Bones

by Alexis Abbott

  And how is a girl like me supposed to tell the difference?

  After all, I know better than anyone else how terrifying it can be living in a feminine body. I know what dark depths a man can be pushed to in search of the thing that turns him on. I know how easily pleasure can border on pain, pain on torture, torture on captivity.

  Captivity can edge along with camaraderie. A cage can feel like an ivory tower when it’s built by the right hands. I’ve heard of Stockholm syndrome. I’ve read all about it, just another shadowy corner of my past to sweep and air out, to plumb like a bee seeking nectar. A girl seeking truth. Understanding. I want to make sense of the things that have happened to me and around me. I want to hold the truth in my hands, turn it over and over until my fingertips have memorized every jagged edge. I have to dive into the dark side. Living in the light has only kept me safe in so far as my body. But my heart aches for more. For adventure. For passion.

  I yearn for these things which fester far down in my soul, that I rarely give breath to in the silent privacy of my own thoughts, much less ask for. I am not totally naive, though I am fully aware of the fact that every aspect of my face, my hair, my soft body and coquettish smile, all spells naiveté. I’m a human doily. Something delicate and fragile to look at, to hardly touch except to change hands. Sometimes I have thought of myself as one of those dust-collecting tchotchkes on an antique store shelf, eyes pleading, mouth sealed shut, yearning to be bought and sold because then at least I might belong to someone other than myself.

  I know what people think when they see me. I get it. Especially if it’s a man looking my way. My looks indicate a life of shelter, years spent barely daring to peek beyond the lacy white curtains that hang and flutter over the bay window in my bedroom upstairs. Trust me. When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, when you’ve walked unknowingly through someone else’s nightmare without even noticing at first, you learn first and foremost to protect yourself. When you see how bad things can be, it’s only a reflex to close yourself off against it. That has always been my instinct. Recoil. Refuse. Walk away. Go back to the ivory tower where nothing can touch me and therefore nothing can hurt me.

  But I knew this day would come.

  I know that there is something in me that draws the darkness out. Maybe I even create it myself somehow, unknowingly. Maybe I’m the bad one. Maybe the evil is in my veins, pumping alongside the scarlet blood and the white-hot adrenaline.

  Maybe it’s why I’m here right now, folding like a ragdoll into this dark-eyed man’s embrace. Like I’ve been waiting all my life to be held this way. And haven’t I? For all my hiding and all my safekeeping, I have never been able to fully kill the ghost. Now his hands are on my body, tangling in my hair, brushing it back from my rosy-cheeked face. His lips are soft and sensual but hard at the same time, and I can’t help but wonder if he can feel the softness of mine when he kisses me so hard. Does he see me the way I see me?

  Does he see me the way my father saw me?

  I wonder if there’s anything else to even look at but that. Am I just an echo of him? Am I a facsimile of man’s weakness, just another ingénue to be downed like a shot of tequila and washed away with next morning’s water. Right now, I don’t really care. Or at least, I am trying very hard not to. I have to give this mystery man some credit, though. He makes it easier to forget. When he touches me just right, when he kisses me so hard and so delirious that stars burst and glow under my eyelids, I can almost imagine it’s all okay. He’s one hell of a distraction from the darkness. But his hands are roving down the narrow slope of my ribcage and my waist. His fingertips press needfully into the hook of my hips. He is melding into me now, our bodies twisting and writhing against each other. I wish I knew what the next step was. I wish I knew how to dance this dance.

  At least there’s one thing I know for certain: this man has the dance memorized by heart. And if I stand on his feet, he can carry me through the dance. Hell, he can carry me anywhere. Up to the edge and over it. Into the whirling abyss below us, yawning like a great mouth to swallow me whole if I don’t cling to him hard enough. He’s my lifeboat. He’s my anchor.

  And I don’t even know his name.

  “I don’t,” I murmur breathlessly when he pulls away for a moment. His wolfish eyes bore into mine. I see the fire building there. The ember catching flame.

