Catching a Fallen Starr

by Adriana Law

  Even more shocked now watching as Sawyer effortlessly inhales and exhales a cloud of smoke over us. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I thought he’d choke from his lungs unprepared. But he didn’t choke. Like I said. Effortless. Which means good boy Sawyer has many Skelton in his closet?

  Of course I can’t handle smoking. The smell alone makes me nauseous. I don’t tell Sawyer this, but it really stinks.

  Turning onto my stomach, my face on the pillow I continue to watch his side profile. The muscles in his jaw, the sweep of his lashes in the moonlight. I used to think: what you see is what you get with Saw. Straight-laced and squeaky-clean. Now, I’m not so sure.

  He holds the Marlboro exactly the way a guy would. Like his brother. I see more of Sterling in there now. I close my eyes for a second before reopening them to see if he is still the same guy.

  “Don’t look so stunned,” he says. “It’s not like I’ve lived in a bubble.”

  “What else do I not know about you?”

  He pinches the filter; inhales, exhales talking around the cloud of smoke, “I don’t know. What do you want to know?”

  “Have you ever tried drugs?”

  “Of course.” He turns his head, looks over then, his eyes narrowing on me. “I’m worried I won’t be able to live up to your expectations of me, Mya. I’m not—”

  “What drugs have you tried? When? Where? With who?”

  “Whoa. Slow down. You want me to list them all?”

  “Yes. No.” I pull my hands up and cover my blushing face with them. “I don’t know. Yes. Tell me.”

  Sawyer moves my hands so he can see my reactions as he tells me. He tells me, “I’m no different from any other guy.”

  “Yes. You are. I should know. You are different.”

  He shakes his head. Crushes the cigarette out in the ashtray, moving the ashtray to the floor before it spills. “Okay. There was a Sawyer move,” I point out. “No ashes dirtying my bed. Move to the floor. Check.” He laughs. “It’s not funny,” I say.

  “You okay?” he suddenly asks raising up on an arm beside me.

  “I know it’s irrational, but I feel like I’m losing control. I’m scared. I don’t feel like I know you at all. There’s all this stuff, secret stuff…” is muffled by the pillow.

  “No secrets. I’m trying to be as honest with you as I can.” He is quiet for a moment, then rolls to his back and sighs, threading his hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve looked at porn. A lot. Had dirty, perverted thoughts. No school girl hang-ups, I’m more of a hot momma kind of guy. I used to fantasize over this one guy’s mother wherever I’d hang out at his house as a teenager. I always thought his mother was attractive for an older woman. Whenever I fantasized about her…I was the one always in charge. I was a pimple face kid that really needed to be tough. I couldn’t in real life, so I fantasized about being strong.” He laughs, scrubs his hands with his face. “I haven’t ever admitted that out loud, to anyone.” He glances sideways at me. “Is this grossing you out? Do you want me to shut up?”

  I hug the pillow to me. “Keep going.”

  “I have focused on a woman’s tits and ass while she works out at the gym, not really caring if she has a boyfriend or husband. Same goes for the grocery store…most anywhere. I’ve jacked off in the shower. In this bed, whenever I’ve woke up horny. I get a little too cocky when I’m pissed. Love the taste of whiskey. And I have never thought of murdering someone in cold blood…” he eyes seek mine out, “… until him.”

  He won’t say his name. He never does. But I know who he’s talking about. Ricin Carter.

  “I tried drugs more than a couple of times, mostly at parties, never with Sterling,” he says. “I didn’t even know he had a real problem until…well, you know. You were there. Drugs never did anything for me. Same with cigarettes. Occasionally I might smoke one after a beer…or sex. Oh. And random empty sex does nothing for me either. Tried that once. Big mistake. I tend to stick to shit staying inside my head…I never act on it.”

  “So you can just do it whenever you want to?”

  He raises a brow and grins, “Which part…sex?”

  “Drugs.” I throw up a hand as if it should be obviously letting the hand fall back to the mattress. “Smoke. Drink alcohol. You know what I’m asking.”

