Burn Down the Night

by M. O'Keefe

  All of those things were true and at the same time not true at all.

  “Me too,” he said.

  His hand was back to stroking me. My breast, my tummy, the hard bony edge of my hip. The tops of my thighs.

  “Please,” I whispered. But for some reason it was hard. Different. Begging like this wasn’t like begging on my knees with my hair in his fists. That begging was a game. This felt unbearably real.

  He pushed inside of me so slowly, I felt like I was being split in half.

  “Oh my God, oh God,” I moaned, gulping down air. I was pinned by him. Filled. By him. I ached to thrust backward against him, to satisfy this growling hungry need in my belly and between my legs.

  But he put his hand on my hip, keeping me still. “Like this.”

  It was excruciating how slowly he moved. I could feel every ridge of his cock, every centimeter of my body that touched him. I squeezed my pussy trying to force him into something more, but he only groaned and moved even slower.

  “I want to come,” I said.

  “You will.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Trust me, baby.”

  Ridiculous. Didn’t he know me? Didn’t he get it?

  But somehow, I didn’t fight him. I didn’t force him to use me the way I wanted.

  He put his mouth against my shoulder and I felt the sharp edge of his teeth, but he didn’t use them. He just held them against me. And all I did was lie there. Still and powerless, I let him slowly make love to me.

  It was like being unraveled. It was like having everything about myself that I knew to be true pushed aside, leaving me fresh and raw and naked.

  Unknown to myself.

  But totally known to him.

  I stretched and shifted my leg back further and he groaned, low in his throat. His hands covered my breasts, the nipples caught between his fingers. Every time he thrust into me it was as deep as he could go and it was so good. I was so full.

  He thrust and I arched and we found a rhythm that caught fire.

  “Just like that, baby. Just like that.”

  He kept on like that until we were soaking in sweat despite the air-conditioning. I was mindless. Boneless. I lived for the next push of his cock into my body. I was making some kind of sound. Some soft whimper that sounded like begging.

  I couldn’t even form words.

  I didn’t have anything while he was pulling me inside out.

  “You ready?”

  I whimpered and he slipped that hand between my legs and with one touch, hard and sure and just the way I liked, he sent me rocketing.

  It was wild and loud, a roar and a rush and I lost myself in it.

  He rolled me forward onto my stomach and he covered me from shoulders to feet. His knees split my legs, pushing me open, and he braced himself on his hands, one on my ass and the other against the wall. I felt his thumb touch my asshole and I came harder, a second wave lifting me up and out of myself. I screamed into the pillow.

  I heard him telling me how good I was like he was down a long hallway. How hot. How perfect. Dark praise that filled me up as he hammered into my body. And then he was coming and I touched myself again, riding my orgasm out with his until we were both done.

  I was breathing hard, my hair in my face. I blinked; the room seemed different though it wasn’t.

  It was me that was different. Like I’d been set down on the other side of something.

  He pulled out and I flinched, my body too sensitive for any more touching. Even his breath against my spine was too much. Him being in the bed was too much.

  All of it. Everything was too much.

  He got off the bed and went to the bathroom and I tried to organize myself into sitting up, but my body was having no part of it.

  When he came back into the room, I pretended to be asleep. Because there was no conversation after that. He chuckled and climbed into bed with me, pulling the covers over our bodies.

  “I know you’re awake,” he whispered. “And that’s cool. But sooner or later, we’re gonna talk. I’m not going anywhere, Joan. I’m here.”

  A coward, I kept my eyes shut until I knew he was asleep. And then I opened my eyes and stared at him and let myself wonder. I let myself pretend that I was someone else and he was, too. And maybe we’d met at a bar one night. I smiled, imagining him playing pool and maybe I’d pretend to accidentally bump into him or some shit. And then I’d have to buy him a drink for screwing up his shot and then he’d buy me one because the chemistry between us was thick. I would let him take me home. And the sex would be good. Kind, even. We’d kiss with our eyes open because we didn’t have all these ghosts and secrets and skeletons we were terrified of revealing.

  We’d go out for breakfast and to the movies. We’d argue over what to watch on TV and who would make dinner.

  It was a whole life we could have—if only we were different people.

  Because I was awake and the room was so quiet, I heard the buzz and rattle of my phone in my purse in the other room. I eased out of bed and ran quietly into the other room, fishing through my purse, throwing stuff on the ground in order to answer it before it stopped ringing.

  It was an unknown number and I swiped hoping I wasn’t too late.

  “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” I was just about to hang up when I heard it. The choking whimper and then a voice.

  “Olivia?”

  Only two people in this world called me by my real name. And this wasn’t Aunt Fern.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yes! It’s me. Olivia. I need help.”

  Chapter 26

  Max

  I woke up quickly. Yanked up and out of a dream so fast I was sick to my stomach.

  Something was wrong.

  Before I even opened my eyes I knew Joan wasn’t in bed with me, that when I reached over to check the sheets, they’d be cold. And I knew before I eased out of bed and checked the rest of the condo that she wouldn’t be there. Her garbage-bag luggage and her phone—all gone.

