Thick Love

by Eden Butler

  “You can’t,” he said, as a bitter laugh left his throat. “You can’t help the hopeless.”

  “No one is hopeless.”

  He stared at me a long time and when I tried to touch his hand, he sat back, fingers running through his hair.

  Everyone tiptoed around Ransom when it came to bringing up the past. He was such a large, imposing figure that only Keira and Kona really got to push his buttons. They knew how to handle him, everyone else took their lead. And as much as I respected them, loved them even, I thought they did more harm than good letting Ransom wallow in his grief, not making him confront the stuff that seemed to weigh him down. Now he had brought the past to my front door. Or backdoor, however you look at it. He hadn’t come here for a damn dance lesson. I thought maybe it was being here, at the studio, getting lost in the music and movements that eased him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come here because he needed a friend who wouldn’t try to tell him things would be fine. More likely, he’d been lost but that innate desire to please, to keep to his responsibilities had somehow pushed through the sick birthday reminder and led him here.

  Ransom needed a friend, I knew that, but he also needed to talk through the ghosts that were hurting him. It was a risk to mention, but one I’d take just to get him past this. “Is this…the roses, it has to do with…with Emily?”

  His fingers came down, slapped onto his leg at my question and I recognized that swift flare of anger, insult in his eyes. But Ransom was able to retain his temper holding back from it as he looked away from me. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Leann’s still downstairs. She will be for a while.” Again I tried touching him and he grunted, leaving the sofa to avoid my reach. “I thought we were friends,” I said, trying to calm him without cutting him any slack. He had his back to me as he paced, hands loose on his hips. “This is what friends do, Ransom.”

  “What?” he said, moving his head to the left to glare at me over his shoulder before he turned around. He moved his hands from his hips to ball into fists at his side. “Get in your business? If that’s the case then I don’t want any friends.” It was a shock, that harsh tone, one he hadn’t used since that first confrontation after I lied to him. Instinctually, I flinched when he yelled, stepping back, then feeling stupid for pulling away.

  I’d only meant to help, to get that sad frown off his face and deep down inside Ransom must have known that because his immediately softened. “Aly…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He laced his fingers in his hair again, staring up at my low ceiling. “Shit, I suck at this.”

  Someone had to reach him, knock down the walls Emily had erected the day of the accident. “You don’t talk about her?”

  That anger flashed again and Ransom stood straight, curling his fingers into a fist. I felt the tension from him, it shook his arms and lowered his deep voice. “No.”

  “It might help.”

  He shook his head.

  “Ransom…”

  “No!” This time when he shouted I wasn’t surprised and found myself annoyed that he was trying to use his size, his imposing voice to make me back off. It wouldn’t work on me. My father had done that for years and once I realized that it was my reaction, the way I’d huddle away from him for fear of that voice alone, I’d stopped doing it. It gave him too much power over me and no one did that to me anymore. Not even Ransom.

  He moved his chin up, but kept his face hard, a frown that shook his top lip, reminding me of a tiger, pent up and pacing behind a glass wall at the zoo. “No one gets that from me. It’s none of your damn business.”

  He stepped closer, the sadness and frustration that had covered him downstairs now replaced by a quick rip of anger.

  “Fine,” I said, waving him toward the door. I had my own bullshit to handle and I wouldn’t stroke his ego if he didn’t want help. That would do him zero good. “Go face Leann on your own. Go mope in your car.”

  “What…” His glare twisted, became a shock of surprise, eyebrows lifting as though he couldn’t believe I’d call him out. “What the hell did you say to me?”

  “Did I not make myself clear?” More annoyed than angry, I didn’t get why no one had forced the issue with him. He had a charmed life, so much talent, so many people in his corner, so many resources there to help him excel. So why did everyone watch him fall apart, why did he refuse to get back up again? He wasn’t the only one who had lost someone. Everyone hurts. Everyone has pain. But he was loved. He was blessed, and even though his loss had been great, and tragic, it didn’t need to be a guarantee that he’d be alone forever. The stubborn bata either had no idea how loved he was or he had forgotten it, chose instead to let his grief comfort him. It made me madder than I’d been in a long damn time. “Take off. Get out, wallow in your own shit, but do it on your own.”

