Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Walking to my car, my mood quickly turned foul, and it wasn't even toward Misty. 

It was directed at myself for expecting her to be anything but what she had always presented herself as.

Pulling the door to my car a bit too heavily, I slumped into the seat, shut the door, and took out my phone.

I hadn't been on a date in a while, and I thought the first thing I should do was download one of those apps and start swiping.

"Or I could just go to a bar," I mused. "And when they ask me what I do for a living, I'll say I'm- what, funemployed?"

I could always light their cigarette with my flame fingers. 

Cringy. And nobody even smokes anymore.

"Light your vape for ya? Ugh."

I laid back against the headboard and closed my eyes while my phone vibrated in my hand.

1 message from Misty.

Ignoring it, I put the key in the ignition and drove back home.

 

***

 

Finally, out and up the rickety orange-painted elevator, I pulled my phone out and read the text.

Misty: I said Sonic or Mario?

I texted back.

Pete: I grew up on Zelda.

Misty: Then, Mario. If you owned a SNES, then you played Mario.

Pete: NES.

Misty: You're so old.

Pete: Firstly, I gotta only be like five years older than you, and secondly, we just didn’t have the money to get the new one. Anyway, I was always more into those kinds of games. Zelda. Final Fantasy. You know, adventure.

Misty: Whatever.

I shook my head at my phone. I was definitely done with her shit. Wrong tree barking, for sure. 

She texted again.

Misty: The website looks great, by the way. If I didn't say.

Pete: No worries.

Misty: Can we put music on it?

Pete: Absolutely not.

Misty: Can't or won't?

Pete: Sure we can, if you want to annoy every customer into pressing X on your website as fast as they can.

Misty: Makes sense. 

Pete: Thanks for the bagel.

Misty: I like bagels.

I scrunched my nose at the phone. Was that just super cute, or did I imagine it?

No, stay resolved. She's a mean bitch, and there are better girls out there.

My phone vibrated again. Misty was really not someone I expected to be a frequent double texter.

Misty: People are difficult. 

I blinked, then I realized the door to the elevator was open, and my neighbor was staring at me, waiting for me to get out of the small box so he could get in.

I bid him good afternoon and headed into my apartment, slumping on the couch and turning on the TV.

Then, staring at the endless crap, I got my phone out.

Pete: Don't worry about it.

I thought she might've been trying to apologize. Still, the wall had been firmly put up, and the further I got away from her, the more I felt distant and ready to move on to greener pastures. 

Misty: Can you do the leaflet tomorrow?

Pete: Sure. 

Misty: Can you bring me a coffee again tonight?

Pete: Sure.

I wasn't replying the same word on purpose. It just happened somehow.

It seemed that if Misty was Dark Souls, I was finally DNF-ing to play Skyrim.

Git Gud, I told myself. Don't give up yet.

Nope, I replied to myself. Not worth it.

My phone buzzed.

Misty: You can be my friend if you want.

"Oh my god, so needy," I said, laughing and texting.

Pete: Did your phone get hacked? What did you do with the real Misty?

Misty: Dickhead.

I smiled. Why did I enjoy being called dickhead by her so much?

Pete: On one condition.

Misty: Oh god.

Pete: What's your name?

Misty: Just call me Misty.

Pete: Bitch.

She didn't text back for a moment, and I imagined her smiling wildly at the phone at my insulting her back.

Misty: Rude.

Pete: Lol.

Misty: Lol is rude too, grandpa.

Pete: How is lol rude? Damn millennials.

Misty: You're a millennial too!

Pete: Oh god.

Misty: So, what are you doing for the rest of the day, besides being a dickhead?

I looked to the bedroom where my laptop lay on my bed.

Look for a job, or jack off. 

Look for a job. 

Jack off.

Hmm.

Pete: Looking for a job.

Misty: Sorry, you're too busy for that.

Pete: You kicked me out of the shop!

Misty: I need you focused.

Pete: You don't pay me.

Misty: Money is a material distraction. True enlightenment comes from within.

Pete: You are so lame.

Misty: You love it.

Who was this girl? She was like a different person over text.

No. Don't get drawn in. Stay resolved. Don't be a simp. There are plenty more fish in the sea.

Pete: Not really. 

She did not reply, for which I was glad, and I ran to the bed and pulled up my laptop, beginning my earnest search for a new job.

 

***

 

Several hours passed, and I slammed the laptop shut, yawning at how boring it had been.

I would have happily stood in Misty's shop staring at the wall for free than work any of those jobs. But I needed money, and day by day, my savings depleted.

I left my apartment with a coffee in either hand, and got in the car to drive to my frenemy. 

Once there, I watched her lock the door, squinting at her. 

She's not so great, I told myself. She's just in my vicinity. If another hot girl showed up, I'd immediately prefer her.

