Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

 

Chapter Six

 

Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent

-Much Ado About Nothing

 

The countryside blurred past. Behind us lay the city. Hours unspooled in near silence as the land outside the window became greener, healthier and wilder. We passed through the occasional town nestled by a river or in some nook or cranny between hills, but only stopped once for gas and food. She handled the transaction; I had little interest in stepping out of the vehicle. We ate in the car.

Mostly I stared unseeingly at the passing landscape, distracted and lost in thought. The ride was comfortable enough. The silence was less so. I couldn't tell if K was left either angry or awkward after last night's performance, or was maintaining her role as Wendy Jones, my supposed mother.

What do relatives do on long drives together? It's not like I had much in the way of personal experience to draw from, you know? What do normal people talk about after a lifetime of conversations and arguments and listless Sunday afternoons? Therefore, other than a few simulated exchanges over inconsequential matters, Cindy and her mother said very little as the car wound its way deeper into the wilderness and higher into the hills.

Cindy mostly fiddled with the media centre, tuning in a new retro-rock station as the signal from the last one died out. She absently read a copy of YM her mother had picked up at the last stop and intently studied the section on makeup and hair. Every now and then she rubbed her bared knee and futilely tugged at the hem of her skirt.

I couldn't believe that K put me in a skirt this morning. Hell, I couldn't believe she woke me up at five-fucking-thirty in the morning. I mean, it must've been near three by the time my hard-on--or whatever the hell you call it when your cock's caught beneath some kind of mad female prosthetic device--eased off and I finally drifted to sleep. The bitch didn't even look tired, but then I imagine she'd had a proper night's sleep.

Groggy and cranky, I didn't resist as she stripped me of last night's lingerie and hustled me into the bathroom. She got the shower started. Another lesson in femininity: it takes a hell of a lot longer to get ready and look pretty in the morning. Especially if you're really a guy.

My first real shower with breasts and a pussy was a very strange affair, but I was too out of it to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. I won't deny that a part of me wanted to caress those parasites hanging off of my chest or hold the shower nozzle down to my crotch. Even the thought of it sent a warning tingle to my groin that I knew better than to indulge. The reality, though, was that I was so damn out of it that I just robotically did what was required. K handed me a razor. I lathered up and cleared the pink-tinted foam away with quick, long strokes. It was still a hell of a chore to get at those awkward spots, especially now that those massive tits were hanging off my chest and bobbling about and getting in the damn way every time I bent over.

Out of the shower? Pat dry, again a bit put off by the feel of flesh against flesh without a comforting layer of hair. Then moisturizer, and by the time the task was done I smelled like a goddamn flower garden. I felt silkily smooth and ill at ease in my own skin.

Stepping back into the main room I found clothes laid out on the bed, thoughtfully picked by K for me to struggle into as she showered and readied herself. I ignored the clothes at first. The moment I heard the shower start I dropped to the floor and worked through a quick exercise routine. Like I said, I like to keep in shape. I mean, hell, I'd been working out almost daily for the last decade, yeah? Something becomes that ingrained it's hard to give it up. Between the bullets and bruising and all the other shit, I hadn't had a chance to work out for days and it was really starting to get to me. Despite the injuries, my body was itching for some exercise. Most mornings I like to drop out of bed and crank off some push-ups and crunches; it helps to clear the head. Chicks dig that shit too. They love to see a man work out and sweat.

Yeah, but somehow it just wasn't the same. I stripped naked and dropped to the floor, and goddamn if those blasted tits didn't hit the floor before I did. They dangled and swayed with each movement, distracting and annoying, and the extra weight was a real pain in the ass--and the back. I managed sixty before giving up, disgusted. Rolling over onto my back, the crunches weren't as bad, but those boobs were still a smothering weight, flattened out across my chest. I had a real surreal moment then, lying on my back and looking down at my painted toes, across the bodyscape of my tits and smooth, hairless belly leading towards that hint of pussy nestled between my legs. Those hairless legs felt too smooth, too sleek, crossed at the ankle and held up off the floor. I felt a vague sense of disquiet as I began the workout. This wasn't a point of view I wanted to get familiar with. A quick hundred and I reluctantly, uneasily clambered to my feet to confront the clothes K had picked for the day's festivities.

She told me afterwards that she'd considered leaving me bare-legged, but thought my legs too masculine, too muscular. Therefore stockings, this time white, semi-sheer stay-ups to soften the strong lines of my calf and shin. Then panties, pink, silky and--K had to teach me this--boy-cut. It was a very strange feeling, tugging those lacy things on and having them pull up against a flat, smooth crotch for the first time. The final indignity was a white corset: not a small waist-cincher thing, but a goddamn full-blown, all-around-boning rib-crushing piece of torture in satin. K was done her shower by this time, slipping into the role of 'Mom'. Too tired to object, I simply raised my arms as she wrapped the damn thing around my chest and began to tighten the laces. In deference to my wounds and heavy bruising she eased off when I gasped from the hurt, but there was something in the way she savagely jerked and tied off the stays before she returned to the bathroom that left me thinking she took pleasure in my pain.

It was freaky, I tell you, looking down at myself after that. Those sleek, boned lines glimmered in the light and really forced a feminine contour onto my body. Under-wire cups shoved that fake bosom up high, creating positively mountainous cleavage, while down below everything was smooth, with just the slightest hint of vaginal lips beneath the panty's taut silk.

I had to quickly turn away from the mirror, seeing myself dressed like that. My crotch started to tingle again. God, how was I going to survive if even just seeing myself left me all hot and bothered?

You'd think compared to the corset that a skirt would be easy, but if anything that's what nearly made me lose it that morning. It was a pleated (sunburst pleat, K informed me) green-checked affair, above the knee and flirty and just a little too school-girlish for my liking.