  He looked at me hard, the muscle in his jaw clenching, and I thought he might speak, call me something insulting. What I didn’t expect was for his temper to tamper down or for him to look crestfallen, and apologetic. But silent.

  “Whatever,” I finally said, tired of looking up at him expecting a response I knew wouldn’t come. “Just…whatever.”

  My place was neat but confining with him standing behind me, watching as I threw my bag on my bed and fiddled with my stereo. Ransom’s angry panting had slowed, but I was still aware of his breaths and his movements as he lowered himself back down onto the sofa. I needed a distraction, something that would keep me from lashing out again, so I chose Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic” because that voice, that song always settled my simmering temper.

  Outside my window, Metairie was a bustle of activity, with cars shifting on the Interstate, drivers eager to hit the city, and I had a fleeting notion to follow them. I still had to work at the diner tonight, after all. But I wasn’t needed for another couple of hours and being around customers and Carl’s nagging wouldn’t do me any good. So instead I closed my eyes and let the music roll over me like a balm, easing away my anger.

  I’d almost forgotten that I wasn’t alone when Ransom cleared his throat behind me. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  His voice was quiet, as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear him. Now this – this was Ransom being honest, not pretending like he had all the answers, or that he knew exactly what he needed. None of us did. I was grateful that he’d finally admitted to being as clueless as the rest of us.

  I turned, shuffling to stand in front of the sofa and extended my hand to him. “Dance with me,” I said. He only stared up at me blankly.

  “I don’t feel like practicing.”

  “I’m not asking you to practice. I’m asking you to dance.”

  Ransom’s body stiffened when I picked up his hand, but he didn’t fight me. “Just be here with me. Me and you and the music.”

  We came together in the center of my living room with that slow, soothing music wrapping around us. There was no Kizomba, no prequel to a seduction we both wanted to avoid. There was just Ransom bending low, arms around me, hand taking mine to hold against his chest. After a few seconds, the tension lessened, and his body did not feel as rigid. It felt peaceful, and safe, and simple—just two people, holding each other, swaying to the music.

  His mouth hovered near my forehead and as we moved together with no form or practiced steps, Ransom’s grip on my waist got tighter. “I wish I could breathe again. I want that so bad.” The words were whispered, low.

  I closed my eyes, reminding myself that I couldn’t touch him.

  “Ransom. You can.”

  He looked down at me and right then I saw just how lost he was. This realization didn’t come from flippant comments he made to me or desperate excuses I overheard him make. It was all there right in his eyes—the loneliness, the pain, as though each mistake he’d made was etched into the rise of his cheekbones and the worried, faint lines on his forehead. He was still drifting; he had been drifting for so damn long.

  The pain in his eyes drew me in. There w
as nothing I could say that would make his hurt lessen. There was nothing that would take him from the lingering sorrow he’d created for himself. So I didn’t speak, didn’t give him advice I knew he’d never take. I just watched Ransom’s eyes, and felt the slow way he moved. And then with my hand on the back of his neck, I pulled his face towards me, I took his lips, kissing him, pouring into that kiss everything I’d held back from him since we first met.

  This is who I am. This is what I want. That voice came from someplace hidden and secret inside me.

  It was minutes, minutes of nothing but my mouth on his, nothing but two people finding solace in each other, before I realized I’d messed up.

  He didn’t seem to want me to pull away, but didn’t stop me when I did. Shaking my head, I smoothed the collar on his shirt, unable to look at him. “I’m…modi, Ransom, I’m sorry.”

  Ransom pulled my chin up and smoothed his thumb over my cheek, down the slope of my chin before he returned his attention to my eyes. “I don’t think I am.”