"You know I can tell when you're staring at me," she said, climbing into the seat and taking her coffee.

"Maybe you should stop wearing such interesting outfits then."

"Interesting," she said. "Most guys would just say I looked nice or something."

"I did, earlier."

I drove off down the road, out of town, then, I put the radio on. Led Zeppelin started blaring.

"I don't like this," Misty said, like a spoiled brat.

"Tough shit," I replied. "When you drive, you can put on your sad bastard music."

"It isn't..." she began. "Whatever." She sipped on her coffee and pulled her wide-brimmed hat down a bit further, like a teenager might pull their hood on tighter.

Petulant child.

We got down the winding road through the countryside as the sky began to darken, and I parked the car beside the rusty fence.

Before climbing it, she pulled her skirt up extra high, revealing milky smooth, grabbable thighs. It had to have been on purpose, judging from what she had said of knowing about me watching her.

You can't tempt me, Morgan Le Fay.

But, I could walk up to her right and say, 'Enough of this bullshit,' and grab her arms and kiss her and…

Focus, you're here for magic.

I climbed over the fence, and we walked down the dirt path to the barn. 

"Same as before?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied bluntly, taking a sip of coffee.

It was getting chilly, and I had neglected to bring a coat, still in my plaid shirt. I rolled the sleeves down and headed into the dry wheat field. 

While she just bore her gaze on me.

"I know when you're watching me too," I said.

"Not much to look at."

"Sure."

"What do you see?" she asked.

"The sky. The wheat. The moon climbing up bla bla bla."

"Be serious."

"I am."

"Close your eyes. What do you hear?" she asked.

I did, and all I could envision was her behind me. 

Sheryl Scarecrow.

"An annoying goth bitch," I said.

"You're distracted."

"Damn right."

"Because of me." It wasn't a question.

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"Perceptive."

"Fine." 

I raised my eyebrows as the sound of crunching wheat brought her closer to me. 

Then she stood before me and said, "We'll just use me."

I kept my eyes closed and asked, "Is that a good idea?" 

"Yes. I've gotten you all riled up. It will work. Open your eyes."

I was greeted by her magnificent eyes, now reflecting the sunset behind me, a beautiful purple-orange stroke of paint.

"What do you see?"

I described her eyes exactly like that. 

She took her hat off and ran her fingers through her hair. 

"Sleek, black hair. Shining in the twilight."

She blinked at me through her heavy mascaraed eyes. Which I described. 

"Black lips, a little chapped from a long day, but no less beautiful for it, no less full." 

I was taking full advantage of the situation, and judging from her expression, so was she.

And I was getting pretty good at reading her lately. An onlooker might've thought this was her same old deadpan stare, but inside it, I saw intrigue.

"Keep going," she said.

"A long plunging neckline, revealing so much skin and yet no cleavage. Pale smooth skin, broken up by the choker on her neck, where her heart is held. Perhaps the only way to her heart is wrapping a hand around her neck."

"C-Continue." Was that an actual stammer?

"Hands, soft and delicate, despite the black nail polish." 

"What do you hear?"

"A voice, quiet, wanting to be aggressive, yet unable to, now she's been so revealed, so it's just soft and sweet."

"And?"

"It swims across the air, along the waves of her perfume."

"What does it smell like?" She took a step forward, and my heart pummeled in my chest.

"Sweet. Contrastingly so compared to her demeanor. It mixes in beautiful tandem, much like the pink of her magic and the black of her attire."

Misty swallowed. "Don't..." she began. "No, continue."

She lit up a spark of magic in her fingers, the ball blazing. To see magic from her was so rare. It was a treat, as it illuminated her face.

"Close your eyes. What do you smell?"

I closed my eyes and said, "I smell that weird scent from her shop, lingering on her—it's like warm electricity. I cannot explain what it is beyond that, but it's pleasant, especially mixed with her perfume."

She took another step forward. She was close now, enough to touch. 

I wavered to keep my eyes closed, wincing them tight.

"Relax," she whispered. "It's okay."

Her words swam down my body and stayed there like waves of silk floating around the endless sea of me. Then, her fingers touched my arm, pulling it outward, and she traced fingers around my palm.

"What do you feel?"

"It tickles."

"Be serious."

"The tickling finger of a woman who won't tell me her name, but she's Misty to me, so that's fine.”

"No extracurricular descriptions."

"It felt right to say."

"I don't feel anything for you."

"Liar."

She continued to trace her finger on my hand. "What else?"

"The cool wind against my ear, the crickets buzzing, and the birds."

"Last one," she said. 

I licked my lips. They'd gone dry.

"I'm not going to kiss you," she said, still tracing her finger on my hand, moving up my forearm, causing my spine to shiver in tenseness. 

I raised my hand and, eyes still closed, cupped her cheek.

My whole body was alive with need.

