“Take a look at this.”
From your wallet you produced what appeared to be a fake identification card. According to the laminated plastic, you were Reginald Jenkins, born 1977. The photo resembled you but only a little.
“Where did you get that?” I was immediately apprehensive.
“Tyrell made it for me.”
“Why would you need it?” You hadn’t expressed interest in drinking alcohol.
“I have a plan,” you said with a wide grin and proceeded to lay it out for me.
Your proposal—equal parts dangerous and foolish—was to gain entrance to a gay bar of the more deviant variety, wearing something leather, which was supposed to act as a kind of lure to the type of man you wished to ensnare.
“We find the toughest, meanest dude we can, and when he tries to get in my pants, I’ll tell him what’s what. See if he’s into demon possession.”
“Why would anyone agree to that?” Most of my vessels needed to be seduced into inhabitation, or they were only semi-lucid to begin with.
“People are kinky, Henri. You’ll see.”
You then proceeded to ransack both Bruno’s and your wardrobe for something “slutty” to wear. Bruno came in shortly thereafter, and you laid out your scheme for him. Much to my chagrin, he was immediately on board. I’d expected him to give you some argument, but he was too excited by the fact you’d procured him a forged ID as well.
“Thanks to the saints,” Bruno said with a generous smile and kissed his prize.
“You probably won’t make it into the establishment,” I said, mostly to soothe my own worries about it.
You motioned to where the two of you preened in front of a full-length mirror. “Have you seen us?” you asked arrogantly. “Who would turn us away?”
I couldn’t argue that point.
“I do believe the attention to your looks has gone to your head,” I remarked, but you only chuckled and continued primping. The pants you’d chosen belonged to Bruno—tight, red, and made of some synthetic material that clung to every muscular curve of your thighs and buttocks. They weren’t leather like you’d wanted, but I didn’t think that detail would matter much to a potential suitor.
I tried again to be the voice of reason. “Orlando, I don’t always have complete power over my hosts. If they’re very willful, I can lose control. If you choose an unsavory character, there’s a real risk involved.”
“Henri, it’ll be fine,” you said while lining your eyes with kohl. You were a demon’s fantasy in a living, breathing body. Truthfully, looking the way you did, I’d jump into the first person who showed interest.
“What’s he worried about?” Bruno asked, turning his head from side to side while sucking in his cheeks to admire his fine bone structure.
“That I’ll pick a serial killer,” you said flippantly, which was a step beyond what I was concerned about until you said it.
Bruno nodded in agreement but didn’t argue. “How will you know when it’s him?” he asked, which was a very good point.
“I’ll know,” you said confidently.
“We need a safe word,” I told you.
“Kinky,” you teased. Frustrating boy, you didn’t take anything seriously.
“It will be a word I tell you when you want confirmation that it is, in fact, me inhabiting a body.”
“Like when my mom used to send a friend to pick me up from school,” you said. “Care Bear.”
“That’s your word?” I asked, amused in spite of the discipline I was attempting to instill.
“Yeah. And it would be super weird for anyone to say it without a reason. It’s perfect.”
After that, it was a whirlwind of lotions and colognes and determining where you’d attempt to get in. It had gotten late without me realizing it, the time of night when monsters, both human and supernatural, come out to hunt. The two of you with your youth, beauty, and newfound freedom to get into any establishment in Miami you desired, were like malnourished children at your first feast. You made a plan as to where you’d start, where you’d go if it was unsatisfactory, as well as where you’d finish the night, assuming you both struck out.
I doubted that very much.
