by Smart, Kit
“No not Rohypnol.” He pauses slightly, swallows hard. “Viagra… or something similar to it.”
“How would you—” I cut myself off before I finish. Not your business how he knows. “Never mind. Let’s get you up.”
We have to pause several times as his nausea reasserts itself, but with an assist from me, he ultimately manages to get to his feet ,where he wobbles slightly and refuses to look at me for several seconds.
Once he’s stabilized, I step away, grab his jacket from the sofa and pulling out the pocket square and offer it to him.
Still not looking at me, he uses it to wipe his mouth then folds it carefully and stares down at it for a moment before looking up at me. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
Definitely skirting the edges of shock. “Give it to me.” I hold my hand out. Cold. I note as his hand brushes mine. I tuck the square of fabric into one of my pockets and offer him his jacket in return. “Put this on.”
He ignores me. Takes the jacket and holds it in front of him and heads for the door.
12
Owen
“Is something wrong with your back?”
I attempt a smile as I glance over at Seri who is messaging someone—Amory Quinn I assume, as we make our way down the deserted corridor. We have not, encountered anyone thus far on our way to the parking garage, and for that I am extremely grateful. It’s bad enough that I have to have her here for this. I don’t think I could handle any public scrutiny as well right now—I wince as my brain reminds me that I’ve already been the center of attention for a significant portion of the evening and amend my thought—further public scrutiny. “A side-effect.” I refrain from going into medical detail mostly to spare myself from the shame spiral that I can feel starting to take hold.
She hits send, pockets her phone and looks over at me curiously. “This has happened before?”
I feel myself start to sink as memories flood my brain. I deliberately force those images away and answer her. “Yes.” I frown as it occurs to me that it hasn’t exactly happened like this before. “Sort of.” I correct myself. Also not particularly clear. You’re a mess Bishop-MacQuoide. Go home. “I’ve reacted this way before, but this is my first time being roofied.”
“Okay.” To my surprise, and everlasting gratitude, she doesn’t pursue the matter further.
The relative darkness of the parking garage is at once a relief and a foreboding omen of things to come and I struggle to breathe deeply in the face of the darkness I can feel rolling in. Keep it together. I force a couple of deep breaths.
Removing her keys from her clutch, Seri hits the lock release button as we head across the parking lot to the Land Rover.
“There’s water in the console.” She tells me as we near the vehicle.
I grimace and wonder if she can smell my breath. I’ve been careful to avoid breathing directly on her, but if it smells as awful as the inside of my mouth tastes, it’s possible she can still smell it.
“Good.” I tell her and I smile because I am conscious of feeling stiff and withdrawn and after her earlier comments about my personality, or lack thereof, I don’t want to risk alienating her further.
As if she’s going to want to have anything to do with you after the events of the evening.
It hits me as I open the passenger side door and pull myself up into vehicle only to have to take a moment with my hand on the overhead strap as my body protests the sudden motion; that I am very far from where I was only an hour ago. Fuck.
Still hanging onto the strap, I grab a bottle of water from the central console and spend a few moments rinsing out the inside of my mouth.
As I spit the water out onto the cement of the parking lot, I feel more than hear Seri climbing up into the driver’s seat behind me and I briefly regret not being able to watch her scramble up into the vehicle. These aren’t exactly designed for petite women in evening gowns. I imagine that there would have been a fair amount of leg on display during the process and make a mental note to see if I can’t reengineer the situation somehow on a future occasion.
“Owen?” I feel her hand on my back and wince. “Don’t.” I tell her more shortly than I intend as I slide myself back against my seat. My shirt is soaked through with sweat; sticking to my back and feels disgusting against my skin as I lean back against the leather of the seat. I don’t want her touching that.
Ashamed by my tone of voice, I don’t look at her as I grab the seatbelt and pull it over my torso.
I am still aroused, and the pressure of the belt is just shy of excruciating, so after several awkward attempts to adjust it, I finally resort to creating slack in the lap-band by giving the shoulder belt a pull and then holding it slack. Throughout it all, I am aware of Seri making her own adjustments to her dress and fiddling with the Land Rover’s controls. The sensation of her arm brushing against mine as she reaches to turn on the heat has me tormenting myself with images of chucking in the hospital visit in favor of taking her home and keeping her in my bed for the rest of the weekend.
Reflexively, I start to reach for her hand and then stop myself as it hits me that I am in trouble.
From previous episodes, I know that the all consuming urge to get physical, despite all opposing factors, with her is part and parcel of depression.
I am starting to feel isolated in my body and the instinct is to alleviate that by making connections.
It’s a natural physiological response, I know this.
God knows I’ve had enough therapy to understand this.
But I also know that this instinct has caused me problems in the past and that I need to be careful.
In an attempt to redirect my thoughts, I remind myself that failure to go to the hospital would most likely end in a medical amputation of my cock. Also—sweaty and nauseous are unlikely selling points for a lover.