See, it's like life's made of all kinds of lines you draw in the sand, yeah? And those lines, when you reach them you say, "no way." Some lines, you compromise: "Well, if I'm really drunk," maybe, or "if she's, like, fucking hot" or "damn, but a friend's in trouble." These last few days, I'd discovered a new excuse: "only if a sonuvabitch psychotic's after your ass and you've got to act like a total girly-girl."

So, yeah, stepping into that skirt felt like crossing one of those lines, one I never even knew I'd drawn in the sand. It's one of those things you never really say to yourself. "No way I'm ever gonna wear a goddamn short, pleated skirt, unless . . . ." It's like, painted-on jeans with a flared leg? Feminine, sure, but guys wear jeans so no problem. But guys don't wear skirts. Ever. A kilt's one thing. This was a skirt. Short and sexy and made to hang off of curves--curves I somehow now sported. It's the kind of thing I loved seeing on flighty little things prancing around the club, offering tantalizing hope of glimpsing her tight ass if she just . . . bent . . . over . . . a little further.

Well, I wouldn't be bending over for much in this bloody corset, but it was still my pantied ass on display, and tired as hell I still wasn't very happy about it. But what could I do? I'd already had my masculinity-reaffirming hissy fit last night; K didn't seem to be talking much to me as it was; and I was too exhausted to argue the point. So I stepped into the little pool of fabric at my feet and slid it up my legs and over those surprisingly flared hips. Without the corset I doubt it would've fit. As I zipped up the side it hugged my curves. Turning quickly caused it to flare out and settle in a pleated whisper around my thighs, barely covering the lacy top of the stockings. Up above, the exposed semi-circle of those compressed globes quivered disconcertingly with every breath.

The top was white and form-fitting, a turtleneck sweater with slender sleeves reaching just past the wrist. My arms looked slimmer--more feminine--less muscular--in that damn thing. It seemed almost a shame to hide that prodigious cleavage, but I also thought not having those jugs on display would make for a nice change. Thing is, they made such a tight, high mound, proudly pulling the fabric out between both peaks, that I almost felt more self-conscious than in yesterday's outfit. Talk about sweater-meat, you know? Tucking the top into the skirt, it drew tight across my stomach and somehow made my waist seem even thinner. At least the high neck eliminated any chance of my Adam's apple popping out.

Slipping on the same open-toed heels as yesterday, I was confronted with a very strange, very off-putting sense of relief: at least they're only two inches, I thought, which immediately left me feeling queasy to my stomach. Since when had the height of my heels been a goddamn concern of mine? But after those idiotic fuck-me stilettos of last night, these day shoes were almost . . . comfortable, in a very relative sense. Who knew an inch or two could make such a difference?

With the wig back in place I stepped in front of the mirror to get the full impact.

My face, free of makeup, was incongruous with the overall image. I had a man's face, a strong chin, a firm jaw line. That's what I told myself. Because that body reflected in the mirror? All girl. When she reached back to pull her hair into a ponytail, her movements were a bit unsure, a little too forceful, manly perhaps. Her shoulders looked a little too broad. At rest, however . . . God, at rest, I looked like a damn girl. I understood then why K had left me to get ready on my own, why she'd forced a skirt on me this morning. This body reflected back would confront me in the mirror every day for the next few weeks. Somehow, I had to come to terms with Cindy.

Because when I stared into my eyes--free of the colours and powders that made of them something other--I still saw myself, masculine and confident. When my gaze slid across those forced curves, it's a good thing my own expression was hidden from me. I didn't want to see those eyes turn feminine and hesitant. I had to find some middle-ground between those extremes, or I'd go crazy before I could drop the disguise.

You know those lines I mentioned? The ones drawn in the sand? Yeah. Over the last few days, I think I'd crossed more of them than I ever thought possible. That's the thing, I guess: these limits you place on yourself, on who you are and what you're willing to do--most of them are unconscious. Unconscious, but you know when you've crossed one. That sinking feeling in the stomach, the sudden hot flush or stifled breath? Every punch to the gut and momentary unease over the last few days was me getting pulled and dragged into territory I never wanted to visit. And now here I was whether I liked it or not. Cindy Long. Age 20.

 

"How are you doing?" K asked me, and after a short pause she added, "David."

I released a deep breath--as deep as the corset would allow--scarcely aware of having kept it in. Free of the need to act like Cindy I felt unconscious stress lifting from my shoulders. Yeah, riding in a Honda Civic through these unknown backwaters, the chance of anyone catching me out of character was pretty slim. The thing is I needed the practice, though I hated admitting it nearly as much as I did maintaining the charade.

I shrugged. Truth is, other than the boredom this was probably the most relaxed I'd been in weeks. 'Relaxed' is a relative term. I wasn't in fear for my life at the moment, but on the other hand I wasn't exactly comfortable, sitting there in that damn corset, legs crossed at the thigh like some pansy and dressed in a skirt that barely seemed to clear my ass. I was feeling a bit sweaty and itchy under all that foundation gear and the whole thing was starting to get stifling. My battered and bruised chest occasionally throbbed in indignant pain. Sitting in heels isn't as bad as walking in them, but after a few hours I really wanted to stretch my arches out.

"Yeah, fine," I said. "I guess." I glanced aside at her. K kept her eyes on the twisting road ahead. The change in appearance was amazing, from the sexy, severe professional of a few days ago to dowdy middle-aged mom. When she dropped character, however, something in the way she moved, in those unflinching slate eyes, dispelled any doubts as to who she was.

"You did well this morning," she said. "You managed your makeup well."

She had me do my own makeup this morning, though under her tutelage of course. It took a few tries but I did a pretty good job, I thought. The mascara and eyeliner stuff kind of freaked me out--I didn't like poking those bloody things so close to my eye. K handled the trickier bits, the expert touches that somehow thinned my nose and softened the jaw line. "Thanks," I said. I flipped down the sun visor and checked myself over. The face that peered back was frighteningly feminine. Where had those confident eyes of earlier gone? "I guess I should touch it up, huh?" It still felt like a heavy, caked on mask to me, all that makeup and shit smeared across my face. Believe me, painting my face with that crap wasn't something I was going to miss once this was all over. I reached down for my purse, but a brief touch of her hand on my knee stopped me.

