by Louisa Trent
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As the sun went down over Jamaica Pond, the city heat dissipating with the encroachment of evening, Kes went through her warm-up exercises. To prevent injury, her weak ankles needed slow stretches.
Some of the warm up was left undone. No patience for limbering moves, she started right in at a good clip.
Geez, it felt odd running alone. Odd, that Drew wasn't bullying her into a gradual buildup before starting her sprint. She missed his companionship, his sense of humor, his willingness to listen without interrupting. He never offered comments or suggestions when she talked about work. He never gave advice at all unless she came out and specifically asked. Even then, he knew that sometimes she just needed to vent.
Like about John Smith. The kid was proving to be a hard nut to crack.
Since The Med Van had given him a clean bill of health, Kesley had hoped to get John involved with the Transitional Day Program. Twenty pounds underweight for his lanky six-foot frame, her first order of business was to convince him to drop by for breakfast and lunch. Free food was a draw for any growing teenager, a particularly motivating one for a homeless boy. The Shelter's huge dining room also provided an excellent non-threatening gathering place for isolated teens to socialize.
John had refused, saying he didn't own a watch and so didn't know what time to show up to eat.
She bought him a watch. With an alarm feature. Nothing elaborate, nothing he'd hawk for drugs. On Monday night, when she once again canvassed the hangouts with the streetworkers, she'd give it to him. No more excuses then! Something as simple as a buzzer sounding every morning at the same time served as an effective first step in transitioning a kid back into the mainstream.
After John started showing up for meals, she'd get him interested in some low-stress, low-structured programs, either recreational or skill-building activities. Even a field trip or a workshop would help him feel part of something! In order to make some sense out of their disrupted lives, homeless high school dropouts need schedules; a schedule creates order out of chaos, provides some sense of security, gives a kid a reason to move forward.
She would love to get Drew's take on John. Was she pushing him too hard? Trying to make something happen too fast? Placing too much pressure on him? Was she putting her timetable on him?
Was she doing that with Drew?
She was purposefully forcing change on them. After ten years together, they had reached a plateau of comfort that was both good and bad. Good, because they enjoyed one another's company. Bad, because since they had each other, they didn't reach out to anyone else. Drew had his one-night stands and she had no sex life whatsoever. That could have gone on for another decade, and it just wasn't healthy. For either of them.
Sex had broken apart their safe little cocoon, forced them to relate to each other differently. But now that they had become physically intimate, what would happen to the emotional connection they'd always shared? Would a new pattern, a deeper pattern of relating to each other, develop? Or would they instead fall by the wayside? Had Drew been right? Rather than strengthen their bond, would the introduction of sex cause the severance of their connection? Had it already started?
As Kesley's sneakers pounded the pavement, sadness ran at her back, dogging her heels, gaining momentum.
Looking out at the boats on the water, watching weekend sailors cram in those last few minutes of remaining daylight before night descended, she realized once again how easily people slipped out of one's life. Unless a concerted effort was made, and emotional ties were nurtured, even the strongest bonds grow weak, even the dearest people are cast off, left to drift away.
No one's fault. No one to blame. Losing track of people was simply a side effect of today's mobile world.
What would she ever do if she lost touch with Drew?
She more than cared about him. But what with all the demands placed on her time, on his time, something had to give. Would it be them?
Former neighbors in the same three-decker--is that what they were destined to become? A stamp pressed on a Christmas card, a duty call on a birthday, a get-together maybe twice a year?
Caught up with their own separate and individual lives, even those overtures would peter out. Eventually, they would each of them join a cast of characters in the other's fleeting memories.
Huffing and puffing, Kesley finished circling the one-and-a-half mile pond. At the boathouse, as she always did, she felt an overwhelming urge to toss in the towel, usually, in favor of a large chocolate-mocha ice cream cone.
