The next day, I decided to ask about Irene at massage parlors until I finally found one where she worked part time when she wasn’t dancing. I can’t say she was happy when I sat down in a chair and ordered a foot massage. “Okay,” she said. “But let’s not do it here.”

She took my hand and led me up the stairs.

We found ourselves in a small semi-dark room with a wooden couch in the middle, covered with a colorful mat.

“Lie down!” she ordered. “I’ll be right there.”

I obediently lay on my back. Irene brought a basin of warm water from somewhere and dipped my bare feet in it, squatting in front of me.

As she was washed and massaged my feet, I silently blissful, willing to pay any price to keep her gentle fingers on me longer. I could hardly feel my legs, the drowsiness spreading through my body in warm waves. I began to fall asleep.

Her fingers moved from my feet to calves and up.

“Irene, what are you doing?” I mumbled weakly. “Please, stop it.”

But I could not and I didn’t want to resist her. I was in her power from head to toe. In a moment, the shorts she’d pulled off of me fell down. Her fingers were replaced by her lips, and as Irene straddled me with the dexterity of a horsewoman, it seemed to me that I was falling into the abyss, or maybe flying to the sky – such a sharp, incomparable pleasure I experienced, completely dissolved in tenderness…

I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up to someone caressing my cheek.

“What have you done to me, Irene?” I moaned and opened my eyes.

“Didn’t you like it?” she smiled. “You were even better than I thought. So fresh and clean, like birch sap.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your energy, ninny.”

“You used me?” I blurted out involuntarily.

She frowned:

“Don’t talk nonsense. Do you feel bad?”

I listened to myself – it seemed to be fine. I didn’t feel guilty; my conscience didn’t bother me. There have been a few times in my life when, after casual sex, I’ve wanted to run away as fast as possible, to erase that shameful episode from my memory, to cover my tracks – that’s how bad I felt. But now I was not embarrassed by Irene’s presence. On the contrary, I wanted to spend more time with her. I pulled her towards me, but she gently pulled away from my embrace:

“Don’t, Vik.”

“Don’t want more?”

“I do, but it won’t be the same. I know that this Mr. Sausage will come again where I don’t want him.”

“He won’t cum there, I promise,” I reached out to hug her.

“You misunderstand me,” Irene pulled herself out of my arms. “If we do this again, you will lose your power, but I don’t want you to waste it on presents for Hans. He’s already hanging around you like a fly.”

She leaned over and quickly kissed me on the lips: “Do you know why? Because you’re so sweet!”

“Is he gay?” I looked sternly at the door, as if Hans was hiding behind it.

She laughed:

“You guessed right. But above all, Hans is an outcast.”

“To hell with Hans!” I took her hand and pulled her close to me. “Don’t go.”

“Vik,” she said stubbornly. “Don’t do it. You’ll feel bad later.”

“Not with you,” I touched her hair.

“Don’t argue with me, I know better.”

She sat down with one leg under her and told me that the outcasts on the Island are those who having lost their place, can’t find another job or don’t want to look for one. Instead, they start stealing energy from others in order to survive. They can steal a cell phone or a wallet, and in general anything that is lying around – they have to live on something.

“They” try not to allow it, because the outcasts do not share the stolen “cream” with anyone, do not add it to the common pot, but only maintain their miserable existence, so “they” hunt them down like stray dogs. Usually, Irene explained, former alcoholics become outcasts. If I understand correctly, they’re the most unpredictable people. On the one hand they’re the easiest to manipulate – it’s enough to replace the addiction with a vigorous activity, then the alcoholic will work like a hell foe a while – after all, alcoholism is the same as workaholism, but as soon as a lover of Bacchus breaks down, he will be stuck in the old quagmire again, where he will have only one consolation – to drink. And it doesn’t matter what it is: vodka, other people’s energy, or blood.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Hans sucked you like a leech when you started fantasizing about your neighbor,” Irene pocked me lightly in the stomach with her fist. “Tell me, is she really that good?”

I began to remember. Sarah was, of course, was what you would call “sexy”, such girls are quite rare among English women, but after imaginary “sessions” with her I was really broken and sluggish, only I put it down to fatigue and lack of sleep.

