by Ella James
Anna jumps to her feet. Kayti’s eyes pop open. “Have you lost your marbles? What’s possessed you, Finley?”
I think of Declan whirling Holly. Hot tears sting my eyes. “Nothing! He’s gone in ten days! Nothing possessed me! I needed spoons!”
Kayti’s rooting about Anna’s coat. With one hand, Anna opens several buttons. She sits back in the chair stiffly, pushing her shirt up, and Kayti lifts her head, mouth open. I’m stricken by that sight: Anna shaking her head, her jaw tight with fury, as wee Kayti latches to her breast.
“I know it wasn’t a love match, but are you purely mad? You should be chaste! Waiting! You’ll be judged for this, God save you. I can’t say I know you. Where is that girl? I don’t know!”
Tears spill down my cheeks, and Anna shuts her gaping mouth. Her eyes soften despite her shaking her head. “How did it—”
I shake my head, pressing my trembling lips flat as I inhale deeply through my nose.
Her lips purse tightly, and her narrow shoulders tauten.
“Anna, please! Don’t tell a living soul, especially Holly! I could…you know what could happen. Please tell Maura it was spoons!”
Anna juts her chin up. I can see her pulse in her throat. “If they find out, Finley, it won’t be from me!”
She whirls from me, grabbing Kayti’s blanket off a chair before she snatches the bag of medication from my hand and flies out the door. Good thing Kayti’s dose is unchanged from her last infection; I never did tell Anna how much. I stand at the door for a few moments, breathing in great tugs, wiping my face.
Then I turn the lock, flip the lights out, and walk numbly into the living quarters. I should eat, perhaps. It’s been near twelve hours. I pull out a round, white plate that was my Mum’s, a loaf of bread, some jam and peanut butter. I stare at the plate’s edge.
“Why use that plate for a simple sandwich? It’s quite larger than the sandwich will be. Bit of wasted space.”
I flinch at the voice in my head. It’s been so long…I suppose I don’t expect to hear him narrating my actions—no more. Once my brain is compromised, though, he won’t hush up. Memories play like a record as my shaking hands assemble the sandwich.
“Why are you making that damnable soup again? Who asked for tumeric soup?”
“I’ve had a long day. Shouldn’t my food be waiting? Or do you cook simply when you feel the urge?”
I stare down at the sandwich as it blurs about the edges. It looks perfectly nice despite the extra space on the plate. There’s nothing wrong with how I make a sandwich. Just as there was nothing wrong with Mummy.
I set the plate down and walk woodenly into the bedroom, where I slip my shoes off, lie down in the bed, and pull the covers over myself. I haven’t slept here regularly in so long, the sheets smell stale and odd. Beneath my pillow, I find my old, brown rosary—the one I got in girlhood.
I don’t pray the rosary, but simply clutch it as I lie on my back, rigid as a corpse.
Please help me. Oh, please. Please help me. Please help me. Tears roll into my ears, and I whisper the word aloud, half chanting. “Please. Please. Please.” Each time I say it, my eyelids feel heavier.
Knocking wakes me. I’m aware of knocking, and my racing heart. The quiet house. I wonder if I dreamed the knock, and then I hear it again: two more raps, delivered with a heavy hand. A male hand.
Terror rolls through me. I never checked the ship schedule…
I sit up. Take a thorough breath. The knocking comes again, less rhythmic this time. I slip on my shoes and drift into the clinic. It’s all dark inside. Through the closed blinds, slits of white moonlight. I can’t see the clock on the far wall, so I’ve no idea what time it is. Trepidation trills through me with every step toward the door.
I don’t know why I’m so sure it’s going to be him. Sometimes I get pulled into another place. Something happens, I’m flashed back to the past…delivered to the clutches of my old, familiar fears.
Were you as damaged as me, Mummy?
You deserved more.
If we are nothing but the flesh and motion summation of our DNA, then I am her—extended. In my bones I know I’m certainly no more. I’m like a bird I once saw flapping its wings just atop the rocks near Hidden Cove. On first glimpse, I couldn’t understand how it could flap its wings so fiercely and remain motionless, not taking flight. Then I moved nearer and saw its foot caught in some moss.
