by Ryan Schow
“Something that’ll get us out of these clothes so we can begin having the kind of illicit fun we aren’t having this exact second.”
“I have just the thing,” he said, back in gamer mode. But only because she was hot AF and he’d suck giant bags of assholes if he refused her advances. From his pint-sized freezer, he took out a special bottle of Don Eduardo Silver.
“Ah, a boy with a man’s distinction,” she said, excited. Her deep brown eyes were gorgeous and large. They were glued to the bottle like it somehow held the secrets to life, when what it promised was nothing more than a good time and a potential hangover.
“Only for the most discriminating palate,” he mused as he poured her three fingers worth in a glass tumbler. He handed it to her, and she waited for him to pour his own. He appreciated her good manners more than he let on. “What shall we toast to?”
“Promiscuity amongst friends,” she said. They clinked glasses and drank. She finished it off, then made a face and said, “Wow, that’s got a nice bite at the end.”
That was one of his favorite things about that particular Tequila, that and the flash of cocoa bean and linseed oil. It was tasty. Not that he drank much. It wasn’t his thing, but it did spice things up a bit.
Four drinks in and there was music. Mazzy Star’s album, So That Tonight I May See. The music was dark and sensual, Mazzy Star’s voice raspy yet haunting enough for the burn of their drinks and the heat of their kisses to endure. The idea of not sleeping with her, it was gone. Not even a thought. The way her candy breath tasted sweet and disobedient, how her clothes came off long before his, it was why he knew, why he just knew, he’d be insane not to sleep with her.
As she was undoing his pants, he said, “Who was the last person you slept with?” and she said, “Emery.” He couldn’t pry his eyes from her dark nipples. Or the trimmed, landing strip of pubic hair just above a pair of lips he couldn’t stop seeing.
Mazzy Star’s slow, über hypnotic single “Into Dust,” was playing on the surround sound system. The song left him dizzy, lulled into a state of anticipatory submission. How he heard the music, it made him want nothing more than to lose himself in her, forever. The moment wouldn’t last, so he clutched it tight, held on for dear life. He did this by looking deep into Constance’s eyes. She seemed to appreciate this, but that didn’t matter. He wanted to see her soul.
“And before that?” he asked.
“Emery and Julie are the only two I’ve slept with, which is why I want to sleep with you. You’re connected to me through her, so to some degree, it’s okay.”
It was an interesting frame of reasoning, but whatever. He leaned in and kissed her again, taking her bottom lip in between his teeth and biting gently.
Purring audibly, she finally undid his pants, then pushed them down until he kicked his feet out of them. He was in his t-shirt and black, skin-tight microfiber boxers.
“I want to devour your entire body,” she said. She said this standing in front of him completely nude, her figure so delicious he was ready to be undressed. Ready to be in her.
Mazzy Star’s song, “Fade into You,” came on and it was perfect.
When she lifted his shirt and saw the network of scars, she stopped and just looked at them, like she’d never seen such a thing. The air between them chilled a degree or two, but then held steady.
“Oh my God,” she said, “I have to know the story behind those.”
“It’s nothing, really. It happened in Vegas. I…I don’t want to tell you the story and have you think differently of me,” he said.
“Tell me,” she said, sitting on the bed.
“There’s violence,” he said, swept away by the music, by Constance’s body, by her hungry stare, “and a woman.”
Really there was violence and a bunch of guys pissing on him, but his mentor Titan once said to him, “Man, those scars, those aren’t lines across your body, and they aren’t evidence of bullying, they’re a conversation piece! So spice up a lie. Make it juicy and meaningful, make it make your date want you because of it. It is never the truth that turns a woman on, it’s a well crafted lie sprinkled with bits of the truth.”
She pulled him toward the bed where she sat down looking up at him. He stood above her, his eyes seeing down on her, down on her tits and her crossed thighs. “Violence and women,” she purred, “Sounds juicy!”
“So this girl is dancing with this guy, and some other dude cuts in. This other guy, he’s not your normal club rat, he’s not a douchebag in Abercrombie clothes with X in his system and pupils the size of teacup saucers. He’s an alpha male through and through. All testicles and testosterone. He looks hard. Connected maybe, if you catch my drift. Anyway, the other guy leaves because he and the girl, they’re not together and he’s a total pussy.”
She was grinning, pushing her bare chest in and out, slowly opening her legs. Two fingers went down south and she started to…well, you know, touch herself. She started to do this with herself and he was freaking out inside going, is this story going to make her wet or dry her out? Already his mind was tits deep in creative mode, churning out the lie, making it bigger, all the while struggling to also provide logic and believability.
“So this girl, she doesn’t like this guy. It’s totally clear. Maybe it’s his look, or the way he’s dressed, or maybe she just doesn’t like the whole rapist’s vibe thing he’s got going on. Either way, she shoves him and storms off the floor. This asshat, he follows like he’s pissed at her. She’d disrespected him with everyone watching him trying to flex his dick, and he didn’t like it one bit.”
