Poetry & Blood Ch. 02

Chapter 2: Hunger

The knock on the door eventually woke Laura up. Really, the knock had become more of a banging. Laura opened her eyes and was struck with how sore her body was; the back of her throat, her arm, and her abs all ... ached.

"Holy shit," she croaked. "I've got the flu."

She tried to sit up, but the room spun around her. She gripped the side of her head and fell back into her comfy bed. Yes, the bed was safe.

The banging on the door continued.

"Laura?" squeaked someone from behind the door. "Are you alive?"

"Barely," said Laura. Her voice was strained and cracking.

Laura lurched to the side and grabbed her cell phone. It was almost noon. "Holy shit," she muttered. "The day's almost over."

More banging. "Laura? It's Angelica. Can I come in?"

"Come in," shouted Laura as loud as she could—apparently 'as loud as she could' was something like a smoker cough.

The door turned and Angelica came in, her hair was fairly messy. And was she out of breath? "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Laura raised one arm and let it flop back to the comforter.

"Not feeling well?" asked Angelica. "We tried to wake you earlier today, but you didn't respond."

"I'm sick," moaned Laura. On the second day. Can you call out sick on the second day of work? Especially after part of the job was to move into the place? Especially after you watched your boss get devoured by two gorgeous men who were also, somehow, your co-workers? Was there a precedent for this?

"I figured," said Angelica. "Do you feel like eating? We can get Jacque to make something special for what you're feeling."

"Does he have morphine? I'd like morphine."

Angelica laughed and moved to the large curtains on each side of Laura's bed. She thrust them open and light flooded the room.

"There," she sighed. "My mother used to say light kept away disease."

"It also keeps away sleep." Laura flung the comforter back over her head.

"You can sleep later. You need food."

"I don't feel like anything."

"That's because you haven't eaten anything. We'll give you something simple to earn back that appetite."

"Are you going to ignore everything I say and do whatever you want?"

"Pretty much."

Laura flipped the comforter off of her head. "Fine," she sighed. "Just not meat, okay?"

"Bacon wrapped sausages, coming up."

"Cute."

Laura rolled over and grabbed her phone while Angelica stepped out. She had two missed calls from her father and seventeen missed calls from Claire, as well as fourteen angry text messages.

Holy shit. Claire. She didn't know Laura was moving out. She must have freaked out when a bunch of strange men started loading Laura's stuff into a van and carting it away. Why didn't she think to message her and explain it? Well, shit.

She called Claire without hesitating. Claire answered on the first ring.

"You got some motherfucking explaining to do," snapped her roommate.

"Calm down."

"Are you hurt? Are you dead? Did someone kidnap you?"

"They did, but the only ransom they want is for you to calm down," said Laura. Claire tended to be a drama queen. Everything was the end of the world or the best in the world. There was nothing in between.

Claire sighed into the phone. "What's going on?" she asked.

"I got the job."

"And you already got another apartment? Without me?"

"Sort of," said Laura, looking around her room. Her stuff was already neatly put away and organized. It probably wasn't just the way she liked it, but it was still kinder than dumping her stuff in the middle of the room. That's precisely what Claire would have done.

"Then what?"

"She wanted me to move in with her."

"Ohmygod, she's a lesbian?"

"I doubt that very much," muttered Laura. She sat up. Her strength was returning to her, but she still felt sore. She felt stiff. The slightest movement hurt, but it also stretched her and eased her discomfort.

"Then what?"

"It's a perk of the job. I get to live in Camille Kontalban's mansion."

"Holy shit."

"I know, right?" Laura smiled to herself. It felt strange to say aloud. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a fantasy. She really was living in a mansion as a personal copy editor to a successful writer. Sure, a crappy romance writer, but she was doing what she always wished she could do. She was part of something besides filling forms and flipping burgers.

"Holy shit," repeated Claire.

"Yeah, it's pretty great."

"No, it's awful. How am I supposed to pay rent without you?"

"With money?"

"No, Laura. I don't make enough money to pay rent on my own."

"Oh," said Laura. She hadn't considered Claire's finances when she took the job or the room.

Laura looked around the room. What else hadn't she thought about? What kind of writer makes their copy editor live with them? What kind of woman makes her copy editor watch her get off? Laura felt so caught up in the moment, so excited to finally have a job, a real job, why hadn't she thought this weird? This was weird.

