Sloth

by Ella James

  I watch her as she checks her phone—looking for a message from Ryan, her on-again-off-again?—As she runs her fingers through her tight curls. As she paints her toe-nails some greenish color that’s not clear to me through glass, and from this distance. I fall into a calm as I watch her balance her checkbook, a habit I know her mom demands. I watch her drink peppermint water. Take her Kindle from a desk and read a book.

  After seven weeks of this, I know her habits. Nessa has ADD, and now that she’s withdrawn from school again, she seems to drift through evenings, moving from one thing to the other, trying to entertain herself without really seeming settled.

  After more than an hour peeking through her window, I walk around the house again and mess with a flimsy window in her first-floor half bath. I know from past visits that I could open it without much trouble, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the way I’ll go. Why would I, when I have a key?

  I walk through the dewy grass behind the house, where she keeps her garbage cans as well as a small, baby blue bicycle. My pulse is racing as I re-approach the little study room she’s in.

  Nessa is still there. Now she’s drinking coffee from an owl mug.

  I think of Cleo. Sloth. I’m hoping that the guilt I feel over not sending her away tonight will distract me from the lead ball in my gut right now, but no such luck.

  There’s no hiding from tonight—not even behind the shock of Sloth. Tonight has been a long time coming. I just couldn’t get the balls to do it for these last few weeks.

  I tilt my head back, look up at the moon. The stars. I can see so many of them out here, miles away from city lights. Even Chattahoochee, an old mill town-turned-college-town of thirty thousand, doesn’t put off enough light to really blot the stars. Not like where I’m from.

  Somewhere nearby, a dog barks.

  I hold my breath and listen. It’s quiet after the dog settles, nothing but the sound of trees moving and the low hum of traffic, somewhere miles away. I picture Nessa standing out here with me, smiling that faint smile of hers. That smile that said I have a secret.

  Like my secret.

  I can’t think long of that, can’t think at all of that, so I start walking, around the edge of Nessa’s porch, toward the giant magnolia tree in the middle of her soft, green lawn.

  The thing is massive, only a little shorter than the roofline of her house. I turn my body sideways and I work my way between its branches. Its limbs press against my back and shoulders, come around my hips, until I’m hidden by its waxy, oval leaves.

  Once I’m settled in, I hold my body still, trying to be sure I know my own mind.

  Can I do this?

  I can do this.

  I pull my phone out of my pants pocket. I can do this, but first...

  I rub my thumb over the screen, calling up the picture I took of Cleo a few months ago on the concourse. I clench my aching jaw and peer down at her. After this is over, I can go back to her.

  Wrong wrong wrong.

  After this is over, I can fuck her.

  It’s wrong—because of who I am, my situation; it’s even more wrong because of who she is, and what she is to me—but I know already I will keep her for at least a few more nights. Because I have to. Because I’ll need her after this.

  Despite my own assurances, air whistles through my teeth. Blood booms like a drum between my ears.

  I rub my brows—a little too hard. My fingers curl into fists. I think numbly of Lyon.

  Lyon, Ly... please help.

  After almost an hour of this madness, I dial Nessa. She answers wordlessly. I breathe into the phone. Swallow. “You know why I’m calling,” I rasp.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing, Nessa?”

  “Dancing.” She sounds nervous. “Just drinking a little wine.”

  “Oh yeah. What kind?”

  “Hmmmm... honestly, I don’t know,” she giggles. “It’s red, and it was the most expensive bottle they had at the store.”

  “Be sure to save a glass for me.”

  “I will.”

  I exhale slowly. I’m surprised by the strength of my desire to tell her about Cleo. Sloth.

  But this isn’t about that. Or about me.

  “Do anything special tonight?” I ask.

  “I saw a shooting star.”

  My stomach clenches. “Yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you make a wish?”

  “I did.”

  I swallow hard, willing my throat not to close up on me. “Was it that I’d call,” I tease. My voice is strange—but Nessa understands.

  I can hear her gentle smile. “It was about you. You know what.”

  “That I would call you?” I ask, even though I know that’s not what she wished for. “Then, wish granted.”

