Strange Hunger

"I get you, girl," laughed the "blonde" as if they were buddies. "We all did. Totally get you. Those guys you were with sounded like, uh... lots of fun, though, huh? You must remember that part."

The whiff of condescension in that last sentence made her decision for her. Hanna chewed her lip and affected a sort of confused and abstracted look as stepped under the tolerably lukewarm water. "Kinda, I guess?"

She chatted on heedlessly as she squeezed some bodywash into one palm, propped the bottle on the shelf nearest her and arched her back. The "blonde's" eyes nearly popped out of her head as the sexy skingirl went straight into lathering up her shaven cunt and reaching behind her to work the suds all over and between the great round globes of her glutes in the most graphic fashion she could manage.

"I mean, I had these super vivid dreams. You know, like, kinda wet dreams? Russell Crowe was in one of them, I always get these dreams about him, like his character in Romper Stomper, you ever seen it? It's bullshit mostly but he's so fucking hot in it, just creamy-dreamy if you know what I mean. Anyway I wake up today and I'm kinda sore a little bit, so maybe I was masturbating in my sleep, you know, I've done that sometimes, like how some people sleepwalk? I completely sleep-masturbate, been doing it for ages." Hanna arched her back, jutting out her pert little B-cups and brandishing her big, stiff pinks nips as she let the water sluice over her pale tattoo-decorated back and down between her buttocks as she went on: "Anyway, I musta woke the guys up with all my noise because they were gone. So I guess maybe they weren't that much fun? I dunno."

She affected not to notice her neighbour going paler, shade by shade, through this recitation. By the end of it she looked properly green around the gills. It was a mean trick to play on her, but on the other hand? Hanna knew perfectly well the girl was looking at her and seeing poor stupid white trash and was ready to seriously believe she could be this much of an airhead. Knowing this made the little prank positively guilt-free, and she affected not to even notice the "blonde's" discomfiture as she turned back to face the water and lather some more soap over and between her perky breasts.

"Um." The "blonde" stammered, not sure what to say. "Um. Uh." Finally she settled on: "Uh, I never got your name yet? I'm Abby, by the way."

"Hanna." She said it without turning. "Sorry I can't shake, just kind of in the middle of something. Nice to meet you, though."

"Uh, nice to meet you too, Hanna. Um. Uh, listen. There's something... I dunno how quite to say this? God, I'm so bad at this, I'm real sorry, it's just I..."

"I'm not a bonehead."

"Huh?"

"You're wondering about my buzz cut and my ink, right?" Hanna had proceeded to scrubbing her face. "Don't worry, I get it a lot. I'm not a bonehead. Means I'm not a neo-Nazi. Voted Jill Stein in the election, you know? Just because I have a shaved head and pagan tats doesn't mean I'm racist."

"Oh, fuck." She smiled to herself; she could practically hear poor Abby going red to her dyed roots. "Oh, God. No, I totally wasn't - I didn't mean - I mean, I would never -" Miss California Girl spluttered aimlessly on for a while longer before deciding discretion was the better part of valour. "Uh, I'm sorry I bothered you, Hanna. I'll see you around, okay?"

"No bother at all," Hanna said, but Abby had already fled. She allowed herself a moment of entirely petty satisfaction as she finished up in leisurely fashion. You've got to learn to treasure the simple things in life.

* * *

They skipped breakfast at the hostel. It wasn't a hard decision, the Wicked Hostel served the near-literal equivalent of prison food: their notion of "breakfast" was a piece of dry white toast with some jelly and a Tang. So they agreed to waffles with a shared grin; Nomi already had their Lonsdale duffels packed and ready to go, which always meant she had some ideas cooked up. Hanna went with the flow.

The pair turned heads as they always did on their way out the door. The matching black and gold bomber jackets they'd picked up at a thrift store a couple of towns back still looked good as new. Nomi was kitted out in her favourite outfit, a white Fred Perry tee that contrasted vividly with her smooth mahogany skin, with suspenders and a tight twill mini-skirt and steel-toed Docs. Hanna wore her little navy blue Perry dress whose daringly high hemline struggled prettily to cover her bodacious rump, along with fishnets and Samoa trainers. She allowed herself a little satisfaction in their crisp styles as they struck out—amid noticeably pointed questions from the front desk clerk if "everything was okay"—on what was set to be a busy day. Looking good was feeling good, half the battle right there.

