The Keys to Jericho

by Ren Alexander

  Hearing the doorbell, I go out to the living room, but Jared comes out of the bathroom to answer it. Staying behind, I hear him and a man talking about his lease. The gray-haired man sees me over Jared’s shoulder and smiles, in which I smile back, before walking into the kitchen. From there, I hear, “Is that your wife or girlfriend?”

  “Neither. Only a friend.”

  That small statement is a shot at point-blank range, right into my heart.

  He doesn’t want me to leave him, but he has no inclination at all to make me truly his. We will be stuck in the dreaded friend zone forever, if we even have that.

  Nope. I can’t do this anymore.

  Since the kitchen is open at both ends, I go the other way, grabbing my phone from the table, taking it into the bathroom for my turn in there.

  Sinking to the floor and making a decision, I call the last person who left me a text message.

  Sniffing as they answer, I say, “Hey. It’s time for a change. I need to move on. Count me in.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, is what I do for who in the fuck knows how long. She could be in the bathroom all goddamned day. After last night, it’s better that she stays the hell in there.

  I spilled my fucking guts to her. More than once. She acknowledged I did, yet she has no fucking idea. None. She only accepted the one she expected of me—that I am a fuck up. She refused to recognize the one I couldn’t even accept for so long. The one that shook me to my hollow core.

  Well, fuck that. And her.

  Rejection is something that I’ve grown accustomed to. I’ve lived and breathed it. It runs through my veins. However, this time it was stealthy and kicked my feet out from under me, landing me on my ass, and made me a pathetic idiot. And it was all by her doing. Once again.

  No more.

  The bathroom door finally opens and she walks to the corner of the living room, but I don’t look away from the wall. It’s far more interesting.

  She doesn’t say anything, only standing there for a strange amount of time. That’s okay, because I can stare at nothingness longer than I want to look at her for even a second.

  From the corner of my eye, I see her approaching me, but I still say zilch. She said plenty last night.

  “So this is how it’s going to be? What did I do? What didn’t I do? I have no idea what happened after we made love.”

  Mechanically, I glare at her. That word makes me fucking sick, especially when she used it as a bulldozer to push me over a goddamned cliff.

  She provokes me even more. “What, Jared? Why in the fuck are you looking at me like you want to shove me off the balcony?” I’d like to.

  I want to push her so far away. I want to go away. I want to argue with her. I want her to hurt as much as she’s hurt me.

  I don’t want to feel shit.

  I want to be all over her. I want her all over me. I want to kiss her. I want to feel what I did with her last night, both inside and out.

  I don’t want her to know what she’s fucking done to me. I can’t. I’m trapped like I’m her victim.

  I’m no fucking victim.

  “Talk to me!”

  Unable to look at her any longer, I return my gaze to the wall instead. However, she blocks my view, yelling, “How can I reach you? You shut down, and up go your defenses! I’m not your fucking enemy, Jared! Shit! I doubt you consider me to be anything to you!”

  I ignore her, staring right below her tits, but flashes of last night fill my fucking head. I want the bad to flood my mind, yet they don’t, and I bite my cheek to curb my responding cock. I fucking hate the hold she has over me. I got rid of the previous chokehold a female had on me, and I can do it again.

  I have to.

  Fuck. I have to.

  “What do I have to do? God! I could say I’m losing you, but I never had you!”

  I still stare at her tits, and she looks down. “What?”

  We’re both quiet, but her chest rises and falls faster, which has me breathing faster with her, but I try to control it. She won’t control my body. No way.

  Unpredictably, and without saying a word, she pulls up her shirt, until it’s over her head, and she tosses it onto the floor. I can’t let her see me react. I cannot.

  Her hands then go to her shorts waistband, and she pushes them down with her underwear. When her pussy is exposed, the taste of her infiltrates my mouth and I bite harder, but refuse to look away. She won’t have the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to me. She’s not.

  Without thinking, my hand goes to my dick, covering it, but I keep glaring at her perfect tits, hidden in her bra, remembering what they feel like and how much I want to hold onto them. I can’t.