  I had known, despite the sex, despite the secrets we’d told each other, despite how badly I wanted her to stay, I had known in my gut she would leave.

  It was the truth I didn’t want to look too hard at. I liked pretending.

  Standing in an empty and dark apartment that still somehow managed to smell like her, I realized how stupid it had been to think we would do this shit the normal way.

  Some people had self-destruct buttons that had to be pushed. And I’d known that about her the second I saw her.

  And I didn’t know if my anger was so sharp because it felt like grief. Or my grief was so sharp because it felt like anger. But I was a mess of it. A seething, hurting, angry mess and I wanted to tear down the walls.

  “Damn it!” I yelled and I didn’t care if the neighbors heard me. I spun and put my fists down on the kitchen counter. Right on top of a piece of yellow notepaper with my name written across the top.

  She’d written a note. A goddamn goodbye note.

  Max

  I’m sorry. Jennifer called. She got away from Lagan and she needs help. I’ve gone to get her. Thank you, Max. For everything. This week was the nicest week of my life, and no, I’m not joking. And no, I’m not just talking about the sex. You’re a good man, Max Daniels. Better I think than you give yourself credit for. I hope so many things for you, Max. I hope you connect with your brother. And I hope you find a woman who treats you right.

  And I hope you get that boat.

  Signed,

  Olivia (my real name)

  PS: Tell Aunt Fern…shit. I don’t know. Tell her I’m sorry I always disappoint her.

  Jesus. I crumpled the note in my fist and fought the urge to send that fist through the drywall next to the sink. Gone. Just like that. And without even considering that anyone would help her. Fern. Eric.

  Me.

  The keys to her car were gone. But my phone was still plugged into the charger. I turned it on and called up the app that would tr
ack her. My gut in knots, I watched the circle spin over blank green space and then, all at once the screen was a map of Georgia and she was a blinking red dot traveling toward Atlanta on the I-75.

  She was hours ahead of me.

  I called her but I knew, even as it rang, that she wouldn’t pick up. She’d left a note. Said her goodbyes. She was back to living her life on her own terms and all by herself. The ringing stopped and clicked over to voicemail.

  “This is Joan. Leave a message.”

  I hung up and called her again, imagining her in the car, trying to ignore the phone. She wouldn’t put it on silent, she was hoping—always hoping—her sister might call.

  “This is Joan. Leave a message.”

  I hit redial. This time she answered on the second ring.

  “Max.” Her voice was exasperated and sad and it wrapped around my stone-cold heart and squeezed it so hard I thought I might die. Right there. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?” I asked.

  “Make it harder.” Well, I liked that it was hard for her. That I wasn’t alone feeling like my guts had been ripped out. I took a deep breath and pressed my fingers into my eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I turned and put my back to the fridge, letting the metal hold me up.

  “Saving my sister.”

  “What about the lawyer? The FBI? Bringing down Lagan?”

  “All I want is to get my sister back. She’s alone and she’s scared and nothing else matters except that. You…get that, right? I mean, I know you do.”

  I did and she knew it. I swore into the phone.

  “You know,” she whispered. “I stayed up last night and I imagined what we would be like if we were different people.”

  That made me laugh, even though I didn’t want to. Even though nothing was funny.

  “And what are we like as totally different people?”

  “The same, sort of. Where it counts. But you’re a mechanic—”

  “And you’re a nurse?”

  “Sure. And we met at a bar. You were playing pool and I ruined your shot.”

  “On purpose.”

  “Maybe.” I could hear her smiling. I could see this story play out. “But I buy you a drink to apologize.”

  “And I buy the next one.”

  “I give you my number—”

  “Fuck that. You come home with me.”

  “Not Nurse Olivia. She’s got rules about these things.”

  “I’m not sure I like Nurse Olivia.”

  “You love Nurse Olivia.”

  Our laughter dried up as if our fantasy had revealed too much, and then I realized all of a sudden there was no too much. There was only now or never.

  “Stop the car and wait for me. We’ll go together.”

  I heard the faint shudder of her breath and I imagined her crying. No, my Joan, she’d be holding those tears back. I imagined her biting her lip and doing everything she could not to cry.

  Fuck. This hurt.

  “You know as well as I do that there’s a good chance this is a trap—”

  “Joan—”

  “Think about it, Max.”

  “Stop the car.”

  “Remember how you came back from Arizona?”

  “Stop the fucking car.”

  “We’re so much alike that way, you know? Anything for our family. Anything. And if it isn’t a trap, and she really did get free, there isn’t room for you and for all the help my sister is going to need when this is over. I just…I don’t have enough in me for that.”

  “You’re not getting it, baby,” I told her. “If you’re not alone, it means you have me, too. It means I’m there to help you. Give you what I got. Feed you what I have.”

  Now she was crying for real.

  “Stop,” I said. “Baby, pull over and I will be there as fast as I can.”

  “No, Max. No. I’m sorry. What you’re saying…it sounds so good. It does. Like…like a dream, you know. But this is me and my sister and I’ve got to fix all the stuff I did wrong. Please, I’m begging you, Max. If you care for me at all, please don’t call again.”

