessa?" I shook my head. "Well... she's my cousin. She's alright. A little spoiled. A Keeping Up With the Kardashians type of girl. Well, anyway, Nessa's getting married in May, and Kass will be at the wedding. I'm kind of relieved. My family can be a bit much sometimes, so it'll be nice to have someone to hang out with — if I can."

"Maybe she'll be your date!" I suggested with a laugh. "Your plus-one!"

He scoffed. "It's three months off! I'm sure I'll have someone by then!"

"It's not that far away, though," I pointed out.

"Don't wish me bad luck!"

"I'm not! But won't *she* need a fake date for the wedding?"

"Maybe she will, but I sure as hell won't! I asked her to save a dance for me, but that's all."

"That's nice of you."

"My mother says being nice does't cost anything. Anyway, I do have to branch out, widen my net, though — I think I've gotten a no from every woman in the office."

"Except Kass."

"Who doesn't count."

"Is Nessa an Errison?"

"No, she's on my mother's side — she's a McLanahan. Nessa McLanahan."

"Banana-fanna-fo-fan," I offered.

"Okay," Max said. "Be careful with the name jokes, especially when my Mom's around. Remember: my Mom is a McLanahan. Or was."

"Okay," I agreed, giggling as I wiped my tears.

It didn't occur to me that *I* could have been Kass' beard until I was lying in bed that night. Of course, she didn't know me from Adam, so there was that.

It didn't occur to Max until he was about to walk out the door on Monday night, going to pick her up.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "You're going to be alone on Valentines! You could have been Kass' date!"

"Naw, I couldn't," I protested. "We're complete strangers, and it would show."

"I don't really know her either," he confessed.

"But you have things in common: you can talk about the office, you can talk about the wedding, and the Name Game and all that."

"Yeah," he grudgingly admitted. "I think I'll have mercy on Kass and her friends and not try to get them laughing at my mother's maiden name."

"Probably a good idea."

What did I do alone on Valentines Day? I made a lovely pile of stir-fried rice with some leftover beef and pork and some Indonesian shrimp paste. I made it pretty spicy, and garnished it with a fried egg, sunny-side up, sitting on top. It was great. Then I watched Love Hard which is a rom-com (don't tell Max!). It's really a Christmas movie, but it works on Valentines Day as well.

I was cleaning up the kitchen when Max got home. He was SO HAPPY it amazed me. His smile was so broad he practically had to bend backwards under its weight.

"You look like you had a good time," I observed.

"Oh hell yes did I!" he shouted in response. "I had the BEST time!"

"Are you drunk?"

"No, actually, no I'm not, mother dear."

"Hey, I'm just asking. No judgment here."

"I had two drinks, hours ago. Well, yeah, and then two drinks or so after that. The food was excellent." He kept letting out gusts of laughter.

"So what happened?"

"Well, for one thing, let me tell you that Kass will NOT need a fake date for the wedding."

"What happened!?"

"Guess who was at the Celestial Lamb?"

I shrugged. "Who?"

"Guess!" He grinned wickedly and burst out laughing.

I hardly dared say the name but... "Amber?"

"BINGO!" he shouted, laughing and jumping and pointing at me. "You got it in one!"

"So why is that a good thing?"

"Well, because she spotted us. I didn't see her until she came up, right behind Kass, so she could look me in the face." Max began imitating her movements and speech, moving his arms, holding his head, chin high, the way she does.

"So she comes over, all fire in her eyes, spitting venom and spite, full of black hate..."

"And?"

"She says to me Look at you. Do you think you're fooling anyone? And she goes on and on about how I'm a liar and a phony and a fake, and then she says, "And here you are on a fake date, as if nobody knows. Let me tell you: everybody knows!" I didn't realize it at the time, but Kass thought Amber was talking to her the whole time. And THEN, Kass looks up at Amber — she turns her face up to look, like this, and Amber looks down at Kass and right in her face she says fucking dyke."

"Holy shit!"

"Holy shit, indeed! I was just about to get up to deal with her, when Kass takes her drink, almost a full glass, and tosses it over her shoulder, so it goes all over Amber's dress."

My mouth fell open.

"And THEN Kass stands up to face her, and she says in that low voice of hers, Look what you did to yourself, you clumsy cow."

"God!"

"And THEN Kass, fast as lightning, gives Amber a punch to the gut! Amber bends over, and Kass puts her hand on Amber's neck to keep her from standing back up. She bends down and says something in Amber's ear.

"At that point, everybody was looking, and Kass says in a voice of fake concern, Oh, my God, I think she's going to throw up! and she says Can you stand up, honey? and she — she doesn't exactly push her, but she maneuvers Amber so she falls on her butt. Then Kass sits down like she wasn't involved. Somebody from the restaurant hurried over and escorted Amber out."

"Wow."

"Yeah, and you know what was really impressive? Kass was only like a foot away from Amber when she punched her — maybe less, probably like eight inches. It's hard to get that kind of power in that short a distance; that short a punch."

My eyebrows danced in astonishment. "And nobody saw?"

"Nobody saw Kass throw the drink and nobody saw the punch except our table, and THEN after they tossed Amber out, the manager came over and apologized for the disturbance! Can you believe it? He comped us a round of drinks and told us that our dinner was on the house!"

He burst into laughter, and laughed for a good while. I was mute with astonishment.

"What about Kass' friends, though?" I asked. "Amber outed her, didn't she."

"Yeah, she did. Not as much as Kass thought, though. See, she thought all the stuff that Amber was spewing at me was directed at her. So when the commotion died down. Kass was blushing like fire, and figured she had to do some serious damage control. She said, I guess I have something I need to tell you... but her friends already knew." Here Max's emotions took an unexpected turn, and he started sniffing. The more he sniffed, the more he needed to sniff, and soon his eyes were full of tears. "Kass looks around at them, with this little frightened face and she says I'm gay. And she starts to cry. And her friends, they reach out and put their hands on hers, and the closest friend hugs her. And they all said, Oh, Kass..." (here Max let out a sob) "They said Oh, Kass, we know. We've known forever. What did you think? and she starts to cry harder and she says, I didn't know — I didn't know if you'd still love me!"

Max bellowed out the last two words, and then he broke down crying. He cried with everything in him. He shook, he gasped, he used tissue after tissue. Somehow I understood that he cried not just for Kass and for the tenderness of her friends, but also for his own isolation, for his frustration, rejection, incomprehension, and pain.

He cried hard. His sobs were deep. His tears were copious and drenching. But he didn't cry for long.

Soon he calmed himself, and after a few good breaths, he continued. "They said, Of course we love you! What did you think!"

I held the box of tissues, offering, but he said, "No, it's fine. I'm done. I don't know why, but it really got to me. Totally unexpected."

Later, after Max drank some water and took off his coat and shoes, he told me, "Oh — there's more."

"MORE?" I asked, stunned.

"Yeah." He took a good breath, straightened up, and said, "Yeah, so one of Kass's friends is ALSO coming to Nessa'a wedding. Actually, the wedding, the topic of Nessa's wedding came up before all that. Because I'm going, Kass is going, and this friend of Kass, she says, I'm going too! So, you know — wow, funny, how about that." He paused a moment and dabbed his eyes. "Anyway, so, after we left the restaurant, we're standing out there in the parking lot, saying goodbyes, and hugs and all, and Kass's friend says, Oh, by the way, the wedding? That bitch Amanda's coming too — at least, she's invited. I can't see her NOT coming."

"Who's Amanda?" I asked, confused.

"Oh, oh! No, no, not Amanda — she said Amanda. She meant Amber."

I was about to swear, but instead I burst out laughing. Max looked at me for a while with a bemused grin, and then he said, "Yeah, it's a laugh riot," he said drily. "Anyway, I'm off to bed. I have to go to work tomorrow."

"Oh, wait—" I stopped him at the door. "Who was Amber with?"

"With?"

"At the restaurant. She couldn't have been there by herself, right?"

Max shook his head. "I guess." He shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? Whoever he is, God bless him. I'm glad it's not me."

With that, he turned and his footsteps thudded up the stairs.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 6 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The evening with Kass felt like a victory, even if it wasn't a true date. It did buoy up Max's spirit and gave him hope of finding someone.

Yet, he continued to strike out. No one seemed to want to go out with him. He wasn't exactly snubbed in the sense that women turned away from him. They just wouldn't go out with him: not for coffee, not for a walk, not for dinner, lunch, or brunch... you get the idea.

To say he was perplexed is putting it mildly. I should explain that Max is a good-looking guy. Strikingly good looking, to the point that women, young and old, turn to look, and get caught staring at him. He's also a good person. He's not vain, or spoiled. He doesn't act entitled. He's modest, considerate, looks fairly athletic although he doesn't play any sport.

If he has any bad side, I can't think of what it is. I'm sure Amber would have some strong input on that, although I'd be inclined not to trust it.

In any case, Max widened his circle. He tried visiting museums, going to bars... he joined a gym, did volunteer work. He asked woman after woman, and got rejection after rejection.

In one particularly puzzling episode, Max was at a bar, chatting up not one, but three young women, and as he put it "doing very well," until one of the three placed him as "the Max who used to date Amber," and the mood changed. The women didn't walk away or turn away or turn him off. It was like a light went out -- the light of possibilities. All the cute, flirty repartee abruptly flattened out. Max went from thinking he had a chance of getting lucky to knowing for absolute certain he didn't. He tried to ask what happened, but one of the women waved off his question saying, "It's fine. Everything's fine. It's cool."

For Max, it wasn't fine or cool. It was bewildering and disturbing.

He pored over his college yearbook, considering calling his college flames. Then he dug out his high-school yearbook and searched online to see what some of the women look like now. In the end, though, he couldn't bring himself to actually call any of them. "I know I'm desperate," he said, "but I don't want to come across as desperate, and I definitely don't want to be known as desperate."

Under normal circumstances, he would have gotten a yes right away, but for some reason these weren't normal circumstances.

"I don't understand it," he said to me. "I'm not an asshole, am I? Do I have bad breath? Body odor? Do I dress funny? Am I rude? Am I a misogynist and don't realize it? Am I one of those toxic masculinity guys?"

"No to all that," I assured him.

"Yeah, but you're my friend; you *have* to say that." He rubbed his chin, reflective. "I've got to tell you, this total rejection is seriously undermining my confidence. It's really messing with my head. You know, before Amber, I maybe got turned down twice — in my whole life. When one relationship ended, I went right into another. I've always been with somebody. It's weird to be alone. I feel like a pariah."

"I don't understand it either," I told him. "It makes no sense."

"I'm just about ready to give up," he declared. "I mean, why try, if I can only fail? At this point, I'm resolved, or resigned. I'm just going to stop looking, stop asking. If I have to be alone for a while, I'll be alone for a while; see what that's like. Maybe life is trying to teach me something, and until I learn it, this door will remain closed."

"That's very philosophical, man."

He smiled. "It's not like I have a choice, right?" He shrugged. "Complaining isn't going to help."

I have noticed that sometimes when you're blocked, when you continue to fail on the same step, that things remain blocked until you give up, the way Max did. I don't know how it works. Maybe it's some kind of superstition that's actually real, or maybe what's blocking you is your own tension and anxiety. So, when you give up you stop being tense and anxious, and you're finally ready to receive that thing you've been longing for. In either case, the key is that once you let go, the dam breaks.

It happened this time as well.

About an hour after my conversation with Max, I went to buy groceries. Before I entered the store, I bumped into Kitty. She seemed quite excited to see me — which I found a little odd. Nice, but odd. I mean, we're friends, but not best friends. Not usually excited-to-see-you friends. To my surprise, she insisted on going for coffee "so we can catch up." She offered to treat.

Once we were served and seated, she just gushed at me: "I heard you moved out of your little adventure into a big adventure!"

"Um, what?"

"Remember? When I saw you in that horrible garage apartment, you said it was a little adventure."

"Oh, oh, yeah, I remember now! You were right, it was horrible in there. I didn't really see it at the time. I was so caught up in the renovation."

"But now you're with Max, huh? In the big house, living the dream."

"I guess," I replied in a puzzled tone. I couldn't understand what she was getting at.

"You were going in the grocery store just now? I heard that you're in there a lot."

Heard from who?

"Yeah, I'm, uh, making salmon in parchment tonight. I need some ingredients."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You do the cooking?"

"Yeah, yeah. Max suggested it, and it's actually a lot of fun."

A cute smile appeared on Kitty's face. My puzzlement gave way to uneasiness.

Kitty gave me a playful poke and said, "You just slipped in and took Amber's place, didn't you."

For some reason, when she said that, I saw in my mind's eye the memory of Kitty and me standing in Max's empty garage, when she came to see me on Christmas Eve. In that detailed mental picture, I could see the spot for Max's car (over there) and the spot for Amber's car (where Kitty and I were standing). With that invisible visual aid in my head, when she said Amber's place, I stupidly took her to mean Amber's parking place. I scratched my forehead, more than a little confused, and then replied, "But I already had a place to park my car. In fact, I still leave it there. I don't use it very much."

"What?" Now it was her turn to look confused.

"Kitty, why are you asking about my car?"

"Your — what?" She responded, giggling at my non sequitur.

Then, delayed understanding — All the pieces fell into place: her innuendos, the sly undercurrent to each thing she said. Her playful pokes... It hit me all at once.

My expression of shock and surprise shocked and surprised Kitty. It wiped the smile right off her face.

"WHAT!?" I gasped, nearly upsetting our little table. Fortunately, no coffee spilled and none of our food fell on the floor.

"Oh, my God! Elliot! I'm sorry! Elliot! But aren't you?" I was too stunned to answer. She went on: "I'm sorry, really sorry! I thought — well, everybody thinks that you... and Max... you know!"

"No, no I don't know!" I exclaimed, hurt. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not true!"

"But, but, nobody ever sees Max with a girl any more! He's always with you!"

"That's because every woman's turned him down! All of a sudden he's persona non grata and he doesn't know why. He feels like a pariah."

"He's— what?" Kitty began. She was still struggling to understand.

"He's going crazy," I said. "I don't know what the fuck is happening. Neither does he. Max can't get a date to save his life!"

"He's trying to get dates?" she repeated in a mystified tone. "With women? But, Elliot, no one's going out with him because everybody kn— everybody thinks you two are a couple! Aren't you?"

"No, we're not! We never were. We never will be! Neither of us are gay, or even bi! Where did anybody get that idea?" I paused for a moment, casting about for an idea, then told her, "Listen, if you don't believe me, you can ask Amber."

At the mention of Amber, Kitty stopped dead.

"What's the problem?" I asked her. "If anybody knows that Max is not gay, it's Amber. Just ask Amber."

"Uh—" Kitty suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Mentally she went back in her memory through her social interactions, calculating. Then, in a low voice, she confided, "Amber is the one who says you two are gay. She's been saying it for a long time. For months." She blushed. "As far back as November, maybe even before. That's why she left Max. Didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't know! There was nothing to know! Amber— Amber just vanished one day. Gone! Poof! One minute she's there, the next minute, gone. She didn't leave a note. She never said why. She just up and left. Just gone." I told her how Max and I discovered on Christmas Eve that she'd covertly moved all her belongings out of Max's house.

Kitty's face went white. Pieces of memories, images, puzzle pieces shifted and moved and recombined in her head. Things were falling into place; her picture of how things were, began to line up in a different way. She asked, "Amber said nothing to you, or Max, at all?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

Kitty took a deep breath. "Wow. Well, she's been saying a lot to everyone else. She's been telling things, and hinting things, and—-" she swallowed, and looked down. "I'm sorry, Elliot, but I honestly believed it. I was actually happy for you two!"

"Ohhh," I sighed, like a balloon losing air. "Oh my God. Oh my God! I have to go. Kitty, I have to go. I have to get out of here. I need to tell Max. I need to tell Max." While Kitty fumbled with her bag, I got up and left the cafe. "Wait! Elliot, wait!" she called after me. "Dammit!" She was trying to pull out some money to leave on the table.

I got outside, and looked around, as if I needed to get my bearings. Behind me, from inside the cafe, I could hear the waiter calling to Kitty, "Miss? Miss? You haven't paid for your food! You can't just leave! You and your friend—" Then the door shut, cutting him off. Kitty appeared at my elbow. "At least let me give you a ride, Elliot. I'll come with you and talk with Max. Come on, my car's over here. Come on. I can help you explain."

The explaining didn't take long. Evidently, from the day that I moved into Max's garage, Amber began a whisper campaign, telling everyone she knew her stories about Max and me, always stressing that it was strictly in confidence. She knew very well that nothing spreads faster than a secret — and her "secret" was that Max had moved me in as her replacement. That the two of us had always been in love. She claimed that once in high school she'd seen the two of us kissing.

"But that *did* happen, though, right?" Kitty asked, in totally innocence.

"No!" we responded in unison.

That's when Max told me about Amber's ménage à trois comment — that she knew -- that she "emotionally perceived" that Max wanted to move me into the basement as the first step in tricking Amber into a threesome with Max and me.

According to Kitty, Amber claimed that when she refused to go along with the threesome, Max installed me above the garage "like a princess locked in a tower," just for the sake of making Amber appear heartless and mean. She claimed that Max had hinted at moving me in with them from the very start of their relationship. She claimed Max wanted me in the bedroom across the hall.

Kitty told us, "She said that finally she couldn't compete with Elliot any more, and that's why she had to leave." Kitty flushed a deep red. "She said that the last straw was when she found the two of you in bed together."

"Oh my God!" Max exclaimed.

"But, Kitty," I asked, "Why did you just believe it? Why didn't you ever ask me if it was true?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Well, everything she said fit everything you guys did! Like, you were living in that terrible space above the garage. Why did you go there?"

"Amber put me there. It was her idea!"

Kitty continued to look away, embarrassed. She said, "Well, okay. I had another reason. It's a little embarrassing and will sound very vain, but in my defense I didn't come up with this. It's something that Amber pointed out."

"So what is it?"

"Neither of you guys ever asked me out. Why is that? How come neither of you ever asked me out?"

"I did," Max said, looking a little irritated. "I did ask you out. Twice. Each time, you told me you were waiting for Claus to ask you. And then the two of you stuck together like two Lego pieces."

"Oh," Kitty replied, suddenly remembering. "Right, right — you did. But you never did, Elliot. Just about every other guy in our class asked me out. Why didn't you?"

It was my turn to flush red. "I knew you'd say no. I could feel it." After a pause, I added, "Besides, I haven't asked many women out. When I did, I got a lot of no's."

"Ah," Kitty said. "Sorry to hear that."

"It's fine," I told her.

Max frowned. "So now, every woman in town believes I'm gay and shacked up with Elliot."

"That's about the size of it," Kitty admitted.

"And Amber has been soaking the airwaves with this idea for—" he counted "—for five months?"

"At least."

We three fell into silence for a few moments. Then Kitty said, "I'm sorry, guys. but honestly, I thought it was true. I even thought it was nice for the both of you, that you had each other."

Max looked at me and said, "No offense, Elliot, but—"

"I hear you," I agreed.

Kitty offered to tell people the truth — to say that Amber had made it all up.

"Don't bother. It won't work," Max told her. "You can't undo a rumor. It's like trying to take pee out of a pool."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't need to do anything," Max replied. "I mean, I'm going to quit doing one thing: I'm going to quit asking out every single woman I see. I'll just stop. Sooner or later I'll meet somebody. It'll be fine."

"Do you want me to move out?" I asked. "It's no problem. I've got plenty of money. You know that."

"Really?" Kitty asked me. "Amber said you were broke, and that you were after Max because you're a gold digger."

I burst into laughter at that. It felt good to laugh.

Max, answering my question, said, "No, I don't want you to move out. It wouldn't convince anyone of anything. Besides, I like having you here." Then Max stopped, and started back a little. An idea had just struck him.

"Ohhh!" he said. "Now I see! You know my date on Valentines, with Kass? I went as Kass' beard, but Amber thought that she, Kass, was my beard!"

Kitty looked puzzled, so he told her, "It doesn't matter — not worth explaining." And then he explained anyway, telling how Kass punched Amber in the gut in had her thrown out of the Celestial Lamb.

Kitty's eyes bulged in surprise, but she didn't laugh. Instead she asked, "Do you mean little Kass, the dancer?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know she's gay," Kitty said.

"Well, don't tell anyone. I guess Amber outed her, but I don't how out she is."

"Okay. Mum's the word."

After a short silence, I asked Max, "What about the wedding?"

"What about it?" he challenged.

"Are you still going to try to find a date?"

"Sure," he said. "I guess."

So I ventured, "Kitty, why don't *you* go with Max?"

"To Nessa's wedding? I can't, you ninny. I'm invited, and I'm going with Claus." She shook her head, then, a little irritated, challenged me: "Elliot, why don't you go with Max?"

"If I was a girl, I would," I retorted. "Of if we were bi or gay, I'd go, but we're not."

That pretty much shut down the conversation, and Kitty left soon after.

Max fell into sullen silence. I again offered to move out. The property-management company had an empty apartment I was working on. It wasn't couldn't legally be rented yet, but I was sure I could use it, at least temporarily.

"If you want to do that, fine," Max said. "But you don't have to."

"I think it's best," I said. "It will be easier for this to blow over if I'm not living with you."

"I guess," he said. "But listen, wait until Saturday, and I'll help you. I don't want you disappearing the way Amber did."

"Does it both you, people thinking this about us — about you?"

"Does it bother you?" He reflected the question back at me.

I shrugged. "I don't think people think about me much. I honestly don't care if they think I'm gay. I'm not, just for the record. But what about you?"

"I'm not gay either," he replied.

"No, I meant — does it bother you?"

"Well yes, it bothers me, but mainly because it keeps me from having someone. I mean, before this, I never knew how lonely I feel. I know this is sounds weird, but I'm lonely all the time. I want a woman to be with. You know? Someone to have and to hold?"

"You mean you want to get married?"

"No, I'm just talking about having and holding. It's nice to have someone in your arms, and for someone to wrap their arms around you. There's nothing like it. And there is nothing colder than waking up in an empty bed."

"I guess," I responded. I didn't want to say that waking up in an empty bed was my daily experience, and had been for years. "I didn't know you were such a romantic."

"I'm not," Max countered. "It's just a physical thing."

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 7 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Friday evening, over dinner, out of the blue, and quite bluntly, Max told me, "The move is off. You're staying."

"I am?" I replied, a little put out by his peremptory tone.

"No, you're not. I mean, yes, you're not moving. This whole thing totally pisses me off. The only reason you would move out — the only reason that I would let you move out — is because of Amber: because she's manipulated everything. And I mean everything — you, me, every woman in town..." He shook his head.

"You're just worried you won't find a replacement cook," I quipped.

"Well, you have gotten pretty good," he admitted. "To be honest, you've had a couple clunkers, but a few times you really amazed me. Which reminds me: my mother wants to come over." He blushed.

"So I can cook for her? Or so we can cook together?"

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask. Both? Either?"

"Either is fine," I told him, although I did have a moment of what have I gotten myself into?

"You know," Max began, "Changing subject — you told me that you get offers of work from headhunters and corporate recruiters — programming jobs. Is that still true?"

"Oh, yeah," I replied. "Every day!"

"How come you don't take them?"

"Well... at first I was so burned out by my experience at the startup..." I paused. "The idea of sitting all day, long days, doing nothing but writing code, almost made me physically ill. Now... well, now I guess I like my life the way it is. It's peaceful. I'm sort of off the grid. Not really, but I hardly use my computer or phone nowadays." I gestured lamely, and repeated, "I really like the way my life is now."

"Cooking? Taking care of apartments?"

"Yeah. I like what I'm doing."

"So what, then? You've given up your professional life? You'll never go back to programming?"

"I wouldn't say never. I think it's just a break. Eventually I'll probably fall in love with coding again, and then it will be different."

"Fall in love?" he repeated, his eyebrows dancing with amusement. "I had no idea you were such a romantic!"

I rolled my eyes.

It turned out that Max had another reason for not wanting me to go — a bit far-fetched and slightly paranoid, but I understood. Naturally, it had to do with Amber. As we were cleaning up after dinner, Max told me that Amber had been leaving him messages. Notes, specifically. Dropped outside our door, left with the receptionist at Max's office, stuck in the windshield of his car. After the first few, he began discarding them unread.

"They're bizarre, psychotic things," he said. "She says all kinds of crazy stuff and tries to get into my head. Hinting that she could come back and forgive me, if you can believe that."

"Forgive you? Forgive you for what?"

"For you, obviously." He growled in frustration. "She also makes hints about Nessa's wedding. And this really pisses me off. She was going to come as my plus-one. Obviously there's no way that's going to happen... but get this: she said she'd still be willing, but only if I kicked you out and swore I'd never see you again."

"Jesus!"

"I know. Sorry. Anyway, somehow she's gotten to be great friends with Nessa, and not only Nessa, but also Nessa's mother, who is my aunt, AND the groom's sister and mother!"

"My God, she never stops, does she? She's insidious!"

"Now, as it turns out, that's how Amber weaseled her own invitation, AND she is bringing her own plus-one!"

"And her plus-one is—?"

"I don't know and I don't care. It isn't me, and that's all that counts. But now I'm determined — come hell or high water, I am going to find a date for the wedding, and not just a date, but a HOT date. I don't care if I have to pay someone, but I am not going alone."

"Why not go alone? You can brave it out. Would it really be so bad?"

"No — if I'm alone, Amber will try to get in there. She'll stick her arm through mine. She'll be in every picture by my side. She won't just try to get back together with me; she'll do her best to make it seem that we ARE back together. I can't let that happen. I need somebody to occupy that space, so that Amber can't step into it."

"You really think Amber would try to get back together with you?"

"She IS trying. She's already trying! Haven't you been listening?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed. Suddenly a light came on in my head. "And if *I* move out, you're afraid that Amber will move in! Aren't you!"

"Yes," he said. "I'm not ashamed to admit it. I mean, if you're not here, I'm certain she'll find a way to move all her crap back in, the same way she snuck everything out. I wouldn't put it past her. She's nuts, and I want her out of my life. Definitively. I've got to close every opening, nail up every window and door, and not give her even the smallest toehold."

From that point, Max began to really scrape the bottom of the barrel of his desperation, although his attempts to find a date were stealthy. He briefly tried a dating app, concentrating on women from out of town. He again went through his college and high-school yearbooks, this time googling nearly every woman, trying to find someone who looked good but lived outside of Amber's baleful influence. Once again, he didn't call any of them.

"This is hopeless!" he exclaimed. "It's too complicated!" He was also finding that many of his old crushes and flames were married.

"You know," he confided one night, when he was more than a little tipsy, "I do have a kind of date of last resort. In case of emergency, break glass, right?"

He had the air of a man with a dirty little secret, so his confidential whispering made me uneasy. "Who is she?"

He put his finger to his lips and made the shhh sound. I shook my head. "Max, you are so drunk."

He sighed heavily. "Just take it as my coping mechanism, okay? It's not like I drink all the time."

"You're right," I admitted. "So who is this girl of last resort? And what makes her so out of the ordinary?"

He leaned close and in a stage whisper, hissed, "She's my cousin."

"Oh, come on, Max! You can't be serious."

"I'm not serious," he objected. "I'm drunk. Anyway, she is a DISTANT cousin — I'm not even sure if we're related at all. Probably by marriage or whatnot. Not consagui— constabulary, whatever. Anyway, this girl is hot as hell, believe me. I'm seriously thinking of calling her. I'm pretty sure she'd say yes. She's a wild little devil, and she'd do it for a laugh."

"Okay," I said, in a dubious tone, stretching out my okay to make it clear that I only meant, I hear the sounds you're making, but I am not implying agreement or approval. I was about to suggest that he at least wait until he's sober to call, but he wasn't finished talking.

"The problem is," Max continued, "Nessa knows her, too. She'd know who she was, and I would never live it down. Never."

I only tell that anecdote to show how far he'd fallen; how low he'd sunk; how desperate he'd become.

The turning point came when Max's mother — I mean Melissa — came over to bake with me. I hadn't yet ventured into that part of the cooking world, so this was my baptism with flour. We made extensive use of the big kitchen island, creating breads, focaccia, and a killer apple pie. There was flour everywhere. As we worked, I brought Melissa up to date on Max's state of affairs. I even told her about the distant cousin, and it nearly broke her heart.

"He is right," she admitted. "She is very pretty, and very, very wild. And it's true that she's only related by marriage, so technically it wouldn't be a problem, but he'd be making a fool of himself if he brought her. She's such a crazy little thing, she'd probably say yes, just for a laugh. And for whatever trouble she could cause." She shook her head sadly. "It could backfire for any number of reasons, aside from the stigma of dating his cousin."

When Max came in, Melissa ran to him and hugged him and hugged him and wouldn't let go. She cooed, "My poor baby! My poor baby!" over and over.

"What did you tell her?" he asked me over her shoulder. I shrugged in what I hoped was an innocent way.

"You know," Melissa told him, wiping her nose and getting flour on her cheek, "I'll bet your Aunt Viv could help you."

At the mention of that name, Max's face went white. "How?" he asked.

"I don't know," Melissa admitted, "but she knows more people than God, and she's the wisest woman I know."

"And the scariest," Max added.

"That, too," Melissa admitted. "But I bet she could find a date for you."

To make a long story short, Melissa called her sister-in-law, Max's Aunt Vivianne. She went into another room to make the call and she closed the door, so I didn't hear any of the conversation. It lasted twenty-five minutes. Melissa emerged and declared that Vivianne would stop over on Wednesday after dinner. Melissa had already told her the whole story, as she understood it, but Vivianne wanted to hear it from Max and me, from start to finish.

Wednesday arrived. Max's nerves were on edge from anticipation; he had a hard time eating dinner. "I've got such a knot in my stomach," he complained.

"Is she really so bad?" I asked. "I mean, if she's so scary, why would your mother want her to come?"

"I don't think she scares everyone," Max admitted, "but she's always frightened me."

When Viv arrived, she shook our hands in a businesslike way. She was dressed in a conservatively cut white tailleur. Her hair was a caramel-blonde bob that seemed to radiate control. She was in her late forties, I judged, with a good figure and a nice face. She did have an air of command and was clearly used to having her own way. I could see why Max felt so intimidated.

She had less of that effect on me, I suppose because I didn't have any childhood memories of her as my scary aunt. I won't say I wasn't intimidated, but I didn't experience the same fear and anxiety as Max.

To my surprise, she wanted to hear the story from my point of view first. She asked a lot of questions, and prompted me to talk about my family, the death of my mother, my father's move to Florida, and a brief overview of my dating history — which didn't take long to tell. I didn't understand why she needed to know all of that, and in retrospect I'm surprised that I spilled my guts so readily.

She was particularly interested in my conversations with Kitty. She had some very detailed questions about who said what, and the sequence of remarks. It was odd, yes, but I was already in a momentum of confession; whatever she asked, I answered.

Then she turned her attention to Max and asked him whether anything was missing from my account. He took a deep breath and soon found himself recounting the story of his relationship with Amber. At one point I couldn't contain myself, and I blurted out the question, "Max! What on earth attracted you to her in the first place?"

Vivianne glanced at me with an expression that read I'll allow the question, and she turned her gaze expectantly to Max.

"Well," he mused. "The thing is, Amber is pretty hot. That's what struck me at first. Initially, it was physical. The first time I saw her, she was wearing this tight bathing suit, and I..." His attention drifted off into his memory and held there momentarily. "Then, as I got to know her, it was her clarity. She is so sure about everything! No doubts, no questions. I mean, to me, life is a big mystery. Why are we here? What are doing with our lives? Other people — other people can be hard to read. But Amber was always absolutely positive she knew what everyone was up to. For her, the world is black and white, with hard edges. She's like Judge Dredd in a more attractive package."

Viv didn't comment until after Max had unburdened himself. At that point, Viv offered only one observation, "For a woman... honestly for any person to vanish the way she did... is simply not normal. To say that her whisper campaign is vile and manipulative, is to say too little."

Then she nodded, rose to her feet, and instructed Max to come see her on Friday after work.

"Be ready to stay the weekend," she warned him. There was something in her manner that made you feel you had to obey, and in fact, Max acquiesced with a nod.

"What are you going to do?" I asked her. Something in her manner, in her tone, got my hackles up. Frankly, I was worried about Max; worried about his safety. I don't know why, but the feeling was strong.

"I'm going to show Max a possible solution," she told me. "There is what seems to me a fairly obvious and even elegant solution, but it does come with a certain cost. And I need to know that Max understands that cost."

"I hope he will," I told her, "because I sure as hell don't."

Her only response was to smile and squeeze my hand. I'm sure it was meant to be reassuring, but it wasn't. My question remained unanswered.

Dutifully, Max packed his bag Thursday night and took it to work with him Friday morning.

"What do you think is going to happen?" I asked before he left.

"I'm expecting a kind of Dating Game," he said, smiling nervously. "Remember that show? You know, she'll introduce me to a couple of women and see who I hit it off with."

"Sounds promising," I said. "But I don't remember her saying anything like that."

"No, she didn't, but what else could it be? How else could she possibly help me?"

"I don't know, but I didn't like it when she mentioned a cost. Didn't that creep you out? Maybe you have to sell your soul to her, or to her demon master."

Max didn't laugh. "Aunt Viv has always creeped me out. She's one scary lady." He paused for a moment, reflecting. "You know, though, there have always been whispers about her, that she's into some kinky stuff. Maybe she's going to introduce me to a domme or to a trans girl or to someone woman who's fallen under her spell."

"I hadn't thought of that," I admitted. "How would you feel about that?"

"As long as the woman is good looking and has a decent personality, I'm game." He smiled, a little ruefully. "Whoever she is, whatever she is, she'd be doing me a huge favor. Anyway, let's face it: at this point, I've got nothing to lose."

Or so he thought.

I spent Friday night alone. I was a little nervous, but nothing like the nights when I was here by myself after Christmas. I slept in my own bed, I didn't worry about Amber breaking in, and I didn't wake up once.

Early Saturday morning I was in the kitchen. It was my first attempt at making popovers, and I was anxious. Partly because I was afraid the popovers wouldn't come out right, but mainly because I was worried about Max.