Constance giggled and slid two whole fingers inside herself, her feet no longer heels-down on the wood floor. She was on her toes, grinding herself against herself. And her hair, she was pushing it out of her face, sliding a finger in her mouth, writhing before him. Writhing with need. In and out, her breasts heaved, the two dark circles on her breasts tightening and pointing outward. They were all but black, something he hadn’t seen in person before. Something that had him dying inside, but in a good way.
“So she’s heading my way,” he said, nearly breathless and pulling his shirt off completely. He couldn’t stand being aroused to this extent and held captive by his own clothes. “I’m scrambling, and it’s because I think I know her, but if I don’t it wouldn’t matter anyway because I’m totally wanting to get to know her because she’s hot AF—”
“AF?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s short for ‘as fuck.’”
“Mmmmm,” she whispered.
“So, the gamer that I am, the player I became in Vegas, I watch her go by, my nuts all sucked up into my sack with fear. This guy coming after her, he’s got blankets of chest hair and he’s older. Old enough to have gray in his beard. So when he walks past me, his intent eyes locked on her, I stick out my foot, trip him, then with all my might, I find a way to kick him in the ribs. He’s doubled over and I had a heavy beer glass in hand. I smash it over the back of his head, which makes me the freaking hero that night.”
“So how’d you get the scars?” she said, now three fingers in herself, but not like she was trying to rush things, or impress him. Brayden had the feeling she did herself a lot, but not in front of people like him.
“That’s the best part,” he said.
Constance looked down at his…business, grinned and sighed, then pulled out her fingers and put them in her mouth because somehow she knew guys loved to watch girls like her taste themselves.
“What about the woman?” she said, licking her fingers. Any fool could see she was ready, fully primed for him.
“When I show you what I did to her, you’ll know how I got the scars.” And with that, he did the things Becky—the super-sexual red head bartender from Vegas—taught him. Then he remembered all the things Aniela did and so he did that to her, too, and it made her scream with ecstasy. Then, when he was done with her, when she was thoroughly spent, unable to grind and thrust out one more orgasm, she brushed her matted hair out of
her face and said, “That was fucking amazing.”
“You reading my mind?” he said.
“So how’d you get the scars? I’m dying to know!”
“Some guys beat me with their belts,” he said.
“Over the woman?”
“There never was a woman,” he said with a wicked smirk. She thought about this for a second, and then she laughed and hit him on the shoulder.
“You shit,” she said.
“So I can weave a tale, so what?” he replied.
“It’s hot,” she said, tracing her fingers down to his privates, then back. “I think scars are sexy. Emery, he’s perfect in every way. Physically, I mean. Not as a boy, or a lover. But his skin, it’s light chest hair and muscle. Your skin has texture. Your body is a story. And for you, it tells any story you want. I like that about you. I like what you did with the things you have.”
“Will you tell Julie?”
“If you want.”
“I don’t know yet. It’ll only push her away.”
“I’ll tell her she’s missing out.” Leaning over, Constance kissed him on the mouth and said, “Let’s get Starbuck’s, so you can stay awake enough to drive me home.”
“If I’m tired,” he said, “can I stay the night?”
“No.”
“Okay, so where’s home?”
She stood and slipped on her panties. Then she got into her bra. He loved her ass, but he also loved the definition in her calves and thighs, and how her stomach had neither defined abs nor the swell of post-teen flab. She was a woman, soft, not fat but not too thin, either.
“Home is in another state via Sacramento International Airport. When I said take me home, I should have said take me to the airport.”
“Oh, okay,” he replied. “Then let’s go now. It’s late.”
“Sure. But get out of bed.”
“I will,” he said, not in any rush to be naked in front of her after sex.
“Now,” she insisted. “I want to watch you get dressed.”
Wanderlust
1
The next morning, I head to the lab to visit my future self. I want to know what progress has been made. When I get there, Holland is standing over the body with a large needle in his hand.
“What are you injecting her with?” I ask. It could be so many things. Once, in another body and without my knowledge, he injected me with Cesium 132, which later radiated then melted half my body. Since then everything’s been just peachy.
Not.
“I’m giving her regular doses of the Fountain of Youth serum,” he says. “It isn’t taking though. Not like it’s supposed to.” He swabs her arm at the injection, gives her the shot. Looking up at me, he takes a deep breath and says, “Every time the healing starts to take place, whatever progress she makes withers away. The flesh blackens and curls back into itself. Almost like the ruined places on her body were infected with something to counteract the serum. From there, further degradation persists. Which doesn’t make sense at all.”
He’s spot on. What future me was given was some sort of acid to counteract the healing process. This acid bonded with the DNA and made my/her condition untenable. It’s nothing that’s been invented yet, so mentioning it doesn’t seem necessary.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work,” I say. “Call me if there’s any progress, or anything I can do to help.”
He looks at me. He can’t understand me being so congenial. It’s not that I’m being congenial, I almost don’t want my future self healed. If I speak to her, what will she say to me? She won’t like this weak version of me. I just know it.
“No smartass remarks?” Holland says. “Nothing cute or cutting to say?”
“No. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. For her. For me. I’m just trying not to be a dark cloud all the time. Especially to you, in spite of who you are. In spite of what you are.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t thanking you,” he says.
