Open Season Read online

  "C'mon, baby." Dona can hear him and his buddies laugh from the other side of the parking lot. "I promise, I can show you something out of this world."

  She cringes, but keeps walking.

  "Thank you."

  Dona looks up at Miranda, at the relief clear on her freckled face. She shrugs, feeling embarrassed. "Anyone would have done the same."

  But the look on Miranda's face says she knows they both know that's not true.

  *~*~*

  Kyle holds Juli tight. And lets her hold him while he shakes in her arms. He wishes they could stay like this forever.

  But they can't. The world is calling them. Or it literally will be, if he doesn't get to the office soon. He's already missed getting a ride from Dona.

  So, groaning, he rolls off her while she giggles and wriggles underneath him. Get up, he tells himself. Get ready. Be an adult. Even if he really doesn't want to.

  He watches her dress, her beautiful body disappearing beneath voluminous clothes. Watching her pull her hair back into a severe ponytail, he tries not to smirk when wisps of silver hair fall to frame her face. It's undeniably true that, with or without the cycle, she is glorious. Unrivaled and untamable. She's so small, so fragile, yet in a world that seems to delight in trying to crush her, here she is. Still standing. Still surviving. With a strength that amazes him. He's known strength in his life, in the heroism of his father who died in service to his country before Kyle was born, in the resilience of his mother who left her family and community in search for a better life and more opportunities for her son. He has known strength, been surrounded and shaped by it, and he sees it in Juli, even if he wishes he didn't have to.

  His mother, before she died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, had that same sense of strength; to have survived on her own while raising a child, she had to. The pressure of life tried to crush her, only to create a gem out of stone. Kyle admired her for it—how could he not? He appreciated all that his mother had done and sacrificed for him, but it also made him wish things could have been different.

  It makes him want to make things different for Juli. He wishes he could pull her back into bed. Wrap her up in his arms. And keep her there—keep her safe—forever.

  But he can't. They've both already used up too many days off trying to do exactly that.

  They'd talked about this. Her words flood back to him. "You can't protect me from this." She told him that. Over and over throughout their relationship. "You can't fix this." Not without taking on the daunting task of trying to fix the world. Or trying to fix her; even to make life easier, he'd never ask her to change. "This is my life. All the time. I can't hide from this. I can't stop being me." He remembers the sorrow etched on her pretty face. "As much as I appreciate you trying to rescue me, you can't be there all the time. And I wouldn't want that for you anyway. I don't want to be—don't want this to be—your whole life."

  She's the first woman to ever tell him that. To encourage him to live his own life. To be bigger and reach further than her.

  It's not that she doesn't want to be part of his life. She does. A big, great, amazing part. But she doesn't want to be consumed by him or him by her. "If you spent all day with me, protecting me and cherishing me…" She scrunched her face and sighed. "I mean, great and all, but what would we talk about?"

  And she was right. She loves him because of who he is, all his passions and dreams, his pet peeves and oddities, just as he loves her for everything she is. Loving her more than he thought he could, Kyle wants everything for Juli that he wants for himself. His friends—even Kelsey, who introduced Juli to him—don't really get it, especially when it comes to Dona. He wants Juli to hang out with her friends and girlfriend. He wants her to chase her dreams. He wants her to live and love and laugh and cry and experience life to the fullest.

  He looks at her now as she checks her purse before slinging it over her shoulder. She's the woman he loves; how could he want less for her? "I've got to run." She leans down to kiss him with plain, unlipsticked lips. "Have a good day."

  Wishing her the same, he watches her go, sitting on his hands so he doesn't reach out for her.

  Because, if he really thinks about it, it's not so much that he wants to save her from the world.

  He wishes the world was safe for her.

  And there's really only one practical way for him to do that. As he reaches for his wallet, he checks that he has his ID. He'll need it to vote.