Max came in the back door just as I was pouring the popover batter into the tins. It was only 7:30 in the morning, but he looked like a wreck. He was visibly shaken, pale, clearly unnerved. I was shocked and even frightened to see the state he was in.

"Max!" I cried, "You look like you've seen a ghost! Were you in a car accident or something?"

He looked at me with hollow eyes and cried, "Worse! Much worse!"

He opened a cabinet, and clumsily took out a short tumbler. With some difficulty he clumsily set the glass on the counter and tried to still his shaky hands. He picked up a bottle of whiskey, but it seemed to come alive in his hand. The neck was pointing in every direction as he tried to unscrew the cap. I had no doubt that if he succeeded in opening the bottle, more whiskey would land on the counter and the floor than in his glass. I took the bottle away from him, saying, "Hang on, let me." I twisted off the cap. "Are you sure you want this?" I managed to smell his breath but didn't catch any whiff of alcohol.

"I need it," he rasped in a throaty whisper. "If you saw what I've seen..."

I poured an ounce. He gestured more. I poured another ounce. He gestured more. I poured half a cup, and he drank it off all at once with a shudder. He looked a little better.

"One more," he croaked.

"Max!" I protested.

"One more!" So I poured another half cup and put the cap back on the bottle. He threw the whiskey down his throat, and to my surprise, he stopped shaking.

"Better," he said. "Much better."

"What happened to you?" I asked, full of concern.

"Oh, my God," he said. "You don't want to know. And I can't tell you, so don't ever ask me. It's insane, completely insane. You wouldn't believe me, anyway." He looked down and shook his head, as if trying to wake up. "In fact, I don't believe it myself." He cleared his throat, straightened up, and squared his shoulders. "Now, I'm going to get changed, then I'm going to go for a run, a long run, and then—" he spread his hands, palms forward, as though he gently pushed open a pair of doors. "—and then, I'm going back to being normal again. How about that?"

"Yeah," I said. "How about it?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

I finished portioning out the popover batter and set the pan in the oven. He came downstairs in his jogging clothes, and went out the front door.

I called Melissa and asked for Vivianne's phone number. I made a lame excuse about Max having forgotten something.

Then I called Vivianne and demanded an explanation. "Ah," she said. "You're very protective of your friend. That's good. I noticed that when we spoke."

"Yes, I am," I told her. "And I want to know: What did you do to him? He looks terrible, like he's been through some kind of trauma."

"Yes," she admitted. "He reacted badly. I tried to prepare him, but honestly, I didn't expect that sort of reaction. How is he coping?" I told her about the two whiskeys and the jogging, and she said, "Well, he'll be alright, then. If he gets really distressed or upset, please call me. I'll come right over."

"But what did you do to him?" I repeated.

"It's difficult to explain. It's better if I show you."

"And *will* you show me?"

"Of course," she replied. "Could you come by this evening after five, and be ready to stay for a couple of days? Otherwise, you could come next Friday."

"No, screw it!" I shouted. "I'm coming over right now, and I want some straight answers."

She didn't react to my strong language or my shouting. She answered me as though we were both speaking calmly, in a friendly way. "Believe me, you will have your answers. You'll understand everything," she said. "But can I ask you one more question? Do you remember what you told me about your conversation with Kitty? You said that you'd go to the wedding with Max if you were a girl. Would you really? Are your feelings that strong?"

"Feelings!?" I shouted. "He's my best friend!"

"But would you do that, if you could? If you were a girl?"

"What kind of question is that?" I asked, taken aback, and more than a little offended.

"It's a yes/no question," she replied. "Would you?"

"Sure!" I shouted. "Of course I would! And if I had wings, I'd fly! Anything else?"

"No," she acknowledged in a smooth tone. "I'm sorry that you're so upset, but once you're here, you'll understand."

"I hope so."

I almost hung up, but she stopped me, asking, "Do you have my address?" I didn't. She dictated it to me, and then I caught a whiff of my popovers.

"Excuse me," I told her. "I'll be over after I take my popovers out of the oven."

"How lovely," she commented.

And THEN I hung up on her.

I didn't tell Max where I was going, but when I said I might be gone for a few days, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. So I told him, "You can call me if you need me."

"I'll be fine," he answered, but he didn't sound fine.

It was a short walk to my car. Along the way I was very aware of the heat from my popovers, which were wrapped in a kitchen towel in a small paper bag. I left some for Max on the kitchen island.

Vivianne Errison, Max's aunt, lived in the rich part of town. Her house — like the woman — was beautiful, imposing, stately, intimidating.

She received me in a small sitting room, and had tea waiting. "I know it's a bit late for tea," she said, "but it's a good small thing in socially awkward situations. Do I smell popovers?"

"Yes, you do. And I'm sorry for shouting and swearing at you, but I'm worried about Max. I want to know what you did to him."

"Right you are," she said. "Then let's take care of that first, shall we? Afterward, we'll have tea and popovers." Then, leaping directly into it, she asked, "Tell me: have you ever heard of the Medallion of Zulo?"

"No."

"It's a strange sort of token, and it happened to come into my possession. There's a lot that I could tell you about it, but to keep this as brief an explanation as possible, I'll simply say that it's a device that turns one person into another."

"Oh, what a load of pure BS!" I exclaimed. My feelings were still hot.

"I don't expect you to believe it—"

"That's good, because I don't."

"Fine. Now, if you don't believe it, you won't mind trying it, will you? Then, when it doesn't work, you can heap all the mockery you like on me, and I will dutifully listen until you're done. Will you try it?"

"Sure," I said.

"I'll do to you exactly what I did to Max, which is to turn you into a little girl."

"A little— what? Oh, jeez. Why?"

"We can go into the why of it afterward, but let's start the demonstration first."

She opened a necklace case and lifted out a small medallion on a chain. She carefully, gingerly set it around my neck, then picked up a young girl's dress that was draped over a nearby chair. It was a sleeveless dress with a flared skirt in bright royal blue with a white band across the waist. She touched the dress to the medallion and smiled a little smile. Nothing happened. I didn't feel anything, and I didn't change. As she draped the dress back over the chair, I reached for the chain, to take the medallion off.

"Wait!" she said. "Leave it!"

"Nothing happened," I pointed out. "Are we supposed to pretend?"

"No," she said, "We wait for half an hour. That's how long the transformation takes. I suggest that in the next few moments, we might sample your popovers."

"What is the point of this?" I asked her.

"You said that you'd go with Max to the wedding if you were a girl. This will allow you to be that girl. If — of course — if and only if you honestly meant it."

"A little girl?" I laughed. "He's not going to take a little girl to the wedding, even if this crazy thing could do that."

She stood, picked up the dress again, and led me through a doorway into a smaller room. It had a small platform a few inches high and about five feet square. The platform occupied the space in front of a full-sized, three-way mirror. In the far corner of the room stood a privacy screen. Near the door we entered were two small armchairs and a tiny occasional table. "This is my fitting room," Vivianne explained. "Why don't you step up there, on the platform, so you can watch yourself in the mirror." I stepped up. She stood nearby, looking up at me. To my surprise, my eye level began to lower, and Vivianne correspondingly lowered her gaze. Now I could see changes. They slowly developed, but they were quite definitely happening. My arms and legs grew thinner. Vivianne's eyes grew closer in level to mine as I shrank in size. My hair streamed out of my scalp and spilled down to my shoulders. At the same time, my head became narrower and more childlike, both in size and aspect.

"How can this be happening?" I exclaimed. I was now on the same eye level as Vivianne. "Did you hypnotize me? Was there something in the tea?"

"No, I didn't hypnotize you, and no you didn't have any tea. Not that there's anything in it anyway. Here," she said, handing me the dress, "Why don't you go behind that screen before your clothes fall off? There's some underwear back there, along with socks and shoes. Obviously you'll need to put on the dress, as soon as you're small enough that it fits you."

I gathered up my pants legs and awkwardly shuffled my way behind the privacy screen. When I lifted my feet, my shoes fell off. I let my pants and underwear fall to the ground, and shoved my massively large shirt off over my head. My body was now slim, small, and hairless. There on a chair was a pair of pink underwear with lace trim and a little bow in front. I slid them on. They fit perfectly. Then I got into the socks, which also fit my tiny feet perfectly. I looked at the dress. It seemed totally foreign. I hardly knew where to begin. I took the obvious first step of undoing the buttons. "Which end of the dress goes on first?" I called.

Vivianne answered, "Step into the dress. Don't pull it over your head. If you can't do up the back, come out and let me help you."

I got the dress on. I stepped into the shoes, which were black, shiny, and round-toed. I picked up the clothes I'd worn in, my pants, shirt, underwear, and socks, and arranged them neatly on the chair. I tucked my wallet and keys into one of my shoes and set my shoes underneath the chair.

Stepping out from behind the screen, I told her, "I can't reach the buttons." (To tell the truth, I didn't really try.)

"That's fine," she said. "Come over here." She placed me in front of the mirror, gently turned me to face it, and began buttoning me in. When I saw myself as a little girl, my jaw fell open.

"You didn't wear your hair band!" she chided gently, and went behind the screen to fetch it. It was a red plastic band that she placed on my head. "It will keep your hair off your forehead," she explained.

I studied my image in the mirror. "This is crazy," I exclaimed. "How can this even happen?"

"Magic," she replied simply.

"There's no such thing," I said by reflex.

"Oh, well then!" she laughed. "You've got me!"

I studied my face up close: my eyes, my teeth, my cheekbones... "Who am I now?" I asked her.

"Who are you? You're you, Elliot. You're you. The you you'd be if you were born a girl."

"And what am I... ten?"

"About that."

"But what does this accomplish?" I asked her. I stepped back a little from the mirror, turning my hips back and forth to make the dress swish. I twisted around so I could see myself from different angles.

"Several things. First of all, it shows you that it's true; that the medallion actually works. Now you believe me, don't you?" I nodded. "Good! Now let's try those popovers and hope they aren't too cold."

The popovers were pretty good, considering how they'd cooled off and that it was my first attempt.

Vivianne chatted with me. I dangled and swung my legs — which no longer reached the floor. She told me more about the medallion and its rules. It all seemed impossible — and not just impossible, but ridiculously impossible — and yet here I was, a ten-year-old girl in a bright blue dress. I turned my head this way and that, just to feel my hair trail across my neck and shoulders. My hair. Can you believe it?

"You make a quite pretty little girl," Vivianne told me. I couldn't help but blush.

"So, this is what you did to Max?" I asked.

"Yes, do you understand why?"

I sighed. "I think so. Your idea was to change me into a girl so I could be his date. I'm not sure that that's the greatest idea, by the way."

"We'll see. In any case, I did this to Max because I wanted him to understand that it was possible for me to transform you, but that it would come at a cost."

"What cost is that?" I asked.

"The cost to you," she explained, frowning. "How can you not see that? You don't feel that this costs you anything?"

I shrugged. "Not particularly. I don't think so. I mean, it's just a part to play."

"No," she said. "No, it's not. You won't be playing a part. You'll BE someone else. A different person."

"But always me."

"Yes and no. Are you still you, right now?"

"Ahhh..." I paused, awkwardly. Then I sighed, acquiescing. "Okay, I see your point."

"You will feel differently. You'll see yourself differently. You'll have different needs and desires. Also, and perhaps more importantly, everyone else will see you differently and treat you differently."

I thought about it for a moment. Then, "So, when you did this to Max—"

"—he freaked out. He demanded that I change him back immediately. He was angry, frightened... almost hysterical."

"Then why did he only come back this morning?"

"Because I couldn't return him to his own form right away. Your body needs at least twelve hours to recover before you can change again. The instant Max's twelve hours were up, I changed him back."

"Poor guy!" I exclaimed.

"Hmmm," was Vivianne's only comment.

"But why a little girl?" I asked. Vivianne let out an exasperated sigh.

"Well, this has nothing to do with either you or Max, but in the past... well, it's because there were two young men who were transformed into women, and they both went hog-wild sexually, which -- and it *should* be needless to say -- was not a good thing. One got herself pregnant almost immediately, and had to remain a woman forever. The other... well. It's a long story."

She reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. "This way, you can have some experience as a girl — in fact, you'll gain some memories of life as a little girl — leaving the whole sexual aspect of womanhood completely out of the picture. As an introduction to the medallion, it's much less complicated this way."

"I see." I swung my legs a bit more, then looked around the room, and happened to see a clock. "Oh! So what time will I change back?"

"It's not automatic," she answered. "You need to use the medallion and your own clothes to change back. You won't be able to do that before 8:30 tonight."

"What will we do in the meantime?"

"I want you to experience some aspects of life as a girl, and if you don't mind, I'd like to change you back on Monday morning."

"Okay, I guess," I replied, after a few moment's thought. "Can I call Max to tell him I'm going to be away?"

"Ah... you could call him, but it might not be a good idea. He won't recognize your voice, for one thing, and knowing you're a little girl might trigger him."

"Mmm."

"Why not send him a text?"

"Good idea!"

After a little more discussion, we went for a walk outside. But not before Vivianne gave me some instructions on how to use the bathroom while wearing a dress. Talk about complicated!

We walked slowly, leisurely, through Vivianne's neighborhood. She instructed me to call her "Aunt Viv" (the way Max does), and told me, "Now, as to what we call you: how do you like the name Lorelei?"

"It's a bit much," I said.

"Fine. Then Darcy."

"Okay," I agreed.

"Darcy Meriset."

"What?"

"It's just a made-up name. Go with it. And remember: you're ten years old. So what grade are you in?"

"Fifth grade."

"Good girl."

"And where do you live?"

We worked our way through my personal info — what they'd call my legend if I were a spy.

It was interesting, exciting, and fun to experience the sensations that come with wearing a dress, the way it shifts over the body. I loved the sensation of the air and the occasional breeze on my bare legs. I kept tilting my head back and forth, to feel my hair sway.

"You're liking this, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," I replied, smiling. "Shouldn't I?"

"No, it's fine! Although you ought to expect some negative reactions, fear, shock, and disbelief, at some point."

"Maybe," I acknowledged.

"Still, if you like being a little girl this much, you'll probably enjoy being a grown-up girl as well. We can give that a try before the weekend is up, if all goes well."

I shrugged, then tipped my head back and waggled it, so I could feel my hair dangling past my shoulder blades.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 8 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

"Aunt Viv" brought me to a park. Vivianne was holding my hand, and she stopped me at the gate. "Let's let these people pass." It was a young mother with a boy about my age. He was carrying a skateboard. When he saw me, he stuck out his tongue and made all sorts of aggressive faces at me.

"What was all that about?" I asked when they'd moved out of earshot.

"Oh, I guess you couldn't see over the hedge," Viv replied. "The boy was trying to use his skateboard, and he fell on his butt and cried. He must have thought you'd seen and he felt embarrassed."

A group of little children were climbing in and around a sort of log structure and rocking madly on some plastic animals mounted on huge springs. There were two boys who were around my age, or slightly older — which is to say somewhere between ten and twelve years old. They ran everywhere, up and down the slides, over and under all the climbing rigs, shouting and making noises meant to represent explosions, rockets, guns, ricochets and so on. As soon as they saw me walk into the park enclosure, holding Viv's hand, they stopped dead, mouths open, staring.

"What's with those two mooks?" I asked in a quiet voice.

"They're little boys. You're a little girl. To them, you're a great enigma."

"Hmmph. What are we doing here?"

"You're here to play," she explained.

"But I'll get this dress dirty!"

"Brava!" Viv complimented me with a smile and a pat on the head. "Good girl. What I want you to do is to swing on one of those swings without getting your dress dirty and without showing your underwear. Can you do that?"

She sat on a bench and smiled at me. I slowly walked over the swings. There were two. One was cleaner than the other, but I gave it an experimental brush with my hand regardless.Then I gathered my skirt tight across the front of my legs, held the gathered fabric under my butt with one hand, clutched one of the chains that held up the swing with my other hand, took a little jump, and managed to land square on the seat with my skirt secured beneath me. Success! I couldn't reach the ground, though, so it took a bit of rocking, kicking, and swaying before I had the swing swinging the way it was meant to swing.

The boys studied my movements intently. After half a minute, they came cautiously over. When they were a two or three feet away, the two of them made a mad dash for the other swing, each trying to claim it for his own. They struggled and grunted, repeating, "It's *my* turn!" over and over. At last, the larger of the two left off and stood apart on the other side, where he could look at me.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Darcy," I told him.

"Why?"

"Because that's what my mother called me. What's your name?"

"Is that your mother?" the other asked.

"No, she's my aunt. What are your names?"

"How old are you?" the first asked.

"Ten."

"I'm ten and a half!" he shouted. "That means I'm older and you have to do what I say!"

"Oh, okay. Then tell me to do something."

"Stop swinging and pretend you're a dog."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"You're mean!"

I sighed. "I want to stop swinging now," I told them.

"Will you pretend to be a dog?"

"No, but will you help me stop? My feet don't reach the ground."

He held the chain so that the swing stopped moving. I slowly slid off the seat, hanging onto my hem to keep my dress from creeping up. The two of them had their eyes glued to my legs, and watched my progress, inch by inch.

"Thanks," I said with a dry irony I knew I was wasted on them, and ran back to Vivianne.

"Did you have fun?" she asked. I responded with a growl.

"Give me a hug," she told me.

"Everybody wants to tell me what to do!" I said, half-protesting, half-joking.

"You're a little girl," she explained, and gave me a motherly hug. "Let's go get some lunch."

As we walked, Viv kept looking at my face. At last she asked, "You look anxious. Are you? Are you worried about something?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I'm worried that I could get stuck like this."

"You're not going to be stuck like that," she assured me. "How could you be? I'm going to change you back. If you're really that uneasy, I'll change you back tonight, the instant twelve hours have passed."

"No, I mean, no, that's not it. I'll admit, I'm liking this — it's fun. I'm sorry that Max didn't. But the thing is, what if something happens to you?"

"Oh, you mean, what if I get hit by a bus?" she laughed.

"Yes, seriously! Or what if you have a stroke or a heart attack? Anything could happen."

She was quiet for a few moments. "Yes, I suppose anything could happen." She thought some more. "Tell you what: when we get back to the house, I'll show you where the medallion is, and how to use it. I'll give you a key to the house that you can wear around your neck, and I'll tell my husband and staff that if something happens to me, that you'll need to get into my room by yourself. Okay?"

"Yes, that sounds okay."

Viv brought me to a pizzeria. It was a little loud and a little dark, but it was obviously a family restaurant. There were children at nearly every table. There was a lot of back-and-forth at the entrance, where we were, of people getting take-out. Viv pulled me close and held me to her side with one arm. I didn't resist.

Our waiter grabbed a booster seat on the way to our table, and set it on my chair. "Do you need a lift?" he asked.

"I can do it," I assured him, but Viv nodded saying, "She needs a lift."

The waiter quickly, efficiently took me under my arms and lifted me into my seat. Viv seated herself. He returned a moment later with a menu, which he placed in front of Viv, and a kid's menu, which he placed in front of me, along with a small glass filled with crayons.

"Oh, joy," I said drily. Viv snorted with laughter.

"Oh!" the waiter cried, seeing my reaction. He asked Viv, "Is she too big for the kid's menu?"

"No, it's fine," she laughed. "Unless you have a copy of the Financial Times for her, I think it will have to do."

I rolled my eyes and looked it over. "How big is the kid's pizza?" I asked.

"Six inches," he replied.

"Huh!" I scoffed. "I usually put away a fourteen-inch pie by myself."

The waiter's eyes widened and he glanced at Viv, who smiled and shook her head.

"Why don't I let you discuss that with your mother," he said, "In the meantime, can I get you ladies something to drink?"

"I'd like a glass of your chianti," she told him.

I turned my menu over several times. One side had a picture to color, featuring clowns and balloons. The other side had simple puzzles and jokes, along with the kids' menu. I didn't see a wine list.

"For white wines, what do you have?" I asked, frowning at the paper in my hand. "House wines, I mean."

His eyebrows went up even higher, and he said, "For you, miss, our white selections are milk or apple juice. In red, we have grape juice or cranberry."

I looked up, startled, and realized. "I'm sorry," I told them. "I just forgot myself."

"It's fine," he said, grinning. "You've made my day."

"I'll have apple juice," I told him, slightly embarrassed.

"Very good," he replied, "I'll ask our sommelier to be sure the apple juice is a good vintage, but I'm pretty confident you'll approve."

After he left, Viv said, "Can I recommend the chicken fingers? If you get tomato sauce on your dress, everyone will see it."

"Fine," I said, pouting a little in spite of myself.

"Why don't you be a good girl and color for a while?" she suggested. "And see what you can do with those puzzles."

I sighed, picked up a green crayon, and got to work.

Vivianne's driver picked us up at the pizzeria and drove us to the Outlerland Mall. "There are two things we need to do here," she explained, taking my hand as we walked. "Because of the way the medallion works, we'll need clothes for the grown-up female you. You understand that in order for you to become a girl that Max could bring to the wedding, we need to find the clothes that will define that girl."

"Um, we could get those any time," I pointed out. Even if I was (temporarily) female, I did NOT relish the idea of shopping.

"You don't understand," she told me. "The medallion uses clothes to determine your form. If we buy a dress for a tall skinny girl with huge breasts, then that is what you'll become. If we buy a dress for a girl with a less striking, but more visually appealing, figure, then THAT's what you'll become. Clear?"

"Clear."

"So keep your eyes open, and look for the girl with the body you'd like to have. Not the face; the face will be your own. But the figure, the height and weight, the curves, will come from the clothes we choose."

"Got it." Viv gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze, and I smiled.

As we walked, I scanned the shoppers. There were plenty of good-looking women, but most of them were older; women in their forties or fifties. The young ones were far too young. There were plenty of precocious teenagers, some with amazing curves, but we needed a template that was 25 or older.

"Also, if you see a store with clothes that appeal to you, we'll stop and have a look."

"Will we just guess at the sizes?" I asked uncertainly.

"No, we can probably find a helpful salesgirl in the right size. We'll say it's for your big sister, okay?"

As we made our way slowly down the concourse, I was aware of being looked at. Parents with children smiled at me. Little children waved to me. I smiled and waved back. Even so, even with that unaccustomed attention, and in spite of my small stature and the fact that I was holding Viv's hand for security, I began to forget that I wasn't myself... that I wasn't the person I'm used to being.

So when I spotted Kitty ahead of us, dropping her phone into her purse, without thinking I called out, "Kitty! Kitty, hey!" Kitty stopped and looked over. Naturally, she didn't recognize Vivianne or me.

"Now you've done it," Viv told me. She sounded amused. Kitty, frowning slightly, trying to remember do I know you? approached us. "She's very friendly and open," Viv commented. "I can see why you boys like her." Then, more directly to me: "You are Elliot's cousin Darcy. Remember?"

"I'll remember," I said.

Kitty offered her hand apologetically to Viv, and looking from her to me and back again, said, "Have we met? Do I know you? I'm sorry, but I can't place your faces, although you—" she smiled and gazed pointedly at me "—you look VERY familiar."

"I'm sorry," I told her. "My name is Darcy. Elliot Beekman is my cousin." I could feel my face turning red. "He always talks about you, and I've seen your picture. Sorry!"

"Don't be sorry," she answered in a soft tone. Then she introduced herself to Vivianne. On hearing Viv's last name, Errison, she asked, "Are you related to Max Errison?"

"He's my nephew," she replied with a smile. "My favorite nephew."

"He's a favorite of mine as well," Kitty quipped with a little laugh. Then to me she said, ruffling my hair as she spoke, "Elliot's my other fave." She grinned. "So he always talks about me?"

I grew even redder. "Well, not always. It's just that... I just have a really good memory for faces. I'm sorry."

"Quit apologizing!" Kitty told me. She crouched down to my eye-level and gave me a hug. "You're just adorable! You don't need to be sorry for anything!"

"Okay," I said. "Thanks."

She stood and looked down at me. "You are the spit and image of Elliot, Darcy! It's like... if he turned into a little girl, he'd look just like you!" She paused, then said, "I hope you don't mind that comparison."

"No," I said. "I get that a lot."

"Well, now, he'll get that a lot!" Then she gave me another quick hug, shook Viv's hand again, and was making her goodbyes, when she was struck by a thought.

"Hey, Darcy — do you mind if we take a selfie? Me and you?" Then, glancing at Viv, "oh, and you of course! The three of us."

"No, it's fine," Viv assured her. "Just you girls — it's better."

Kitty crouched down next to me, put one arm around me, pulling me close, and extended her other arm. "Smile!" We smiled and she reeled off five or six pictures in a series of rapid-fire clicks. She straightened up, checked them, and asked, "Can I airdrop them to you?"

"I don't have a phone," I told her. "Could you send them to Elliot instead?"

"Sure!" she said, and fiddled with her phone. "I sent them to Max as well — I hope that's okay."

She was turning away as she spoke, and after turning away she said a distracted goodbye and was gone. It was good that she looked away; my face had a horrified expression that would have been difficult to explain.

"Well!" Viv exclaimed. "I'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag. Kitty is a lovely young woman, but she may have left us with some damage control to do."

Viv and I sat on a bench at the edge of the concourse. She took my phone from her bag and turned it on. It seemed to take forever to boot up, When it did, I went straight to my messages and found Kitty's selfie, along with the comment, "This little girl looks JUST LIKE Elliot!!!."

"She only sent one picture," I observed. "I guess that's good, cause she took a half dozen." I verified that she'd sent the picture to both me and Max. Max hadn't yet replied. I pushed the green phone button, to call him.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Viv asked.

"No, but even a messed-up conversation is better than no conversation at all, at this point." Viv nodded.

The line rang briefly, then Max responded. "Elliot?"

"Um, hi, Max," I said. "Did you see the picture that Kitty just sent?"

"Kitty?" he repeated. "No, but— Elliot! Your voice! What the hell— did she change you—" his voice dropped to a whisper "—did she turn you into a little girl?"

"Yes, she did, and it's fine," I said. "It's all good. I just wanted to call you so you wouldn't freak out when you saw the picture."

"The picture? Let me take a look..." I heard him fumble with his phone. Then he swore. "Kitty..." he said. He swore profusely. "Does she know who you are? What did you tell her? Do you realize how crazy this makes both of us look?"

"No, how could she possibly know who I am? She thinks I'm Elliot's cousin Darcy."

"I see. Well, okay. So... are you going to stay a little girl forever?"

"No, of course not! I'll be back to normal on Monday morning."

Max fell silent. I glanced at Viv, who was patiently waiting. She didn't seem in any hurry for me to finish.

"Max, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," he said. "I'm just... this really throws me. Doesn't it bother you? Being a girl? Being a little girl?"

"No," I answered. "It's kind of fun. It's different."

"How can you-- Elliot, did you always want to be a girl?" he asked. "How could I not know this about you?"

"No, I never wanted to be a girl. I don't think I'm a girl now -- not really. I just have a different body."

He laughed. "Believe me, dude, having a different body makes you a girl. If you have to sit down to pee, that's a big clue, right there."

"Okay," I admitted. "At the moment, I'm a girl. Obviously, it's only temporary."

"Is it? Is it obvious? Is it temporary?"

"You changed back, didn't you?"

He let out a huge sigh, but gave no other response.

So I told him, "Okay, whatever — The only reason I called is because I don't want you to worry--"

"What, me worry? What do *I* have to worry about?"

"--or freak out."

"Me? Freak out? I'm not three feet tall and running around in a little dress! You're the one we should worry about. You're the one who should be freaking out. Why aren't you?"

"I'm fine! That's why I'm calling! I want you to know that *I* am fine, and I want to make sure that you're fine, too."

"I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine," he recited in a flat tone.

"Oh, Max!" I groaned. "I give up! Take care of yourself this weekend. Maybe you should go stay with your parents."

"That's not a bad idea," he replied, "but I don't want to leave the house unguarded."

I grunted in acknowledgment.

"Okay," he said. "I"m going to hang up, because talking to you like this, with you... that way, is weird as hell."

"Fine," I replied, "but call me if you need me."

He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Listen. Just... just... If you're really having fun, then just have fun on your little sleepover, okay? You don't need to worry about me."

At that, he broke the connection.

I handed the phone back to Viv. Before she put it away, she asked, "Shall I leave it on, in case he calls back?"

"Yes, please," I said. "Though I doubt he will."

We sat there side by side for a minute or so, not speaking. At last I asked her, "Aren't you going to tell me it's going to be all right?"

"Will you feel better if I do?" she asked.

"I don't know," I answered, glum.

"I won't say that, but I can do this," she told me, and pulled me close into a motherly hug. I rested my head against her, and she gently stroked my hair, long gentle strokes from the top of my head to my neck.

"Does this help?" she asked.

"Not really," I sighed. "It feels nice, but I'm still worried about Max."

"I understand," she told me.

We stayed that way for a minute or so, until she said, "Okay, Darcy. We need to look at clothes." The two of us stood up, brushed out our dresses, held hands and walked down the concourse.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 9 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

In spite of the strange and awkward moments, I enjoyed the day. Spending time with Vivianne was such a new experience, even apart from my being in the guise of a ten-year-old. Being treated like a child, being treated as a girl, was all new — it gave me much food for thought. At times I felt embarrassed or a little confused. I found myself repeatedly wishing I could re-do some of my conversations; the ones where I forgot myself and spoke as an adult -- making me seem like a foolish child. It was comical in a way -- it would have been more comical if it happened to someone else, but even so, all in all, it was a good day.

It was a good day, that is, until my conversation with Max. Previous to the call, I wasn't exactly flying, but Max's reactions and comments brought me crashing to earth.

"Does it make you want to quit?" Vivianne asked me. "Forget entirely about Max's need for a plus-one?"

"Uh..." I consulted my thoughts and feelings for a moment — a very brief moment — and told her, "No, I still want to continue."

She nodded. "I have to confess, I'm having a difficult time understanding my nephew," Viv confided. "This is all for him, and yet he acts as if it's a tremendous intrusion. Why isn't he simply grateful?" She turned to me as spoke, her brow contracted with concern and incomprehension, her lips tight in a frown of frustration.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Seriously?" I asked her. "You have to be kidding!" Viv stiffened in surprise at my reaction.

"First of all," I told her, "You come out of left field with a magic necklace that turns grown men into little girls. Already we're off to the races! Then you use the thing on him, much to his surprise and horror. To round it all off, after he feels he's narrowly escaped, he finds out that you've done the same thing to me! All in the space of twenty-hour hours! This is not your normal weekend!"

Viv was quiet for a moment. I couldn't tell whether she was processing what I'd said or ignoring it and waiting to see if I had more.

At last she said, "Yes, I've already admitted that I miscalculated his reaction. I've apologized to him. I changed him back. That said, there is no way that I can turn back the clock and make it un-happen. It *did* happen, and he'll have to get over it."

It was my turn to reflect in silence for a few moments.

Then she added, "While we're sharing blame, I'd like you keep in mind that it was *you* who spilled the beans here, by calling your friend Kitty into the situation."

A few objections came to mind, principally the fact that Max would have found out in any case: I would have told him. And yet, in that case, he wouldn't have seen the photo, and probably wouldn't have been so strongly triggered. As I considered these points, I saw that I didn't have a very strong line of defense.

She paused for a moment, then added, "There's one final point I'd like to make: I believe that *you* will come to feel grateful for the fact that Max had this experience — and even for the fact that he disliked it so intensely — because it will help him understand the sacrifice that you are making for him."

Viv reached out and put her hand over mine. I didn't resist. In spite of her stiff resistance to what I said, and in spite of her strict apportioning of blame (some to her, some to me), I felt a odd feeling of silent communion, a moment of we're all in this together. Then Viv gave my hand a squeeze. She smiled, and asked me whether I'd found a woman's body to emulate. I told her I'd forgotten.

"Unfortunately, so have I," she confessed, and she led me to a display window featuring a selection of expensive-looking clothes. "Let's just go by styles and sizes," she said. "But first I have to make a phone call. Can you stay right here and window-shop? I'm going to take a few steps that way, over by that plant. I'll only be a minute. I'll have my eyes on you the entire time, so don't worry."

"I'm not worried," I told her. She didn't like that response: she gave a mild disapproving shake of her head, but didn't say anything. I'm not a stupid child, I objected silently.

She moved away a few yards to make her call. I studied the window display for a few minutes. Nothing jumped out at me. The clothes were attractive, but how on earth was I supposed to make an informed decision? Sighing, I turned my back to the fashion and leaned against a bit of wall. I could see Viv talking on her phone, her eyes glued on me. I scanned the shoppers as they passed. It seemed the demographic was different in this part of the mall; more along the lines of what we were looking for. Earlier, all the women I saw were good looking, but older than I needed to be. Now, all the women looked in their late twenties or early thirties; all of them lovely. Any of them would be perfect. I was hard-pressed to chose one above the others. Was I supposed to pick a woman who was attractive to me? Or one who'd be attractive to Max? Was there such a thing as objectively attractive? Maybe I should aim for a body like Kitty's. She seemed to be universally desired. At least, she was when we were in high school.

... or... another possibility occurred to me; one that seemed almost blasphemous. Should I look for a body like Amber's? After all, Max did say that what first attracted him was her body. I tried to picture her physique, her build, her curves, but the thoughts and pictures were so disagreeable that I shook my head until all the Amber was gone from my inner screen.

Viv returned to me and said, "I had a little talk with Max's mother, Melissa. She's going to stop in and visit Max and make sure he's all right. She'll give me a call when she can."

I was glad of that, but it brought up an obvious question. "Does Melissa — Max's mother — does she know about the whole little-girl thing?"

For the first time, Viv looked uncomfortable. "Now she does. She didn't before. She's known about the Medallion of Zulo for some time, but she's never seen it work. Consequently, she doesn't quite believe it." She took a breath and looked me in the eyes. "I told her exactly what happened, but I got the impression that she thinks I hypnotized Max — the same thought you had, initially." She thought for a moment. "In the end, it may not make any difference. If they're both angry at me, it will make it easier for Max to get over his trauma."

"How do you figure that?"

She seemed surprised at my question. "Feeling angry is a step in the right direction. It focuses your energies."

I filed her answer away. I'd have to think about it later. Right now I told her, "Whatever he's feeling now, I hope he can get over his aversion to me as a girl. I get the feeling that *my* being female freaks him out. Not as much as *his* being female, but still..." I looked her in the face, and somewhat apologetically confided, "I can see why you saw this as a solution, but if he's uncomfortable with me in a woman's body, it's not going to solve his problem. It could even give us a new one."

