Sloth

by Ella James

  Manning and a short, pot-bellied man walk out from behind a white van, and Kellan nods. “See the old guy?” I note the man’s torn jeans and Pink Floyd t-shirt. “That’s my Uncle Pace. I’ll check things out, we’ll do some back slapping, and then you and me are out. It should be simple.” He winks, and I try to calm the riot rushing through my veins.

  “I wanted you to see how easy this is,” Kellan explains as he adjusts his cap again. “So if you ever had to do it, you’d know how.”

  “If I ever had to—”

  Truman barks when he sees Manning, and I watch Kellan’s face tighten as Pace raises his hand in a wave.

  They both start toward the Escalade, and Kellan says, “Wait here. Manning is picking the stuff up. Don’t know why he’s on his bike.”

  My stomach twists as Kellan saunters over to them. I never noticed until now what a nice swagger he has. In a t-shirt and jeans, it’s easy to admire.

  I watch as Manning holds out a hand and Kellan clasps it in a friendly shake. It’s weird, though, because as he does that, I see tension in his back and shoulders. Manning’s face is serious. Kellan holds out one arm, and Pace holds out both hands.

  I can’t hear what’s being said, but Manning’s face tightens, and Pace looks unhappy. Kellan’s arm slices the air. Manning touches his shoulder. Kellan takes a long step back.

  Over the dull roar of the Escalade’s AC, I hear someone shout.

  Kellan? The low boom echoes through the empty warehouse. Pace gets right in front of Kellan, reaching for his shoulder. Kellan pushes him. My heart hammers as I crack my window.

  Manning looks unhappy. Do I trust him? He seemed like a good ole boy.

  Kellan grabs Pace’s collar. “Don’t you fucking mention Lyon! EVER! Goddamn fucking Pace!” I can’t hear what Pace says back, but it doesn’t go over well with Kellan. He shoves Pace’s shoulders. Manning grabs Kellan’s arm, and Kellan takes a swing at Manning.

  “Get out of here.” I think that’s what he growls. Manning doesn’t move—I think he’s saying something I can’t hear. Kellan scoffs. His face, which I can see from the side, looks as if he’s laughing at Manning—but his shoulders are still heaving. Manning shrugs and gets on his bike. He looks pissed, but I hear him crank it, so that must mean he’s leaving.

  For the next minute, my attention is split between Manning riding slowly out the garage door, and Kellan as he and Uncle Pace begin to go at it again.

  Shit!

  Pace grabs Kellan’s arm, and cold fear sweeps me. Kellan shoves his chest, and for the first time, Pace looks angry. Kellan gets up in his face, and after something else is said, he shoves Pace again.

  My mind races. Is Pace a nice guy? Does he know I’m in the car? What if he hurts Kellan? I crack my door open, because I want to feel more mobile.

  Kellan’s voice booms through the warehouse. “I am!” Pace says something and he gets up in his face. “Oh no, you didn’t think. Fuck you, Pace. Fuck you,” he sneers.

  I catch another low, pissed off voice, and possibly an “idiot” from Pace’s mouth. Then Kellan leans closer, with his hand on Pace’s shoulder. I think they might be making nice when Kellan hauls his arm back and smashes the shorter man in the jaw.

  Truman barks—a low, intimidating sound that has me shrinking against the cracked door before I realize his tail is still thumping against the back seat. I put my hand on the doorknob, clutching it as Pace shouts something.

  He covers his face with one hand, and Kellan laughs—a bitter sound.

  Pace says something loud and forceful. I see blood drip from his nose. Kellan shoves his shoulder, and he holds his hands out. I can’t hear his words, but they are loud and they sound pissed off.

  Shit, did someone sell him out? My pulse is so frantic, I can barely breathe.

  I slide into the driver’s seat and crack that window too.

  “It’s up to me. Not Robert—ME,” he says, as Pace puts pressure on his bleeding nose. “You need to remember that shit.”

  Something else is said. Pace looks sad. Kellan seethes. Pace opens his mouth, and Kellan seems to take that as his cue to go.

  He stalks back toward the car, his hands in fists, his long strides closing the distance between us quickly. He’s within spitting range when Pace says something else. Kellan whirls around, stalks over to him, and slaps his shoulder.

