The Righteous and The Wicked

by April Emerson

  With hesitance, he touches the stickiness on his face. His eye is swollen shut and he struggles to sit up. He has no broken bones, just some blood and bruises. Some would say he was lucky. The car door squeaks and screeches as he forces it open. He never even made it to the end of the street. He stands, causing everything to spin, and he leans back against his damaged Jeep for stability. The recollection of how he got here hurts him far more than the physical pain of the accident. The roof of her house pokes up through the trees. Once a place of respite from his darkness, now a source of shame. He can never look at her again.

  Eric grits his teeth and tinkers with the ignition. To his surprise, the Jeep sputters and whines. He didn’t even think it would start. He drives the debilitated machine over to the best mechanic he knows: Sean.

  “What the fuck happened to your car, bro? Oh, shit. Look at your face! Damn. Did you wreck? I don’t even know how you drove this over here, it’s mangled!”

  Danielle comes out onto their driveway. She stands with arms folded and Eric feels his starved hunger flare inside him when he sees her.

  “Danni, I’m gonna take this down to the garage. You want to keep Eric company?”

  Over her future husband’s shoulder, Danielle feels sick when she sees the lewd look that’s creeping onto Eric’s battered face. “No. I mean, I can’t. I’m meeting Abby and Emma.”

  Eric freezes. His perverse thoughts of the blonde disappear when he hears Emma’s name. It has to be a coincidence. There must be more than one Emma in this town, but hearing her name makes something inside him cringe. He regrets rejecting her, but he knows she’s not likely to forgive him. His behavior was reprehensible as usual.

  “Sean, can you just drop me at home?”

  Days pass and Eric occupies himself with what he knows best. He treads on the beams and shouts at his workers. His unquenched thirst, his shame, and the physical pain he feels are causing his crude behavior, and he won’t apologize for it. Self-loathing seethes through him and he projects it onto anyone who crosses his path. He’s angry at whatever it is that makes him this way. He hates himself for being an addict, and for pushing away the first person to accept him. He curses whatever force brought him to this street. What happened with Camila in Santa Catarina pales in comparison to this. A jealous husband trying to kill him—that he can handle—but breaking a sweet angel’s spirit, that’s something he can’t live with. He looks toward the old white house. It taunts him. He hears her car go by and retreats inside his silver cage. He can’t even look at himself in the mirror.

  Weeks pass and every day without Eric is bleak and pointless. Resembling a zombie, Emma stands in front of the kitchen sink, washing and peeling potatoes. She looks in the fridge, and takes out the tub of butter. It’s empty. She’s in a slip dress, not fit for the grocery store, but she doesn’t care. She grabs her coat, her keys, and walks out onto the porch. The wind chime clinks and the anger she has been ignoring for weeks rises up inside her. Now it has a target. She wants to smash the object that brought that man to her.

  She stomps over to it, forgetting the usual tenderfooted path that’s necessary to navigate the old porch, and the sound of cracking wood replaces the sound of the chime. She falls and hits the floor with a thud, a burning pain shooting into her leg. The rotten wood has given way and her right foot is stuck in a hole where the wood of the porch has collapsed. She’s submerged up to her calf in a splintered cavern. She tries to lift her leg out, and the pain becomes worse. The wood is pinching her flesh, and rusted nails are threatening to puncture her. She reaches into the pocket of her cotton coat, but it’s empty. No cell phone. She rubs her hand over her leg and looks toward the wooded path.

  He gets out of the shower; his black clothes are laid out on the bed, waiting for him. No sense in fighting it any longer. This is what he is and, without Emma, he doesn’t have the strength to try to be different. He towels off his wet and bruised body and gets dressed. His black eye and split lip have healed, but he still looks like he got the worst end of a bar brawl. It doesn’t matter, because he knows whomever he finds tonight will like it. A wounded man is like heroin to women. He looks in the mirror and everything is just right.