As redirection goes, these thoughts work wonders and I drop my hand to my thigh before I can make contact.
The vehicle hums to life as Seri starts the engine and I have to bite back a groan as the seat begins to vibrate under me.
Seri
“I’m sorry.” Several minutes into the drive, I feel Owen’s hand on my arm.
He looks at me straight on, unflinchingly, spares himself nothing. His eyes though, are dark and easy.
Uncomfortable, I glance back at the road.
“It’s okay.” I’m sure of this because I’m not angry stressed or bothered. I understand, even though I don’t know all the details of what’s going on, that he’s pretty uncomfortable and stressed by the situation at hand. Who wouldn’t be? I do have questions though and his irritation is preventing me from asking them.
“It’s not.” I sense him settling back into his seat. Out of the corner of my eye I see him stretching his legs out in that restless way he does when he’s trying to find space to accommodate them. “It’s not okay.” He runs his hands down along his thighs to his knees. Keeps them there. “Truthfully, I’m not feeling well, and I’m not doing a particularly great job at reining in my mood.” Another leg shift. “I’m not excusing myself. I just want to explain and apologize. Snapping at you—taking this out on you is unacceptable and I apologize.”
“Fair enough.” Busy with the traffic in front of me, I am unable to look at him and so I give a little shrug to show that I really am okay with things. “I’m not bothered.” That is, in fact, possibly the nicest apology that I have ever received. And for something relatively minor as well. I wonder what he’d do for something serious? Not that I particularly want to find out.
He exhales long and loud. “You don’t make this easy.”
“Easy?” What are you talking about.
“Trying to apologize to you. You don’t make it easy.”
“I’ve accepted your apology.” I glance over him. Find him staring at me with a slightly grim look on his face.
“I can’t tell if you just want to avoid the topic, or if you really are that forgiving.”
&nb
sp; It’s my turn to sigh. “I’m really not bothered. I forgive you.” I glance at the GPS to make sure that we are on track; merge into the right lane in anticipation of an upcoming turn and take the opportunity presented by having a whole lane to myself, to look at the man beside me. “If you want—I mean if it would make you feel better—I could find it in myself to be much bitchier about the situation?” I offer because, seriously, he’s being ridiculous.
He smiles, but it lacks energy, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. What is going on with you right now?
Looking at him, I have the strangest sensation that he’s sinking.
“I could also demand ice cream,” I say to see if I can drive that darkness out of his eyes. “You know, as compensation.”
“Compensation?” He rests the side of his face against his headrest.
“You know, something sweet to take the sting out of things.” I take the right turn as directed by the GPS unit and pull back into the center lane. “It is a well-known fact, that ice cream solves a multitude of problems.” I do a quick shoulder check. “Almost all of the problems actually.”
“I have ice cream…” He hesitates. “In my freezer.”
“So, you are not unaware of the healing properties of ice cream then?” I glance over at him as I turn onto the road leading to the hospital parking lot.
“No. I am well-versed in the ways of ice cream.” He says enigmatically.
That’s something to think about. “Well then, I’m officially demanding ice cream. With toppings—all the toppings.” I have the feeling that are talking about so much more than ice cream so I decide to make my intentions clear. “At your place. As soon as possible. I’ll bring the wine.” I glance at him. “That is, if you drink wine?”
His lips twist slightly. “I uh don’t drink.”
“Because of your meds?” It falls into place.
“Yes.”
“Ah.” I turn my attention back to driving as I take that in. “I’ll bring the chocolate sauce and toppings then.”
Owen
Silence falls in the vehicle as Seri is forced to navigate a particularly busy section of road.
I shift my legs in an attempt to find a more comfortable position.
It’s useless.
The pressure of my clothing, the vibrations from the car as we drive; are working against me and it’s all I can do not to grab myself in an attempt to alleviate the pain.
The vehicle dips as we hit an uneven section of road and I grit my teeth against the grunt that wants to emerge in reaction to the deep ache that reverberates through my groin and settles in my lower back in response to the jostling of the Land Rover.
I try not to think about it.
Try not to think about what it means.
Try to ignore the fear hooking its claws into the base of my spine; trying to claw its way up toward my throat.
Try to focus on breathing deeply and regularly. In and out. In and out.
It works for time and then I start to feel myself fading in and out and I know that if I can’t get a hold of this I’m in trouble.
I look over at the woman beside me then return my attention to the window. “Tell me something.” I say even though it’s the last thing I want to say.
I sense her looking over at me, but I don’t look at her. I just keep breathing.
I can feel her thinking. And for some reason that deepens my anxiety. You asked her to tell you something idiot. I jeer at myself. And now you’re worried about what she’s going to say? What the fuck is wrong with you?
I try to ignore the jeers, try to concentrate on my breathing. But the voice is getting louder, and I know from experience that if I don’t do something to shut it up soon it’s going to take over.
“When is the last time you sang to yourself or someone else?” Seri’s voice derails the asshole in my head, and I find myself gaping over at her.