  Her voice trembles, “Is this the only way I can get through to you? What can I do? If I bend over or get down on my knees, like you want, what will that prove? That you’re stronger than me? That I’m some pitiful weakling?” She inhales, and it’s wobbly. “That I’m the whore I said I was and the one you’re thinking I am?”

  Against my will, I look up at her glassy eyes, and I say nothing. I’m the pitiful one.

  Clasping her hands in front of her chest, she shakes her head before wiping at her cheek with her balled hands. With hesitation, she walks closer, like she’s a rabbit, ready to meet her demise at the sharp teeth of a wolf.

  Her knees bump the couch, and I curse myself for not crossing my leg to keep her at a distance. I drop my eyes back to her stomach. If I look anywhere else, I’m afraid of what will happen.

  I’m a goddamned pussy, at the mercy of one.

  “Jared, don’t you want me?” The tone of her voice isn’t tempting. It’s desolate, and I’m reminded of that fucking karaoke duet. I clench my teeth so hard, my head aches.

  She mumbles, “You can’t even look at me. Why am I not…? Don’t you…? Are we…?” She sighs, and I warily glance at her, but she’s looking down at the couch, her striped hair falling around her face. She whispers, “Maybe it’ll be better when I’m not in your life again.”

  I want to reach for her, but I’m shocked by her saying that. She says, “I can’t… I need to be wanted, not used. I need to be loved, not resented. I need…” She loudly swallows and again wipes her cheek, and I fucking hate that I care.

  But I won’t show it. I can’t trust her, and I was stupid to ever do that.

  Not expecting it, she bends, putting her arms around my neck, and she crawls onto my lap. And she hugs me. She’s naked and she’s hovering over my crotch. I want to push her off. I want to leave the apartment. I want her gone. I want to not be inside of her, even if she’s already invaded every cell in my body, and my life.

  Expecting her to try getting my shorts down, I again steel my resolve. I am a fortress.

  I have to be.

  However, she doesn’t try. She only hugs me. Her covered tits press up against me, while the scent of her hair stirs me, and I hate myself for one more reason.

  My hands, curled into fists, stay to the sides of my legs, and my teeth are again clamping my cheek. I hear her soft sighs with slight shaking, and I don’t want to crack. Don’t want to give in.

  When she lifts her head and sits back some, we catch each other’s gaze, yet don’t utter a word. Involuntarily, my eyes fall to her lips. When I make myself look up, I see her doing the same as a tear drips down her cheek, compelling me to quickly look away. With her arms still around my neck, her hot, peppermint breath duels mine.

  Her hand goes to my cheek, coercing me to look at her, and she quietly studies my face, but I can’t keep my eyes on her. Yet each time I glance away, she either tilts with my gaze, or pulls my chin so that I look at her again. She’s not making any advances for sex, leaving me confused and aroused against my will.

  Keeping one hand on my chin, she uses the other to sweep hair from my forehead, while still gazing into my eyes. At this point, it’s futile to look anywhere else, which is not good. Looking into her water-filled bro
wn eyes, I think of what I told her last night, followed by her rejection. On the other hand, I also think of what she meant to me in high school, and what she means to me now. In many ways, they’re the same, but in many more, so fucking different.

  My cock aches from being restrained, and painfully hard for her, like the puppet I am, but I keep space between us in an attempt to once again hide my desire for her. She will not have me.

  Tilting forward, her face is closer, as if she’s going to kiss my lips, but I won’t let her. However, she bypasses my lips and kisses my cheek. When she pulls back, our eyes are on each other in a muted faceoff.

  She will not.

  Biting her lip, her eyes close as another tear falls. She sniffs and shakes her head, but as hurt as I am, I still…still hate seeing her cry.

  With my hand still covering my crotch, I slowly move to push down my waistband, which makes my arm push against her stomach. She takes that as a cue that I want her to get off my lap, and she inhales another wavering breath as she shifts to move. With my other hand, I grab her hip and urge her onto my cock; however, she truly hasn’t been turned on because I can’t get inside her so easily.