"Your makeup is okay," K said. She sighed. I was surprised at how tired she sounded. "David . . . listen. Not everything I say is meant as an order, okay? I am not always reminding you of what Cindy needs to do."

"If you say so," I answered, but started to touch up my makeup anyway. It's not like I was going to try anything ambitious in a moving car. That stupid magazine--and holy shit, could there be anything more boring and patronizing than a teen girls' magazine?--pointed out something about shiny bits on a girl's face, and I tried fixing it up. God. I was actually 'powdering my nose'. Bloody hell.

K looked away from the road for a moment to watch me. I ignored her, rummaging through the purse for some lipstick. I'd quickly discovered I preferred gloss to this other crap. Lipstick felt heavier and uncomfortable on my lips, and somehow seemed more 'adult', the richer opaque colour more sexual. I figured the earlier I got used to it, the better.

"Are you angry with me, David?" K asked. There was an uncertain tone to her voice that seemed quite out of character.

I looked away from the compact in my hand. The slender black tube hovered at the edge of my lips. Was she slipping back into 'Mom'-mode? Was she trying to play me somehow? "Nah, why would I be mad?" I said, and returned to painting my lips. I'm pretty sure the magazine said something about blotting and I looked in my purse for a tissue.

"Fine," K said. She handed me a tissue from her pocket. "Here." Her tone indicated a return to the nearly unbroken silence of the last few hours.

I pursed my lips and then touched them to the tissue and checked the results. My mouth looked sexier, my lips fuller and smooth. The magazine recommended using lip-liner but I couldn't remember what kind of look it was for. Odds are I'd just end up jamming the damn thing up my nostril next pothole we hit, anyway. Still, the difference that darker colour made was surprising, drawing my mouth out from the rest of my face. Tilting the mirror I checked around my eyes, the careful brownish-pink blending of eyeshadow across my lids, the mascara and eyeliner that somehow made my eyes look wider and brighter. Then I looked into those greener depths. It can be uncomfortable, staring directly into yourself and seeing what stares back. I lost myself for a moment, only to feel anger well up inside. I shut the compact with an angry snap and almost threw my purse to the floor between my feet.

"Yeah, K, I am fucking angry, okay?" I spun in my seat to face her, and the way the seatbelt drew painfully against my chest only spurred me on. "What the hell did you expect?"

She kept her eyes on the road and answered in a cool voice. "And what did you expect, David, pointing a gun at me?"

"Those asshole federal agents were flashing a picture of you, K! That's not the kind of shit you want to see, not when you're dressed up as a goddamn girl and the person responsible is the one they're looking for. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

"I thought you said you trusted me."

"I do!" I shouted at her.

"Do you like me, David?"

"What the hell does it matter? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"After you slipped on panties that first time," she ticked off. "And again last night. That makes twice now that you have tried to 'get it on' with me."

"Me?" I couldn't believe this bitch! "You were the one finger-fucking me last night, in case you've forgotten."

"I was merely testing the efficiency of the prosthetic."

"The efficiency of. . . ." I nearly choked. "I call bullshit, K. You wanna know the truth? Yeah, I like you. God knows why, considering what you've put me through these last few days. But for whatever reason, you're okay by me. And if you're asking me if I think you're sexy . . . hell yeah! I haven't had any action in two months, and you've got a damn fine body when you're not being a total bitch about it."

"That may be the nicest thing a man has said to me in a very long time," K answered with a thin, wry smile.

I wasn't quite done, though. "But you know what I think, K? I think you like dressing me up like this. You get a kick out of making me act and dress all girly-like and shit. You ask if I like you? You ask if I'm attracted to you? Hell, K, I think you're the one who likes me . . . no, fuck that. K, you've totally got the hots for Cindy!"

I glared at her, arms crossed beneath those massive parasites lurking in my sweater, waiting for an answer. Her grip tightened and relaxed on the wheel. She was angry; I hadn't known her for long but I was learning to read her. After carefully weighing her words she answered in a curt, clipped tone without taking her eyes off the road.

"Do I like Cindy?" she said. "Yes, David, I do. In many ways she is far more pleasant company than you."

I gave a short laugh. "You like your girls silly and weak, is that it K?" Damn, but I'd just known she was a dyke. Had her pegged from the first time we met.

"Do you, David?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes. Not for anything serious."

"And you are an expert on serious relationships?"

"Yeah, well I'm sure that profile you've got on me has an answer. You? Much of an expert?"

"That," K answered, "is none of your business."

"Huh. And here I thought we were enjoying an intimate road-trip, getting-to- know-each-other moment."

She looked aside at me and her eyes glittered enigmatically. "I am not sure you are the kind of man any woman enjoys getting to know."

That actually hurt. The truth often does. Dyke bitch. "Fuck you, K."

"You are arrogant, Mr Sanders. You are a crude and aggressive misogynist."

I blinked. "Yeah, and?"

"That was not a compliment, David."

"What, you think I don't know what I am? K, I'm not a nice guy. I've done plenty of shit I'm not proud of." I had to be careful. The temptation was there to say things that shouldn't be said. Long-distance-drive bonding moment or not, mortal peril and all, some things in my past were staying buried. What was it about K that made me want to confide in her?

"And you know what?" I continued. "Yeah, I treat girls like shit. Know what the best thing is? I don't feel bad about it. Not at all. If some dumb bitch throws herself at me, who am I not to catch her? I'm not her goddamn therapist. She's got issues that make her wet her panties at the thought of bad boys, then hey! I'll be bad. She looking for some gold-digging action? Hell, I'll drop the coin on her but, yeah, I'm damn well gonna expect some drilling of my own after. I'm not the guy you bring home to the parents, K. I'm just not that guy. Never have been. Never will be."