  “I don’t know your name,” I manage to choke out. My words feel thin and threadbare in the stark, cool air. The only warmth is crackling between us.

  A twitch of a devilish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but darts away.

  “Is that what you want, little girl?” he growls, leaning close so that his hot breath tickles against the sensitive shell of my ear. “You want to be touched by a man whose name you don’t even know?”

  My breath catches in my throat as he lets his hands slide around to grope my ass. My eyelids flutter, my lips falling open in a pleased sigh. I shrug off my black jacket and it slumps to the floor behind me, unneeded.

  “Yes. Yes, that is what I want,” I whisper, almost more to myself than to him.

  “There’s much more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” he hisses.

  In this moment, I feel almost as though he can look right through me.

  I’m made of glass. Just as transparent. Just as fragile. Just as coveted.

  “I guess it depends on who’s looking,” I mumble back.

  I’m surprised at how easily the words come to me. But then again, I’ve been dreaming of this moment for years. Maybe not in this exact form. But I knew it would happen eventually. I knew someone would touch me like this if I dared to leave the door open for it.

  “And if I’m the one looking?” he hisses. “How does it feel to have a man like me looking at you, sweetheart? Does it feel good?”

  “Yes. It feels good,” I admit, barely audibly.

  “Does it scare you?” he asks.

  I bite my lip. “Yes. It scares me,” I tell him.

  “Do you want to stop?” he presses me, but I can tell by the slight curl of his lip that he already knows the answer. It’s written all over my face, I’m sure.

  I shake my head ever so slightly. “No. Please don’t stop,” I beg of him.

  “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear,” he snarls.

  His hand slips up to cup my soft, sloping jaw. His hands are so huge that he could easily fit them around my neck. Maybe even just one of them could wrap around. I imagine it over and over again, unable to stop the flood of desirous images. His fingers, thick and calloused from what must be years of manual labor and hard living, perfectly circling my delicate neck. Pressing into my throat. Making me see bright stars bursting in the blackness of my tight-shut eyes.

  He could break me without even trying. Hell, he could snap me by accident.

  But it’s too late to shy away now. I said yes. I mean yes. Come what may.

  The mysterious stranger scoops me up into his strong arms and lifts me off my feet. An old sensory memory flashes into my laid-bare mind: my father’s arms, wide and tensing, lifting me up out of my chair and carrying me, sleepy-headed and lolling, down the hallway to my old childhood bedroom. As my handsome guest cradles me back onto the sofa, I can almost imagine my father’s bearded face hovering above me. His thick eyebrows always knitted close together as though in deep contemplation. Like he knew with every moment of his waking life that his fantasies were too dark and ugly to be compatible with my existence in the world.

  He lived a double life. I was part of the surface life. I ran and sang and played in the light while she, that girl whose face looked so painfully like mine, paced and wept and waited in the darkness underneath the facade of our happy home. I have learned, if nothing else, to expect the unexpected. To never trust a smiling face. You never really know what might be lurking in the shadows behind it, relying on your ready willingness to accept that things can be good, that people can be good. I know as well as I know my own name that there is no living
creature on this planet more tempted by evil than man.

  My name is Lauren Lockett. I have seen the dark side. I have touched it with my own hands. I would recognize it even with my eyes closed. And what this man has burning inside of him is dark, for sure. I can sense it, simmering just under the surface. I wonder: will I be the girl to unlock it and set it free?

  My body unfolds for him, opening like a morning glory worshipping the sun. He can take whatever he wants from me. I give it willingly. For better or for worse.

  “What do you want, angel?” he growls. “Do you even know?”

  I open my eyes, noticing for the first time the thin glimmering sheen of crystalline tears clinging to my lashes. I don’t know why. Is it only fear? As if fear isn’t enough. I start to turn my head away, averting my eyes. It’s too hard to look at him head-on, even in the low light of the full moon glowing dimly through the lacy curtains. But he doesn’t want me to do that. He takes my chin in one hand, tracing my bottom lip. The other hand slides around to cup the back of my head. He turns me back to face him and I tremble in his grasp even as I accept.