  “I know.” He shrugs. “I guess I’ve never had an addictive personality. I can usually control my impulses and urges…except with you.”

  “Bullshit. You can take me or leave me. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Believe me…it matters.” He rolls back to his side and raises up on the elbow, his brown eyes burning a hole clear through to my soul. “You matter. You matter very much.” His fingertips trace the owl’s face on my shoulder blade.

  “Very much…I say that. You got that from me.”

  “I know. I pay attention. You like the word very.” His lips graze the owl, then his tongue. “You are so beautiful, but it’s not all about looks. I like what’s on the inside too. The things you say and do…it fascinates me. You fascinate me. You are so strong. No matter what life throws at you…you fight to stay upright. I’ve never met anyone like you, Mya Cruz. So yeah, when it comes to you… I find I have great trouble controlling my impulses and urges.”

  Tell him about the baby.

  Tell him about the baby!

  For the love of God, Mya, be honest with him!!

  ***

  I wake alone in bed, Sawyer’s side cold under my palm. Pushing to an elbow I frown and listen to the sounds in the apartment. It’s quiet. Too damn quiet. It sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine.

  Shedding the sheet I slide on the first thing I come to on the floor. Sawyers dress shirt. I gather the front of it and inhale the collar of it. The shirt smells like him.

  “Saw?” Barefoot, I tip-toe out into the main part of the apartment, exploring. I go and check the front door to find it unlocked. It’s at least three in the morning.

  Taking the stairs down I walk to the only other place I can think Sawyer might be. The courtyard between his building and the next. I knew the courtyard well from working at Something Italian. Customers sometimes preferred to take their pizza outside to eat.

  It’s cold.

  The streets are deserted which is a good thing since I’m barely clothed. I find Sawyer alone in the dark, sitting on a bench. The courtyard is narrow and deep, trees obscuring it from the main road. At night, the courtyard is creepy as hell. A spider’s web clings to a bush, moths caught by the carefully constructed fibers glistening in the moonlight.

  Sawyer is leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Slicks leash dangles from a hand. The Saint is stretched out by his feet. Sawyer lifts his head at the sound of my footfall. His handsome face shows signs of fatigue and worry. I wish I could see inside his head and know what he is thinking at every moment.

  “What’s wrong…can’t you sleep,” I ask.

  He sits back on the bench. His hair is typical I-just-crawled-out-of-bed-and-ran-a-hand-through-it messy. His eyes dark and distant although he grins. “Nah.” He drags a hand through that hair now and exhales. “Slick needed to go take a piss.”

  I glance at the dog. Snoring. “Looks like he doesn’t share your insomnia.” My stomach feels queasy at the thought that maybe Sawyer came out here to escape me. “You okay?” I ask him.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Nothing.”

  There is no mistaking that his eyes slide down my body. “Like the shirt,” he says. His voice is gasoline to my already smoldering desire. Seems I can’t look at him, and not get that way. I need to stop all the question and just be fun. Fun girl. Exciting girl. Not, bring-you-down-with-heavy-shit girl. Purposely, I part the collar of the shirt letting it fall apart far enough to see cleavage. “Very sexy,” he adds.

  I quietly remove Slicks leash from his hand and drop it on the ground. “I don’t think he is going anywhere,” I say, forcing Sawyers legs
wider apart. Holding eye contact I lower to my knees and unsnap the top button of his jeans and deliberately unzip.

  “What are you doing?” He raises a brow, glances around like the principal is going to barge in catching us making out in the closet. I get it. Sawyer job is to arrest people for lewd conduct.

  “Shh. No one is going to know,” I reassure him, exposing his semi-hard cock. His eyes never leave mine. He is wearing jeans with no shirt. Ha. That’s because I am wearing his shirt. “If you like the shirt,” I say. “You’re going to like what happens next.”

  “What happens next,” he asks right as I lean forward and plant a kiss on the tip of his dick. My eyes never leave his. His fingers run through my hair as if he is admiring me instead of greedily accepting the pleasure I am about to pour out on him.

  What happens next is I talk dirty and make you lose all your carefully constructed restraint.

