Torn Asunder (Part 1 of 2)

by Abigail Boyd

  “Should I be prepared for anything scandalous in your room?”

  I hear the laughter when he speaks. “Like what?”

  “Condom wrappers, porn?”

  “I haven’t needed to use a condom in a while, and all my porn’s on my computer,” he says so matter-of-factly that I don’t doubt he’s being completely honest. He steps into his bedroom at the end of the hall and switches on the light.

  His room is fairly sparse—a low bed with a black bedspread, a couple of boxes that haven’t been unpacked yet, and a desk with a laptop and a camera on top. He lifts up the camera and pulls out a scrapbook that’s underneath, handing it to me.

  “Photography is kind of a hobby of mine,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pocket like he’s shy. Shy on him is definitely appealing. “I was always really envious of people with photographic memories, because my own memory sucks. So I started taking pictures to help me remember more clearly.” He fondles the camera case gently, straightening the shoulder strap. “When I saw your sunsets the other day I thought I should show you these. The ones in the living room are mine, too.”

  I open the binder and flip through photos housed in little plastic protectors. They are all of landscapes, carefully framed images of woods and winter mountains and one of a desert rose. Several are of sparkling white beaches with blue water and palm trees.

  “I’m not saying I have talent or anything, I just enjoy it.”

  “Are you kidding? These are beautiful.” I flip through the pages, marveling at the complexity of the colors and the careful angles.

  “The first thing I bought with my first paycheck at seventeen was a camera. It was a way to relax that my family approved of,” he said, and took the binder back, setting it below his camera. “I had enough bad habits and hobbies I thought I should balance it with some good ones. I use my phone most of the time, because whenever I find something I really want to take a picture of I never have my camera. So there’s more on Instagram than in that scrapbook.”

  I set the book back down and see there is another book beneath it. I pick that one up because I want more, and I already have it open before he speaks.

  “Those shots are a little different,” he says, and I hear an embarrassed tone in his voice.

  The first few pages contain photos of one girl, stylized head shots and poses next to a golden retriever. There are two more girls inside, one in a cheerleading costume mugging for the camera, and one with a girl with woods as a backdrop and a violin in her hand.

  “Are these girls you used to date?” I ask. I’m not jealous or anything, I’m genuinely curious.

  He rubs the back of his neck, and I’m struck again by how cute he looks when he’s embarrassed. “Those are my sisters, actually. They made me take their yearbook photos. That’s what I get for having sisters that are all older than me.”

  Now that he mentions it, I notice that the poses and backgrounds are decidedly school-friendly. But they’re not like the senior pictures I’m used to seeing. As I flip through them again, I feel like I’m actually seeing a piece of who they are, like he knew exactly how to capture the right angles and shots that would make it personal.

  “My mom bound them all into that book so I could use it as a portfolio,” he explains. “She wanted me to pursue photography for a living, but I’m not interested in making it a career. It would suck all the enjoyment out of it.”

  “Tends to do that, doesn’t it?” I set the book down and put my hands in my pockets.

  He walks me back through the apartment and across the hall. I open my door and turn so I can say goodbye—we’ve already made plans to do this again a few days from now. He’s only a few inches away, and our earlier chemistry comes back in full force, electrifying the space between us.

  He stares down at my lips, holding his gaze there, and then his eyes travel back up to mine.

  “Have a good night, Remy.”

  And then he disappears back into his apartment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DESPITE IT BEING so late, I’m not one bit tired. I can’t stand this tense feeling that’s hijacked my body, my neck twisted in knots, my stomach quivering. All I keep imagining is the moment he had me pinned down on the floor. I sit down, get back up, do a few dishes, scrubbing vigorously. I try some yoga poses, stretching my legs out on the carpet.

  But I can’t get him out of my mind. He refuses to go.

  I’m achingly aware of him being across the hall, and I can still feel the magnetic, electric thrill of attraction I’d felt. I was the one who put up the barrier, so why did he have so much more self control than me?

  I strip off my clothes and stand beneath a hot shower, scrubbing my hair and my skin. I stay in until the water is freezing, but when I get out and wrap my hair in a towel, I realize that I’m still just as tense.

  I flop back on the bed, shifting so that my damp hair covers the pillows, and lay there with my hands crossed. I dance my fingers across my bare stomach, shivering despite the warmth of my robe.

  I undo the belt on my robe and my hand travels down to my inner thigh. I’ve got to calm down, and this is the only way I can release the tension. I try to clearly picture the look on his face when he had me trapped underneath him, the solid weight of his thigh between my legs. My fingers start to make slow circles around my sensitive clit, and I let out a moan as my hips buck off the sheet.

  A shower door rumbles in the next apartment and my eyes fly open. I halt my hand, waiting until the water kicks on, my breath coming in short, self-conscious gasps. I try to relax again, moving my hand back over. I try to pretend my fingers are his, cupping my breast through the terrycloth fabric.

  My inner muscles clench as my pleasure slowly builds. I keep imagining his hands moving over me, his mouth on me, kissing down my neck towards my breasts. What it might be like to feel him thrusting inside me. My fingers speed up as I feel my orgasm building, and with a cry I crash into myself. I lay back, panting, shyness flooding through me again. But my whole body is relaxed.

