Nightfall (4 page)
Roxanne dug her phone out of the pocket of her pajama pants and tapped the button that shut off the vibe. She could have tried for a second one, but she felt languid and relaxed now, and that was enough. No reason to push for more just now. She slid her pants back over her hips and found herself staring up at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t it be like this with a man—or, hell, a woman? Even after sex, she never felt like this, calm and relaxed, like something had been freed and released within her. The only thing missing was lying in a partner’s arms, feeling totally safe and protected.
She and Matt had hooked up once, last Christmas, after a party. He’d come as her date just to fend off a doctor who’d been making her more and more uncomfortable, but when the doctor had too much to drink and started flirting with her, the only way Matt had been able to drive him off was to start kissing her. She’d known that the right thing to do would be to stop him and just leave, but it had been a really long time, and as uneventful as sex tended to be for her, sometimes it was exhausting having all of her orgasms be battery operated and manual. She’d had a drink or two, and she’d thought,
hey, maybe it will work this time.
It hadn’t worked that time. He’d been clearly excited, and when he offered to take her back to his place, she’d agreed. The way he’d kissed her had set up a slow burn in her belly that made her hopeful, but by the time they got back to the bedroom, he was all soft and delicate, treating her like she was a precious gem of a woman. It was lovely and respectful and not even remotely what she wanted. She’d come, eventually, but it was routine, fast, and when he’d curled up around her whispering that he loved her, she’d pretended she was asleep to avoid having to tell him that it was never going to happen again. The next morning, she’d snuck out before he woke up, and since then, she’d resolutely pretended that she had only vague memories of what had happened, but told him without equivocation that it was a mistake that she would not be repeating.
He’d never seemed angry about it, just quietly sad, which made the whole situation even more irritating. Yelling about how she’d used him—because she really had, and she was honestly fairly ashamed about it—would have been much more interesting. But Matt didn’t have a yelling bone in his body. He was a good guy, a great friend, but no one she wanted to take to bed. Ever again.
She wasn’t hungry now; the rush of energy had left her sated and relaxed. She put the rest of the food away for tomorrow’s dinner and tucked herself in to bed, pulling the covers tight around herself so it felt just a little like someone was there with her.
It was always the first test when she went to an appointment in her role as
curandera
. If someone expected her to be wearing a headdress or something, and couldn’t handle denim, then working with them wasn’t going to be a good idea anyway.
Mamà
was constantly pressing her to get officially licensed, so that she could work properly and even bill for the work she did. Some insurance companies in Texas even paid now. But it just wasn’t what she wanted to do. Mamà would jab her between the ribs if Izzy ever mentioned it in front of her, but while doing the work of the
curandera
was fantastic, it wasn’t what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She made more of a difference working as a nurse. When they came into the ER, frightened about what was going to happen, she could put them at ease. That meant more than giving them herbs and tobacco for things that would be better served by antidepressants or beta-blockers.
But there was some work that only a
curandera
could do, and Mamà had been very clear, so Izzy had learned the ways of the native witch. And it was one more way that she stood out in a crowd, even if Mamà didn’t see it that way.
She checked her phone for the time; she had fifteen minutes to cross town and get to the diner where she was meeting the client. Her feet were shouting at her, but she’d get a cup of coffee at the diner and be fine.
She knew the woman she was meeting; she and Rosa had gone to school together, and she’d been aware of the pretty, young, artistic girl, even though Rosa was two years younger than her. But now, as she drove across town, she tried to wipe the story she knew of Rosa out of her mind. The
curandera
served her community, but it was important that she not be Izzy when she sat down with Rosa; she was the spiritual healer, the person who could help Rosa with the trouble she didn’t want to bring to the white doctors.
The girl was already in the booth when Izzy walked in. She didn’t look up when Izzy sat down. Izzy ordered coffee, added plenty of sugar and milk, and then she sat back and waited.
It took a while, but Rosa started to fill the silence. Her Spanish was fluid and soft, and it took just a split second for Izzy to flip the switch in her mind that went from brown nurse in the white hospital to a young woman who could heal the spiritual tapestry of her people’s lives.