  Impulse control my ass.

  “I want your cock in my mouth,” I tell him staring up. “I want to taste you on my tongue.” He wheezes in a breath through his teeth when I surround the entire tip of his erection with my mouth and go down. I’ve always been excellent at deep throating. I never gag. Not even with Johns that were gross and smelly. It’s either a blessing or a curse. Right now, it’s a blessing.

  Sawyer is thick and long and silky smooth. I stroke his shaft in easy up and down motions until it is as hard as dicks get and straight as iron pipe. The tip of my tongue finds the slit. I suck him into my mouth, running my tongue over the underneath. He hisses out air. I can feel him relax and forget we’re in a public place. No cops here. Except one.

  I take him all the way in my mouth again, and down until the tip nudges the back of my throat. I do this over and over until I hear noises coming from him that I haven’t heard yet. Giving head has always been a chore, something I never thought I would enjoy so much. I love watching Sawyer’s reactions. I love watching him titter on the edge of getting down-right nasty. I notice that his hand has moved to grip the side of the bench, white-knuckling it, and I pick up the pace, massaging his balls as I do. “I love the way you cock pulses in my mouth,” I say, pumping his length with my hand. “I want you to come on my face and in my mouth.” My eyes collide with his. “I’m your dirty little slut, come all over me.”

  At my words Sawyer is reaching for me. “Whoa. Stop.” he orders. “Stop!”

  Wiping the saliva from my lips I stare up at him, confused and unsure what I did wrong. Helping me stand Sawyer pulls me into his laps so that I am straddling him. Okay. He wants to fuck. That I can do. I position him and lower. My eyes flutter shut and a small moan escapes at feel of him slowly filling me. Yeah. This is better. Much better.

  I’m startled and go completely still when Sawyer seizes my face with both his palms and looks desperately into my eyes, his voice haggard and tortured, “I like you, Mya.” His words carry weight.

  A smile spreads across my face as I slide my arms up around his neck. “Good,” I say kissing the corners of his downturned mouth, “because I like you too.”

  “No.” He clutches my arms and stares directly in my eyes. “I really like you.” There is so much unsaid. He wants to say more. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach; a fuzzy nice, warm feeling. But Sawyer can’t say the words. Love scares the shit out of people.

  This is it. My moment. Staring deeply into his dark, emotion-filled eyes I should tell him that I love him. Instead, I kiss Sawyer soft and slow letting my lips tell him that I know, and I feel the same way. After the kiss I lay my forehead against his. “I came out here to blow your mind. Typical you…you blow my mind instead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Labor Intense

  Sawyer is stretched out on the sofa watching the Friday night fights under a warm blanket. He is half sitting up and half lying down. He has no shirt on, his hands clasped behind his head. I envy that he can relax. I’m a ball of nerves. I set Indian-style on the floor by the glass coffee table trying to decide which container to sell my candy in.

  “This one is nice.

  Wait no…this one is better.

  I don’t know. All three choices are nice. This one the customer could reuse. Gah. This is hard. How do I know if I’m making the right decision? I’ve never been good at decisions!”

  I’m working in my head, my spine straight when I realize there is no way Sawyer can see around my big, fat head. “I’m sorry.” I wiggle to the left. “Can you see around me?”

  “Yeah, I can see,” he says.

  Five pieces of candy in each container.

  That’s one single serving for $1.57….

  “You sure you can see?” Because you don’t look like you’re watching the television; you look like you’re watching me.

  “You talk out loud when you think,” he tells me. “Did you know that?”

  “I’m sorry. Can you not hear the fight?”

  “I would rather hear you,” he says. My face heats. I must look like a goon; my posture slumping more and more with my mumbling. It can’t be attractive.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells me. Not while we’re in bed, not while I’m in nothing but a sexy bra and thong: he tells me that I am beautiful while I’m hunched over a coffee table mumbling to myself. There are no words. All I know to do is gush with happiness. “Stop it.” I smile. “You’re distracting me.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I don’t blush.”

  “Sorry to be the one to tell you but…you definitely blush.”

