Don't Be Shy 13 (Patreon)

Kara managed to get the toilet lid up before she vomited. That was good. She knew she’d feel like shit afterward, having one of her attacks, and she’d only feel worse, trapped in it, if she had to clean up after herself too.

She vomited up that beautiful breakfast Lena had ordered her and it felt like it was all falling away. Her gorgeous body, the one Lena had desired so much, was covered in sweat and frizzy hair. She wouldn’t want Kara anymore. Who would? God, she’d ruined it, she’d ruined everything, her father—

--was in another state. It wasn’t his fault. It was hers. She’d gotten a golden opportunity and she couldn’t just let it be without—

It was just like Lena had said. She was a slut. But Lena had no idea. She thought that was a good thing, some sex-positive bullshit. If Kara had just play-acted, just laid back and thought of England, Lena would’ve gotten what she wanted and Kara would still have a job, still have Lena. But she couldn’t control herself. And to punctuate that point, she vomited again.

“Kara, I will call the hotel staff. They will enter the suite and I don’t think you like the idea of them finding you this way anymore than I do, but I will do it if you don’t—”

Kara left the toilet flushing and trudged back to the phone, feeling like she was dragging herself over broken glass. She picked it up and held it at arm’s length as she went to the faucet and ran the tap.

“It’s okay. I’m alright,” she told Lena. “I just… I don’t know, I panicked.”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m fine now, really.”

“Are you able to breathe? Is your vision clear? Do you think you can check your heartrate?”

“I said I’m fine.” Kara took a handful of cool water and washed the bitter taste from her mouth and off her lips. “I think maybe I pushed myself too hard, that’s all. Being out in all that rain, then having my first full meal in a while, then… this…”

“I want you to wash up, get dressed, and report to the hotel physician. If you’re not there in fifteen minutes, I’ll have the staff check in on you.”

“It could be food poisoning.” Kara splashed her face. Her skin didn’t feel like it was boiling anymore, but she knew that was just the water, not her. “It’s probably food poisoning. Not from this place, but there was this Chinese buffet that let me eat the leftovers if I posted good reviews for them on Yelp…”

“Kara, you don’t have to make excuses. I pushed things too far. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get so intense when I wasn’t there to manage things personally.”

“I, uh…” Tears were in her eyes. No, it was water. Kara splashed her face again. Just water. “Don’t apologize to me, please, you were great, that was great, I just, I wasn’t ready…”

“Go to the physician. He’ll probably give you a mild sedative. And then I want you to order something chocolatey from room service, alright? You sound like you could use it.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Kara told her, pleaded with her.

“Neither did you.”

Kara produced a weak smile. It seemed like something Lena would want from her. “Hey… hey, when you get back, can we just pretend this never happened and pick up where we left off?”

“Anything you want.”

“Okay, good, good. I really did like that.”

“I noticed,” Lena said, her voice managing some amusement. “We just have to work on the part you didn’t like.”

“Yeah,” Kara said noncommittally.

Because how could she tell Lena that the part that hadn’t worked was her?

***

It’s a good car. Not a classic or anything. A 2008 Honda Accord. No funny noises from the engine, no scratches on the paint. When I turn the radio on, the music comes in strong and steady. Which is a blessing or a curse, depending on how you feel about modern music. I myself stick to a mix CD. My taste in music is even older than the car.

Still I found it hard not to envy the 2014 Corvette Stingray in front of me at the light. There was a guy who didn’t skip the hot wax when he went through the car wash. The whole thing is hot-rod red, broken up by black bumper stickers: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and one that just says ROCK in that death-metal band name font that makes it look like the alphabet has epilepsy.

I wouldn’t call that a classic either, but it is a good car. I have the working man striver, he has the rich man’s toy. Both of them get us where we need to go. And it’d really be a shame to fuck up either. The Accord has more than one decade left in a well-cared-for life, while the Stingray is, well, a motherfucking Stingray.

A real shame.

The light turns green. I gun it; the Stingray has rolled forward maybe five inches when I plow into his rear bumper with all the acceleration my Accord can muster in the six feet of separation we’d started out with.

I put the Accord into Park, but I donn’t slow down. I unbuckle my seatbelt, slide out of the driver’s seat—bulldoze up to the Stingray and its crumpled fender like he had hit me.

“What the fuck, bro?!” I yell, putting so much anger into my words that some spittle flies out with them. “What the fuck was that? You’re supposed to go when the light turns green, man, that was fucking bullshit! Look what you did, cocksucker, you totaled my car!”

The driver of the Stingray—I say ‘the driver’ like I don’t know his name is Edmund Kastle, like I don’t know where he lives, like I don’t know what he does and what he is—well, he’s still trying to figure out what happened to his car. Like maybe he accidentally backed into a fire hydrant.

He couldn't quite manage being big; a few inches under six feet and two hundred pounds that didn't know all what to do with themselves. He wasn't fat, but he had no shoulders and no muscles and if he was doing anything with his hair, it wasn't working. His hairline came to a peak that left his eyes abandoned in an expanse of red skin like the business end of a toilet plunger.

He’s still struggling out of his seatbelt—Edmund isn’t the type of guy who’s in danger of forgetting what a donut tastes like today, tomorrow, or ever—when I reach down and pop his trunk. Hopefully, it just looks like the thing came open because of the crash. But I really don’t care.

I look inside the trunk and register surprise, which takes acting, because I already know what’s in there. It’s the same thing that’s in there every week when Edmund makes his rounds. Porn. Not the stuff with the cutesy double-entendre titles or the glossy magazines that interview Kurt Vonnegut between airbrushed layouts. No. This paper is cheap, loosely stapled together, black and white except for a few spreads given the full Canon printer treatment.

“What the fuck is this, motherfucker?” It isn’t hard to summon up outrage. It wasn’t hard after the fender-bender either—I guess I have a few anger issues—but when you’re looking at rags like Still A Virgin, Cheerleader Cunt, Daddy’s Favorite… and even the covers are stuff that would have the editor of Barely Legal throwing you out of his office…

Yeah, I don’t have to fake being angry.

“What is this shit, man? What is this fucking kiddie porn shit?” I grip a big handful of twenty-to-life and toss it out onto the road.

People are gathering, watching. They have their phones out, but just to record this for the ‘gram. That’s okay; I’m wearing a disguise that my own mother wouldn’t recognize me in.

Edmund comes huffing up to me. He tries to slam the trunk closed. I give him a shove. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Keep your voice down, keep your voice—I can pay you—look, I’m just trying to—”

Would you hear him out? Honestly, would you?

I give it to him in the face. It’s a good hard right—I probably don’t need to be wearing sap gloves to knock him out. But every second counts now; otherwise I’d take my time with this guy. One prowl-car turns the corner and this whole thing is over before it starts.

He goes down. I bend over him, making a show of checking his pulse. My other hand dips into his pocket. I feel the embossed medallion on his keyring, quickly rip it free and tuck it into my own pocket. Then I’m up and in motion.

“I’m calling the cops!” I announce loudly, leaving Edmund and the Stingray and the Accord to whatever will happen to them. There’s a subway two blocks from here and the train is leaving in five.

Hope whoever I borrowed the Accord from has insurance.