  Something on the floor catches his eye and he stops. By the bed is the stick from Emma’s lollipop. He picks it up, sits down, and touches his lips, thinking of her kiss and her strawberry taste. The look in her eyes when she told him that she knew of his sickness. She saw his darkest self and wanted him anyway. She reached her hand out to him and he didn’t take it. He pushed it away, and ran. She’ll never forgive him, and she’s better off this way. He is a poison. He thought he could get better if he had her in his life. Her sweet purity and simple goodness were helping him to keep his demon at bay, but now he has lost his grip.

  He was deceived by her innocence. She watched him, and she liked it. If the only good person he has known is twisted like him, there’s no point in pretending to be someone else. He made a mistake in thinking he could ever be more than a monster. Feeling hopeless, he tosses the stick in the trash and grabs his keys. The Jeep waits for him in the driveway. To him it looks like a hearse. His hand is on the ignition when he hears it. Someone is screaming.

  “Help! Someone help me!” The pressure on her leg is causing pins and needles as she loses circulation. She knows there’s just one person who can hear her on this isolated street, and the thought is devastating. Even if Eric does hear her, his help is the last thing she wants to receive. To have to see him again will bring unbearable pain. The futility of her situation makes her desperate, and she calls out again, louder this time.

  “Please! Help! Someone please help me! Eric . . .” The pinching pressure of the cracked and splintered wood against her leg makes her wince. Her eyes fill with tears, half out of pain and half out of frustration. She looks toward the path again, and this time she sees him.

  He emerges from the woods in a sprint, her vile guardian, her sordid savior. He’s dressed in all black. The delicious devil. The human storm. Aroused and repulsed, filled with rage and relief, she watches as he climbs the steps, and kneels, panting, before her.

  “Jesus, Emma, you scared me.” He takes deep, gasping breaths; his face is distressed. “Are you hurt?”

  “The porch gave way. My leg is stuck. It hurts to try to move it.” She notices his black eye and scabbed lip. “What happened to you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He slips his fingers between the fractured wood and Emma’s skin. Seeing her in pain is more than he can take. Somewhere inside his black heart, there is a light for Emma.

  His muscles flex and the veins in his arm bulge as he grunts and rips the shattered slats away with his bare hands. He pulls again, removes another chunk of the decayed wood, and guides her injured leg out of the opening. She slides back, relieved to be free, and rubs her scraped skin.

  Eric leans back against the railing of the porch. “Let me see your leg.”

  She can’t look in his eyes. She’ll get lost there. She wants to get lost there, and that terrifies her. He’s dressed in black and she knows that he was on his way out . . . or on his way back from someone.

  “I’m fine, Eric. You can leave now.”

  “Emma . . .” Eric’s sweet voice comes out of Stormy’s mouth.

  “Just go.” She won’t let him hurt her again. The anguish she feels over the way he treated her is still a fresh wound on her heart, in spite of the time that has passed.

  She stands up, and so does he. He moves toward her and she steps back. “Eric, please. Just leave.”

  “No.” He answers her with direct defiance and steps closer.

  She wants to fight back, but she also wants to just give in. He reaches up to touch her, and she pushes him away.

  “Don’t.”

  She looks in his eyes and her fear is realized. She gets lost in the storm and it feels so good. She feels the fiery pull to him.

  “I think you were very clear about how you feel, Eric. What else is
there to say?”

  He reaches to touch her again, and against her better judgment, she lets him. “I want to say that I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you are not forgiven,” she says with halfhearted ferocity, and turns to unlock the front door.

  He grabs her shoulders, turning her around. “Emma, do you understand that I don’t want to be this way?”

  “Eric, you need to go. You were so cruel to me.” She wipes a traitorous tear from her eye.

  “Emma, please, I need you to forgive me. I want to try to be good. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I can’t fight it alone. I need you, Emma . . . I need you to help me.” He takes both of her hands in his, interlacing their fingers, trying to bind himself to her in some way.

  She pulls away from him. “How am I supposed to help you? I can’t take any more pain, Eric. I want you to leave.”

