“You are a bad influence.”
We drove in silence for a few moments. Then Kiyo noticed that I wasn’t heading toward my house. We were going downtown. “No,” he groaned. “We are not actually going to hear Tim, are we? I thought that was just an excuse to leave.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I promised.”
Kiyo sighed but took it like a man.
We went to one of Tim’s regular venues, a place called the Fox Den. I thought Kiyo would think that was funny, but he didn’t. When we walked in, there was a girl on the stage reciting poetry about the bleakness of existence and litter on the side of the highway. Kiyo looked around, taking in the patrons and tables-and then realized we were in a coffee shop, not a bar.
“They don’t serve alcohol here? There’s no way I can do this without hard liquor.”
“Oh, just hush,” I said, trying to hide my smile. We found a small round table in the middle of the crowded café, and I left him there while I went to get hot chocolate. I would have loved coffee but had enough trouble sleeping without the addition of caffeine this late at night. When I returned, I saw three visitors had pulled chairs up to our table.
“Hey, guys,” I said.
“Nice to see you again, Eugenie.”
The speaker was named Barbara. She was an elderly woman, belonging to the Pascua Yaqui tribe. Their religious beliefs, while having some similarities to the nature-oriented views of neighboring tribes, had picked up a lot of Christian influences over the years. Indeed, she wore a cross around her neck but was also still regarded by many as a type of holy woman. She had no problem with me calling myself a shaman, as those of other Indian tribes sometimes did. Her grandsons, Felix and Dan, were with her tonight, and they didn’t have a problem with me either. Tim, however, was a different story.
“Please tell me your asshole roommate isn’t performing tonight,” said Felix.
“Watch your language,” said Barbara in a very grandmotherly way.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Well…he might be up there tonight….”
“Jesus Christ,” said Dan, munching on biscotti. He looked apologetically at Barbara before turning to me. “We’ve told him a hundred times not to do that.”
“Come on, guys. Don’t start something again-it took forever for that last black eye to go away,” I reminded him.
Felix shook his head. “Look, impersonating us wouldn’t be so bad-and it is bad-if his poetry wasn’t such shit.”
“Felix!” warned Barbara.
He turned sheepish. “Sorry, Grandma. But you know I’m right.”
“It’s the only thing he knows how to do,” I said lamely. “Besides, he’s going Lakota tonight-if that helps.”
“I don’t think it’ll improve the poetry,” noted Kiyo, stretching back in the chair.
“Agreed,” said Felix. “His poetry’s crappiness transcends all cultures.” He looked smugly at his grandmother, pleased that he hadn’t sworn this time.
She turned to me, ignoring him. “How’s business?”
“Good,” I said. “Weird.”
While she had no issues with me being a shaman, she was sometimes troubled by the thought of me fighting Otherworldly creatures. She seemed undecided about whether they were holy or not, though she had seen her fair share of evil ones and knew what I did was sometimes necessary. She was about to ask me more when Tim suddenly walked onto the stage. He had on the feather headdress, no shirt, and leather chaps.
“Oh God. No,” groaned Felix.
Tim held up his hands to silence the scattered applause. “Thank you, friends,” he said in a deep, flat voice. “The Great Spirit welcomes you and your joining of our holy circle tonight.”
“I am not even joking,” said Dan. “I am this close to walking up there and dragging him out back.”
“Please,” I hissed. “Not tonight.”
“For my first poem,” continued Tim, “I would like to read you something I was inspired to write while sitting outside and considering the way the beating of a butterfly’s wings are just like the beating of our hearts in this transient world.” Spreading his hands wide, he recited.
“Sister Butterfly upon the wind
Wings so yellow
Let us fly with you into the sky so blue
Our souls soaring in the clouds so white
As we look down on those who dream to fly
But are too afraid
And must stay earthbound
Like Brother Beetle so brown.”
“I’m going to help Dan,” said Kiyo as the audience applauded. “I’m going to help him drag Tim off.”
“Seriously?” said Dan, excited.
“No,” said Barbara and I in unison.
Tim’s next poem was about a mythological woman named Oniata, a girl of divine beauty and youth who came to Earth and caused men everywhere to fight over her. The story was interesting, but like all of his poems, the verses were pretty bad and filled with horrible metaphors.
“That’s a real story,” I challenged my companions. “I’ve heard it before.”
“Yeah, but it’s not Lakota,” said Felix. “I think it’s Iroquois or something.”
“Honestly, I don’t think it matters at this point,” said Dan, looking weary. “Besides, everyone’s got some story about unearthly beautiful women.”
Kiyo linked his hand with mine and murmured, “And fortunately, I’ve got my own.”
“Sly man,” I said back. “Sly as a fox.”
When the poetry reading wrapped up, Tim sold his self-published poetry books. I think this was the most remarkable part of all-he always sold a bunch. And the women…the women loved him. A number were cozying up to him already, no doubt wanting to go out later. Watching the women, Dan declared that he was going to quit his job as a computer-support technician and start up on Tim’s gig, causing us all to laugh.
“Say what you want,” I said to Kiyo, watching Tim and his admirers. “This all means Tim probably isn’t coming home tonight.”
“What are you saying exactly?”
“That the sauna is all ours.”
Not that anyone else could have really fit into it, though. My wet sauna wasn’t that big, which just meant that when Kiyo and I got home, we had to be that much closer to each other. Neither of us really minded.
We shed our clothes in the hallway, and he pulled me to him, hands running over my waist and lips grazing my neck. “You owe me big for making me endure that poetry,” he growled in my ear.
“Whatever. That was practically foreplay. Are you saying Tim’s poem about Brother Woodpecker plunging his beak into the tree didn’t turn you on? You know that was a total metaphor.”
Kiyo’s only response was a smothering kiss that ended any other witty commentary I might make, his lips hot and hard as his tongue sought mine. Without breaking the kiss, we somehow managed to open the door to the sauna and stumble inside. Immediately, heat and steam surrounded us. Everyone always praised Arizona’s heat for being dry, but I loved humidity and the way it enveloped my body.
I also loved the way the moisture dampened Kiyo’s dark hair, making it curl up even more against his neck. Still holding on to that kiss, he pressed me against the sauna’s wooden wall, his hands gripping my hips. In only a short time, the heat had us both slick and sweating. I tangled my fingers in his hair and then ran them down his arms and chest. The oil and sweat made my hands glide effortlessly across his skin. I paused to run circles around his nipples, slowly increasing the pressure and squeezing them in the way he so often did to mine.
He gave a small grunt of surprise and pleasure and then moved his lips to my neck. I tipped it back, giving him greater access. His kisses were hard, like he was trying to consume me with his mouth alone, and there were even a few teeth involved. With as fair as my skin was, he actually left me with the occasional hickey after sex. It
