Periphery (7 page)

Edie waited for him to move off, but he didn’t. The cop took up a position at the crosswalk directly opposite Edie, like he was performing some public safety duty. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, ostensibly watching the crowd for trouble, but he kept his attention on her. Great, Edie thought, so much for slipping off without finishing the transaction.

The cop’s scrutiny felt like needles in Edie’s back as she scrolled through the potential client list. The usual suspects flicked across the screen. She hardly saw them. What was she going to do? She need time to think, but the cop started pacing back and forth like a lion waiting to pounce on a kill.

Without even looking, Edie pressed the accept key on the worn out pad. She had to get this creep cop off her back. She’d deal with reneging on the contract later. The machine peeped out a tinny beep, and Edie felt a slight buzz at the receiver buried under her right temple as the client’s dossier was downloaded into her personal, private LINK.

Edie’s green card flushed into a deep green. Her shoulders relaxed as she swung open the doors. From the smile on her face and the corresponding grimace on his, she sensed the cop knew he was beaten.

*

Edie hopped the light rail for home. The train was mostly empty, except for a couple of women in business suits at the rear of the car talking to each other in the excited gestures of ASL. Edie always found sign language captivating to watch, so she tried not to stare. Most people didn’t like too much attention from an ishtartu; it made them nervous, like someone could see into their deepest, darkest fantasies. To distract herself, Edie glanced through the dossier stored in her LINK.

Now that she was away from the cop, Edie planned to hit the reject option—a prerogative all ishtartu had—without even really reading the offer. But, the instant the photo appeared in her mind’s eye, she paused.

The woman was beautiful. She had dark mocha-colored skin and dreadlocks that hung past her shoulders. Large almond-shaped eyes stared mischievously at the camera, and a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know-what-I’m-thinking-about grin played on full, sensual lips. Too-large earrings glittered at her earlobes. She wore a burnt orange turtleneck, which was the only disappointment because it hid whatever curves might lie beneath.

Edie found herself imagining full breasts…or perky, taut breasts…or…. She stopped herself. Her mental finger hovered over the reject button. Not matter how gorgeous the client, she knew it wouldn’t be right. It would just be paid sex.

Her mental gaze lingered on those playful, teasing lips. Would that be such a bad thing? Maybe she could take this job as one last farewell.

*

Jamila, the client in question, lived in Saint Paul. Though it was the capital of Minnesota, Saint Paul liked to think of itself as a quaint, small town. Thus, after stopping at home for a quick shower and her overnight bag, Edie found herself standing on a corner, outside, in the freezing rain, waiting for a trolley car. It was her third transfer.

At least she didn’t have to take a damned bus, which was good because she was packing. Edie could feel the center strap of the harness wide and firm between her legs. She ran the flat of her palm over the pronounced bulge riding on her mons. It was going to be a long trolley ride. Ah well, every moment would build the anticipation.

Though the LINK automatically informed a supplicant that their offer to the Temple of Ishtar (tax deductible!) had been accepted, Edie liked to call ahead and get a feel for the client. So, she mentally signaled a go-ahead for the LINK to establish a connection.

“You’re not canceling like the others, are you?” Jamila’s voice was a rich, deep alto. And Edie had been so pleased to see that she looked just as gorgeous on the LINK as she did in her profile, that it took a second for her to parse Jamila’s question.

“Actually, I’m about five minutes from your place. That’s still good, right?”

Jamila rewarded Edie with brilliant flash of a smile. “I’m all ready for you, girl. I even have hot cocoa waiting.”

“With whip cream?”

Jamila chuckled lowly. “Lots.”

*

It was only when she was standing on the sagging front porch of Jamila’s Victorian did Edie pause to wonder why anyone would cancel. Jamila’s dossier expressed an interest in a variety of different sexual positions and a tendency towards experimentation, none of which would normally be a turn-off to an ishtartu. Before putting her finger on the doorbell, Edie LINKed to Jamila’s offer one more time. She scanned the surface for any anomalies, but found nothing. Then, she accessed the client history. There they were: two rejections. Odd. Both happened after having accepted the call. One left her in the bedroom. Highly unusual.