I watched K for any kind of reaction, but her thoughts remained veiled. From my end, having said my bit I couldn't help but look over myself and wonder how inconsistent that kind of diatribe sounded coming from the glistening lips of a guy wearing a pleated skirt and silk panties of his own. Yeah, I'm a really fucking badass, I am. Still, I meant every goddamn word.

"But know what?" I continued. "If you think I treat all women like that, then your profile really hasn't a fucking clue and you're a worse judge of character than I thought. Because if I was with a woman like you, K? No way I'd treat her like shit."

K locked eyes with me. "You are right," she answered, and turned back to the road. "You would not."

And I thought that was that. We sank back into silence. It began to stretch out. Somehow it didn't seem as uncomfortable as before. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and caught me by surprise.

"I do like you, David," she said, and her smile was so genuine and shy and so quick I nearly missed it. "And yes. I think I do have the hots for Cindy."

 

K was hardly the first woman to call me a misogynist. They all did. I'm not talking about the silly things I brought home from clubs or the office. Dumb as they were, they usually knew the score and I never led them on. With few exceptions I never promised to call or any of that nonsense. If I did say I was going to call, you could damn well expect your mobile to ring soon, and not after some bullshit two-day wait. I rarely gave my number to a chick, though. No point in waiting for them to make up their mind, you get me?

The girls that lasted a little longer? The relationships--and it's almost laughable to call them that--that endured a couple of weeks, a month, maybe two at most? Yeah, they didn't usually end so well. Those girls had several choice words for me, and 'misogynist' sure as hell wasn't one of them. It's probably the fondest memory I have of Tammy. She revealed a surprisingly creative knack for swearing after I dumped her sad ass.

Akiko, on the other hand, was the one who taught me what the word 'misogynist' meant. That was the teacher in her. It was the kind of word she liked to use, being a university professor and all. She was trying to save me from myself and by the end of the relationship she decided the reason I was beyond saving was because I hated both myself and women. Which is crazy because, believe me, I definitely don't hate women. Akiko, she always looked too deeply into things. I think it's a danger inherent to studying books and shit.

Amanda called me a misogynist. She thought it was funny. Muna would've called me a misogynist had we dated longer. I seem to remember that she had an impressive vocabulary for a sixteen-year old.

I doubt Kate would have. She didn't think I hated women. She couldn't have cared less anyway. That's probably because she hated women too. Actually, she hated everyone, including herself. To this day I still believe she hated and loved me more than anyone.

And Sakura? She thought I hated women too, and knew why, and taught me how to use that hate, how to make it blossom when necessary, how to restrain it when not. Sakura taught me many things and maybe that's why I was never able to bring myself to hate her, no matter how hard she worked me, how savagely she beat me. What I felt for her was something more than childhood infatuation, something less--or different--than the overwhelming, consuming swell of emotions I experienced with Kate.

Unlike the other women from my past, thinking about Sakura didn't get me--God!--moist in the crotch. I could still vividly picture her even though it had been several years since we last worked together. A tiny woman of Japanese decent and youthfully indiscernible age, she wasn't what you would call pretty. But she was sexy, in the same way that power can be sexual. She was attractive, in the way a roadside accident draws attention. Looking at a picture of her you might not think much. In person? The woman had this real . . . presence. Nah, presence doesn't cover it, not by half. You know that feeling right before a really big, really cool storm? That electric hum in the air and an expectant weight spread across the sky, as the clouds roil above and the wind blows stronger and stronger and the leaves rustle and hiss anxiously in the trees? Yeah, that's kinda like how I felt around Sakura. Seriously.

To just describe her, the long, straight shiny black hair, her small dark eyes and angular features, captures nothing of whom and what she is. Emotions varied and strong animated her body and she was capable of the most amazing expressions of joy or welcoming or anger--but a few times I had this uneasy sensation that she wore these emotions like a mask, easily discarding and replacing them as necessary. She certainly was capable of revealing nothing when she chose to, turning inscrutable, empty. I never learned to read that woman, not when I dropped out of school to join the gangs and she started to teach me; not when she took me in after I ran away from home; and I understood her least of all when I turned to her after losing Kate. Even then, at the end, I couldn't bring myself to hate Sakura.

"Hey there, you okay?" asked Mom, gently shaking my shoulder. "You looked a wee bit lost."

I blinked, snapping back to the present. It was beginning to grow dark outside. A faintly transparent image hung suspended in the window I unseeingly stared through: Cindy, quickly sketched in obscure lines, long hair, empty eyes, wet lips. "Umm, yeah," I answered softly. "Just . . . thinking."

"About what, dear?"

My fucked-up past, I wanted to say, but instead I turned, tossing that long mane of golden hair over my shoulder, and gave her a big, shiny smile. "Nothing! Well, nothin' important, anyway." Yeah, I learned a thing or two from Sakura about hiding emotions, swapping masks. "Just kinda wondering when we're gonna get to . . . uh, that place we're going."

"The Asklepios Clinic?"

"Yeah! That place. The, umm . . . Ask-a-place. Clinic. Thingy."

Mom gave a tolerant smile, and pointed at the glove compartment. "Have a look in there, Cindy. I think I kept a flyer or something."

Shrugging, I reached forward, popped open the compartment, and amidst the jumble of road maps, packs of gum, old CDs, a snub-nosed .45, a couple of flash memory keys for the media centre and crumpled napkins, I found a glossy fold-out leaflet.

"This it?"

She nodded. "Have a look before it gets too dark. You wouldn't want to strain your eyes, now would you?"

"No Mom," I mumbled.

The Asklepios Clinic: Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing, the leaflet's front promised, apparently amidst the sanctity and privacy of nature's embrace. I had the sinking feeling that K was bringing me to some dumb-ass Goddess-worshiping, Earth Mother-loving, tree-hugging, granola-munching hippy commune, but was surprised by what the publication revealed within. The clinic seemed to be some kind of combination private hospital, recovery centre and sanatorium, thoughtfully nestled away from the bustle and confusion of the big city. Those with either large sums of money or a special recommendation reviewed by a board of trustees were welcome at the Asklepios Clinic, to stay and heal and--I wasn't sure what they meant by this--change.