"Open your other hand," she said. 

I faced my palm to the sky, the one I hadn't done magic with before. The one not touching Misty's cheek. The one whose thumb wasn't caressing her skin.

"Wrap it all up," she said, "everything you said of me, like a painting. An orb. Roll it, twirl it."

"Twist it, bop it."

"Dickhead."

My fingers slid behind her neck, the back of them stroking against her hair. 

I pulled her close, and our lips touched.

Inside me was a warmth, arousal. Pent-up lust finally came to build up in a wild ball of needy hardness. I took her taste on my lips, the slightly waxy feel of her lipstick, then the softness of her lips, the wetness of her spit, and her tongue reached out, seeking mine.

She pressed her body against mine, her breasts rubbed against my chest, her stomach pushing my cock flat against my body. She didn't care when she noticed it, pausing briefly before bringing herself closer. Then closer, her kiss became more passionate, wetter.

And in my free hand, sparks. Then, a warm crackling fire. Then, cold. 

She pushed me away at the chest to look, keeping her hand there while I kept mine on the back of her neck, my thumb still on her cheek. 

In my hand, ice built up high like a tower, twirling in sparkling magnificence.

Then, fire made it hollow inside, sparkling like a gorgeous impossible sculpture.

I closed my hand, and it was gone.

She pushed herself off me and straightened out her blouse.

"Tuck yourself in," she said bluntly. "You look like a teenager that had his internet taken away for a week."

I looked down at myself and didn't care one bit, as it began to soften of its own volition. 

"That was your fault," I said. "You came up to me in a moment of vulnerability and..."

"Started stroking your hand? Hey, when you first held hands with a girl, did you cream your pants?"

"What sort of teacher are you?" I snapped.

"And you have cold hands, by the way." She touched her cheek. "Men are supposed to have warm hands."

"We're outside, and you had your hands on a cup of coffee all evening," I said. 

"Whatever." 

I yawned and suddenly became aware of the wild tiredness coming over me. But it wasn't as bad as last time. Hell, I could have mistaken it for just general tiredness.

"It was for the magic, by the way," she said, wiping a curtain of shiny hair out of her face. 

"Sure."

I pulled my hand out to try again.

She said quickly, "No, don't. We have to do it one more time in a few days."

"What happens then? We'll fuck for the magic?"

"I have a—"

"No, you don't."

She huffed, crossed her arms, and then, oddly, gave me a smile.

"What?" I asked. 

It was unnerving.

"Good job," she said. 

Then she brushed past me, walking back to the car.

 

***

 

I drove us back home, flicking through the radio stations, amazed we could get some of them still. I went past my usual one to find a sad bastard station Misty would like.

On came The Cure, and she started humming the song.

I kinda liked it too.

And as I drove, I said, "You should hire me."

"We already have a—"

"Hire me, and I'll get your online store running. I'll run it for you, and you'll make tenfold what you make already."

"Fine," she said quickly, clearly not needing any convincing at all. "But I can only pay you sixty an hour."

"Dollars?" I blinked. "Normal, unchosen dollars?"

"Yeah, I can't afford more. I already told you I couldn't afford to pay a guy to do my video."

"How much do you—" I cut myself off. 

She has no concept of unchosen money? So magi are all loaded? Jesus. 

"It will have to do," I said. "But you know you could have afforded a guy to do your website easily, right?"

"I know," she said. "Just didn't want to deal with anyone."

"You were lying?"

"To get what I wanted? Sure."

I shook my head at her, slowing to let a couple of ducks waddle across the road.

"You lied too," Misty added.

"I did no such thing," I lied.

"Oh yeah? Name a Marr song."

"Erm…"

"Okay, we'll make it easier. Name a Smiths song."

"Easy. This—"

"Not that one. See, everything you criticize me for, you do too!"

The Cure filled the silence as that wild-haired singer sang Friday I'm in love. 

Luckily it was Saturday.

Nevertheless, Misty hummed along to the lyrics, perhaps unaware of the apt symbolism. Or she was aware, and didn't care because it was a good song.

"Besides," she said, "I need someone to play Golden Axe with."

"I'll be the sword guy," I replied.

"I always play the sword guy!"

"Nah, you have to be the girl, 'cause you're a girl."

"You asshole!"

I smirked at her, letting her know I was joking.

She twitched her nose adorably and said, "Eyes on the road."

I switched the radio back to my favorite rock station. And this time? The Rolling Stones.

"Oh hell yeah," I said, tapping the steering wheel and singing along passionately to Gimme Shelter.

"Oh, brother." She rolled her eyes.

But I could definitely see in my periphery as she rested her arm on the window side, a big smile across those beautiful black lips.

I wondered what they'd look like au natural, what she'd look like without all that makeup. 

I bet she'd be gorgeous, but I liked her as she was.

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