The Game

Katya massaged each other and made out. On their second meeting, three days later, after much LMR, they closed the deal.
    “I’m moving out of my apartment,” she told Mystery afterward. “So is it okay if Lily stays here while I go to Las Vegas this weekend?”
    Leaving Lily at the house was a cunning tactic because, while Katya was gone, we all grew attached to the cheery, lovable dog—and, by extension, to its owner as well. Their personalities were similar: They were both bouncy and energetic and liked licking Mystery’s face.
    When Katya returned from Las Vegas, Mystery helped her move out of her old house. “I think it’s completely ridiculous for you to rent a new apartment, knowing that you’ll be spending most of your time with me,” he told her. “So why don’t you just move into my room?”
    All she had to her name were two duffel bags, a makeup kit, Lily, and a Mazda SUV stuffed with clothing and shoes. As far as anyone knew, she had no job or source of income, though she’d modeled for a couple of low-budget swimsuit calendars. In the evenings, she went to school to learn specialeffects makeup. Every night after class she’d prance around the house withfake rope burns around her neck or artificial brain spilling out of a flesh wound in her forehead or the wrinkles and liver spots of a ninety-year-old woman.
    Katya quickly wove herself into the fabric of the house. She volunteered to be a pivot for Papa’s workshops; she put eyeliner on Herbal before he went out for the night; she cleaned the kitchen that we were all too lazy to deal with ourselves; she went shopping with Xaneus; and she played hostess to Playboy’s parties. She had an amazing ability to befriend anyone, though her motivation was unclear: Maybe she was genuinely a people-loving person, maybe she enjoyed the free rent. Either way, she was giving the home its first rays of warmth and camaraderie since the night we’d moved in and sat in the Jacuzzi, dreaming of the future together. I liked her. We all liked her. We even let her brother, a shaggy-haired sixteen-year-old with Tourette’s syndrome, sleep in the pillow pit for a few weeks.
    Mystery was particularly happy with himself. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Patricia.
    “I actually have a crush on my own girlfriend,” he said with pride one evening, showing Katya’s swimsuit-calendar picture to a group of random sargers. “I think of her constantly, like when you have a baby. I have a very strong nurturing instinct. I need to take care of this girl and make sure she’s safe.”
    Later that night, as Herbal cooked steak on the barbecue, Katya and I sat in the Jacuzzi, sharing a bottle of wine.
    “I’m really scared,” she said.
    “Why?” I asked, though I really knew why.
    “I’m starting to fall in love with Mystery.”
    “Well, he’s a talented and amazing guy.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “I never let myself fall in love like this. I don’t know enough about him yet. I’m worried.”
    Then she sat there quietly. She wanted me to say something, to warn her if she was making a mistake.
    I didn’t say anything.
    A few days later, Mystery, Katya, and I flew to Las Vegas. As we changed to go out for the night, he rattled on about his favorite subject. “I am so into this girl.” He smudged on black eyeliner and smeared white concealer beneath his eyes. “She’s even bi. She has a couple she sleeps with in New Orleans.” He centered a black cowboy hat he had bought in Australia on his head and admired himself in the mirror. “I feel like I’m pairbonding.”
    We had dinner at Mr. Lucky’s at the Hard Rock Casino, where Katya put away two glasses of champagne; then crossed the street to Club Paradise, a strip club, where she put away two more glasses of champagne.
    When the waitress came to the table, Katya commented to Mystery, “She’s really hot.” Mystery looked the waitress over. She was a perky Latina with long black hair that reflected the stage lights and a densely packed body that threatened to burst through her clothing.
    “Ever seen the movie Poltergeist?” Mystery asked her. He made her straw move. He told her they wouldn’t get along. He asked her what she was famous for—“everybody’s famous for something.” Soon the waitress was stopping by our table every few minutes to flirt with Mystery.
    “I would love to see that girl,” Mystery told Katya, “eating you out.”
    “You just want to fuck her,” Katya