  It was a moment I thought I’d always wanted. Him looking at me like I was real, like he saw me, finally saw me. I’d seen that look once before, just as Ransom whispered my name and kissed me over and over the first time. It wasn’t the look of someone hopeless. It was open and raw and I realized right then that I’d give anything for Ransom to never stop looking at me.

  But this was against our rules. This wasn’t how we were supposed to be. I took his hand, thought of pulling it away from my face but didn’t have the strength, liked how it felt on my face too much. “Friends don’t kiss, Ransom.”

  A small nod, and his eyes narrowed. His grip around me tightened. The music around us swelled. “No, they don’t,” he said, still touching my face, inching closer and I knew, right then, he was definitely not my friend.

  15

  Everything felt wrong. I knew that the moment I stepped inside Summerland’s and Ironside ushered me into the dressing room. He didn’t threaten me, but there was a hint of warning in his voice. He wanted me to make Ransom happy.

  “Give him a good show,” he’d said.

  But that orto had no idea what it would take to make Ransom happy. Ironside didn’t know that Ransom was stuck in perpetual numbness and not even me dancing for him, hidden again behind that tight blonde wig and the large fanned mask, would pull him from it. What I didn’t say to the bata as he watched his girls disguising me with thick makeup and long fake lashes, was that I wanted Ransom happy. It’s all I wanted. I wanted him to smile, to laugh and mean it. I wanted to take that shade from his eyes. I wanted him to kiss me and not feel guilty for doing it.

  Ransom wanted the dancer. Ironside had said as much to me as I stood behind a thick bamboo screen and slid into the corset. “He badgered me for weeks about you.” But it wasn’t me, was it? It was the dancer rubbing against him, the one Ransom probably thought couldn’t get inside his head. The one he didn’t have to look at in the daylight. The one he could sex up and then walk away from.

  I had been told my entire life to sacrifice what I wanted for everyone else. It was expected. It was something that I thought was normal, that I believed was just the way of things—that women submitted, and were glad to for the men that took care of them. But my father hadn’t taken care of me because I reminded him of what he’d lost. So I stopped believing that submission was what all good women did. If that’s what they did, then I never wanted to be a good woman.

  But I would be. For Ransom. As stupid as it sounded in my head, he was the only person who’d deserved my sacrifice. That was a one-sided, unbelievable decision that I hoped he never discovered. I would dance for him if it meant he’d find a release. If it meant he could step away from the punishment he subjected himself to, and smile a real, honest smile, just once.

  “You set?” Ironside asked, leaning against the door.

  I managed a final glance in the mirror, shaking my head at the long, fake curls on the wig and the deep red lipstick. It was all smoke and mirrors, meant to hide me from Ransom. Meant to give him the illusion of seduction that he could feel blindly, without any thought. It was an art form expertly executed, but I still hated it, hated why it was necessary.

  The auditorium was packed as I walked through it, avoiding the crowd brimming with happy football fans still reeling from CPU’s win. The smoke was thick, the laughter like a buzz in my head that echoed. My heart raced, pounded hard as I moved around the crowd, catching no one’s gaze but the woman overhead, swinging from the rafters like a half-drunk green fairy.

  No one stopped me as I walked backstage toward the private room and only the faint, quiet buzz of that crowd greeted me behind that curtain. This was the moment Ransom had craved, the same moment I dreaded. He would touch the dancer, not me. That anonymous face would greet him because it’s what he wanted. And as I twisted the silks around my arms, it was Ransom’s desire I thought about. That and the small hope that this hidden dance would heal him, if only for a little while.

  The deep, electric vibration of a bass guitar, those slow, seductive moans of a sultry alto voice and I closed my eyes, tried to push away the thought of Ransom as I’d known him for over a month. I didn’t want to think about how wide his smile became when his little brother jumped on his back and weaved his arms around Ransom’s neck, refusing to let go, or how he’d stare after his parents like they amazed him. They had real love. And I guessed, as I took a breath, waited for the curtain to rise, that this small thing I did for Ransom was something like love too.

