by Holly Hart
Brandon
It’s too much to take in all at once, so I swallow it in bites: the black ash that dusts my shoes; the vaguely plane-shaped scar in the earth. The trough we dug in the desert goes on forever, a great, blackened skid—fifty feet, sixty, a hundred—out of sight. Even before the dirt turns black, there’s a trail of charred weeds. We must’ve been burning hot enough to ignite the grass, even before we hit the ground.
I kick gravel over the lip of the scar. There’s nothing left of the fuselage. Just an empty, poisoned hole, two, three feet deep, where the nose must’ve hit.
“There....” That’s where I’d have been sitting, if we hadn’t broken up—there, over the ghost of the right wing. I pull my sleeve over my nose and mouth, blocking out phantom smoke. The smell’s gone—it is. All that’s left is a sort of chemical tang—what they used on the fire, no doubt.
Adam and Sharon, they’d have been on the other side. Closer to the tail. I suppress something dangerously close to a whine, at the thought of her reaching for his hand, at the end—would he have taken it? Did he? Surely, he must’ve quit cursing me, turned to her....
I pick my way around the trench, avoiding the worst of the ash. Lily was right—there were cows here. They’ve explored the area thoroughly, leaving aimless loops of black hoofprints. I follow one set to where my seat must’ve been. There’s nothing to go by but memory: no dragmarks, no blood. Even my vomit’s been covered by the blowing dust.
There’s nothing over here, nothing.
I do a slow turn. Was I really here at all? Did I truly stand...here? There? I squint at a vaguely familiar bush. There’s a bag of chips under it, stepped-on and burst, dirty crumbs spilling out.
I remember that. The chip bag—Miss Vickie’s Sea Salt and Vinegar. My favorite. Still whole, after the crash. Could’ve taken it with me—a snack for the road.
A warm hand lights on my elbow. Lily’s looking at me, questioning. I shake my head, at a loss for words. She folds her arms around me. I try not to cling, but there’s something lonely about the sound of the desert wind, the thought of Sharon’s last moments, the pilot—even Adam. Should’ve been me, as well, curled and dead in that crater.
“Don’t think that way.”
I hide my face in the crook of her neck. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s about ninety degrees out, and you’re shivering.” She rubs the back of my neck. “Also, you’re muttering. Have been, since you came over here. This where you ended up?”
“Think so. It’s... My seat was here. But they’ve cleaned it all up. There were flecks of metal over that way—” I sweep my arm behind me. “Little ones, like splinters, and some the size of fists. All wadded up and gnarled.”
“Oh, Brandon....”
“Couldn’t get anywhere near the plane. Not even to check—to see....”
The chip bag grabs my attention again. A memory breaks the surface: the flash of foil in my peripheral vision; my fists pumping the air—We survived!
That was real, too—that moment of jubilation, before I turned around.
Lily steps back, looking up at me. “Is this helping? Are you...getting what you need?”
I eye the scene: the black scar, the blasted trail, the road sign peeking up over the hill. All real—dismal and undeniable. Still, if I could walk away once, bundle it up tight, avoid it like I did....
I take out my phone, turn it sideways, and snap a photo. It won’t fit—the ash streak. It cuts off halfway. Too much.
“Yeah. Yeah—I got it.”
“Come on.” She takes me by the hand and leads me back the way we came. I close my eyes, trusting her to get me back to the car. After a few seconds, I open them again.
I came here to stop looking away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lily
“So we walked through my memories—now we’re strolling through yours.” Brandon nudges me, directing my attention to a familiar wooden shack, well on its way to dereliction—Granny’s Place: Grub * Gab * Goodies. I blink away the memory of little Jed and little Mark, shimmying up the tree and onto the roof, pockets laden with sweets. Chucking Tootsie rolls at me when I wouldn’t climb up in my new Sunday skirt.
Brandon’s eyeing the façade. “Why do they do that, out here?—put up those fake second storeys? Like, it’s obviously one floor, with an extra six feet of wall out front.”
Never thought about that before. “Some of ‘em put billboards up there. Not so much here, but in bigger towns.”