“It was a loss of energy,” Irene assured me. “The fat man found you like a shark finds prey in a drop of blood. He moved in next door and came under your windows like a gourmet in a restaurant.”

“Is that why you chased him away?”

“Yes, I told him I’d turn him over to ‘them’, and he’d become the Shadow,” she got up from the couch. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left you alone.”

“Wait, if that’s true, then why did he make such a mess? John and Sarah left because of him.”

“First of all, don’t laugh, Hans was jealous of you and Sarah, he didn’t want to share you with anyone else,” Irene winked playfully. “And secondly, he is hungry. I’m afraid he won’t leave you alone anyway. You’re too tidbit for him, you’re his type.”

“Ha-ha, how funny!” I teased her. “But he’s not my type, is it not clear?”

“It’s clear to me, but Hans seriously believes that he has managed to hook you there, by the fire, so he has the right to demand your attention and sympathy, thereby draining your energy. He wants to live off you! Tell me isn’t that what the crazies in your newsroom did? Have you ever asked yourself what attracted them to you?”

“And what was it?”

“Life force! You have enough for four people, it’s hard not to use it, especially when you’re allowed to” she threw me my t-shirt and shorts. “Get dressed, you have to go.”

“Irene, but that was a long time ago. I’m dead. What life force?”

“That’s a good question,” she said, opening the door. “Go and don’t come back.”

“But…” I looked at her expectantly. She didn’t let me finish. The door slammed shut.

“What kind of place is this?” I was angry as I walked down the hot street. “Everyone talks in riddles, everyone knows everything about me, and I’m the only one who knows nothing about anyone.” I couldn’t help thinking that Irene was one of the bearded man’s clever baits. The way he described her to me! He said, “She is special, not for the likes of us.” But what’s so special about her? She’s just an ordinary girl, like a million others. Yes, she’s pretty, and she doesn’t look like a bitch. There’s definitely something human about her – just take the episode with the Japanese guy and the wallet.

But then I remembered what she and Bob had done in the warehouse, and I felt like I’d been stabbed in the heart. Not a bitch, you say… But what about the foot massage? Does she serve everyone like that? What about half-naked dancing in the club? I gasped with rage, imaging a crowd of horny men wanting to fuck Irene on stage. And she doesn’t seem to mind all this attention at all.”

I slammed my fist into the palm tree in anger and spun around in pain – the trunk was as hard as concrete. Why did she ask me not to come back? Had she had enough of me? Did she get what she wanted? What an idiot I’d been! I’d trusted a flighty girl, let myself be deceived, and now I’m suffering.

I decided to refresh myself in the sea. Then I worked out on the horizontal bar and uneven bars and did a little jogging. I felt fine physically, but my thoughts kept returning to Irene.

What kind of life force was she talking about? I took out my lock pick and almost dropped it. The yellow scale had gone up again! So Randy had lied about the “glitch”. But then what is it?

The only one who might know the answer and who was honest lived in an abandoned hotel on the shore. I hadn’t seen him for a while – Austin hadn’t been to the beach much lately.

The path to the mangrove ruins was overgrown from the rains, and I was covered with scratches as I trudged through the thick, thorny bushes.

Austin was sitting on a chaise longue with a book in his hands. In front of him was an easel with an unfinished landscape, a familiar tree against sea boulders.

“Hey, buddy!” I plopped down on the sand next to him. “Where have you been?”

Austin put the book down and looked at me curiously:

“You’re in good shape, buddy,” he said instead of greeting me. “A woman?”

“How did you know?” I even blushed a little.

“I can see it in your face.”

“Oh, come on?”

“Yeah. Are you here to brag?”

“Not really. Here,” I handed him the lock pick. “Can you tell me what this means?”

Austin turned the device thoughtfully and asked:

“She’s not a tourist, is she?”

“Did you see that in my face, too?”

“No, I guessed,” he handed the lock pick back to me. “I think not doing anything has been good for you. So tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“When did you realize that you could generate energy by yourself?”

“Generate?” I stared at him in astonishment. “This is the first time I’ve heard of it!”

To be continued