American Goth

by J. D. Glass

  I didn’t know where I was headed, really, or how long I’d be. I just wanted to let the throb behind my eyes dull before I tackled the task my father had laid before me. Images and thoughts chased each other like bright goldfish. My Da thought an avatar had returned. What in the world was the Judas myth, or its cult? What would my gifts be after my sealing? Could I keep Fran safe? Could I protect anyone, really? Where did Old Jones fit into all of this? My mother? I wish I’d known her… What purpose had it served in not telling me what had really happened to her sooner? My poor Da…were he and my mother together somewhere? Was that even possible? What happened, where was the potential new being that had left the Material just before my mother did? These things and more darted and dipped around my mind, chasing one after the other, each nipping at the heels of the next, and I didn’t see Fran by the gate until I almost knocked right into her.

  “Let me go with you.”

  I squirmed inside, not knowing how to say I wanted to be alone, alone in my mind, alone in my skin, away from all the thoughts and the emotions that rode down so hard on me they made me feel sluggish, heavy, trapped.

  She stood there, her hand in her pocket, eyes calmly considering me, observing the play of emotion through mine.

  “You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to say a thing. I can ignore you if you want, but you shouldn’t be alone right now and I’m not about to let you do something you’ll regret.”

  I gaped at her. I didn’t know what to say, and this time, she touched gentle fingers to my cheek. “Sammer, you can’t do this on your own.” Her voice matched her touch.

  “Frankie…” Her eyes were clear, her intent so pure, I could only shake my head and sigh. “Fine.” I unclipped the other helmet from the seat and passed it to her. “Let’s go.”

  She settled around me and we were off. The vibration that raced through me, the cold on my face even as her hands were warm on my stomach while we roared around the corner, made me feel a little better, gave me a little distance from the weight that pounded in my head.

  We rode aimlessly, down streets we’d never visited, got stuck for a bit in the eternal traffic around Piccadilly. Once back in the swing again, I kept riding, stopping long enough for gas only to ride off again, back to the dockyards, and then, almost as if irresistibly drawn, I headed back toward Spit.

  Fran’s unspoken curiosity combined with puzzlement was an electric haze around her as we walked back over to the door, so different now in the half-light of early dusk. It was quiet, still, like something sleeping, not the peaceful sleep of restorative dreams and untroubled calm, but the fitful slumber of hot and heavy fevers, the vivid kaleidoscope of colors and sounds interrupted by the dizzying endless drop into black that might mercifully end in abrupt awareness, the sort that sits up suddenly, ravening.

  I traced the plaque with my fingertips, felt the hum of industry, of purposeful labor and toil, some with cheer, some with a muted resignation, bleed from it into my hand.

  “What are you looking for?” Fran asked quietly, the first words she’d spoken the entire ride.

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly, turning from the plaque to the main doors to do the same. The construction was newer, despite its almost abused appearance, but the read was completely different. There was the white welding arc the doors were forged in, the same industrial pound of its installation and then…a flash of blood, of fire and fear, sex and despair. I caught the scent of burning tar and plastic, and a vision, a flicker of light, surrounded, devoured, by creatures similar to the one I’d hunted on the Astral.

  I dropped my hand and faced her. She looked pale. “What are you getting?” I asked her.

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head, loosening her hair from its confines under the collar of her jacket as she stared at some vague point on the ground. “Do you remember…schoolyard fights?”

  “You mean, like, fighting itself?”

  “No, I mean…do you remember how the other kids would watch? Cheer?”

  “Yeah.”

  She raised her eyes to mine. “There were always a few who would watch that…and liked to, enjoyed it. That’s feeling I get.”

  I nodded and suddenly, I was clear of the haze in my head, human again, a snap back to the skin and I was standing outside the empty club, freezing my ass off with Fran, who I’d been really rude to for no reason other than I’d felt hazy and crummy. I was a jerk.