  *~*~*

  Groaning, Dona reaches for her headphones. Company policy states that, if your job deals with answering phones, like hers does, you can't use listening devices like speakers or headphones at your desk. But anything is better than listening to Kevin and Joe across from her desk once they get going.

  "Damn, I can't believe you got that barista's number."

  Kevin puffs his chest out, preening. "I'm just that good."

  Joe's eyes bug out, obviously replaying the exchange in his head. "She was hot."

  "I know."

  "In those tight-ass yoga pants and apron." Joe leans back in his chair and sips his drink deeply. "God bless the man who invented yoga pants."

  She rolls her eyes and shoves the buds in her ears, but she can still hear them.

  "Eh, they show off everything." Kevin frowns with dissatisfaction.

  Joe looks at him incredulously. "Yeah, that's why they're great."

  Kevin shrugs. "If a girl's going to practically be naked, then just be naked."

  Definitely enough of that. Dona turns up her music's volume and tries to start her work.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees some movement and glances up to see Joe waving at her. Dutifully, she takes her earbuds out.

  "Dona, you're a woman, right?"

  Sighing, she nods. Last time she checked.

  "So a girl gave Kev her phone number, but he just tried it and it went to some restaurant. He says she must have given him a fake number, but I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding." Joe shakes his head. "Why would you give a fake number?"

  Dona lets out a huff before turning to Kevin. "How many times did you ask for it?"

  They both blink at her blankly. Kevin shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

  "How many times did you ask for her number before she gave it to you?" Dona sits back. "Once? Twice?" More?

  Kevin blushes, embarrassed, but Joe just blusters on, shaking his head. "Nah, that's not it. You gotta keep asking. Persistence pays off, you know?" He looks at Kevin, who thinks about it and nods.

  "Yeah." Kevin straightens again. "Yeah. I mean, no one gives out their number to a stranger the first time they ask."

  "You know what you do next time?" Joe smiles as if he's really on to something now. "Read the number she gives you back to her, but change one number." He gestures like he's had a eureka moment. "Then, if she notices, you know she gave you the right one."

  Dona wrinkles her nose disgustedly. "And if she doesn't notice?"

  Joe crosses his arms over his chest, knowingly. "Then you've got her."

  "And then what?"

  He frowns and shrugs. "Then you call her out on it."

  "And then what?"

  They both look at Dona like she doesn't get it. "Then make her give you her real number."

  Dona raises an eyebrow. "Is playing some gotcha game really going to make her feel more inclined?" She looks at Kevin. "If someone you'd said no to twice already did that to you, would you give in and give out your real number?"

  Kevin and Joe just stare at her for a moment before turning to each other. Joe just shakes his head. "No, you weren't there. You just don't get it. This girl was into him." He shrugs dismissively. "Maybe we just do things differently than where you're from."

  She turns away from them and puts her earbuds back in. Never mind that Dona's been on this planet, in this country, since she was eight. Never mind that she's dated, loved, and pleasured more women, human and Pixiso, than she imagines these two combined could even dream about. No, it'
s clearly her who doesn't understand. "Apparently."

  YOUR MANIC PIXIE NIGHTMARE

  While Juli waits for the bus, she wonders if she should have taken her boyfriend up on his offer to drive her to work. At the time, it sounded silly and unnecessary; it'd make him ridiculously late and it's not as if she's never gone into work on her own. She does it every day, cycle or not.

  Instinctively, she reaches into her pocket and touches the bottle of perfume she brought with her. She should have taken the gloves off this morning. Shouldn't have pushed them, draining them of their battery. It would have been smart, but she can't quite regret it.

  She smiles at the memory, until she notices a man at the bus stop look at her with that Is she smiling at me? look.

  She looks away. Quickly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him approach her. She groans internally as a colorful string of curses, both in Pixiso and English, flash through her head. Taking out her phone, she dials her home number. She turns and has an obviously overly loud conversation with her voicemail until he goes away. "Great talking to you." Once he's far enough away, she hangs up.