  “Answer me. Look me in the eyes and answer me,” he commands.

  I know better than to deny a man like him.

  “I want you to tell me what to do,” I tell him genuinely. “I need you to guide me.”

  “You’re dancing around it,” he points out, and he’s right. I am.

  I tug at his leather jacket and press a soft kiss to his thumb against my lip.

  “I want less talking,” I admit to him.

  He grins and dives in to kiss me again, harder this time. More passionately. It’s not quite desperation, but it borders on it. I know he’s pulled back like a rubber band, like an arrow in the quivering bow. He’s trying to hold back, but only barely. His hands grope their way down my body, squeezing and caressing my breasts through the thin fabric of my blouse. He pulls at the hem and I instinctively lift my arms so he can tear the red crop top off of me. I hear him inhale sharply at the reveal of my bare chest. I’m not wearing a bra. It was an intentional choice. My nipples stiffen to peaks as he toys with my breasts, feeling them up as his lips move against mine, crashing harder and more insistent with every inch of clothing he peels away from my body. He tugs down my black skirt and tosses it aside while I kick off my red stiletto pumps. He rears back and drops his own jacket before unbuttoning his jeans. I watch, my eyes wide and my chest rising and falling hard with every labored breath, as he lets his massive cock bounce free in the brisk air of my little hideaway house. I can’t help but lick my lips, my mouth watering at the sight of his shaft. He stands up and snaps his fingers.

  “Sit up. Look at me. Touch yourself,” he orders gruffly.

  I follow directions dutifully. I pull myself up into a sitting position, staring at him, my eyes riveted to his gaze while my hands trail down my shivering naked body to my warm, fragrant sex between my thighs. I groan as my own fingers dance around my sensitized clit. My mysterious stranger watches me, his hand sliding up and down his cock languidly. I tilt my head back and start to relax, the pleasurable sensations melting through me. I begin to roll my hips, touching myself while he watches. His eyes feel like two beams of bright light on my body. I can feel every flick of his glance like a hit to the chest. I’m embarrassed, but it feels good somehow. I don’t feel ashamed. I know I probably should, though. Does that make me just as bad?

  Maybe that’s the real truth. I’ve been running from the past because I never wanted it to look like me. But maybe it looks more like I do than I ever expected. This man is bringing me to the mirror and forcing me to look. I’m afraid and aroused in nearly equal measure, but desire is swiftly rising up to overwhelm the fear, especially as my fingertips massage tight, delicious circles around my clit. Just as I’m about to climax, I work myself back from the edge. I’m not ready to give in just yet. Not to my own pleasures.

  I have so much I want to give away, but I don’t know the way.

  “I want to make you feel good. Tell me what to do,” I plead softly.

  He seems to figure it out; that I don’t know what I’m doing. He doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, he takes me by both shoulders and moves me from the sofa to the floor.

  “On your knees for me,” he growls roughly. I kneel, looking up at him expectantly.

  Like a repentant aching for the taste of wafer-thin forgiveness.

  When he moves closer and his cock throbs in front of my face, instinct takes over. I lean forward, first gently licking the end of his cock to taste the shiny bead of precum glistening there. He cups the back of my head, pushing me closer. I pull the full length of his cock into my warm, wet mouth inch by inch. I revel in the new sensation of my cheeks aching to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat and his hips snap forward almost involuntarily, thrusting down my throat. I start to gag at first, but I manage to maintain my composure. I flick my eyes up to look at his gorgeous, sharp-featured face while I bob up and down on his cock. I move back and forth, swallowing down his salty precum as he grabs my head with both huge hands. He holds me in place while he rears back and slams down my throat again and again and again. I suck his cock harder, my own body tingling with desire as I lick and suck him closer and closer to the brink.

  “So good for me, little girl,” he growls.