The facilities seemed ultra-modern. The centre offered a full range of surgical, medical, psychological and strangely enough (I thought), spiritual services, spread between four distinct collectives: the Hygieia centre, Meditrine clinic, Panacea house and Telesforos retreat. Accommodations varied from communal to very private and the clinic promised that they catered to a wide, yet very selective, range of clients.

The low whistle I released was entirely out of character. "Holy shit, K," I said, flipping back and forth between the pictures of happy, shiny people clearly enjoying their stay at the clinic. "What the hell are we heading to this place for?"

"You need qualified medical help, Mr Sanders," K answered. "And you require somewhere private, secure and remote in which to lay low. The Asklepios Clinic was the nearest and best place available."

"Yeah, but . . . ." I scanned through the leaflet again. "Can we afford this kind of place?"

K chuckled. "No, Mr Sanders, as well-paid as we may both be and even if we had easy access to our accounts, our collective income would scarcely cover a weekend's stay at the clinic. Fortunately, I have some connections on the admittance board. A few favours owing, you could say."

"Huh." I wondered what kind of favours she had owed to her and what she'd done to earn them. There were more than a few favours owed to me out there as well, and I wasn't exactly proud of some of the shit I'd done to get them. Still, owed favours were damn useful things to have. "But, ah . . . what about Cindy? What would she need with this kind of place?"

K--Mom--gave a loving pat to Cindy's knee. "Don't worry, dear," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "This is just what you need. A chance to finally get over the past."

What kind of past, I wondered, could a girl like Cindy possibly have to get over?

 

We made a quick stop at a rustic truck-top on the outskirts of some hick town buried in these mountain woods. K negotiated for some take-out food while I ran to the toilet. We'd been driving for most of the day and I couldn't keep it in any longer. Let's just say my first time in a public toilet as a woman wasn't a great experience and leave it at that. I was damn tempted to give the owner of that fucking place a piece of my mind about the state of his stalls.

We were back on the road within fifteen minute, settling back into a comfortable long-distance quiet. My mind drifted back to the clinic. Now, I knew that Asklepios was the son of Apollo and that he was the Greek god of medicine and healing and that he'd been trained by this Chiron guy. Surprised? I'm no idiot, okay? I'll admit, though, that the only reason I knew this was because Akiko taught me. She made me read this novel, The Centaur, back when we were dating. It was by some American writer called John Updike or something and I've got to say it was pretty damn weird.

See, the thing is, I'm not stupid. Really. That psychiatrist who worked with me when I was transitioning from my messed-up teen years to my corporate-climbing adulthood ran a battery of tests on me. Psych tests are a joke, mostly. Some of them are really odd as well. Mostly they were fucking boring. At the end of the whole thing, she seemed fairly convinced I was--what's the clinical term?--a bloody genius.

Yeah, well, she was a shit psychiatrist. I'm really not that clever. I've just got a good feel for people once I've hung out with them long enough, and eventually I was just feeding her what she wanted to hear. Which isn't to say I'm stupid or anything. Thing is, I'm a quick learner. I really am. That's why this Cindy thing had me freaked, sure, but not as much as it might have. Deep now, I knew I could do it. I didn't want to--but could. All this chick stuff I didn't know? It's sure as hell nothing I enjoyed or wanted to know, but most of it was stuff I could learn, and quickly to boot. It's not like slipping on a bra or slapping on makeup's the same as brushing up on rocket science or something.

It's one of the ways I survived my job at NeoPharm. When I knew something big was coming up at work, some presentation or board meeting or bullshit like that, I could head home and just totally slip into this state, yeah, and study like mad all night. I'd be tired as hell the next day but could create this total air of competence. But sometimes I'd slip up, rarely at work but more often out in the 'real world'. I'd say something and the other person would look at me like I was a total freakin' idiot or something. Being a quick learner is one thing, but you actually need someone to teach you that shit in the first place. Me, I never even finished high school let alone university, no matter what my CV or bloody profile said.

So that's how I knew who goddamn Asklepios was and can recite bits of Anglo-Saxon poetry and run off by rote stretches of Shakespeare. It's all Akiko Takahashi. But ask me about a lot of the other shit you're supposed to pick up in high school--stuff like, I dunno, the quadratic formula and Christopher Columbus and The Catcher in the Rye--and I don't have a goddamn clue.

So, looking at that pamphlet in the rapidly fading light, I couldn't really puzzle out much more about the place. If K thought it was a good place to lay low for awhile until Steele's attention turned elsewhere, then that was good enough for me despite any misgiving I might have. After all, I trusted her. Even if it meant I had to keep dressing and acting like Cindy for a few more miserable weeks. I just had this instinctive dislike for hospitals and psych wards and things like that.

Lost in thought as I was, K's voice took me by surprise. "Cindy?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Aw, c'mon K. Do we have to?" Maybe I was tired, maybe I was still feeling a little cranky after my visit to the toilet, but I really didn't feel like being Cindy at that moment. I hadn't had to deal with or talk to anyone back at the last stop, but I sure as hell noticed the stares from men across the room. Fucking redneck hicks.

She looked my way. Along the edges of that strong unyielding gaze lurked a soft pleading. "Please?"

Her imploring tone was unexpected, yeah? It wasn't the kind of thing I expected to hear from K. How could I refuse her? I took a deep breath.

"Yeah, Mom?" A subtle but very deliberate change crept over my demeanour, in the way I held myself, rested my hands, crossed my legs and responded to her words. My voice softened. These actions were very far from instinctive. After only two days, every movement was still achingly planned and deliberate. In some ways Cindy still seemed like an unfinished block of marble to me, a statue still waiting to find itself. Every time I sunk myself into this half-formed persona I chipped a piece away here; K added to her past and I carved out a detail there; a boy ogled her and I grudgingly refined another curve. Would this work-in-progress ever be complete? The thought both sickened and, in some strange way, intrigued me. Who would she be, this Cindy?

