Succubs on Top

'Yeah, I own a condo there. Besides, it's for his own good. Pot's a gateway drug, you know. '

'I can't believe this. You don't think they're going to notice this is missing?'

'Nah. By the time they come back in, they'll be so far gone they won't remember where they left it. They'll spend the next few days accusing each other of losing it.'

I shook my head. 'I know I've said it before, but this really is a new low. I…I'm so shocked now, I don't even know what to do.'

'7 do.'

An hour later, we were both on the floor, giggling endlessly, though I wasn't entirely sure what about. Bastien passed the joint to me, and I took a hit off it, sighing happily. I handed it back.

'I'm not saying Monique wasn't a bitch,' he was explaining, 'but you have to admit, she knew how to get things done.'

I leaned against the back of the couch, letting my head roll around on the cushions. 'Yeah, but…she was… you know, sloppy. Like, no creativity whatsoever. Being in the business isn't just about sex. It's about…pride…pride in your work.'

He inhaled and passed the joint back. 'Oh, she had pride in her work, believe me. Used to ride me like a horse.' He paused a moment, then started laughing. 'She totally did me proud.'

I sat back up. 'What, you slept with her?'

'Sure, why not?'

I poked him with my foot. 'You fucking slut.'

'Look who's calling the cauldron black.'

'Kettle. It's a kettle. Get your metaphors right. '

'That wasn't a metaphor. It was a, you know…' He stared off into space, blinking. 'One of those things that's symbolic of another thing. But isn't the same thing. Just like it.'

'You mean a metaphor?'

'No! It's like a story…like…a proverb! That's it.'

'I'm pretty sure that wasn't a proverb. Maybe it was an analogy. '

'I don't think so.'

'Look, I know these things. I work in a—oh!'

'Oh what?'

'How am I going to get home?'

'You're leaving? Or is that an analogy?'

'I'm not leaving yet…but you drove me…you can't drive me back.'

'Sure I can. I feel fine.'

'You wish. I haven't smoked that much.'

I rummaged through my purse, found my cell phone, and dialed the first number in it. Beside me, Bastien muttered about analogies while staring entranced at the smoke swirling off the joint.

'Hello?' answered Seth. We hadn't really spoken since our awkward morning.

'Hey, it's me.'

'Hey.'

'So…I, uh…need a favor.'

'What is it?' When I didn't say anything right away, he asked, 'You still there? You okay?'

'Yeah…' I started laughing uncontrollably. 'I am 50 okay.'

'Urn, all right. What do you need?'

It took me a moment to remember. 'A ride.'

'A ride?'

'Yeah. A ride.'

Bastien made a rude gesture at the mention of 'a ride,' and I kicked him again. I gave the address to a clearly confused Seth and then disconnected.

'Idiot!' I yelled at Bastien, even though I thought the whole situation was hilarious, as did he. I went in for a tackle. 'What were you—'

The doorbell rang. Our eyes went wide as we froze mid-grapple, panic flooding us like two kids who had just been busted hardcore.

'Shit,' I said.

'Damn. That author drives fast.'

'It's not him, you dork. Don't move. They'll go away.'

He lumbered to his feet. 'No…I gotta see who it is…maybe it's Jack Daniels…could use a drink…'

'Don't do it!' I begged, suddenly terrified for no reason I could identify.

He turned invisible and strolled over to the door. Half a second later, he came tearing back. 'It's Dana! She's back early.' He ran his hand frantically over Mitch's neat, blonde hair. 'What's she want? What's she doing here?'

'Maybe she wants Reese's pot back.'

'This is my chance! She's here alone. She wants me. Quick.' He yanked my arm and dragged me to the stairs. I cried out in surprise. 'Get out of sight. Throw that away.'

'I'm not throwing this away! Besides, you don't think she'll notice that your whole fucking house smells like this? Jesus. Your pupils are the size of her granny panties. Virtuous or not, she isn't stupid.'

'Just go! Hurry! Don't come down.'

Grumbling, I went upstairs while Bastien scurried to the door. Turning invisible, I sat cross-legged at the top of the stairs and kept smoking. Below, I heard him greet Dana.

'Well, hello,' he bellowed. 'Sorry if I kept you waiting…I was…' He trailed off stupidly, and I shook my head. Sloppy, sloppy. He would have never been at a loss for words sober, but then, his sober self would have immediately noticed the foolishness afoot. 'I was…um, busy. Upstairs.'

'I see,' replied Dana. Her tone was once again set to cool and formal. I decided Bastien had imagined the warm and friendly rapport he kept claiming they had when alone. 'Well, I apologize for disturbing you, but when I dropped off the cookies earlier, I think I may have lost an earring.'

I straightened up. Cookies? He hadn't mentioned that. Maybe he was making progress after all. Cookies. I wondered what kind she'd brought. Peanut butter? Chocolate chip? Oh. Maybe even white chocolate macadamia.

He and Dana commenced a search for the earring, coming up empty. The whole time, Bastien tried to act like he wasn't stoned, but Dana couldn't have been fooled. Not with those cyborg eyes of hers. Hell, I didn't even need to see it. The audio track alone was entertaining enough.

Meanwhile, I couldn't stop thinking about those goddamned cookies. They sounded good. Really good. Suddenly, I wanted them more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life.

'Well,' I heard Dana say, 'I must have lost it somewhere else. Thanks for looking.'

'Sorry I couldn't help you.'

'It's all right.' She allowed an elegantly crafted pause. 'Isn't that Tabitha's purse over there? Is she here?'

Oh, shit. I had a feeling Bastien was thinking the same thing.

'Uh, well, yeah…but…um, she's upstairs lying down,' he faltered. 'Has a headache.'

'Oh, that's too bad. Did she take anything for it?'

'Um, yeah, she did.'

I looked at the joint. Had I ever.

Bastien and Dana started talking about something else, and I decided then that I had to get those cookies. I was starving. The lovebirds sounded like they had moved to the living room, so I could sneak invisibly down the stairs and raid the kitchen without them knowing. Standing up, I put the joint out in the upstairs bathroom and moved on to my covert descent. Pot doesn't usually mess with motor control the way alcohol can, but it can certainly distract you from ordinary things. Like watching where you're going.

About three steps down, my foot slipped out from under me.

I uttered a sailor-worthy expletive and slid painfully down the rest of the way, landing hard on my butt at the