"A new problem? What would that be?"

"It might ruin our friendship," I said. "He might not be able to see me in the same way, ever again."

Viv was silent, pondering.

"You didn't think of that, did you?" I asked.

Clearly irritated, she snapped, "Frankly, honestly, no, I didn't. You two seemed so perfectly matched as friends, I couldn't imagine a few transformations getting in your way." She looked past the items in the shop window, turning her head this way and that so she could see the merchandise inside. Then she continued speaking.

"I have to say, in my experience, that people don't, as a rule, react negatively to the medallion's changes. Most of them are surprised, many are shocked, but after the initial reaction, they give it a go. A small number never want to change back — and I ought to tell you for your own sake, that sometimes it's not even possible."

"Not possible?" I repeated with some alarm. "Not possible to change back? Why wouldn't it be possible?"

"There was one young man who — voluntarily, I might add — was changed into a young woman, and pretty quickly got herself pregnant."

"So... if a transformed person gets pregnant, they can't change back?"

"No — pregnant women can't change at all. Neither can a woman on her period, although that's a condition that passes."

"So does pregnancy. It passes after nine months."

"That's true. But do you really think a mother could abandon her child that easily? She'd have to go through nine months of pregnancy, and then some additional time beyond that, until her hormones return more or less to normal." She gave a half-nod, half-shrug. "I'm sure it could happen. I mean, certainly the mother of an infant can transform. It's happened. It's probably happened that someone transformed for the purpose of abandoning their family, but it hasn't happened on my watch. And, to be honest, I am aware of anecdotes in which the medallion was used vindictively or cruelly — I'm talking specifically about conflicts between husbands and wives or children and parents — but I've never used it that way."

She looked at me. I guess she was waiting for a reaction, but I just stood there big-eyed, listening. So she smiled and said, "Let's go in here and get this done. We'll go for slim build — slender body, nice curves, good breasts and butt, but nothing extreme."

"Okay," I said. "Sounds good."

"You're an easy sell," she laughed.

We bought what was to me a jaw-droppingly expensive black sleeveless mesh bodycon minidress. I know; it's a mouthful. Viv explained that we needed clothes that really define the shape we wanted.

"We can also tweak the look, once the changes are set," she told me. "You'll see what I mean."

The dress was a size four, like one of the salesgirls. Viv also picked up a pair of size eight shoes ("Small feet are attractive"). She then took some time choosing the right underwear and bra. After that, her last purchase was a very sexy one-piece bathing suit. "This will define you like nothing else," she remarked.

"Are we done buying clothes?" I asked.

"For now, yes. If you're going to be Max's date, you'll need a more extensive wardrobe, but that's for another day, *if* you decide to go through with the whole scheme."

"I can pay you back," I told her. "For all this. I've got a fair amount of money in the bank."

"It's good of you to offer," she said, "but it isn't necessary. I'm doing this to help my nephew."

"So am I," I said, and she gave me a smile.

We wandered the mall aimlessly after that. My energy was fading.

"We need a little snack, a little pick-me-up," Viv said. "But first, there's a gift I need to buy you. Follow me."

She walked into a toy store, a long, narrow store that reminded me of a railroad car. The aisles were constricted, high, and packed with merchandise. Viv kept going, deeper into the store, until she arrived at a section full of teddy bears. "We need to get you a teddy bear."

"Oh, come on!" I scoffed.

"You're a little girl, you need a teddy bear," she insisted, with a little smile.

"Honestly, I don't—"

"Humor me," Viv said. "We're not leaving until you choose a teddy bear."

At that, I reached out and grabbed the nearest bear. "Done!"

"No," she said. "You need to choose one. You need to find a bear that's special to you."

Sighing, I put the first bear back. I pretended to look for a few moments, then grabbed another. "Found it!" I declared, smiling.

"Nice try," she observed, in a dry tone. "Now do it for real. Show some sincerity."

I looked through the bears, scanning slowly along the rows, looking into their faces, when suddenly... it seemed as though one of the bears looked back at me. I know it didn't really, but the face of the bear was so vivid and lively that it stood out from all the others. Its face wasn't funny or goofy. It was like a puppy's — open, expectant, looking to you to define the mood. It was small, smaller than the others, and incredibly soft. I picked it up, felt its softness, and pressed it against my cheek.

"This is the one," I told Viv. She didn't say anything. She just nodded and led me to the cashier.

From there we went to the food court. "You pick," she told me. I pointed to the Chinese place, which is my usual choice. You can get a lot of food for very little money. I had them load my plate with fried rice, beef with oyster sauce, and chicken with black bean sauce. "That's a lot of food for a little girl!" the cashier exclaimed. "If you really eat it all, you and your mother eat for free!"

"It's a deal!" I laughed.

Of course, I couldn't even get halfway through before I was thoroughly full.

"I just meant to get a snack," Viv said. "But if you want, we could get you one of those fourteen-inch pizzas you were talking about earlier."

I groaned. "I actually feel the lump of food in my tummy."

Viv cocked her head. "Interesting," she observed. "You said tummy — that's a little-girl word."

"I guess," I sighed, "Anyway, I'm full to the brim." An inelegant burp! escaped my lips.

Viv's driver came to pick us up. On the way back to her house, she called Melissa, to find out how Max was doing.

"He's fine," she told me after. "Both his parents went to visit him. Melissa's making him dinner. Some favorite of his."

"That's good."

"He'll go over to their house tomorrow morning for breakfast, and then they'll take a drive together."

"That sounds really nice. I'm glad he won't be alone."

I thought Vivianne was going to change me into a grown-up woman as soon as we got home, but no. "As it happens, I have one more young-girl experience planned for you tomorrow, and once you're finished, we can change you to a grown-up girl, somewhere around dinner time."

The evening wasn't remarkable, aside from the fact that I was inhabiting a different body. One of the experiences Viv wanted me to have was that of falling asleep and waking up as someone else. She was right: waking up in an unfamiliar body is as strange and momentarily bewildering as you can imagine. There's this disorientation — the disconnect between who I'm used to being (Elliot) and who I temporarily am (Darcy).

When I woke, I was clutching the teddy bear, which shocked me at first, but it did serve to show me that my memories of yesterday were real. I considered for a moment naming the bear Corroboration, but (aside from being something of a tongue-twisting mouthful) it was far too heady and un-cute.

The night before, Viv had laid out my clothes for today: a pair of khaki-colored cuffed shorts, a light blue t-shirt, and a pair of red sneakers. Again, everything fit me perfectly.

She'd arranged for me to spend the day with the daughter of a friend, a girl my age named Isabella, and the two of us were dropped off at the amusement park just beyond the Outlerland Mall. The story she told her friend and Isabella was that my father was being transferred to China for his job in the diplomatic service, and that today was one of my last days in the States. The story seemed an over-elaborate, obvious lie, but I understood that the intention was to explain to Isabella why we'd never see each other again.

(This activity was actually planned for Max; it didn't happen for him because he'd short-circuited Vivianne's plans by rejecting the transformation at the very outset.)

Isabella and I really hit it off. She was active, funny, and full of ideas. As we approached the first of the rollercoasters, she asked me whether I knew how to scream.

"I guess so," I said.

"Hmm," she replied. "Guess so isn't good enough. I think we need to practice." She led me around behind one of the rides to a spot where there were no people, and said, "Listen." She took a deep breath, then emptied her lungs with a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that would have done a banshee proud.

"Now you," she said, grinning broadly.

Not to be outdone, I too took a deep breath and hit the highest, loudest, longest note I could manage. I shocked myself with the quality and force of that howl, and Isabella was pleased.

"Now together! Ready?"

The two of us nodded one, two, three, pulled deep deep breaths, and screamed our lungs out. After which we burst into laughter, laughing until our stomachs hurt.

An older man, a park employee, came cautiously peeking around the corner at us, his eyes large as saucers. "What in tarnation's going on back here?" he asked. "I thought somebody was getting murdered, by the sound you girls were making! I was ready to call the cops!"

"We're just practicing for the rollercoaster," Isabella explained.

"I don't think you need any more practice! Now, spare my heart and save it all for the rides! Please!"

We apologized, laughing. He winked at us and went away. We took our screams to the rollercoasters, of which there were five. Isabella sorted them by level of fright. She chose well: on the last two, screaming wasn't an effort — the rides were truly I-think-I-might-die terrifying. We sat in front so we wouldn't blow out anyone's eardrums.

After lunch, we went on the water slides, screaming there as well, though it wasn't as satisfying — the slides were covered, so the sound didn't carry anywhere.

Isabella also introduced me to churros, which I'd never heard of before, but went mad for. She had to stop me from going back for thirds.

Viv came to pick us up, all too soon, and I was genuinely disappointed. To tell the truth, it's not as though I got to know Isabella at all, but we had a lot of fun, and I knew that I'd miss her — at the same time knowing that I'd never turn back into Darcy ever again. She gave me her email address and asked me to write and send pictures of China. I told her I would, knowing it was a lie.

We hugged and laughed as Viv dropped her home.

Viv drove. I sat in the back seat in a funk.

"What's wrong?" Vivianne asked. "Didn't you have a good time? I thought that you'd like to have another childhood memory for when you're a grown woman. Also, you've had more experience living in another body, this time apart from me."

"That's all well and good," I admitted, "and I appreciate your having gone to the trouble, but—"

"But what?"

I struggled to put it into words.

"That little girl, Isabella — I just lied to her face. it was wrong to deceive her."

Viv looked at me in the rear-view mirror. "What alternative did we have?"

"I didn't have to go with her at all. That would have been better. Now she'll always wonder why Darcy never wrote, after the fun they had together."

Viv didn't look at me and didn't respond.

"Where did you get that thing, anyway?"

"What thing? The medallion?"

"Yes. Where does it come from?"

"I don't think anyone knows where it comes from, or how it really works."

"But how did *you* get it?"

"Hmm," she said. "I'll tell you the story, even though there are some elements that put me in a bad light. For now, let's just say that someone I knew used it to escape the consequences of a crime, and left the medallion with me."

"Sounds intriguing."

"It is. I think it's an interesting story," she admitted.

"Aren't you going to tell it to me?"

"Not at your present age, no. Apart from the criminal element, there are some parts of the story that are very... strong, sexually, and none of it is appropriate for a girl your age to hear."

"But I'm NOT a girl my age!" I protested. "I'm grown man! You know this!"

Vivianne, incensed, pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. She turned to look at me. "You are NOT a grown man, regardless of your memories and experience! You are a ten-year-old girl! If you get out of this car, would you be able to convince anyone to give you a job as a software developer? Would you be able to drive your own car? I don't think your feet would even reach the pedals!"

"What are you talking about?" I shouted back. "This is not who I am! This is only temporary!"

Vivianne calmed herself, holding up her outstretched palms in a gesture of let's slow this down.

"Listen, Elliot-slash-Darcy: I'm sorry that I got upset a moment ago, but I find it highly frustrating that you continue to not understand. You take this—" she gestured at my current physical makeup "—as temporary, as if you're only wearing a costume, playing a part. What you're doing is a form of denial. You're using this idea of temporary to pretend that this isn't real."

"I think you're making a big deal out of nothing," I told her.

"Max understood," she told me. "He understood viscerally."

"And he hated it," I pointed out.

"That's because he understood," she repeated slowly. In a normal tone, she went on. "What I would like you to think about is this: if I don't change you back, you will be Darcy forever. Do you realize that?"

My brow darkened. "Is that a threat?"

"No, of course it's not a threat. I want you to think about that AFTER I change you back, when you're Elliot once again." She looked me in the face, looking for some kind of recognition of what she'd said. Not seeing it, she added, "I'm trying to make you see that you are trading fates, so to speak; you actually become someone else."

She waited a moment, and when I didn't reply, she turned to face front, started the engine, and continued to her home.

"So, did you and Isabella have a good time?" she asked.

"Yes, we really hit it off. That's what makes it so sad."

"Still, you both had fun, didn't you?"

"Yes, but under false pretenses."

Viv didn't answer. I found myself saying this: "It bothers me the way you play with other people's lives."

"I don't play," she contested. "I don't change people on a whim. They've either asked for it, or I've made a considered determination on their behalf."

"What gives you the right?"

"I don't think of it that way. It's not a right. I have the medallion. I can use it — and hopefully I *do* use it — to make people's lives better."

I didn't answer.

"You're thinking about Max, aren't you. I've told you: I regret that deeply," Viv confessed. "I tried to tell him what would happen, but you know yourself that it's hard to explain."

"You could have turned him into a little boy — THAT might have been less shocking."

Startled by the idea, she admitted, "It never occurred to me!" She smiled and told me, "You should tell Max that you told me that."

I looked out the window, watching the houses go by. After a pause, Vivianne spoke again. "Right now, I possess the medallion. I don't know whether it's the only one in the world. I don't know where it comes from, how it was made, or how it actually works. I DO know that it's extremely powerful, and because of that, I often wish I could pass it on to someone else. It's more responsibility than I sometimes care to carry."

"Who would you give it to?"

"That's the million-dollar question! Who, indeed? I honestly believe that Max is the first and only person that I've harmed with the medallion, and I will try to somehow make it up to him, or at least help him get over it. If I possibly can.

"There's another thing I'm sure of: in the hands of someone else, someone less careful, someone with bad intentions, the medallion could easily do untold harm. Preventing that is part of my responsibility."

"Have you considered destroying it?"

"How?"

"I don't know."

"It might break into pieces that are more dangerous than the whole. And wherever I could hide it, someone could find it."

I was silent, but I did have the thought, What about the bottom of the ocean? I pictured Viv on an ocean liner, in the middle of the Atlantic, dropping the medallion over the side.

Then she said, "I have one last consideration that I'll share with you. It's possible that someone, somewhere, is trapped in a bad transformation, and the medallion is their only hope of returning to normal life. I wouldn't want to be the one who destroyed a person's last, most desperate hope."

When we arrived at her house and parked in her garage, Viv told me, "Wait a moment before you get out of the car. Do you still want to be transformed into a grown woman? We can do that now, but only if you want it. If you'd rather return right away to being Elliot, I'll understand."

"I'll admit I'm in a strange mood at the moment," I observed.

"Yes," she admitted, "and before you decide, there's something else you need to know — I invited Max's mother here."

"Melissa?" I exclaimed.

"She doesn't know why I've asked her at this point, and she's not here yet. My reason for inviting her was that if you are going to be Max's plus-one at the wedding, I reasoned that you'll need someone like Melissa to help you learn to play the part. Now, if any of that is going to be a problem—"

I didn't hesitate. "No, that's fine. It's... thoughtful of you. Thanks. I would like her here."

"Also, she's never seen a transformation, so she doesn't really believe it."

I laughed.

"So, to be perfectly clear, I'm asking for your informed consent: Are you ready to be transformed into a grown woman in the presence of Max's mother Melissa, and for her to know that you are really Elliot Beekman?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, to all that."

"Good!" she exclaimed, and opened her door. Then turning to me, she smiled and said, "You are the most serious little girl I've ever met." I laughed.

When Melissa saw me, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Then she squealed like a teenager and hugged me like her favorite ragdoll, lifting my feet off the ground and rocking me back and forth. I tried to go along with it; I wanted her to enjoy whatever it was she imagined this to be, but she was squeezing the life out of me! At last Vivianne gently told her, "Let the girl take a breath, Melissa."

At that, Melissa backed off from the hug, and took me by the shoulders, staring me in the face. "Oh my God!" she cried. "Look at that little face! Look at that adorable face!" She scrunched up my cheeks in her hand and very nearly grabbed me in another death hug. Vivianne waved her off.

"There's plenty more to see, Mel," she reminded her.

"Wait! Wait!" Melissa exclaimed excitedly. "I need a selfie with me and— with— with Darcy!"

"I'll send you a photo," I told her, and showed her the one with Kitty.

"Oh, Kitty," she said in a disappointed voice. "I never liked that girl. Will I be able to crop her out? Can you?"

"You don't like Kitty?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, I know you boys love her," she scoffed, "but there was always something about her that never convinced me." Still, she said she'd accept the photo and let it go at that.

The three of us gathered in Vivianne's fitting room. Viv gave me a silk kimono-style robe to wear so that I'd have "room to grow."

"This process is going to have two steps," Viv explained. "First the transformation, which will take a half an hour. Then the tweaks, which take less."

She put the medallion around my neck, then touched it with the dress we'd bought. In a few moments, the changes began. This time I wanted to watch Melissa's face instead of my own changes in the mirror. Melissa's face is very expressive, and sometimes I had a hard time not laughing at the succession of her expressions of astonishment, awe, and glee. I checked on my own progress in the mirror as well. I grew taller inch by inch until I was five-eight or five-nine. My mouth fell open when my breasts and hips appeared... and swelled to their full sizes.

"Oh, dear God!" Melissa exclaimed. "You're gorgeous!"

In all honesty, I have to say that gorgeous is a bit of a stretch. My body was amazing; I'll admit that. My face and hair were nice enough; I was attractive... enough. I could see Max wanting to take me to the wedding. I was attractive, but I was no movie star.

"This was my dream," Melissa sighed. I smiled. Then something occurred to me.

"Melissa," I asked, "When you said that Vivianne could help Max with his problem, is this what you had in mind?"

"No," she laughed. "Of course not! I figured that Viv has so many young people in her orbit, that she'd probably know someone suitable."

"Oh!" Vivianne exclaimed. "Is that what you wanted? You should have said so!"

"What else could I possibly mean?" Melissa asked.

"All this!" Viv exclaimed, gesturing at me. "The way you described Max and Elliot, I felt that you were asking exactly for THIS, but you didn't want to say the words. If all you wanted was a date for Max, you didn't need to mention Elliot at all!"

The two looked at each other, and laughed.

"If only you'd said what you wanted," Viv chided, "We could have avoided a lot of trouble."

"No, actually, this is better!" Melissa enthused. "Much, much better! This is the dream!"

Viv's thirty-minute timer chimed. The transformation was complete.

"Now for the tweaks," Viv said. "Try one of the shoes. We may have to do some Cinderella work here." The shoe was too small, so Viv held one shoe against the medallion until my feet shrank enough to make the shoes fit exactly. Then she had me hold the bathing suit against the medallion until my body stopped changing: my breasts and butt became firmer, perkier, higher. In a word, I had a killer body.

I ran behind the privacy screen and squeezed into the bathing suit. It was bright blue with slashes of red. When I put it on, I felt like a superhero. Melissa's jaw dropped. She had no words.

She wanted to snap some pictures, so I made sure she only used MY phone. After my experience with Kitty, I didn't want Max receiving any more photos of me as a girl.

Then I changed into the black dress. Naturally, it fit like a glove. After I'd modeled it for Viv and Melissa, posing this way and that, Melissa clapped her hands and said, "More! More!"

"That's all there is," I told her.

"Really? You don't have any other clothes?"

"No, we just needed some for the transformation."

"Well, then! Let's go out and get some! Clothes! More clothes! I mean, that's a beautiful dress, but you're not going to wear it around the house, or when you're cooking dinner! Is that what you're planning on wearing when you go home?" She thought for a moment, then said, "It might be a good idea."

"Home? Back to Max's house?"

"Yes. Where else would you go?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh, I'm not going home like this. Viv is going to change me back to Elliot tomorrow morning."

Melissa's face fell. Clearly disappointed, she asked, "Why?"

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 10 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

"Why?" Melissa cried. She sounded like a child whose favorite toy had been taken from her. "Why would you ever change her back? She's beautiful! She's perfect!"

I sighed involuntarily.

"If you change her back," Melissa insisted, "How will Max see her? How will he meet her? How will they fall in love?" She may have realized that she'd said more than she meant to, because she froze for a moment, her shoulders hunched, her eyes wide. Even so, she continued in a faint undertone: "How will they get married and have grand-babies?"

"Grand-babies?" I repeated, shocked. Melissa didn't blush. She just shrugged.

Viv opened her mouth to answer, but Melissa cut her short. "Isn't this—" she gestured to me, sweeping motions to take in my whole body "—isn't this the exact point? Max needs a date! Here is his date!"

"Take a breath, Melissa," Vivianne told her. "There are more than two months until the wedding. There's plenty of time for everything you said." Her mouth twisted into a side-smile. "Except for the grand-babies, of course."

"Can I even have babies?" I asked, rather stupidly.

"Of course you can! Why wouldn't you?" Viv asked me. I shrugged. "This is what I've been trying to tell you. You're not just putting on a costume or playing a part. You become someone else."

Melissa shook her head, insisting, "As Darcy, she's perfect."

Vivianne, charmed by Melissa's enthusiasm, moved to her side and hugged her. Then she pointed out, "We can't call her Darcy. Darcy is the little girl. Kitty would have to wonder if Max showed up with a grown Darcy a few weeks after meeting Darcy as a little girl."

"That's right!" I breathed, seeing it.

"This is Lorelei," Viv explained.

"Why?" I demanded.

"We'll discuss the name later," she told me. "For now, you are Lorelei."

"Do I have a last name?"

Viv, looking a little peeved, admitted, "Yes, it's Gight. I was saving that for later."

I frowned. "That's my mother's maiden name."

"I know. You're supposed to be Elliot's cousin, aren't you?"

As Vivianne talked, Melissa fussed over me, sweeping imaginary dust from my shoulders, picking up my hand to examine my skin, playing with my hair... "Lorelei," she repeated. "What a lovely name." Then, exasperated, she turned to Viv and demanded, "Why must you turn her back? What's the point?"

"The point is that — before I work this change on Elliot — I want a truly informed consent."

"Consent?" Melissa repeated. Turning to me, intense, focused, she asked, "You consent, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but—" I began, then stopped, seeing the distress my less-than-wholehearted agreement was causing Melissa. Her face contracted in worry.

"You really have a lot invested in this, don't you?" Viv asked her.

"Am I being silly?" Melissa asked. "I don't think so. Ever since they were little, I've been wishing for exactly this — knowing all the time that it was impossible." She shook her head. "But now it's NOT impossible! Look at her!" She looked from Viv to me and back again. "I'm a mother. I'm Max's mother." She pressed her palms together, as if praying. "I can see that— that Lorelei is perfect for him. Perfect. You might not see it, but I do."

Viv gave Melissa an indulgent, but not unkind smile. "My concern is that Elliot might agree to remain Lorelei in the heat of a moment, or in the pleasure of a new experience. Second thoughts are inevitable, and it's my feeling that it's better for Elliot to return to being Elliot and consider what's being asked of him."

Melissa turned her eyes on me. I told her, "I think that's a good idea."

Melissa's shoulders dropped, and she let herself fall into an armchair. "Fine," she muttered. "I just hope you make the right decision."

The three of us had a light dinner together. Melissa kept returning to the idea of taking me to buy more clothes. "You don't have anything to sleep in, do you!" she challenged. To which Viv responded, "I have a pair of shorts and a t-shirt she could wear."

"Hmmph!" scoffed Melissa. "Well, at the very least, I hope that when you decide to be Lorelei, you'll let me help you shop for clothes!"

"I'll be glad to," I confessed. "I'm sure I need a lot of help."

At one point, Viv told us, "In the beginning I thought this was going to be a very simple thing: Max needed a date, Elliot was willing if only he were a girl, and hey presto!" She broke off a tiny bit of bread and chewed it. "Instead, in spite of his desperation, he might have a problem accepting a transformed Elliot."

"He'll get over it," Melissa assured us. She put her hand on mine. "And, darling, if things get... weird or uncomfortable at Max's, you can always come stay with me."

I woke with the sun on Monday. My head was clear. I didn't have any of the disoriented feeling like the day before. I knew who I was: Lorelei. Lorelei Gight, to be precise, Elliot's cousin. I laughed to myself. Then I wiggled around in the bed for a bit so I could feel the smooth sheets against the soft skin of my legs, and experience the sensation of Viv's comfy gray shorts and matching t-shirt. They were cotton, but a much smoother, silkier cotton that I'd ever experienced before.

I knew that my dress hung in the closet, close at hand, but I didn't see the point of getting dressed. After all, in less than an hour my entire body was due to change, so what was the point of dressing?

Padding barefoot down the stairs, I ran into Mr Errison, Vivianne's husband, as he walked through the front hall. He looked a bit older than Viv, had eyeglasses and white hair, and was wearing a pale blue shirt with a dark red tie. Until that moment, I hadn't given him a thought. I wasn't sure he even existed.

"Well, hello!" he exclaimed, "What a pleasant surprise! I assume you're joining us for breakfast?" His glance swiftly passed over my entire body, lingering only for a moment on my bare legs.

Vivianne peeked out from a doorway and waved me to her. "I could go put my dress on," I offered in a whisper.

"Naw," she whispered back with a wicked grin, "Let the old reprobate have a little thrill. It's good for his heart."

Breakfast was laid at a small table. There were only three places, so I had no choice but to sit between them. I should say that Mr Errison was a perfect gentleman, but I also felt pretty sure that he didn't usually smile this much at breakfast.

Afterward, we went to Vivianne's fitting room. I put on the kimono and the medallion, and she touched it with my shirt. I mean Elliot's shirt. Soon I was back to the old me, clothes and all.

"How do you feel?" Viv asked.

"Prosaic," I replied.

"Awww," she cooed with an encouraging smile. "That feeling will fade. Don't worry. Come, let me give you a hug."

She held me a long time. I felt like I needed it.

Then she told me, "Whenever — if ever — you're ready to turn back into Lorelei, give me a call, and we'll make it happen. Okay?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Even if nothing pans out as far as the wedding or with Max, you're always welcome to come see me--"

I thought she was done, so I said, "Thank you" as she continued, "--if you decide you want to live your life as Lorelei."

"Oh!"

"Give it a good think," she said. "Remember, you're unlikely to ever feel 100% sure, so when you're sure enough, call me."

"I will," I said. "Thanks for an amazing weekend."

She favored me with a sunny smile and showed me to the door.

Viv's driver dropped me off at Max's house. Max was in the driveway, hauling the trash bins out to the curb. His eye caught the teddy bear in my hand and stayed there for a few seconds.

In a neutral voice, with a neutral face, he asked me, "Did you have a good time?"

"Yes, I did," I told him. "Uh— are you going to be home for dinner tonight?"

"Yeah." He was almost expressionless; a poker face.

"Okay, good," I said.

"Gotta get to work," he told me, and turned toward the garage.

"Yeah," I acknowledged, and added, "Hey — one thing. I told your Aunt Viv that she made a mistake: she should have turned you into a little boy."

Max stopped and considered it a moment. I don't know why I said it in that moment, but when Max looked me in the face and smiled, I was glad that I did.

I stood in the driveway, holding my little bear, until Max drove away. Then for some reason I walked into the garage and up the stairs, to my old domicile. After a quick look inside the bathroom, it only took a glance to take in the rest of it. Now, after a space of months, I could see the place more objectively. The bathroom was pretty nice. If you were inside with the door closed, you might not feel you were in a garage, although your nose would tell you that you were.

And that was the main sensory impression: anyone could see that a lot of work had been done, but it still smelled of cars and oil and whatever musty fust goes with being inside a garage. It was sad. So why did I come here? Was I trying to make myself feel sad? Or was I sad already and looking for a way to pull it out of me?

In the refrigerator, there was a can of Old Milwaukee beer, room temperature. It made me laugh. I couldn't remember ever buying it, and who would ever give it to me?

I picked it up and brought it into the house. I'd heard that beer made a good shampoo; here was a chance to give it a try. Not right now, but later. Sure.

It was only quarter to nine in the morning. Too early to do almost anything. I called the property management office, but they didn't have any work that needed doing. So I carried my beer and my bear down to the mother-in-law suite. The beer I set in my shower, and the bear I placed on my bed.

"You need a name," I told him, and immediately it came to me: I called him Camembear. "I'm sure it's not original," I told the bear apologetically, "but neither is Elliot, when it comes right down to it."

"Or Lorelei," I added a moment later.

I played with my bear for a few minutes, talking with him, giving him a voice to talk to me. Then I asked myself, If I become a girl, can I play with dolls? I think I'd like to. Of course, not when Max could see! Still, something about it was appealing. Coloring books? I might give that a quick try. What other things do girls do? Field hockey? Soccer? Badminton? Archery? None of them seemed feasible at my age. There was tennis, and there was jogging, or even running races. I'd have to deal with my breasts bouncing all over. I'd need a sports bra. Melissa could help with that.

Of course, there was the entire world of clothes and cosmetics. And hair! I'd have to get used to doing my hair every morning. And depilation. What fun that would be. And periods! Well, other women survive them.

And babies? Strangely, that thought didn't frighten me, although if I knew more about it, it probably would have.

As I thought about all these things and others, it became clear to me that I fully intended to do it: I was going to become Lorelei. That name, though: I'd have to find something better, and I'd have to find it before the next time I talked to Vivianne.

But still, to have some credibility with her, I ought to wait a couple of days — also to give myself time to see the scheme from different sides, in different moods. At the moment, I felt as though I was coming down from a high: Lorelei was the high, and now Elliot was the low: drab and dull by comparison. Lorelei was alive; Lorelei was life. Elliot was simply existence.

I lay on my bed and looked through the pictures on my phone. I had the one of Darcy with Kitty, and six of Lorelei, alone: three in the bathing suit and two in the dress. I flipped through the seven pictures, zooming in and out, studying them. I kept asking myself, watching myself to see how those pictures made me feel, but I as far as I could see, they didn't make me feel anything in particular. I liked the pictures. I liked them a lot. Lorelei was nice to look at. She looked open, approachable, friendly, kind... all of the attributes I associate to Kitty. She was very Kitty-like, although the face was more or less mine and the body was hotter than Kitty's. She was slender, like Gal Gadot. Not thin, slender. Although, of course, broader than Gadot, with more meat on the bones. Her body was more like Sophie Tucker's.

After rolling back and forth through those few photos, I choose my favorite Lorelei photo, and in an unguarded moment, I sent it to my Dad. Don't ask me why. It was an impulse that I kicked myself for afterward, but I did it.

I thought about Max. I tried to divine his emotional state. Unfortunately, thinking about it didn't get me anywhere. Max was a fairly sanguine type, though: positive, forward-looking, generally happy and helpful. Even when he was in that deep funk at the start of the year — after Amber abandoned him — he didn't stay down for long. Whatever trauma he experienced at the hands of his Aunt Viv, I felt confident he'd get over it.

In fact, he sounded normal, like his old self, when he called at about one. "Hey, how's it going? Listen, would you mind if Kitty and Claus came over for dinner tomorrow?"

"No, of course not! I like them a lot."

"Good, yeah, me too. Do you mind making something nice? You know, like that salmon in pouches?"

"Salmon in parchment."

"Yeah! That. And what goes with that?"

"I could make a mushroom rice pilaf or roasted baby potatoes..."

"Pilaf!"

"And, um, I could pan-fry some asparagus if I find some at the store."

"Sounds good."

"And salad. Can we ask them to bring dessert?"

"Yes, I'll do that. Great, thanks!"

"My pleasure," I told him.

After that phone call, I thought, I'm his wife in everything but sex. It was a strange thought to think, and it would have been meaningless and weird, if it weren't for the Medallion of Zulo.

So, Kitty and Claus tomorrow. Tonight, me and Max. I figured comfort food was the way to go, and settled on meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and sauteed green beans. I did a quick run to the store for the few ingredients I was missing. Inevitably, I ran into Kitty.

"Don't you ever work?" I teased.

"I could say the same to you!" she retorted.

"Touché," I replied.

"Oh, hey," she said. "Claus just told me we're coming for dinner tomorrow at Chez Max. I hear they have an amazing new chef."

"Amazing is going a bit far," I told her. "I think I'm sandlot level."

"Sandlot? What's that mean?"

"Oh, I mean, sandlot like in baseball. It means pretty good for an amateur."

"Okay — well, I'm looking forward to it." She waved and turned to go.

"So — wait — if Claus told you, then... did Claus call Max, or Max call Claus?"

"Claus called Max, but not about dinner. He wanted to ask Max some silly thing about Nessa's wedding, about American Marriage Customs, as he puts it. He gets oddly formal sometimes. Then, while they were talking, Max invited him over. Why? It's not a problem, is it?"

"No, actually — the opposite! It'll be nice to have company. I'm glad you guys are coming. It'll give me a chance to get to know Claus a little."

"Come on — you've known him since high school."

"Not really! You have known him since high school."

"Okay, fair enough. Anyway, it'll be fun. And you'll like Claus; he's a great guy."

When Max got home from work, he was very enthusiastic when he heard the menu. "I've got a nice Shiraz from the Rhone Valley that will pair perfectly!" he said.

"If you say so."

Of course, he was right. "Pairing wines is like matching colors," I observed.

"If you say so," he quipped.

I'd forgotten about dessert, but Max waved that problem away. "I've got some nice cigars I picked up today," he boasted. "We should probably smoke them out back, though, not in the house."

I declined the cigar, but did accept a snifter of Flor de Caña, a Nicaraguan rum, that he claimed was "another perfect pairing."

Max leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed in a wide figure-four, as he blew smoke rings up into the trees.

I tried to relax, but it was difficult. I sat up straight in my chair, looking for a way to broach the topic of my transformation. Luckily, Max did it for me.

"So...," he began, firing one tiny smoke ring through the center of a larger, slower-moving ring. "Did you spend the entire weekend as a little girl?"

"No, on Sunday night she turned me into a full-grown woman, a little younger than us — than me."

He nodded. "And did you like that?"

"Yeah, I liked it a lot, actually."

"Did you want to stay that way?"

"Um, maybe. I mean, I didn't know it was a possibility until three days ago, and I didn't experience the reality of it until yesterday. So it's a little hard to think how it would be for days or weeks on end."

"That's a whole lot of words," he observed. "I'm not clear on what you're trying to say."

"Viv wants me to spend some time as Elliot and think about what I want to do."

"What do you want to do? You must know already, right?"

"I want to do it," I confided nervously. "I just have to take a few days to make sure I don't change my mind."

Max didn't say anything in response. He just reclined there, looking up at the sky. He wasn't puffing on the cigar any more and he wasn't sipping his rum.

"What do you think about it, Max?"