  Maybe it was the thing I’d told him I never wanted starting to brim and grow inside me. Maybe I did love him. Just a little.

  Ransom sat in that plush wingback, slouching like he had no energy left. He let his legs splay open, was relaxed and held his loose fist against his mouth. But his eyes were eager, hungry as I spun around on the silks. I caught the bright, anxious light in them and how steadily they followed me as I flew over that small stage.

  Tonight, Ironside wouldn’t watch, I was going to make sure of that: as the beat continued, more of The Weeknd’s “Same Old Song,” I glided to the front of the stage and let the silks fall behind me. That fabric whispered over my skin and I moved, offering Ransom one glance, to the bar console and pulled off the tablecloth spread out there, walked to the small window next to the door and fitted the cloth around the molding, never once glancing at Ironside standing on the other side.

  Ransom had turned to watch me as I ensured our privacy, and now that eager light in his eyes shone brighter as I moved back to the stage, to stand in front of him. That gaze didn’t dull. He expected me to take control, likely wanted me to and so I took up my position again in front of him, swaying, letting that music move me, hoping that he enjoyed the small show.

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding toward the window.

  That voice was low, deep and as he spoke, Ransom’s gaze caught on my subtle dance, moved with each slow grind of my hips. He was distracted, lifted his eyebrows toward me as his eyes focused on my body and with one deep dip that brought me closer toward him. Ransom’s eyes slipped up and over my body, then finally came back up to my face.

  My heart raced when he licked his lips, when he rested one hand on my hip and slumped back like he needed something he couldn’t voice. “Come closer.” His voice was off, deeper than normal. “Please,” he said when I didn’t move. “I need you closer.”

  I blinked, inhaled, trying hard to remember the deflection I desperately needed to keep my mind from flashing to the memory of his kiss or how Ransom was when I was Aly and he didn’t expect me to perform for him. This wasn’t how I wanted things to be with him. This wasn’t how anything should be for me at all.

  But Ransom had a way of making even a request sound sweet and he pulled me toward him with the stretch of his hand and the downward cast of his dark eyes. That look had me moving, drawn to him because I cared. Drawn to him because he was all I wanted.

  He took my hand and I straddled his wide legs, fittin
g against him as I had the first time. But the music did not lull me now, it didn’t move me like it had before and this time Ransom’s voice wasn’t calming me, telling me how it would be okay, to pretend that we wanted each other because Ironside watched. This time, he wanted me. Or rather, he wanted the anonymous dancer.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, sliding his hands over my hips to rest on my lower back. “So fucking beautiful.”

  In the back of my mind he wasn’t speaking to the dancer. There was no war paint hiding my skin, no wig protecting who I was from this man. I heard Ransom whispering to me, Aly, like he meant it, like he knew who I was and still thought I was beautiful. But it was a dream, a lie I chose to believe because I wanted him. This wasn’t real, and even though I desperately wanted it to be otherwise, the way he touched me, his deep focus on me, didn’t give me nearly the same pleasure it had before.

  So I pretended again because he needed me to. I willfully forgot everything else and inhaled, steeling myself to simply perform, letting the music take me away from that small, private room and the man who believed I was someone else.

  The song lowered, slipped into another track and I steadied myself on the back of the chair, keeping my eyes shut tight as I came to my knees and worked a smaller, more intimate dance over his body. My hips rolled and popped, rubbing against him, and I got a little lost then, slowing my movements when the melody crawled, when that breathy background music slipped across my skin.

  Ransom’s fingers stayed steady on my hips, but he didn’t guide me, didn’t seem able to do anything but follow my body, maybe needing that touch to keep him centered. I turned my head, still lost in that music, but glanced at his knuckles, and the small scratches across his skin reminded me of the day before when he’d been tortured by the roses and the reminder of Emily’s birthday. In the guise of the dancer, I reached out and pulled his hand to my lips, kissing each mark, hoping that somehow it might help to heal him, might let him know this was more than just a performance.