Red Hot Blues

by Rachel Dunning

  “Gin, you have my cock clamped between your...you know. So you have nothing to be self—oh, god, that’s incredible. You have nothing to be self-conscious about.”

  I rock him. Back and forth. “What do...” I lose my train of thought as I feel the tip of him push right up into me. I shift up a little.

  By now the moisture is dripping out of me like an open bottle.

  I’ve lost track of time, but we’ve been at this, slowly, for easily twenty minutes. Easily. I’ve come close to coming about eight times in those minutes, but he’s held me back each time. Each time he’s said, No, make it last. Make it last. I love this. I love this with you. I love it. I love this feeling.

  Love.

  “Gin?”

  “Mmmmm?”

  “Tell me. Please.”

  I rub his chest with my hands, really get into the roll of it with my hips. Ride him. “Well, I’m from all over the place.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like me,” he offers.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  In between our words, are breaths. And every sentence sounds like a sexual groan.

  “Why?” he asks, breathy.

  “Why what?” I’m losing track of the discussion again. All my attention going to one precise point.

  “Why are you from everywhere?”

  “Because...” Wow, that’s incredible. “...my mom marries for... Oh, god, Ace, baby.”

  When did I start calling him baby?

  “Tell me, please, Gin. Tell me. Oh yeah. I wanna know. Tell me everything about you.”

  Oh god, this is getting difficult. The pressure is so localized. I just want to Energizer Bunny this baby out of the ballpark! But I feel Ace’s grip on my thighs, my waist, never letting go, always holding me, always keeping me slow and steady. I see him looking at the small butterfly tattoo above my hip.

  I see his eyes raking me. Their glare like a hand touching my moist breast, my stomach, my skin. Just like that first night he saw me and I felt like he fucked me with his eyes. Yeah, fucked me with his eyes.

  And he’s doing the same again now.

  Only he’s also fucking me with his cock as well.

  Oh, hell, my language!

  But I’m distracted. So distracted.

  “Gin.”

  Somewhere else: “Mmmmm?”

  “Your mom. What were you telling me? She marries for...?”

  “Oh, right”—Oh, god—“money. Married for money. She’s got all the money she—oh, hell that was deep!—All the money she...needs... Oh, Ace, I’m gonna burst, honey. I’m really gonna— Oh— Oh—”

  “Wait! Wait!” He lifts! He holds me. He—

  There’s no use. Because I’m over the edge.

  I start shaking, convulsing! He sits up, grabs me! He holds me to him, chest to chest, soft to hard. And all the while, every second of it, I’m exploding.

  -40-

  My forehead on his shoulder. Me holding him. Rocking. But not at the hips. It’s our entire bodies. It’s not rocking for an erogenous reason. It’s rocking because the world is moving. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No, don’t be. It was...so beautiful. You are so beautiful.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Was it at least good for you as well?” I can feel he’s still hard, and I figure he’ll soften soon.

  “Uhm, actually, I managed to hold on. Somehow.”

  “Oh.” I pull back, look him in the eyes.

  I kiss him on the lips. This is feeling a lot more closer than I’d hoped it would. It’s going to be hard to let him go.

  But we’ll stay friends. Yeah, we’ll stay friends. That’s possible, isn’t it?

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  He smiles. Lifts me up, removing himself from me. Lays me on my back. He gets off the bed, stands.

  He yanks me toward the end of the bed and all his muscles tense up as he does it. He pushes my left leg up. My other leg dangles off the edge. I’m wide, wide open for him. He grabs himself, presses into me, just the tip, as before.

  I’m a lot looser now, I know. I’m spent. Satisfied. Amazed! I’m hoping it’ll still be good for him.

  With my left leg over his shoulder, and his left hand by my ear, he thrusts into me.

  And then he pumps. Wildly. Endlessly. Working for that explosion.

  And when he finally does burst, it’s dazzling, marvelous, fireworks in my eyes. Every muscle in his face contorts, redness flushes all over him. His chest and abs and neck muscles become striated lines of ragged flesh.