  We look up at each other at the same time. Her expression is sad astonishment, while I stoically watch her tears, and giving nothing in return.

  Her forehead goes to mine, but she tries pulling her hips away from me. I hold onto her, using both hands to keep her there. Our noses brush, slowly circling against each other’s, initiating our lips to scrape, but I won’t kiss her.

  I will not.

  Yet, she makes no move to kiss me. We just circle, listening to our breathing, letting our mouths touch, but neither of us making that essential move to kiss or fuck.

  Nevertheless, since I did fuck her last night, she’s still wet somewhat, and my cock pushes into her. Unwillingly. I did not give in.

  I did not.

  Fuck.

  I pull down on her hips as I slide into her more. She moves her head to the side of mine, lightly gasping, but I don’t know if it’s from pleasure or pain. I’m definitely suffering from both.

  Her purplish hair sweeps against the side of my face as I move her, since she’s not contributing. As long as I’m inside her, I’ll have to make the best of the situation, and I could if I wanted to, but if I wanted to fuck alone, I would’ve jerked off in the bathroom earlier.

  Not that I want to fuck her.

  Her soft crying returns, and like a short-circuited robot doing its own thing, I angle my head, nudging hers with mine. Our noses nearly touch again, and our eyes look right through each other. Without thinking, my eyes close, and my lips unthinkingly inch forward, kissing her. There’s no response from her, so my mouth attempts to revive her lips by trying again. And again. And again, until she finally awakens. Slowly, we kiss, but it’s only to get her moving. I don’t want her reading anything into it, because it means nothing. It’s just for a guaranteed fuck.

  Still, she doesn’t move her hips. My hands leave them and go into her hair, clutching her head at the roots, as I demand more from this kiss. I harden more inside her and I involuntarily thrust my hips, hoping she gets the fucking hint. Literally.

  I lick her trembling bottom lip, and thrust again, while panting over her mouth. Nothing. She fucking still does nothing.

  Pulling away, I open my eyes to see her heavy tears, and my hands leave her hair to wipe them from her cheeks. Against any judgment I seem not to have, I look into her eyes, while brushing purpled hair from her face. We stare at each other in silence and I chase more tears away, before I lean in to kiss her, but it’s only so I don’t have to see anymore fucking tears. Her mouth moves more firmly against mine, and she lifts her own hips. When I think she’s going to pull off of me altogether, she doesn’t.

  Our kiss and fuck deepen, but it’s only cause-and-effect. One affecting the other. Nothing more.

  Her hands crunch at my T-shirt, shoving it up my chest, and I automatically pull my arms out of it, disrupting our kiss only long enough to yank the shirt over my head, flinging it somewhere. She watches her hands running along my chest, down to my stomach, and even further down to our juncture. Her hands are all over, repeating her path, like it’s important. Almost as if she’s committing my body to memory.

  Whatever she’s doing has me out of breath and my hands inevitably move to her bra strap, unhooking it so I take advantage of my view, as well. Her teal bra falls down her arms, but before she even gets rid of it, my hands go to her tits, pawing at her. Anything to get her moving again. It’s all about the friction. That’s it.

  Clutching her tits, I pull her forward until her lips fall onto mine. Our tongues war with each other, but she sedately rides me, our hips out of sync with our mouths. For what reason, I have no fucking clue, especially since I swore I wouldn’t kiss her in the first place.

  And just as she seemed to do, my hands wander all over her. Moving my hands from her tits, I skim over her stomach, down to our merger, before I grab her ass, squeezing her, memorizing how she feels, as her hard nipples stroke my chest. I dig my hands into her, and she moves faster, but now our mouths fall behind. Breaking away, our eyes scan each other’s face as we fuck, feeling our mutual build brewing, but I don’t want it to end just yet, because…

  Her eyes well with tears again, but she keeps them on me as our fucking slows. Not because we’re done, but just…because. However, the measure proves to do the opposite in curbing us. Keeping our eyes on each other, we wordlessly gasp as her spasms wrack us both, which sends me convulsing inside her. Panting together, we continue to watch, as we bare our souls without saying a word, yet not understanding a damn word not said.