One of the best things about their current situation was that there was a treasure of a greasy-spoon diner called Mama's down the street, with an actual jukebox, cheap and plentiful waffles and bottomless coffee refills. The owner was a heavyset matronly woman of indeterminate Eastern European heritage who always lit up with a smile to see them; she learned faces quickly and they'd become fast favourites, she didn't even blink at the way they always strolled in hand-in-hand. "Waffle-waffle?" she said now, pointing at each of them in turn with her spatula.

"You know it," Nomi told her merrily with a flash of her perfect ivories. "And coffee-coffee."

"Of course!" 'Mama' beamed. "Your table free, you sit, I bring it."

"Thanks a million, Mama." Hanna gave her a little bat of the old eyelashes and delighted as always in the way the sweet old woman's face crinkled in pleasure.

They took up their customary place, a booth near the back of the diner's narrow main room, red vinyl-upholstered in classic retro-Fifties fashion. They stowed their bags under the table as Nomi went to work on the jukebox. She went straight for the Derrick Morgan, of course, of whom Mama's had a surprisingly robust selection. Bopped her smooth-shaven dome a little bit as "The Conqueror" started to play over the speakers: "Introducing myself as your hit from space..."

"So," Hanna said as they settled in to wait for their waffles. "I notice you packed the duffels today. I guess we're making a move?"

"Yeah, I think maybe so." Nomi talked around lip-syncing to "I am no skylarker! I'm only known as a conquering ruler." She passed the direct question over with: "Good to be ready for it, anyway. We should figure out what we're on for today first. I guess it won't surprise you to learn we need cash."

"Like always," Hanna smirked, going with the subject change. "How low are we?"

"I literally have money for the waffles, the jukebox, two transit rides and one more night at a hostel."

"Oh." The positive vibes that had seemed to enfold her on settling in to the booth suddenly evaporated. "Sorry, babe. I didn't realize we were that skint. I could've... last night, I mean, I could've been out..."

"You had needs to tend to, kid." Nomi's dark eyes shone with that compassion which had wrapped Hanna round her little finger since they first met. "I'll never blame you for that. We just need to figure our next move, is all. I figure maybe we go down to the House, I know he's on the look-out for cybergirls. A cool three fifty apiece if we play it right."

"Oh," Hanna said again. She got a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. The House was an online porn operation run by a guy Nomi knew, a friend of a friend who had used to be on the scene. In fact looking for work with him was part of the reason they'd come to this particular city. But the work hadn't been as steady as they'd hoped, and the guy himself, well...

"No other options, huh?" she asked hopefully.

"We can pound the pavement looking for waitress jobs." Nomi shrugged, matter-of-fact. "About as many of those open here as anywhere else, though. I don't care for panning and neither do you, we don't have enough local connections to work rooms in the bar scene, and I'm pretty sure we're still agreed to no more selling ass at truck stops, right?" She nudged one of the duffel bags with her foot. "Still got the gear for that if we decide we need to, but it's last ditch as far as I'm concerned. What say you?"

Incredibly, Hanna actually found herself hesitating after that last choice, really thinking about it. Nomi arched an eyebrow and finally, reluctantly, she nodded. "I guess it's the House, then."

"You say that like it's breaking rocks." Nomi gave a laugh, but she also saw the disquiet in her friend's grey eyes and reached across to take her hand. "Eamonn's not really that bad, is he? Anything happen the last time you're not telling me about?"

He reminds me of my brother. My bone-mean pervert of a brother, who's most of the reason I'm out here at all. Hanna wanted to say it but couldn't. She smiled weakly back at her bae and said: "I guess he's just a bit of a creep, is all. And he always wants to do boy-girl with me."

"Yeah, well. Not many guys in the industry who aren't at least a little bit creepy, if we're being honest. Least he's straight up about the money." Nomi gave a grimace, penetrating through Hanna's funk with one of those Random Moments of Wonder that always hit her when in the Jamaican beauty's company: Damn, girl. Even your grimaces are pretty. "Anyway, it's not like we've got much choice. We need to freshen up on supplies and I'm assuming we want to score before tonight. Don't know about you, but I could use the pick-me-up."