  I feel his cock pulse inside me, jerking and tugging and fighting for release.

  And then he roars. And he keeps roaring, while he’s still doing me, pumping into me, madly, at an insane rate, never stopping, always in and out, screaming, begging, bursting. I feel him twitch and pull and tug. I even feel myself tighten again, just slightly.

  Finally, he drops on me, but still keeps moving in and out of me, slowly.

  Eventually that also fades.

  He’s dripping, sweat pouring from all over him.

  He’s magnificent. Amazing, absolutely amazing.

  I’m horny again. I am. I was OK before, but now I’m not.

  He kisses my lips. Quietly, passionately.

  “What is it?” he says.

  “You got me horny again. I thought I was done but...” I laugh.

  Laughing is becoming easier around him. Talking is becoming easier around him. Everything is becoming easier around him.

  Oh, hell, this is really going to hurt in the end.

  He smiles. Starts moving in and out of me some more.

  My eyes go wide. “What are you doing?” I ask, incredulous.

  “You said you were horny again.”

  “Don’t...” I flick my finger in “his” general direction. “...those things go soft after they’re done?”

  He thrusts harder, deeper. My eyes roll back with pleasure. He’s not completely erect, but he’s not soft either.

  “Sometimes, when a guy is really horny, or when he’s been made to wait for too long....well, he can take another go.”

  I smile. Bright and wide. Cheshire grin. “Well, fire away, bronco.” Not romantic. No. But I feel like I can say these things around him. I feel like I can say anything around him.

  He does fire away. And we both come again. It’s better this time. Incredibly better. Because the wild frenzy of before is gone. I can feel him more, hold him more, enjoy the sweat of our skin touching more.

  And inside, in my heart, it hurts a little more. Because the better it gets, the worse it gets.

  This was just supposed to have been a little bit of fun. Getting back on the horse, so to speak.

  But now it’s gotten serious.

  ~ ACE ~

  -41-

  We lie on the bed afterwards, just chilling, shooting the shit, the night wasting away. We look up at the ceiling, feel the breeze of the AC on our drenched skins. We might as well have skipped the shower, because we’re both sweaty as hell after the sex.

  I broke my rule. And now I hate myself for it.

  I like her. I’d like to hang out with her. But sex always makes things serious. I know she wants to keep it light, but we can’t. It just doesn’t work that way with me.

  Hours later, after we talk about music and movies and favorite foods, there’s nothing left to talk about but serious.

  And she’s the one who starts it:

  “So, what happened to your face, Ace? I mean, what really happened?”

  She’s looking up. I’m looking up.

  So I tell her.

  -42-

  Aaron had called me on Sunday. “Ace, you gotta come’n down here, boy. Yo daddy’s done losin his mind, son. I cain get involved. I cain’t. But I will if I have to. I will.”

  He did get involved. Aaron heard things breaking in the house and ran in. He’d been standing guard all night, right outside, listening.

  This was sever
al hours after he’d called me. I was already on the road, hightailing it through the middle of the night trying to get back to Virginia from Memphis.

  It’s a long drive.

  Aaron told me later that he went in the house only to find my daddy passed out on the ground, revolver in his hand, a drop of blood on his head. Momma’s dress torn. A bloody statue in her hand.

  “Evathin OK, Mizz Travers?” he asked her.

  “Everything’s fine, Aaron. Don’t you worry yourself now, honey.”

  He stayed, looked at the decanter on the table, dad’s body on the ground. Drunk. Stinking drunk.

  And the gun, in his hand.

  “Things sure don’t look OK, Mizz Travers.”

  Momma wouldn’t speak down to Aaron, not like Daddy does. She felt flustered. She probably wanted to tell him where to shove it, because he’d walked right into the middle of it. But she kept her cool.

  She put the statue down.

  Daddy groaned. A drunken groan. Waking up.

  “Why don’t I just take this here gun from—”

  And that’s when the gun went off. And Aaron was shot.

