No Tomorrow

by Carian Cole

  Where do Evan and his dog even sleep at night? On the ground? In a sleeping bag? In a tent? I wonder if the rest of his stuff is hidden under a bridge or in a shopping cart in the bushes, or who knows where?

  “You okay?” he asks after he pays with a handful of folded dollar bills.

  I force a smile. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

  His tongue sweeps over his mint chip ice cream, and the glimpse of a silver bar pierced through it grabs my attention. I’ve heard that men get their tongues pierced to heighten the sensation when giving oral, and I wonder if that’s why he has one.

  “You know what I like, Piper?” He takes another lick. “People who say exactly what they’re thinking.”

  Hint taken.

  “I was wondering where you sleep.” And what you do with that tongue bar. “I know it’s rude, but I was just curious.”

  “It’s not rude. We sleep under that bridge where we ate lunch yesterday. It’s quiet and mostly dry, and the cops don’t give me a hard time. Some nights, I can see the stars.”

  I swallow my ice cream too fast, and it spikes into my brain like an ice pick. “Oh.”

  “Do you like where you sleep, Piper?”

  What a question that is. So simple to answer, really. But deep down, in the secret places of my thoughts, it’s not so simple at all.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you sleep alone?”

  “No.” I pause to gauge his reaction, wondering if he’s fishing to see if I’m single. “I sleep with my cat.”

  He grabs the hand that’s holding my cone and brings it to his lips. I watch in fascination as he licks my ice cream, without asking, without hesitation, and with his smoldering eyes locked right onto mine.

  “I wanted to taste yours,” he says, licking the pink raspberry from his lips.

  I blink and swallow. “I-I don’t mind,” I reply, running my tongue over the spot he just had his mouth on. Our eyes meet as he licks his ice cream. It’s a kiss that isn’t a kiss.

  An erotic shock jolts through me. My germ radar has gone dark.

  Finished with the last bite of his cone, Evan picks up Acorn’s empty dish and throws it in the trash, then walks me back to the tree where he found me.

  “It’s probably time for me to get going.” I smile up at him. “Thanks for the ice cream. And for singing for me. I really loved it. If it was on a cassette, I’d probably play it over and over and over again.”

  Stepping closer, he pushes my hair behind my ear and holds his hand there with his thumb on my cheek. I can smell tobacco on his hand but it’s not unpleasant. My breathing stills at the uninvited touch. My head screams at me to slap his hand away, but every other part of me savors the intimacy, the glimmer of desire in his eyes, and the sudden heat between my thighs.

  “Tonight when you’re sleeping with your cat in the place you only like sometimes, close your eyes and you’ll hear the music. I promise.”

  He pulls away. Walks away. Every time I watch him walk away, I’m struck by a sudden fear that I’ll never see him again. The feeling disappears just as quickly as it comes.

  I’m still so buzzed by my unexpected reaction to his touch that I walk in a daze to my office building, only to realize my car isn’t there and is parked about six blocks over in the other direction.

  Damn!

  His lyrics are still in my head as I trek toward my car, as I cook dinner with my mom that night, and later when I’m in my bed and close my eyes to drift off to sleep.

  And then there was you,

  Slayer of my heart,

  The one I would destroy,

  Keeper of my heart.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve glanced at the digital clock sitting on my desk so many times this morning I’ve practically given myself a seizure. My heart pitter pats with every minute that brings me closer to noon.

  What the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t like me at all. I’ve never felt butterflies over a guy before—not even when I started dating Josh—my first, only, and now ex-boyfriend.

  That was different, though. Josh and I were strictly friends with no feelings for each other whatsoever for two years, until one day we were having lunch and out of nowhere he suggested that we date. I stopped chewing my corned beef sandwich and stared at him for a few seconds, then agreed.

  And that was it. We added kissing and groping to what we were already doing, and it worked. For almost a year. Then he went off to college a few hours away, and we slowly drifted apart. We never even slept together. We fooled around a lot, but every time things started to go further, we both froze. Not purposely… It just happened, like a reaction we couldn’t control.