We carry on down Main Street. There’s not much to see: the fire department, with its one peeling water tank; a couple of deserted businesses; houses that haven’t seen a lick of paint since I was a kid.
“Adina used to live there.” I point at an empty lot, dotted with trees. “Our bass player.” There’s nothing left of her house—not even the square of new sod I remember from last time. “Where that tree is, that was her bedroom window. And there—that’s where we played in the sprinkler.”
Brandon smiles, perhaps at a similar memory. “Where’d you live?”
“Over on Anthracite.” I veer us in that direction—we’re running out of Main Street. “Kind of the nice part of town.”
I can see our old house already. Someone’s hung a flag over the door, and there’s Christmas lights still in the trees, but everything else is the same. Right down to the chicken-wire fence. Tore my winter coat on that, the night Dad left. I ran out after him, thinking he was going to the store. Two weeks later, we moved out past the town line, but there’s no point in taking Brandon there. Nothing left but a weed-choked dirt track, leading nowhere.
“So is this a ghost town, or... Does anyone still live here?”
“No, they do. Just, the high school closed years ago, and most people work out of town. Not a lot going on during the day.” Or at night. It gets dark out here when the sun goes down—real dark, not city dark.
Brandon’s taking it all in: the tiny houses, adrift on their threadbare lawns; the scrubby trees, the faded signs. “How’d anyone hear you sing, growing up here?” He’s rubbernecking like crazy, searching for signs of life.
“Oh, well, the neighbors sure heard us.” There’s a pre-studio version of Pig Country floating around, complete with Mr. Fisher banging on the window, and the words knock it off, clear as day. “Seriously, though, Jed had a van. We’d go on the weekends, wherever they’d let us play—school dances, battles of the bands—even a strip club one time. And we sent out about a million demo tapes.” I smile at the memory. Jed’s van smelled like nachos and feet, and that one time Mark lost a Filet-O-Fish under the seat, but—
—Mark leans out the window, mouth open like a dog. His hair’s almost to his waist, blowing out like a sail.
“Moron! Can’t hear ya for shit!” Jed’s laughing his ass off, cranking the radio as the wind plucks the words from Mark’s mouth.
“I said, it’s fucking hot!”
I suck on my Popsicle, grape syrup dripping down my wrist, and—
—“Well, this is it.” I stop in front of my old house. Up close, it’s clear no one lives here. The flag’s hanging limp and faded, and the kitchen window’s boarded shut. A black-and-white pitbull slinks out from behind the shed and runs off at the sight of us.
“It’s... I like the red roof.”
“No, you don’t.” I don’t, either. It’s faded to a dull terracotta, and giving way to rust. I remember it different: bright red and welcoming, with my family underneath it. Mom’s not going to come running out that front door. Jed won’t pull up in his van, ready to drive us to Abilene or Fort Worth. There’s nothing left of my memories, nothing I can show him. I point where the porch swing used to be, anyway. “I was sitting right there when we decided to start the band.”
“Was it always the four of you?”
I shake my head. “Used to be one other kid. Jake. Parents wouldn’t let him quit school to come touring.” Wayne wasn’t much help in changing their minds. “You
should show me yours, some time. Your childhood home.”
Brandon drapes his arm over my shoulders. “It’s a Tim Horton’s now. Or, more accurately, a Tim Horton’s parking lot.” He kisses the top of my head. “You can see where I went to school, though. Picture me in my striped tie and glasses.”
I close my eyes. This place is suffocating. So quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. “Let’s get out of here. Drive up to Eastland and get a room.”
“You don’t want to peek in the windows?”
“I want to go somewhere and fuck.”
Brandon doesn’t argue with that.
He pins me to the wall, hand to my throat. I guide him higher, tighter, closer still. This is what I need: to be held. Trapped in place. Stripped of everything but sensation—no thoughts, no choices, no fear. He’s perfect for this—hard and unyielding. Rough hands. My vision goes white when he grinds hard against me. Couldn’t move even if I wanted to, not an inch, no....
“Wait.” He pulls his hand away.
I yank it back, snarling. Don’t you dare.
“Tell me first. Tell me what you want.”