I have no hope, no expectation as I open the door. So I can feel the warm life force that pulses through me when I see him.
His hair looks like a choppy sea. His face is swarthy with a two-day pirate’s beard. My hungry gaze falls to his mouth—that lush, archangel’s mouth, so out of place among the harsher landscape of his nose, cheekbones, thick brows. Finally, I dare his eyes, and I think I now understand the phrases from novels. I could fall into those eyes, never emerging.
“Finley?”
I drag my gaze away from his. On his jaw there is a bit of reddish pink. I can smell Holly’s perfume and the sharp stench of liquor. Cold air billows in around his broad form. My gaze darts to his.
“You’re home,” he murmurs. There’s emotion in his voice—perhaps surprise, although naively I fancy that it sounds like wonder.
I want to rail that this is not my home. I’m homeless. Does it matter if I have a home besides? My life is over, even as he’s fighting to determine if he wants to go on living his when he returns home.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Can I come in?”
Something flashes in his eyes—a sort of flame. I can’t be sure because I look away again. Self-preservation. Love is reckless, and the heart gets out ahead of the soul. Mine feels like an anchor dragging me down through the floor.
I look at his face. This time, I won’t cast my eyes down. “Did her mouth feel like mine?”
His lips twist as his brows gather. “What?”
“Did Holly’s lips feel like my lips on your jaw?”
He frowns.
“There’s lipstick on your jaw.” I touch my own, and his hand lifts to mirror mine. His face is emotionless, although his brow remains a slight bit furrowed.
“I saw you dancing at the bar, and now you smell like Holly.” I shut my eyes. Why did I have to love him? When I look at him again, I’m gripped by fury. “Why are you here, Declan? What do you want from me?”
“You were gone.” It’s whispered. He leans on the door frame, and then grips its top beam with his palm. I can see the liquor in his eyes, the way they’re wide and over-focused on my face.
“Is that how it works where you’re from, then? It’s just whoever is about will do?” Despite my anger, or perhaps because of it, my eyes ache. “Oh, I know—” my fingers snap— “you’re leaving anyway. That’s right! You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? And there’ll be other women. Ones who don’t hold court in your bed or force you into bubble baths. They won’t really know or care for you, or risk their lives to love you for mere weeks, as I have!”
His face twists again, and his brows notch in anger. Oh please, try that! I give a hollow laugh. “Go back to Holly, won’t you?” I wave at him, shooing. “Holly wants you, no doubt Rachel as well! Go be merry at the bar, and we’ll end this here! So much simpler. And that’s what you like, isn’t it? Keep it all risk-free and simple. Float through life without thinking too much beyond your animal-position fucking!”
He steps inside, his dark eyes flashing. “You don’t like to fuck me, Finley?”
My heart beats so quickly, I fear I might pass out. “No, I don’t in fact. I don’t like fucking you. I like making love, and you stopped doing that. You won’t look me in the eye now!”
He closes the distance between us. How he reeks of alcohol. His potent breath sends me back to my childhood, makes me tremble.
“You’re a liar.” The words are like velvet, and his face is set like stone.
“No, I’m not! Now go away from me!” I shove his chest without forethought and then recoil
as fear pounds through me.
“Tell me you don’t want me. C’mon, fucking tell me, Finley. Make it easy.”
“I want you, and I hate it. I hate you!”
“Tell me you don’t want my hands on you. My mouth right there.” His finger points to my throat. I can’t swallow. His hands run down my arms, the warm palms feather-light. His face is grave as all the universe.
I can say nothing. I’ve made unforgivable mistakes, so many errors in judgment. My foot is caught in moss I’ll never break free of...and still I crave him.
“I don’t want to want you,” I say, the words barely there.
To my surprise, he laughs, his prince’s mouth twisting before he tosses me over his shoulder and makes off toward the curtain, striking it aside to stride toward the beds.
“I don’t want to either, so I guess that makes it even.”