  How am I going to look him in the eye now?

  ###

  If I thought that was going to get him off my mind, I was sadly mistaken. A running track of thoughts about him plays the entire time I’m at work the next few days, as I’m cleaning up spills and attending to Russell’s demands.

  Since the day I had my headache, I’ve noticed my reflexes are slower, and I’m making more mistakes. I almost dump an entire tray of food on the floor, balancing at the last second.

  “Are you distracted by something, Remy?” Russell asks me sternly as he’s handing out our paychecks. Lucky’s still hasn’t gotten around to direct deposits, which is okay because I’d never gotten around to getting a bank account. My savings live in a pretzel jar on the top shelf of my cupboard above my fridge.

  “I’m fine, just a little tired,” I assure him. Of course he’d noticed the one time I was off my game.

  He assesses me critically, his entire face scowling as he clutched a manila envelope with the rest of the paychecks. “Well, step it up. Beth is running circles around you.”

  I make a face at him behind his back. Beth has much improved since the last time I worked with her, and now she’s apparently Russell’s new favorite. Which means I am now a second class citizen. I wouldn’t care, but he seems to treat everyone who isn’t his favorite like shit.

  A few bikers roar their Harley’s in our parking lot, and enter a few minutes later. One has a beard that would automatically qualify him for membership in ZZ Top. They make sure the whole entire restaurant hears them swearing and being vulgar.

  I go over to take their order, thinking about what Russell said. This is going to be ten times worse than Jason, I just know it.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.

  “Aren’t you a fine little filly?” the man closest to me, the one with the longest beard, growls. I ignore him as the others grunt out their orders.

  The bell on the door dings agai
n, and I glance over, feeling my stomach drop. Jason is back again, the guy who is always trying to hit on me. He stumbles in, almost knocking over the waitress, who helps him over to a booth in the corner. He’s not at one of my assigned tables today, though, he’s at one of Beth’s. I want to warn her to watch out for him, but I don’t get the chance.

  “The kids who were in that corner booth left you quite a mess,” Russell reports. I push the front of my hair, which has fallen out of my ponytail, back away from my eyes. “They spilled their juice all over the booth and the floor. I need you to clean it up.”

  I have the urge to bite his head off but I head to the back and fill a bucket with soap and water. At least I’m far enough away from the bikers. I crawl underneath the table and start scrubbing at the sticky mess of drying liquid.

  Just as I finish, I see someone standing beside me. I look up and with a pleasant shock see James, his hands in his pockets.

  “What are you doing down there?” he asks curiously, as he tilts his head to one side.

  I jump to my feet, wiping my hands on my apron.

  “I’m just cleaning up after some kids,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got out of work early and I wanted to see whether you wanted learn chicken tetrazini or a fajitas tonight?”

  I raise my eyebrow as I’m gathering my bucket and cleaner. “And you couldn’t just text me?” Although I’m not exactly upset to have him here.

  “I thought I’d bring you this, too.” He pulls a purple iris out from behind his back and hands it to me. I smile in shock, and smell the flower’s sweet, sugary nectar, which reminds me of grape-scented perfume.

  “I’m on a quest to find the right one,” he explains. “The one from your picture.”

  “I’ve seen irises before,” I say with a smile. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not the one.”

  “I’ll keep trying.” He steps toward me, and I blush as I think about pleasuring myself to thoughts of him the other night.

  “Hey sweetcheeks, we’re ready to order!” my hairy friends calls from over in his booth. I groan in disgust and James doesn’t miss it.

  He frowns over at their booth. “Are they harassing you?”

  I pinch my bottom lip with my teeth, release it, and wonder if I should tell him the truth. I can tell by the way he just stood up straight, his posture rigid, that he’s in protective mode. “Yeah. But my boss has already been complaining about my performance today. I just want to get them fed and out of here.” I hand the flower back to him. “Can you keep this safe while I get them what they want? You are staying aren’t you?”

  He nods. “I thought I’d try another one of your burgers.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll swing by in a little bit.”

  I return to my least favorite table of the day, expecting to have to deal with trouble. But it seems like the bikers are all smoke and no fire. I bring them their food and drinks in peace, and sigh with relief. James is seated at one of Beth’s tables, too, and I can feel him watching me as I take care of my other customers. I’ve forgotten all about Jason, tucked away in his corner, probably under a stoner cloud.

  I head to the back room to get some more napkins for the dispensers. It’s off of the side of the kitchen, a small room with shelves up to the ceiling, crammed with supplies like light bulbs and trash bags and straws.

  The door shuts behind me and I dig around for a sleeve of napkins. I hear the door open, and not thinking anything of it, I turn around. Jason steps quickly inside and shuts it, his eyes trained on me. His face is twisted into an angry expression I’ve never seen before. I feel my heart stop and start again hard, punching my chest.

  “Jason, you can’t be back here.”

  He steps towards me, his shoulders hunched over, his eyes balled into fists at his sides.

  “Why have you been ignoring me, Remy?” he growls.