“You. So close you fill all my senses. Crushing me to the bed till I only breathe on your say-so. Looping your tie round my neck. Bending me over and reddening my ass.”
“All that, hm?” He smiles, loosening his tie.
“Don’t make me wait for it.” I dip my head. “Sir.”
That goads him into action. He slings me over his shoulder, so fast it leaves me breathless. In three strides, he’s tossing me on the bed, kicking my legs apart. My skirt rides up over my hips. I’m breathing hard, ready for him, pulse rushing in my ears.
“This what you want?” Brandon pulls his tie over his head.
I nod.
He trails the tie over my face—slow as a glacier over my forehead, my nose, my lips. It smells like him, like his skin, his cologne. I reach for it and he slaps my hands away.
“A fine silk tie with... Is that a polyester blend?” He plucks at my sleeve, tutting under his breath. “I think not. Take it off.” He doesn’t move an inch. There’s barely room to fit one hand between us, to work my buttons loose. I give up halfway down and tear the rest free, wriggling against him as I squirm free of my shirt. He’s obscenely hard, cock brushing rudely between my legs with every twist and jerk.
“This, too.”
I have to lift my hips to unzip my skirt. The hook catches on my underwear, and I push it all down to my ankles, baring myself to him. Brandon presses down, firm and insistent. I can feel the stiffness of his zipper, the roughness of wool over top—and underneath, him, throbbing for me, promising punishment and pleasure.
“Sir....”
He twitches for that, coarse wool brushing my clit. I gasp and buck against him.
“Mm—control yourself.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“Bad.” At last, he slips his tie over my head, adjusting the knot till it grazes the underside of my chin. It’s tight—on the verge of too tight. I can feel the slightest pressure, a thrill of lightheadedness. “Turn over.”
When I don’t immediately respond—distracted by the faint tingle in my hands—he slaps me across the hip. I jump at the sudden sting, biting back a hungry grin. I’m half-tempted to skip the foreplay, demand he plow me without delay. But I need more. Need to feel everything he can give me. I roll over on hands and knees, surprised to find myself trembling. Wanting.
“Please....”
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir. Punish me. Now.”
Something cracks down on my ass—cool and leathery, harder than his palm. I turn my head to look, and the tie tightens around my throat. I choke and gasp. Tilt my head back till I can breathe. I’m taut as a bowstring from neck to thighs, back arched, ass in the air. Quivering in anticipation.
Whatever he’s found, he brings it down on my other cheek. Feels like a book: heavy and stiff, one blunt corner digging into my flank. I yelp and moan as the blows rain down, one after another, impossibly loud in the tiny room.
My position becomes more precarious every time he adjusts his grip on my leash. He’s sneaky about it—a twitch here, a tug there, till I’m staring at the ceiling, back arched to its limit, barely balancing on the tips of my fingers. One slap out of place, I’ll lose my balance. Strangle myself on his tie. I shiver, toes curling. I can’t help it—I lift one hand off the mattress, to feel myself sway and nearly topple. My heart flutters and skips a beat.
“Hand down.”
I shudder again. His voice crackles with command. My hand flies back to the mattress. He could tell me to do anything, right now—I wouldn’t say no. I’m floating, not dizzy, but elated. Brandon trails his fingers over my well-spanked cheeks. His touch burns. I want to lean into that soft, teasing fire, but I can’t move an inch.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, without meaning to.
“Fuck you, hm?” Brandon’s fingers dip between my thighs. Along my slit. I can feel the slick glide, hear the lewd sound as he spreads my lips. “Ready for me?”
“I’ve been ready....” I can barely talk. I’m faltering, the pressure at my throat almost unbearable. He jerks the tie one last time. Spots dance in front of my eyes. I use the last of my strength to push myself up off the bed, hands flying to the knot. I fall back into his arms, and Brandon catches me. He brushes my hands aside effortlessly, loosening his tie with a practiced tug. I gulp in a deep breath, and another, sinking into his soothing caresses.
“Too much?”
I go to shake my head; it lolls to the side. “Just enough. Don’t stop....”