  Only when I am around you.

  My face hurts from smiling so much. “Watch your fight, Sawyer.” I leave him alone for a couple of minutes, then hold up two choices of labels for the outside of the containers, asking, “Which label do you like best?”

  “I like them both.” He scratches his jaw and thinks hard. I’m well-aware that a lot of guys would tell me it doesn’t matter. That it’s my choice just so they don’t have to participate. I also know that Sawyer probably could care less about candy, packaging and distribution—but it matters to me. The fact that he takes real time to study both like the decision really matters to him causes my insides to feel all warm and fuzzy. “The one on the right,” he says.

  I glance down at the one he chose. “Huh. Me too.”

  “Which container?”

  He points. “That one.”

  I peel the sticky back from the label, smooth it over the outside of the container, and hold it up in Sawyer’s line of sight. “Whatcha think?”

  “Nice.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I get up and slide the box of containers over by the glass table, cringing at the scratching sound the box makes over the punches and jabs taking place on the television. I know enough to know the fight is in the final round. There is a lot of sweating and blood slinging going on. And my ass keeps blocking the 52 inch screen. “Sorry,” I tell him sitting back down. “Only three hundred to go.”

  After a while I get into a groove:

  -Slip of paper with the pre-written words of encourage in bottom of container. Hoping after the buyer eats their candy, they’ll be surprised to find a quote picked especially for them. Like fortune cookies, but better. Imagine having a suck-ass day: you crave something incredibly sweet. You inhale the candy while sitting in your car feeling isolated and alone. What’s this? A little slip of paper?

  Every great achievement was once considered impossible.

  When you stop putting conditions on your happiness, you’ve learned the secret to being content.

  Contentment is not having what you want, but wanting what you have.

  -Five pieces of candy.

  -Close container.

  -Seal.

  -Label.

  -Place in box for delivery.

  -Repeat

  A pillow thumps the floor. I glance up for find Sawyer lowering down onto the pillow. He sits close. I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “What are you doing
?” I ask, surprised.

  “Protecting my tailbone.”

  “I’m not talking about the pillow. What are you doing?”

  The flickering light of the television, his bare chest and tight abs; it was impossible not to notice or get excited. I wait for him to explain. Instead he leans and moves his hand beneath my hair, cupping the side of my neck with his palm. He lifts my hair away and bends his head. His breath wandering up my throat. “Do you want me fill or stick?” he whispers into my ear.

  My eyes drift shut. “What about your fights?”

  His lips brush the spot beneath my ear, teases me. “I want to help you,” he murmurs. There is so much meaning to his words. He’s shown me that. I want to help you. I need you. He palm rubs up the side of my throat, turning briefly so his knuckles brush the line of my jaw, then along my cheek. I inhale, surprised by the unexpected tenderness. His teeth gently nip my bottom lip before his tongue moves to the corner of my mouth, along the seam of my lips; tasting me. My mouth opens and I moan when his hand slides around to cradle the back of my skull and we’re full-on kissing.

  I’m fixated on the here and now. This is all that matters. Him and me. This kiss. I open my eyes to see his are closed. He is concentrating on my mouth. He doesn’t kiss me like I’m a whore. He doesn’t kiss me like I’m lesser. Sawyer holds me gently; kissing me as if I am precious and valued.

  Love me forever.

  Self-preservation kicks in. I push against him and end the kiss. Pulling away from him I try to hide how ridiculously breathless and dizzy he makes me. A flush crawls over my skin, heating my belly. “I need to get this finished,” explain. “I can’t get distracted.”

  “Ok,” he says, switching from hot make-out mode to supportive boyfriend mode.

  It’s a lie. I could take time. I could make time but Sawyer’s intensity sometimes frightens me. It’s so overwhelming. To be treated and valued the way you have always wanted. Sometimes I have to pull back to catch my breath. I nudge the box of empty containers toward him, saying, “You can fill.” He grins and steals a piece of candy from the bowl. I laugh and shake my head. “Just don’t eat all of it.” Whether he knows it or not: Saw has an addiction for sweets.