  Our orgasms flare together, and burn out together. Our gazes then plunge and she starts to move off me, but this time I let her.

  We silently get dressed, and she goes into my room. When she returns, she’s wheeling her suitcase, in which I’m not surprised.

  Standing, I go around, making sure everything is turned off, and nothing that is needed gets left behind.

  I check my messages as I set down my suitcase near the front door. Noticing her suitcase, but not her, I hang up my phone. I go to the balcony door and see her sitting on the cement floor with her knees bent.

  Going outside, I stand over her, but she doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Sighing, I squat in front of her, and she eventually looks up at me, her eyes wet and bleak. We again look at each other, but neither of us can hold the gaze long, unlike earlier.

  Why is she the one looking miserable? She’s the one who rejected me; doesn’t want me. Yet, here I am, watching her practically curled into a ball on the floor of a balcony. Suddenly, I want to tell her things, not all good, so I keep my mouth shut, but we’d be talking again, at least.

  Unconsciously, I lean against her legs, bowing my head over her. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t stay away from her when she doesn’t even want me. Fucking masochist. No lie.

  Her hand goes into my hair and I close my eyes as she strokes her fingers through it, and I hate that I enjoy it. I hate that I feel so fucking much with her, though she thinks I feel nothing. Just as I thought I felt nothing.

  It’s what has been driving me insane. For years.

  Blinking my eyes open, we’re caught, staring into the depths of one another’s souls once again, but I won’t give up anything. I’m good at keeping secrets. However, what secrets does she hold that I don’t know?

  Most likely, it’s better that I don’t know.

  Numbly, I offer my hand to help her up, being above leaving her low, like she did to me.

  Tentatively, she takes my hand, and I pull her up as I stand, and again, she hugs me, but I don’t hug her back. I gave her all the bullshit I have left to give on my living room couch. The one place I’ll never sit again.

  When she releases me, we go inside and I lock the balcony door before grabbing my Colts hat, wallet, and keys. Holding the front door open for her, she exits and we head to the
elevator. We walk near each other, but don’t touch. Don’t speak. Don’t make eye contact. I feel like I’m dying, but I’m not supposed to feel that, right?

  The elevator ride is deathly quiet with the luggage between us, which is very unlike the ride up to my apartment, where we were joking and kissing.

  The ride home is even worse. Since she’s so quiet and unfocused, there’s no way she should be behind the wheel, so I do the driving.

  With 20 minutes left of our drive, still nothing has been said between us since before…

  She looks out her window almost the entire time. The radio is even irrelevant. It’s the worst drive ever. I don’t feel like talking, and if I did, I wouldn’t know what to say. If there’s anything left to say.

  Resting my hand on the gearshift at a red light, since I usually have my hand on the stick in my car, I think nothing of it until my hand is picked up. My gaze falls from the windshield to her fingers sliding between mine. I cautiously look at her, but she’s looking out the window, and I stare at her purple hair.

  From the corner of my eye, I see the light turn green, so I look away from her. She holds my hand, squeezing it every so often. Maybe for some kind of reaction from me, but I don’t give her one.

  Pulling into her driveway, I let go of her hand to put the car in park, and to go get her suitcase out of the trunk; however, before I do, she grabs my arm. Turning to look at her, she kisses me, and I don’t want to kiss her back, because it’s a precarious situation for me.

  Cutting it off, I leave her hanging as I hurriedly get out of the car.

  When I pull the suitcase from the trunk, she rounds the corner and stands there, almost expectantly, as if I’m supposed to make some kind of speech.

  Instead, she walks closer, grabs my T-shirt and unsteadily whispers, “You call that a kiss?”

  I glance over to her mother’s apartment, but she grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. “If you’re not going to talk to me, will you please, at least, give me a proper kiss…goodbye?”