The sheet’s hot on my ass, the pillows cool on my neck as he lowers me to the bed. I stretch out luxuriously, opening my arms for him, my legs, myself. He unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down just enough to free his cock.
“This what you want?” He strokes it slow, leaning back to give me a good view.
“Every inch.”
Brandon pulls a condom from somewhere, wrapper fluttering to the floor as he sheathes his dick. I’m panting, raising my hips for him, offering myself up like a sacrifice. He doesn’t waste time, thrusting inside in one long, smooth motion. It almost hurts for a moment—his thickness; his length; the angle—and then he’s moving, and I’m moving with him. I groan as my ass grazes the sheets. The fabric’s soft, well-washed and cottony, but every movement tingles, has me clawing at my own thighs, at Brandon’s back, sucking air through my teeth and clutching at anything solid.
“More—harder....”
Brandon obliges, one hand tangled in my hair, the other pinning my wrist above my head. He pounds into me like the world’s ending, giving me what I need. He’s biting his lip, eyes half-shut, lashes grazing his cheeks. Somewhere on the floor, my phone’s buzzing, buzzing insistently. I ignore it, urging him on.
“Kiss me,” he growls.
I can barely lift my head from the pillows, but I manage it for him. I brush his lips, then lick, then bite. He moans at that, fist tightening in my hair. I let myself fall back, savoring the pull and sting on my scalp. I’m close to the edge, too unsteady to move the way I want—to grind myself against him till I reach my peak. I’m at his mercy even for this.
As if sensing my desperation, he leans down to bite at my throat—fuck, there; like that—hand dropping my wrist to glide roughly over my curves, callused palms tugging at my nipples, my belly, my hips, and I’m shouting his name, bucking without control or direction, vision fading to white.
I can hear him saying something, moaning something, but it’s lost in the rushing in my ears. All I can do is cling to him, riding out the waves.
When I finally come down from my high, I realize he’s lifted me from the pillows—arm around my shoulders, holding me tight to his chest. I’m holding on just as tight, murmuring don’t let me go; don’t let me go—how long have I been doing that? I melt into his embrace, remembering to breathe.
“Your phone’s going crazy,” he says. His
breath tickles my neck, and I laugh.
“Fuck my phone.”
“Way it’s vibrating, you probably could.”
“Ugh, nasty.” I slap his shoulder, but don’t push him off. I don’t want him to move. Not just yet. He’s still half-hard inside me, filling me up so well.... Every breath he takes, every minute shift, I’m still tingling with pleasure.
“Might be that lawyer,” he says, at last, pulling out with a sigh. I let him go reluctantly, arms dropping to my sides.
“Too tired to talk to him, if it is.”
Brandon leans over the side of the bed, retrieving my phone. He’s bleeding, barely—a trail of tiny, round beads over his hip. Don’t remember scratching him that bad.
“It’s, uh...wow.” He holds it up so I can see the text notification: wtf, secret booty call?????
“Huh?” I snatch it from his hand. “Adina, what the...?” Fifty missed messages? I scroll to the top of the thread—a link to some gossip blog. NO MAIDEN: LILY WALKER’S SECRET SQUEEZE. There’s a picture of me and Brandon outside the Days Inn. He’s got his hand on my ass. I’m—holy fuck. Nibbling his fingers. “Oh, hell, I....”
Brandon hangs over my shoulder, reading aloud. “Busted: squeaky-clean siren Lily Walker, legendary for keeping the ‘maiden’ in Maidenfang, hooking up off the books in a town so remote it’s barely on the map. Smile for the camera, lovebirds—even in sleepy Eastland, Texas, one eye’s always open...and it’s ours!”
I scroll down, annoyed. “They make it sound so grubby. Like you’re some douche I dragged out here for...for secret shame sex.”
He settles in behind me, rubbing my shoulders. “We know better.”
“And check this out: this humble Days Inn can claim its place in rock-and-roll history...as the site of Lily Walker’s clandestine affair with some random goth. How are we having an affair? We’re not, are we?”
“Not unless you’re married.” Brandon’s tracing the tender stripe where his tie dragged against my skin, seemingly unconcerned. “Why am I a goth?”