Hanna nodded. "Supplies" was a way of talking about feminine products and birth control, especially the "Plan B" pills that were a necessity for obvious reasons. As for scoring, point of fact she could feel a bit of the Jones starting in on her right now, a kind of ache in her sinuses that was eerily like that feeling she got between her legs when that other hunger came calling. She knew it would get worse as the day went on. So: "Yeah," she said. "On board for all the above."

"Alright, so it's settled, then." Nomi gave her a radiant smile, then added nonchalantly: "Good thing, too. Because I kind of already called Eamonn and set it up."

"You did?" Hanna looked at her in surprise. She couldn't help but feel a little hurt. "Without talking to me?"

"I would never normally, you know that... but well, here's the thing." The dark beauty looked a bit awkward now. "I kind of had to, this time. Same reason I packed the duffels today."

"What does that mean?"

The conversation cut off abruptly as Mama arrived with the waffles and steaming cups of coffee. Nomi gave the matron a grin and Hanna forced a wan smile for her, but found her appetite was thoroughly scotched as the woman bustled away. She looked at the waffles, just waiting to be doused in faux-maple syrup, and looked at them some more, and then looked back up at Nomi, who was watching her quietly. She hadn't touched her waffles either.

"Look, it's like this." Nomi cleared her throat. "We can't do that... other thing? Like we did last night? We can't do it in the hostels anymore. We've got to figure something else out."

Hanna stared. "How come?"

"Because it freaks them out is why, basically." Nomi gave another of her pretty little grimaces. "And you know, I get that that Abby chick is obnoxious and she probably deserved it, but you didn't help matters at Wicked with that little stunt you pulled in the showers today. I'm not blaming you, I'm just saying."

"Funny. It kind of sounds like you are blaming me." Hanna suddenly felt her eyes smarting. She hated it. She looked down and picked up her knife and fork, attacking the waffles and cutting a resentful bite off them. "It's none of their fucking business, anyway."

"On their property, their business is whatever they want it to be. And if they think someone's trouble, they'll take steps." Nomi tried to reach across the table again. She didn't react when Hanna angrily batted her hand away except to go on calmly: "Look, it's fucked up that the whole building thinks you got gang-raped and it's you that gets labelled as 'trouble,' okay? But I don't even know if they'd be less freaked by the actual truth. We go back to Wicked tonight and I guarantee you they will be mysteriously full up no matter what we say. They'd have probably just booted us and put our stuff in storage if we hadn't taken it, I've seen it happen."

Hanna looked at the bite of waffle on her fork. She couldn't possibly eat it. She set it down and she found her eyes watering and she wiped at them and hated the quaver in her voice as she said: "I'm... I'm sorry, babe. Okay? I'm sorry that I have this fucking... thing." Her throat tightened. She fought through it: "It's like all I do is make trouble for you, I fucking hate that. I hate being this way."

"Hey." Nomi's voice was sharp. "Don't you talk like that. I love you just like you are, kid. You're not some burden, you're the best thing in my life. The only thing in my life. Look at me." Hanna looked, saw that dark gaze shining just for her and wiped at her eyes again, tried to smile as her bae reached out and stroked her cheek and went on: "It's not the end of the world, okay? We'll figure something out, just like we always do. We just can't go shitting where we live, that's all. We've just got to make some changes."

"Right." Hanna leaned gratefully into the touch now, kissed those lovely fingers. "Okay. I get it."

"Right. Glad we're on the same page." Nomi winked at her and said: "Now stop playing with your food, young lady, or I really will have to spank you. I'm gonna see if they have any Judge Dread on this jukebox here."

* * *

Even as the misery receded a bit, though, even as she finally managed to eat some of her waffle, Hanna found her mind far away, going down the same old channels. Worrying at threads of the past and where this thing that bedevilled her had come from, and what came next.

It had been with her in some form for a long time, she knew that much, even if she hadn't always known what it was or what satisfied it. She had felt the nameless restlessness growing up, and it had made her prickly and notoriously confrontational with boys, as if she was trying to taunt them into something. She'd mercilessly teased and mocked the ones who told her they liked her, laughed and spat in the faces of the ones who told her she was 'asking for it,' had fought fiercely with the few of them who tried to get rough with her, and despite her slight frame she was fierce enough to give as good as she got. It was unsettling now, though, to look back and realize she might be that one case in a million of whom that usually bullshit 'asking for it'phrase might actually have held some strange, terrible grain of truth. That thought gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach to this day, like she was somehow letting womankind down just by being what she was.

