Get in Trouble. Kelly Link

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      Except, she says, and mentions some poor A2. His skunk was an early bloomer.

      Meggie interviewed the former proprietor of the nudist colony. He insisted on calling it a naturist community, spent the interview explaining the philosophy behind naturism, didn’t want to talk about 1974. A harmless old crank. Whatever happened, he had nothing to do with it. You couldn’t lecture people into thin air. Besides, he had an alibi.

      What they didn’t get on the first day or even on the second day was any kind of worthwhile read on their equipment. They have the two psychics—but one of them had an emergency, went back to deal with a daughter in rehab; they have all kinds of psychometric equipment, but there is absolutely nothing going on, down, or off. Which led to some discussion.

      “We decided maybe we were the problem,” Meggie says. “Maybe the nudists didn’t have anything to say to us while we had our clothes on. So we’re shooting in the nude. Everyone nude. Cast, crew, everyone. It’s been a really positive experience, Will. It’s a good group of people.”

      “Fun,” the demon lover says. Someone has dropped off a pair of pink cargo shorts and a T-shirt, because his clothes are in his suitcase back at the airport in Orlando. It’s not exactly that he forgot. More like he couldn’t be bothered.

      “It’s good to see you, Will,” Meggie says. “But why are you here, exactly? How did you know we were here?”

      He takes the easy question first. “Pike.” Pike is Meggie’s agent and an old friend of the demon lover. The kind of agent who likes to pull the legs off of small children. The kind of friend who finds life all the sweeter when you’re in the middle of screwing up your own. “I made him promise not to tell you I was coming.”

      He collapses on the floor in front of Meggie’s chair. She runs her fingers through his hair. Pets him like you’d pet a dog.

      “He told you, though. Didn’t he?”

      “He did,” Meggie said. “He called.”

      The demon lover says, “Meggie, this isn’t about the sex tape.”

      Meggie says, “I know. Fawn called, too.”

      He tries not to imagine that phone call. His head is sore. He’s dehydrated, probably. That long flight.

      “She wanted me to let her know if you showed. Said she was waiting to see before she threw in the towel.”

      She waits for him to say something. Waits a little bit longer. Strokes his hair the whole time.

      “I won’t call her,” she says. “You ought to go back, Will. She’s a good person.”

      “I don’t love her,” the demon lover says.

      “Well,” Meggie says. She takes that hand away.

      There’s a knock on the door, some girl. “Sun’s out again, Meggie.” She gives the demon lover a particularly melting smile. Was probably twelve when she first saw him on-screen. Baby ducks, these girls. Imprint on the first vampire they ever see. Then she’s down the stairs again, bare bottom bouncing.

      Meggie drops the robe, begins to apply sunblock to her arms and face. He notes the ways in which her body has changed. Thinks he might love her all the more for it, and hopes that this is true.

      “Let me,” he says, and takes the bottle from her. Begins to rub lotion into her back.

      She doesn’t flinch away. Why would she? They are friends.

      She says, “Here’s the thing about Florida, Will. You get these storms, practically every day. But then they go away again.”

      Her hands catch at his, slippery with the lotion. She says, “You must be tired. Take a nap. There’s herbal tea in the cupboards, pot and Ambien in the bedroom. We’re shooting all afternoon, straight through to evening. And then a barbecue—we’re filming that, too. You’re welcome to come out. It would be great publicity for us, of course. Our viewers would love it. But you’d have to do it naked like the rest of us. No clothes. No exceptions, Will. Not even for you.”

      He rubs the rest of the sunblock into her shoulders. Would like nothing more than to rest his head on her shoulder.

      “I love you, Meggie,” he says. “You know that, right?”

      “I know. I love you, too, Will,” she says. The way she says it tells him everything.

      The demon lover goes to lie down on Meggie’s bed, feeling a hundred years old. Dozes. Dreams about a bungalow in Venice Beach and Meggie and a girl. That was a long time ago.

      There was a review of a play Meggie was in. Maybe ten years ago? It wasn’t a kind review, or even particularly intelligent, and yet the critic said something that still seems right to the demon lover. He said no matter what was happening in the play, Meggie’s performance suggested she was waiting for a bus. The demon lover thinks the critic got at something true there. Only, the demon lover has always thought that if Meggie was waiting for a bus, you had to wonder where that bus was going. If she was planning to throw herself under it.

      When they first got together, the demon lover was pretty sure he was what Meggie had been waiting for. Maybe she thought so, too. They bought a house, a bungalow in Venice Beach. He wonders who lives there now.

      When the demon lover wakes up, he takes off the T-shirt and cargo shorts. Leaves them folded neatly on the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight. And soon. Day is becoming night.

      Meat is cooking on a barbecue. The demon lover isn’t sure when he last ate. There’s bug spray beside the door. Ticklish on his balls. He feels just a little bit ridiculous. Surely this is a terrible idea. The latest in a long series of terrible ideas. Only this time he knows there’s a camera.

      The moment he steps outside Meggie’s trailer, a P.A. appears as if by magic. It’s what they do. Has him sign a pile of releases. Odd to stand here in the nude signing releases, but what the fuck. He thinks, I’ll go home tomorrow.

      The P.A. is in her fifties. Unusual. There’s probably a story there, but who cares? He doesn’t. Of course she’s seen the fucking sex tape—it’s probably going to be the most popular movie he ever makes—but her expression suggests this is the very first time she’s ever seen the demon lover naked or rather that neither of them is naked at all.

      While the demon lover signs—doesn’t bother to read anything, what does it matter now, anyway?—the P.A. talks about someone who hasn’t done something. Who isn’t where she ought to be. Some other gofer named Juliet. Where is she and what has she gone for? The P.A. is full of complaints.

      The demon lover suggests the gofer may have been carried off by ghosts. The P.A. gives him an unfriendly look and continues to talk about people the demon lover doesn’t know, has no interest in.

      “What’s spooky about you?” the demon lover asks. Because of course that’s the gimmick, producer down to best boy. Every woman and man uncanny.

      “I had a near-death experience,” the P.A. says. She wiggles her arm. Shows off a long ropy burn. “Accidentally electrocuted myself. Got the whole tunnel and light thing. And I guess I scored okay with those cards when they auditioned me. СКАЧАТЬ