Drew never let her quit. He would deliberately pick some idiotic argument just to keep her going. Sometimes he'd throw out some ridiculous dare so she'd compete with him. She never did. More often than not, though, he just made her laugh. Clutching her side, sweat dripping off her skin, she'd giggle her way around the pond again. Only to stop laughing when she caught a glimpse of Drew looking blond and elegant and graceful, hardly breaking a sweat in his long legged gait.
What she felt now, the urge to throw in the towel and quit--this was different. A crushing depression weighed her down. Her feet felt so heavy, almost impossible to lift.
Sure they weren't living in the same building anymore, but they both had phones. She could have called Drew today, asked him to join her. But too used to hollering down from the third floor to the second, "Put it in motion, Chandler ... we're ripping up the asphalt in five minutes" she hadn't picked up the phone, hadn't made the extra effort that change always requires.
Then again, he could have picked up the phone too and called her to make arrangements.
He hadn't.
Drew never did anything extra, placing a phone call fell under that heading.
And she followed certain rules of conduct.
The end result was--set in old patterns of behavior, neither of them had done anything--and now she ran alone. Without Drew there to egg her on, to make her laugh, to insist she continue, sadness was catching up with her.
Damn him! He should have called! It was his place to call, his place to make the first move. He was the one who had moved out and left her!
For a man who shunned both socks and underwear, who was a self admitted slug, he had certainly jumped when it came to finding a new address. Seemed like he couldn't get away from her fast enough. It was almost as though he'd been waiting for the opportunity to ditch her.
Had he been looking for an out? Deep down, was he relieved to rid himself of the ol' ball and chain? Is that why he had agreed to show her the sexual ropes, so he could palm her off on another guy and walk away guilt free?
Oh God! What if she never saw Drew again! How would she ever bear it?
A burning sensation started behind her eyeballs.
The breeze off the pond. It was a windy day, a good day for sailing. That's why so many colorful sails dotted the water. That's why her eyes were filling up.
Beside a grove of cedars, her breathing became labored. She couldn't go on, couldn't continue, couldn't act as though nothing was wrong when everything was wrong, when her whole world was falling apart.
Sadness overtaking her, tears gaining, almost winning, she stopped running. No slow down first. Staggering into the cool green shade, she stumbled against a cedar and pressed her forehead to the tree's rough bark.
Don't cry ... don't cry ... you mustn't cry...
A hand palmed her shoulder, started rubbing her back. "I saw you coming around the bend like a bat outta hell. You were running too fast. What I tell you about that? That's all this is."
Drew! Speaking low, his soothing voice calming her.
"Don't force it," he ordered. "Don't try and make it happen. Just let the air into your lungs naturally."
"I ... I..."
"No talking. Just catch your breath."
She gave a nod.
"I dropped by the apartment," he said, still rubbing her back as she tried to drag oxygen into her lungs. "But you had already left. Why didn't you wait? You should've waited for me, K
es. I'm your partner! Talking with a partner helps a runner keep to an easy pace."
Fearing he'd be a no-show, she'd left. Better to leave, she reasoned, than wait and chance disappointment.
Oh, God! She should have trusted him not to leave her hanging! She should have known he'd be there! When had Drew ever left her in the lurch?
Her micro-poly fabric top was designed to wick moisture away from the skin. It worked well against the normal perspiration of running, but it failed against her clammy, fear-driven sweat. When Drew lifted the top, the pond's cool breeze felt wonderful against her spine, as did the warmer puffs of Drew's exhales. Both dried the stress-induced droplets clinging to her skin.
Only one excited her to recklessness.
Drew's breaths on her flesh during sex, his whispers of encouragement, puffs of air blown across her feverish skin.
She felt feverish now. "Undo my bra," she said, giving into her reckless urge.
Sex would keep the sadness away.
Drew's fingers hovered at the clasp of her bra, five uncertain butterflies, before freeing her from the restriction of white nylon.
As the sun melted to a vestige of gold toffee on the horizon and darkness moved in, their surroundings faded from her consciousness. Only the fresh smell of cedar and the touch of his hand circling her back, skin against skin, permeated her senses.