"Sorry," muttered Laura. Claire kept going on about finding a new apartment, but Laura's mind was elsewhere. Claire would figure things out. She always did. But Laura, for the first time, was thinking about the new life she had signed up for. She was thinking about Graumann and the strange staff that now surrounded her, but most of all, she was thinking about Camille with her legs spread and her servants eager to please her.

And Marcilla. Who was she? Why did Camille use some unknown poet writing about yawns to get off to? What the hell was this whole freakshow and what it did it have to do with bad poetry? Laura felt a burning desire to get her hands on that book again, as though the book would explain everything going on. Once Laura could understand Marcilla, maybe she would understand Camille.

Or maybe she knew nothing.

"Hello?" asked Claire. "Are you there?"

"Uh, yeah," muttered Laura. "I'm just not feeling well."

"Yeah, you sound like shit."

"Thanks."

"You sick?"

"Nothing gets passed you," said Laura.

"On your second day? How the hell does that work? Can you call out sick if you live where you work? And what if you're not sick? Do you get fired for lying about calling out sick? Jesus, I'd hate that. I'd just die if I couldn't call out sick whenever I was fucking fed up with Horatio and the bar. Speaking of which, he asked me out ... again. I don't belong to him or anything like after one-"

"Claire?" croaked Laura.
"Yeah?"

"It really hurts to talk right now."

"Then just listen."

"It hurts to sit up."

"Then lay down."

"It just hurts," said Laura. "Everything hurts. I'm going to go. Okay? I'll call you when I feel better."

"You're really leaving me out to dry here, Laura."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll help you find another apartment, I promise. Just not this very moment."

There was a pause. Laura checked to see if Claire had hung up, but the line was still open. "Claire?" asked Laura.

"You're not in trouble?" whispered Claire. "Just say 'sweet Caroline' if you're not in trouble."

Laura smiled. Old joke. "Goodbye, sweet Caroline." She hung up.

Laura sat in bed and tried to decide if Camille was some sick murderer or sex trafficker, but she had no idea what a murderer or sex trafficker looked like or acted like. She knew that the simplest explanation was often the most correct one, so she didn't let that train of thought distract her.

The evidence suggested that Camille was a sexual creature. She wrote novels about men with abs on abs for lonely housewives. She had men with abs on abs eat her out while listening to poetry. She was kinky. She was full of life. She was powerful. The simplest explanation was that this was either a power thing or a sex thing. Laura wasn't going to sleep with Camille, even if Camille somehow thought she owned her new copy editor. Besides, Camille hadn't shown any signs in her writing or bedroom that she liked women. And technically, Laura was in Camille's power. The trick was not to let Camille get too much more power over her. Don't become dependent on Camille.

Angelica knocked on the door, and Laura told her to come in. The petite blonde brought in a tray with a silver dome over the plate and a large glass of something green and thick.

Laura pointed to the drink. "Remember, I'm sick. I don't want to become more sick."

"It's a power-smoothie," said Angelica. "Lots of greens, especially spinach, orange juice, and a whole bunch of supplements to help you feel strong."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Nonsense," said Angelica, putting the tray and drink on the end table next to Laura. "Jacque is a genius, and you're sick. None of us want to catch what you have, so you need to take care of yourself."

"Bosses' orders?" asked Laura.

"Jacque's orders. And you'll find he's much sterner than Miss K."

Angelica lifted the dome off the platter to reveal a plate of scrambled eggs and something green mixed in with it.

"Eggs and spinach. Jacque said to keep it simple, and the spinach will really help to get the blood flowing."

"Does he have any bread?

"Of course he does."

"I want bread," said Laura. She covered the plate with the dome.

"When you're better. Bread has almost nothing in it. You need nutrients."

"I can't eat that," said Laura, pointing to the dome.

"Don't be a child. It's embarrassing. Miss K has called for a doctor to come check you out."

Laura looked away. "I ... uh ... don't have any health insurance."

"The doctor is an old friend. Don't worry about it."

Don't let her have power over you. Well, shit. "You told Miss K that I was sick?" asked Laura as she lifted the dome off the plate again.

"I told everyone. They should leave you alone today while you recover. Miss K will send you some work, but she insists that you work at your own pace. She wants you to regain your strength for tonight."