  I moan, sending little thrums of vibration up through his body while he thrusts in and out of my mouth. He’s stiffening and tensing with every movement. I’ve never wanted anything more than the taste of his honey in my throat. I suck harder, taking down every precious inch of his glorious cock eagerly. He fucks my mouth, his hips pistoning in and out as he starts to lose control. His fingers tangle in my hair and hold me still. He seizes up and groans, goosebumps prickling up on his skin as his cock spurts hot, sticky seed down my throat. I cough a little but immediately, enthusiastically suck down every gorgeous drop.

  Pure elation floods my body and I lean back, letting his cock slip out of my mouth with a wet, resounding pop. I lick my lips and slowly stand up, a coy smile on my swollen lips. This is exactly what I’ve been craving. Everything I have been too afraid to reach for. He’s perfect. This night is perfect.

  But just as I stand up, before I can say another word, the blood rushes out of my head and my vision starts to go dark and starry. My heart slows. I can’t clench my hands. My body is weak and I fall, crumpling like a tower of paper to the floor as the world goes black.

  Bones

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. I feel like I’m glowing, and every muscle in my body feels refreshed at a deep, almost cellular level. Every second she was around me felt like bliss, and when I turn my head to watch her get up, I feel my insides get all warm and fuzzy at the sight of that ass and the way her hips—

  “Shit,” I curse as I see her start to wobble on her feet in a way I know all too well.

  I jump up off the couch in time for her limp weight to fall back my arms. I catch her with one hand supporting the space between her shoulders and the other holding her at the hips, and effortlessly, I lift her up bridal-style and stare down at the blank, unconscious non-expression on her face.

  She’s out cold, no doubt about it. I grit my teeth and look around the apartment, wondering what the odds are she really does have any roommates that are just holed up in their rooms hiding. But no, I know on a gut level she was being honest. We’re alone out here, and this house is just me, my bike, and a passed-out girl who just gave me the best oral I’ve had in my life. She’s needed my help twice tonight, but she’s more than made it up, as far as I’m concerned.

  “Shit, girl, did you take a sip of that drink anyway while you were enjoying the show?” I murmured to her under my breath as I carried her toward the hallway, peeking down it for a light switch.

  Seeing one, I awkwardly turn and walk sideways down the hallway, flicking on the light. I almost pause for a moment, because the light floods the narrow passage and shows me the handful of picture frames
hanging up.

  They’re all landscape pictures.

  I recognize a few of them from the local area, but there’s a striking absence of people in any of the pictures in the hallway. No family, no friends, none of her. I don’t waste time trying to make heads or tails of that information. I check the first door and find a small closet, and the second is a bathroom. That leaves the third door at the end of the hall, and that door swings open to reveal a tidy master bedroom.

  I flick the light on and carry her inside, and I’m grateful it looks like she didn’t make the bed this morning before getting up and going. I don’t have any free hands, so I have to slide her in legs-first and lay her on her back before folding her hands over her stomach and pulling the blankets over her gently.

  Once she’s tucked in as well as I can manage, I stand back and look down at her. I suddenly realize I should feel like an intruder here, but I don’t. Her head falls to the side, facing me, and her features look more peaceful and relaxed than I’ve ever seen in a sleeping woman before. I watch her chest rising and falling with her steady, tranquil breaths, and every one of those breaths makes the soft curls of her blonde hair flicker beside her in the moving air. She’s naked, and I’ve only known her for about an hour, if that.

  It’s just me and this woman who gets more interesting every minute I spend with her, out in the middle of nowhere. A lesser man might take advantage of the situation, and I’ve gotta say, I’m glad I’m the one out of all the bikers in that bar who saved her ass from that chickenshit rapist.

  I take a moment to look around the room, and I have to admit, I’m not someone who lives extravagantly or who’d know “contemporary tastes” if they hit me in the face, but the room looks remarkably simple. She looks about the age that she might be a student, but the only colleges around here aren’t the kind you come in from out of county to attend, much less out of state. And I definitely haven’t seen this girl around, so I can only imagine she blew into town recently.