  “Fuck you then,” I hear him say. He sounds resigned.

  Seconds later, he is at the driver’s door. When he sees me there, he walks around and gets into the passenger’s seat.

  “Drive,” he snaps.

  I do.

  I’M SO FURIOUS I CAN’T SPEAK. I can barely breathe as Cleo drives us back toward my house. I train my gaze on the night outside the windshield. Pace’s words ping pong around my mind, and every echo brings on new fury. The rage I feel is thick enough to fill my chest, until I’m numb and heavy, curled around a fire deep in my gut.

  After parking the car, Cleo shepherds Truman toward the porch, steers me up the stairs with her hand on my lower back, and uses my key to open the front door.

  I feel ill as we walk toward the kitchen. All because of Pace—and Manning. Fucking Pace betrayed me. Fucking Manning. Clueless bastard. They took this shit I’ve been pushing out to sea and brought it crashing through me, crashing through my house. I can’t be here. I stop before I reach the living room and look down the hall, at the front door. I could go. A part of me just wants to go.

  Cleo’s hand around my forearm brings me back. “Come on in here,” her soft voice says. “Your hand is scraped. I can clean it up for you.”

  She leads me to the couch and I sit down, my eyes cast to my boots. I can’t look at the TV. I don’t want to see the sunset post cards on the end table. Even the sight of my own legs makes my throat tighten in impotent fury, but I can’t escape myself. Not yet, anyway.

  Cleo disappears. I feel a pang. When she returns, she’s got my first aid kit. I don’t move as she cleans my knuckles, smooths a Band-Aid over one of them. I rest my head against the back of the couch and let sleep tug at me.

  I could go to sleep.

  I can’t go to sleep.

  On every level possible, I have to rage against that bullshit Pace threw at me. I’m tired but I have to fight. I’m living on my own damn terms—but when I feel this desperate, I know of nothing that will help except to be between a woman’s legs.

  I fuck Cleo on the rug. I make a cage of my arms, my palms pressed to the rug on each side of her shoulders. With her hands unbound for once, she strokes me, her warm hands tracing up and down my hips, then up a little higher, where she cups my pecs and teases my nipples.

  I hold nothing back. Three years ago, with Gillian, I fucked without a single rule, but even that was nothing like this time with Cleo. Every time I plunge inside her warm body, a ragged groan tears from my throat. Every time she sighs or gasps, I curl down closer over her, until I’m propped up on my elbows and my hands are holding her cheeks.

  My mouth devours hers—punishing, then worshipping, teasing, raging, needing. I’ve never tasted anything like Cleo’s breath as she moans between my lips. I come hard—so hard I nearly pass the fuck out with her ankles wrapped around my calves and her arms tucked over my shoulders. I fuck Cleo like a lover, and when I’m finished, I don’t even have the wherewithal to clean her up.

  Her soft hands urge me onto the couch, and then my head is in her lap. Her fingers in my hair. I’m lying on my back between her soft thighs. Cleo curls them around my waist, and I feel... safe. So safe and so, so tired.

  The demons in my mind are far away, and there is only her sweet voice, singing a song I’ve never heard...

  We’re playing checkers. The pieces are big, and they’re all black. Lyon’s hair is black, too. At least I think it’s his hair.

  I try to tickle him, under his ribs, so I can see him grin, but Lyon steps away. His face is solemn—more like mine.

  “I didn’t think I’d go before you,” he says
with his head down. “I didn’t mean to, Kelly.”

  I look him over, head to foot. He’s wearing his Trojan uniform, and it fits like it did when we both played. I stare for a long time at the crown of his dark head. I wonder why he’s gone dark now. If it means... what I fear it means.

  I grab his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to hurt—the way Robert taught us both. “I want to know where you went, Ly. This not knowing is killing me. I miss you.” My throat aches. I pull him into my arms. “You’re my older brother. You’re my twin. I need to know.”

  “You know I can’t tell you.” He laughs. “If I told you, Kelly, I’d have to kill you.”