  They stand poised for battle, each unwilling to give in. Eric makes the first move, grabbing her hips. “I’m not leaving.”

  He touches her face, and she flinches. “Emma, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  He leans his forehead against hers. It almost hurts her to be near him, but in spite of her anger, she can’t fight her desire. His mouth is so close. She surrenders, and brings her lips to his. They are warm and wet; she brushes them with hers.

  Eric kisses her back. He cradles her face and feels her soften against him. Touching her this way alleviates the misery he felt without her. All he wants is to stay with her, and keep touching her. He picks her up, pressing her back against the door and kisses her harder. The feel of her body causes him to stiffen. As her legs wrap around him, he reaches behind her and turns the doorknob.

  He stumbles into the foyer as he carries her, and their kiss continues—unbreakable—hungry and desperate. They make it as far as the stairs. Eric lays her down just before them on soft carpet. He descends upon her, kissing her neck, rubbing the length of his body against hers. He wants to give himself to her, to replace all her pain with pleasure.

  “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”

  What she has merely fantasized about is reflected back at her: Eric—craving her, just her. The front door is still open, and anyone could walk in or see them. This private yet public display feeds Emma’s inner voyeur. She’s aroused by the way he’s touching her. It escalates the ache she has for him, and the desire to feel him inside her is all she can think of.

  She provokes him, fanning the flame. “You are not forgiven.”

  He removes his lips from her body and kneels before her. He runs his hands over her bruised and scraped calf; he kisses her knees, and caresses the soft, gorgeous skin of her thighs. He wants to worship her, to adore her for accepting him as he is. He slides the hem of her dress up, and then his hands are on the lace of her panties.

  “Eric, wait . . .” She tries to stop his hands with hers, but the look he gives her makes her think twice. She doesn’t want to stop him, but she knows this is his drug. It would be wrong to enable his addiction with her selfish desire.

  Eric is a single-minded beast. “No. No waiting.”

  She gives in to him, and her hands help his to slide the thin barrier between them from her body. He kneels between her legs, and she’s exposed to him. Her body is beautiful and he feels unworthy of the sight before him. He wants to take her right here on the stairs, but he won’t. Earning her forgiveness is his goal. He licks his lips and lowers his head between her thighs.

  Emma gasps before he has even touched her. The anticipation of what he’s about to do is driving her out of her mind. She pants. “Wait. Eric, shut the door. Turn out the light . . .”

  He grins at her. “I think we both know that you don’t want me to do that.” She may know his secret, but now she realizes that he knows hers, too.

  She runs her fingers into his hair and he holds onto her hips as he stares into her lust-filled eyes. Then, finally, he tastes her. Emma throws her head back, gasping and moaning. The space between her legs feels like pulsing fire. “Eric, that feels so good . . .”

  He slides his tongue around her and her body quivers. She pulls and squeezes at his hair and his hand slithers up under her dress and grabs her breast. Her nipple is hard and he takes it between his fingers. He licks her and lets his eager hands roam her body. Her magnificent skin is hot and damp with sweat.

  Emma moves her hips in rhythm with the way she wants to feel him, frantic with lust. “Eric, please. I want you.”

  He pulls away from her and moves up her body. He kisses her neck and she feels his hard cock press against her, through his jeans.

  “I want to give that to you, but not now. I can’t now. I just want to make you feel good. I want you to forgive me. I need you to. I need you to save me, Emma.”

  He confesses what’s in his heart. His hot breath is on her ear, and her neck, as he rubs his hips against hers. He kisses her lips, her cheek, her collarbone. She slides her hands over his shoulders, his arms, his chest. She longs for him, but feels guilty for tempting him this way.

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  He takes her face in his hands and looks deep into her eyes. “I’m not finished. I want to give you more.” He slides the top of her dress down off her shoulders and kisses her breasts. She’s soft and trembling and he’s enraptured. Something deep inside him stirs as he savors every sound and movement that she makes. He admires her and kisses her body, and then once again he tastes her warmth. He moves his mouth on her in ways she has never known. She lets her body lead, rather than her mind. Pleasure surges through her and the intensity of his touch causes her to cry out oaths she has never uttered before. He caresses her slit with his tongue, and moans against her flesh.

