by Callie Hart
Over the years, whenever I’ve woken up and tried to wrap my head around her, she’s evaporated into thin air, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand through an hourglass. Now, she’s a tangible, living, breathing thing, but I’m too fucking scared to admit that to myself for fear that she might go up in smoke and slowly slip away…
I watch her surreptitiously as we head north, getting closer and closer to the mountain. She’s focused on the world outside the window—the spruce, hemlock, and cedar all lining the road like sentinels, fifteen and thirty rows deep, forest stretching on and on in every direction as we wind our way through the crisp winter morning, and I feel like a fucking thief, stealing away these moments and locking them inside tiny boxes in my mind, just in case they’re limited and about to run out any moment.
We pass so few cars, the route so quiet and peaceful, that Zara nearly has a heart attack when a motorcycle comes hurtling down the mountain on the other side of the road. “Fuck, that guy’s got a death wish! There’s so much ice on the road.”
I see the cut the guy’s wearing in my wing mirror as he passes us—Widow Makers MC, New Mexico—and I shake my head. “I wouldn’t worry about him. He knows what the fuck he’s doing.”
She goes back to staring out of the winter landscape, and I go back to staring at her out of the corner of my eye. After a while, she says, “See anything interesting?” Her voice is quiet, tinged with amusement. She turns away from the window and arches an eyebrow at me. She’s clearly known I’ve been watching her for some time now, but I’m not embarrassed. Not even fucking slightly.
“Very,” I reply.
“My head feels like it’s a nut you’re trying to crack by sheer force of will alone.”
I smirk. She’s not really wrong. I’ve been trying to figure her the fuck out for the past forty-seven miles. “Tell me something, Firefly. Tell me your secrets.”
She laughs under her breath. “Which ones?”
“All of them. I want them all. One at a time.”
“That kind of greed’s gonna cost you.”
“I’ll pay you in orgasms.”
“Ha! Very tempting. I was thinking more along the lines of a secret for a secret, though. I’ll give you one of mine. In return, you hand over one of yours.”
I dig my thumbnail into the steering wheel, trying not to grind my teeth together. “You don’t want to know my secrets, Firefly.”
She makes a derisive sound, dismissing the statement. “Are you forgetting that you told me you thought you’d killed someone three years ago?”
“Yeah. I thought I had. I only just found out that I didn’t. Would have been a hell of a lot harder confessing that if I’d succeeded.”
Zara bites down on her bottom lip and tugs it slowly through her teeth. “I’m actually sorry that you didn’t,” she says. I barely hear the words, but they’re there, and she means them. I’ve lived with the knowledge that I killed Lazlo for three years, and it hasn’t kept me up at night. I haven’t felt guilty for what I did; he deserved that knife in his gut as far as I’m concerned, but now, finding out that he didn’t die, I have to admit…it feels as though a dark shadow has lifted from me. I was prepared to live under that shadow. I considered it a reasonable price to pay for saving Leo and countless others from the threat of such a vile piece of shit.
To have Zara say this, though? That she wishes I had killed him? That’s more of a relief than finding out I’m not responsible for another human being’s death. Because, given the opportunity, I will hunt him down and I will hurt that motherfucker. I’ll take up a knife again, and I’ll sink it somewhere more vital this time, and I’ll make sure he expires for real this time. And…to think she might not run in fear of me after that? That is fucking massive.
“I used to have a crush on my second cousin,” she says. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
It’s hard not to fucking laugh. “Hmm. I just tattooed a giant cock on my second cousin’s back without his permission.”
“What?”
“He fucking deserved it. What else?”
She thinks for a second, and then goes a little red. “I masturbate to porn nearly every day.”
Oh, good fucking lord. I stifle back a groan. “What kind of porn?”
“It depends. I like…” She squirms, obviously uncomfortable with this particular confession. “I like watching women together. And sometimes…I like watching really rough stuff. Two men. Maybe even three?”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down hard. It’s the only way I can keep the string of curse words burning on the tip of my tongue at bay. God, the thought of her touching herself in the first place is fucking driving me crazy. But the idea of her watching two women licking and fucking each other? Or her getting off to a group of men all fucking the same woman at once? “You have no idea how badly I want to pull this car over onto the side of the road and fuck you right now, Firefly.”
She pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, fidgeting like crazy. “Oh, god. Please don’t tease me. This is mortifying.”
“I’m not.” Reaching over, I grab hold of her by the wrist and jerk her sleeve back up her arm. A second later, I have her hand on my crotch, and I’m squeezing her fingers around me. “I’m hard as fuck, Firefly. The visuals…Jesus. I’m gonna be jerking off to those visuals for the next ten fucking years.”
Her eyes are wide, her lips parted as she looks down at the point where our bodies meet—her hand on top of my painfully erect dick. “Ooh. You wanna be bad, don’t you, Firefly?” I wasn’t teasing her just now, but I am one hundred percent teasing her now.
Something like defiance flashes in her hazel eyes. “Maybe.”
I allow myself the dangerous smirk that curls up the corners of my mouth. “I bet you do.”
She rolls her eyes, feigning annoyance. “Fair’s fair, Gypsy Boy. It’s your turn. Spill another secret before I die of embarrassment.”
“I…fuck.” I shake my head, glancing away. This is so fucking dumb. “I used to have this flyer when I was a kid. I used it as a bookmark.”
“A flyer?”
“A promo flyer for home insurance. There was this huge house on the front of it with a wraparound porch and a huge garden. In front of the house, a man and woman were playing with a little boy. His parents, I assume. The kid was throwing a ball, and the family dog, this shaggy golden retriever, was jumping up to intercept the ball, and everyone was laughing like crazy, and…I used to stare at the picture at night and imagine that I was that little boy. I used to pretend that the man and the woman were my parents. Normal. We had a normal life with a normal house, and everything we did was fucking normal, and…fuck. I used to want that so fucking bad.”
It feels wrong to admit this. Makes me feel weak. Awkward in my own skin. Not just embarrassed, but bad. I glance at Zara out of the corner of my eye, expecting to find her laughing, entertained by the concept of a nine-year-old Pasha Rivin daydreaming about an average suburban life, but instead I’m met with a lopsided, understanding smile.
“Most kids dream of running away and joining the circus. You were already a part of the circus. Kind of. Makes sense that you’d want a little stability.”
She has no fucking idea.
It’s quiet for a while. We’re deep into the Colville National Park. Each turn of the road feels like it’s leading us toward yet another inevitable event. Every mountain peak rising up on the horizon, jagged, capped with snow, is as familiar to me as my own reflection in a mirror. Three miles pass before Zara speaks again. “Who do you think you would have been?” she asks. “If you had been born in a house with a wraparound porch, with the regular mom and dad, and the white picket fence?”
I take my time, chewing over my response. “I don’t know. Maybe I would have been a writer. I always loved telling stories. Maybe I would have bought a house by the beach on the east coast. Maybe I would have taken up running, and painting, and I would have spent my time bui
lding things in a sweet workshop, and everything would have been calm, and reassuringly predictable. But I’m glad I’m not him, Zara. I’m glad my life isn’t predictable, or calm. Or safe most of the time. I like who I am now. I’m a little fucked up. Rough around the edges. I hit things and break things a little too much. I have absolutely no problem beating the shit out of someone if they fuck with me or someone I care about. People cross the street when they see me walking toward them at night. None of it matters, though. I became the person I needed to be to survive. I refuse to regret or feel bad about that. None of it really fucking matters anyway.”
“Why?”
“’Cause at the end of the day…I’m the lucky motherfucker that bagged himself the girl.”
Zara chuckles under her breath. “I’m happy for you. You’ll have to introduce me to her someday.”
“Ahhh, Firefly. What’s that? Cold feet? Scared to have tied yourself to a cage fighting, inked-up, potentially incredibly dangerous dark-haired stranger, who just so happens to be really good in bed? Say it ain’t so.”