The story Rosa told was one Izzy knew too well, from first-hand experience as well as seeing it claim too many of her friends growing up. Rosa didn’t use the words “clinical depression” or “suicidal thoughts,” of course. She talked about all the color leeching out of life, and being incredibly tired, but unable to sleep. Of feeling certain that her family was tired of her, and would be better off without her.
“What can I do for you, Rosita?” Izzy asked. Her Spanish was still fluid, and none of the non-Latinos she spoke to on a regular basis would hear the difference in her accent. She needed to get home more often. Mamà would be the first to let her know if she was betraying her roots.
She kept her frustration internal, and waited for Rosa to speak again.
When the girl lifted her eyes, they were dry, and so completely worn thin and exhausted that Izzy was more worried than she would have been if the girl were crying. “I want it to stop,” Rosa said. “I want the hurting to stop.”
Her hands were flat on the table, and Izzy took a risk, reaching across and touching the back of the girl’s hands with her fingertips. This part was delicate. She was known in the community for favoring women, and while some people were caught up with the modern world and didn’t mind, others were concerned, especially in a situation like this. Rosa turned her hand fast, though, clinging to Izzy’s fingers like they were a life raft. And maybe they were.
“Do you have a plan, Rosita?” Izzy asked, her voice low and cautious and careful. “Do you know how you would make the hurting stop?”
The silence stretched out for ages, minutes, lifetimes, before Rosa nodded, her chin crumpling, the tears finally starting to flow.
The instinct she had was to slide around to Rosa’s side of the booth and wrap the younger woman in her embrace. But it wasn’t the right thing to do; as much as she might need support, she also needed space if she was going to relearn how to breathe.
She let Rosa cry for a moment, until the intensity of the sobs faded. “Do you want my help, Rosa?”
The girl nodded, without hesitation.
And here comes the tricky part
. “What we need to do is call a phone number up in Houston. There’s a good place, and they will help you get the voices in your head to quiet down. And then I can help more from there.”
“Do I have a demon in me?” The girl’s eyes looked almost hopeful. Izzy had seen that again and again, even at her age. The idea that demonic possession was less painful than admitting to mental illness just broke her heart.
“It’s not a bad analogy,” Izzy said. “You can think of it as your brain having the wrong energy to drive the demon out. The people we’re going to call will help you get the energy in your brain and your heart right again. Does that sound okay?”
Another of those long pauses, but this one gave her hope. The people who answered fast were never the ones who could stick it out. “Mamà…” Rosa said, after a bit.
Izzy knew what she was getting at, and she took Rosa’s other hand into hers as well. “I’ll explain to your Mamà. She’ll understand.”
After that, it was simple. Calling numbers, taking turns explaining to various people who she was, and who Rosa was, and confirming that they had a spot for her. Before they got in the car to drive up to Houston, she took Rosa’s hands, and they prayed together, asking the saints to watch over her, and the spirits to watch over her, and to give her strength, and to help her drive out the demon in her thoughts and heart and mind.
Rosa’s eyes were dry as they drove to Houston. She curled up in the seat, her knees up to her chest, and stared out the window. Izzy didn’t force conversation; it wasn’t necessary. She was just grateful that she was coming off the end of her rotation; she’d get to sleep all day tomorrow if she needed to.
The Waystation was in an old house, the kind of house that had been inhabited by Texas royalty back in the day. It was on the outskirts of Houston. Izzy had been friends with the owner, Immanuel, since her own troubled teenage years. He was always the first one she called when she found another lost soul. He was waiting on the front steps to take charge of Rosa. And then Izzy was in Houston, caffeine charging through her system, but her eyes drifting closed. There was no way she could drive back to Sweetwater tonight. Immanuel would give her a bed if she wanted, but what she found she really wanted was to dance.
SSRIs did a lot to help depression, but she hadn’t been holding Rosa’s hands just for comfort. She’d also opened a channel of energy between herself and the girl to help support her, give her a little extra faith that she could defeat this. Brain chemistry or demon, either way, it was going to be a lot of work to make it better, and she’d need more energy and power for that than she’d had recently.
Izzy felt shaky, like she hadn’t eaten in a while. Dancing, in a funny way, would help.