Certainly it had been with her since Daddy had come back to live with the family. That part was complicated. He had left Hanna's mother long before she was born - her brother Chris had to have been five or six years old at the time - but they had reconciled and she had taken him back years later. (Or as Daddy put it whenever his wife was out of earshot, he had taken her back.) It had taken a long time for Hanna to ask Mom the right questions, do the math and work out that she could not actually be Daddy's biological daughter, which meant there had been a lover in his absence who Mom never talked about. This might have explained a great deal about Daddy; and maybe about Chris, too.

Part of Hanna's rebelliousness, she was pretty sure, came from a simple bedrock unfairness of her life at home: Daddy was severe with her, sometimes seemed almost to hate or resent her, in a way that was never true of Chris. To be sure, Chris was a disappointment to him, because Daddy had high hopes of his following the old man's footsteps into military service—preferably the Marines—and Chris quite simply wanted to work and listen to music and drink beer and hang with his friends and that was it, and even said that most of the wars since Korea were "bullshit." But though the two might fight and argue from time to time, Daddy didn't constantly watch Chris like he was about to lift the fine china, or criticize every little thing he did, or keep on spanking him long past the age when spanking made any sense.

The older Hanna grew, and the more she grew into her delicate-featured beauty, the worse it became. It was a misery, because she couldn't fight Daddy when he said she was 'asking for it the way she could fight the boys at school. She didn't want to fight him, more to the point, she wanted him to love her and couldn't understand why she could never seem to please him. And Mom, sweet though she was, was no help. Ultimately she was as afraid of Daddy as her daughter was.

For a long time, it was Chris who was her refuge from all that. He could stand up to Daddy if he needed to, and had done so more than once, and when he did the old man would sometimes actually back up and check himself. In listening sessions in the sanctum of Chris' room, decorated with American flags and Clash posters and pictures of Jamaican dub legends, she was introduced to all the greats of punk and hardcore and rockabilly and old-school roots and country music. And above all she was introduced to reggae, and received the gospel of Trojan Records into her heart.

It had been Chris who first started taking her to all-ages gigs, Chris who introduced her to the scene, to be taken under the collective wing of his hard-eyed clique of girlfriends; after all he drew girls like moths to a flame with his rugged, muscular frame, square jaw, blonde buzz-cut, cleft chin and the slate-grey stormy-sea eyes he and Hanna both shared with Mom. Those girls with their weirdly glamourous-looking Chelsea fringes had first shaved her head, introduced her to her first set of boots and braces, taught her how to handle herself in a tight spot and talked to her like a grown-up about facts of life that Mom never seemed to get round to. That was the transformation, the introduction to the real family that carried her through early adolescence, the best time of her life.

When she hit high school, though, Chris had started to change. She might have said it started with music: he got increasingly into variants of rage-fuelled oi! that sounded like they were recorded in a septic tank. She might have said it started with politics: he took to railing all the time in ways that seemed off and nonsensical, weird tirades about chemtrails or pig fetuses or Zionist false flag operations or birth certificates.

But more and more, looking back, it seemed like the truth was that it started with Hanna. With the ways her body started to change. His eyes grew harder sometimes when he watched her. Meaner, as if he hated her for growing up or hated himself for noticing it, or both. He took Hanna's side in conflicts with Daddy less and less, grew increasingly fond of lecturing her about how she needed to learn a woman's place and stop fighting with boys. One time on her seventeenth birthday, when Daddy saw fit to spank her for being late to get home for dinner and cake, she had gone to Chris looking for support and he had slapped her and told her Daddy's word was final. There were days when she could still wake up and feel the shock of his palm against her cheek.

She had her friends and the scene by then, and not all of them were going insane. She had still felt like she could pull through. But losing Chris as a friend was devastating, and it was a rupture she was determined to repair. Hanna had been sure the real Chris—the sweet-natured guy who could pull any 'byrd, make friends with any man and protect his baby sister from anything—was still in there somewhere, waiting for her to reach him.