  “Hey, this…this is stupid. You want to go back?” I asked her and took her hand. Her fingers were cold and I chafed them between mine. “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’m being a jerk.”

  She grinned, her eyes sparking at me. “Just a little,” she agreed. “But,” and she kissed my cheek, “it’s been a rough couple of days for you—well, for you and me both.” The bandage on her hand scraped gently against my chin. “You’re not ready to go back yet, are you?”

  “No. Would you mind…” I hesitated a moment, because I knew I wasn’t really being fair, but it was a gut feeling I had to follow. “Do you mind if we stop by the studio?”

  A sudden chill ran through her and she shivered, then went still. “Why there?”

  I shrugged. I had no answer. “Dunno,” I said finally. I kissed the hand that had finally warmed in mine. “Just a thought.”

  I didn’t know how to explain it, that in the rush of images, there had been a scent, a sound, a thread that led there. I didn’t understand, couldn’t quite place the connection, but I had to follow it.

  She dropped my hand. “Let’s go.”

  *

  This time, I made sure to rub her hand, hold it against my waist, before we took off. The one thing about riding with someone, even at slower speeds, was that conversation was difficult and it wasn’t until we pulled up to the block that I finally said, “You’ve haven’t been here yet.”

  “No, not yet,” she answered as I cut the engine.

  “C’mon.” I took her hand, careful of the wound, a momentary stab of guilt at how it happened jabbing through me as I keyed the lock.

  “It’s not much, but it’s—” I stopped as I opened the door to find the lights on and Paolo and Kenny comfortably ensconced on the beat-up blue tweed sofa, apparently in deep conversation.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Anarchy herself,” Kenny drawled with a smile.

  Paolo smirked at me.

  “I thought there was only one key,” I said as we moved into the room.

  Paolo’s smirk widened. “There’s only one key, but there’s more than one way into anything.”

  “Well, we’re done here, anyway,” Kenny said, slapping the cushion as he jumped up to stand. “You’ve got the place to yourselves…” He winked at me, then smiled, “I’m sure you’re eager to show your friend the drum kit and the coffee maker—fresh pot, by the by.” He pointed toward the kitchenette. He seemed edgy; his hands moved almost frenetically, and he kept working his jaw. It was a marked contrast to Paolo’s languid pose.

  “Yes, energy and rhythm—I’m sure you’ve plenty of both,” Paolo drawled, his gaze arrogant as he looked me up and down, and I shifted slightly so Fran was behind my shoulder. I didn’t like his look, I didn’t like his tone, and I didn’t like the gleam in his eyes on me or when he shifted to her.

  I hope he plays like shit, I thought vehemently, even if it means another month or more of finding a replacement for Graham.

  Fran put a hand on my shoulder and moved to stand next to me. “More than most, less than some, I’d say.” Her tone was friendly, joking even, but what waved off her was heat, a liquid blush of anger, and threaded through it was the faintest hint of fear. That fear was the source of anger came as no surprise—I knew that from what I’d learned, ingrained in me as part of my very first test on the Astral—but what did surprise was the direction of the fear: she was afraid not for herself, but for me.

  Paolo rose to his feet so suddenly it was alarming, but I stood my ground as he gave me an enigmatic smile. “A man among men an
d a woman among…” He licked his teeth. “Well, I’m sure you have your moments. Let’s go, Kenny,” he turned and said. “Leave them to their…discoveries.”

  It was the way he said it, so like Old Jones, that made my blood turn to ice and my mixed impressions coalesced into dislike.

  “I’m here to check my amp,” I said finally, and that wasn’t a lie—I’d blown a fuse in our last session, and while I’d replaced it then, it wouldn’t be unusual for me to want to fiddle with it. “Why are you guys here?”

  “Just thought he’d like to see what sort of setup we have, not be unprepared Sunday,” Kenny answered as they brushed by us, Paolo before him. “Ta!” He waved and Paolo threw one last look over his shoulder before they shut the door behind them.

  “What the hell…?” Fran asked as I took off my jacket.

