Free Poison Shy by Stacey Madden Page A

feet.
    â€œYou okay like that?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I be?”
    â€œI don’t know. You could step on a rusty nail or a hypodermic needle.”
    She laughed. “A hypodermic needle? You’re such a loser.”
    We walked along Dormant Street, the cobwebbed streetlamps lighting our way in glimmering orange patches. Splattered on the curb, beside the last taxi at the end of the block, was a soupy puddle of beige vomit.
    â€œGross,” Melanie said as she jumped to avoid it.
    I looked back over my shoulder. It was hard to see through the tinted glass, but I thought I could make out a figure in the taxi’s back seat, staring at us from somewhere behind my warped reflection.

6
    If I am in a skull-cracking car accident and suffer amnesia, or if I develop Alzheimer’s, or even if I die and there’s no heaven, I will always remember that first night with Melanie Blaxley.
    We got to my place just after two. I offered her a glass of wine from the bottle I’d opened earlier, but she refused.
    â€œThis place smells like candy canes. Where’s your bathroom?”
    I pointed to the wide-open door, right beside where she was standing, through which my toilet and sink were both visible. She went inside and slammed the door hard. I thought about the prostitute who’d puked in there just last week. It felt like eons ago.
    The toilet flushed, then flushed again. I heard the scrape of my plastic garbage can across the tiles. The tap. The squeak of my medicine cabinet. Another flush.
    â€œEverything okay in there?”
    â€œComing!”
    The reality of the situation hit me: I was going to get laid. My saliva turned hot. I sat down. The door swung open.
    â€œSorry about that.” She skipped over and sat next to me on the couch. Crossed her legs. “Don’t mind the pad in your garbage can. I’m on my rag.”
    â€œOh.”
    She lunged forward and planted her lips on my cheek. “How old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-nine.”
    â€œReally? You seem younger.”
    â€œEveryone tells me that.”
    â€œI would have said twenty-three. At the oldest.”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œGot any ID there, buddy?”
    I tried to laugh.
    She put her hand on my leg. “Why are you holding your hands like that? Don’t tell me you’re
praying
. Are you a virgin?”
    â€œNo, no. And I’m not praying.”
    â€œThen why don’t you touch my tits?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œCome on.” She ran her fingernail along the seam of my jeans. “You’re so stiff. Are you sure you’re not a virgin? You can admit it. I’m still gonna let you fuck me.”
    â€œI thought you said you’re on your period.”
    â€œYeah, so?”
    â€œI . . .”
    She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ve never fucked anyone so nice before.” She pulled off her T-shirt in one smooth motion. Her pale, small-nippled breasts were dusted with freckles. “Come on, let’s get you hard.”
    She got down onto her knees and scraped her nails up my legs to my zipper. I could feel my heartbeat in my neck.
    A glistening dribble of saliva hung on her bottom lip. “What are you going to do to me, Brandon?”
    It was the first time I’d heard her say my name. I looked up at my ceiling and mouthed a thank-you at the browned water stain in the corner.
    But then something happened. I looked down at the orange mane bobbing between my legs, and the face that turned up to meet my gaze wasn’t sprightly and freckled, not Melanie’s face at all, but the smirking, wrinkled mug of Suzie the prostitute.
    â€œJesus!”
    â€œWhat? What’s wrong?” She was Melanie once again, startled and annoyed.
    â€œI . . . I don’t . . .”
    â€œGive me a fucking break.” She stood up and stomped into the kitchen, the crease of her shorts wedged into her ass crack. She poured herself a mug of water from