He turned his head to look at me. "I don't know, Elliot. It sounds simple, but it's not. I mean, think about all the things that could go wrong."

"Like what?"

"What if you turn into a girl, and I don't like you?"

That stopped me for a moment. But I said, "I don't think that would happen. What else?"

"Suppose I *do* like you, and we have sex together and we like it. Then what?"

"I don't know — we enjoy it? I don't see that as a problem."

"The problem comes when you turn back to being Elliot. What do we do then? I'm not going to have sex with a man. And while we're on the subject, how do I know that I'll be able to get past the fact that you ARE a man, even if you have boobs and a butt and all the rest?"

He took a perfunctory pull on the cigar, then the rum. Then he said, "Or what about you? What if YOU can't get over the fact that you'd be having sex with a man?"

"Maybe we don't need to have sex," I pointed out. "This is really about the wedding, right?"

"Yes, but we'd need to be believable as a couple. We'd have to be affectionate. Neither of us can recoil at the other's touch. I mean, right now I wouldn't be able to squeeze up next to you on a couch and put my arm around you. Could you?"

"Not at the moment," I admitted. "But the only way we can know for real is to try."

"Yeah," Max said, and shook his head. "I don't know if I'm up for trying."

Another puff, another sip, and then he straightened up, feet on the ground, and looked me in the face.

"There's one really big consideration. Have you thought about this? What if this ruins our friendship? This switcheroo could bring us to a point where we wouldn't be unable to look each other in the face."

"I've thought about that," I told him, "but again, we wouldn't know until we try."

"And what about this: I don't understand why changing into a girl didn't freak you out from the get-go, but maybe for you it'll happen later. It could be like a time bomb inside you. One day you might just flip out. It could mess you up forever."

"Yeah, I don't see that happening."

Max sighed. "You're going to do this, I can tell." He shook his head. "The thing is, I don't want you to get hurt! You're my friend, Elliot. My best friend. I don't want to lose you for the sake of some stupid one-upmanship game with Amber. I can go to the wedding alone. I'm a big boy."

His cigar had gone out. It took three tries to relight it. He puffed a few puffs. He held it out to me, offering a puff. I shook my head. He cleared his throat.

"One more thing: it bothers me that you're so willing to do this for me. If you wanted to be a girl for your own reasons, that would be one thing. But what is it really about? Finding a date for Max, so he won't be alone at Nessa's wedding? Come on, Elliot! You'd be paying an enormous price for such a small payoff."

"It doesn't seem that way to me."

Max sighed again, and told me, "Maybe you ought to hold off making the change until you DO see it that way."

I shrugged and took a healthy sip of rum.

"Look, man," Max said. "No matter what, we have to be sure we stay best friends forever, right?"

I clinked my snifter against his, and echoed his words, "Best friends forever!"

He swore. "Oh, shit — that's what teenage girls say, isn't it. We need a different toast."

I laughed.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 11 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Monday night, the night after Max and I spoke, was the worst night of my life. It was as though I fell into an abyss of uncertainty.

On the one hand, everything seemed simple. It was as if we could flip a switch and instantly I'd be Max's date for the wedding. Then click! we'd throw the switch back, and I'd be Elliot again. What could be simpler?

Instead, I was fearfully confused. What made it worse was that it was Max who'd confused me. I hoped that talking with him would clear the air; I figured that if we spoke, it would help move things along. Instead, Max loaded me up with doubts and inner conflict. If I hadn't gone into it with Max tonight, I might be more confident in what was ahead.

My goal last night was simple: I wanted Max to see that the transformations hadn't hurt me, the way they'd hurt him. I imagined he was suffering — suffering from something like PTSD, as though his aunt had used the medallion to do violence to his inner world and then done the same thing to me. I wanted him to see that I was fine, and then, by extension, by application, that he, too, was fine.

I didn't expect him to have already processed the experience, rejected it, tossed it over his shoulder like a piece of trash, and walked away from it.

And yet...

I ran over and over our conversation, replaying it in my memory, and I noticed something interesting. He never came right out and told me not to do it. He gave me downsides, potential issues, dangers, but he didn't come right out and say, Don't do it, Elliot.

What did that mean? It meant that he wasn't sure. Maybe it even meant that he wanted me to do it? Could I go that far, in my inferences? I mean, if I put myself in Max's place... let's say that I was Max and I loved the idea. Would I be able to tell myself (tell Elliot, that is), "Yes, Elliot, go do it. It will be like Cinderella at the ball, more or less."

I laughed. It would be like Cinderella at the ball, wouldn't it. No one would know who I was ("You should have heard the oohs and ahhs / Everyone wondering who she was"), and afterward, I'd disappear. More effectively than Cinderella, though — I wouldn't be leaving a glass slipper behind, and Max wouldn't have to search the town to find me.

I laughed as though Max was in on the joke, but of course he wasn't. I had no idea how Max really felt — and clearly I couldn't simply ask him. Even in that, it's like I said: The only way we can know is to try.

Max wouldn't be able to bring himself to the point of telling me to do it. He knows that if he asked me, I would. And then, if it all went wrong, if it fucked me up, if either or both of us were hurt, or if our friendship was blown to pieces, Max would feel the blame. He'd think it was all his fault, all on him.

This way, it was all on me: the decision, the trying — well, no, the trying would be on both of us. But I'd have to be Lorelei before we could even look at each other.

The worst part of this being my decision is that I wasn't sure how I felt. Or did I? Was I simply afraid of making a bad decision? a wrong decision?

Sure, the physical change could be undone. I could always go back to being Elliot, but any emotional damage, any reputational damage... well, that could last forever. Turning back into Elliot wouldn't necessarily heal all wounds.

Should I become Lorelei? Would I be making a mistake? Would I be making a fool of myself? Would everyone at the wedding — or worse, before the wedding — guess that I was really Elliot? Was that even possible?

A dozen times I got up in the night to make a list of pros and cons, but I didn't have any paper or anything to write with. In spite of knowing I'd find nothing, I wandered around, looking again in the same cabinets and drawers. I debated going up to the kitchen to find what I needed, but I didn't want to wake Max. I needed to be alone, so I could hash this out with myself.

In spite of it being a warm night, I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the floor, shivering.

What was the problem? I tried to calm myself, to sort out my feelings. To see... what did my uncertainty boil down to? Fear, obviously. Fear of making a wrong decision, fearing of making a fool of myself, and fear of alienating Max.

All of Max's objections echoed in my head, including his mention of the possibility of sex, and its aftermath. Did I want to have sex with Max? No. Was I in love with Max? No. Did I want to be Max's girlfriend?

That last question was a puzzler. Max has always been my best friend. I've always been happy to be with him, to do things with him, but it was never sexual. I never felt a desire to sleep with him, or cuddle with him, or kiss him, or anything like that. It never entered my mind — until now. The medallion opened up possibilities that didn't exist before.

I tried whittling down the question to its smallest size: Could I be Max's date for the wedding? That's what this was all about, right? The answer was, yes, I think I could be Max's date. I could be affectionate and attentive. Mainly, I'd have to be there, on his arm. Showing up was most of it. The rest was playing the part. We could try. If it didn't work, if it wasn't believable, I'd simply pay another visit to Vivianne and have her change me back to Elliot. That was the worst-case scenario, right? And as a worst-case, it wasn't so bad. Max would go alone to the wedding. He might be embarrassed or feel stupid. He might get teased, but he wouldn't die. It wouldn't ruin his life. He'd handle it like a man.

Okay. With that consideration, I felt that I'd settled the question. I'd ask Vivianne to change me into Lorelei, and then we'd see whether I made a viable candidate for Max's plus-one. It was simple. If I failed to mesh with Max, to be believable, I'd change back right away. Otherwise, I'd turn back after the wedding.

The time on my phone was 2:30. It was dark, but I didn't want to turn on the light. For a moment I wondered whether Amber was lurking in the shadows, circling the house, creeping through the shrubbery, peeking through the windows. I tried to laugh at the idea, but it wasn't really funny.

With the feeling that I'd accomplished all the thinking and made all the decisions that needed to be done, I crawled into bed, shifted around a bit to get comfortable, and closed my eyes.

All was peaceful, without and within, until something Max said echoed in my memory:

"It bothers me that you're so willing to do this for me. If you wanted to be a girl for your own reasons, that would be one thing. But what is it really about? Finding a date for Max, so he won't be alone at Nessa's wedding? Come on, Elliot! You'd be paying an enormous price for such a small payoff."

THAT question opened an entirely new can of worms. Did I want to be a girl? If Max was not in the picture, would I take advantage of the medallion, and turn into Lorelei, for a little over two months? Or even — did I dare to think it? — forever and ever? I mean, if I was willing to be a woman for weeks and weeks, did that imply that I wanted to be a girl? If I was alone in the world, what choice would I make, now that the choice was being offered?

My brain spun, turning back on itself, asking questions about questions, and getting no answers.

It came down to this, or so I thought: Have I ever made a decision simply and solely for myself? Thinking back to the pivotal moments in my life, I couldn't come up with an example of a decision that was all about me. In retrospect, in the light of this crazy night, it looked like all my big decisions were based on someone else.

Going backward from today, there was the move here, into the mother-in-law apartment. *That* was Max's decision, pure and simple. Max unilaterally moved me in. He didn't ask whether I wanted to. I *did* want to, but the impetus, the decision, was his.

Before that, the move above the garage. That was Amber's call: she decided, and I went along with it.

Before that, I moved in with my Dad and worked on the renovation. That was Dad's plan. I was along for the ride.

And before that, the startup. Sure, that was my decision, and I did have to make efforts to get in there, but there's a bigger principle at work. In this case, it's about what I didn't do.

I'm supposedly a highly-sought, highly-valued software developer. I know a couple of programming languages well, and I've worked on a couple of well-known projects as well as gigs at a prestigious company and a top-notch university.

And so, one would think — *I* would think — that I could take all my experience and expertise and strike out on my own. What I intended to do, before I joined the startup, was to create something on my own. I wanted to develop my own product, start my own company. I didn't want to join a startup, I wanted to be a startup. I wanted to be able to call myself a Founder.

The problem was, I didn't have any ideas. What did people want or need that didn't already exist?

In the end, it came down to earning money, which I was unable to do on my own. When the startup offered me a job, it was exciting at first. All the romance of being in on the ground floor, and the supposedly imminent big payoff. It was great, yeah, until they worked the life out of me. All right — I don't want to air my beef with the startup. Not right now. My point in mentioning it is this: I was along for the ride. As usual, I wasn't driving. Did I ever drive? Did I ever act on my own ideas?

I sighed. Even so, I didn't have cause to complain. My life has been good. I've always been healthy. I've never gone hungry or homeless. I've always had friends. So what if I was destined to be a second fiddle, or a sidekick, or a follower? We can't all be leaders.

So, okay, yes: my life has been good. Better than the lives of most people in this world.

Still, now that I have a choice, do I like being Elliot? How do I feel about my life right now?

Honestly, apart from my confusion and fear, my main, overriding emotion, the backdrop to my life, was sadness. Just in this moment, in these few days, I mean. Why was I sad? Because I missed being Lorelei, or even Darcy. I missed being a girl, even if I'd only had a little taste of that life.

Was that enough to go on? Could I decide, just based on that? On my feeling that I was sad about not being Lorelei? Did that make any sense at all?

Was I making too much of a brief, exciting experience?

I very nearly asked myself, Who could I ask? — absurdly, ironically, I wanted someone else to validate my choice; to tell me whether my desires and feelings were enough, when it came to making a decision for myself.

That said, there was someone I wanted to talk to. My Dad. Not to talk about Lorelei, of course! All I wanted was to touch base, to ground myself, to hear his voice. It couldn't hurt. It would probably help.

Morning found me in the kitchen, making tea and toast. Max came bounding down the stairs. "You're full of energy today," I observed.

"Yeah!" he agreed. "I feel good. I slept like a log! But what about you? You look like you've been up all night!"

"Yeah. I didn't sleep much."

"Are you going to be alright for tonight? The dinner with Kitty and Claus?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll take a nap at some point. I'll be fine."

He grabbed a couple of energy bars and some fruit. "You look stressed out, man. You're stressed about the girl thing, aren't you."

"Yeah," I confessed.

"Make it easy on yourself," he suggested. "Don't do it. It's the simplest thing."

"Oh, hey," I said, "Not to change the subject, but — changing the subject — about Kitty."

"What about Kitty?"

"Your mother mentioned that she doesn't trust her."

Max groaned. "Oh, I know! She's been telling me that for years!"

"Really?"

"Yes, really! And when I ask her why, she has no reasons. It's just a feeling." Max shrugged.

"Well, how about this for a reason: Kitty is friends with Amber."

"And?"

"What if Kitty is coming tonight to spy for Amber?"

"What if she is?"

I gestured mutely, a little frantically, as if to say Don't you get it?

Max considered a moment, then asked, "Let's say she *is* spying for Amber. What would you want to do about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe we need some kind of plan. We don't want to give any more ammunition to Amber. She doesn't need more material for her lies."

Max took a long breath and looked steadily at me. He cleared his throat and said, "No. Just no. I am not going to nurture a sense of paranoia and I am NOT going to change anything in my life because of that woman." He shook his head. "If Kitty comes as a spy, let her come and spy. I don't care. There's nothing about this house or about me that Amber doesn't already know. And listen: Kitty's not just Amber's friend; she's our friend, and I am not going to cut her off because she likes that crazy woman. Amber wants to isolate us. I'm not going along with it." I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. "If she's going to report to Amber, she's perfectly free to waste her time doing that — as far as I'm concerned."

"Okay," I conceded. "I guess you're right."

"Amber wants to play her idiotic game, but it takes two, and I'm not playing."

He stopped talking and took time to peel a banana. He took a bite, watching me the whole time.

"My God, bro — you look miserable. You're letting this crazy BS get to you. You need to quit thinking about Amber. And forget about my aunt and my mother, while you're at it!" He made a smoothing motion with his hands. "Just chill out. Just... you do you. Screw everybody else."

"Okay," I said. "I just need a nap. Or maybe a long walk."

He smiled. Then his smile broadened. "Hey, I know what might cheer you up! You look like you could use a present! A Christmas present!" He chuckled and walked into the kitchen pantry. On the highest shelf were five Christmas presents, the same ones that were under the tree on Christmas Eve. They were still perfectly wrapped in gold paper with red ribbons. Max got a step-stool and reached down the biggest one. He set on the kitchen island, next to my tea and toast.

"Merry Christmas!" he said, laughing. "I'm off to work. See you tonight!" Before he went out the back door, he stopped and joked, "I sure hope I picked the right box! Otherwise, this could be pretty embarrassing!"

I watched his car back out of the driveway as the garage door automatically closed. Once he was out of sight I picked up the box and shook it. It was a little heavy, and it didn't make any noise when shaken. I lifted the tag on top. It read, "To Amber, From Max."

"Hmmph," I said to myself. "Fuck you, Amber!" I rubbed the tag between my fingers, ready to tear it off. Then, after a little reflection, I noted, "At least it doesn't say Love, Max!" I took that as a little victory, and folded the wrapping paper over, hiding the tag from sight.

I tugged on the red ribbon, but it didn't give. Instead, my phone rang. It was Melissa.

"Good morning, Elliot!" she gushed, spilling over with enthusiasm. "Or should I say, Lorelei?"

"No, Melissa, I'm still Elliot. Also, I'm still waking up."

"Do you want me to come pick you up? We could have breakfast together on the way to Vivianne's house."

"Melissa, I'm not ready," I told her, gently.

"Why not?" she whined.

"Are you kidding? Come on, it's a big decision!"

"No, *you* come on! Time's a-wastin'! The clock is tickling!"

"Melissa, Melissa—" I interrupted "—the clock is ticking, not tickling."

"Yes, and that's why we need to strike! Strike while the iron is hot! What are you doing now, anyway, that's so important?"

"Um, Max just gave me a Christmas present."

"Why?"

"To cheer me up, I guess."

"Oh, really! What is it?"

To make a long dialog shorter, she pestered me until I opened the package. When she learned that it was an All-in-One Cooker, she was wildly disappointed. Then, struck by a thought, she asked, "Do you think it's some kind of message?"

"No," I said. "It's just practical. No message. In fact, he told me this morning that he doesn't think I should change into Lorelei."

"Oh, did he? Didn't he like the pictures? How did he react when he saw the swimsuit photos?"

"He didn't see the photos. He doesn't want to see the photos."

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "I don't think my heart can take this! What do I have to do to convince you two?"

"Just give me time, Melissa. Please. It's a big decision."

I tried to call my Dad, but his voicemail said that he was "probably sailing or maybe golfing, but in any case, not at home."

"It's your cell phone, Dad! You don't need to be at home!" I exclaimed at his recording, but I didn't leave a message.

I couldn't find a tablecloth, and I had to look on the internet to see whether the wine glass or the water glass was on the inside, but in the end I set a pretty nice table. We had no flowers or candles, but I said, "I'm not a girl, so I don't care!"

When Max arrived, he ran upstairs to shower and change. When he came down, I set out an antipasto platter.

"You made this?" he asked, popping an olive in his mouth. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be," I told him. "It's from the delicatessen in Town Center."

"Still, impressive," he said, taking a few slices of cheese.

Kitty and Claus arrived soon after. Claus called out, "Hello, all together!" Kitty punched his arm and gave him a reproving look.

"Ow!" he said. "'Hello, all together' is a perfectly acceptable greeting!"

"In Germany, maybe," she said. "Not here."

"Okay," he conceded. "Howdy, y'all!"

"Howdy, pardner," I replied, laughing. I kissed Kitty's cheek. After Melissa's warning, Kitty didn't seem to radiate her usual magical aura, but I was determined to keep an open mind and judge for myself.

Max handed around glasses of white wine. He asked Claus, "So, are we clear? No smoking at the wedding."

"No smoking?" I asked.

"Germans call tuxedos smoking," Kitty explained. "Claus thought he'd have to wear a tuxedo at Nessa's wedding. That's why he called Max yesterday."

Claus protested, "In my defense, I figured destination wedding, smoking! Sorry, tuxedo! Newport mansion, tuxedo! Am I wrong?"

"If the invitation said black tie, which it does't," Max answered.

"And do we need separate clothes for the ceremony and the— uh— der Hochzeitsempfang?"

"Whoa, that's a mouthful," Max chuckled.

"The, um, reception?" I hazarded.

"Yes!" Claus cried. "Exactly! Do you speak German?" I shook my head.

I began to feel that Claus was playing up the "helpless foreigner" bit. He moved here when he was seventeen years old, so the "how-do-you-say-in-English" act seemed put-on. Still, I was determined to keep an open mind.

Kitty gave a sideward glance at Claus and asked, "If that word for 'reception' was so long—"

"Der Hochzeitsempfang."

"—what do the bride and groom say in German instead of I do?"

"They say Ja," Claus replied.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, of course! Why not?"

"It's so prosaic," I said. Claus shrugged.

"Speaking of weddings," Kitty said, "Specifically, Nessa's wedding—" she turned to me with a teasing look "—you're coming, aren't you, Elliot?"

Max's face remained impassive.

"No, I'm not invited," I replied..

"Not yet," she breathed in a quick whisper. Then to Max, "Do you have a date yet? Have you found your plus-one?" Clearly, Kitty was in the mood to tease.

"No," he told her. "The current plan is for me to go alone."

"No!" Kitty exclaimed, "You can't!" She leaned forward with a sly, wicked smile, "I found a girl who'd be a PERFECT date for you — if only she was ten years older! Look!"

She held her phone out for Max to see. He was nonplussed. She showed it to Claus, who frowned.

"Do I get a look?" I asked. She showed me her selfie with Darcy.

"I don't understand," Claus said. "This is a little girl. Where is the joke?"

Kitty scoffed. "Can't you see? This girl looks just like Elliot! Isn't it freaky?"

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Darcy. I didn't get her last name."

"It could be Darcy Gight," I told her. "I have a cousin with that name."

"If she's your cousin, why don't you recognize her?"

"I've never met her. Her father and my mother were estranged when I was little." As a lie, it was coming out pretty well. I actually *do* have an uncle who cut ties with the family while I was still a baby.

"Really! So where does she live?"

"I don't know," I insisted. "For my whole life, my uncle's had nothing to do with my family. I've never met him or Darcy."

Claus interjected, "But, Kitty, look — Does the little girl have an older sister? I thought *that* was the punchline here."

Kitty ignored him. Not having gotten the reaction from Max that she was looking for, she tried a different tack. She turned to Max and gestured at her phone. "Darcy was with your Aunt Vivian." Max shrugged. Kitty turned to me. "How does Max's aunt know your cousin Darcy?"

"I don't know," I repeated. "Again: Darcy's family and mine are estranged. It means we don't have any contact." That much was true.

"You know," Claus said, "This situation — of Max and the wedding — is a typical rom-com pattern, you know? Like in a Lifetime movie?"

"You watch Lifetime?" Max asked. "Isn't that 'Television for women'?"

Claus blushed slightly, but he defended himself, "I watch it so I can share Kitty's interests. Besides those films are often funny and cute." After a pause, he added, "And you — how do you know their slogan? You must have watched it as well."

Max side-stepped that question. He asked, "How is this in any way like a rom-com? Aren't rom-com's supposed to be funny?"

"Well," Claus said, expansively, "Of course there is conflict, frustration, problems. It wouldn't be a good story if everything was smooth as butter. But, see — the frustrations and complications can be funny in themselves, but the attempts at resolution go comically awry.

"Also, there can be other elements, such as outlandish coincidences, well-intentioned relatives who try to help, but only make things worse, simple misunderstandings that balloon into heated conflicts... Secrets! Secrets aren't told, but are discovered at the worst time. And occasionally, by a huge stretch of the imagination, something magical. For instance, if this girl Darcy became older, and you meet, and—"

"It's getting more than a little creepy," Max objected.

"You're right, you're right, not a good example at all. Cancel all that. More typically, it's much simpler. There is a man, like you — good looking, well off, but for some reason he cannot get a date for this family wedding! Perhaps he is afraid of commitment, ja? So, what does he do? His car breaks down outside a funny little bookstore, or a quaint, quirky cafe, and there he meets an attractive woman. They hit it off, and on impulse, he invites her to be his date — but only pretending."

"Why only pretending?"

"Because it isn't real!" Claus warms to his subject. "See — she, for some reason, is willing to cover his embarrassment, and she plays along. At the wedding, he sleeps on the sofa; she in the bed."

"Uh... sleeping at the wedding?"

"It's a destination wedding! Like Nessa's! More than one day is spent at this gorgeous destination."

"Again I ask: how is any of this funny?"

"Well, they are pretending to be in a relationship, but in actual fact they know nothing about each other. Everyone wants to know how they met, what they do together, who she is, and so on. There are many contradictions, and much comedy ensues."

"And then?"

"Well, and then! Inevitably they fight. They have a tremendous knocking of heads — a huge scene, at the wedding. Perhaps someone falls into the wedding cake, for example, or knocks the bride, still in her wedding dress, into the pool. Of course, purely by accident."

Claus laughed inordinately. The rest of us smiled politely.

"The joke, you see, is that the relationship is completely fake. But then, inevitably, there is a denoument. In the end, they fall in love, and possibly get married themselves." He cleared his throat, seeing he'd let himself get carried away. "In any case, this is the pattern."

"Okay!" I said. "And on that note, why don't we come sit at the table? The food is ready."

Max turned to Kitty and talked to her as they ambled over to the dining room. Claus scampered after me to help serve the food.

"This food is beautiful, Ell!" he exclaimed. "You certainly have a knack for cooking!"

"What did you call me?" I asked.

"Ell. That's what Kitty calls you. I thought everyone calls you that."

"I never heard her call me that. And I've never heard 'Ell' as a nickname for Elliot. It sounds kind of feminine." I was irritated, mildly offended.

"Oh, no," contradicted Claus. "Think of el Cid! More manly than he, there is no other."

"I don't know that name."

"Oh, but you must! Everyone knows el Cid! Eleventh century soldier, I don't know a lot of details, but he was a brilliant strategist. He fought against both Christians and Muslims."

"Sounds like he didn't get along with anyone," I joked. Claus shrugged.

"My God, Ell!" he exclaimed, "Everything smells so wonderful! I can see that you are quite the Hausfrau."

Hausfrau? "Ah... Claus, I don't know that word."

"Ach! I should say hausfraulein, really."

"Fraulein?" I repeated, "Doesn't that mean girl?"

"I don't mean that literally," he protested. "Don't be offended! But you do play the female part in the relationship, don't you?"

"Yes," I said drily, "Like el Cid."

He gave an embarrassed laugh. I think he meant to tease, the way that Kitty teases, but he'd gone too far. He gave a quick bow of the head, said "Sorry!"

"Don't worry," I said. "But don't call me 'Ell', okay?"

"Fine," he agreed.

The rest of the dinner was unremarkable. Claus remained on his best behavior, and turned out to be a good dinner companion. Kitty chatted about various friends we all knew, and refrained from making any more of her little insinuations.

For dessert, they brought three flavors of flan: the classic flan, coconut flan, and pina colada flan. All perfectly delicious.

After dessert, we went out back so Max and Claus could smoke cigars. Max, Claus, and I had snifters of rum. Kitty drank tea. ("I need to be able to drive," she explained.)

They left after ten, close to ten-thirty. Max and I took a first pass at clean-up, putting the food away, loading the dishwasher.

"I had a really good time," I confessed. "I didn't expect to enjoy it as much as I did."

"There were a few brief awkward moments at the start," Max agreed, nodding.

"But it didn't spoil the evening," I said.

"I still like Kitty."

"Me, too," I said. "Claus can be a bit much, though."

"I think that he tries too hard to be funny. He plays the buffoon, but he doesn't need to."

I nodded.

All that remained were the pots and the pans, and the general putting-things-back-in-order. "I'll get the rest tomorrow," I told Max. He saluted me, said "thanks," and shuffled upstairs to bed.

It was almost eleven when I went downstairs to my room. My phone, which I'd left down there the entire time, was vibrating. I had a text message.

It was from my Dad. He sent a comment on the photo I'd sent him — the photo of me as Lorelei. My heart was in my throat.

The text from Dad read, "Am I crazy, or is this Lorelei? Call me!"

Then another text: "I bought a sailboat!"

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 12 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

After seeing Lorelei's name in my father's text message, I expected another sleepless night. Instead, I slept like a log, and didn't wake up until nine o'clock. It was a day of bright, almost intense sunlight. Surprisingly, I felt great!

The business about that name, Lorelei Gight, bothered me, but it bothered me a lot less than I feared it might. Obviously Vivianne had done some checking into my life and background. The night we met, I recalled, she asked me a lot of questions about my family. At the time I wondered why I felt compelled to answer — why I succumbed to Vivianne's air of command. Her questions seemed odd and out of place at the time, but in retrospect they were very forward-looking; it was part of Vivianne's thorough planning. Clearly, I wasn't Viv's first science project. She mentioned others... if I remembered correctly, she told me there were at least two men that she'd turned into women. It was in reaction to their excesses that Viv initially changed Max and me into little girls at first, rather than women closer to our own age. She was trying to teach us something, to give the experience of being someone else, minus one big danger — the lure, the temptation of sex. Or better, of uncontrolled, impulsive sex. I didn't think I'd be making that same mistake as those two.

I didn't intend to remain a woman for the rest of my life, the way that those two men had. Even so, I got the impression that Viv was preparing the groundwork in case I did decide to turn female forever. When the other two men transitioned, or transformed, there must have been some paperwork involved in their change of persona. I mean, everyone's identity needs to be documented. At the very least, we all need a birth certificate. How far ahead has Viv gone in creating for me what spies and undercover cops would call my "legend": At minimum, that meant name, date and place of birth. I doubted that Viv chose the name Lorelei Gight out of thin air. Did I have a cousin Lorelei? Was there an easy way to fabricate documents for a fictitious cousin Lorelei Gight?

Knowing, as I did, that Viv had already poked around in my life, it wasn't a complete bolt from the blue, when my father said that name. Sure, I didn't expect it, but it was more a surprise than a shock.

These considerations led me to a fairly obvious and immediate question: Did Lorelei Gight already exist? Would I be assuming the identity of a person I might actually bump into?

But again, the question was little more than a mild irritation, not a major, nagging issue. I felt confident that a couple of questions to Dad and/or Vivianne would quickly clear things up.

But first, breakfast!

When I ascended the stairs to the kitchen, I was greeted by the pleasant discovery that Max had already washed the pots, pans, and glasses that we'd left the night before: the remnants of our dinner preparations were stacked, racked, and dry or draining. Nice! Less work for me. I pushed some bread into the toaster and set some water on the stove for tea.

Now, who to call first? I gazed slantwise into the toaster, checking whether the bread was beginning to brown. While I waited, I mulled over that other name, Darcy. Viv told me at the time that Darcy had a made-up last name. I scratched my head. It seemed, then, that "Darcy" was a single-use, throwaway name, a one-off, but that Lorelei was chosen with the possibility of permanence. If I opted not to remain Lorelei, no loss, but I'd have a more solid identity as long as I continued to be her.

After I'd poured hot water over my tea, while I was buttering my toast, Melissa called. I put her on speaker so I could finish buttering. I didn't want the toast to cool!

Her pent-up excitement was almost palpable. Her anticipation coursed over the phone like electricity. At the same time, I could feel that she was sitting on her enthusiasm, trying her best to tamp it down.

"Just checking in, no pressure," she said. "Are you ready yet?"

"Melissa, you will be the first to know, I promise."

She sighed. I could hear her deflate, disappointed. "Do you promise?"

"Yes. I swear."

"Can you at least tell me: will it be soon?"

Kicking myself as I said it, I answered truthfully. "Yes, it'll be soon. For sure I'm going to do it, but I'm not ready to pull the trigger yet. And don't ask me what soon means."

Melissa whooped the first time I said soon, then groaned the second time I said it. In the end, she sighed and apologized. Recovering her composure, she assured me, "Okay, okay! No pressure! No pressure! Okay? I just want you to know that I'm here."

"I know you are," I told her. "I appreciate it."

"I'm here day or night. Alright? Day or night. But no pressure!"

"No pressure," I repeated. "Bye for now, Melissa. I'll call you." With that, I broke the connection.

I put the pots, pans, and glasses back into their respective cabinets. I set my breakfast plate and mug in the dishwasher. Then I tried to call my Dad.

After listening to his sailing/golfing message, I said, "Dad? It's, um, Elliot. Could you call me when you get a chance? Thanks."

The clock hadn't moved since I last looked at it. I groaned and drummed my fingers on the kitchen island. Uncomfortable at being at such loose ends, I called Vivianne.

Her line rang five times before it was answered... by Mr Errison!

"Hello, Mr. Errison. This is Elliot Beekman. I was looking for Vivianne. Did I call the wrong number? I thought this was her cell."

"Oh, yes," he replied jovially. "Vivianne is out and about; location unknown. This is her cell phone, but she's left it at home. Whether on purpose or by design, I can't tell."

I laughed, though I wasn't sure whether he was joking. Honestly, he sounded a little tipsy — and so early in the day! "Aren't those two the same, Mr Errison? Purpose and design?"

"Oh, yes, ha! You've got me there! What I mean to say is that old Viv forgot her phone, although I don't know whether to put air-quotes around the word forgot."

"I understand."

"Good. Well, listen, Elliot, I'm sure she'll be glad to speak with you. When she reappears, would you like her to call?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll give her that message. Over and out!"

"Over and out," I repeated, wondering whether I could depend on Mr Errison to pass on the message. I'd have to call back, if I didn't hear from Viv by lunch. Or say, around one? One-thirty?

What to do with myself? I called the property management office, but they didn't need me.

Maybe I could take a look at the all-in-one cooker Max gave me? I might get inspired and use it for tonight's dinner. I pulled it down from the high shelf in the pantry, still nestled in its gold wrapping paper and bits of red ribbon. I set it on the kitchen island and freed it from its festive wrapping. I pulled the top of the box open, and the doorbell rang.

It was Kitty, of all people. "Hi," she said, kissing me on both cheeks. "Sorry to burst in on you, but I think I left my bracelet here last night. Have you seen it? It's a chunky silver chain."

"No, I'm sure I haven't," I replied after a moment's thought. "But come on in, we'll look for it together." Honestly, I didn't remember seeing a chunky silver bracelet at all, on her wrist or off. I gazed back into my memory. To the best of my recollection, her wrists were bare when she arrived last night. Oh, well.

Kitty wandered into the living room, chatting as she did about the great time she and Claus had last night, and how impressed they both were at my cooking. She sat down at one end of the couch and dug her hand along the sides of the cushions and in between the cushions and the back. After working her way halfway down the couch, she pulled out a rather obvious chunky silver bracelet.

"What a relief!" she breathed, smiling.

"Nice," I commented. "I wish all problems were that easy!"

She asked for a drink of water, so we went into the kitchen. "Somebody's birthday?" she asked, toying with the golden wrapping paper.

"No, it's from Christmas," I told her with a laugh, and poked the all-in-one cooker. Kitty frowned, puzzled. "It's a leftover present from Christmas," I explained. "Now that I'm learning to cook, Max thought I might try it out."

"Huh," Kitty said, her focus still on the wrapping paper. Her exploring fingers kept probing, turning the wrapping and looking underneath it. At last, she found the tag: To Amber, From Max. "It's for Amber!" she exclaimed.

"It was for Amber," I contradicted. "Amber left it behind when she disappeared on Christmas Eve."

Kitty looked puzzled. "Disappeared?" she repeated.

"Yes, she slipped away on Christmas Eve. Secretly, silently, stealthily. She left without saying a word. No note, no goodbye, no scene." Kitty was clearly baffled, so I asked her, "Don't you remember? I told you."

"Oh, that!" she replied, waving her hand. "I've talked to Amber, and she has a very different version of events. You have to admit -- that story you told me is pretty far-fetched!"

"I know it sounds crazy, Kitty, but that's what happened."

She stuck her tongue in her cheek, and grinning, challenged me: "You really believe that Amber magically transported all of her things out of her in one night -- on Christmas Eve, of all nights? Did she have help from Santa Claus?"