  It took me a second to realize she’d hung up. That her silence had turned into a kind of buzzing phone silence.

  It was all I could do to not put my phone through the wall.

  This was the thing about me and Joan—I understood every word of what she’d said, like I’d said it myself. I understood how she felt like she didn’t have enough of herself to give to her sister and to give to me. Either-or. One or the other.

  And I totally understood that she wouldn’t know how to trust me to be there for her. She didn’t even understand how that would work, or what it would mean. To have someone at her back, holding her up when she wanted to fall down.

  Because I didn’t understand that, either, until she saved my life. Until she swallowed her pride and brought me to Aunt Fern.

  I ran back into the bedroom and pulled on my clothes. I was wearing someone’s hand-me-downs, Eric’s, now that I put two and two together. The jeans were too big and so was the shirt, but my own bloodstained and torn stuff was long gone. I opened every drawer, making sure I didn’t leave anything behind and in the bottom drawer there was my leather cut. The skull patch, faded and frayed against the cracked leather—laughing up at me. I flipped it over so I could see the president patch, covered—obliterated really—with dried, flakey blood. An ugly rust that covered the whole thing.

  Joan’s gun was there. She didn’t even take her damn gun.

  I grabbed the gun and slammed the door shut, leaving the cut in there.

  Someone—some future owner of the condo, a cleaning lady, I don’t know—would throw it out.

  I tucked the gun in the back of my pants—its familiar weight was no longer comforting. Thrown off balance by the gun, I turned on my heel, turning my back on everything I’d ever known in my life, and headed out of the condo to find Joan.

  Olivia. I grinned, thinking how well it suited her. She was such an Olivia.

  First things first, I was going to need a car. Which meant talking to Fern. Shit, that was going to waste some precious time. I could boost one from the garage, maybe.

  Nah. I discarded that thought from an old life I wanted no part of anymore.

  I took the stairs down to Fern’s condo, the scuff of my boots loud against the cement. I was on the landing when I heard the door to the floor beneath me push open and someone started taking the stairs in a great big hurry toward me.

  Eric turned the corner at the landing and stopped.

  There was something in his expression, some military “the shit has hit the fan” face that made my blood run cold.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “We got a problem. The FBI’s informant is missing. Lagan moved out of the compound. He took the drugs and left a lot of bodies.”

  “What?” The words fell down around me without making sense.

  “Lagan has moved. He’s gone. Joan—”

  “Joan’s gone, too.”

  “What?”

  “She got a call from her sister last night. Was gone by the time I got up.”

  We stared at each other for one long, hard minute.

  “Maybe Jennifer got out in the commotion,” I said, hoping with everything in my body that that was the case.

  “You really believe that?” Eric asked.

  “No. I think Joan’s walking right into a trap.”

  “Me too.”

  So did Joan.

  I stepped away from Eric and dialed Joan’s number again. Voicemail.

  “Listen to me, Joan. Listen. It’s a trap. Stop the car. Lagan has Jennifer.” I hung up. Dialed again. Voicemail, again.

  “Text her,” Eric said.

  “Good idea.”

  I texted the same thing I’d left in the message but it didn’t go through. I looked back at the tracking app and the red dot was gone.

  “I lost her!” I turned the phone to show E
ric. “She’s going through an area with no service. She’s in the foothills there, spotty service all over the place.”

  Shit. I felt like my head was going to explode.

  “Why does Lagan want Joan?” Eric asked. “What’s the angle?”

  “He’s a crazy asshole with a God complex and a vendetta against her because she tried to blow him up and scrapped his deal. Because he’s sitting on millions of dollars worth of drugs with no distribu—”

  Shit. Oh. Shit. Distribution. This was about the drugs.

  This was about me.

  I turned away from Eric and took a deep breath before texting Lagan. Playing it cool just in case I was wrong.

  The good times begin when?

  There was nothing. For heartbeat after heartbeat.

  They start when you get here. Start driving toward Atlanta. Alone. Alert police or anyone else and Olivia and her sister will get a bullet in their heads. More instructions to come.

  “What’s going on?” Eric asked me, and I turned around, every wild and seething emotion on lockdown. Stone cold. That was me. And Eric saw it, his eyes flaring for just a minute.

  “I’m going after her.”

  “Alone?” Eric asked.

  I didn’t even bother answering that question and Eric didn’t ask it again. I liked that about him. He would do the same thing in my position. “Stay in touch with your FBI guys. Call me with updates.” I gave him my cellphone number and he plugged it into his contacts.

  “You know, maybe we’re wrong,” Eric said. “Maybe Jennifer did get out in the commotion.”

  “Maybe,” I lied, because I knew Lagan wasn’t kidding around with that bullet in the brain. Just like he hadn’t been kidding around with the pills.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yeah. A car.”

  Chapter 27

  Joan

  I turned off the highway onto a smaller road, heading toward Pickens, a town that according to all the signs was really excited about their azaleas. The road was a twisty thing and I kept my eyes peeled for South Glassy Mountain Road. I was exhausted and buzzing again from the energy drinks and coffee, and my heart was pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out.