  “I don’t know,” I said, and stared at the sofa, as if it could give a clue. Of course, it gave nothing, and I waved Fran over to the kitchen. “Well, at least there’s coffee—want some?” I asked as I moved to the counter. “You can use my mug.”

  “Stop.” Fran caught my hand as I reached for the pot. “Don’t. I don’t like him, I don’t trust him, and I wouldn’t drink anything he had anything to do with—you shouldn’t either. Look.”

  She pointed with my hand still held in hers at the counter. It could have been sugar, it could have been salt, it could have been the powdered creamer that Kenny was so fond of, but the color and texture was off for all of those things and Fran wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me back to her, even as I stared.

  “Paolo wants something from you—and he can’t have it.” The words were said into the light hairs on my neck and the guarding pull became a possessive hold that sent a flash of flame through me as her lips touched down onto the skin beneath them.

  Fran proved how well she knew me, knew my body, as one hand unerringly found the button of my pants while the other slid beneath it so her fingers could spread me, and found me hard.

  “Baby,” I breathed as she pulled me to her and I craned my head for her lips. My back jarred against her as she leaned against the wall and when my tongue skated over hers, she jerked me off with the same slow strength.

  “This…is not his,” she vehemently whispered before she filled me, hard and fast, full and good, all while the firm, slipping grip on my clit as she pushed the hood back and played with my head made me feel like I was fucking her.

  “No…it’s not…oh God—I-want-to-fuck-you,” I gasped out, meaning every word of it, the vision of her impaled on my cock so real my fingers wrapped around her wrists, urged her on as she slipped another finger into me, stretching me so fucking good, so…fucking…

  “I love that,” she growled into my ear, my hand pushing on hers, pushing her deeper.

  When we got home, her tits swayed over my head as we both watched her cunt lower onto my cock, the deep drive that only touched the surface of satisfaction, the weight of her body centered perfectly over my clit as I thrust, she rode, and when she parted her pussy lips so I could see more, the vision of her clit sliding down my dick as it filled her made my own feel like it would explode and I couldn’t help but sit up and reach for her, wedge her fat clit between my fingers, exposing her head so it could ride my shaft.

  The sound of her cunt as it sucked on my dick, the clench of her stomach, the hug on my hips, the grip on my shoulders, the curl of her lips…it all combined when I tangled my fingers into the hair against her neck to pull her closer, to reach for the kiss that made everything so complete. It created a haze, a suspended moment of time, the forever hang where the Universe centered, coalesced, became us.

  I saw things, felt things, knew she caught them too, and when, once again, a face floated through my mind, she gasped, released my hip long enough to press the charms I wore back into my skin, forcing the image bigger, brighter, until it was almost real and I loved them both, knowing it was okay, that this had its own reality, if not in this Universe, then perhaps another.

  When she came all I could do was hold her close, tight, kiss her with the all love I had for her and the love I carried with me. The love we shared had part of its root there; we both held someone, the same someone, in us, between us, and here or not, we both loved her dearly. And I knew that in loving each other, in a very real way, we honored that too.

  Still, deep within her, within me, was the knowledge that as united as we were, I simply could not do what I needed to so long as we were so close to one another. I’d forgotten something basic in my concern for her, something I should have not only thought of, but done immediately. There was no doubt in my mind that Fran was instrumental to who I was, who I would be, and the finding of the key proved it. That she had shed blood for it, even accidentally, Jones’s threat, Paolo’s gaze, all told me quite clearly that she would constantly be in danger, for me, and from me. And…there were no accidents.

  I kissed her again as she cried, silent tears that shook her shoulders, even while she still moved on me.

  “I don’t—I don’t want…”

  I hushed her with a kiss. “I know,” I whispered into her lips, “I know. Me either. But we don’t end Frankie, we don’t,” I assured her as I wrapped my arms around her, shifted us, laid her gently beneath me. “This will always be between us, this you and me, this time…” I didn’t know what I wanted to say, or how to say it, just that I suddenly needed to feel her, all of her, show her in ways that were unmistakable what I knew, that when we said good-bye, it wouldn’t be to what we felt or meant to each other—it was to what we could be, together.