"It wasn't one night. In the days or weeks before Christmas, Amber secretly moved out all her stuff. She even took away the Christmas presents she'd put under the tree for Max. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, there was nothing of hers left in the house!"

Kitty, smiling, shook her head. "That's not how Amber tells it."

"Kitty, you know how it went. Max had no idea she was leaving. On Christmas Eve she told him, I'll be right back, and she was gone. Max was taken completely by surprise."

"Is that what he told you? That's what Max told you?"

"That's what I saw, Kitty. I was here. Max was mystified. He was devastated. She didn't give the slightest clue or hint. One minute she was here; the next minute she was gone."

"No," Kitty said, shaking her head. "That's not what I heard."

I scoffed and shrugged.

"Do you want to hear Amber's side of the story?" she asked in a challenging tone. "Do you want to know what she says happened?"

"No, I don't. I'm sorry, Kitty, but I don't want to hear it at all. After all the lies and stories she's told about me, I am done with Amber. I don't want to hear anything Amber's got to say." I looked Kitty directly in the face as I spoke. I tried to not be negative. I did my best to keep an even, neutral tone. I didn't want to dump onto Kitty any of the anger and hostility I felt for Amber. That anger, that fire, was building up inside me, and it was moments from bursting out of me. The best way to put a lid on it was for me to stop talking. So I did.

Kitty seemed genuinely confused: both by my insistent sticking to what I'd seen and heard, and by my disinterest in Amber's version.

I like Kitty. I've always liked Kitty. She's my friend, and Max's friend. But she's also Amber's friend. Maybe at some point she'll have to choose between Amber and us, but I saw no need to push her to that point. I wanted to stay friends; I knew that Max did as well. Maybe Kitty has a divided allegiance. Sometimes she's on Amber's side, and sometimes she's on ours? Whatever Kitty's relation to Amber, Max was right: I could live with it. Even so, there were lines that could be drawn.

"Kitty, can I ask you something? When you come here, is it — at least in part — to spy on us for Amber?"

"Spy for Amber..." she scoffed. "It isn't like that. I come here because you guys are my friends."

"I know that," I assured her. "Never mind — I'm sorry I asked."

She gave a little impatient huff. "Look — it's not like I spy — that's not what it's like."

"So, what's it like, then?"

"Amber is concerned about Max. She really cares about him and wants to know what's going on in his life. She wants what's best for him."

I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud. I stopped when I saw the irritation on Kitty's face. I shrugged, but I wasn't going to apologize.

"What I hope," Kitty says, "Is that everyone involved will be able to make peace and move forward with their best lives."

"Amen to that," I replied.

"I have to go," she said after glancing at the clock.

"Don't go away angry," I told her.

"I'm not angry."

"—or offended."

She stopped frowning and gave what seemed a genuine smile. She gave me a kind of half-hug, pressing her cheek against mine.

"Seriously, I have to run, Ell. I'm meeting Nessa for lunch." She glanced again at the clock. "This stupid bracelet is going to make me late. Bye!"

She waved, the chunky bracelet dangling from her hand, and scooted to the front door. I looked down at the kitchen island and saw that she'd taken the gift tag (To Amber, From Max). Struck by a sudden thought, I ran after her and caught her on the walkway out front.

"Kitty! Kitty — hey! Wait a sec!"

She turned.

"Is Amber going to be at this lunch with Nessa?"

Kitty stopped in her tracks. She hesitated, looking me in the face. Then she admitted, "Yes, Amber will be there. Amber wants to get to know Nessa better, so I set it up this little lunch."

I nodded. Then I decided to push a little more. "Did you introduce them to each other?"

She hesitated again, studying my face. Again, she answered. "Yes. Amber was looking forward to the wedding, and she felt left out when Max— when she and Max broke up. So I introduced them. Any other questions?"

"No," I said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said in an irritated tone. "Happy now?" she asked as she fished her car keys out of her bag. "See? Now I'm spying for you, too!" She blew me a somewhat angry kiss, and made a beeline for her car.

I pushed the gold wrapping paper into the recycling trash, and fished out the instruction manual for the all-in-one cooker. I got lost in reading, when my father called me back. He dove right into the conversation.

"Elliot, son, you have to tell me — what's this about you buying a sailboat?"

"A sailboat?" I repeated, a little thrown off balance. "I'm not buying a sailboat!"

"Oh that's right," he replied, laughing at his own joke. "That was me! Thanks for asking about it!"

"Dad..."

"It's a sailing dinghy," he said. "It's actually made for kids, and I think I got taken for a ride, but hey — I've never sailed. I've got to start somewhere, and slow and small sounds just about my speed. I don't want some skippy little boat that goes flying out from underneath me — and leaves me stranded in the middle of the ocean."

"What do you mean, it's made for kids? Is it really small?"

"No, it's more the shape and all... it's like a bathtub with a sail on it. I don't have to worry about it going too fast, because... well, it can't go fast. But at least it gets me out on the water. Honestly, I might have to hire the kid who sold it to me to show me the ropes."

I let him go on for a bit about the boat, saying uh-huh and asking obvious questions. It was good to hear him, regardless of the topic. Hearing him so happy made me happy as well.

"Moving down here was one of the best decisions I ever made," he enthused. "I love it. Elliot, your old Dad is getting brown as a berry!"

"Great!"

"So... this girl," he said, abruptly changing gears and slowing the conversational pace down considerably. "Who is she?"

"Well, Dad — you tell me first: who is Lorelei?"

"Oh, Lorelei," he groaned apologetically. "I'm sorry I was so flippant. All I can say in my own defense is that I'd had a few. I was a little tipsy."

At least you were tipsy at the right time of day, I thought. Unlike Mr Errison.

"What do you mean flippant?" I asked. "Did something bad happen to her?"

"Oh," he exclaimed softly. "I forgot — you have no idea who she was, do you?"

"No, Dad. Will you tell me?"

He sighed. "Yeah. Well," he said, stalling a bit. "Lorelei. Well, Lorelei — she'd be your cousin. On your mother's side. Do you remember your Uncle Alex and Aunt Peg?"

"I can't say I ever met them."

"No, you wouldn't have." I had the feeling he was gathering his thoughts, looking for the best way to tell the story.

"Alright," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "Probably best place to start is at the beginning. Your uncle Alex, he is/was your mother's brother. They used to get along pretty well, apart from the usual sibling guff they hadn't grown out of, but, you know, nothing bad. Alex's wife Peg, on the other hand — she and your mother got on like gangbusters. They were besties, like teen girls say. BFFs. Inseparable, joined at the hip, always laughing, always fun.

"They both got pregnant around the same time. This was before you. Round about the third month, your mother miscarried. It was sad. Your mother kind of broke down for a while, but the effect on Peg was out of all proportion. She was spooked. To the core. Peg was scared to death. She had the idea that because your mother miscarried, well, then she was going to lose her baby as well. She had this fixed, fatalistic idea, and nobody could talk her out of it. In fact, a month after your mother, Peg miscarried as well.

"Your mom, on the one hand, soon enough got back on the horse, and long about a year later, she was pregnant with you. Peg, on the other hand, was so demoralized... well, to make a long story short, you were already two years old before Peg got pregnant again. Lorelei was born a a month or two after your third birthday. Your mother would know the exact date; I never had a head for birthdays."

After a momentary silence Dad continued, "Lorelei died before she turned one. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. That what's they called it, and that was the end of everything. Alex took a job in Huron, South Dakota. A few years later, he moved again and again and again. Your mother tried to keep in touch, but it was all one-sided. Eventually Alex and Peg fell off the map. No Christmas card, no birthday cards, no nothing. We didn't know whether they were alive or dead."

I took it in. I wondered how much of this was known to Vivianne. "Is that the whole story?" I asked.

"No, unfortunately, there's a little more. After your mother died, I hired an investigator to find Alex."

"And did he?"

"Yes, he did. He gave me Alex's address and phone number. I gave old Alex a call. Told him that his sister had passed away. He thanked me for letting him know, wished me his condolences, and then he told me that he wasn't interested in keeping in touch... after all this time, he said, as though it was *my* fault!

"I asked him about Peggy, and he told me that last he heard, she was living in Omaha." He took a drink of something, then said, "So... I looked her up, I called her up, and she was fine. She sounded happy. She had remarried, had a healthy, happy child by her new husband; didn't say whether the child was a boy or girl. Told me that she wasn't interested in stirring up the past, so I left it at that."

He sighed. "It was pretty unsatisfying, I have to say."

"Okay," I said. It sounded stupid, but I had no other words.

"This is kind of a depressing topic," Dad observed. "So let's leave it aside for now. If you want to know any more, you'll have to come down here."

"Come down to Florida? Why?"

"Because if we're going to talk about sad things, I want to do it out on the water."

"You have to tell me the story out on the water? Dad? Why?"

"Because when you're out there, with nothing but sea and sky, and you and me in a little cockleshell, it's big nature, little us. In that setting, it's easier to keep things in perspective."

"Okay," I said. "I can come down in June or July or after. There's a big wedding coming in May. Max's cousin, Nessa."

"Oh, nice. Weddings are fun. I always like a good wedding. So, hey! Who is that girl in the picture? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called her Lorelei. In my defense, it was after I had a few."

"I know, Dad, you told me. It's fine."

"So... this girl? Who is she?"

"I don't know who she is," I lied. "My friend Kitty sent me the picture — she thought the woman's face resembled mine."

"Oh, Kitty! She's the one with the furniture and all that! I always liked that girl! Something unique about her... She could be a great detective, you know. I always wondered why you didn't go after her."

"The furniture?"

"Yes, she did the whatchamacallit when we sold my house."

"Oh, the staging!"

"Right, right. So how come you never asked her out?"

"She paired up with another guy when we were all still in high school. They're still together."

"Hmmph. Even so. But this girl, the one in the picture, you know — let's call her Lorelei — her face, yeah, she kind of looks like you, but you know who she really looks like? She's the exact image of your mother, back when your mother was a young, red-hot hottie."

"Dad!"

"Sorry, but she was! God rest her soul. But that woman... your mother... oh, Elliot! I loved that woman with every every fiber of my soul!"

"I know, Dad."

"Oh, Elliot — all these emotions! Stirring up the past, making me remember..."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"No, don't be sorry! It's fine! It's fine. But come down and see me. I don't want to wade into all this deep water over the phone."

"I will, Dad. Once the wedding is out of the way."

"Good. Okay, Elliot, I'm going to hang up this phone, and when I do, the very minute I hang up, I want you to do something. I want you to call your friend Kitty and find out who that girl is. And — just to be on the safe side, make sure she's not your cousin!" He laughed. "Just kidding — I can't imagine how she possibly could be. Elliot, you find that girl, and you never let her go, do you hear me? I mean, of course, unless there's something mean or hard about her. But that face! Don't let her slip through your fingers, son. A woman with a face like that — she must have a beautiful heart. A beautiful heart, Elliot. A heart like yours." He snuffled and coughed. "Now look at me — all maudlin and soft. Jeez. Anyway, don't let her get away. Keep me posted. Goodbye, son."

With that he hung up.

And *that* settled it.

I called Melissa. She picked up on the first ring.

"Melissa," I told her, choking a little on my emotions, "It's go time."

"Go time?" she repeated. "Does that mean— oh! Oh! OH! I'm on my way! I'll be right over!"

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 13 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Melissa arrived in a matter of minutes. She was glowing, brimming over with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning.

Speaking of Christmas, her eyes lit up when she happened to glance at the recycling trash and spotted the gold wrapping paper. "The present from Max?" she asked. Her eagerness kicked up a notch.

Her spirits fell abruptly when I showed her the all-in-one cooker. "I was hoping for something more... significant," she pouted.

"I told you what it was when we spoke on the phone," I reminded her. Her expression resembled nothing so much as a cute, disappointed child. It was hard to hold down the smile that kept playing on my lips.

"Okay," she acknowledged. "Enough of that. Let's get going! We're burning daylight!"

"Hold on, Melissa. We can't go yet. I haven't been able to get in touch with Vivianne."

In an instant, Melissa snatched her phone from her bag and hit Vivianne's contact. After a series of rings, I heard Mr Errison's jovial voice on the other end, giving Melissa the same information he'd given me, along with the same silly jokes. She broke the connection and frowned, frustrated.

"I heard," I told her. "He said the same thing to me when I called. But you know, I still need to pack."

"Pack what?" she demanded. "What could you possibly have to pack? You're going to need everything new! You can throw away all of your Elliot clothes!"

I wasn't about to burn my clothing bridge. My clothes were my only way back to being Elliot, as far as I knew. I've got to keep at least one set of clean "Elliot" clothes, I told myself, for after the wedding. I wasn't going to tell her that, though! Aloud I told her, "Toothbrush, toothpaste, laptop, phone charger... and one or two sentimental items, things from my parents."

"Oh, right. Sorry." After a moment she added, "I got you a new toothbrush. And a hairbrush. And a few other necessaries."

"Oh, thanks," I said. "I also need to leave a note for Max."

Her eyes lit up at that.

"Why not send a text?" Her eyes opened even wider. "Why not send a video — of you, changing into Lorelei!"

"No," I said, decisive as stone. "That could freak him out — maybe even permanently. I'm going to stick a simple note on the fridge that says, I went to see your aunt."

She huffed impatiently. "You could at least send a photo. Not a before photo — he knows what Elliot looks like. You need to send an after photo. Of Lorelei."

"No photos," I said. "No texts. No warnings or teases. If I let Max know what's up, he might try to stop me. He could call me and talk me out of it. He might call Vivianne and somehow convince her not to change me."

"So, you tell him after," Melissa said. "That's what I've been saying."

"I think we need to move very slowly," I cautioned her. "I don't want to throw this in his face. Let's let it develop naturally."

Melissa sighed. "No, you're wrong! All he has to do is see you, and then bam!"

"Bam?"

Melissa made an isn't it obvious? gesture and said, "He'll fall in love!"

I groaned and shook my head. Struck by a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she grabbed me and squeezed me like a lemon while she squealed like a little girl.

I managed to hit on an activity that kept Melissa both distracted and occupied at the same time: we prepared tonight's dinner for Max. She showed me her recipe for sausage, peppers, and onions (one of Max's favorites). We also prepared zucchini noodles with pesto, and oven-roasted vegetables.

After we'd sampled our work, Vivianne called. She said she could see us at four.

"Before you come, I suggest that you call your credit-card company and have them send you a card for Lorelei Gight on your account. Also, add that name to your bank account."

"Isn't that illegal?" I asked.

"Certainly not. You could add Herbert Hoover to your bank account if you wanted, as long as it wasn't for purposes of fraud. The bank will prepare a signature card that you can sign once you're Lorelei."

We spoke briefly about my getting a social security number and a state ID — "You won't have time to get a driver's license, unless you intend on remaining Lorelei long term."

"Long term," I repeated.

"I mean, forever," Viv clarified.

"Uh," was all I could say, but Melissa, who could hear everything, squeezed my arm with every ounce of her strength.

After I hung up, I told her, "You're going to have to lighten up on the squeezing, or I'll be black and blue all over."

"Sorry!" she exclaimed. "I'm just so EXCITED!"

I called my credit-card company, and stopped in at my bank. Neither expressed any surprise at my request to add Lorelei; it was all very matter-of-fact for them, and both transactions were very brief.

The visit with Vivianne was also brief; her mind was clearly elsewhere. She didn't rush things, and nothing was forgotten, but you could see that, for her, this wasn't the once-in-a-lifetime experience that it was for Melissa and me.

I've already described the transformation process, so I won't repeat myself. It was, of course, less shocking and surprising than the first time — although equally astonishing. It's amazing that such a thing can happen at all. The three of us had already seen the endpoint of the process; when I emerged at the end as Lorelei, it was like seeing the return of an old friend. At the same time, I felt an enormous sense of relief, as though a weight had fallen from my shoulders. Why did I feel relieved? I guess that now, when I'd finally made up my mind, finally taken the step, I was able to quit agonizing over it. It was done; I was at peace.

It reminded me in a flash of the moment in Pilgrim's Progress where the burden that Christian had been lugging everywhere, and complaining about to everyone, finally lets go, rolls off, and drops into a hole, never to be seen again.

Melissa managed to contain herself, and squeezed her left hand with her right, rather than squeezing me.

Vivianne picked up all the "Lorelei" clothes, one by one, as if taking inventory. "We've done everything, haven't we? Dress, shoes, bathing suit... there's nothing else, is there?"

"Nothing," I confirmed, turning this way and that in the mirror.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. "Here is your birth certificate," she said. "With this you can get a social-security card and a state ID, and eventually a drivers license and passport, if you want one."

I looked it over. "So, I'm twenty-seven," I observed.

"It's a nice age to be," Viv observed. "Make sure you memorize your birthdate." She placed the medallion back in its case, and dropped the necklace case in her bag. "My apologies," she said, "I'm needed elsewhere, but I think you two can get along without me, at this point."

I thanked her, I thought profusely, but Melissa outdid me.

"Just one thing," Vivianne warned, "Don't go hog-wild with your sexual experiences! If you really and truly want to turn back to your old self after the wedding, you must NOT get pregnant. Remember that."

"I'll remember," I promised, but Melissa whispered, "Fingers crossed!" and grinned. I could see grand-babies written all over her face.

The next few hours were interesting and fun to me, but I'm not going to bore you with the blow-by-blow. A few details will do:

To keep herself from climbing the walls in anticipation, Melissa had already bought a few necessaries for Lorelei: she'd already told me about a hairbrush and other toiletries, but her preparations went well beyond that. She picked up a cute peach-colored t-shirt dress and some low-heeled sandals, pale green pajamas, a set of oversized shorts and a tank top ("for lounging"), and lipstick and mascara. She assured me that it was a "super effort" to not buy more, "but we need to ease into this, don't we?"

She'd also prepared a guest room at her house for me to stay. We agreed that it would be easier for Max to accept Lorelei if she wasn't just dumped on him. He had to choose Lorelei, or at least feel that he had. ("Men often don't know what's best for them," was Melissa's comment. "You'll see!")

She surprised me by NOT wanting to shop for clothes and such right away. I didn't realize until later that she'd already been studying, shopping both online and in person, and above all deciding what looks would work best for me.

She introduced me to Max's father, Paul. Of course, I'd met him many times as Elliot, growing up, but he seemed a different person meeting him now as Lorelei. I could see the family resemblance between him and his sister (Vivianne), but unlike her, he was not intimidating. Paul was fatherly, kind, strong, good-looking. He noticed the resemblance between me (Lorelei) and Elliot, and over the time I spent at their house, Paul regaled me with stories about Max and me (Elliot me). I knew all the incidents, but it was curious, hearing them from the perspective of an observant adult.

The three of us had dinner at a small white cast-iron table on their patio, a spot that featured a panoramic view of their pool and their deep back yard. A massive oak stood in a far corner, and dogwoods in a line in the distance. It was peaceful and lovely. It was all familiar to me, but I'd never taken in their beauty before.

My eye kept drifting toward the pool. I spent a lot time there as a kid — Max and I would pass entire days, it seemed, floating, swimming, goofing, in that pool.

Paul, who'd been explaining and describing the virtues and issues of their various trees, finally noticed where my eye was going.

"Do you like to swim, Lorelei?" he asked. "While you're here, please feel free to avail yourself of the pool! Any time. It'll be nice to see someone putting it to use; getting some enjoyment out of it." He turned to face me, and smiled the same charming smile I've seen on Max's face. I couldn't help but smile in reply. Then he asked me, "Did you bring a bathing suit?"

Melissa sat up a little straighter during this part of Paul's exposition, and she gave him a subtle cautionary glance.

"Yes, um, I do have a bathing suit."

"Excellent," he acknowledged, speaking more into his wine glass than to me.

The next morning I woke early. Not spontaneously. I wasn't woken by the sun. It was Paul, making an incredible racket. All he did was get dressed and ready for work, but for him that involved a lot of banging and walking up and down stairs in his big, loud shoes.

Once the noise subsided, ending with the bang of the front door and the roar of his car leaving, I came out of my room and padded barefoot into the kitchen, I found Melissa, her hair tossed and tousled. She smiled at me. "Oh, did he wake you up, too? Paul is a dear, but he can't get ready in the morning without making enough noise to wake the dead!"

I stretched and yawned, nodding my head. Melissa's smile widened. "You're just adorable! Do you realize that?"

"Okay," I said. She must have told me two dozen times or more. "I'm adorable," I repeated, and yawned again.

"Awww!" Melissa cooed. "Come here! Come here, you little thing," and she hugged me. A normal hug, thank God. Not one of her squeeze-all-the-air-out hugs like before.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, playing with my hair. I was beginning to feel like Melissa's doll. My cheeks reddened slightly.

"Not yet. I still need to wake up."

"Tell you what," Melissa offered. "Why don't you jump in the pool and get in a nice morning swim? While you do that, I'll prepare us a lovely breakfast. We can eat it on the patio and plan our day. I'll call you when it's ready."

"Okay," I said, smiling. "Sounds great."

"Go! Get your suit on, then. Go! Off you scamper!"

I didn't exactly scamper, but I was pretty quick in getting out of my pajamas and pulling my bathing suit on.

The moment of seeing that gap between my legs — I wondered how long it would take me to get used to that gone-ness, to having nothing there. Well, not nothing, but not the gear I was used to have hanging there. I have to admit, I did like the change. It seemed a vast improvement. What sense did it make to have one's testicles hanging so inconveniently, so vulnerably there?

Then the new feeling of pulling that tight, stretchy fabric over my new curves, over my butt and breasts. I wondered, as I threaded my arms though the openings, whether this suit was too tight — impossible, considering how the medallion worked — but still... once I had it on, though, the tightness became its virtue. The suit became a second skin, a cool, flashy second skin. I felt like Wonder Woman, once I had it on.

I thought to run the hairbrush quickly through my hair, but right away hit a tangle. I tried a different spot, and hit another tangle. Oh well! Tangles later! Pool now!

A few minutes later I dove into the cool, clean water. The sensation of the flow coursing over my brand-new body was beyond amazing. It was a dream. The world was not awake yet; the sun had yet to rise above the trees. The only sounds were the chirps and tweets of birds, and the swish of the breeze in the trees.

As it turned out, I still knew how to swim, in spite of changing bodies, And I still loved it. I took some laps, studying, feeling, evaluating the differences I felt in my new physique. I wasn't as strong, but I didn't seem any slower. I certainly felt more buoyant; I didn't need to kick as much to keep my hips up. I propelled myself to the bottom in the deep end, and pushed off with my toes. That feeling, when your face breaks free of the water, into the air — there's nothing like it. There are so many wonderful sensations you can only achieve in the water. Another is pushing off the wall and gliding. I went back and forth, side to side, twisting like a slow corkscrew. I was in my element.

To finish off, I dove in at the far end, the end away from the house, and swam underwater. Could I reach the other end without coming up for air? I managed that trick in the past, but that was Elliot — and I made it! I came up with a gasp, clutching the ladder, panting, my chest heaving, my head down. I took a few deep breaths. As I climbed the ladder, I saw a pair of black dress shoes, toes pointing in my direction. Above them, gray pants with a crisp vertical crease running up the front of each leg. Had Max's dad come back? But no, not his dad. I tilted my head back and saw, above the belt buckle, above the light blue shirt and red and gray striped tie, was Max's face. His mouth hung open. He blinked several times.

"Hi, Max," I said, still panting. Seeing him so fully dressed made me feel naked, and very conscious of my lack of clothes. I felt awkward and clumsy, but that was likely more in my head than in reality. I didn't stumble, thank goodness.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. Stupid question, I know. Obviously, Melissa invited him. For breakfast. For breakfast with me in a bathing suit. She wanted her bam! and she wanted it now. (In case you forgot, in Melissa's mind, bam! is the sound of Max falling in love. With me.)

"I, uh — Mom, um — Elliot? Is that you?"

"It's Lorelei," I said in a quiet voice, not wanting to be overheard. "But, yes, I'm in here."

"My God! I didn't know you were here... at all... much less, like this."

"Yeah," I replied. "I went for your Aunt's big makeover." I could see his surprise — or rather, he was holding my towel in front of him, to hide his surprise. "Max, could I have my towel, please? It's a little cold in the air."

"Oh, sure, of course." He turned his body awkwardly sideways and handed it to me. I dried my face first, then hung the towel over my head to dry my hair — I wanted to give him time to arrange himself.

In fact, when I was done rubbing my hair, I saw him sitting at the little white cast-iron table. It was set for breakfast. Max took one of the big white cloth napkins, opened it up, and spread it across his lap. I pretended not to notice, to not show that I knew what he was doing, but a faint blush spread across my face. I sat down next to him, facing him, a three-quarters view.

"I didn't know you were coming," I told him. He shrugged and nodded.

"You still like to swim, I see," he said.

"Yes, some things haven't changed." As I spoke, I stretched my shoulders, pressing some little kinks out. They were small movements, but enough to move my breasts around. Max's eyes fell to my chest. I looked toward the house, as if I hadn't seen. I wasn't sure at all whether women had a standard protocol for this.

"You look... incredible," he said.

"Thanks. Your Aunt Viv literally did her magic."

"And you don't... mind?" He asked, as if he couldn't conceive of such a thing. I shook my head. Max followed up with "It doesn't freak you out?"

"No, not at all. Honestly, it's kind of fun."

"Tell me that when you're on your period," he said, somewhere between a tease and a scoff.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied. "I'm not sure that's something I'll want to talk to *you* about." I meant to say, Hopefully I won't be female long enough for that, but apparently my mouth had ideas of its own..

I leaned my elbows on the table. There wasn't any food yet. I glanced again toward the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I saw Max's eyes discretely swept over my entire body, from my face to my toes. Then he, too, turned toward the kitchen.

"My mother invited me for breakfast, but if it doesn't start soon, I'm going to have to take off. Sometimes it seems like she doesn't believe I have a real job."

I laughed. Max smiled as I did. I have a nice laugh! I discovered. I smiled back. Then, remembering my posture, I sat up straight, and feeling my hair trailing on my upper back, I reached up with both hands, and running my fingers through my hair to comb it, I twisted around the excess into a kind of tail and draped it over my right shoulder.

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and checked the placement of his napkin. "Will you quit doing that?" he muttered.

"Doing what?"

"It's like you're trying to torture me," he confided in a low, tense voice. "You're making all these little movements to make your breasts bob and sway. It's really... distracting. Can you quit it?"

"I'm not doing anything, I swear!" I looked down at my breasts, which made them quiver and wobble. Max groaned.

"Look," I told him. "I'm not doing it on purpose. I'm really not! It just happens. I'm not used to having..." I turned red "...extensions like this. They move on their own. I don't have any fine control over which way they sway."

"Okay," he conceded, "but it's maddening. It's provoking, and you're not even trying to provoke me. I mean, you're not, are you?"

"No," I protested, but I was having a hard time keeping from laughing. "I'll do my best to sit absolutely still."

I planted my feet on the ground, put my hands on my thighs, and sat up straight. Max looked at the sky. "Maybe I should go get dressed," I offered.

"No, it's fine." He looked at his watch and sighed. "I'm running out of time."

"I'll go see what's keeping your mother," I told him, and stood.

"Wait," he said. "While we're alone... tell me one thing: Did you do all this—" he gestured at my breasts and legs "—did you do all this just for me? Please tell me you didn't."

"No, I didn't," I said. "I mean, it's partly for you, but I like being Lorelei. I feel a lot more alive than I do as Elliot."

"Okay," he said, nodding. He seemed to relax a bit at my response, and his gaze rolled down and rested on my crotch. He stared like he was hypnotized.

Up till that point, it was all cute, funny, and embarrassing — I mean, the way he kept sneaking looks at my breasts and legs. This stare, and what he was staring at, changed everything. In that moment, I understood that I was now on the other side of the equation. Up till then, I'd been playing this like a game, laughing at Melissa's intense matchmaking, minimizing Vivianne's warnings, but now I saw it. I felt it in my body. I was a woman, and Max was looking at me with a heat and hunger that I couldn't help but react to.

Even so, this wasn't the bam! that Melissa was looking for. This was something else, something more animal.

A line from the movie Happy, Texas came to mind, where one woman says to another, "He looked at you the way a fat man looks at a plate of eggs."

I was shocked. To be seen that way, as an object of desire, like meat. It was my turn to stand there, stupidly, awkwardly, white-faced, jaw hanging open, eyes blinking.

Max raised his eyes and met mine, and he knew that I'd seen what he was looking at and how he was looking at it.

The two of us sat there, frozen, eyes locked.

If we were two animals, something would have happened right then. Something physical, something strong. The iron, as the saying goes, the iron was hot. But we didn't strike. We were civilized humans, so we simply stared at each other.

Let's be honest, it wasn't love. It was lust. It was pure animal desire.

I melted, I liquified, I burned. I radiated heat from the core of me, directly to his core. It was strong. I'd never felt such a thing before.

And then I said it. I told you, it seemed like my mouth had ideas of its own. Seems that my body had some ideas it had to express as well.

I put words to a thought that I swear I never had in my head before that moment, but it was there now, and I found myself saying it.

"Max," I whispered, "I'm never changing back to Elliot."

"Never?" he repeated, whispering as well. "Never is a long, long time."

And then we blinked and the spell was broken. He cleared his throat a half a dozen times, and I dried myself uselessly with my towel.

"Well! I better go see what's keeping your mother," I declared, taking a step back and turning.

"Okay," he said, "It was, uh, nice seeing you." I guess he couldn't find anything better to say, so he fell back on a standard, polite phrase. For my part, I couldn't do any better.

"You, too," was my response.

I smiled, awkwardly, and he smiled an awkward smile back. Clearly we were both awash in awkwardness.

I turned and walked away, wondering the entire way if I was walking at a normal pace. Was I going too fast? too slow? I tried to not think about what my derriere was doing, whether it swayed or rocked. Was I walking the way other women walk? Was this something I'd have to learn and practice? Could I even ask Melissa about it? I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Could I feel his eyes on my ass? Was that a real thing?

I sighed with relief when I slid open the glass door and entered the kitchen. Melissa was there, hiding, smiling conspiratorially. She stepped in front of me, so my back was still facing Max. I could see his reflection in the microwave over Melissa's shoulder.

"How did it go?" she asked in a stage whisper.

"Um... can I tell you later? He's got to get to work, and he's wondering where the breakfast is."

"I'll bring the breakfast out in a second, don't worry."

"Melissa, he's staring at us."

"He's staring at *you*, hon." She gave an impish grin. "Listen, do a heel bounce."

"What?"

"Lift up both heels and then let yourself drop."

I knew what she wanted, and I did it, I'm not sure my butt jiggled as much as it should have. The little image of Max reflected in the microwave arched his back and looked at the sky. I'm sure he groaned, though I couldn't hear it.

"Poor guy," I said. "I'm going to run and put some clothes on."

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 14 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

As quickly as I could, I dashed upstairs, stripped off the bathing suit, and pulled the t-shirt dress over my still-wet body. I was fast, as fast as I could manage, but not fast enough. When I bounced back downstairs and into the kitchen, Melissa was alone. I looked out the window to the patio. The little white table was empty.

"He's gone," Melissa told me. "He said he had to get to work."

I glanced at the clock. "He is usually gone by this time."

"Hmmph." Melissa grunted and, distracted, squeezed her fingers together. "I was hoping for a little more electricity," she complained.

I scoffed and told her, "Believe me, there was electricity," but she didn't seem to hear me.

Her eyes scanned me up and down. "Did you put that on while you were still wet? Wet with pool water?" Shaking her head, she added, "Don't do that again. And do NOT wear that dress without underwear."

"Okay."

She looked around the room, as if looking for a clue. "Right. Now what?"

"Could we have breakfast?" I asked.

"Yes," she agreed, but as she spoke her eyes traveled up to my head, and with a look of distress she said, "But first — that hair! Oh my saints, girl! It's full of tangles! You've got a rat's nest on your head!"

"I'm hungry!" I cried.

She huffed impatiently and shoved a muffin in my direction. I grabbed it before she could change her mind, and peeled off the paper. "Is there any coffee?"

After a hastily consumed muffin and coffee, Melissa sent me to shower, pointing out which products to use. She gave me a rough-textured cloth for my body ("but not for your face!"). Lastly, she pointed out a big-toothed comb hanging in the shower: "Use that to comb the conditioner through your hair. Comb GENTLY until all the tangles are out. Do you understand?"

It was easier said than done. The first day of my war against tangles.

After my shower, Melissa had me trying on clothes, the ones she bought while she impatiently waited for me to decide to transform. The pile of skirts, tops, dresses, and pants intimidated me, but Melissa scoffed at my trepidation. "All you have to do is try them on. See how they fit, see how they make you feel, see whether the look suits you." After taking a deep breath to steel myself, I picked up two of the items. I lifted them up, looked at them, turned them so I could see the back, and set them back down on the bed. "Melissa, what if I don't like — something. What if they don't fit? What if I don't like any of them?"

She laughed. "We'll take them back! That's half the fun, girl! Now let's get cracking! Are you afraid you're going to hurt my feelings? Don't! I want you to look good and to like what you're wearing."

It took us over ninety minutes to get through the outfits. About half of the items didn't fit right, and others didn't look right. In the end we kept only three pieces.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

She gave me a strange look. "You're sorry the clothes don't fit you or suit you? Listen, Lorelei, you've got to get used to the process! Sometimes you have to try dozens of clothes to find the one or two or three that you really like and want to wear. If you keep something out of guilt for not wanting it, it's a waste, because you'll never wear it. If you're in doubt, toss it out."

One dress, a black, black halter dress with a floral motif that seemed painted over one thigh, really appealed to me. I loved that dress. I didn't want to take it off, I liked it so much. When I finally *did* take it off, my fingers sought out the price tag. Melissa swatted my hand away, then gave me a quick smack on the butt.

"Ow!" I yelped.

"No looking at the price tag! Bad girl! Bad!"

"But—"

"No buts! This is my treat. You'll have plenty of clothes and things to buy on your own."

"But— I mean, still, all of this must cost a lot of money! I can pay you back, you know. I *want* to pay you back."

"You don't have to pay me back," Melissa replied with a grin. "And I don't want you to pay me back. At least not with money!" She laughed and hugged me, saying, "This is an investment in my future!"

"Huh?"

"Grand-babies!" she whispered.