A real, broad smile breaks out, taking over her face. She tips her head back, and the sound that fills the Mustang has my heart soaring out of my chest. God, I fucking love the sound of her laughter. It’s the most magical fucking thing I’ve ever fucking heard. When she stops laughing, she swivels in her seat, tucking her leg up underneath her so her entire body is facing me. She reaches out, her hand hesitating before she takes a long, slow, steady breath and touches me.
This is a first. The first time she’s ever been brave enough to reach out for me on her own because she wants to. I sit very, very fucking still as the tips of her fingers make contact with my temple. She strokes them down, over my cheekbone, along the curve of my jaw, and then underneath, following the line of my neck until she reaches the collar of my t-shirt.
A simple, easy touch.
Exploratory.
Curious.
It has my heart slamming in my chest.
Women normally touch me like they’re grabbing at something before anyone else can get to it. Hungry. Demanding. Desperate. Don’t get me wrong; sometimes that can be hot, to be wanted like that. To be able to turn someone on to the point of madness. But this is so, so different. Right now, I’m not an object of carnal desire. Not a hard-won prize, or a target to be pursued.
I’m a puzzle box. An intricate painting. A wonder and a mystery.
Zara’s the first person to study me this closely. To try and see anything beyond the tattoos, or my eyes, or the fact that my body was put together in a pleasing fucking way. She’s the first person to ever touch me as if I’m something to be admired rather than used…and it’s pretty fucking terrifying.
I’m barely breathing as she traces around the back of my collar, where she gently strokes the pads of her fingers against the hair at the nape of my neck, humming in a pleased way under her breath. “I love the way that feels,” she says. “Your hair, here, where it’s shaved at the back of your head. Soft, but prickly when you rub it the wrong way.”
Every quick witted or arrogant response to that statement flees my mind. Sure, there are plenty of things I could say to her to make her blush right now, or to embarrass her, or make her feel stupid for speaking her mind. It’s what I would have done to nearly anyone else who told me that they were fascinated by such a random part of my body. I don’t do that with Zara, though. I don’t want to. I want to hear what fascinates her.
I know I’m a good-looking guy. I see the way women look at me all the time, and to be perfectly frank, I have taken great pleasure in ridiculing them for being so fucking shallow. Right now, though, with Zara’s light-as-a-feather touch caressing the back of my neck, I feel like dropping to my knees and thanking my lucky fucking stars that she likes me, that she’s attracted to me, that the hair on the back of my neck feels fucking good to her, because that means I get to keep her.
I have no idea what’s fucking happening to me. I’m not sure I fucking like it, either, but this feels so familiar to me. As if we’ve already been doing this—touching, kissing, caressing, worshipping each other—for half our lifetimes, and we’re supposed to continue doing it for as long as we both draw breath.
I can’t say anything. Even if I had the words to tell her how good it feels to have her touching me the way she is, my throat has closed up and I can barely fucking breathe.
So, I just drive.
Eventually, Zara straightens in her seat, stretching, and my skin is left tingling from the memory of her touch. For a while, neither of us says anything, and it’s okay. Comfortable and easy. In the end, I cave though. I just want to hear the sound of her voice. “What about you, Firefly? How did you end up back there, in Spokane, taking 911 calls and drinking apple juice in a bar with a group of people nearly twice your age?”
She sighs, pulling at a thread on the seam of her jeans. “Well, it’s complicated,” she says slowly. “But I suppose it’s because I used to like setting things on fire when I was a kid.”
Hah. Not what I was expecting, but I’ll bite. “Don’t all kids like setting things on fire?”
She shrugs. “Probably. But I used to like setting fire to churches. Nice ones, with fancy stained-glass windows and spires. And I was still doing it when I was fifteen, when most other people have grown out of their set-the-world-on-fire-and-watch-it-burn phase.”
“Firefly was a firebug. How ironic.” I can picture it, too: a young version of Zara striking a match, the flame wavering, lighting up her face, casting shadows as she tosses it onto a stack of gasoline-soaked hymn books. I can almost hear the whoompf of the fire catching, devouring the paper and everything else in its path. “Just churches?” I ask.