  My throat and stomach burn like someone dumped a vat of acid into me. Lyon is wrenched from me. I look around for him, but there is no sign he’s ever even been here. The blue tiles are cold under my feet. Blue steam wafts through the air. I breathe it in, because along with poison, there is oxygen—and I haven’t yet learned how to live without breathing.

  “Fuck me.” I clutch my throat. The shaking starts in my shoulders and spreads out, all through my aching body.

  I never thought I’d feel this pain again...

  I jerk out of sleep as if the hand of God has plucked me from the ether. Cleo’s face is right in front of mine. I blink a few times before noticing that she looks scared shitless. Her hands squeeze my shoulders, and she’s straddling my outstretched legs. “Kellan! Shit—you scared me.”

  “What?” I look around the living room, still stained with shadow but starting to glow from the rising sun. I look down at my busted hand. “What’s going on?”

  Her hand rises to cup my nape. “You feel asleep in my lap. You had a nightmare, I think.” She puts her free hand on my chest, and I notice how fast I’m breathing.

  I try to slow it down, but I keep feeling that ghost pain in my throat. “Water,” I try. Cleo rushes to the kitchen. I can’t breathe. I stagger up and walk around the couch, into the kitchen, where I see her opening cabinets. I hang onto the granite countertop and try to focus on the cold beneath my hands.

  I’m in my own house. I’m not going back there. I’m okay for now. I look down at my bandaged hand and want to scream. Why’d I do that? I’m so fucking stupid.

  Cleo’s hands are rubbing my back. I like that.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. But I can’t seem to slow my breathing.

  I just stand there... flailing, while Cleo’s hands stroke my fevered skin through my shirt, and my body echoes and my heart hangs from my chest in tattered shreds. I miss my brother so much, I can’t breathe.

  I try to ration my breaths, and Cleo keeps rubbing circles on my back. Like Lyon. He would rub my neck and shoulders—since when we were little kids.

  My big brother... he knew what would make me better. The one who didn’t know was me...

  I lean over the counter and let my head rest on my arm. “Cleo?”

  “What can I do?” she asks in a high voice.

  I shake my head. I turn around and pull a cabinet open. I grab a pill bottle and shake a Xanax into my damp palm. It’s been a long time since I took one, so they might be expired... A few fall to the floor, and Cleo rushes to gather them.

  I hold one in my hand, thinking of cutting it in half. My fingers shake so much, I just put it in my mouth and chew.

  She takes the bottle from me as I swallow bitter pieces.

  I lean over the counter, too ashamed to look at her. “I’m sorry,” I say as it starts to spread its numbing fingers through me. I pull my lead gaze up to hers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You were saying ‘lie.’”

  “Lyon.” I let my eyelids slip shut. I feel her hand, a gentle pressure on my back.

  “I heard you say it at the factory too,” she whispers by my ear. “Did something happen, Kellan? I can tell you’re really upset.”

  I open my eyes and find her worried face. I take her hand.

  “Come here,” I whisper.

  I lead Cleo over to the couch and then I summon all my energy and walk to the DVD player.

  I take the Trojans DVD’s plastic case and turn the player on.

  I sit beside her, feeling heavy.

  “Look at this.” My eyes shut as I pass her the leaflet from inside the case. “Find my name,” I groan. I don’t mean to, but I can’t keep the pain out of my voice.

  “I see you—right here. Kellan Drake.”

  “Now look below it,” I rasp.

  “Lyon Drake? I’m confused.” Cleo pauses, and I hear the TV start to play. “Number thirty-three, the program says.”

  “His number?” I lift my head out of my hands as my eyelids try to shut. Yes, Lyon was thirty-three.

  I nod, and she watches the screen. Lyon lines up in his tight-end position, and my chest fills up with nails.

  “That’s your brother?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Is he younger or older than you?” she asks gently.

  “Twins,” I murmur. The word feels foreign on my tongue.

  “Did something happen to him?”

  I swallow, even though my throat is dry. I bury my head in both my hands. “He died.”

  I watch the phantom Kellan on the screen. It’s strange because he has blond hair, like the Kellan sitting with me on the couch, so as he circles around my dark-haired Kellan with a giant cooler, my senses tell me that he’s Kellan. He’s got the same beautiful body, the same gorgeous blue eyes. But when he laughs, his face is different. He has dimples when he smiles, and Kellan only gets them when he frowns.