"Melissa — Melissa — come on, can we tap the brakes on that grand-baby business? Let's take it slow. Max isn't even on board for taking me to the wedding yet. He hasn't even asked me for a date."

"You've been a girl for what— all of one day? Patience!"

"What I'm saying is that we have to let this develop slowly, naturally. You know, often when you push too hard, all it does is make people dig their heels in."

"Hmmph," Melissa said, as she folded the clothes on the bed. "Lori, you can tap those brakes all you want, but I am 100% full-steam ahead."

"Anyway," she added after she'd folded the last piece of clothing in the "returns" pile, "I'm going to be in the background. Max won't see me or hear me or feel me pushing. But I'll be there, pushing as hard as I can."

I bit my tongue to keep from responding.

We sorted the return items into the bags for their various stores. Once that was done, Melissa and I prepared lunch for ourselves and dinner for Max.

We served generous portions into microwaveable containers and sealed them tight. Melissa said, "We'll leave this in his fridge, and you will send him a text so that he knows it's there." She tapped one of the plastic lids with a dark red fingernail, tap-tap-tap. "You know, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Is that true?" I asked. "I've heard people say that, but is it really true?"

"I don't know," she confessed, "but I do know that men are happier after they eat. If we feed him every night, he's going to associate that happy feeling with you. And that's a good thing. So don't mention that we prepared his meals together, you and me. In his mind, it's has to be you, only you, understand?"

"Even so... won't he feel like we're meddling?"

"Look: if the food is there, will he eat it?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then! Case closed!"

After our mission to Max's house, we went and got my hair cut and my ears pierced. "Tomorrow we'll do makeup and nails," Melissa told me. "Right now it's time for more clothes. And shoes."

I mentioned the Outerland Mall earlier — Vivianne brought me there when I was Darcy. Back then, the other children, and parents with children, smiled at me. It was like being part of a club, just by virtue of being small and cute. Now I got a lot of looks as well, but they were quite different in character. Males, from teenagers to old men, visually assessed me. I felt as though I was being mentally undressed over and over. I don't think I would have minded if all they did was stare at my breasts, but they took their time looking me over, as if I were a doll they might buy and play with. Some of the men were fairly discreet in their scrutiny — especially if they were accompanied by a woman. Others, and not only the younger ones, openly leered and ogled. They didn't literally have their tongues hanging out, but they weren't far from it.

"It's like they've never seen a woman before," I groused sotto voce to Melissa.

"Ignore it as well as you can," she advised. "You never get used to it. Unfortunately, you have to learn how to deal with it."

The women, on the other hand, gave me more cold, clinical appraisals — though more of my clothes and hair, it seemed. I got the mental picture of a stern, fault-finding sergeant inspecting a rookie soldier. "Women size up the competition," Melissa explained. "It's fine as long they don't say anything."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, women can be so catty," she explained, "and some of them are experts in cutting you down, no matter how good you look or feel." She flushed red at some memory, and said, "That damn Amber is one like that. You know how some people don't have a mean bone in their body? Well, Amber — all she has are mean bones. She's got nothing but mean bones in her body. I've never heard a single compliment — to anyone — or any kind word come out of her mouth. Ever."

I chuckled, but Melissa didn't.

Anyway, we looked at clothes. I tried on clothes. We put clothes back. I tried on others. We bought some. I stuck my feet into dozens of shoes, usually because Melissa observed that a certain pair would go with something else I had at home or in a bag.

Shopping for clothes was interesting for a while, but after more than two hours, I ran out of gas. Melissa didn't catch on at first, but when I began grunting in response to her repeated question "isn't this SO cute?" and then flatly refused to try on a pair of shiny black boots, she looked at my dull eyes and tight jaw. "Oh, no — Paul gets that face when he's had too much shopping. You need a break. You need a little snack, and I know just the thing."

Melissa stood to my right, and she turned away from me, so as to face the Mecca of our snack break. I took a step forward. At the same moment, she stopped and made a half-step backward, which caused the two of us to softly collide. She turned slowly to the left, reaching at the same time for a pair of leggings on the rack next to us. She picked up a pair of white yoga pants, which were veined like marble, and feigning interest, she gave me an intent, low-voiced command. "Look at these pants," she said. "Don't look up. I said, don't look up! Look here—" and she shook the leggings to draw my attention.

"What's going on?" I murmured, carefully keeping the radius of my attention small and focused on the white yoga pants.

"Your friend Kitty is here," Melissa whispered. "Listen, now: you need to remember that you don't know her. You never met her, alright? You have no idea who she is. Do not talk to her. Don't open your mouth at all unless I prompt you, okay?"

"Why?" I asked.

She huffed impatiently. "Because we want some control over the situation. You're so open and friendly, you'd end up telling her everything, including the medallion."

"I would not!"

"Hush, will you now? Please?" She glared at me with eyes wide open. Honestly, she looked a little crazy, but I grudgingly agreed to keep quiet.

... but I added, "I'm done here. If we don't want to see her, can we just leave?"

"No, wait. At least here, I can see her coming. Better to do this now. I don't want to be taken by surprise."

Of course I wanted to know what this was, and why it needed to be done at all, but Kitty rolled up quickly and quietly on Melissa's left, so I glued my lips shut and examined the offerings in the leggings rack.

Kitty cleared her throat, but Melissa pretended not to notice. A few seconds passed, so Kitty gave another ahem; also ignored by Melissa. So Kitty resorted to speaking first. She said, "Hi, Mrs Errison — I thought that was you! How are you doing?"

Melissa looked up slowly and gave a polite smile. "Well, look who's here! If it isn't Hello Kitty." She knew quite well that Kitty hated that nickname. Of course, none of her friends ever used it.

Kitty frowned out of reflex, then fought her frown back into a smile. Watching the curve of her mouth drop, then spasmodically rise again was like watching a boat nearly capsize, then right itself.

Melissa spoke again. "Kitty, would you mind not calling me Mrs Errison? It makes me feel a thousand years old! Please call me Melissa."

"Okay, Melissa," she replied, and I could see And don't call me Hello Kitty written across her face. But she didn't say it.

Kitty tilted her head right and left, trying to see past Melissa and get a good look at my face. When she opened her mouth to address me, Melissa cut her off, asking, "What brings you to the mall in the middle of the day, Kitty? Don't you have a job?"

Kitty, a little discomfited, replied, "Yes, I have a job. I run a staging business. I'm actually here to buy supplies. I need knickknacks, lamps, and table coverings."

"Oh, I see."

Again, Kitty tried the direct approach. She asked, "Who is this with you? I don't think we've met." The question was addressed as much to me as to Melissa, and ordinarily I would have responded by telling my name. Kitty tried to extend her arm to shake hands with me, but Melissa blocked her by leaning forward slightly. She made it look unintentional, but Kitty's face reddened with frustration. Melissa didn't make eye contact with me, but I could feel her radiating the command to keep quiet, so I did.

"Okay," Kitty said, as if accepting her defeat. But she held up her phone. "Could I take a selfie with you two?" and she began to arrange herself and hold the phone at arm's length.

"Oh, no, of course not!" Melissa replied in a haughty tone. "I'm not one of your little high-school friends. No thank you!"

She slipped her arm through mine. She asked, "Are you done looking?" When I nodded, she led me toward the exit.

I glanced back as we passed through the main door. Kitty was fuming, her jaw working. I'd never seen her that way before.

I expected that we'd head for home after the encounter with Kitty, but Melissa wanted a bubble tea. She led me to a pavilion next to the food court. Soon the two of us were sitting on a stone bench sipping our green drinks through big fat straws. The bottom third of the glass was filled with soft, chewy black balls. "What are these funny bally things?" I asked.

"Tapioca," she replied. "Isn't it refreshing?"

"I guess," I said, but before I could get any further, my attention got sidetracked.

The bench on which we sat was set against a wall. Nearby, small tables, big enough for two or three people were arranged, and most of them were occupied by people eating, drinking, or hanging out. My eye was caught by the face of a man who sat directly opposite from me, on a similar stone bench; his was set up against the big concrete planters that defined the food court. A man my age, with short, wavy brown hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a handsome, manly face. I knew that face somehow; I was sure I did. As I stupidly stared at him, trying to remember how I knew him, he smiled. Then he winked at me.

Maybe this is strange of me, but I don't like winks. I don't like them at all. They bother me. I don't know why. Max doesn't wink. Neither do most of my friends. I've seen Amber wink, and it confirms everything I dislike about the practice. Having this man — however good-looking — wink at me, made me uncomfortable, and I found myself shifting in my seat, jostling against Melissa.

"What's going on there?" Melissa asked. "Do you need to use the ladies room?"

"No," I muttered. "That guy over there just winked at me."

She smiled and gave a little snort of a laugh. Then she glanced over and followed his gaze. "Oh, I see." she took a pull on her tea and told me in a confidential tone, "Put your knees together. He's looking up your skirt, and you're giving him a free show."

I clamped my thighs together and glared at him, as if it was his fault entirely. He smiled, shrugged, put his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed his head in thanks. I stood up abruptly.

"Let's go home," I said, and started walking to my right.

"The car is this way," Melissa reminded me. I turned, feeling as foolish as a cartoon character, and went to the left.

We hadn't gone far, when a voice came from behind us: "Miss? Miss?" It was that man again. He followed me! He caught up with me!

I straightened up and was about to aggressively, offensively demand What the fuck do you want? when he held up my phone.

"Is this yours?" His eyes twinkled. "It was back there on the bench... where you were sitting." Somehow he made the word sitting sound dirty.

"Yes, it is mine," I admitted, embarrassed. He was being nice — kind, even — and yet he repulsed me.

I reached for it, but he waggled it and held it closer to himself, at his right shoulder, next to his face. "Might there be a reward? A kiss? Your phone number?"

I gave him a distressed, pained look, so he gave it up, saying, "Never mind, then. Here you go. I thought— well, never mind what I thought." He handed me the phone. "Have a nice day." He turned away, then looking back, he said, "And thanks. You made my day anyway." He followed up by a devilish grin.

When we got in the car, I said, "Edison."

"What?"

"That jerk at the food court, the one who had my phone — his name is Edison. Max and I went to school with him."

Melissa scratched her head. "You certainly got his attention."

"I didn't want to!"

"You need to be more careful," Melissa told me. "All girls go through this; most at a younger age. But you'll get it. Lesson learned?"

"Lesson learned," I confirmed. At least, I hope so.

The next day, which was Thursday, started off with a light breakfast. Then Melissa showed me how to do my hair. "This will be part of your daily routine," she explained. It was the first time I had any second thoughts about being a girl.

Still, it's only temporary, I told myself. The phrase popped up out of habit: I used to say it daily when I was working at the startup. Even when I'd changed to Lorelei — at least at the start — my intention was to turn back after the wedding. But how long after the wedding?

Then I'd gone and told Max that I was never changing back. Why did I do that? I meant it at the time. I felt it at the time. If I didn't mean it, I ought to tell him as soon as possible. It would be wrong to mislead him.

I don't want to think about this now! I told myself, I don't want to be dragged back into that indecision! and suddenly became aware that Melissa was gently knocking on my head, the way you knock on a door.

"Hello, hello! Are you home in there?"

"Sorry — lost in thought."

"You have to pay attention, Lorelei. You're going to have to do this yourself. For yourself, by yourself. I won't be doing this every day."

Next we had a little discussion about what to wear. I mean, what *I* should wear. I grabbed the first thing at hand, a light blue summer dress. Melissa wanted to spend more time on the decision, considering the possibilities: where we'd be going, who we might meet, what impression we'd want to make. In the end, I won out, and wore the summer dress, but she promised I wouldn't get off as easily in future.

We made Max's dinner — as we had the day before — and after loading it into his fridge and picking up the empty containers from yesterday's dinner, I texted him.


Me: Your dinner is in the fridge.
Max: You don't have to do that.
[a few seconds later:] But thanks. Yesterday's dinner was great.
 


I hesitated over the tiny keyboard, my thumbs raised. "Don't answer," Melissa cautioned, reading over my shoulder. "Leave him on the back foot."

"I don't know what that means. Anyway, I want to answer."


Me: I'm glad. I like doing it.
Max: Hey...
[after a maddenly long interval of watching the dots, knowing he's typing]
What do I tell people who call for you?
Me: Who would call for me?
Max: I don't know. Your job? I could tell them you're visiting your dad.
Me: That sounds good. Thanks!
Max: What if your dad calls?
[the typing dots dance again — I wait]
I could tell him you had a sex-change operation. LOL
Me: ha ha
Max: Seriously, tho... how are you? Still not freaking out?
Me: I'm good. Not freaking out at all.
Max: Okay. I'm here if you need me.
Me: Ditto.
 


I waited for a bit, but that was the end of the conversation. Melissa groaned. "That's it? Oh my God, I hate text messages! All these crazy abbreviations and letters and emojis." She laughed. "You should send him that eggplant emoji." She laughed some more.

After blinking a half-dozen times, I asked, "Why would I send him *that* emoji?"

She seemed surprised by the question. "Because it's funny!"

"Do you know what it means?"

"It means something?"

"Yes, it means 'penis'."

Her jaw dropped in shock. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Eggplant means 'penis'? It can't."

"It does."

"Oh my God, oh my God!" she cried. "I send that to my friends all the time! What must they think of me?"

"Maybe they don't know what it means either," I offered.

"I hope so," she replied in a chastened tone. "I guess I can't take those messages back, can I?"

"Nope."

We went together for mani-pedis, and then back to the mall for cosmetics, as she promised. At one of the counters at Macy's, a woman whipped up a "light daytime look" with some direction from Melissa. The effect was as shocking and striking as the transformation by the medallion. I mean, I liked it. I didn't realize I could look so glamorous. She made a video of my face while she applied the products, narrating instructions as she went along, and sent me the video afterward. Of course, I bought all the products that she used, and had (I thought) a realistic hope of recreating what she'd done.

The day would have been uneventful except for one thing, which I'm about to tell you. I wondered whether we'd run into Kitty again, though for some reason it didn't feel likely. We ran into someone else entirely, but the experience with Kitty had opened my eyes to something. I was raised to be polite, to not insult people, and to treat others as I would have them treat me. But Melissa's treatment of Kitty — which was, admittedly, a little unkind and a little rude — made me realize that being polite wasn't my only option. I'm glad I had that lesson, because I needed it today.

Oddly enough, I was looking through yoga pants again — but this time out of interest. Melissa was off in the changing rooms — she'd done so much shopping on my behalf that she needed to buy something for herself or she'd pop.

Amber appeared out of nowhere. She seemed to rise up out of the floor with her phone in her hand, snapping pictures of me. She scowled. I'm sure she imagined herself intimidating, off-putting, but her little show struck me as stupid and foolish. I think she was trying to come off as something like a cop; that her interrogation of me was the equivalent of a traffic stop.

What truly took my attention, the overwhelming thing I noticed — especially after all the hours I'd spent looking at my new self in the mirror — was that Amber and I had the same build. Like me, she was slender, with a narrow waist. Her eyes were level with mine, and I felt pretty sure her measurements were the same as mine. The realization was so odd and so unexpected, that it distracted me from her aggressive manner and from the arrogant things she said.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

Irritated, I responded, "Who wants to know?" I think she expected me to object to her taking pictures, but I didn't give a toss.

Not expecting that sort of pushback, she bristled at my response. "It's a simple question."

"Thanks for the explanation."

"What is your name? It's rude of you not to answer!"

Instinctively I knew better than to reply to her statements. It would put me on her ground, and I had no desire to give her the advantage. So I said, "Buzz off, will you? Go away, little girl."

Her eyes blazed. Her shoulders and jaw tensed. Her fists clenched. I'm sure the sight would have frightened a lot of people, but by this time (I mean after months of Amber's lies and undermining) I had nothing but contempt for her. I've never been in a physical altercation, but if she wanted a fight, I'd give her one, and I'd do my best to make her sorry.

"You do NOT tell me to go away!" she growled through clenched teeth.

"Reality check," I pointed out. "I just did." Then I smiled. She fumed and raised her fists. I don't think she meant to hit me; she was clenching her fists out of anger. I picked up a half-dozen yoga pants on their hangers and draped them over her arms. "There you go!" I declared. "Now scoot!"

I know that last move made no sense; it occurred to me in the moment, so I went with it. And I was so glad I did! It really blew her top. "You'll regret this!" she shouted, loud enough to make the store personnel and other shoppers turn to stare.

In that moment, she seemed nothing more than a petulant, spoiled child, throwing a little tantrum. Loud, angry, but not to be taken seriously.

And so I laughed. Out loud. This was Amber? This was all she had? I laughed.

She glared. She bared her teeth. "Aren't you going to stamp your foot?" I asked, and then to my surprise, she did. She stamped her foot, three times, growling as she did.

Amber threw the clothes on the ground and screamed at me. A full-throated, blood-curdling scream. I won't lie — that part, the scream, scared the hell out of me. I don't know what expression I wore on my face right then, but I wasn't laughing now.

"You'll regret this," she repeated in a low, menacing tone.

She turned and left. I didn't move a muscle as I watched her walk away.

Every hair on my body stood on end. My heart was pounding.

Once she was out of sight, I picked up the clothes, shook them out, and hung them back on the rack. Then I held on to the rack and took a few deep breaths. I needed to calm down.

Melissa came out a few moments later, asking, "Did I miss anything?"

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 15 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

On Friday, after Paul's habitual crash-bang-zoom departure, I made my way to the kitchen, bracing myself for Melissa's powerful positivity and excitement. Today was unusual: I found a different Melissa, a Melissa unlike every other time I'd seen her. Today she wasn't chirpy and cheerful. She had her head down, her face resting in her hands, her elbows resting on the counter. Today she gave the impression of being run over, or emptied out. She looked worn, frazzled, tired. Her hair was as messy and tousled as mine, so I felt no fear that she'd chase me back upstairs to brush out my tangles.

She didn't look up when I came in. Her response to my "Morning," was a faint grunt.

"Do you want some coffee?" I offered. Again, her only reply was a muted sound. It seemed more like a yes than a no, so I heated enough water to fill the French press and shoveled in the coffee as I waited for the water to boil.

"Tired?" I asked.

Melissa let out a nearly inaudible sigh. "I wish it was only that," she whispered. "I've got a migraine coming on."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I already took my medication. When the coffee's ready, I'll bring it upstairs and lie down for a few hours."

"Does the coffee help?" I asked in a quiet voice. She nodded. "I should be okay by lunch. Just let me rest until then."

I poured her a generous mugful of coffee. She kissed my forehead, took the mug and trudged toward the stairs.

Her slow, muffled footsteps ascended the stairs and down the hall. Her bedroom door slowly closed, and then the house was quiet.

At first, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the first time I found myself alone since becoming Lorelei. I wandered into the entryway and looked at myself in the mirror. For no particular reason, I tried out different smiles: showing teeth, not showing teeth, curling the corners of my mouth in varying degrees. I have some nice smiles and some dopey smiles. I have nice cheekbones. No dimples, which is fine by me.

Then my stomach rumbled, and I went to make some toast.

After a quiet breakfast, I figured the next thing to do was prepare dinner for Max. Then I could make myself pretty for the day.

Melissa and I had already worked out the week's menu for Max; all that remained was the execution. I confirmed that we had all the ingredients, got out the pots and pans, the cutting board, the knives and other tools, and was all ready to begin when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Max.


Max: What's up?
Me: Nothing much. You?
Max: Same. Are you at my parents'?
Me: Yep.
Max: Is my mom reading over your shoulder?
Me: No. ha ha
Max: How is it, living there?
Me: Nice. Your parents are great.
Max: My mom is crazy about you.
Me: yeah
Max: What does my dad think of you? Does he know your story?
Me: No. He doesn't know. He's good. I think he likes having me around.
Max: ... and using the pool
Me: that too
Max: Homewrecker!
Me: As if!
Max: j/k
Me: I know.
Max: So, what are you up to?
Me: Fixing dinner for you.
Max: What is it?
Me: A surprise. You have to wait and see.
Max: Fair enough. Do you want to help me eat it?
Me: Have dinner with you? Yes, of course! Where?
Max: My house. Where else?
Me: Your parents' house?
Max: No, no way. I need to talk to you.
Me: About what?
Max: A surprise. You have to wait and see.
Me: hmmph
Max: I can pick you up after work.
Me: Sounds like a plan
 


Good thing he caught me before I started cooking. After a quick evaluation, I saw that I could make enough for two. Just to be sure, I added another side dish, and made a mental note to pick up a baguette and some cheese.

Once my hair and face were ready for the day, I dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a loose white cotton top. Since I had so much time to kill, I picked out my outfit for tonight, for my date with Max. The obvious choice was a cute bright yellow summer dress. The bright yellow was mitigated by an understated floral print, pale white flowers, leaves, and tendrils. It had a lot of nice details, like a flared ruffle skirt, a ruched bust, and spaghetti straps that showed off my shoulders and arms. A pair of white sandals with a two-inch heel finished off the outfit.

What I was going for was cute. NOT overtly sexy. It was important to establish that Max have no doubt that I'm female, and stop there. Instinctively I felt that anything more would make Max uncomfortable, and there was no point in that. "Uncomfortable" leads to resistance. I needed to make it easy for Max to accept me. No pushing, no pressure. He needed to feel in charge of the subtle negotiation.

Melissa came quietly downstairs at 11:30. It was the first time I'd seen her so subdued, so quiet. She still had the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, still wearing her pajamas. Seeing the concern on my face, she smiled weakly. "I'm fine," she told me in a in a near-whisper, and she gave me a hug. "It takes a lot out of me."

"I can see that."

She smiled again, to let me know she was alive and well.

"How often do your migraines come?"

"About once a month, which suggests an obvious connection." She smiled ruefully. "My doctor tells me they'll probably go away when I hit menopause."

"Oh!"

"Something else to look forward to, eh?" I didn't know how to respond.

She asked if she'd missed anything, so I told her about Max's invitation, expecting her to explode with glee. Instead, she merely nodded, smiled, and said, "That's nice. A step forward." No squeezes, nothing about grand-babies.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, solicitous.

She smiled again and chuckled. "Yes, I'm fine. The storm has passed. Don't worry." She stood up and fished through her bag. "I'm going to give you my car keys. I was going to take you back to the mall again, to Macy's, so you can get a good evening look. I mean your face... makeup. That girl last time was very good — you should go back to her again."

"I can't drive," I pointed out. "I don't have a license."

"Ah, right," she conceded. "Tomorrow we can go get your state ID, start on the license process."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

She sighed heavily. "I'm batting a thousand, aren't I?" She sat down again and played with her empty coffee mug. "How about this, then: take an Uber to the mall, get the evening look. Shop if you feel like it, and come back in time to get ready for your date with Max. I'm no use to you today, so there's no point in hanging around here."

Luckily, the same salesperson was working and available. Rather than work up a whole new look, she showed me how to make a few adjustments to my daytime look, and turn it into a face suitable for my dinner with Max this evening. Again, nothing overwhelming. Melissa was right about this woman: she really knew her stuff. What was particularly great about her was that she gave me a subtle look, a natural look, that — even up close — almost seemed like no makeup at all. I loved it.

While she worked on my face, I thought I saw Kitty walk by, a little far off, in the hallway outside. I'm talking about the mall hallway, the one that connects all the stores. I couldn't tell whether she spotted me, because I had to keep my head still for the makeover.

At Melissa's suggestion, I looked at some jewelry, and found two items that appealed to me. One was a simple gold necklace, fourteen inches, so it lay close to my neck. Then a pair of gold hoop earrings an inch in diameter. Again, I was going for simple. Feminine, yes, femme fatale, no.

The shopping felt a lot more relaxing and enjoyable without Melissa's pushing and prodding and asking me questions. I didn't always have a reaction ready for every piece of clothes she dangled in front of me. On the other hand, I missed being able to ask her opinions and to get reinforcement for my choices. Of course the salespeople told me that everything looked great on me, but they'd say that no matter what I chose.

At three-fifteen, I stopped in a little cafe. Although we were indoors in a huge mall, they managed to mimic Paris' sidewalk tables without seeming hokey or cheesy. Moments after I sat down a waiter appeared. I ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, and that's when Kitty appeared. She chose her moment well, blindsiding me by approaching from behind the waiter. She stepped into the open just as he was turning away from me.

She looked down at me, feigning surprise. She said, "Oh, you! Hello!" and then, after a quick glance at the waiter, she asked me, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Her entrance was breathtakingly abrupt, but having seen her earlier, I wasn't completely surprised. I managed to say, "Please do," with some aplomb. Kitty asked what I'd ordered, and requested the same. The waiter left, Kitty sat. We smiled at each other.

"Sorry for bursting in like that," she said apologetically, "but I wanted to meet you, and didn't get a chance the other day. I'm Kitty Dahlmann. I'm a friend of Max's."

"Max?" I asked, pretending to draw a blank. The best course, I thought, would be playing dumb.

"Max... Max Errison — Melissa's son."

"Oh, right."

"Sorry — I assumed that since you're friends with Melissa, you'd know Max as well."

"I met him once," I told her truthfully, searching my memory as I spoke. I had a flash of a mental picture: Max's shoes, pointing at me as I climbed out of the pool. "I only met him briefly." That much was technically true: we'd only met once since I became Lorelei.

"Oh!" Kitty said, starting back slightly. She didn't expect *that* response at all.

The waiter arrived, interrupting the interrogation. He carefully set out our cups, croissants, napkins, and a glass of water for each. He checked the cream and sugar, asked whether there was anything else, and left. The entire time, I covertly studied Kitty's face. My response clearly befuddled her; far more than it should have. I could almost see the gears turning in her head; she wondered whether I was lying.

"But you *do* know Elliot," she prompted, as she broke off a bit of croissant and dipped it in her coffee.

I gave a little sigh and treated Kitty to a somewhat distressed facial expression. "Elliot?" I asked, feigning helplessness.

Kitty's confusion increased. "Elliot Beekman. He must be your cousin or something — you look so much like him."

"I'm sorry," I told her. "You seem like a nice person, but you're asking me so many questions about people I don't know. At the same time, I have no idea who you are."

Kitty blinked. Her face took on a troubled aspect. She arrived with a plan and a vision of how this conversation was going to go, but it wasn't going her way.

"I told you my name," she said, sounding apologetic. "But I don't think you told me yours."

"I'm Lorelei," I replied, and set my face like stone. I wasn't going to say the name Gight. That name would connect me to Darcy, which would connect me to Elliot, who I was pretending not to know. I thought my face told her that all she was going to get was my first name, but she persisted.

"Are you Darcy's sister?"

I replied with an open-mouthed, offended sigh.

"I'm getting very uncomfortable here," I told her. "Why do you care who I am and who I know?"

Kitty appeared genuinely unsettled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm doing this on behalf of a friend. I don't mean to pry." She fiddled with her phone and held it up to show me a photo. "This is my friend," she said.

The photo surprised me. Honestly, it astonished me to a degree that I nearly fell off my chair — without exaggeration.

The photo showed Kitty and Amber, side by side, both of them smiling. Big, sunny smiles. Both were dressed in cutoffs, tank tops, and flip flops. The location was a boardwalk, somewhere. Kitty looked like the Kitty I've always known: positive, happy, solar, attractive — the archetype of the girl next door. Her hair was a bit longer, but otherwise the same.

Amber appeared in a way I never could have imagined. Her hair was a glorious mane. Her teeth were white and even. Max had said that Amber was hot — and that fact was very much in evidence here. She looked normal, healthy, full of life. Joyful, even.

I know that I've only met Amber a handful of times, but I can honestly say that the entire time I've been in her company, she scowled. In my limited experience, she had no other facial expression. The idea that she could smile never occurred to me, and if it had, I would never have pictured the open friendly smile that Kitty was showing me now.

For the first time, I understood how Max could fall for her.

At least on a physical level.

"Your friend...," I observed. "I met her yesterday. She didn't look like that."

Kitty glanced at the photo for a moment, then turned it back to face me. "Well, it's from five years ago."

"That's not what I meant," I told her. "She wasn't smiling yesterday. Not at all. Not for a moment."

"Well, what happened?"

"I was minding my own business, looking at some clothes. She came out of nowhere and snapped at least a dozen pictures of me without asking. She peppered me with questions, too." I shook my head. "She acted like she was some kind of cop, and she treated me like a criminal. She never even told me her name or what she wanted with me." I looked Kitty in the face. "Who is she? What is this about?"

"Her name is Amber. Amber Lochlin. She and Max Errison — Melissa's son — were dating for years... until last Christmas."

"And what does that have to do with me? Just because her boyfriend dumped her doesn't give her some kind of weird license..."

"Wait — no." Kitty was briefly flustered. "He didn't dump—" She sighed heavily. "Honestly, I don't know. They broke up. But up till then, they talked about getting married, and having kids." She looked me in the face, to see what effect her story was having.

I shrugged and said, "People break up. It happens all the time. Everybody's heart gets broken."

"Right," Kitty acknowledged. "But Amber is convinced that Max is her soulmate. That's why she won't let go. She can't let go."

I said nothing. I only raised my eyebrows in silent question.

"I don't know whether you believe in soulmates," Kitty told me. "I do. I married mine. For me, there is no other man in the world."

I didn't respond.

Kitty hesitated. In retrospect, I think she realized how bizarre it was going to sound. "But see — Amber wanted to talk to you because— See, um, Max left her for someone who looks... just like you."

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. "Seriously?" I asked, still chuckling, "That's why she came to bother me? If Max left her for someone who looked like Megan Fox, would she go pester Megan Fox?"

Kitty frowned. "Okay," she admitted. "That's fair. But what happened when she talked to you? I heard her scream. I've never heard her scream before. Ever."

"Really?" I said.

"Really. Amber is a wonderful person. I've never seen her angry or mean or unkind. I sometimes wonder whether she even has negative emotions."

On hearing that, my eyebrows went up as high as they could possibly go.

"I'm serious," Kitty said.

"So, you think that *I* must have done something to make your sainted friend scream?"

"Did you?"

"I refused to answer her questions and I asked her to go away. That's all." A thought occurred to me. "But if you were watching, you'd know that."

She colored red at that. "I wasn't watching," she told me. "I was nearby, so I heard the scream. But I didn't see your interaction."

"Did you sic her on me?" I asked.

"Sick?"

"Sic, like when you sic a dog on someone."

"No, of course not! She wouldn't do that anyway."

"But you pointed me out to her," I concluded.

"I'm sorry," Kitty said again. "This conversation didn't go the way — it didn't go any way that I anticipated. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I won't bother you again. I'll go pick up the tab for this. It's the least I can do. Goodbye."

Kitty was sorry, but I was sorry, too. I've said several times that I like Kitty. She's an old friend.

Her picture of Amber utterly confused me. Big time. Not just the photograph, but her description of the woman. A thought occurred to me — something that never occurred to me before: Amber had a lot of friends. Maybe none of them saw her the way that I do. After all, every woman in town (at least as far as I know) believed her stories about Max and me (Elliot-me).

And Kitty... it seemed she swayed one way and the other, sometimes favoring me and Max and sometimes favoring Amber... if she honestly believed in Amber, the way she said she did, she must need to shift her confusion back and forth, in and out of focus, depending on who she was with.

I'd have to ask Max about this. After all, he dated Amber for three years! It couldn't have been utterly horrible. At the very least, it couldn't have started off as horrible.

Then again, how much did any of it matter?

I took an Uber back to Melissa's house and got ready for my date.

Max sent a text that he was leaving his office and would arrive in thirty minutes. I packed up the food into two bags and waited in the kitchen with Paul and Melissa. Melissa was still subdued, but looked a lot better than this morning. She hadn't bothered to put on any makeup, which made her seem washed out, but I could tell that her spirit was much improved, though her enthusiasm was not yet up to full strength.

Max pulled into the driveway and honked once. I grabbed the bags and headed for the door.

"Hold on there!" Paul commanded. "Make him come inside! What kind of manners did we teach that boy?"

I set the bags down and stuck my head outside the door. Max rolled down his window. "Your father says you have to come inside," I told him.

"You're kidding," he scoffed.

I shrugged, smiled, and went back inside. A moment later and Max walked in.

"What kind of manners is that?" Paul asked (though he half smiling, half scolding).

Max gestured to me and said, "She knows me! It's not as though we're going to the prom!"

"Oh! The prom!" Melissa sighed wistfully.

Paul gave a good-natured scoff.

Melissa told him, "Max, don't you like her dress? Aren't you going to pay her a compliment?"

He took a deep breath, looked me over, and blinked. He said, "Wow. You look amazing. Really. That dress... your legs and arms and... uh, I'm going to shut up now."

I smiled. He smiled. Melissa brought her hands together close to her heart, beaming.

Paul said, "Now you kids have a good time tonight, but Max, I expect her home by ten."

Max rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dad."

"We're in loco parentis here, aren't we?" Melissa gave him a gentle poke with her elbow. "Alright," he said, "By midnight. Two at the latest."

Max reached for the bags, but his father stopped him. "Aren't you going to kiss her?" he asked.

Max sheepishly kissed me on the cheek. "God, you're so soft!" he whispered. Then, in a normal tone, "Let's get the hell out of here!"

In the car, Max asked, "So how are they treating you? Is it like being a child again? Do they let you go out by yourself?"

"It's nice," I said. "Your mother is helping me a lot."

"With cooking, or with girl stuff?"

"Both. I really appreciate her advice." I hesitated a few beats, then: "The only difficult thing about living with your parents is your father. When he gets up in the morning—"

"Oh, I know!" Max exclaimed. "It sounds like he's tearing the house down! He's so incredibly loud!"

"I don't know what he does, but first there's all this banging, and then he's up and down stairs in his clompy shoes—"

"—and then it seems like he slams the front door with all his might, and the same with his car door."

"Right. But he doesn't do that on the weekend, does he?"

"He gets up early every single day. Consequently, everybody else in the house is up early as well." Max shook his head. "My mother has talked to him about it so many times, but he never changes."

Back at chez Max, we entered through the kitchen. Everything was clean and in order — just as Melissa and I had left it the day before. Then I noticed that the table had been set, with all the cutlery and glasses and even a bread plate. "I copied what you did when Kitty and Claus were here," Max explained. "Claus took a picture of it, so I asked him to send it to me."