  He’s grateful she’s letting him be with her this way, and is amazed at his restraint. Instead of seeking out his own selfish pleasure, he’s giving it to her. This is a first, something he has never done before. He’s satisfied by her satisfaction; her wanton cries of joy are quenching his thirst.

  In the back of his mind, he knows this feeling is fleeting and he will crave her or someone else again soon, but for now, he feels content to listen to Emma say his name, to be the reason she trembles. He works her body with his skilled mouth and hands. When he slips his long fingers inside her, Emma shatters. His cock throbs with need, but he’s not thinking of himself. He watches her face as she comes for him. He wants to make her come again. He goes down on her beautiful flesh; worshiping her with his hands and mouth, submerged in her taste and the sound of her pleasure.

  Emma is overwhelmed by the unending and glorious bliss. She writhes against him, and calls out his name. “Eric, yes . . .”

  “Eu adoro você,”4 he whispers, as he adores her body with abandonment.

  She feels his tongue slip inside her. She’s amazed and awed at the depth of sin she’s indulging in, but right now, this rapture is her religion. Her prayers are for Eric never to stop giving her this ecstasy. Right now, his lips are her savior. And somewhere in the midst of her repeated throes of deep and ardent passion, Emma forgives Eric.

  His fingers trace an unknown pattern on her shoulder and her face is pressed into his chest as they lie together, languid, at the foot of the stairs. The sweet spring breeze blows the front door open just a bit farther, and then it squeaks back to its original position. She can see the new crater in the porch, and her leg still hurts, but that sting is overshadowed by the delight she feels right now, lying content in Eric’s arms. She knows this feeling will soon pass. It can’t last, and that impending disappointment looms over their resting bodies.

  She allows herself to breathe him in, to seal this moment. She realizes it was Eric who did those things to her body—not Stormy. Stormy would have taken her, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. She’s satisfied from the pleasure he has given her, but he’s still rock hard against her thigh.

  The taste of her lingers on his lips as he rests with her beside him. Her delicate pale legs are tangled with his, and the torment
he lives with has lulled. The inner war he fights is quiet, but his physical need to be inside someone has not been satisfied. The spell Emma has cast on him saturates the air, and he wants this moment and this feeling to persist, but he knows it can’t. Abstaining from taking Emma the way he wanted to has been the hardest thing he has ever done. But he did it.

  Emma breaks the peaceful silence. “I’m not stupid, Eric. I know how this has to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I want you to know that I’ve already been in love. I was married, and I know that’s not what this is. We can try to be friends, but nothing more.”

  He shifts his position so he can see her eyes. He tries to memorize her face and the way she makes him feel, because he knows this can’t happen again. She deserves more than he can ever give to her. He can’t just fuck her and forget her, and he’s not capable of being with just one woman. Emma deserves love, and that’s something Eric has never felt. It’s something he’s convinced he can’t feel. He’s incapable of that kind of depth. He’s too selfish. Still, he feels something when he’s near her and it’s not self-preservation. With Emma, he doesn’t want to just take, but wanting to do something is not the same as doing it, and Eric knows that. He will continue to wrestle with his demons. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he’s not sure that she is.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ms. Santori puts on her glasses and opens her book. “Okay, young ladies, it’s story time. Please clear your desks. You may put your head down if you wish, but please keep your ears open.”

  Emma reads a short story to twenty-seven lovely, but fidgety, little girls. She reads about a tree that gave everything it had to a little boy. The words roll off her tongue and settle on her heart. She reads about giving everything you have to someone you love—everything—until there is nothing left. She stands at the front of the class and reads, but in her mind, she sees Eric’s face. She sees a vision of how she wants to give herself to him. She wants to give and Eric’s designed to take, but she’s not sure if she’s prepared to give this way.