  My dark Kellan darts away and starts to circle blond-haired Lyon. Lyon whirls around with him. When Kellan feints, his brother seems to know. He dumps the cooler full of ice in the exact right spot to drench Kellan.

  Kellan jolts out from under the icy water and tackles his brother. Behind them, fans are filing out of the stadium. Other players join in, and as the brothers brawl on the football field, someone brings another cooler and dumps it on them both.

  “Fuck you!” Kellan roars.

  Lyon is laughing—laughing with his blond head thrown back. Laughing like a Kellan angel.

  I can see where Kellan gets his darkness. It’s the balance to his brother’s light.

  Someone starts to throw ice cubes, and the twins disappear into a mass of jerseys. I hear one final whoot from one of them, but it’s impossible to discern which. My Kellan was younger, freer, despite his black hair. As if in answer, Lyon flits in front of the screen, smiling gloriously for the camera.

  He shakes his wet head, sending drops of water flying at the lens.

  “And that’s all we have tonight, from Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Keep it cool, and we’ll see you next week,” the announcer says as the camera pans out.

  I shift my gaze to Kellan. He’s just staring. I can see no feeling on his face.

  “When did it happen?” I whisper.

  “September 18. 2011.”

  I nod slowly. “That date is coming up.” I look at his hands, sitting listless in his lap, and I wonder about his fight at the bar. It was January 2011—just a few months after this game was filmed. Was his brother there that night? I didn’t read anything about his brother in the papers. Was Lyon as talented as Kellan? Were they both untamed boys, privileged athletes living outside the lines? Were they using drugs?

  “It must be on your mind.”

  I touch his thigh with just my fingertips, even though it makes me nervous—the act of reaching out and touching him when he’s in so much pain. I don’t want to hurt him more. Instead, he doesn’t move at all. His body is like a statue. After a moment, he leans his head against the back of the couch.

  He closes his eyes, and I stare down at my helpless hand on his jeans. My heart pounds with the need to comfort him somehow, but my mind is painfully blank. I feel a burst of panic as I watch the even rise-fall of his chest. I hope he didn’t fall asleep. Not before I get a chance to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. �
��I never take this shit.”

  “Please—don’t be sorry.” I have a memory of a letter I got from “R.” once, where he replied to a note I’d sent about going to see Olive’s grave. He told me I should take Xanax before bed after I went. Tomorrow—well, today—I’m going to Olive’s grave again. Maybe I’ll take a page from “R.” and Kellan’s book. “You should never feel bad about doing something that will ease your pain. Everyone deserves a break.”

  I raise my hand and ease it behind his head, dropping down to rub his nape gently. His skin is soft and very warm. His eyes lift up to mine.

  “Can you not... rub like that?” He rasps. “I’m sorry.” He drops his forehead into his hand.

  “Of course. You want me to give you some space?” I start to move my arm, still hovering over his shoulders. He grabs my hand and tugs it down, settling my arm firmly around his back.

  I scoot closer to him. My hip touches his as I tighten my grip on his back, hoping that the weight of it will make him feel less alone—the way he did for me today at dinner.

  We sit like that a while, and I lean my head against his shoulder. A moment after I move, he does—raising his head to look at me with haunted eyes. “I need you again,” he whispers. “Now, please.”

  I nod, and he lifts me in his arms. He cradles my body to his chest, my forehead on his shoulder as he slowly climbs the stairs. I’m expecting slow sex on the bed, so he shocks me by lowering me belly-first onto the hall runner, yanking off my pants, and coming down heavy over me. He fingers me until I’m gasping, then he fucks me without flair.

  Just a pounding doggy style, until his warmth jets inside me and I clench around him. We groan in unison, splitting open the dark silence.

  He braces himself there atop me for only a moment. Then he scoops me up, sets me on my feet, and smacks my ass so hard it echoes. I yelp and whirl around to face him. I find Kellan sharp-edged and somber.

  “Go to your bedroom,” he orders. “Lie on your back, in the middle of the mattress. Wait for me.”