"Are you and Claus hanging out now?"

"Yeah! He's a good guy. I kind of wish I'd gotten to know him before. Sometimes he does that poor-foreigner-who-doesn't-understand shtick, but aside from that, he's great."

Foolishly, I felt a slight twinge of jealousy; the feeling that I'd been replaced. I let it pass.

"Does that mean Claus knows about our date?"

"Our date? No. All he knows is that I asked for that picture. I didn't say what I wanted it for."

As I stood and admired the table setting, I was aware of Max, who seemed to be studying the back of my dress. I ran my hand behind me, over my skirt. "Is something stuck on me back there?" I asked.

"Uh, no," Max replied, a little embarrassed. "I was, uh, just staring. Okay, I'll come out and say it: your ass is a work of art. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

I looked at him. For some reason, my voice came out in a squeak. "I'm glad you like it."

"I hope I didn't offend you."

"No, no — not at all." Honestly, my mind was occupied with something else entirely: I was wondering whether Amber prompted Claus to become friends with Max. I knew better than to voice that question out loud. At the same time, on the positive side of the ledger, I noticed that Max didn't deny that we were on a date. I decided to touch that key again.

"So... Claus doesn't know about our date."

"No, I just told you: Claus doesn't know about our date. He doesn't know about you at all." Max noisily uncorked a bottle of white wine, and mused, "You know, speaking of dates... you're the first... person since Christmas to say yes to me when I asked them out."

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. Nice negotiation of your gender-neutral words, Max! I swayed my hips to set my skirt swirling.

"That dress is killer," Max told me, as he handed me a glass of wine. We clinked glasses. I took a sip and started heating up our food.

"Max, your mother and I ran into Kitty the other day at the mall."

"You did?" I told him the story, and he shook his head. "I don't know what the deal is with my mother and Kitty," he confessed.

"Kitty *is* good friends with Amber," I pointed out.

"She always has been and probably always will be, good friends with Amber. I like Kitty. I don't feel she needs to throw over her friendship with Amber to be friends with me. With us. I don't want to lose her friendship just because of Amber."

"I like Kitty, too," I confessed, "but she confuses me."

"Awww," Max cooed, then stopped himself. "Wow," he said. "I almost came over there and hugged you."

"You could," I said.

"I will," he said. "Just not yet."

I nodded.

"The thing is," he explained, "Sometimes I see you as Elliot and sometimes I see you as Lorelei."

"I understand."

"How do you see yourself now?"

"I'm just me," I told him. "Most of the time I feel that I haven't changed at all. But then again, most of the time I'm alone, or with your mother, so I'm not really aware of my female-ness. There's nothing to bring it to the fore."

"Your female-ness," he repeated. "And uh, does your female-ness extend everywhere? To every part of you?"

I bit my lip before answering. Then I told him, "I have a vagina, if that's what you're asking."

His breath caught in his throat. Then he said, "That *is* what I was asking, yeah."

"In fact," I told him, "I'm a virgin."

My timing was unintentional, but perfect: Max had just taken a sip of wine, but on the word virgin he spat his mouthful all over the kitchen wall. Fortunately, I was not in the line of fire. Luckily, it was white wine, not red.

"Vir— virgin," he repeated.

"Virgo intacta." I added, with precision. "But don't worry — I can get that fixed."

"How?" Max asked, caught off guard. He thought I was talking about his aunt's medallion.

"The old fashioned way," I replied. I made an "O" with my left index finger and thumb, and inserted my right index finger into that hole.

"Ah!" Max gasped, and the two of us burst into laughter.

"So if you know any one who wants to cure me...," I said, giving a rakish look over my wine glass.

"I'm sure you won't have any problem finding applicants," he quipped, giving back a rakish look of his own.

I opened my mouth to add another witticism, but thought better of it.

Max saw my mouth open, then close, so he asked, "What were you going to say? Go ahead! Come on!"

I said, "Hopefully they'll be able to pass the entrance exam."

Max howled.

I noticed that Max was being unobtrusively careful about his wine consumption, pouring himself half glasses, and drinking them slowly. When I remarked on it, he said, "I need to be able to drive you home. I don't want to send you home in an Uber."

"I appreciate it," I told him, although — I didn't mention the possibility, but I could easily stay overnight. We didn't need to sleep in the same bed. But as I said, I didn't mention it. I didn't want to push it.

By the time we'd done eating, Max hadn't consumed even one full glass of wine. Still, I thought I might safely broach a topic that was much on my mind, especially since my meeting with Kitty. If he'd had more, I would have felt a bit easier about it, but I needed to talk about it.

"Max, I know I asked you this before, but how on earth could you stay with Amber for three years? I mean, isn't she an awful, crazy, witch?"

"Oh," he said, taking a deep breath and letting himself deflate. "I guess you've only seen the worst of Amber, so you wouldn't know." He took a tiny sip of wine. "Amber is like four different people. Four very different people. There's the public Amber, the covert Amber, the crazy, violent Amber, and the bitchy, controlling Amber."

"Violent?" I repeated.

"Well, I don't want to exaggerate," he said, after a moment of thought. "I have never seen that Amber, but I know that she once kicked down the door of a previous boyfriend's apartment because she thought he was cheating on her."

"Was he?"

Max burst out laughing. "Yes, he was. Obviously, she scared the hell out of him — and the other woman as well."

"Did she hurt them?"

"No, she just walked in, said I thought so, and left. Maybe she broke a lamp or something. I don't know."

"Are you sure that really happened?"

"Oh, yeah!" Max said. "I talked to the guy. I think he's still afraid of her — soon after that, he moved to Canada."

I couldn't help it — I started laughing. "You're putting me on!" Then I thought for a moment. "But wait — when did you talk to him? If he was going out with Amber, then that was before you, but if he left..."

"Don't make it complicated," he said. "He heard I was seeing Amber and he called me. She had his mother's engagement ring and he wanted it back, but he was afraid to ask her for it."

"Did you get it back?"

"Yes. Anyway, that's the least interesting part of the story. In any case, not many people get to see the crazy Amber, thank God."

I have, I thought, but I'm not going to tell Max about it. What I did say was, "I'm guessing the covert Amber is the one who secretly moved out and started the whisper campaign about us."

"Right," Max agreed. "She can be very subterranean and secretive. Now, the public Amber — that's the Amber most people know. That's the Amber who is funny and charming and charismatic."

I shook my head. "I find that hard to believe."

"That's the Amber Kitty knows. That's why Kitty doesn't believe the things we say about Amber, because to Kitty they seem totally out of character."

Max scratched his eyebrow, thinking, before he went on. "Think about it: Amber has a lot of friends. A lot of friends. She knows just about everybody, and pretty much everybody likes her and even respects her. She's very active. She's always doing things, making things happen, and bringing people along."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"What kinds of things?"

"Parties, little trips, outdoors things like hiking, canoeing, camping, sports..."

"Is she good at sports?"

"No, she's terrible! But that makes it easier to pull people in, because they don't feel intimidated by their inability."

"I had no idea." I mulled over what he said, and then asked him, "Do you miss her?"

"Oh, hell no!" he replied immediately. "Not at all! Not at all. Because I got to know the fourth Amber: the controlling, bitchy one." He gave a bitter, barking laugh.

"When we first started seeing each other, it was great. It was fun. You haven't seen her — I mean, really seen her — but Amber is hot. And the sex was pretty good... it was definitely up there. It wasn't until after we moved in together, though, that she began to show this other side. She wanted to change me. To improve me. To round off my rough edges. She didn't just try to change me. She demanded changes. Changes in the way I dressed, changes in the house, changing furniture, deciding who we'd see and who we wouldn't see — that was a big one. She had me cut off most of my contact with my family and friends. With you, for instance."

"I was busy with the startup then."

"Right, so you didn't notice. You were down in that coal mine. I'm sure you remember, the times that she saw you, she treated you badly." He sighed heavily. "As time went on, she criticized me more and more. She was relentless. I began to feel she was trying to break me. And somehow, I felt like it was good for me, that I needed it, that she wanted nothing but the best for me and from me. But it wasn't like that at all. It was just control. Pure control. Through negativity. After a while, it seemed that she didn't like anything I did or said. Finally I gave up. I figured, if she doesn't like anything I do, I should do whatever I want!"

"Why didn't you break up with her?"

He chuckled. "I tried! I told her that I wanted to break up. I told her why. I didn't hold back. She let me talk. She listened to every word I said, and then she said, Well, I don't want to break up. I think we should stay together.. And that was the end of it! She stayed. She didn't move out. I felt like *I* was the one who was supposed to move out — of my own house!" He twisted his mouth to the side. "That was about a year before she left."

My jaw dropped. "She was just going to occupy until you broke down and married her."

"I'm pretty sure that was her plan."

The two of us where silent for a few moments. Then I asked, "So was I the first crack in the wall?"

Max smiled and gave a little shrug. "Seems that way. When you moved in, seemed like she figured all bets were off."

"Maybe she figured that if she moved out, you'd come desperately running after her, begging her to come back."

"It that was her strategy, it was a miserable failure!"

As we loaded dishes into the dishwasher, I said, "Hey, you said you wanted to talk to me about something? Did we talk about it?"

He laughed. "No, we didn't. Sorry, but I was so dazzled by that dress and all your..." he gestured at my body, toe to head "... all your charms, I completely forgot!"

"So, what was it?"

"Remember Kass, the dancer?"

"Your fake date on Valentines?"

"Yeah. Well, her girlfriend, Tamara, has invited us to lunch tomorrow at the Celestial Lamb."

"I thought you needed to make reservations months in advance for that place."

"For dinner, yes. For lunch it's much easier. And less expensive. Anyway, it's her treat."

"What's the occasion? Is there one?"

"Tamara is a fashion designer, and some celebrity chose her to create their red-carpet look. It's a big deal for her; a real coup. Probably her big break. So she wants to celebrate. Since Kass is not officially out, or completely out or whatever, it's a small celebration, just the four of us."

"Do they know who I am?"

"No, the invitation is for me and my date — if I can find one."

"Cool!" I said. "I'd love to go!"

The dishwasher loaded, Max moved on to hand-washing his crystal glasses while I dried. I told him about my encounter with Amber at the mall. When I got to the scream, he went white and set the glass he was washing down. Leaning on his hands, looking down, he said, "Lorelei, promise me that you will never get into a fight with that woman."

"I'm not afraid," I told him. "If she starts something, I'll do my best to make her sorry."

"No," he said. "Please don't. There's no winner in a fight like that. And remember: crazy, violent Amber has no rules. She could bite a chunk out of your nose, or scratch your face to shreds. You don't want that. Promise me. Back away. Run away if you have to."

"Okay," I said, more than a little miffed.

"Seriously," he insisted, looking me in the eye.

"Okay!" I reiterated. "I promise!"

"Good," he said, and returned to washing glasses.

Then, trying to lighten the mood, I told him my perception, that Amber I were the same size, the same build, basically the same body.

"I guess you have a type," I joked.

He gave me a strange look, and I almost apologized for saying it. But I didn't.

He dried his hands and went into his pantry with the step-stool. He looked at the four remaining Christmas presents, pulling one after another slightly off the shelf. He stopped at the third box and reached it down.

"Here," he said. "You might be able to wear this tomorrow, to the lunch." I started to pull on the paper, to rip it, but he put his hands on mine to stop me.

"No, open it at home," he said. "I don't want to see the expression on your face if you don't like it or if it doesn't fit."

"Okay," I acquiesced, withdrawing my hands. "But tell me: how do you know that this one is a dress? Are the other three dresses too?"

"No," he said, tipping the box up. He pointed to a letter D written in a corner on the bottom. "D means Dress."

"What was the letter on the All-in-One Cooker?"

"A for All-in-One."

"What letters are left?"

He grinned. "Do you think you're going to get them all?"

"I don't know, am I?"

"We'll see!" he laughed.

"So what are the letters?"

He thought for a moment. "Okay, the remaining letters are P, V, and S. Don't ask me what they mean. I won't tell you."

"Can I buy a vowel?"

"Ha! No."

"Hmmph."

He fingered the tag. "You know these were for Amber. I can pull off the tag, but that will rip the paper. Which would bother you more: ripped paper, or the To Amber tag?"

"It doesn't matter," I told him, "you can leave the tag."

But when I got back to Melissa's house, in the half-lit kitchen, I set the box on the kitchen counter. I tore off the tag, muttered, "Fuck you, Amber!" and tore the tag to shreds. It left such a bad taste in my mouth that I left the box unopened and went to bed. I'd open it in the morning.

Halfway up the stairs I realized that Melissa wouldn't be able to resist the mystery, so I ran back down and carried it, still unopened, to my room.

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 16 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Today being Saturday, with the possibility of running into Paul, I didn't go directly downstairs in my pajamas. I took the time to get my hair and face ready. I dressed in a white skater dress.

I don't know what plans Melissa had for me today, but they'd need to be set aside. My program was already set. Today was going to be my second date with Max: our lunch with the ladies. The ladies being Kass and her girlfriend Tamara.

Dressed, but still barefoot, I sat on the edge of my bed and eyed the Christmas present Max had given me last night. He made it clear that the box contained a dress, and that he thought it would be suitable for today's lunch. I was hopeful; it would be a nice touch, showing up in a dress he'd given me.

I almost opened the box. But when I heard Melissa's voice come indistinctly from downstairs in the kitchen, it struck me in an instant that *she* would get a bigger kick out of opening the present than I would, and so, smiling, I picked it up, left my bedroom, and walked softly across the upstairs carpet.

As I descended the stairs I crinkled the wrapping paper beneath my fingers so Melissa would know I was coming.

"There she is!" Paul exclaimed by way of greeting, as soon as my feet came into view.

"Hello there, sweetie," Melissa called, "Do you have any plans for today? I was thinking..."

My response, my interruption, was to waggle the golden Christmas box at her, as soon as I'd come far enough down the stairs that she could see it. She clapped her hands together and shrieked like a teenager. Paul winced and blinked.

"Oh, my goodness! what is that? What's in that box?" Her questions came firing out, accompanied by a huge, dimpled smile. "Another present? A present from Max?"

"Yes. Yes to all that." Her joy was too infectious. I had to smile as well — a smile so big it almost hurt my face. "This one is a—"

"AAH!" she interrupted, pointing a sharp index finger in my direction. "Zip it! Zip that lip! Don't spoil the surprise!"

"Okay," I acquiesced, "but Max already told me what it—"

"No, no!" she cut in loudly. She covered her ears and said, "LA LA LA LA LA" to drown out my words. I set the box on the kitchen counter, in front of her, then made the motion of zipping my lips shut and locking them with a key. She took her hands off her ears, and asked, "Do you mean I can open it? Don't you want to open it?"

"Open it," I told her. "*You* open it, before I tell you what it is."

After three fruitless tugs at the red ribbon, Melissa snipped it off with a pair of scissors, then carefully fit her fingers into the edges of the paper, pulling it gently open. Paul watched the proceedings with some curiosity. It occurred to me that I ought to ask Melissa what Paul thought I was doing in their home, how long he thought I was staying, and so on. I'd gone from being an almost complete stranger to something of a more-or-less permanent fixture.

I say "almost complete stranger" because Paul, like everyone else, took me to be Elliot's cousin. There was a built-in sense of familiarity — due on the one hand to my "strong family resemblance" to Elliot, and on the other hand to the secret fact that Paul and I already knew each other. "Secret" only because Paul hadn't the least inkling. He knew nothing about the medallion, so the possibility of my ever having been Elliot would never enter his head.

At long last, Melissa got the box open. It contained, as Max said, a dress. Melissa was underwhelmed. It was a wrap dress, pale sage in color — a cool, understated color, I thought. The sleeves were short; the skirt came down to just above my knees.

"I guess you have to try it on," she said without much enthusiasm.

As soon as the fabric touched my body, I was convinced. The cloth was incredibly light and soft. It floated on my skin like a feather. Never having worn a wrap dress before, I needed Melissa's help in positioning it correctly and in tying the bow that kept the dress closed.

Paul signaled his approval with a wolf whistle.

"Well!" Melissa exclaimed, taking a step back so she could see it better. "That is a lovely dress on you! I wonder who helped Max choose it?"

"Do you know," she went on, after looking from various angles, "Lying on the counter, it just looked like a pile of cloth. But now, it doesn't just fit you, it hangs on you. It... follows your curves, like water. I'd say it's flattering, but you don't need flattery. It shows you off. It really shows you off."

"It fits me perfectly, doesn't it?" I asked. The question was redundant, but I wanted to be sure.

"Like it was made for you," Melissa confirmed. Paul nodded and gave a thumbs up.

Melissa and I half-jokingly ran the dress through its paces: walking up and down, quickly and slowly, climbing and descending the stairs, twirling, quick, dramatic turns right and left, sitting, standing... That process complete, I changed back into my white skater dress. I couldn't risk spilling breakfast on the new dress. Now that the show was over, Paul retreated to the patio with a mug of coffee and a book.

With that, I was essentially ready for my lunch date. There wasn't any time for much else, so Melissa and I beguiled the time talking. During a conversational lull, I told Melissa about the remaining Christmas presents, the three coded P, V, and S. She tried guessing all sorts of things, each time going for all three at once — "Pizza, Vegetables, and Salamanders!" or "Pajamas, V-necks, and Sapphires" or "Paris, Venice, and Singapore" — until at last she came up with a combination that short-circuited herself: "Penis, Vagina, Sex!" After we stopped laughing, she was done guessing. Her brain, burnt out, refused to throw up any more possible answers.

We talked about Kass and Tamara. Melissa hadn't heard the story of Max's Valentines Day dinner with Kass, so I laid it out for her. Melissa's anger was ignited on hearing of Amber's verbal attack on Max. She was nearly incandescent, but at the same time sad. I thought she'd be pleased to hear how Kass gut-punched Amber. Instead, it distressed her. "I understand that Kass was provoked, but even so, it's undignified," she told me, shaking her head. "Even for someone as awful as Amber... who, no doubt, deserves it. Remember: violence begets violence."

Her response took a lot of the air out of the story, but there was the postscript (if you remember) from the parking lot: that Amber would be coming to Nessa's wedding.

"What!?" Melissa exclaimed, the flame of her anger re-lit. I'm pretty sure that if Amber were somehow present at that moment in Melissa's kitchen, that Melissa might have given old Amber a punch in the gut herself. "That girl is a snake! She's insidious, that's what she is! Why would someone stick their nose in, where they're not wanted?"

She went off on a fiery tangent, wondering whether she dared try to scuttle Amber's invitation. When I pointed out that a wedding invitation is a "difficult bell to un-ring" she grudgingly gave it up.

From there, determined to change the subject, Melissa began telling happier stories — beginning at her own wedding, to Paul. Then, anecdotes of their life as a young couple, up to the point when Max was born. Some random association took Melissa into memories of Vivianne, who was apparently quite wild as a teenager.

"Honestly," Melissa confessed, "someone could make a movie, based literally and exactly on the life of that woman, but no one would believe it. They'd think it was utter fiction."

"Because of the medallion?" I asked.

"What medallion?" Melissa blanked for a moment. "Oh, that. No, no — even without that! She was always just... not so much out of control as... well, light years out... light years out on a limb, if that makes any sense. She's a strange creature. Sometimes she reminds me of Shirley MacLaine, if Shirley MacLaine had a dark side. I thank God that Vivianne is kind and considerate, because if she wasn't... well, there'd be no stopping her."

A chill went through me as she spoke.

The time flew so quickly, we were both caught by surprise when Max's car pulled up outside.

Melissa followed me as I ran upstairs. I needed her help again with the wrap and the bow. I quipped, "Hey, I'm like a Christmas present: wrapped with a bow." Then, hearing the words that came out of my mouth, I stopped and said, "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"Put your shoes on," Melissa said. "You'll have plenty of time to decide how you feel about what you feel later."

When we returned to the kitchen, I had to show off the dress. Max nodded appreciatively, gave me a thumbs up, and when I turned my back to him, he exclaimed, "Whoa!" in an appreciative tone. Thanks to our rigorous testing earlier, I knew what that view looked like: the dress did my derriere proud.

Melissa gave Max a half-disapproving look. She was distressed by his wolfish aspect, but pleased that he was pleased with Lorelei. Max, ignorant of all her subtexts, shrugged and winked at her.

I wondered whether Max would kiss me (and what sort of kiss he'd give) without his father present to prompt him.

Max took a step toward me, put one hand on the back of my neck, and kissed me on the cheek. Then, with his hand still heavy on the back of my neck, he rested his forehead on mine for a few moments. I closed my eyes and drank in the silent communion.

"That was nice," I told him in the car.

"Yeah," he agreed, reaching over to squeeze my thigh before placing both his hands on the steering wheel. He looked over and smiled. "That dress is perfect for you," he told me.

I rested my hands in my lap and smiled to myself. Things were going so well!

At one point, the car hit a bump in the road, and I almost told Max his mother's guess for the meaning of P, V, and S, but managed to bite my tongue.

My heels were a bit higher than any I'd worn so far. Consequently, they endowed my derriere with complete autonomy of movement. In other words, I could feel my butt dip and sway as I walked, without any control or intent on my part, whatsoever. I knew that Max had gotten wind of this back in his parents' driveway — I was clued in by the way he hung back as I moved toward his car. When we got to the restaurant, he came around to my side, opened the door, and gazed down at me. "You're a vision," he said.

"Thanks," I quipped. "I guess that makes you a visionary."

He helped me to my feet. When I was fully vertical, almost balanced on my high heels, he suddenly, abruptly, clumsily hugged me. I was so taken by surprise that I would have fallen if he wasn't holding me tight.

"Oh, God," he groaned, and somehow I understood that he was saying, I'm confused and conflicted... so confused and conflicted. It was one of his Elliot or Lorelei? moments, I could tell. His body told him Lorelei while his brain insisted Elliot. Max's face was flushed as we came out of the embrace. I didn't mean to, but I glanced down at the lump in his pants, taken aback by the size of it. It occurred to me that I'd never seen Max's penis in the wild, if I can express it that way. He cleared his throat and asked, "Would you mind walking ahead me into the restaurant?"

I scratched my eyebrow and gave him a sideways look with a teasing smile. "Is this so you can stare at my butt? Or so you can hide your boner?"

"Both," he admitted. "But one thing works against the other." He sighed. "Do you mind?"

I hesitated a moment, then told him, "No, I don't mind, but, um... maybe it would be better to wait out here until it passes. Can you think about baseball scores or mowing the lawn or, uh, I don't know... doing your taxes?"

"Taxes," he said, closing his eyes. "Taxes." He shook his head back and forth. "Depreciation would probably help."

"Try to remember all the forms you have to find."

He grumbled and concentrated, but after a few minutes he confessed defeat. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's no good. You're just... you're just way too hot."

"Okay," I said. "I've got a image for you — you have to immediately forget that it was me who told you, okay, but this one is guaranteed." I leaned close to whisper in his ear. He looked at me from the corner of his eye. It was pure heat. He snaked his hand around my waist. I whispered, so not a soul on earth could hear what I had to say. "Max," I whispered, and the two of us quivered.

"You're killing me," he groaned.

"Picture your grandmother, naked on the toilet," I told him.

He recoiled and took a few steps away from me. "Oh, that's sick!" he protested. His shudders, his grunted moans of disgust, made me laugh so hard that I bent over crying, clutching my stomach.

I don't think a full two minutes passed before I was straightening up, wheezing, and he was descending on me like a fury. He took my arm, said, "Come on inside now, you dirty thing, you."

"I guess this means you're better?"

He replied by giving me a sharp swat on my butt. I yelped.

Then, finally, he laughed. "Yes, it worked. Your awful image worked. Where on earth did you get that?"

"I don't remember," I told him honestly. He rolled his eyes, but then he smirked and gave my arm a conspiratorial squeeze.

The restaurant wasn't lit very brightly inside — nothing near the noon intensity outside. Temporarily blinded by the transition, we wouldn't have been able to find the table if the hostess hadn't led us directly to it. Of the two women seated there, it was easy to know which woman went with which name. Kass, clearly, was the demure woman: perfect posture, long hair, and the slender body of a dancer. She held her head high, reminding me of a meerkat standing on its hind legs so it can see far. She remained seated, smiling and waving hello, but Tamara got up and walked in front of the table to greet us.

Tamara was a strong contrast to the petite, poised Kass: Tamara is big: not tall, and definitely not fat. What Tamara was, was big-boned: her pelvis and shoulders were wide. Her body was like a cartoon square with a hand or foot on each corner, and a small head on top. Her hair was red, close-cropped in a mannish buzz, and she wore big, rectangular-framed eyeglasses. She might have seemed comical, except for her smile, which wide, symmetrical, and utterly disarming.

When she spoke, her voice rolled out in a Texas drawl.

She grabbed Max and hauled him into a bear hug. Her arms around him, she flexed forcefully, eliciting a grunt, then a second grunt, from the captive Max.

"Oh, Max, Max!" she crooned. "Thanks for rescuing my little girl on Valentines Day. I'm so very grateful! I'm so sorry I missed it; it sounded pretty damn eventful."

Released from her embrace, Max bashfully scoffed that "it was nothing." Tamara squeezed his upper arm with a strong hand.

Then she turned to me. I was a little apprehensive. If Tamara gripped me as firmly as she held Max, I was sure to come out of it with broken bones, or bruises at the very least. Instead, she utterly charmed me by gently taking my right hand, saying, "Now, this delicate flower must be Lorelei." She raised the back of my hand almost to her lips. Rather than kiss my hand, she kept going, lifting it by my fingers higher than my head, as if she needed to do so to see my dress adequately.

She nodded, smiled, approved: "Excellent choice! You can't go wrong with the bias cut. I love a good draping." She continued to move my hand, guiding me into a slow turn, so she could see the dress from all sides. Some diners at another table looked on and smiled. I blushed, both flattered and embarrassed.

Tamara herself was dressed in a pair of rust-orange elephant pants with a super-loose silk floral-print top. The print on her top looked as though it was painted by a five-year-old. And yet... the outfit worked! There may not have been another woman on earth who could have worn such a look, but Tamara made it look good.

That was the thing about Tarama: she was too much, but she beguiled you with her excess.

The moment we all sat down, Tamara leaned back and reached into the ice bucket next to her chair. She pulled out a champagne bottle and held it against the light. "Empty!" she pronounced. Tilting her head back, she called across the room, Une autre bouteille de Moët, s’il vous plaît! The waiter nodded.

Let me say, in passing: you have not lived until you've heard French spoken with a Texas accent.

Tamara turned her head and looked lovingly at Kass, but pointed with disapproval at Kass' glass. "You've barely touched your champagne, my dear." In fact, the glass was, for all intents, full.

Kass gave a cute shrug with her delicate shoulders. "Honey, you know I'm not a big drinker."

"But we're celebrating!" Tamara protested, throwing her arms wide in global invitation. "Everybody ought to be drinking!" She leaned forward toward Max and me. "The occasion today is my first red-carpet event! A celebrity — I can't tell you her name, not yet, but you know her — everyone knows her — an A-lister — her people are flying me out to LA this week to talk over designs and to try on some of my pieces. And then, I will create for her a one-of-a-kind, never-before seen and never-to-be-seen-again dress, along with a look." She picked up her glass to drink; was taken aback to find it empty. "It will be a dress, a look, to die for," she confided. The alcohol she'd already consumed seemed to rise from her like a miasma. A joyful, celebratory miasma, but a miasma for all of that. It quickly passed.

I smiled at Tamara, and she smiled back. Her eyes drifted down to my dress, and she commented, "Killer dress. Killer dress."

"Thanks," I acknowledged. "But... can you tell me, what was it you said before about a bias? I didn't understand that."

Her eyebrows bounced. "No? Gracious, girl! I thought everyone knew... oh well. Here we go. I'm going to explain to you what the bias cut means, in a nutshell. Most of the clothes you see are made from rectangles of cloth, all sewn together. Nothing wrong with that. You can get wonderful clothes, doing that. Just for example, look at the clothes around this table. We're all dressed well, but there's a difference between the way your dress is made and the way our clothes are made. Take a look at Max for instance: he looks good; he's dressed well. You can understand that his clothes are made from rectangles of cloth, all sewn together. Do you follow? Rectangles." She made gestures with her hand that somehow made it clearer.

"Yes."

"That's the usual way. My clothes, Kass' clothes, right now, today, rectangles. Now, look at this napkin." She held up a cloth napkin and pulled the sides away from each other. "This is a rectangle, or a grid if you like. now lookit here: there's not much give in the material. It's very stable, which is wonderful if you want stability. But now, take a gander at this." She turned the napkin 45 degrees, and dangled it by one corner. "This is the bias. It means the cloth is cut and sewn on the diagonal. Suddenly, just by taking that turn, you lose the rigidity of the rectangles. It's like magic: it leaves the cloth free to flow over your body. Do you see what I'm saying?" She moved her hand beneath the napkin, and the cloth flowed over her fingers.

"I think so."

"Tonight, when you go home, hang up that dress, put it on a hanger, and then take a good look at it, there on the hanger. Compare it to another dress on a hanger. You'll see the difference. The other one will keep its shape. The way it looks on the hanger is how it looks on you. This dress, on the other hand, looks great on you, but on the hanger, it'll just hang like an old rag. Try it. You'll see."

The waiter arrived with another bottle of champagne, which he popped and poured.

Tamara chortled, "Ladies, I have c confession to make: I'm of a mind to swallow me a sea of bubbles."

"We need to eat something," Kass protested. "I'm starving, and the food here is not to be missed."

Tamara waved her hand as if erasing her own sea-of-bubbles remark. "Alright, darlin', alright! Your wish is my command. Food! Let there be food, in abundance!"

The food was wonderful, but you don't need to hear about it. You can visit Celestial Lamb and try it yourself. What I do need to talk about are two sensitive, secret moments that came up during our lunch. The first moment: when Tamara left the table so she could speak with the chef about a dish. A dish that wasn't on the menu.

"She always does this," Kass confided, twisting her mouth to the side in frustration. "It's embarrassing. She always has to order something that isn't on the menu. Usually she just harasses the waitperson about it, but this being a special occasion, she's got to go in the kitchen and pester the chef." Then, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she leaned forward and in a low voice told us, "I should have warned you guys. Tamara — you know I love her — but when she drinks, she drinks a lot. It's like every day she doesn't drink is a token that she saves up for a special occasion, and then boom! She cashes in those tokens all at once!"

What Kass said seemed to be true: Tamara ordered, all told, two bottles of champagne and two bottles of white wine. Kass had less than one glass. Max, and I each drank two. All told, let's say that's one bottle. Tamara pretended to complain ("What a burden you three have put upon me") and did away with the rest. Then, after dinner, in lieu of dessert, Tamara insisted we each have a glass of Chartreuse, a green digestif from France.

I wasn't sure what to say. Luckily Kass stepped in. "Honey, you can have a glass by yourself, but the three of us can share one."

Tamara bristled, but she gave in without argument.

The second moment: when Max left the table for a trip to the men's room.

The topic of Nessa's wedding came up. Kass confirmed that she and Tamara would be there together. "I hope we can sit at the same table," she said to me.

"If we're not," Tamara put in, "we'll just move the placecards around. Problem solved!"

"I'm not sure that I'm going to the wedding," I confided. "Max hasn't asked me yet."

"Hasn't asked you?" Tamara repeated, feigning indignation. "Hasn't asked you? Well, what the hell is he waiting for? I oughta slap that boy up the side of his head! Of course he's going to ask you! Don't talk nonsense! I've seen the way he looks at you! That man — that man — he wants to slobber all over you!"

"Tamara!" Kass cautioned.

"It's true," she protested. "Look, when he gets back to this table, I'm going to put that boy on the spot. I'll tell him straight out: he's got to ask you right now, today. I'm asking you: What the hell is he waiting for?"

I went white. "Please don't," I said. "Please?"

Tamara was genuinely surprised by my reaction. She reached out to grip my hand to reassure me. "Well, look at you girl — bless your little heart! You look like you've seen a ghost! My goodness. Come on, now, Lorelei. Don't you worry. Aunt Tamara's going to straighten that boy out, right quick. We'll get you to that wedding!"

"No, no, really. I appreciate your concern, but please: just leave it. Please? It's complicated. If you push him, it could blow everything up."

Tamara frowned, uncomprehending. She stared at me and worked her jaw, as if chewing something.

Kass touched Tamara's hand, and smiling said, "Honey, honey? Let's let Lorelei run things her way, okay? Honey?"

Tamara twisted her head around, struggling to let it go, but in the end she grunted her assent. "If you say so. Fine." Still, she leveled her index finger at me, "If he... if... if you give me the word, I'll kick his skinny white ass into next week."

She said it to make me laugh, and laugh I did.

"Actually," Tamara specified, "I'd have my little girl Kass here do the kicking. Did you know she's a bona fide martial artist?"

"No, I didn't know."

"She teaches Krav Maga to the local police. What do you think about that?"

"That's not accurate," Kass protested.

Tamara shrugged. "It's funny, or ironic, I guess. People see me... I'm big and loud, I speak my mind, I'm from the South — they figure I'm a brawler. People tell me they're afraid of me. Afraid of me! I'm just a big pussy cat. The thing is, I've never been in a fight. Not even once, not even close. I'd be scared to death; I wouldn't know what to do but run away screaming. I've never raised my hand against man, woman, animal, or child. The one to fear is this little one here." She gestured to Kass. Then she squeezed the giggling Kass into a hug.

We stayed at the restaurant for two and a half hours. We weren't the only diners to linger that long, though. In the end, I'm pretty sure it wasn't a problem. Judging from the waiter's expression, Tamara must have left a pretty hefty tip. She was in an understandably expansive mood.

Outside, we blinked in the mid-afternoon sun. "I expected it to be dark out," I said. "Or at least evening."

"Sorry to disappoint!" Tamara laughed. "But hey, do you two have any plans at the moment? What do you say to coming over to my workshop?" Max had his back to us, so Tamara reached over to give me a playful push. "We could find you something to wear at the wedding, Lorelei, what do you say?" to which she added a big, slow, obvious, over-elaborate wink. "What do you say?"

Max turned, abstracted. "Sounds interesting," he replied, but it was hard to tell whether he'd actually heard Tamara.