  Josh is a sweet, easy-going guy. He never pushed or coaxed me. The crazy, giddy, I want-to-kiss-you-nonstop-and-rip-your-clothes-off passion wasn’t there. I used to think those types of feelings weren’t important as long as two people had trust and care for each other. And we had that. He made me laugh and he made me feel safe and comfortable. But now, after watching Titanic a bajillion times, I’m wondering why I didn’t feel more with Josh. Did I unknowingly sacrifice chemistry and passion for comfort?

  What am I feeling around Evan, anyway? It’s not butterflies, exactly. It’s more like fireflies. A spark of light and heat fading into the dark. A quick feeling of ooh that I can’t wait to feel again.

  It’s unsettling, but even more than that, exhilarating.

  When noon finally arrives, I head over to the park, and the absence of acoustic music hits me hard as I walk through the iron gates. I quicken my steps and strain to hear his guitar, but the air is populated with chirping birds and people talking as they walk by. Evan and Acorn aren’t in their usual spot at the brick wall. As I sit on my bench, a pang twitches in my chest. I was hoping to see him today. I desperately wanted to feel that surge of strange excitement when he smiles at me. I wanted to hear what songs he would play today and guess which ones were his own.

  As I eat my salad, I watch people walk by, everyone appearing to be in a rush to get somewhere. I fear I’m going to end up just like these people—rushing through the day and life in general to get to the next place, only to keep rushing more to get somewhere else. Maybe Evan has the right idea after all, being completely free.

  I wonder if his quest for freedom has taken him away from here for good. Saddened by that possibility, I throw my salad container in my lunch bag and leave my bench to stroll around the park. Unlike the others, I walk slowly, shutting out the voices and rapid steps to enjoy the sound of the leaves blowing in the trees. Without conscious thought or plan, I find myself nearing the old stone bridge. The place Evan ate his burger. The same one he told me he slept under.

  Biting my lip, I peer down the grassy slope leading to the old vacant road beneath the bridge. I take a deep breath and carefully walk the weed-ridden path.

  I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I’m pulled by some type of magnetism I can’t explain or resist.

  As I round the stone wall of the bridge, I see him sitting on the ground. His legs are stretched out, his eyes are closed, and he’s holding a rock the size of a baseball against his forehead. Acorn lies beside him with his head resting on Evan’s leg—a perfect picture of man’s best friend and guardian.

  I waver a few feet away unsure whether to approach him or walk away and pretend I never saw him. He could be drunk or high. Why else would he be sitting so incredibly still, holding a rock?

  I take a few hesitant steps closer, too overcome with worry and curiosity to leave without making sure he’s okay.

  “Evan,” I say softly.

  He lowers the rock, and his forehead creases when his bloodshot eyes focus on me.

  “Piper?” Squinting, he shakes his head and peers around me to stare down the path I just came from, then levels his gaze on my face. “What are you doing down here?”

  “I-I was worried about you.” I’m a stalker now, seeking out homeless men under bridges. “Are you okay? You
don’t look so great.”

  He closes his eyes and leans the back of his head against the bridge. “I’ve had a migraine since last night,” he mumbles. “I can’t even stand up.”

  I take a few steps closer and kneel next to him, cursing myself for wearing a skirt and hoping I’m not flashing him. Thankfully, I’m wearing black silk panties and not silly kittens.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I just have to ride it out. The cold of the rock helps.”

  I swallow over the lump of sadness in my throat. He should have an ice pack and be sleeping in a clean bed in a quiet, dark room. I unzip my lunch bag, pull out my unopened water bottle, and set it on the ground next to him.

  “You can have my water. It’s cold,” I say. “I could run over to the pharmacy down the street… get you an ice pack and some ibuprofen. Maybe something to eat?”

  “Nah… I’ll be okay if I rest.” He grabs the water and untwists the cap. “You’re sweet.” After he gulps almost half the water, he presses the damp bottle against his forehead. “Been a long time since someone cared about me.”