"That's good. That's good, sweetheart," he whispered. "Just let everything go. Whatever is riding you, just put it away."
Losing him was what was riding her. Letting him go had sent her into a panic of sadness. Knowing deep in her heart of hearts that she had done the right thing didn't help her grief.
Understanding intellectually that it was all for the best, that Drew didn't want what she wanted, that her vision of the future was not his vision, did little to assuage her misery. All they had was right now. Right this very moment. Soon, they would both go in opposite directions.
"Help me take off the top," she said, raising her hands over her head to make its removal easier.
"Here? You want your top off here?"
She gave a desperate "Yes!"
"Sweetheart, there's no privacy here."
"No one ever leaves the trails. Except lovers. Are we lovers, Drew?"
"What a short memory you have, my sweet. Either that, or the occasion wasn't nearly as memorable for you as it was for me."
Drew was trying to jolly her out of her blue mood. The occasion wasn't memorable for him, he had great sex all the time! Though she appreciated his trying to cheer her up, trying to make her feel good, his well-meaning attempt wouldn't work, not this time. Only sex would make her feel good.
She put him on the spot. "Are we in sex mode now?"
"Do you want us to be in sex mode now, Kesley?"
Drew had used her full name. This meant he was abandoning humor and taking her seriously. "Yes, I want us to be in sex mode. Please?" she gurgled a sob into the tree bark. "I need the practice. And Drew--I want it wild. No more virgin sex for me."
He plucked at the hem of her top, debating the wisdom of its removal, most likely. But there was nothing wise about any of this, and she didn't care. She only cared about this, about having sex with Drew. She intended to treasure the wildness of their time together. Someday, when she was an old woman, surrounded by her grandchildren, progeny who would share no blood tie with Drew, she would recall this time in the green cedars and the happy memory would chase the sadness away.
"My place isn't far," he argued. "In the van, we'll be there in under a minute."
"No. Here," she insisted. "I don't care if anybody sees." Time to break old patterns, to make new memories to recall when they had both moved onto someone else. "Please?" She wept.
"Don't cry, Kes," he said, a pleading note creeping into his voice. "I'll do whatever you want, you know that."
"Then do this!"
With a protracted sigh of resignation, he helped her remove her top.
With a roll of her shoulders, the bra fell to the ground too, and she was naked from the waist up.
Stretching out her arms against the trees, her breasts swinging free, she whispered, "I need a man, Drew."
"Kesley..." he warned.
When he didn't touch her, she deliberately let her engorged nipples scrape the rough cedar bark. The pain felt good. One hurt substituted for another, helping her forget the other, more severe pain; a future without Drew in her life.
"Don't do that!" he cried. "You'll hurt yourself."
Pulling her away from the tree, Drew's large thumbs flicked across the distended tips of her breasts, lengthened to an enormous degree.
"Harder," she urged, her head falling back against his chest.
When his fingers pinched and pulled the areola she felt only relief. "Do dirty things to me. Make me do dirty things to you. Force me. I want the sex raunchy."
"Kesley, listen..."
"Please," she begged.
She heard the quickening of his breath, felt a hand push low over her belly and tunnel under the elastic waist of her black jogging shorts.
"I told you no bra," he said, his voice changing from concerned to curt. "And you wore a bra."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know I'd be seeing you this evening."
"Here on out, you are to be prepared for me. Always. Day or night. Or you will raise my ire."
Ire? When had that word ever been a part of Drew's vocabulary?
But... "All right" she quickly agreed, though secretly she intended to raise Drew's ire. His raised ire sounded like fun.
Inside her jogging shorts, Drew's fingers splayed her delta, between poly-fiber and cotton. He tssked in a very unlike-Drew way. "Panties too. I told you I like my women without briefs. Apologize immediately!"