“Yes,” she confirms.
“Not a fan of god, then?”
Her tight-lipped smile tells a story all of its own. “Didn’t you know red heads are the spawn of the devil?”
“I had heard you were all evil.”
This makes her smile real. “What about you Roma? What religion do you subscribe to?”
“None. All of them. Depends on where we are in the world. Historically, we fall in line with whatever’s popular with the locals.”
“Very pragmatic. So, what? The Rivins are…” She cocks her head to one side. “Catholic?”
“My grandparents, yes. My mother, when it suits her. Me, not at all.”
She nods, assimilating this information. Her eyes become distant as she stares straight ahead, out of the windshield. “I was born in New York. When I was sixteen, my extremely religious father decided it would be a good idea to spend a week together during spring break. I hadn’t burned down anything in a while by that point, so he took me into this beautiful church. It was old. A couple of hundred years, probably. It was so peaceful. Serene. He left me sitting in one of the pews while he went to light a candle for my uncle. He was dying at the time.” She adds this piece of information as if it’s an afterthought. “I sat there for a very, very long time, and I absorbed the silence. Sucked it in. Let it sink into my bones. I must have been there, sitting in that pew, alone, for at least an hour. As time ticked on, I got antsy. Bored. All my friends had gone to the Hamptons. I was livid that I’d had to stay back and hang with my dad. And then, out of nowhere, the silence splintered apart, and there was this terrible, awful sound. Screaming. Terrified, high-pitched, blood curdling. I can still hear it now if I close my eyes.” She shivers, plainly hearing the sound right now.
“A door opened at the back of the church, and this…man came out. He didn’t run. Just walked, like he had somewhere to be. His face was totally blank. And every part of him was soaked in blood. I remember recoiling away from him as he walked past the pew where I was sitting. He didn’t look down at me. Didn’t even acknowledge that I was there. He had to have seen me, though. Seconds after he’d walked out of the church, a priest burst out of the confession booth. I remember thinking he looked like an actor, not a priest. Too young. Too handsome. Too strong. He bolt
ed into the back, through the doorway the other guy had come out of, and all hell broke loose. Screaming. Shouting. Crying.
“This blonde woman came flying out of the back and grabbed hold of my father, who’d finally come running because of all the noise. She was crying, sobbing, snot running down her face, the works. She begged him to call an ambulance. When the paramedics showed up, a crowd had gathered inside the vestibule of the church. The medics went into the back. When they came out, they were carrying this woman on a stretcher. A nun. She’d been stabbed so many times, I couldn’t count the wounds in her chest, her stomach and down her legs. And in between her legs…” Zara shudders. The memory of this event must be pretty fucking traumatic for her to dredge up from the past. It sounds fucking horrifying enough second hand.
“She’d been assaulted,” she continues. “While I’d been sitting there, soaking up the silence, resenting my father for dragging me into the church, salty that I wasn’t getting to spend the break with my friends, the man who had so casually walked past me, covered in blood, had been raping and stabbing that woman in that back room.”
Shiiiiit.
Sixteen-year-old Zara, sitting on a bench in a church, watching a rape victim being carried out on a stretcher: I imagine the scene, and in my head I’m there too, somehow, a couple of years older than her, standing behind her, lowering my hands over her eyes, shielding her from the violence, whispering into her ear. Don’t look, Firefly. Don’t look. I can’t travel back in time and protect her from it, though. It’s too late. “Christ,” I hiss through my teeth.
“Yeah. He was there when it happened,” she says, giving me a twisted smile. “God, too. I was so confused as to how a caring, benevolent creator had allowed something so violent and cruel to happen right under his roof. And so sitting there, watching the medics take care of that woman, I came to the realization that there was only one simple explanation for such a thing. There was no god. An all-powerful deity didn’t step in and help that woman. A couple of medics at the end of a twelve-hour shift stemmed her blood and kept her alive until she could get to a hospital. They are the ones who saved her life.