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to shift around him. His eyes are bright red, but somehow cloudy at the same time. I back up against the shelves, knocking into a stepladder and it crashes to the floor.

  He rushes to me and grabs my arms. “She told me you’ve been playing with my head, Remy. Well, now you owe me a little something.”

  I try to struggle out of his grasp, but he steps on my feet.

  This is not happening.

  I envision the pink cloud, and force it so quickly out of my head that I see stars. It hits Jason in the face and he stumbles backward, his arms spinning. I lean over him, punch drunk on the feeling of control that’s come over me.

  “You are not going to come to this restaurant anymore,” I say in a voice that both is and isn’t mine. “You’re going to forget that I even exist, and I’m never going to see you again. Got it?”

  All he can do is bob his head, the rest of his body in a relaxed heap. It’s then that I see the door is open, and James is standing in the doorway, watching everything. He must have seen me cast the spell on Jason.

  James hauls Jason up before I can say a word. I wait for him to call me out, to say I’m a witch, or something worse. But instead, he just walks Jason out onto the street. I follow them, watching through the window.

  Beth comes up besides me and follows my gaze. “What just happened? Is that the guy who was at my table?”

  I nod. “He’s been a problem for me for a while. I don’t think he’s going to be anymore, though.”

  I’m thinking James might punch him, but instead, he just lets him go, so that he falls onto the pavement. Jason stumbles up, and then shambles down the street while James comes back in. Beth scoots off and he comes back up to me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, looking me over. He wraps his arms around me in a quick hug. I notice that I’m shaking. “Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say flatly. “He didn’t get the chance to hurt me.” I search his eyes, trying to look past his poker face. How much did he see? Why isn’t he confronting me?

  He walks back to his booth and picks up the flower. “I changed my mind. I need to get going. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” And then he’s gone, leaving me to wonder.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “WHEN DID YOU get your tattoo?” I ask James that night as we are making dinner. He hasn’t said a word since I got there about what happened at the diner, and I realize he must have thought I was just telling Jason off. We decided on fajitas, and we’re currently frying the tortillas on the stove top.

  “For my eighteenth birthday.” “My mom thought I was rebelling, since my sister Tina got half her body pierced for her eighteenth, but I really just wanted to get this picture in particular.”

  “Is it a monster you came up with?”

  “It was just something I saw in a dream. Or a nightmare.” He studies his forearm as though he’s trying to see it like I do, as an outsider looking in. “I’d never seen anything like it before, so I don’t know what suggested it to my mind to dream it. It was coming out of the shadows, gnashing its teeth, glaring at me.”

  “Was it scary?”

  “Yeah. But it was also really strange. I guess kind of like your flowers—something out of place.” He runs his hand back and forth over the tattoo and I study the bold, black lines again. “I wanted to get a tattoo on my body so I could trap it out of my head.”

  He seems lost in his thoughts for a second, and then resumes taking a tortilla out of the pan. I get back to chopping onions, which is taking me a long time.

  “Are these small enough?” I ask.

  “Almost, but you’re making it harder for yourself. He takes the knife from my fingers and shows me how to use it so I can rock it back and forth. “Do it this way.”

  He still has a bit of that faraway look, and I wish I could know why. Every detail seems to lead to another layer of his personality. I stir up peppers, the onions, and pieces of chicken until they’re browned. I point the pan in his direction.

  “Good?” I ask.

  ““Couldn’t have d
one it better myself. I’m glad you took me up on my offer of help. You’ll be better than me in no time.” He turns off the stove and starts preparing two plates.

  “I don’t mind you doing all the cooking for me,” I tease.

  “I don’t mind either, truthfully. It’s a good excuse to get you over here,” his tone is so serious that is takes me by surprise, and fills my chest with that bubbling feeling again. But I don’t mind it so much this time.

  I feel like I need to bring up Jason, that I won’t be able to relax completely until I know whether he saw what I did or not. “Thank you for helping out with Jason today,” I say, testing the water.

  “You looked like you had it all under control yourself.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems to be avoiding direct eye contact.

  “I just know how to calm people down.”

  “You’re lucky, guys like that don’t back down easily.” And then he drops the subject. I shut my eyes for a moment in relief.

  He grabs a piece of chicken and brings it to his lips, but the sauce on it drips on his shirt.

  “Nice,” he chides himself, staring at the stain. “That’s why I wear black so much. I can’t own a white shirt without dropping shit on it.”

  He tugs his t-shirt off over his head in one fluid movement, tossing it on the counter. My throat and mouth go dry, and I can’t help but ogle him a little bit. His jeans hang just off of his slender hips, and two dents just above his butt are just begging to be touched. I widen my eyes as I twist my hair around one finger.

  The atmosphere in the room has completely changed again, filled with the same tension from the other night. He continues to divvy up our dinner, seeming so confident and carefree in his skin.

  “Any excuse to get naked,” I say, diverting my eyes which do not want to be diverted and immediately go back to his bare torso.

  “I’m not trying to impress you or anything,” he says and looks over at me.

  “I know,” I say, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. “You’re doing it anyway.” I know that us just being friends at this point isn’t going to happen, that we’ve already grown into something deeper. “You’re doing it anyway.”