"No," she said. "Not Mom."

"Then who?" I asked, arching a thin eyebrow. In gradual steps I slowly shifted into Cindy: my wrist went just slightly weak and I held my fingers spread a little wider; my legs crossed comfortably at the thigh and I rolled my balance marginally towards my hip as I turned to face her; I absently fidgeted a little less with the feminine accoutrements spread across my body but toyed with my hair more. Was any of this properly feminine, truly Cindy? I was still trying to figure that out.

"Just me," she said. "But I would rather talk to Cindy than David at this moment."

Weird, I thought. "O--kay," I said, creasing my brow in a cute frown. "Why?" I tried to add a lilt to my voice.

"Because sometimes it is easier to relate to another girl than a man," K said. "And sometimes a friend is easier than a daughter."

Interesting, though I couldn't help but wonder whether the friendship extended to David as well as to Cindy. I sort of hoped so. Like I've said, friendship's a rare and precious commodity.

My fingers danced along one of the pleats lining the skirt and I watched the play of my pink-glinting nails before glancing shyly up at K. "Friends?"

She nodded.

"Well, for a friend. . . . " I gave a quick nod. "What's up?"

K hesitated for a long moment and finally she said: "What's your honest opinion of me, Cindy?"

"Honest?"

She nodded.

"Honest honest?"

"Yes, Cindy. Honest honest."

"You're, ah . . . just a bit scary, you know?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Is that all?"

"Um . . .well, I kinda think you might be a, you know, lesbian? Maybe?"

K mouth quivered with a barely-suppressed grin. "Does that bother you?"

I bit my lower lip and gave a quick, wide-eyed nod.

"How do you think David feels?"

This was getting really fucking weird. "I, ah . . . I don't think he really cares. But he's a guy, isn't he? They really like that stuff, don't they?" I wrinkled my nose in mild disgust. "Guys are like, just so gross! They all seem to think we're one slumber party away from, like, lathering each other up in the shower and sharing full-body massages."

"They do, do they not?" Almost reluctantly, her smile grew. "And you, Cindy? Have you never been at all . . . curious?"

"Ew!" I exclaimed. My hands fluttered in front of me in some kind of vague gesture of warding. "No!"

"Really?"

I blushed prettily beneath my heavy makeup. "Well . . . maybe a little. But only a little!"

K laughed. "You little minx, you! I bet only a little!"

I giggled, though it didn't come easily. Strangely enough, I found that kind of bubbly, girlish laughter one of the hardest parts of pretending to be Cindy. I just found it really hard to laugh like a girl. It's something I would have to master, because I figured that she was the kind of girl who laughed easily and honestly. I think I really liked that about Cindy.

At the same time, I felt a real surge of happiness at having made K laugh, and something in my reaction felt uncomfortably feminine. I paused for a moment, nearly breaking character. Making a friend laugh was a good thing, right? So why did it suddenly feel so wrong?

"So you prefer guys, then?"

I slipped straight back into Cindy without missing a beat. "Hell, yeah!" I exclaimed, and then a little less forcefully: "Well, the right guy, anyway."

She nodded. "But other than the one back in high school," she said, "you have never had a really long relationship, correct?"

That one back in . . . ? Bloody hell. Another reluctant sliver removed from the block of Cindy. "Uh, no."

K smiled regretfully. "I almost envy you, then."

I tilted my head to one side, absently brushing my bangs away from my eyes. "Really? Why?"

"No. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with." She shook her head. "I should not have brought it up."

I shrugged. "Why not? It's just us girls, right?"

She glanced aside at me. "Just us girls?"

"Like a slumber party!" I tried another giggle. "Um, with wheels. And no showers, so I guess I can't lather you up. Sorry!"

K chuckled. "You promise to keep this between the two of us, Cindy? Girl to girl?"

I've always known that girls are fucked in the head and love mind games, but this was bringing it to a whole new level for me. Still, I was curious where she was bringing this. Cindy nodded, those dangly clip-on earring brushing her cheek.

Even with my promise it took some time for her to begin. She kept her eyes forward but I could tell she barely saw the road. I curled my legs up beneath me and shifted into a more comfortable position in my seat. When K finally spoke her voice seemed to come from far away.

"Steven and I dated for nearly three years." She must have anticipated my surprise. "Yes, a man. To quote a mutual acquaintance, Cindy: Don't fucking presume to know me." She smiled to soften her words. "I say we were together for three years but fully the second half of that could hardly be considered a healthy relationship. I am fairly certain he was cheating on me for most of the final year. And I know I was cheating on him. And yes, Cindy . . . I cheated on him with other women."

Fuckin' awesome! I knew it!

"Everything was great at first," she said. "Then again, I suppose they always are. Steven and I should not have been dating in the first place. I was his superior, you see. Obviously workplace relationships are frowned upon in my line of work. At the same time, there is a tendency to look the other way when they invariably happen."

"He didn't mind you were his boss?"

K nodded. "I was concerned that he might be. Many men still have difficulty with the idea of a woman in a position of authority, even in this day and age." She looked aside at me. "Would you not agree?"

"Yeah, I guess," I answered, allowing some uncertainty to creep into my voice. I figured Cindy wouldn't have had much experience with insecure pricks. Or rather she probably had, but rarely from a position of power. Cindy, she probably liked her men strong and in control.

"Steven assured me that he did not care. And for several months life was nearly idyllic. It was a very welcome change, I assure you, to come home to someone and to be able to share the difficulties of my work. The world, I discovered, is very couple-orientated. Together, it was like discovering a whole new facet of the city: restaurants, bars, clubs geared towards couples. We went shopping in the market together and once we almost bought a cat." She smiled wistfully. "The sex was fantastic as well."

"K!"