  I touch Acorn’s head and scratch between his ears, and his tail thumps happily. “He cares about you,” I reply with a smile.

  Evan flashes me a weak grin. “True… but having someone like you giving a shit about me is like winning the fucking lottery.”

  Every insecure molecule of me dances with sheer giddiness. Me? A lottery?

  “I think your migraine has given you brain damage.”

  “My brain is fine.”

  Our eyes meet. The usual light in his blue eyes has been snuffed out, leaving them eerily vacant, as if he’s no longer behind them. I miss the carefree man with the charming smile, puppy dog eyes, and beautiful music.

  Cautiously, I reach out and touch his forehead, gently caressing his warm brow, and whisper to him, “My mom used to rub my head when I was little and didn’t feel good.”

  When he closes his eyes, his long, dark lashes touch his cheeks. “Mine never did.”

  Taking a breath, I lean closer to him. The pavement digs into my knees, but I ignore it, focusing on balancing so I can use both hands to reach him. I rub his forehead and temples, surprised by the softness of his hair under my fingertips.

  His pained expression gradually softens under my touch. He inches his hand across the pavement until he bumps against my bare knee. I don’t move away and he stays there.

  “You have magic fingers, Ladybug.”

  God, that voice… gritty and low with pain but so damn sinfully sexy. I massage his forehead for a few more minutes, then push his hair back away from his face before I lean back on my heels.

  “I hope that helped you feel a little better.”

  With a nod, he lies down, using Acorn’s furry body as a pillow, and I can tell by the way the dog curls around him that they sleep this way often.

  Worry plagues me as I walk back to my office, and Evan’s sad eyes haunt me for the rest of the day. I can’t imagine how awful it must be to feel sick and not have a bed to sleep in, a bathroom to use, or medication and something to drink and eat.

  Or someone to take care of you other than your dog.

  Hours later I’m at home eating balsamic honey chicken over wild rice, feeling incredibly grateful for everything I have. I have a family who, annoying as they can be, loves and cares about me. A kitchen full of food. A queen-sized bed with a warm down comforter to snuggle under every night. A steady paycheck.

  After dinner, I say good night to my parents and retreat to my space downstairs, debating between watching a movie, calling Ditra, or reading in the bathtub until I shrivel up like a prune.

  Bathtub wins!

  Until I open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet to grab a hair clip and an opaque orange bottle of painkillers catches my eye—prescribed to me a few months ago when I had my wisdom teeth pulled. I never finished them because they made me throw up.

  Fingering the bottle, my mind spins a web of good intentions.

  I take the bottle into the kitchenette, grab a plastic bag from my junk drawer, and toss the pill bottle into the bag. Seconds later, I’ve added a can of cold ginger ale, an unopened bag of pretzel sticks, and an apple. Before I know it, I’m in my car, driving toward the park with my care package of pills and goodies on the passenger seat next to me.

  He’s sick. He has no one. I’m a caring person. I often put food and water out for stray cats and toss peanut butter cookies to our neighborhood squirrels. This is the same thing. I’m not trying to shift into any kind of caretaker mode with him. I only want to be a nice person and stay on the good side of karma.

  Finding a spot for my car is much easier at night since most of the stores are closed. The park is vacant and eerily quiet. Clutching the tiny canister of mace that’s attached to my key ring in one hand and the plastic bag in the other, I make my way down the dark walkway that leads to the decaying bridge. Thankfully, there are scattered pole lights in the park, illuminating the main walking path, but they are fewer and farther between as I near the old bridge.

  As I carefully descend the small hill, my heart races with trepidation. In my rush to leave the house, I didn’t even think to change out of my skirt and heels into jeans and sneakers.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  My breath catches when I find Evan in the same exact place, sitting on the ground with Acorn, a small solar lantern glowing next to them.