"Can you drive?" I asked.

"Sure," Max replied. "That's what I was just calculating. Two glasses, two and half hours. I should be fine."

The four of us climbed into Max's car and off we went. Tamara gave an address that was perched on the inner edge of the industrial district. Tamara's building ("I picked this place up for a song!") was a three-story structure, almost 4000 square feet, solid, stuccoed in a color Tamara called "Cannoli Cream" — and completely anonymous. It could easily be an office building filled with dentists, accountants, or direct-mail companies. "But it's mine — entirely mine!" Tamara explained. The lot was surrounded by a five-foot wall. The grounds were simply grass, all around. Out back was a terra-cotta patio adorned with a little table and four chairs.

Tamara gave us the tour: the first floor was all work: four big rooms: one housed six sewing machines, a second held bolts of cloth, buttons, zippers, and other supplies, the rest of the first floor was for layout tables, dress dummies, and whiteboards on the walls. The last room was for packaging and shipping.

"My bread and butter is a subscription shirt service," Tamara explained. "I make custom shirts: any cloth, any style, as often as you like. Some men get a new shirt every week, some once a month, others get a pack of ten every so often. Whatever they want."

The second floor was split between offices and atelier.

Tamara and Kass lived on the third floor. "It's a good location," Tamara told us. "We're walking distance from Kass' dance studio in one direction and her gym in the other. She has to drive to work, but it's not far."

They kitchen was particularly well appointed. There was also a spacious guest room with its own bath. "You two could stay over, if you like," Tamara suggested — an invitation loaded with saucy undertones and another overdone wink. The bed was certainly inviting, I'll admit — loaded with white ruffles and layer upon layer of soft fabrics. I could see that Max was not insensitive to the possibilities offered by that bed and that invitation.

There was a lot to see, and there was clearly a lot of depth to Tamara.

Her dress designs puzzled me, tending, as they did, toward the avant garde. I didn't see how I — or really, how most women — could wear any of them, unless the event was something like the Met Gala. None of them were suitable for the wedding. They were all too much, too far out there, too eye catching. Or too little: showing too much breast or butt or the intimate area. Several were too transparent to be worn in public anywhere.

There was one dress that Max particularly liked: the main feature was a pair of tight silver lame hot pants, surrounded by a pseudo-eighteenth century dress, corseted, with tight sleeves and a hoop skirt. What caught Max's eye and imagination was the way that the skirt had seemingly exploded in front, with tattered edges, laying bare the woman's legs underneath, revealing everything up to the lame hot pants. The corset, likewise, was cracked open like an egg at the top, so that the model's breasts spilled out, stopping only at the very edge of indecency. It was sexy, yes, exposing so much skin in that way against such a repressive background. What Tamara accomplished in that dress was to blast the prudish standard of that time; to literally blow it up, revealing the nearly-naked woman underneath.

And then... the four of us divided. It was entirely spontaneous. I wasn't aware of it happening at the time. I don't know that any of the others were aware of it, either. There was no design or plan or scheme.

Kass, understanding that Tamara's avant-garde designs left me cold, undertook to lead me into another room, where she showed me other, more accessible dresses that Tamara created, but loved far less. Honestly, though, these dresses were wonderful. It would have been worth becoming a woman just to wear these dresses from Tamara. "She could conquer the world with these designs," Kass confided, "but she insists on pushing her abstract, crazy pieces on people who will never want them."

While the two of us pored over drawings, photos, and actual dresses, Tamara and Max discovered they had a mutual interest in wines, spirits, and cigars. The two of them went up on the roof with two cigars and a bottle of Bacanora añejo. Later, I asked Max what the two of the them found to talk about, but he always claimed that he couldn't remember. What he *did* remember was the smooth smoke from the cigar and the unusually earthy taste of the bacanora. "It's a taste that's practically an aroma. Just imagine... if you could roast sugar crystals," he said, "what that would smell like... and then, combine that — with maybe the idea of coffee... and then, I don't know... it's tastes and aromas and alcohol."

In other words, Max and Tamara got rip-roaring drunk. I don't know how often that happens to Tamara, but it's pretty unusual for Max. He was still able to stand upright, walk, and talk sensibly, and neither he nor Tamara fell off the roof, so that's something. Not a lot, but something.

While all that was going on, Kass and I managed to find a few possible dresses for me to borrow if — IF — Max got around to making me his plus-one. I didn't try anything on, but Kass made notes and promises, and I, buoyed with excitement, would willingly pay to wear one of Tamara's more "pedestrian" creations.

Our dress hunt completed, Kass and I shared a conspiratorial sisterly hug and went off to find our opposite numbers.

We found Tamara and Max there on the roof, each with an arm draped over the other's shoulders, holding an unlit, half-consumed cigar in their free hands, singing.

"It was the only song we both knew," Max protested.

The song was Deep In The Heart of Texas. They stamped their feet in lieu of clapping. By the time we got there, they were improvising lyrics, nonsensical stanzas that had nothing to recommend them by the rhyme. The pair of them were laughing and shouting.

When Max saw me, he stopped singing and walked over to me, draping his arms heavily over my shoulders, the way that drunken people do. "Oh, you found me," he said, breathing alcohol into my face. "It all means something."

"I think it means we should head for home," I told him.

Tamara protested. "It's early! It's not even whatever o'clock! We're young! We should party all night. Kass, what's the name of that club we should go to?"

Kass looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. "It's time to roll up the tent, Tamara," she said.

Yes, it was definitely time to roll up the tent and head for home. But how to do it? Max was in no fit state to drive. In fact, he was none too steady on his feet.

Tamara's blood alcohol was well above Max's, but she was already home. I had only two glasses of wine hours ago, and was sure to pass any breath or blood test. I was fit to drive, there was no doubt, but I had a different problem -- I didn't have a drivers license. I'd only been a girl for five or six days; there wasn't enough time, even if I had made the effort to get my license — which I hadn't.

That left Kass, who'd only had the merest sips — virtually nothing. She was the only person who could legally drive. After a brief discussion, Kass declared it would go like this: She would drive Max and me to Max's house. Then she'd take an Uber home. It was the simplest plan. It was impossible to come up with anything simpler, aside from our sleeping over at Tamara and Kass' house.

Why didn't we? Neither Max nor me wanted to. Kass tried to push that solution, until she finally understood that Max and I had never slept together and that we weren't ready yet to fall over that edge.

I sat in the back with Max, who fell asleep as soon as the car started moving. He slept with his head thrown back, like a drunken man. He let out the occasional snore.

Kass nearly missed a turn, and took it so hard, that Max's head swung to the side and knocked hard against the car window. "Sorry!" she exclaimed, but he didn't wake. I held him after that so he wouldn't flop around.

Just before we arrived, just before Kass pulled into Max's driveway, he awoke and seemed to have recovered his senses.

"Do you need help getting him into the house?" Kass asked.

"I can walk," Max protested, and demonstrated it by stepping out and standing next to the car. Kass called an Uber. I told her we'd wait with her. "It's not necessary," she replied.

Hearing that, Max began walking toward his house, toward the front door. His posture was stiff and tall, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "The Uber's almost here," Kass told me. "You better go after him — make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

At that, the next few things happened like clockwork. I glanced around the corner of the house and saw Max walk uncertainly into his house, leaving the front door open. Kass locked up the car and handed me the keys. I gave her a hug and thanked her. The Uber arrived. She ran to it; I dashed into the house and shut the door behind me.

Max was sitting on his couch, feet flat on the floor, bent over at the waist, chest resting on thighs, fingertips touching his shoes. I knelt on the floor next to him. "Are you alright?" I asked in a gentle voice. "Do you want a glass of water?"

"I'm fine," he breathed in a heavy whisper. "I'm untying my shoes. Can't you see?" He wiggled his fingers, but his shoes remained tied.

"Good boy," I said, and ruffled his hair.

My cell went off. It was Kass.

"Hey, listen," she said. "I looked back as I was driving away, and I saw somebody come out from the side of the house. They stood in the street and watched me drive away. It was pretty creepy."

I didn't know what to say. Half-automatically, I asked, "Are you okay?"

"Sure *I* am," she replied, "But *you* ought to check all the doors and windows, make sure they're locked." She hesitated a moment. "You ought to check the whole house. Or call the police and have them do it."

"It's okay," I told her. "I can do it."

"Do you want me to stay on the line? I can stay with you while you look around. If anything happens, I'll call 911 for you."

"No, it's okay, I'll just check everything. It'll be fine."

"Call me back in ten minutes. If you don't, I will call the cops, okay?"

"Make it fifteen," I said. "I'm checking now."

Plus-One With A Vengeance : 17 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Talk about a shot of adrenaline! Okay — I had fifteen minutes to check doors and windows. Then I have to call Kass, and after that, search the house. I'll leave the upstairs for last. It's the least accessible, and I didn't hear any signs of life from up there.

On the first floor, there are are only two doors: one in front, and one in back. I started at the front door and circled the house clockwise, checking the windows. The only windows on the North side are in the kitchen, so I arrived at those two after trying the kitchen door. All windows and doors locked; first floor, secure.

Now for the basement. As I descended the stairs, I wondered, Is it possible that Kass imagined seeing that person? Immediately, I rejected the idea. It seemed too unlikely. Kass wasn't flighty or nervous, as far as I'd seen. It's possible she misinterpreted what she saw, but I felt sure she'd seen a person. It could have been a neighbor walking their dog, or a late-night jogger. Something a little unusual, but entirely innocent. In a way, though, it hardly mattered: I still needed to check the house.

Why, though, would anyone hide on the North side of the house? There was no entry on that side. The North side, the side away from the driveway not only had no door; its few windows were too high to reach without a ladder and too small for an adult to fit through. Whoever Kass saw, it wouldn't have been a burglar.

Just for the sake of argument, let's say a mugger decided to spring an ambush at either door, front or back. They'd find it a losing proposition. At ever step, they'd need to overcome real, physical obstacles. From the outset, the moment they stuck their head around the corner, they'd been seen. After that, there is no straight shot to the door: front and back there are small shrubs that the bad guy would need to navigate around, and finally he'd find a short set of stairs and a stair rail in his way. It would take so long to launch the assault, they'd entirely lose the element of surprise. Even a nervous, clumsy target would already be safe inside by the time the attacker arrived.

And yet, Kass said she'd seen someone come out from the side of the house. Not from the driveway: She had just come from the driveway herself. She would have said "driveway" if she meant driveway, but she didn't.

Back to my search: Directly at the bottom of the basement stairs stood a door to the backyard. This was the separate entrance, for the mother-in-law suite. That door, like the two upstairs, was securely locked with a deadbolt.

I'd already cleared the first floor, and intended to continue my search of the house down here, in the basement, in the mother-in-law suite. But before I opened the door to my previous abode, I stopped, stock still, and stared a door that I'd seen countless times but never opened once. I'd looked at it, but never really seen it. It may as well have been a piece of wall, as far as my recognition of it went. The door was steel, a fireproof door. Max called it "the door to the mechanical room." Back on Christmas Eve, when he helped me move my belongings inside her, to the suite, he made a vague hand wave to indicate the door, and told me that the water heater, the electric panel, and HVAC were inside, "along with assorted junk."

I never needed to open that door, and I'd never given that door a moment's thought. Now it looked like a big, gray, rectangular puzzle piece to me.

I called Kass, who was still in the Uber. "Listen, Kass," I told her, "I'm going to open a door I've never opened before. It's in the basement. The heat and electric and stuff is all inside there. Can you stay on the line with me while I do this?"

"Absolutely."

I pulled open the door and flicked on the light switch. It was a typical basement room: concrete floors, cinder-block walls. The ceiling was nothing more than the underside of the floor above, supported by wooden joists and supported by two black metal posts. Aside from a good-sized water heater, a furnace and some ductwork, there was only a small table and a few shelves that someone long ago had knocked together out of scrap lumber. The room smelled of wood and old paint. The floor was dusty, although clearly someone had taken a broom to it recently. The broom itself was leaning against the wall in a corner. Aside from a few rusty old tools and some broken garden implements, there was nothing to see. Except...

"Kass, there's another door here. I didn't know it was in here. It opens to the side of the house."

"Is it locked?"

"Doesn't look like it. There's a deadbolt that isn't thrown and the switch in the doorknob is straight up and down. That's got to mean unlocked, right?"

"I'm not sure. I think so."

"I'm going to open it a sec and try the knob from the outside."

"Lorelei — don't. Just throw the deadbolt and get the hell out of there!"

"I need to know," I told her. I didn't tell her why. What I needed to know was whether this was Amber's way of getting in and out.

I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table near the door. Then I braced myself, one foot back, one foot forward, and took a deep breath as though I was about to dive underwater. I grabbed the doorknob and silently turned it as far as it could go.

I yanked the door open quickly, almost violently. A moth, who must have been lying in wait outside, shot into the room like a bullet, narrowly missing my head. I jumped backward and nearly fell. Then I shrieked like a little girl and jumped to the side: a large spider who'd been living in peace beneath the door ambled out and crawled away slowly into the darkness. I shook myself and took a deep breath. A quick look, poking my head out, determined there was no one there. No one waiting, no one hiding. While looking for the spider, I noticed there were no footprints outside the door. There couldn't be: on that side of the house there was a concrete pathway which was dry and clean.

Now that I'd looked at everything else, I returned to my missing: I tried the knob on the outside. Unlocked.

I slammed the door shut, threw the deadbolt, and turned the switch in the knob. Goodbye, Amber, I said in my head.

Then I picked up my phone and reassured Kass that I was still in one piece.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "I was having a heart attack here!"

"I as well!" her Uber driver shouted.

"Everything is fine," I assured them both. "Doors and windows are secure. All I have left is to check the upstairs, but I'm confident no one's up there."

"We can stay on the line!" the driver called.

"There's no need," I said. "I'll send a text when I've finished searching."

I heard the driver tell Kass, "I will be on tenterhooks! Tell her! Tenterhooks!" Kass laughed and wished me luck before hanging up.

What I'd said to Kass wasn't strictly true. I hadn't searched the basement. Not all of it.

I left the mechanical room, turning off the light, closing the door, good and tight, and then I entered the mother-in-law suite. My old home.

Starting in the bathroom, I pulled the curtain and looked behind the door. No one there. No one under the bed, either.

So far, so good, I said to myself, and opened the first closet.

I blinked several times in disbelief. The closet was empty! No matter how many times I blinked, it remained empty.

I mean, yes, no one was hiding in there — which is great. But all my clothes were missing! Everything that belonged to me, as Elliot — gone. I opened the second closet: also empty. The chest of drawers, the bedside table, empty, empty.

It reminded me of Christmas Eve, when Max and I discovered the vacant trail Amber left, when she absconded with all her belongings. It was exactly like this: the shock of opening a door or drawer, expecting to find clothes, belongings, possessions... but instead drawing one blank after another.

I returned to the bathroom. Even my old shampoo and toothpaste were gone! I want to say it was baffling, but it wasn't. It was simply crazy.

Amber's purge even extended as far as the kitchenette! There was nothing personal about the food or drink that I left; nothing that specifically stamped it as mine, but even so, Amber made it all disappear.

I took a deep breath and shook my head.

Luckily, none of it was particularly important. I'd gone three years without buying new clothes or new shoes. I'm not sure whether I even bought any underwear or socks during those years. As far as things that were important, I'd taken them all to Melissa's house with me: my laptop, my car keys, and all my documents.

For a moment a wild thought sprang up in my brain and tried to ring a panic alarm: by taking my clothes, had Amber condemned me to remain Lorelei forever? It brought to mind an old folk tale about a werewolf who couldn't return to human form without his clothes.

That wasn't my case, though — I still had a complete set of "Elliot" clothes at Melissa's house: everything: shirt, shoes, underwear, pants, belt. I was all set if I needed to go backwards.

Funny thing, though: the initial thought shocked me for a moment (that I might be stuck as Lorelei forever) -- I'll admit it even scared me for a few seconds -- but it didn't bother me. Deep down, it was clear to me: I'd be okay with it. I nodded to myself at the realization, filed it mentally under IMPORTANT REALIZATIONS and went back upstairs. I'd already searched the first floor — except for the pantry. In the interests of being thorough, I opened that little room and checked for the last three Christmas presents: P, V, and S. Still there.

Still there? Did that mean that Amber wasn't aware that the presents were up there? Maybe she just couldn't reach them. Who knows?

Max was still sound asleep in the same pose, seated, bent over, chest to thighs, feet flat on floor.

I looked at the staircase running up from the front door, then back down at Max. Search upstairs first? Or put Max to bed? I looked again from the staircase to my friend.

When I was Elliot, Max and I were around the same weight. He was a bit more muscular than me, but we were about the same build. Now that I was Lorelei, he was at least sixty pounds heavier than me. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to wrestle all that muscle and bone up the stairs by myself. Unless he managed to wake up again, the way he did in the car, and walk up the stairs himself, he was going to have to spend the night on the couch.

Even though it wasn't strictly true, I sent Kass a text: "All clear. Thanks!"

Immediately the reply came back: "Any time, girlfriend!"

Okay. Max first, then search upstairs.

I pushed the coffee table away from the couch to remove any danger of Max banging his head on the table's hard edges.

Somehow he'd already untied both his shoes and taken the laces out of one shoe for some unknown reason, but it was impossible for me to work his shoes off his feet. All his weight was pushing directly down into his heels. The first thing to do was sit him upright. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed. It was difficult to get him moving, but soon I had a little momentum. His upper body abruptly flopped back against the couch. His dropped backward, a dead weight, and made a resounding thump! against the couch's wood frame.

I swore, but Max only let out a few soft snores.

Unfortunately, Max had seated himself on the very end of the couch, hard against the arm rest. If I tipped him to his right, his upper body would dangle over the arm rest. If I tipped him to his left, he'd be mostly lying flat, but his legs have to bend over the arm rest. Not a great position, but still, it seemed the better of the two options. I tipped him onto his left side, and on a sudden inspiration, pulled the back cushions off the couch. This had the effect of enlarging the seating area to the width of a single bed. Great idea! When I lifted his legs over the arm rest, he turned fully onto his back. If his legs weren't dangling weirdly over the end, my work would have been done. Now, I needed to haul him up by the arm pits until his legs were resting on the couch as well.

But first, I knelt on the floor again, and placed my hand on his chest. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, carrying my hand with it. I could feel his breating, and I could feel his heart, beating steadily beneath my palm. His left arm dangled over the side, touching the floor near my knee. When I bent his elbow and lifted his arm — I didn't mean to make it happen, but the backs of his fingers brushed the length of my thigh, from my knee to my hip. His index finger just missed my mons veneris. I held my breath for a moment, feeling my own heart beating inside me, and then I laid his hand on his chest.

I always knew that Max was handsome. All our lives, everyone said so. Thank God, he was never vain. I don't think Max ever really knew how good-looking he is. I licked my lips — they must have been dry. Max's face looked so relaxed and peaceful. Had I ever seen Max asleep before? I don't think so. His expression was nearly angelic — no worry, no fear, no stress, no hurry. Just pure, unfiltered Max.

His lips were slightly parted, giving a glimpse of his even, white teeth. His eyes were closed. His breathing slow and steady. I leaned closer, to look at his skin. Then a thought came, unbidden. It popped into my head, all by itself. The thought said, Max has kissed me twice — admittedly, only on the cheek — but I've never kissed him once. Then, right then, exactly then, before another thought could run in, screaming DON'T DO IT, I kissed him.

I planted my lips softly on his and held them there for a moment. Then I let go.

It was nice, it was good. I liked it. But I was sure that kissing isn't as good as it could be, if it's only going one way. It wasn't a real kiss unless he was kissing me, while I was kissing him.

Another thought came, unbidden: So what? I nodded to myself. Good point! and I kissed him a second time, longer this time. I put more into it this time, a lot more. I turned my head right and left as I kissed, the way people do in the movies. I put my hands on the sides of his head (as people do in movies!). I don't know what that's supposed to do, but it seemed to enhance the experience somehow.

That was better, I told myself, and it was. Was it my imagination, or did I call up some kind of warm, loving energy from inside Max? *I* felt warm, anyhow. I had the feeling he was warming up, as well.

I stood up, quivering. I shook myself. I was a little embarrassed. I felt a little... guilty. Above all, I was... excited. My heart was beating faster and harder. I looked down at his body, lying inert, passive, and had a silly thought: if this was a romantic comedy, then somehow, without meaning to, I'd end up falling full length on top of him, face to face, nose to nose, and he would wake up in that instant, and I'd say, "Oh!" in a pretended innocent way, and try to make up some idiotic excuse, but before I even got started, he'd stop me by placing his hand on the back of my head, kissing me, and drawing all the breath out of me.

Of course, that didn't happen! Something else happened instead.

I licked my lips again. I swallowed. I took a quick breath to steel myself. One last kiss, I told myself, and knelt down next to the couch again.

This time, I moved in close, and caressed his nose with mine. I brushed my cheek against his. My heart was pounding. I kissed his cheek bones, I kissed his chin. And then, wanton wench that I am, I kissed him full on the mouth, working my lips on his, and then like a fool I slid my tongue between his lips. Just a little! But then, I plunged it into his mouth. A thrill shot through me when my tongue met his. Oh, God, that was nice! No, it was more than nice. It was electric, it was illicit. I knew I shouldn't do it, but once I started, I was hooked, and I didn't want to stop. Even when I felt him stirring faintly beneath me. I didn't want to anything but go on kissing him with all the kissing energy that was in me.

But then, what happened?

I'll tell you what happened: Max's eyes popped open, just like in a romantic comedy.

I leapt to my feet and said, "Wow!" like an idiot. I don't why I said it or what it was supposed to mean, but as it turned out, it didn't matter.

Max, who was still well and fully drunk, blinked a few times, and said, "Whoa. That was hot! That was... really hot. How long were we kissing for?"

"Oh," I said, nervously. My shoulders were jerking around like a marionette's. I couldn't control them — or my hands, which were uselessly running over my hips and thighs, as if I was wiping my guilt and embarrassment off my palms on my skirt. "Not long. A few minutes, a few seconds, I don't know. Ha ha!" That ha ha sounded so patently foolish that I wanted to slap myself. Instead, I heaved a big, idiotic breath and asked him, "Did you like it?"

"I think so," he admitted, sheepishly, "but I feel like I missed part of it, like I woke up in the middle. Sorry!" He looked around, I could see his poor little brain, still addled by alcohol, laboriously figuring out that he was lying on his couch in his own living room. His eyes darted to his left and he stared at my knees for a few seconds. He was still working out where he was and what was happening. My knees were not a helpful clue. So he turned his face upward and gave me an apologetic look. "I had too much to drink," he confessed, as if it were a well-kept secret.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I'm sorry," he continued, "I want to blame Tamara, but I..." he paused, as if he'd forgotten what he was about to say. Then, after a long pause, he finished the thought. "I took off, like, I took off my parking brake. On a hill. Do you know what I mean?"

"I guess so. You're usually careful and responsible, but tonight you just—" and then I trailed off, too, because I got it. I understood what Max meant about the parking brake. I knew why he let himself go.

"It's okay, Max," I assured him. "I understand."

With a perturbed expression, he began to raise himself up on his elbows. "But I'm sorry I fell asleep while we were kissing. That's... bad. Really bad."

"It's fine," I told him, feigning a nonchalant magnanimity. I waved my hand like a silly dope, to signify that it didn't matter.

"Did *you* like it?" Max asked me, dropping back down, flat on his back, blinking with big, dark eyes.

"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. "Much!" Much? Why did say 'much'?

"Then let's do it some more," he said, sounding quite serious. "Can you give me a hand up?"

I put my hands into his and pulled, forgetting as I did the difference in our weights and strengths, and all the principles of mechanical physics. When we both pulled, I nearly fell on top of him, and recovered enough to end up sitting astride his thighs, with my breasts softly pushed against his face. He let out a drunken "ohhh" of contentment. The warmth of his appreciative sigh penetrated the front of my dress, and I felt his breath all the way through to the valley between my breasts. I got back to my feet, clumsily, blushing.

On our second attempt, I leaned back nearly forty-five degrees as we pulled, and Max rose to his feet. He seemed able to stand on his own, but we held each other close, just in case, just to be sure.

Max slid his face close to mine, cheek against cheek, until his mouth was next to my ear. When he spoke, I could feel his warm, moist breath soft upon my ear and neck. It was something from a dream; an unexpectedly sensual, erotic sensation. I could have dropped to the floor and melted into a puddle.

"Do you know where this would work better?" he whispered. "Much, much, better?" His body rocked dangerously against mine. Our arms were tight around each other, our hips and thighs pressed close, as close as two clothed people can be. He swayed too far, then corrected his balance. I tried to plan the safest way to fall. Certainly the best outcome would be for him to fall on the couch, hopefully without whacking his head for a third time, and then for me to fall on top of him, hopefully like a autumn leaf drifting to earth. That would be a win-win, I thought, and about as romantic as the situation could permit.

"Where?" I whispered back, "where would this work better?" I guessed, from his sudden intake of air and the arching of his spine, that my whispered breath on his ear and neck aroused him as strongly as his did me.

"In my bed, upstairs," he whispered.

I pulled my head back so I could look him in the face. "No, Max, no," I said. "We can't."

"Why can't we?" We tried to charm me. He put on a beguiling smile. "We're both consentuating adults."

"Consensual," I corrected.

"Me too," he nodded.

"No, Max, no. You're drunk. I can't be sure you really want this."

"Are you kidding?" he shot back. "You can't feel how much I want you? I know you want me. Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't."

"I *do* want you, Max, but I need to know that you're making a sober decision."

"Come on!" he protested. "In vino vidi vinci, right?"

"You know that's wrong," I chided. "In vino veritas."

"My point exactly."

"Maybe that's so," I admitted. "Or let's say okay, it's true. But words are one thing, and actions are another. I know that you mean what you say, but there's a 50/50 chance that you might do something while drunk that you wouldn't do sober."

He scoffed, a breath rendolent with Bacanora. "Hmmph," he said, in a tone that made me feel I'd made my point and gotten through to him. And yet, we were still in each other's arms, in a tight embrace. I didn't want to let go, and not only because he'd fall. I liked having him and holding him. As if reading my mind, Max lifted his head and smiled his open, glad smile. I couldn't help but smile back at him.

In a quiet, magical voice, he said, "You don't want to let go, do you." It wasn't a question; it was an observation.

"No, I don't."

"Neither do I," he said, and he began moving his body against mine, as if we were dancing. His thighs made gentle, subtle movements against mine. His chest moved gently over my breasts as he held me so only our hips and abs were still, tight against each other.

"Max, Max, Max, Max — stop," I told him.

"I can't stop," he laughed.

"Look, look — lie down on the couch—"

"—with you—"

"No, you get comfortable. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

He stopped moving, stopped swaying and caressing my body with his. Max pulled his head back so he could study my face. I felt like he was looking for something in my expression. I gave him a few seconds, and then I moved my hands to his shoulders, ready to push him down onto the couch. Once he was there, I'd cover him with a blanket and quickly and quietly make my exit.

"Okay," Max said gently. I smiled. "One last kiss?" he asked. I nodded. "That would be nice."

His face drew close to mine. Then...

Max kissed me. Full on the mouth. Our breaths mingled. His tongue glided over mine like a kiss inside a kiss.

I didn't resist. I didn't hold back. I released myself, I let myself go, into the warm darkness of that kiss. I closed my eyes and the kiss become my world. My mind emptied of all thoughts and all desires, except one: to be there, kissing Max.

Maybe you're reading this and thinking, I've *never* had a kiss like that. There *are* no kisses like that. But believe me, please believe me, there are such kisses, kisses that seem to last forever, kisses that annihilate all existence apart from that kiss.

Yes, I know, most kisses are perfunctory. Two sets of lips touch. Sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's sloppy, sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's unwelcome and horrible. But... it can happen: falling into a abyss... one's mind a blank... a nearly mystical communion, or at least, the intersection of two all-consuming longings... Trust me: there really are kisses like this. Kisses of a cosmic order, where this world disappears and a new world is born.

It was wonderful and warm and everything I ever wanted. That's how it felt at the time.

I don't know how long it went on, but it felt like a long time, an endless time. Nothing in me wanted to stop.

Max slid his left hand down my back, sliding slowly down down down, until his fingertips rested on my rear. I took a breath and squeezed him. Yes. Then his other hand slid down, until both his palms were resting on my cheeks.

A lot of thoughts ran through my head. One was that I haven't been a girl for very long, and wasn't sure if this was the proper protocol. Then his hands slid lower, so they cupped my derriere, as though I was sitting in his hands. He lifted slightly, and the effect was electric. I let out a mmmmmmm that passed from my mouth into his. Then I moaned, still kissing, and my back arched slightly, pushing my breasts up. I couldn't help it: I moaned again, louder.

Then I a voice echoed in my memory. It was Vivianne's voice, saying If you really and truly want to turn back to your old self after the wedding, you must NOT get pregnant. Remember that.

Aw, fuck, I said to myself, and felt a deep, disappointed, inner sigh. Clearly, though, that was a clear and present danger here. I had to stop. But did I have to stop now?

Yes, probably! The situation was growing more dangerous by the moment. At some point I wouldn't be able to say no. I was getting too turned on, too excited. Soon I would be nothing but an quivering, electric YES, and then it would be too late to even pretend I could stop. My entire body was tingling with desire. My skin was red hot all over, and — was it my imagination, or was Max radiating in the same way? Was he feeling my heat, the way I was feeling his?

If he was feeling any of that, though, he was feeling something else as well. Something strong and overriding.

Max suddenly broke off, saying, "Whoa, hey, oh..." He face looked wild, lost.

"Are you getting dizzy?" I asked him. That's what I read from his confused, distressed expression.

"Oh, babe, I've been dizzy since I stood up. But I needed to kiss you. Now everything is spinning. It's out of all control. It feels like the floor is flying up at my face—" his knees buckled. I held onto him, tight, hard. I took a step back to gain some stability. We struggled. It was difficult, but with a modicum of help on his part, I managed to guide his fall in such a way that he landed on his back on the couch without banging his head.

Inevitably, I ended up lying on top of him, a classic rom-com pose, the way I'd pictured earlier, but he was so dizzy that there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing at all. He let go of me and moved both hands to his head.

The romance had pretty much evaporated by that point, but if there was any atom of enchantment left in the room, Max blew it away with a loud and fragrant belch.

"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed, as I jumped to my feet and waved my hand frantically in front of my nose.

"Sorry," he grunted, and let out a series of smaller burps, rendolent of cigar and rich vapors of alcohol and burnt sugar.

"You're not going to throw up, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. It's just—" and then he brought up a blast of wind strong enough to echo throughout the house. If anyone were hiding upstairs, they would have died of a heart attack. Max's boom would have registered as the epicenter of a quake if any seismic machines were in the neighborhood.

"I feel better now," he said. He sniffled. "That was the last one."

"If you say so." I held my nose and pulled his shoes off with one hand. Then I picked up a blanket and, holding my breath, covered him with it.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "You're not leaving, are you? I promise, I swear, I'm not going to burp any more!"

"It isn't that, Max. I want us both to be sober and awake when we have sex for the first time."

He nodded, looking a little guilty. He didn't try to get up. His eyes closed, and in an instant, he was asleep.

I resisted the urge to kiss him goodnight.

Instead, I took off my shoes and quietly made my way downstairs, to the mother-in-law suite. It was weird. It didn't feel like home, now that all my stuff was gone. It felt like a hotel room. I took off my dress and jewelry and then I used the bathroom.

Studying my face in the mirror, I was surprised at how quickly I'd gotten used to wearing cosmetics. I needed to remove my makeup before going to bed. Would soap and water work? Melissa had drummed into me the maxim of never using soap on my face. But also, sleeping in your makeup is a no-no. So I took my phone and googled how to remove cosmetics without makeup remover. There were a number of possibilities, but the simplest, given the circumstances, was olive oil.

Still in my underwear, I tiptoed up to the kitchen. A quick peek into the living room told me that Max was still out like a light. I could hear his deep, rough, rhythmic breathing. The sound was reassuring; I stayed to listen for a few moments.

Then the doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin! But Max lay there, inert. The loud bing-bong couldn't penetrate his alcohol-aided slumber.

The doorbell rang again. Then came a series of knocks. Max slept on.

In the kitchen, Max had a tablet, a screen, that displayed the doorbell's camera. I swiped with my fingertips and the screen lit up.

It was Amber at the door. Of course. Who else could it be, at such an inappropriate hour?

While I poured into a little bowl a small amount of olive oil (to use on my face), I studied my nemesis on the little screen.

Amber was dressed to kill.

Her hair was pulled back from her face, exploding at the back of her head in a mass of curls. It was a striking look. She wore a filmy, near transparent black top that enhanced the sexy presence of her lacy black brassiere. Amber had a pretty spectacular pair of breasts, I had to admit, and a remarkably narrow waist. Her face — I was surprised, very surprised to see that Amber actually looked attractive, very attractive, now that she'd lost the scowl she used on me. Her makeup was well done. Very well done. In fact, I snapped a a couple of pictures of her face on my phone. So far, I had a daytime look, and an evening look, but not a nighttime look — and Amber's was definitely worth copying.

The entire time, she knocked and rang endlessly, while Max slept on, blissfully unaware.

I spread the oil on my face, working it around my eyes and over my lips. I took an old kitchen towel that was a little ugly but fairly soft, and gently wiped my face with it. The technique worked pretty well. My face was clear of makeup, but was now pretty oily. In spite of Melissa's prohibition, I bent over the kitchen sink and washed my face with soap and water. I figured the oil and the soap would cancel each other out.

Amber still hadn't given up, though she was dancing with impatience. Or did she simply need the bathroom? I chuckled to myself.

Then came the moment I was waiting for: Amber ran down the steps, and around the house, to the North side. She wasn't gone long; once she tried the now-locked doorknob, there was nothing left for her to do. When she returned to my screen, she looked so disappointed that I almost felt sorry for her. I said almost.

Finally, after heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, she left.

I went downstairs and climbed into bed. It took a long time before I could fall asleep. I had a lot to process. After lying there, wide awake, for an hour and a half, I got up and took a shower. It relaxed me enough that I could finally fall asleep.