He takes his time lying me on my back, spreading my legs. For a moment, he stands over me, and our eyes lock. His are dazed and depthless. Were it not for his tight jaw, I’d have no clue he felt anything as he looks down at me.
“You thought you should stay away from me?” He shakes his head, the motion taut. He leans down, running his hand along my thigh. “You have no idea what I want to do to this body. God—so fucking thick. Nobody has an ass like this,” he murmurs.
He squeezes mine, and then leans lower over me, unfastening my pants and taking them down. As he does, he looks into my eyes; he’s giving me an out—but I don’t take it. I can’t.
He rips my pale blue panties cleanly at one side and then the other, snatching them away before he climbs atop me like a predator, lowering his face between my legs, rolling his tongue around my clit then dragging slowly in between my slit. It feels so glorious, I cry out, thrusting toward his mouth and grabbing at his hair.
“Heavens…oh…mercy!” He laps at me until I’m weak and trembling, unable to properly breathe. All I want is that crest of elation. I lift my hips, urging his warm tongue over me, hoping that he’ll fill me with his fingers.
I hear the rumble of his dark laugh. “Tell me what you want, Siren.”
He licks upward from my core, his tongue hot and slick, tracing a circle ’round my clit until I’m moaning. Then he lifts his tongue away. I grab his hair.
“Relief…please!”
He leans down, refusing me his mouth as his breath warms my inner thigh. “Tell me how you want relief, Siren.”
My belly coils, and then his fingers dip into my heat. It’s just the tips at first, but he pushes them slowly inside then drags them back out as his thumb circles my clit.
“I want to come,” I whisper, feeling my cheeks redden.
“That’s right. And I’ve been wanting to do this…” His gaze flicks up to mine, unreadable, before he rolls his tongue over my aching flesh. His fingers probe me sweetly as his tongue makes me feel slick and breathless. I lift my hips, urging his fingers deeper, even as my legs tremble.
He wraps one arm around my backside, lifting me so he can pump with more force. His mouth contrasts with those firm thrusts, teasing my clit with gentle licks until I grab his head and push down in a desperate bid for satiation. Then I’m overcome by ecstasy, my body quaking as my hand on his hair gentles. I hear myself whisper, “I love you.”
When I open my eyes, I find him stroking his stiff sex. His gaze grips mine. It’s unapologetic. He looks as if he feels nothing for me. No emotion—only lust. Still, I need him. I’ll take scraps.
I rise on my knees and kiss his mouth. I kiss him even though he tastes like nightmares and he smells like Holly. I feel ill but also rapt as I hug an arm around his neck, stroking his warm nape as our kisses deepen.
Then he’s lying me down, spreading my knees as if he plans to take me in the way we used to. He’s looking down, away, as he presses his sex into me. When he lifts his head, his blue eyes are closed. He thrusts deeper.
As he starts to pump his hips, I stroke his arms…but I’m afraid to touch him, frightened I’ll drive him away. Instead I lock my hand around his thick forearm and focus on returning what he’s doing thrust for thrust, on tightening myself around him so my sex hugs his huge erection.
In return, he plunges deeper, filling me more fully than perhaps he ever has, as if on this, our longest, darkest night, gentleness simply won’t do. He grunts and groans, but he says nothing. Not once does he lean down over me and kiss my throat or stroke my hair.
I can feel it when he nears release; he thickens inside me, and then I feel a hot, soft, full sensation. That’s when I realize—there’s no condom. Worry cinches my chest, but it’s there then gone, lost in the rush of ecstasy as I topple over my own ledge.
I open my eyes as he lifts his head and his eyes hold mine. Where before, when we made love in this position, I could see his feelings in his face, tonight there’s nothing. He’s no warmer toward me than a stranger might be.
Wordlessly, he separates our bodies. With a final glance at me, he moves down off the bed and bends to pluck his clothing off the floor.
Thirteen
Declan
“Is that it, then?”
I glance over at her. Then my shirt’s over my head. The floor feels like it’s moving. I almost fall over as I get my arms through the holes.
“Um, what?” I can’t see her. It’s dark in here, and kind of blurry. What did she say?
“So…you’re leaving, I suppose?”