  It was that possibility, that probability, we would let go of, mutually, with love, understanding fully what we would give up, because there were things in this world larger than both of us, hungry things, needful things, dark and sad things that looked at love and sacrifice as toys, as food. I would not submit her spark or her life to that.

  I carefully eased my cock from her and fumbled with the harness, removing it to replace the hardness of my cock with the slick ride of my cunt against hers.

  We slipped against each other again, my fingers within her, soothed, comforted, loved by the deep, wet embrace and the pulse under my thumb, the return feel of her within me as she stroked my shaft, the sighs and the kisses, the “I love you” whispered through tears, hers, mine, it didn’t matter through the pound of my heart, the return beat of hers that matched it as she once again roared through me.

  In gentle caresses, in careful negotiation, in full awareness of how much we would hurt ourselves and each other, we compromised: we’d be lovers until she returned to the States, but when she did, this aspect of us would end. Of course, we would still be close—we loved each other, and we were bound—but we would be friends: we would walk away from the rest of it. We had to. Her distance from me would at least partially ensure her safety and even if she didn’t fully believe that, or wasn’t as concerned about it, she did understand me: there were moments I could barely breathe when I thought about what could happen. And I now had a very good idea of what already had.

  *

  In the mornings that followed, I pored through every single one of my father’s books, passed them to Fran when I was done, brought them and my notes to my meetings with Elizabeth, showed them to Cort, made them each sit and tease it apart with me.

  There were answers in there, dammit, a puzzle that spanned almost thirty years, and I wanted all eyes on it.

  Patterns started to emerge, repeated places, names; unexplained fires, mysterious suicides, unanticipated drug overdoses, and seemingly random disappearances, all tied to certain geographic locations, like the neighborhood around Saint James Hospital in Leeds, or the borough of Brooklyn in New York, or Newark, New Jersey. There were a few other places as well, and in all of them there were spurts of crime, very specific types, that came into fashion, then went out again, ebbing and flowing like the tides.

  Two things added to my frustration level as the days went by and my Da’s meti
culous notes allowed us to slowly peek into how well the web had been spun.

  The first was that Paolo turned out to be an excellent guitarist, and since both Hannah and Kenny liked him, he was in. I bit my tongue on that; perhaps I’d been wrong, perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad after all—even I had to grudgingly admit he did have talent.

  The second occurred that night. Fran had crawled down my body, nipping, tasting, teasing, and the promise in her eyes was as stirring as her touch.

  “I want to suck on your cock,” she said, her gaze heavy and hot on me, her breath warm on my belly as she fit her shoulders between my legs.

  I stretched an arm over to the nightstand, fumbled within, and as I brought everything down by my waist, she caught my hand and what was in them.

  “Not that,” she told me with a smile, taking the harness and the toy from me. She placed them to the side, then gently spread my cunt before her. “This…” She blew softly on my exposed clit, and teased me with the very tip of her tongue in a way that made my eyes close even as I couldn’t help the whispered sigh she drew from me—I loved the way she did that.

  “Watch,” she asked and I forced my eyes open as I sat up on my elbows.

  The sight of her tongue as it swirled around my clit, the dip of it inside me, the feel and fit of it that made me groan only to make me do so again when she drew back out to show me how wet I was, turned me on as much as what she was doing.

  Fran smiled at me with sensual knowing, a carnal regard that glowed from her eyes when we both watched my clit jump under her skillful mouth. I felt her everywhere as the sheets slipped under my fingers and the heat rose through my skin, the intoxicating rush a thrilling flood through me. But when she gently pushed the hood back to expose more than just the head of my hard-on…

  “You’re so…fucking…hard,” she whispered, then stroked her tongue against the sensitive underside, “I want your cock in my mouth.” She took me between her lips.