A gust of cold wind nipped at Edie’s ear. Despite her growing concern, she rang the doorbell. The door opened with a puff of warm air that smelled of pine and baking bread. “You actually came.”

Jamila wore a bulky brown sweater that matched her eyes. Since she was in her own home, she wore faded blue jeans and comfortable bunny slippers—complete with ears and a pink triangular button nose. Edie smiled at those.

“You’re beautiful,” Edie said, completely genuinely. “How could anyone say no to a woman like you?”

Jamila raised a thin eyebrow, even as she stepped out of the doorway so Edie could enter. “Wait until we get to the bedroom.”

“I can’t wait,” Edie said, shrugging out of her coat. Seeing a coat tree beside the door, she hung it up. She kicked off her boots and took a look around.

Jamila’s house was like so many in Minneapolis/St. Paul. Despite all the advances in technology, it was still a grand old place with twelve-foot ceilings, maple trim, and hardwood floors. Jamila had a fire roaring in a stone fireplace. Velvety purple couches and a matching overstuffed chair tucked comfortably around the fire. Bookcases encircled the room, filled with data-chits and crystals. What looked like original, abstract oil paintings hung on the rich cream-colored walls.

“You want that drink, or should we just…” Jamila’s eyes indicated an open staircase.

“It’s entirely up to you,” Edie replied.

“Then, I’d like to get this over with. If you’re going to run screaming like that last girl, I don’t want to waste my good cocoa on you. No offense.”

What had happened here? Edie shook her head in disbelief. “There might be screaming,” Edie insisted with a wicked smile. “But I promise I won’t run.”

“Good,” Jamila murmured, stepping closer.

They were almost the same height, Edie being only a few inches taller. Edie could smell the other woman’s scent—lavender and musky.

Jamila slowly ran a finger down the length of Edie’s tie. Twirling her long-boned fingers around the silk, she gripped it firmly. With a tug, she led Edie up the stairs.

*

Edie got the sense of a bedroom with the usual furniture and piles of clothes scattered around, but the instant they stopped moving, Jamila wrapped her in an embrace. Jamila pressed her body against Edie’s crotch.

“Mmm, nice,” Jamila said, feeling the hardness there. Then, Jamila kissed her.

This is not how this is supposed to start, Edie thought to herself, even as her lips sought Jamila’s slightly parted mouth. I’m supposed to say the ritual words. But Edie forgot all about that, for the moment lost in the sensation of soft, wet lips. Jamila’s lipstick tasted of wax and cinnamon.

Jamila’s fingertips brushed the short, sharp hairs at the back of Edie’s neck. Edie’s arms encircled Jamila’s generous waist; then explored the broad expanse of hips and buttocks.

They continued to kiss, tongues probing deeper.

Jamila pressed her body harder against Edie’s package. The pressure sent a quiver along Edie’s thighs. She allowed a groan to escape between her lips.

Edie slipped her hand under Jamila’s sweater. Her skin was warm and dry against Edie’s palms. She moved upwards, stroking spine and softly cupping shoulder blades. On her way back down, Edie paused when she felt scar tissue under Jamila’s armpits. Jamila pulled away from the kiss, her eyes dared Edie to comment. Is this why the others cancelled? Edie wondered. Edie continued to stroke the scars, which ran all the way to Jamila’s breastbone.

“Can I see?” Edie asked.

Jamila shrugged and lifted the sweater over her head.

A holographic tattoo of the Goddess Kali danced along two angry, pink scars. The miniature goddess was only three inches tall. Her skin was blue and she wore a skirt of skulls. As she danced, she waved her multiple arms menacingly. Edie smiled as it hopped from one scar to the next to continue the dance.

Edie ran her hands down Jamila’s sides, feeling the feminine curves. So she’d lost her breasts to cancer, Edie thought. There’s so much more to a woman.

Edie leaned in for another deep, probing kiss.

Jamila worked open Edie’s fly. Her hand closed around the hard plastic and gave it a little tug. “I love a girl with a dick,” she said. “I want to see the whole look. Take your shirt off.”

There was something about the command that made Edie hesitate. She was used to this sort of talk from clients, and perhaps that’s what stopped her. She’d forgotten for a moment that this was just another job. As an ishtartu the client’s pleasure was her duty, but….