  She laughs a little, but says nothing, and soon there’s a silence.

  “I should let you go,” I say.

  “See you soon.”

  “... Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight Kellan.”

  I wait almost two more hours, to be sure she is asleep. Usually, she has trouble. But the wine and the Ambien will help.

  The lights have been off for almost two hours now.

  I move from the tree to her porch in half a heartbeat, my shoulders curled in as my key slides silently into her lock. I turn the knob and slip inside.

  I’m in the two-story foyer, with an oak staircase I take two steps at a time. I pause on the top stair. Listen.

  Nessa is asleep, not in the master bedroom, which she feels is too big and uses for storage, but in the larger of the two bedrooms down the hall to my right.

  I pass a family portrait: Nessa with her mom and dad, dressed in their church clothes. To my left is a framed photo of Nessa with her best friend, Hope. On the right, a pressed, framed rose from Ryan.

  I pass a closet door. I look down and—

  “Fuck!”

  I throw my arms out, trying to keep my balance, while Nessa’s cat, Cheshire, dashes off, then doubles back, his tail waving, to look at me. I lower my hand, but I can’t make myself crouch down and pet him.

  “Sorry,” I murmur silently.

  I move slowly, walking softly. I don’t want to wake her up. I don’t think she’ll wake up.

  Stay asleep, Nessa. Stay asleep.

  Her bedroom door is slightly ajar. Thoughtful.

  The room is dark, but the blinds are open, letting in starlight.

  I pause at the threshold. The Ziploc bag feels heavy when I pull it from my pocket. It’s melded around the small cylinder inside.

  Taking care to be quiet, I peel the ‘zipper’ open. I stick my fingertips inside, grasping the end of the syringe. I dig a little deeper, until I can feel the cool glass of a vial I mixed up just for Nessa.

  I’m surprised my fingers work. Amazing, what can be endured when choices are so limited. I stick the needle in, draw the plunger. My jaw aches, a precursor to tears. A scream builds in my chest. I lock it there, where it belongs.

  I step over her pink polka-dotted rug. My limbs feel heavy, as if I’ve sampled Nessa’s cocktail.

  I take half-steps, past her feet, her knees, until I’m level with her hips. Under the lilac covers, she is just a lump. It strikes me that is all she’ll ever be again. My eye twitches.

  Nessa’s bed has a large, carved headboard her mother had imported from Italy, if I remember. I can’t see much of the carving, even here, beside her, but I stare up at it for a minute, because I want to see what’s on it. My eyes never fully adjust to the darkness, as deep down I know they won’t. I’ve got acquired night blindness. All I’m doing standing here is waiting.

  Long enough, apparently, for Cheshire to come join us.

  Shit.

  I take long, steady strides toward the door and scoop the cat up. “C’mon... Stay quiet,” I murmur to his soft head as I spirit him down the hall, toward the stairs. I set him down and stroke his neck and back. He arches to my hand. “That’s it. Good boy.” M
y voice quavers. Cheshire perches like a gymnast on the bannister.

  When I return to Nessa, she’s rolled over on her right side, with her back to me. I take a deep breath. I position the syringe between my fingers and lean over her. My hand hovers by her neck. Her hair is in my way. I move it slowly, relishing the softness of her curls. My fingers tremble. I will them still.

  The jugular is not a mystery when you’ve dealt with it as much as I have. I locate hers with a gentle touch. She doesn’t stir. It takes a moment to position the needle, and when I’ve done that, I plunge quickly in.

  Nessa’s breath hitches, and for a horrifying moment I think she’s going to wake up just to die.

  But she doesn’t. The cocktail includes Midazolam, a sedative. Also, Dilaudid. So much of both drugs, the truth is, Nessa doesn’t have a chance. And still, I stay. I wrap a copper curl around my finger and, with my arms still propped on her bed, I sink down to my knees. Her breaths go shallow. Shallow. Quiet.

  When I fear the sound of my own heart will drive me mad, I get up and go.