Curanderas
drew their power equally from God and from Mother Earth, and finding a rhythm of movement would help her draw that power back up again, fill her reserves. Then she’d get a motel room, sleep for a few hours, and drive home.
The prospect of finding a lovely lady to spend some time with wasn’t exactly a drawback, either.
There was a club a few blocks from The Waystation. She’d been there before. It wasn’t exactly a lesbian bar, but the clientele certainly swung that way, and a little kinky as well. It was clean, and the drinks weren’t watered down.
She parked her car in a lot that had security and wandered into the club.
The music throbbed at her ears, more noise than sound at this volume. The floor was packed; Roxie had been adorable, trying to explain the effect of the full moon to her. As if she hadn’t known since she started dancing.
Izzy moved into the throng, letting the pulsing beat guide her movements, letting her hips and her spine find the motion that told her feet how to reconnect with the earth. Her eyes were half closed as she twisted and turned, a small smile dancing over her lips.
The power came quickly, flowing up through the ground into her body. She felt it fill her belly, her breasts, her mouth, leaving her swollen and full of potential again. It made her lower lips feel full, heavy, wet. She felt the music in her hips even more as she swayed and danced and moved, shifting so that the energy could clear out all the darkness she’d picked up from the young girl.
And then there were hands, hands on her hips, changing the pattern of her movement. She didn’t recognize the hands, but she did recognize the pattern, and she grinned harder. Oh, it had been a long time, but it wouldn’t be much longer now, and that was absolutely fine.
The hands were feminine, soft, long-fingered, but strong. She let them guide her in a swirling, sexual motion that built up the energy in her into something hot and molten. From her clit to the tips of her breasts, heat scorched through her. She let the hands pull her back into a body—a body that offered a promising length pressed up against the curve of her ass.
My oh my, tonight will be lovely.
The woman turned Izzy to face her. She was tall, curvy and rounded, with a pretty Anglo face. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Izzy felt the woman’s eyes glide over her curves. She held up a key on a big black keychain and grinned. Izzy nodded.
The club had rooms in the back that could be rented, by the hour, or by the night. Since the club only rented the rooms, but did not offer professional services within them, they got around many of the local laws that otherwise would have confined what they could do there. Izzy’d visited the rooms before, now and then. They were clean, comfortable, and good for when she was in a mood.
The woman took Izzy’s hand and guided her through the blue-lit hallway to the room she’d rented. The door had barely closed before she had Izzy’s hands pinned against a wall, up above her head, her mouth catching Izzy’s and grinding. Izzy groaned, letting the woman’s thigh spread her legs apart, letting herself feel that delicious cock, even through her jeans. The woman was dressed ultra-feminine, in a short leather skirt and a silvery gray corset top that pressed her breasts up into creamy mounds.
“Name?” Izzy asked. She remembered to use English; that was a plus.
“Call me Susan,” the woman said. She took Izzy’s hand and brought it down to the cock under her skirt. Izzy could feel it, hard and stiff; she could imagine heat coming off it as she stroked it through the skin. Susan groaned and thrust against her palm. “I want to fuck you up against the wall,” she said.
Izzy groaned in response. Susan freed her hands and Izzy unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down off her hips. Susan’s fingers twisted at her nipples, sending another wave of heat and moisture between Izzy’s thighs.
“Touch yourself,” Susan said, and Izzy slid her panties down, then buried two fingers in her wet pussy. The other woman reached back and unzipped her leather skirt, peeling it down off her body. The cock she wore was gorgeous, big, and swollen and black. She touched it, stroking her fingers up and down its length. Izzy couldn’t take her eyes off it, and she saw Susan smile. She whimpered, her fingers circling her clit, teasing herself gently.
Susan wasted no time. She pushed Izzy against the wall, lifting her with surprising ease. The cock found her opening, and Izzy groaned. Susan reached down, lifting Izzy’s breast free and clamping down on her nipple with neat little teeth, flicking at it with her tongue. Izzy howled and ground down on the cock, feeling it slid deep inside of her in a smooth motion. It almost hurt, was almost too much, and she had to pant and relax before she was sure she could take it all without splitting into pieces.