  I look around nervously as I approach, afraid there might be other homeless men nearby. I almost expect a bunch of them to be down here, drinking and standing around in front of a garbage can bonfire like they do on television. But there aren’t any other people here. There’s just Evan and Acorn.

  And me.

  The clicking of my heels announces my arrival, and his head snaps in my direction. After giving Acorn a quick pet on the head, he stands and takes a few unsure steps toward me.

  “Piper… what are you doing here?” He glances behind me. “It’s not safe at night—”

  Holding the bag up, I interrupt him by talking in warp speed. “I brought you a few things. A soda and pretzels and an apple and Vicodin.”

  Before accepting the bag from me, he takes a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out as he exhales. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know. I was worried about you. You looked so sick earlier.”

  “I appreciate it. But I can’t take these.” He pulls the bottle of pills out of the bag and hands them to me.

  I close my fingers around the bottle. “I thought they would help your headache.”

  “They would.” He lets out a clipped laugh. “They really fuckin’ would.”

  I narrow my eyes, and he nervously pushes his hair behind his ear.

  “I’m an addict, Piper.”

  My stomach sinks. I was right—he’s a junkie. I knew it.

  He licks his lips, the metal piercing catching a sliver of moonlight reflection. “I’ve been clean for two years, but I can’t take any chances and go down that road again. I’d rather suffer through the pain and everything else.”

  His eyes shift to the bottle in my hand as if it’s a treasure. The line of his jaw clenches, his lust for the drugs invading the space between us. I’ve never been remotely addicted to anything but chocolate and ice cream, but I can guess how hard it is to stay away from something he craves badly.

  I’m obviously failing at it myself.

  “I’m so sorry, Evan. I totally understand.” Flustered, I shove the bottle into my purse and quickly zip it shut. “I had no idea. I apologize.” Leave it to me to wave drugs in front of a recovering addict.

  “Don’t worry about it. I feel better now, just tired.”

  “I’m glad.” Pinned by his intense stare, my pulse quickens, unsure if he now sees me as a source of pills or something else.

  I smile nervously. “You must think I’m nuts, coming down here twice. I’m not a stalker. I promise.”

  “No… I thi
nk you’re just a really good person.” He sets the bag of snacks down next to the lantern. “Way too good to be here with me.”

  “That’s not tr—”

  Without warning, his mouth is on mine, open and hot. Stumbling backward from the shock, I clutch the soft fabric of his flannel shirt as he grabs the back of my head and pulls my mouth harder against his. There’s not one hint of gentleness in his kiss. It’s raw, rough, and unapologetically demanding. When my lips part in an attempt to either moan or protest—I’m not sure which—his tongue invades my mouth, annihilating my words while he slowly slides his hand from the nape of my neck down to my waist. Those long fingers that move over the guitar strings so perfectly grip me so hard I’m sure I’ll have bruises tomorrow.

  He backs me up until my spine slams against the cold stone wall, then pulls away, just far enough to stare down into my eyes but close enough that I can feel his breath against my face.

  He edges his other hand up and closes it around my neck, the span of his huge palm covering my throat. My pulse thumps wildly against his grasp as I struggle to swallow. I’m paralyzed, not just because he’s got my throat in a chokehold, but because the undeniable flash of lust I see in his eyes is sending an army of white-hot electrifying tingles throughout my entire body. Warmth floods between my thighs despite the chill in the air. Closing his eyes, he lowers his head and slowly drags his nose across my cheek. He inhales deeply.

  His voice is deep and husky when his mouth touches the corner of mine. “You should get out of here.”

  My heartbeat thunders in my ears. “I don’t want to.”

  Exhaling with a low rumble, he releases my throat. He clenches the back of my neck, threading his fingers through my hair. Using the tension of my hair in his grasp, he pulls my face toward his. My scalp stings with the tightening of his fingers, and he silences my gasp by filling my mouth with his tongue. The metal bar dings against my teeth on the way in. Trembling from head to toe with a dizzying mix of fear and desire, I grip his shoulders for stability—or maybe just to get my hands on him.