  By mistake.

  Because my dad was too fucken drunk to realize what he was doing.

  -43-

  I arrived some hours later. Dad hadn’t been taken into custody, but was told not to leave the state. A formality. The whole thing would be swept under the rug, and Aaron wouldn’t press charges because Aaron’s a good man. He’s a good man to his family. And his family comes first. And if he loses his position, he can’t pay for his daughters’ tuition.

  A dirty game. A dirty truth. But truth nonetheless. No one said life was perfect, or that justice is ever served.

  Justice.

  So daddy would get off scot-free. Again. For the umpteenth time.

  I stormed into the house, still unaware of what had happened to Aaron. When I got into the parlor, I saw momma, crying. And daddy, sobering up.

  And the blood on the floor.

  Some of Daddy’s boys were there. Friends of his, no better than Bobby and Jed and Lewis were to me.

  Randolf Berkeley was there. A buzz-cut big-boy ex-military pal of his—one of those dudes who quotes “scripture” that says blacks should be made into slaves. (I actually saw that quote, in a bible, in the Tennessee State Museum with Gin today.) One of those dudes who gives America a bad name by thinking every social problem is actually a military problem. One of those dudes who thinks the Rodney King “situation” was a PR one, not a civil rights one. One of those dudes who thinks that the army rushing the streets carrying foot-long bayonets to subdue L.A. rioters is the apotheosis of America’s ability to deal with civil unrest. Yeah, more army, more police, more fuckin firepower—Yeah! A true-blue Southern US Military man who’s daddy’s granddaddy fought in the confederate army.

  And so on.

  Yeah, Randolf Berkeley and pops get along real good.

  Momma said to me, “Honey, why don’t you sit down. We have some unfortunate news.”

  Aaron didn’t cross my mind because Aaron was rarely in the house. His home was way back in the farm. About a mile away. So why would he be here?

  I thought of little Janice, not so little anymore. I hadn’t spoken to her in several months so I just assumed all was going OK with her, starting college up at Columbia. Had she been here? Had she come home?

  “Aaron...” my mom began.

  And then I did think of him.

  Aaron.

  The blood on the carpet.

  Aaron.

  And he’s not here.

  Aaron!

  And momma’s been crying.

  I knew enough without knowing the details.

  And that was enough to set me off.

  I went for him, for dad.

  I went for him directly. Years of pent-up rage, fury, and hatred for this shithole of an excuse for a father!

  But I didn’t get to him. His military friends got to me first. Two men on either side of me, gripping my arms. And then Randolf Berkeley—one blow, hard, to the face, under my left eye. Then another, same side, and that one cut me. Then my dad came for me. He was aiming for my ribs. He almost got me, but I lifted my knee and he got the kneecap instead, broke one of his knuckles. Damn-well hurt my knee as well.

  My mother was screaming. Randolf was about to take another shot at me:

  And then a gun fired.

  The scent of spicy gunpowder filled the air...

  Randolf stopped, flung his head hard behind him to look at momma.

  Momma had grown a pair. Her face was livid. Smoking gun in her hand. Ceiling falling to the ground from where she’d fired the warning shot upwards. She looked like January Jones in that long purple dress in Sweetwater, just before she popped a cap up that peeping Tom’s ass.

  I was proud of her.

  “Don’t you fucking dare touch my boy again or I swear to God Almighty that I will blow your goddamn heads off! Now get out! GET OUT!”

  It was the first time I ever heard my mother curse in my entire life. Ever.

  Randolf dared to say, “Now, Christa, why don’t you just put—”

  She aimed the gun at him. “Get out! Get the fuck out or I swear to Christ I will blow your heads—”

  “Christa, please.”

  BOOM! Another warning shot. More ceiling falling.

  Randolf and his two friends beat it. Quick.

  Dad was in shock, staring at my mother, his broken hand still aching. “Now, Christa—”

  “You as well! Get out!” she screamed at him. “Get the hell out of this house!”