A crest of panic hits the back of my throat. Sweat rolls down my temple. “Yeah.”
Where are my underwear? Fuck. I see them by a table and float over that way. I’m fucking drunk. She felt so good. Too good.
“Would you like company?”
I step into my boxer briefs and look back at her. I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes. They’re kind of pulsing, which makes it look like her long hair is blowing in the wind.
“Uh—” I clear my tight throat, try to make my voice a little louder. “Yeah.”
My shoulders start to shake…and then my chest and arms.
If she comes with me—
But I want her to.
I need her with me. Even though it’s that night. I’m leaving tomorrow. I can’t stay away from her on my last night here.
I nod—I can’t get my mouth to move—and then she’s getting off the bed.
“Wait here, if you don’t mind? I need my toothbrush.” My ears hear her words, but my mind’s not processing, so I just nod. When she disappears, I feel a slosh of horror. She went next door, my real voice tells Drunk Me.
I put on my pants…and then my shoes. I can’t get them tied, and when I try, my fingers tremble.
It’s cold outside. Cold…like the refrigerator. I had that thought in a dream, but now it’s here…and I’m awake. I feel my legs move like machines, and I’m there at the cabinets. It’s dark, but I can see the pale refrigerator at the room’s back corner. Every pharmacy has to have a refrigerator. She said she couldn’t get what I wanted, but why would she tell me if she could?
Just a little, and I’ll get through tonight better. I don’t want our last night to be like this. I don’t want June 20 to haunt me twice.
I walk to the refrigerator. My pulse is racing. If it’s here, I’ll get it. I could even tell her. But no. Why make her worry? Why let her know? If she sees me as a fucked-up addict, she won’t love me—and I need for her to love me till I leave.
The door cracks open. I realize belatedly my hand’s around the handle. The light is bluish. Cold. And then I’ve got it open all the way. I can’t sort through bags and boxes fast enough. I spot it in the right-hand corner on the top shelf: just this little syringe, marked with a handwritten label. When I see it, I go so hot, and my head spins so hard.
I’ve got Fentanyl.
Holy shit.
I curl my hand around the syringe. All the room’s dark, hazy edges sharpen. I can’t get my breath. My heart’s pounding too hard.
I could run. Bolt the door at my place, get it all set up just
right. Really take my time with it.
Oh shit. I’m getting juiced up just thinking about it. But…I don’t head for the door. My whole body breaks out in a cold sweat, and the shaking gets so bad, my legs almost give way. I start to gulp back air because I don’t know what to do.
It’s Finley’s writing on the label.
I can’t take it if it’s hers. It’s not hers…but she mixed it. If I use here, I’ll never get clean. I can’t steal from Finley. I need it so fucking bad. If I fuck up, it doesn’t matter. I’m already a fuck-up. Put it back, it’s Finley’s. What would she do if she saw me? If I use, she can’t come over. I could do it when she’s sleeping. Would this be enough to get me fixed up? What’s the milligrams per milliliter? What if I get fixed and can’t remember our last night together?
I hear footsteps. My whole body flashes icy cold, then swelters. I can’t breathe. My pulse throbs in my eyes as a wave of shame envelops me. It’s so thick and dark, I can’t feel anything but decimated as it rises through me, filling me up while weighing me down, like lead.
And then she’s here. She’s right in front of me, and she’s the same, but I’m not. I am dead before her. I’m black matter and she’s pure light. I can’t move or speak or even think as she stops near me.
“Declan?”
How long till she sees it? I can’t put it back now. She’ll see it. She’s gonna know.
Something large and heavy moves atop me, pushing me down. I feel like that nightmare dream I used to have after hearing that Houdini story: I’m buried alive and I will never, ever get out.
“Declan?” She steps closer to me. I watch as her face morphs in concern. She reaches out. Her hand brushes my arm.
“Darling?” I realize I’m breathing loudly. “Are you all right?”
Reassure her, fuckface.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“Declan?” Her hand’s gentle around my arm, but I can’t stand the feel of it. I stagger back, and I can see her eyes pop open wider.
“Sailor…are you all right?”