Laura looked at Angelica and narrowed her eyes. "She expects me to show up for a Muse Session tonight?"

"Of course. Every night."

"But I'm sick," said Laura.

"You seem to be doing better."

"I could be contagious," Laura protested.

"We'll take precautions," said Angelica as she headed for the door to the room.

"What if I start to feel worse?"

Angelica stopped and turned. Her pleasant expression was gone. Instead, she wore a mask of disappointment. "This isn't about you," she said. "This is about Miss K. Don't be a child." Angelica didn't wait for Laura to respond; she turned, and left the room.

After that, Laura felt appropriately guilty enough to start eating her food. The eggs were good—better than she expected. She could stomach them just fine. She waited until her plate was clean before attempting the smoothie. Despite being a vegetarian the past few years, she'd never been one for green or power smoothies. Smoothies were a dessert to her, and vegetables were decidedly un-dessertlike.

It wasn't bad. There was a sweetness to it. She wasn't sure if orange juice and spinach were good friends, but she could tolerate hanging out with both of them at the same time. She started with small and careful slips but felt comfortable with it by the time she was halfway through.

It was around that time that Nikki appeared. Laura half expected the redhead to show up with Angelica's bad mood, but Nikki looked pleasant.

"Hey, hun," she said. "Feeling better?"

"A bit," admitted Laura. "Jacque is apparently a genius."

"I swear," said Nikki as she handed Laura a small red portfolio, "Miss K would fire all of us before she'd let go of him, and I don't blame her."

"Plus that tongue of his," said Laura.

She smiled at her joke, but Nikki looked confused.

"I think Angelica speaks French as well."

"Right," said Laura, confused. Did Nikki not know? Surely, she must know.

"This is your work. Miss K says to take your time with it. She knows you're not feeling well, but if you acquaint yourself with the story, that would be a start. 'Consider it some sick-day reading.' That's what she said."

Laura grabbed the portfolio and opened it up. She looked at the title, raised her eyebrow, and looked back up at Nikki skeptically. "The Magician's Mistress?" she asked.

"It's not what you think," said Nikki. "I hear it's the love story between the Magician and his wife. It's a redemption story."

"Then what, the mistress joins for a wild threesome at the end?"

"Oh, I doubt that," said Nikki disapprovingly. "Miss K doesn't fill her stories with crassness."

"Right," said Laura, absentmindedly flipping through the pages. "Does she let you read her stories?"

"Oh no," said Nikki. "She doesn't let anyone read them before they're done. But ... you know..." Nikki looked at the floor. "You hear things."

"I bet you do," said Laura.

Nikki blushed but smiled. "Anyway, she doesn't expect you to mark it. Just read over it."

"Got it."

"And if you need someone to go over it with... for, uh, professional reasons of course... just let me know."

Laura smiled. "Right. Professional reasons."

Nikki looked up and smiled at Laura. She had a gorgeous smile. It was mischievous but true. "If you need anything," she pointed to the landline phone, "just pick up and dial one. That should get Angelica or myself. Let us know when you want lunch, and we'll have Jacque fix you something."

"Thanks," said Laura.

Nikki bowed slightly and left.

Laura finished her smoothie and sat up. She propped some pillows behind her to try and get comfortable. She really was feeling better. Her muscles felt sore, but it was like she had a long workout the day before rather than having the flu. Laura dug through her purse for her reading glasses, and started working.

The Magician's Mistress was not a magical journey through lust, betrayal, and the redemptive power of love. It may have thought it was. It may have wished it was. But what it really was, was a series of setups for hot sex scenes. The magician's mistress had slightly kinky tastes. She liked bondage and being submissive to the magician. He liked to show her off and be in control.

Laura's eyes kept going over the page, predicting the plot and finding her predictions to be true. It was like popcorn: you ate it without thinking and never got full. Now, Camille's prose wasn't bad. She was a good writer. She had a wonderful way of describing the bare minimum. She left everything to the imagination, but she didn't leave you in the dark on what was happening. She also avoided painful romantic fiction phrases like 'bulging member' or 'turgid phallus.' Cocks were cocks for Camille.

But the plot was a nightmare. Everything was telegraphed. It was a soap opera. It was melodramatic. You had believable dialogue, beautiful prose, yet painful plot. Neither the magician, the mistress, nor the wife deserved each other. Nevertheless, something about Camille's words gripped Laura. She didn't stop reading for over an hour. She finally had to put the portfolio down when she got dizzy.