  Her eye catches on the advertisement on the bus stop shelter. VOTE YES ON HB224 and clean up our streets! She sees a shadowy, nude, female Pixiso figure posed provocatively, her hand touching her hip. In scrawled permanent ink, Juli sees someone added "Fuck jezzies" over the figure's ass. Frowning, she wonders how the marker who left those scribbles plans to vote today. If his message means he wants all intergalactic jezebels off his cleaned-up streets or if he simply wants to get his hands, his tongue, his body, on his own Pixiso piece. She's not entirely sure which would be better.

  Once on the bus, she tries to find a seat by the back door. When there are none, she stands near it, even though there are plenty of open seats elsewhere. Remember, she tells herself, having a clear way to the exit is worth standing for twenty minutes in heels.

  Both a woman around her age and an elderly man offer her seats on opposite ends of the bus. Juli pauses, conflicted.

  She could sit next to the older gentleman. Looking at his salt-and-pepper, Santa-like beard, he seems nice enough. His kind blue eyes twinkle as much as the sheen of sunlight across his balding head. He's thin and wiry and unassuming. But she's learned that gentlemen of every age, every size, every shape and race, can still get grabby, especially in tight quarters.

  So Juli turns toward the woman, who actually seems a little bit younger than herself. A grad student or protester maybe, if her pin-covered satchel with the local college's insignia on it is an indicator. In colorful, bold-lettered pride, Juli can see the woman's every passion on display. Green energy meets immigrant rights. Pro-choice advocacy groups raise fists next to the 99%. Cries for ending animal cruelty are pinned next to stats on the horror of human trafficking. Juli can see the colors of a dozen war-torn countries' flags, pleading for a planet's help. She can even see a proud "Vote No on HB224. Rights are not just for humans!" ribbon next to a button claiming pets are a modern form of slavery.

  It's not that Juli doesn't admire the woman's idealism and intentions, but she's also learned that those who advocate too many causes often examine their own actions the least, too often following the moral codes of others while having little hard-tested, hardcoded morality themselves.

  Juli sees the woman's dark eyes fight to not take her in from head to toe, instinctively lingering over her neck and breasts and legs. She watches the student recite every treatise she's read on objectification and degradation in her head, even as hunger makes her lick her glossed lips.

  Politely, she waves them both off. She's fine where she is. Even though her toes are starting to pinch with every jerk of the bus. She looks up at the route map and calmly counts stops.

  When the bus reaches the city and starts filling with more passengers, Juli applies more perfume. She ignores people's irritated looks as the bus fills with the geriatric scent of artificial flowers. There are worse things in the world, and today would be the worst day to remind them of that.

  So, as the bus seats start to fill up, she simply clings to the railing and tries to be as small, as invisible, as possible. When someone brushes up against her, she shrinks away. When someone leans in to smell her, she shifts further down the rail, placing someone else between them.

  But then she feels someone's hand cup her butt. Not just a brush or a pat. Not even a quick grab. She can feel their hand, the distinct pressure of their palm and five fingers, stop and stay on her body. As if it belongs there.

  As if she belongs to them.

  For a moment, she can't move. Her eyes widen and she loses her breath as well as every thought in her head. She wonders what to do.

  Wait.

  Game this out, she thinks.

  She could turn around. Yell. Shout. Slap some damned sense into this person. She could rant at them, tell them the history of her people since they came here. Quote statistics of how many Pixisos go missing every year due to hate crimes and trafficking. Tell them how many employers, landlords, and housing associations don't want their kind around because they're afraid they'll cause trouble. Explain to this person how, because of the vote today, people all over the country are having round-the-clock roundtables to discuss whether she has the very basic right to even exist within their borders. Tell them what it's like to be told from childhood to go home to a place she barely remembers after her parents—her people—risked their lives to come here in order to survive.