"Well, it was." She smirked, looking aside at me. "Steven was hung like a horse and knew how to use what nature had given him." She seemed to consider that for a moment. "I was excellent as well, I would like to think."

"Ew! Moving along, please!"

She chuckled. "In any case, those first six months were wonderful."

Anything after 'six months' was traveling into territory unknown to me. Kate for six months, Akiko for three: combined, my two longest relationships came up far short of what K was describing. Listening to her describe those first six months left me a little jealous. I really was. I wouldn't swap what I had had with Kate for anything in the world. But a nice, normal relationship? God, how nice would that have been? Friday evenings on the sofa sharing a bottle of red wine, cuddling close as she kicked up her aching feet following a long day at the office--I'd never known that. A night out in a club beneath flashing lights and pounding beats, there for the music and the energy and especially for each other, kissing hungrily on the dance floor and tasting sweat and her hot breath . . . God! Is that what normal people had? I focused on K's words before I started to tingle again.

"At the same time work became increasingly . . . difficult. Even though we shared the same line of work there were many details of my then-current assignments that I had to keep secret from Steven. Secrets are very destructive to a relationship, Cindy. Believe me."

Yeah, no shit, I thought morosely, while Cindy offered an affirmative nod.

"The stress of those assignments began to creep into my personal life as well. When I was single I could release that tension in private without fear of hurting anyone. Living with Steven I found myself unsure how to cope with my stress. I couldn't share it with him and by then we were all but living together and I found it difficult to find the privacy I needed to deal with the pressure."

"What did you do?" I asked in a quiet voice.

"Nothing," she said. "I kept it bottled up."

"What happened?"

K sighed. "I broke down. That night remains very vivid in my mind, Cindy. I remember walking into the apartment and sitting at the edge of the bed. I was still dressed from work and holding my briefcase. My firearm nestled close to my chest beneath my vest and for a brief moment I considered pulling it on myself."

I stared at her in shock. "You--"

"Only for a moment." She shook her head. "I would like to think that I am made of sterner stuff that that. But even to contemplate such a thing . . . that moment of weakness was devastating. I collapsed into tears. I do not cry often or easily, Cindy. But at that moment I felt lower than ever before or since.

"It was a very strange moment for me. Even as I crumbled within, I felt almost as if I could observe myself from outside. I saw myself in tears and felt nothing but disgust. I berated myself to no effect. I called myself weak and a coward. A collapse was not something I could afford at that time. If I failed at my job people could die. No, people would die and that was simply intolerable. It was that simple. Yet somehow I failed to response to my own orders, and sat there in tears."

"K, I'm . . . sorry," I said. I reached out a tentative, comforting hand and lightly gripped her shoulder. As David the gesture would have seemed inappropriate or effeminate.

She gave my hand a quick squeeze. "Thank you." She cleared her throat. "Looking back, I suppose it was inevitable. Sometimes I regret that I was not stronger, more capable. However, I also recognize that I had taken on too much, too quickly." She shrugged. "I like to think I have learned from my mistakes."

"So what happened with Steven?" I asked.

Her smile was brittle. "When he found me later that night, he had no idea how to deal with my breakdown. In fact, other than a few half-hearted attempts, he did nearly nothing at all. For the first time in two weeks he slept at his own apartment that night."

"He left you like that?" My shock was genuine, being equal parts Cindy and David. Cindy, I'm sure, empathized with K and was horrified at the thought of being left alone in that state. I felt nothing but disgust for the kind of asshole who could abandon a friend and partner like that. More often than not I've left a chick and she's been in tears. If we've met up a half-dozen times and she's already declaring her love to me and is somehow shocked that I've decided to leave . . . that's her problem, not mine. I feel nothing but scorn for people who invest themselves so quickly into someone they've just met.

But it's a very different matter with someone I really care for. Women like Akiko, Kate--they were more than just lovers. They were friends. Nothing could have pulled me away from them in time of need. Nothing.

K nodded. "Yes, he did. That night was one of the worst of my life. Truthfully I remember very little of it. Certainly I did not eat. Somehow I managed to crawl into bed. I missed work the next day. I cursed myself the whole time but could not bring myself to answer my phone or to leave my bed. That was where Steven found me when he returned to my apartment on the third night.

"I still had not eaten," she continued. "I was still wearing the same clothes as well. It was a miracle I found enough strength to use the toilet the few times I had to. I was weak and confused and that was the state he found me in."

"What did he do?"

"He took charge," K said in a very matter-of-fact way. "With the efficiency of a drill sergeant. He ordered me out of bed and when I ignored him he slapped me." She stopped my outcry with a raised hand. "He violently pulled me from the bed and forced me into the shower and then he made me eat. At every step he controlled my actions and told me what to do and punished me physically whenever I began to slip back into that passive, mindless state.

"Yes, of course I could have stopped him at any times. He was a strong and well-built man, but nowhere my calibre a fighter. And I hated every slap and punch, every pinch and shake and rough grab that bruised my arm. Yet for some reason I could not bring myself to resist him. He was putting me back together but in the way that he wanted, and the pieces were not fitting together correctly."

Outside the car the world continued to blur past, barren farmland and the occasional lonely cow glimpsed amidst the thickening woods. The sun was very low and burned brightly orange as it touched the horizon. I saw this as a backdrop to K's story against which her features, attentive to the road, were highlighted. What she was telling me seemed impossible; I could not reconcile the girl she described with the sexy, strong woman sitting next to me.

"The thing is," she continued, "because of him I was able to return to work. I survived that first day, and the next, and the week after that. But not on my own. I became completely dependant on him. Even after several months, by which point I felt strong and fit once again. To everyone else at work I was back to my old self. What they did not see was what happened when I returned home."

She stopped for several minutes. K seemed lost in thought. When I had asked her about her serious relationships earlier that day, I thought I was just swapping some playful banter. The last thing I actually expected was an honest admission of this nature. At the same time part of me remained suspicious. I wasn't fucking proud of that warning voice in the back of my head, but still couldn't help but wonder: why the hell is she telling me all this?