Laura felt Camille was selling herself short. She clearly had the capacity to write something more complicated than smut. It felt like she was playing to her audience's expectations, giving them exactly what they wanted. They wanted a steamy sex scene, so she wrote it. Some part of Laura doubted that Camille was proud of this work.

Laura wanted to call for lunch. She wanted something to ease her building nausea, but she also felt the words calling back to her. It was like the poems last night all over again. There was something so bland, so unremarkable about them. And yet, Laura couldn't get them out of her mind. She wanted to scan over the words again and again. She wanted the story to keep going, just like the poem.

The poem last night. A yawn. A stupid yawn. It was nothing interesting. One woman watched another woman yawn. And yet ...

And yet there was a promise of something more. The Laura in the poem, Laura Karnstein, was something more than just any woman. Her yawn was something more than just any yawn. Marcilla could see it. Clearly, Camille could see it. Why couldn't Laura? What was it about Laura K that was so interesting?

Laura found herself tracing her hands over her neck. Marcilla was hunting Laura K. She said she was going to give chase. Laura didn't expect that. It was a tame poem before that, wasn't it? Laura had to get her hands on the book to read it again. Was Marcilla lusting after Laura K? Was it something more or less sinister?

Laura wondered if anyone ever looked at her like that. Most of her boyfriends said she was cute. They liked her. But hunt her? Obsess over her? Lust after her? No. The boys she dated wanted something to fuck, anything. She wasn't an object of obsession for them. She was some status. She was a way to fight off their loneliness. She was a sophisticated left hand and the whole relationship was emotional masturbation. That's what it was. It was The Magicians' Mistress. It wasn't Laura K and Marcilla.

That's why Camille wanted the poems read. She could taste Marcilla's hunger. She needed to feed off of Marcilla's lust for Laura K. But why not put that in her stories? Why fill page after page with poor imitations? Perhaps she was aspiring to be Marcilla as a writer. She wanted to evoke deep desire with simple words. Or maybe she was aspiring to be like Marcilla in more than words. Maybe that's why she had beautiful men eat her out while she listened to it. Did she imagine she was Marcilla? Or did she imagine she was Laura K?

Laura gasped. She hadn't noticed her hand sneaking under the covers. Her fingers gently swirled over her panties, her mound, applying pressure to her clit. When did she start? Why didn't she want to stop?

Her mind flashed to images of her lounging in a hot room, sweating. She yawns. Her neck stretches long and languid. A bit of peach juice dribbles down her chin, down her neck. She feels the vein quiver. Someone is watching her. Someone is wanting her. To someone, she is the peach. She is the juice. She is dribbling.

Laura felt her legs spasm. Her body clenched and jolted with pleasure. Her eyes spread wide, but she shut them again. She wanted to stay in the salon. She wanted to sweat and feel drops of everything running over her skin. She wanted someone to notice the tiniest details of her body and lick their lips. She wanted to be hunted.

Laura came and relaxed into it, back into the bed. Fatigue struck her again. Sleep. The soreness of her body called her back to sleep, where she hoped—and it was such a silly hope—to dream of Laura and Marcilla.

***************

A knock on the door. This one was gentle, like a tree branch in the wind on the side of a building. Laura opened her eyes. The details of her dream quickly ran from her. She was in bed, a cat of some sort crawled up on her lap. She was naked. She pet the cat. It purred and rubbed against her. Then it bit her breast and fled. But Laura didn't shriek in pain or wake up. She felt the tiny sliver of blood run down her breast, and sighed with relief.

"Come in," she said. Already, her voice felt stronger. Jacque really was a miracle man.

The door opened to reveal Camille. She was in a beautiful navy blue dress. It was form fitting, tightly sculpted to her body. It stopped only inches below her waist. Beside the miles and miles of legs, it was modest. No cleavage or plunging neckline. Her shoulders were covered, but small cut outs along it revealed peeks of skin. Her curly and kinky hair was down, cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She smiled when she saw Laura.

How could Laura not smile back?

With Camille was a strange and short man. He had grey and balding hair. He wore glasses and a three piece brown suit. He only came up to Camille's shoulder in height.

"Good morning," sighed Laura. She reclined back into the pillow, relaxing.