  Or she could ask for help. Juli looks around the bus. At the grad student eager to prove her principles. At the two cops at the front of the bus, with steaming coffee cups in hand. At the man handing out religious pamphlets in an effort to save his fellow commuters. She wonders what to say. How to avoid the inevitable he-said-she-said. She wonders what they could even do. What anyone would do. Would they think it was just an ass-grab? An ugly but ordinary act? Something she should be able to handle on her own? Would they see her as overdramatic? Especially given who she is. What did she expect, being one of them out in the world? Would they think that, if she's so upset, she should have stayed home? Should have gone into work with her boyfriend? Shouldn't be out alone? Shouldn't be out?

  She smells her own fear-fueled scent—fragrant and irrationally seductive—and wonders if they'd be right.

  Juli says nothing. Does nothing as the bus jerks and the hand moves in search of something more stable to grab. She thinks about turning so her butt faces the wall. But, wondering if that just leaves other parts of her more vulnerable, she feels ill. To make herself feel better, she tells herself it's just motion sickness.

  But there's no pretending, when a group of teenage boys are pushed up flush against her. Juli closes her eyes and mentally counts the stops. There are ten more left.

  She can hear them chuckle but tells herself to tune out their words. She's heard them all before. In her mind, "Fuck jezzies" flashes, handwritten and bold. She shakes her head, trying to clear it.

  Nine stops.

  When one of them, the one crushed up against her hip, begins to tap his foot, up and down against her in time as if to music, she determinedly ignores it.

  Eight stops.

  When he taps faster and faster, she finds it odd but doesn't question it. Doesn't think about it, about the intrusive friction of his thick thigh against her. Or wonder why his friends' snickers turn to whoops. After all, even confusion can make her scent stronger.

  Seven stops.

  Feeling something odd, hard and hot even through layers of cotton and denim, brush her side as the bus bumps and his damned foot taps, she straightens. Her eyes snap open when she feels hands try to hold her, as if trying to catch her not-falling form. She feels them push her toward the tap. Feels his hard length press into her soft belly. She chokes on her own scent, feeling it fill her senses, making her panic. She looks up at the boy's self-satisfied expression. In horror, she watches as he leans in and inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring. Unable to look away, she
stares into his eyes and sees dehumanizing heat burn.

  Even though it's six stops away from her office and her feet hurt, she gets off the bus. She's going to be late anyway—what difference is twenty more minutes of walking going to make? And, in the end, she thinks, what other choice do I really have?

  *~*~*

  Dan, portly and proud, sits on the edge of Kyle's desk. "I voted." A bright red round sticker sits smugly on the man's polo shirt.

  Kyle puts his pen down on the pile of paperwork he's clearly in the middle of. Looking up at his coworker, he forces a polite response. "That's great."

  "Don't you want to know how I voted?"

  Not particularly.

  Dan is the third coworker to go through this pointed song and dance with him. And only him.

  Dan puffs his chest out, sitting tall. "Well, I was standing there in the voting booth, pen in hand, and I thought about you and your lovely lady and I just couldn't vote to boot her out of the state."

  Kyle keeps smiling, but sighs inside.

  That's not what the vote is on. HB224 is about whether the state should rezone a district on the edge of the state lines for a new Pixiso refugee community. Juli lives with him. They share a house. The government can't come in and force her from her home.

  That's not the point.

  This vote is about dignity. About recognizing their humanity, even if the Pixisos aren't human.

  Kyle's been to the Pixiso community, a small pocket in a suburb not far from the city that offers low-income housing for refugee families that came in the Great Migration. His girlfriend's family and most of her friends live there still. Hell, their partner, Dona, has an apartment there. Rezoning that housing would make the commute to and from the city for work nearly impossible. It would devastate an already disadvantaged population, leaving them, like his mother when she'd left her home all those years ago, with little to no options but to leave the state. The bill doesn't boot people from the area, but it would make it impossible to stay.