"Our relationship had changed in a fundamental way," K eventually continued. "Though I was still the boss at work, he had definitely become the dominant partner at home. The details I do not feel like sharing. Suffice it to say that for nearly a year I felt constantly humiliated, sickened and debased. Steven had me do and act and speak in ways that I am still ashamed to remember. It almost seemed that the stronger I became in my outside life, the weaker I became at home. Sometimes I wonder if I was able to cope with the tension at work because of that. Certainly the stress that broke me in the first place did not lessen; if anything it grew worse. Yet stripped of all responsibility and control at home, I somehow returned to work every morning strong and capable."

"That . . . that seems kinda fuck . . . uh, messed up, K."

She shrugged. "Perhaps it was. The situation could not endure, of course. Steven began to demand more. With me securely beneath his thumb, it increasingly became apparent that he had begun to cheat on me as well. Eventually he made a mistake."

"What did he do?"

"He made the mistake of allowing our public and private spheres to meet. I became aware of whispers and smirks and jokes that ended when I entered the room. The woman I was at work was forced to confront the woman I had become at home. She was not impressed. I was not impressed. Yet I was still incapable of ending the relationship. His hold was somehow that great over me. I still craved the discipline and control at home despite the near constant disgust it left me feeling. I suppose this was when I began to cheat on him as well. Of the whole experience this is perhaps the part I regret the most. I began to do to others what Steven was doing to me. Though never to the degree I endured, the way I treated the girls I met at that time was deplorable.

"And finally Steven went too far. He used his control over me to try and advance his position at the agency."

I nodded. "It didn't work?"

Her smile turned bitter. "No, he got what he wanted, though it wasn't what he expected. What he never realized, even after all that time, was that the woman he dominated at home was a very different person from the federal agent he knew at work. To her there was little he could do. He requested a field placement for which he was grossly under-qualified. The position seemed simple enough but the competition for the job was fierce and it seemed to offer quick advancement through the ranks. Steven wanted me to push his application through; he wanted the job."

"You told him to go fuck himself?"

K looked at me. Her eyes were angry and her lips cruel. "No, David. I gave him the job."

"Why?"

"What Steven was unaware of was that the placement was far more dangerous than he realized. I however was fully informed as to the risks inherent to the job. The agency was subtly looking for a very specific type of individual for a very difficult job and used the competition to veil the true intent of the recruitment process. I knew that for a man of Steven's skill the assignment was essentially suicide. I warned him to avoid the job. He insisted I give it to him. His attitude at home grew even worse, more forceful, more demanding. Nevertheless, professionally speaking it was my responsibility to ensure only qualified agents were moved forward."

K took a deep breath. When she spoke her voice was even and her tone, cold. "I gave him the job anyway.

"He was killed within the month."

 

Yeah, you can imagine that what she'd said preoccupied me for a while, until finally I pushed my rambling thoughts aside for later consideration. I'd been staring blankly through the window long enough for the sky to turn one of those deep blues against which pink-tinted clouds scurried; and then darken and fade into night. Stars lit up and the fingernail-sliver moon slowly rose high and brilliant in the narrow winding gap between the thick trees lining the road on either side. The radio shifted to something jazzy and mellow and we rode through the dark cocooned in trickling piano notes and resonant bass lines. Occasional flares from the side of the road revealed the startled night eyes of unknown wild animals warily watching our passage. When I turned to K she was illuminated by the crimson dashboard glow, her features highlighted in fiery hues.

It occurred to that she must have been exhausted, that she had been driving nearly non-stop for over a day now. "Hey," I called out in a quiet voice. I was reluctant to disrupt our calm passage through the night. "Hey, K, you okay over there?"

She shrugged, a surprisingly relaxed response. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Dunno." I stretched out my legs, rotating my ankle to ease out the pain of wearing heels all day. Just wearing the blasted things was enough to kill my feet. "It's just been a long day. Thought you might be tired, is all."

K glanced my way and offered a wan smile. "Mr Sanders? I am utterly exhausted."

"You want me to drive?" To be honest, it was a reluctant offer. The gentle light, the music, the passing dark left me lethargic. I felt minutes away from drifting off to sleep.

K shook her head. Her hands remained sure on the wheel. "No need, Mr Sanders. Allow me to welcome you to the Aklepios Clinic."

At first there was little to see. K gestured for me to use that damnable spray on my throat as we drew close to out destination. My throat tingled and tightened as I scanned the road ahead and I saw faint glittering lights nestled in the depths of the trees on both sides. These lights grew increasingly frequent, until suddenly we left the trees behind and entered a large, cultivated space across which many low-lying building spread. K threaded the car towards a central building, all modern-looking glass and concrete, that was one of the few still lit up from both outside and within this late at night.

Aklepios Reception Centre announced a sign up front. Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing. The building sat atop a low hill and offered a decent view across the entire compound. The place reminded me of a university campus. Cobbled walkways wound away from the building and towards other centres and into the outlying trees, reaching towards those concealed lights; private residences, I assumed. Larger roads worked their way between main buildings and led to three larger edifices at far ends of the Centre. A few bright lights gleamed from within rooms in those far buildings, but otherwise the compound was only softly lit by scattered walkway lampposts. There was an almost eerie silence once K pulled the keys from the ignition and we stepped from the car. Other than the wind and a few solemn crickets, complete quiet reigned.

I glanced across at K. "Cindy mode?"

Mom nodded. "Let's get you checked in, dear."

I gave my legs a quick stretch then sat in the passenger seat with the door open. I checked myself in the mirror and touched up my lipstick. Alright man. You can do this. No freaking out this time. Those wide, brilliant green eyes stared back at me and glimmered with playful confidence. With an almost rueful smile Cindy stepped from the car, hoisting her purse over one shoulder.

"Let's go, Mom!"

 

To be continued. . .

  

  

  

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