  “You’re gonna regret this, honey. You’re not gonna have anything. You’ll be out on the street and—”

  Mom pointed the gun at him.

  “You stupid woman. You stupid, stupid woman! How dare you aim that gun at me!”

  He hit her, flat across the face, with his good hand. A loud, cracking, thwack of a hit. She fell back. I charged for him but he ducked out the way and I fell on the ground!

  Then he kicked her on the floor before I could get up. It all happened so fast. Her whole body went up like a ragdoll. She still had the revolver in her hand, somehow. As if she’d known, even then, as she’d fallen to the ground, that without it, she’d be dead. Or I would be.

  I got up, was just about to fling myself in his direction, getting ready for one serious football tackle. His leg was already up again, getting ready for another swing against momma on the ground.

  I’ll never forget this moment: His leg cocked back, waiting.

  And then the gun went off.

  And then again.

  And again.

  Three bloody holes into his chest and stomach.

  He staggered, much like my mind staggered in that precise moment. I was reeling. Unable to believe what the fuck I was looking at!

  Dad. Bloody. Swaying. Blood from his mouth, his stomach. His chest. Looking down. Incredulous—him, me, momma. All of us, not a single one of us understanding, appreciating, the gargantuanly huge game-changer we had all three just effected.

  The gun went off a fourth time. And I saw him flinch back. And that’s when my reeling mind finally put it all together. That’s when I realized that my mom had shot my father. That she had actually shot my father. Four times.

  I heard a click. There’d only been six bullets in that gun, but she was ready to put another one in him. How many more after that was she willing to lay into him?

  Hate filled her eyes. Fear filled her eyes.

  Justice, I remember thinking, filled her beautiful, green, lonely, and tired eyes.

  He fell to his knees, gurgled something. And then fell forward on her legs. Like a bleeding zombie.

  She wriggled away from him. Shocked, panicked, freaking out. Suddenly realizing what had happened, the irrevocability of it. The finality of it.

  She panicked.

  She dropped the gun, started going into hysterics. “Oh, my god, what have I done! What have I done! Call
an ambulance, Ace! Call nine-one-one!”

  I called nine-one-one.

  Dad was still alive when they arrived. Miraculously.

  I don’t know how I feel about that.

  -44-

  Aaron’s in intensive care. Logan Travers, my father, is in intensive care.

  I went and saw Aaron. They said he’s stable, but needs to be monitored.

  I didn’t see my father. But I heard his chances are slim to none.

  Dad’s affairs are not in order. From hints my mom has given me over the years, I know that if he goes down, so does the farm. So does Aaron’s family. Dad has never been known for his prudence or his good judgment, only his ability to sweet-talk people into doing things. Including the bank manager.

  So, in a twisted, crappy way, I’m rooting for my dad so that Aaron’s family can be OK. So that my little sister Janice can be OK.

  Yeah, it’s complicated. Very complicated.

  If I had the money, I’d give it to Aaron myself. But I don’t. If there’s one good thing my father ever did, it was give Aaron his dues. Aaron’s two daughters are both at Columbia with Janice.

  Don’t ask me why the sonofabitch did it. But he did. And it confuses me. Because I wanna hate him, I wanna hate him for everything he did, and everything he almost did. Janice. But then I hear of this, of this generosity...

  It confuses me. It confuses me completely.

  In the hospital, I was all mixed up. Spinning. In a whirling turmoil.

  So I ran. Because that’s what I do—I run.

  I drove to Nashville. And I sang with Ginger. And now I’m here, in this bedroom with her.

  And this was the best damn thing I could have ever done.

  Because I had to get out of there.

  Had to.

  -45-

  “Do you know if he’s gonna make it yet? Aaron.”

  I shrug, still looking up at the ceiling in our Renaissance Hotel Suite. I also notice how Gin chose to ask about Aaron, not my father.

  She understands me.

  I didn’t tell her about what he did to Janice. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell anyone. That’s between me and her and Aunt Nola. No one needs to know about that.