She slides me a sideways look and shrug before returning her attention to the task of changing lanes. “We never got to that one.” She explains her choice of question.
“I wasn’t aware that you had memorized the list?”
“It’s kind of a reflex.” She says and I see her lips curve into the smallest of smiles.
“Memorization is a reflex?” I shift my legs again. Still useless.
“I was raised by academics.” She says dryly. “Those who fail to memorize things, lack ammunition for dinner table debates.”
“Sounds interesting.” I reply as I try to imagine such a thing. Dinners in my family were—are—stilted formal affairs with strict guidelines as to what is, and what is not an acceptable topic for discussion. Hard as I try, I couldn’t imagine such a thing going over well or at all.
She pulls the car to a stop at a red light looks over at me fully. I refrain from moving the way I want to because I’m stupidly hoping that she has forgotten the situation at hand.
Trust me, the irony of wanting the woman I desire to forget about the existence of my cock, does not escape me.
To her credit, she seems to sense this, because she keeps her eyes on my face.
“Are you going to answer the question?” She waggles her eye brows on me in an attempt at levity, that the very small part of me that is still me, and isn’t drowning in darkness, appreciates.
I try to smile in return but I’m afraid that it comes out as more of a grimace, and I start to panic at the thought that she’s not going to want to have anything to do with me if I can’t respond to her properly.
If I can’t respond to her like a normal human male.
I feel my heart began to pound, and I force myself to keep breathing through it. You have to get a grip. You’re not doing yourself any favors here.
She studies me closely, and being the focus of her attention, right now, when I’m like this, makes me want to crawl deep into a dark hole and hide.
If ever there were an opportune time for the earth to open up and swallow me whole, this is it.
Unable to withstand it, I give in to the urge to fade out.
After a moment though, I feel a warmth on my right hand and I realize, she has taken, and enfolded it in her left hand and something in my body shifts hard as she connects me; grounds me to the world.
Unable to help it, I all but crush her hand in mine as relief washes through me and pushes back some of the darkness. She’s still here.
I feel her squeeze my hand in return. “When is the last time you sang to yourself or somebody else?” She prompts.
The stop light flashes green and she pulls her hand back toward herself.
At first I think she’s withdrawing it completely, and I force myself to open my own hand. She needs both hands to drive idiot. Of course, she has other ideas and snagging my hand pulls it into her lap.
The realization that it’s just easier for her to drive like this relieves me as much as it worries. Reacting like that to such an inconsequential thing—you are dangerously close to the edge here.
I force myself to think about her question. To focus on it. But no matter how much I try to fight it, the fact is that I’m underwater, and it’s difficult; a struggle.
Seeming to sense this, she begins to run her thumb over the back of my hand. The rhythm of it, the feeling of it helps keep me in my body; pulls my head above the surface.
I wonder how she knows to do that. There’s something there, there at the back of my brain, that pushes at me and tells me that I should know, but I can’t quite grasp it.
Knowing that it’s useless, in my current state to chase that thought, I settle my head deeper against the headrest and concentrate on the steady movement of her thumb; the warmth of her hand and the question she’s asked me.
“Thank you.” It comes out raspy and it isn’t the answer to the question, and it isn’t an easy thing to say, but it needs saying, which doesn’t mean that I don’t have to force myself to take a deep breath before continuing. “That helps.”
Unexpectedly, we go over a bump and it hits
me hard. I am not quite able to bite back a curse and it reverberates through the spaces between us.
“Sorry.” She accompanies the word with another squeeze to my hand. “I didn’t see it.”
Despite the pain and… other things caused by the abrupt jostling, I find myself smiling. “What? You don’t have night vision capabilities? That’s very disappointing. What kind of superhero are you?”
I hear the amusement in her voice when she replies, “the kind that wants to know if you sing in the shower?”
I hear it and remember all the other times she’s been amused by me, teased me, laughed at my stupid jokes and I wonder suddenly what it would be like to have that in my life, in my bed; to have someone who can stop the shifting of the ground below my feet with the touch of her hand and her ease of spirit—to have someone in my life who doesn’t get dragged into the darkness with me.
As I’m wondering this, she slows the vehicle to ease over the speed-bump and the renewed aching between my thighs combine with the stiffness in my lower back to remind me what a big ask that is.
I forget to answer her question.
Seri
Pulling the Land Rover carefully into the hospital’s unloading zone, I put the vehicle in park and looking over at Owen, nod at his door to indicate he should get out. “I’ll met you inside once I park the car.”
He blinks, reaches down to unbuckle his seatbelt, pauses with the buckle still in hand.
I wait. I can see him struggling with something—with some mood, but coping and I hesitate to say anything because I am uncertain of his equilibrium.
Also, it probably isn’t any of my business.
It’s been a night and a half, it’s late—very late and I am certain that there is a lot more to come, so the last thing I want to do is push him off balance. That is to push him any further off balance.
So although there are questions running through my mind, hand-in-hand with things I want to say, I wait. We have time.