  “TAKE THOSE CLOTHES OFF—EVERYTHING... is what Arethea said. And then you’ve gotta put them in this bin.” She points at the big, yellow garbage can, shoved into the corner of the bathroom. I can see her arm jut out, even though my eyes are focused on the floor. “You know the drill,” she adds softly.

  My gaze breaks away from the tile and throws itself at Whitney’s face. In another life—one I lived just days ago—this girl’s wide smile and mismatched green and blue eyes heralded homestyle comforts. Whitney Marsh: knitter of beanies and floppy socks. Whitney Marsh: Pinterest-a-holic. This girl can make a turkey out of an Oreo, a Hershey’s Kiss, and candy corn. When life gives Whitney lemons, she makes lemonade in every color of the rainbow, sweetens it with Stevia, and donates the proceeds to childhood cancer. In a few more years, Whitney Marsh is going to help autistic children learn to talk through special iPad apps. She’s Methodist. A little Marxist, which she won’t reveal until she’s had a few stiff drinks. Whitney was a virgin until my brother.

  And so it’s strange that she’s my prison warden now.

  Her mismatched eyes reach out to mine, so warm the heat of them threatens the ice I’m using as a shield. I shift my eyes away. They sink like anchors to the floor.

  I shrug my shoulders, grateful that the simple motion sends my jacket falling to the blue tile.

  “Jacket,” she says in a quiet, tired voice. I’m not looking, but I sense her pick it up and put it in the bin.

  I bend to remove my shoes, then change my mind and straighten slowly back up.

  “Do you need some help?” I hear the fabric of her clothes swish as she steps toward me.

  I turn away from her. I bend again, reach for my shoes, and end up on my ass. The cold of the tile bleeds through the fabric of my pants. I tug the shoes off, then the socks.

  I hear the soles of her Chucks mnnchh against the floor behind me. I hear her scoop my shoes up. The bag inside the bin crinkles as she deposits them inside. Unsanitary: everything on me.

  “I’m going to step around you, Kellan. Turn the shower on. Just do the same thing with your pants. I’ll get them off the floor.”

  I clutch my head.

  “I can help you up if you want. Do you want me to?” Motherfuck, she’s right behind me.

  “No,” I growl.

  I clench my jaw. I can’t believe she’s even here with me—but that’s Whitney. Compulsively dependable. Like a sister... that my brother fucks.

  FUCKED.

  “Go away,” I snap.

  I hear her retreat over by the door. I don’t feel any guilt, although I know I should.

  I get to my feet without her help and drop my running pants. I hope to fuck she isn’t looking. That’s just... weird.

  I look over at the shower stall. The door is open, and now that the water’s been running for a minute, a familiar, acrid scent leaks across the small bathroom, wafting to the low ceiling in bluish tufts of steam.

  My knees feel weak as I try to figure out where she is now, within the room. I can feel her eyes on me. I hear her soft sniff.

  “Go on, Kellan. You can get in. I’m not looking.”

  Stepping into the shower is a hard thing for me. I’m too tired to discern why, but my chest aches as I do it. The water is lukewarm, like always. Might as well be freezing. I shiver and step under the chemical water.

  I don’t move, just let it roll over me. They should really make this water warmer. I deserve warm water, I think numbly.

  I sense Whitney move in front of the rippled glass door.

  “Kellan?” she calls.

  What the hell is wrong with her?

  “I’m out here, but I can’t see you. I’m sorry to corner you like this, but I’m going to talk. You need to listen.”

  I snort, pulling steam into my nose. The chemicals in the water burn into my sinuses like cocaine.

  “I need you to hear me. Okay, Kellan?”

  I shut my eyes.

  “You made a bad choice, K. I get you lost your cool... but you might have ruined this whole thing in doing that. Have you thought about what that means? Is that what you even want? To force yourself into a corner?” Her voice echoes through the tiny room. “Is that what you want?” Her voice is breathy quiet; shrill. Because she’s on the verge of tears. “I want to know. Is that what you want, Kellan? To just... give up?”

  I look down at myself. I hate everything about my life right now—including her. So I tell her, “Go the fuck away. And Whitney? Don’t come back.”