An unfamiliar heat blushed her cheeks.

Jamila released Edie’s dildo and stepped out of their embrace, clearly expecting her order to be obeyed. “I like to see what I’m buying,” she said with a smile. “All of it.”

That’s right. This is for money. Give the client what she paid for, girl, Edie reminded herself. She unknotted her tie and let it slip to the floor. Edie found her eyes unable to meet Jamila’s as she began unbuttoning. Her fingers shook, but somehow she undid them all.

Edie looked up, the shirt undone. Jamila waited, watching.

Cold air met her flesh, as Edie let the shirt slide to the floor. She shivered, feeling exposed under Jamila’s unwavering gaze. Edie fought the urge to cover her breasts with her arms. She felt like a whore, and a tear formed in the corner of her eyes.

Then, Jamila spoke: “My vulva, the horn

The boat of Heaven

Is full of eagerness like the young moon

My untilled land lies fallow

Who will plow my vulva?

Who will plow my wet ground?”

Jamila said the ritual words with such conviction, such passion that Edie looked up into Jamila’s face.

Jamila’s eyes glowed red, like molten rock. For a moment, they stood in the center of a ruined temple, dark and thick with vines. Above, the ceiling had crumbled and was open to the air. Kudzu crisscrossed the circular space like a spider web. Edie could see Venus, sacred to Ishtar, shining brightly next to a full moon. Mourning doves flitted from perch to perch, calling out their sad songs to each other. The air was warm and rife with mildew.

Edie blinked, and the illusion was gone.

Jamila’s arms were open, welcoming, and Edie knew the Goddess had not abandoned her after all.

“I will,” Edie whispered the ritual response, and felt warmth flood between her legs. No longer feeling ashamed of her nakedness, Edie straightened her shoulders. More firmly, she repeated: “I will.”

Jamila’s smile was as bright as the evening star.

*

LM:
Even though my AngeLINK series ended, I still find myself wanting to play around in that universe. Ishtartu was inspired by the question: How do you suppose prostitutes would work—because you know they’d find a way!—in a restrictive theocracy? Plus, I’ve always found the idea of sacred prostitutes hot.

“Come to me…”

Of course I went. Legislation has made telepaths little better than slaves. Branded invisibly. Every child tested. A subcutaneous chip, fitted while the skull is soft, buried so deep within the brain-matter that nothing can remove it. Hard wired to the nervous system. The Mark of Cain. Proof that you can download someone’s thoughts. I can’t go within fifty feet of a secure room without alarms blaring. That doesn’t leave many places. Death might be preferable.

I made the mistake of expressing those sympathies. I was already under lock and key. Now I’m on suicide watch. If my vitals fall below a given point someone comes to intervene. I’m allowed outside only for the job. Freedom through service. If you call that freedom.

I lagged. Yes, I wanted out. Who doesn’t? I haven’t breathed fresh air for two months. But when they want you, a cell’s better.

Eventually the headache from the chip drove me to my knees, then the door. I pounded wood till my fists bled, my head exploding with pain. When the warden opened up it was all I could do to raise my battered hands, show him the teleprinter in my wrist flashing its demands.

I dragged myself out, started down the corridor. With simple acquiescence, moving in the right direction, the pain lessened. I wiped blood from my nose. Once you’re got you stayed got.

I cleaned up in a windowless bathroom while they confirmed receipt of the message. She sent a car and clothes. When I saw what they’d laid out in the windowless adjoining office I almost wept. A man’s suit, shirt, underwear, carefully tailored to hide curves. Even a tie. She’d sent a barber too. I sat on a stool, observed from three sides, while they washed and trimmed me. To prevent me catching up one of the glittering objects that might have ended my pain, set me free.

There is no privacy or allowance for modesty once they’d decided you’ll kill yourself. They watched me strip out of the age-softened denim shirt and jeans, wash, apply the lotions and potions polite society expects, then climb into street clothes.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you was a bloke,” an officer said, unlocking the door to release me to my handlers.

The warden, who’d never so much as glanced at me, frowned and checked the room. Looking for the woman he’d let in. Wondering who this tall, pale skinned, crop haired, sharp dressed man was.

No one touched me as we walked through the echoing corridors.