But I already knew that. I just want to leave. This whole thing is getting too surreal for me, too “Welcome to the Twilight-Zone” for my taste. I mean, Jesus Christ, if I pull back and look at this thing for a moment, I’m looking at myself eight hundred years into the future, knowing that I’ve become the world’s most frightening terrorist, and I’m praying Josef Mengele, a.k.a. The Angel of Death, can save her because I’m putting my faith in him. He’s a freaking Nazi war criminal! A traveler! A gosh damn sadistic sociopath if ever there was one! And I’m putting my faith in him. In him!
Ha!
I take a deep breath, try not to start giggling like a lunatic, or sobbing endlessly about this screwy life I’m now living.
“I think I’m going to get out of town for awhile,” I hear myself say. Maybe take a road trip. Just be by myself for awhile, you know? Collect my thoughts. Reflect on the murderous asshole I am yet to become.”
“You can change, Raven,” he says. The way he says this, like he cares, oh my God, it nearly feels genuine. But there is nothing even remotely empathetic about Holland. Caring for someone for the sake of “being there for them” is a preposterous idea I don’t need superpowers to realize. Holland cares only about himself.
“I don’t think she came back here so I can find ways not to get caught,” I say aloud. “I think she came back here to show me what I’ve become, how my choices have played out in the future. On a long enough time line, in the end very little matters because before you know it, you’re dead, gone and long forgotten. But not us. Not you and me. Not her. There is no ‘long enough time line’ because for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction with far reaching consequences, and she is mine.”
“I will tell you this only once, and I hope you don’t throw it in my face later,” Holland says, “but you are a smart young woman, wise beyond your years.”
Okay, now I’m really in the Twilight Zone. I just look at him and say, “Thanks, but you’re kinda freaking me out right now.”
His mood darkens instantly.
“Of course,” he says, waving his hand and turning his attention back to future Raven. “Go on your Eat, Pray, Love trip and maybe I’ll call you if anything changes. Maybe.”
“Asshole,” I mutter on the way out.
“Bitch,” he says back.
2
I’m finished with Holland. Done with Astor Academy. And for now, I’m done with the human atrocity laid out on that steel gurney in Holland’s lab. I try not to think of what future me may be thinking. Or feeling. Sometimes, though, thoughts leak into my head anyway, and they suck me into such a profound state of melancholy, I’m not sure I can break free of it. But then I do. I break free because I’m not her, and she’s not me.
Not yet anyway.
As I promised, after leaving Holland’s lab, I pack my things, get in my Audi and leave town at about a hundred miles an hour. Several calls come in. My father first. I don’t want to talk to him yet. Then both Brayden and Georgia call inside of about twenty minutes.
I can’t talk to anyone right now.
With their dismal futures burning holes in my mind, I can’t help wondering, how the heck am I supposed to talk to them knowing how their lives turn out? I can’t.
So I don’t.
Any simpleton can tell you what I’d end up doing. I would eventually ruin these relationships trying to change the natural outcomes of their lives. Can I snub fate, though? Or are the people I love always destined for these hopeless outcomes? I don’t know. All I know is I wish I would never have crawled inside future me’s head. If I could never have those memories, then maybe my life would be better.
Maybe I had a chance at some sort of sanity.
For now.
Then again, I can say that for a great many things, starting with: I wish my mother would never have despised my beastly features and my extra weight. If only she would have loved me as a flawed, unfortunate child, then p
erhaps I would not be this unblemished, doomed, immortal disasterpiece of a girl. Perhaps my life would have more meaning.
But as it is, the things I’ve seen and done, they aren’t things I can unsee, or undo. These are the horrors, the mysteries, the tragedies that make up who I am and who I will become. The rotten truth of it all is, I’m not a person other people should get close to. Not my friends. Especially not my friends.
That makes me think of Netty, though. And Brayden. Brayden, who won’t stop calling. How many times do I have to stab the IGNORE button for him to stop calling? Speeding down I-80 west, on my way back home, I reach out to Brayden’s mind and plunge inside. He is consternated. He’s learned the art of pick up, and he slept with a girl named Constance, but something inside him is reeling, second guessing his decision. I don’t care. It’s his life to screw up if he wants. Beyond that, though, he really wants to talk to me. He wants to hear my voice.
I can’t pick up, though. I just can’t.
When you know all the mistakes those closest to you make, when you understand where each bad decision leads—when you know how they live, and when and how they die—you just know every conversation will be about you trying to protect them from themselves and the shitty decisions they’re making, and doing that just seems so completely f*cking shallow.
Especially with Brayden.
Gosh damn, if I could save him from Julie freaking Sanderson, that would be the first good thing I might ever do. To some degree, I drove him to her. I don’t like to think about that, but when I was in his head earlier, I learned he’s in love with me. Well, the Abby version of me. He got it in his head that he wanted to use Julie to draw me closer. I really can’t fault his plan. Maybe it worked. Maybe it’s still working.
For about a hundred miles, almost all the way home, I think of calling and telling him how much he means to me, but in the end, I don’t make that call. He’ll want more from me than I can give. He’ll want to be with me—which is an idea that doesn’t completely suck—but he’s still got the stink of her on him and I can’t live with that.