  I want a dog... but I don’t have one. I don’t think I... pet him on the head. He’s warm. Soft hair.

  “Roll over.”

  I’m supposed to tell him that, I thought?

  Mmm.

  I roll over, mashing my breasts into the mattress and sinking back down into sleep.

  I crack open my eyes because I’m being tickled. My arms...

  I try to move them and I find I can’t.

  Fear slices through my grumpiness. I try again to move, and as my eyes blink, I spot Kellan. He’s lording over me. It’s dark. I’m on my back now, and Kellan—

  “Ahh.”

  I look down and find his head is pushed against my entrance.

  “Oh God.” My voice is low and hoarse with sleep.

  He pushes in a little, making me grunt.

  “I can’t move,” I whimper. I’m so sleepy.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” His voice is low—a nighttime voice.

  He’s shadowed by the moonlight spilling through the windows. His thick shaft pushes in a fraction more, and I inhale. Now that I’m waking up a little more, I can smell him: sweat and male. I can see his face: so taught and solemn. I wonder how his outing went. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

  I drop my legs open a little wider, and his hand closes around my hip. He rocks gently against me until my body welcomes more of him.

  “You’re so damn tight.” His hand trails up my arm. “You’re gonna take in all of me—deep into your pussy, then your throat.”

  He strokes my belly gently, sending chills over my skin; making my inner muscles clench around his hard length.

  “I need to be inside you... have to be.” His eyes on mine are soulful and intense, as if it really is a need, and not a want.

  He thrusts once, hard and deep, and he’s in up to the hilt. I’ve got every inch of him inside me, forcing me open, rearranging me with his invasion. He starts to rock his hips, and I can feel the bulb of his head way deep inside me, teasing the same nerves that alight when his finger’s in my backside.

  “You feel so good,” he rasps. His free hand crawls slowly down my ribs. “So fucking good, that pussy, Cleo...” He rocks into me, finding a rhythm that is steady and slow, with deep, almost punishing thrusts and slick pulls as he rocks away from me... then plunges deliciously back in.

  His gaze on my face never falters. His fingers twist my nipple as he pumps his big cock in and
out of me.

  I arch against him. My clit throbs.

  “You feel so good,” I whisper. “The way you stretch me...” This pleasure combined with the grogginess from sleeping. I sigh, thrusting my hips toward him.

  “You like being stuffed with my cock.”

  “Not gonna lie...” I try to reach out for his shoulder, but my hands are tied. Oh... right. I smile up at him. “I love your big cock.”

  “My little slut...”

  I rock myself against him and I sigh, relaxing my shoulders despite the tightness of the bind around my wrists. Kellan strokes a thumb over my clit. My toes curl.

  And then he pulls out of me.

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  He smiles down at me as I’m... lifted off the bed? I’m instantly confused, because Kellan is still right in front of me. If he’s not lifting me...

  He rises on his knees and smiles grimly.

  My eyes dart down my torso.

  “Holy fuck.”

  I’m strung up like an animal after a hunt. I’m in some kind of harness...

  Straps are holding me upright, pulling me slowly upward. I glance up, observing with my eyes what my body already senses: I’m hanging from a rope that disappears into a dark hole in the ceiling.

  “Oh my God, Kellan.” How the fuck did I not notice this?

  The harness is wrapped around my waist, between my legs, over my shoulders. My arms must be bound to the rope I’m hanging from; they’re still stretched above my head. I didn’t notice it before but—

  “Ahhh.” The little moan pops out my lips.

  As my weight is lifted fully off the bed and balanced by the harness, my legs sway a little, and I notice something... in my—

  “Oh God.”

  In my ass!

  I squirm in my restraints, feeling panicked as I hang there, swaying above the bed like a trapeze artist with a—

  “Kellan, what did you...”

  I clench around whatever’s lodged in me. It starts to vibrate. For a moment, I see stars. Then I’m able to focus, to look down at the bed. Just a few feet below me, Kellan is sitting up on his knees, grinning wickedly as he holds a small remote. He rises a little higher on his knees, so his face is level with my pussy.