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Chapter Twenty-Five
Amsterdam came after Paris; Laurel, Parish, Michael, and Remy hit the streets of the city after the show there. This was largely because knowing Vivi had been with Noel in Portugal made him want to take a long, deep breath in both the literal and symbolic sense—and getting out with Bus Three while Vivi was at a photo shoot, mending that bridge even the tiniest amount, seemed like a good way to take that breath.
People described New York as a city that didn’t sleep, but as far as Remy could tell, Amsterdam was the only one in the world that truly didn’t. Between red-wallpapered nightclubs and tourists gawking at elderly sex workers in shop windows, there was, in some ways, more to do after sunset than there was to do during the day. Or, at least, he guessed there was—he’d spent all his daylight hours in Amsterdam with Vivi.
“Wait, seriously?” Laurel asked, pointing at a giant sign on the side of a building. “Are you fucking serious, Dutch people?” It was an advertisement for two contortionist sister sex workers.
“Wow. That’s rough,” Parish said, making a horrified face. Both sisters had the look of heavy smokers, and the bikinis they were wearing were slightly too big and droopy for their frames. No wonder Vivi refused to come out with him—a photo of her beside an ad for aged sex workers wouldn’t be great PR.
“I wonder how much they make though,” Laurel said, tilting her head at the advertisement. “Probably as much as we do.”
“Are you looking for a backup career?” Remy teased.
Laurel snorted. “Would it even matter if I went from backup singer to old lady hooker? It’s all the same shit. People buy a piece of you for entertainment.”
“That’s an awful biblical outlook on the music industry,” Parish said as they continued walking down the street. Calling it thered-light districtwas apt—every single shop had glowing crimson neon lights in the windows. It made the world look fiery; the canal that ran down the street became inky black save for the reflections of words like PEEP SHOW and SEX PALACE. It was, perhaps, the least sexy place Remy had ever been, though that made it strangely exciting.
Laurel went on as they paused in front of a window where a number of sex workers hung on or around or from circus equipment. “Well, it’s not the exact same as the music industry, I guess. But hell, Tuesday Rivers just did a nude series forVoguewith that molester photographer dude. A lot more people will see that than…what’s her name? Harmonie.”
“What do you think her real name is?” Remy wondered as they watched “Harmonie” text from her perch on a trapeze, like a particularly interesting zoo exhibit. She smiled at them lightly, aware she was being watched but clearly used to it.Harmonie. Remember. Valor. Vivian.
“I bet for the right price, she’ll tell you. Or at least she’ll tell you a convincing lie,” Parish said. “One of my exes was a stripper, and that was her game—take a guy back, let him think he’s saving you, give him a real name, watch him offer you money to take you away from your life of sin.”
“Did it work?” Michael asked. He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived in the red-light area, though Remy couldn’t tell if it was because he was over- or underwhelmed.
“Every time,” Parish said, grinning. “She’s a cam girl now, I think. Doesn’t even have to leave the house to make stupid amounts of money.”
“Gross,” Laurel said then moved along. The others followed her down the street, past a series of coffee shops that weren’t coffee shops at all, as far as Remy could tell, but rather weed dispensaries. He wondered if you could actually buy coffee in Amsterdam or if it was just magic mushrooms as far as the eye could see. A brightly lit sign at the end of the street flashed between EXTREMELY DANGEROUS COCAINE SOLD TO TOURISTS and IGNORE STREET DEALERS, like this entire place was a twisted version of Disneyland, complete with constant cameras flashing as people documented their eager sinning, like dangerous cocaine was something worth remembering.
“How about it, Parish? You going to magic mushroom up? Or shall we continue on to the Museum of Prostitution?” Laurel asked, slowing when they came to a particularly bright storefront that was indeed adjacent to a museum of prostitution. There were menus hanging in the coffee shop windows—hash menus, weed menus, mushroom menus. The type of high you’d supposedly get from each was beside the item: Happy! Spacey! Energetic! Inspiring!
“I’ve never had mushrooms before, so, yeah, obviously I’m sampling the goods,” Parish said, studying the menu. One of the guys from behind the counter came over, and they fell into a deep discussion of the merits of Spacey versus Energetic. Laurel, meanwhile, decided on Happy without much debate.
“What about you?” Michael asked Remy.
“Eh. I’m not much the smoker. Or…mushroom-er,” Remy said, watching Laurel and Parish get their purchases boxed up.
“Oh—yeah. I see,” Michael said, in a way that told Remy he actuallydidsee what Remy was trying to say: that he’d seen drug use a little too up-close to be interested in even the most banal of versions. “How’s the producing thing going?” Michael asked, leaning against a stone wall that was probably ten times older than anyone they knew—yet still had penises graffitied all over it.
“With Vivi? It’s going great. Really great,” Remy said and heard his voice soften a little too late to stop it.
“Good. I’m glad. She sign a contract with you yet?”
“Not yet,” Remy said.
Michael laughed a little. “Hey, I’m not your dad, kid. You do you. I think we’re all just still a little shocked that she seems to actuallylikeone of us peons.”
Any answer Remy might have given was delayed by Laurel literally hopping out of the coffee shop. Remy had doubts as to whether the mushrooms had really taken effectthatquickly but didn’t say anything, even when Laurel grinned and grabbed his arm, swinging around his side.
“That was fast,” Michael said, helping balance Laurel.
“I didn’t get many. Also, mushrooms taste gross, magic or not,” Laurel said. “Andyes, I am totally shocked that Vivi likes a peon. I didn’t think it was possible. Unless…you’re lying, and she’s a nightmare.”
“She’s not a nightmare,” Remy said as Parish appeared, rustling through his box of dried, woody-looking mushrooms.
“Dude, we all signed the same nondisclosure. Be honest. We can tell each other the truth,” Parish said with a snicker.
“She’s not a nightmare. Seriously.” There was no small urge to tell them more—about the way she looked in the morning, and the way she fit into the space at his side, and the way every now and then, she exhaled long and loud, and it sounded like she was remembering to breathe for the first time in years. He couldn’t, of course. But god, how he wanted to.
