“So she’s a tattoo artist, too?”
“She is now, but it was a bit of a journey for her to get there.” I ran a thumbnail along a groove in the bar top. “That’s her story, though, so you’ll have to get her to tell it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Eventually my folks realized there was no stopping me from drawing, from art, from tattooing. So they stopped trying to make me be something else. They didn’t like it, but I didn’t know how to be anything other than who and what I am. Eventually, I connected with John Thomas and he was the first person to let me do a real tattoo on him. I was hooked then, boy, let me tell you. A hell of a rush. Like, when you finally do something for the first time that you’ve been dreaming of for forever, and when you do, it’s like…you’re home, you know? Something just clicks in your soul, and you know this is it, this is what you’re supposed to do, forever. This one thing—”
I glanced at Cassie, and she was silent, unblinking, staring down at the top of the bar. Her posture was turtled—shoulders hunched, head drawn down on her neck, chin tucked in, breathing hard and fast. Biting her lip so hard I was worried she’d bite straight through it.
“Cassie?” I said, my voice low and hesitant.
She shook her head, all she seemed capable of.
“Hit a nerve, huh?” I turned away, giving her privacy to gather herself.
A nod, a subtle, almost-missed-it jerk of her head.
I raised a hand, and Bast came over. “Shot of whiskey for our friend here.”
“Vodka,” Cassie whispered. “Please.”
Bast filled a shot glass with Grey Goose, and Cassie threw it back. Shoved the glass toward Bast, who filled it again, and then left the bottle. Cassie tossed back another shot, hissing.
“Aren’t you going to tell me that getting shit-faced isn’t going to solve anything?” she muttered.
I shook my head. “Nah. You’re an adult. And the fact that you’re asking me that tells me you already know it.”
“Sometimes you just…you just need to get blitzed, you know?”
I nodded. “I do.” I laughed. “That can be tricky when you’re physically incapable of getting blitzed.”
She twisted her head sideways to look at me without lifting up. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She frowned. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
I sighed. “I had no expectations that you would.”
She frowned harder. “What’s that mean?”
Dangerous ground. “Nothing. I’m not being nice to you for any reason other than sometimes you just need one person to be nice for no reason. I’ve been on the other end of that, so I know.”
Her eyes were cloudy, by now. Woozy. Looking me up and down. “You’re complicated.”
“I know.”
“I’m getting tipsy.”
I laughed. “I know.”
She stared at the food in front of her—she’d done a hell of a number on it, but there was still a lot left. “I can’t eat any more.” The bottle of vodka. “He left the whole bottle?”
“Bast don’t fuck around,” I said.
Cassie carefully poured herself more, threw it back. “Mmm. Goose. I love Goose.” Another shot. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where my mom lives, do you?”
I laughed. “No, I do not.”
Cassie shrugged. “I don’t want to go back there anyway. She’ll just irate me—um. I mean. Be-rate me, I mean, for drinking so much.” She shoved a mozzarella stick into her mouth defiantly. “And for eating…” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Junk food.”
Another shot.
“Maybe you oughta slow down just a teeny bit, huh?” I eyed her drink. “Those are gonna catch up and hit you like a truck.”
“Already been hit by a truck. That’s the whole fucking problem with my life.” She poured yet another shot, tossed it back, and now I physically removed the bottle and pushed it away before she gave herself alcohol poisoning. “A fucking truck. They called it a—a lorry. But it was a truck. Like a semi. Had fish in it. Lots of fish. Tuna fish and salmon, and lots and lots of fish. Ran right into us. Fish everywhere.”
“Cassie…”
“I told you. I told you I was gonna get blackout. I just had to warm up to it, okay? Some beer, some food. So I’d have something to throw up, later. And because I haven’t eaten junk food since I was…since I was thirteen. I had a piece of strawberry cheesecake from Juniors in Times Square on my thirteenth birthday. It had four big strawberries on it, and it was the size of my head. They sang Happy Birthday to me, but it was the wrong tune. Just me and Mom and Dad. We went to Broadway shows and a ballet and they took me shopping, and I got a piece of strawberry cheesecake all to myself. Ate the whole thing.” A long pause. “I haven’t had any junk food of any kind ever since. A few alcoholic drinks here and there, like when I went to Tennessee with Charlie last year. It was my twenty-first birthday so I could legally drink in the US. Of course, the drinking age in most of Europe is eighteen, so I’d been drinking with my troupe now and then for years. But. But. Alcohol is not junk food. You know what I eat?”
She peered at me, pointing a finger at me.
“Do you know what I eat? Every day?” She tapped the bar top with an angry finger. “Rabbit food. All day. Salads. Egg white omelets. A handful of almonds. More salad. Veggies. So, so, so many vegetables. White meat, as lean as possible, in very small amounts. And you know what I do all day? I dance! All day. Practice starts at seven in the fucking morning. Dance all fucking day on an empty stomach. Probably burn a thousand calories by lunch, and then eat like a fucking baby bird, and then dance until dark. Past dinner. More bird food and rabbit food. For years I’ve done this. Fucking years. You know I haven’t had a fucking French fry since fourth grade? First French fry I’ve had since fourth grade.” She picked a fry off the pile of fries, which she hadn’t gotten to until then.
“So you’re a dancer?”
“Was? Am? I was, I am. I was-am.” She blinked hard. “But the truck. The truck took it away.”
Shit, the vodka was hitting her.
“The truck took dance away?”
She peered into the empty shot glass. “Empty. Damn. Empty glasses are stupid.” She slid the glass away with a morose gesture. “Truck took dance. Took Rick. Took me. Took me away from me.”
“Who’s Rick?”
“Fiancé. Ex-fiancé. He was brain damaged by the wreck. Made him not love me anymore. He knew me, remembered us, everything. Just didn’t love me anymore.” She paused. “Fuck him, though, right? Without dance, why would he love me? He can dance. I can’t dance. No dance, no us.”
“That’s fucked up.”
She cackled. “Right? So fucked up. He was just like,” and here, her voice dropped to a gruff approximation of a male voice, “‘…sorry, Cass. I just need time to process things. That accident really messed me up. It wouldn’t be fair to you for us to stay together. I don’t know who I am anymore. I wish I could explain it better, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore.’”