"I'm sorry, so sorry, " she whispered. A shiver of excitement raced through her, faster than her feet had run around Jamaica Pond, anticipation of sex outdistancing the encroaching sadness. In the here and now, she was Drew's woman. And she felt that ownership as he ungently ground his palm into her mons.
"From now on, you'll keep your cunt bare."
"Yes, Drew. I promise, Drew."
"Not good enough. You need to be punished." He dragged her shorts down her legs.
"For crissakes, the panties are white too," he said in disgust. "Nice girl's white panties. Not even black lace, French cut. Not even a thong."
"I'm sorry," she said again, as he peeled the plain white panties down over her rump.
The breeze off the pond feathered across her bottom as he bared her buttocks outside in the grove of cedar trees. At the level of her upper thighs, the descent of both her shorts and panties stopped. Her bottom was handled like a peach, fingers pressing and kneading the roundness of her. The rasp of a bearded jaw then, the kiss of a hot mouth, a tongue licking her flesh.
"Oh, God," she moaned as he bit her, her fingers clawing at the bark of the cedar tree, her sensual gratification intense. Like an ice cube applied to the heat of a sunburn, Kesley thought she might scream in relief. She needed this! Had to have one moment of daring in a life ridden with convention.
Forgetting the future, abandoning herself to the now, Kesley gave her body over to him, ten years worth of trust culminating in unreserved capitulation. Drew would never hurt her. She could be free with him, surrender to him, be her true self with him, knowing he'd keep her safe, never betray her weakness or even see her need as weakness. He was the most accepting person she knew, the least judgmental. Because he had no faith in the future and never talked about the past, Drew conducted his life only in the present. He of all people understood her need to stay in the moment.
When his teeth scraped her, her own teeth clenched in an agony of rapture. "Yes, yes, yes," she quaked and vowed and swore. "Do me like that, hard like that. Bite me. Again."
He did. Oh, he did. He gave her everything she needed, and more. And she wondered, stripped down and defenseless, as he held her sanity in his hand, if he trusted her the same way. Would he go as far w
ith her as she would go with him?
Needing to find out, she turned to face him, locked into herself and blind to everything else.
He knew her thoughts.
"It's okay to want to escape everything else, sweetheart, but don't try escaping me. I won't be shut out of your fantasy. I'll do whatever you want as long as you know it's me."
"I'd never do that!" she cried. "You are my fantasy!"
"Then just tell me what it is you want to do."
Even with his usual elegant slouch, Drew towered over her. Though not heavily muscled, there was no mistaking his strength. And here she was, physically weak and emotionally vulnerable, and she didn't feel frightened at all.
"Please, Drew, let me..."
She couldn't say it. Though her strongest talent was effective communication governed by convention, she was left tongue-tied, unable to speak the words.
His gaze fell on her bare breasts, on her bare pussy; her shorts were still at the level of her upper thighs. He dipped his jaw in understanding.
Taking charge of the situation, he unzipped in one smooth motion. "Take me out."
Too awed for subtlety, she did, but clumsily. Once he was free, she touched him with an eager finger, though she was sure she was doing it all wrong. Drew was a spectacular sight, his penis erect and thick, pointing at her.
She didn't know how to proceed. She knew what she wanted to do--she longed to taste him, pleasure him, she dreamt of having him in her mouth. It was getting him there without appearing gauche that had her baffled.
"Cup my balls," he ordered.
She gladly followed the instruction.
"I'll stop you long before you break anything," he said at her timid squeeze.
Biting her lip, she went a little berserk.
"Fuck, what you do to me," he groaned.
False praise, for she wasn't doing anything except admiring his lovely thick cock with various hand motions, some fast, some slow, some delicate, some a little rough.
Her breasts falling forward, she dipped at the waist to taste the pre-cum bubbling from the tip of his turgid phallus. Still holding the weight of his testicles in her palm, loving the texture of his cock in her hand, she sank to her knees, her jogging shorts, half-on, half-off. In that position, she looked up to him for further coaching.
