by Rose Queen
Yes. He must be oh so happy to be rid of us soon. He must be counting the hours. He'll go back to his brothers and other girls. Girls with tattoos of their own, and piercings, and whatever else. They'll wear tight, short clothes. They'll be experienced, maybe familiar with his body already. They'll be happy to see him. They'll show him how happy they are.
I slam mashed potatoes into my mouth, which burn my tongue.
"We'll miss you," Elsie says. "Why can't you be Catholic Unity and stay?"
Cassius Gunner smirks to himself in amusement.
"Elsie, pass the vegetables," I demand.
Not ask. Demand.
My father furrows his brow at me, then half-scolds, half chuckles at Elsie. "Young lady. That's too forward."
"Well, why not? Annabelle is so much easier to be around with Cassius here."
"Pass the vegetables," I repeat louder.
"Whatever it is you're doing to her, I wish you'd keep doing it."
The comment gongs across the table. The scream begins in my lower back but doesn't find purchase on my lips. I'm suspicious of my sister's intention. Was the remark meant to test him and me, or was it an innocent blunder? From the corner of my eye, I see that she's focused on her meal, nonchalant, no hint of maliciousness.
My father is remarkably ignorant, and I adore him for it, as he addresses Cassius Gunner. "We all have our own paths. I'd like to think you've learned a little from us, and we you."
Elsie pipes in, "Yes. Tell us what you've learned from each of us. Start with Annabelle."
"I said, pass the vegetables!"
All heads turn toward me. Cassius leans his elbow casually on the table, fingers resting over his mouth in contemplation as he studies me.
"Annabelle," my father bristles. "Apologize."
I bite my lip so hard, it's going to bleed. Mortification rings in my voice. "Elsie, I'm sorry."
In answer, my dazed little sister hands me the vegetables. For the first time in ages, she shows mercy and doesn't talk back. She regards me with something akin to reverence.
"And to our guest," my father instructs.
My mouth opens.
"S' okay."
At the sound of Cassius’ voice, I find those blue irises flaring in my direction. The fire inside me grows. I reach for my water glass and gulp down the contents. He reaches for his own glass at the same time.
My father wavers. Our guest has undermined his authority but also demonstrated forgiveness. Because it's the last night, my father chooses to disregard my outburst for the rest of the meal. Afterward, he volunteers me to walk Cassius home, declaring it's the least I can do for ruining things.
The offer is refused. "I know my way home," Cassius says on his way out the door. He tosses me an intense gaze and then leaves.
My father lectures me the minute we're alone. Elsie gathers the dirty dishes and awards me with a curious look.
Before bed, I spend an extended time praying, my fingers wound tightly, my knees digging into the wood floor. It doesn't help, because when I try to sleep, I end up rocking back and forth for an hour, then kicking the quilt off the bed. I get dressed and tiptoe out of the house. I need to atone for my behavior.
The cabin's light is still on, as I knew it would be. He's a night owl, for certain.
Forcing myself not to turn back, I gather my wits and knock on his door.
12
The Good Girl
Cassius answers before I'm done knocking. His body eclipses the orange gleam radiating from inside the cabin. Loose sweatpants ride his narrow hips and a sleeveless tank clings to his ripped torso.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, Catholic girl?" he asks.
I will miss that crackling voice. It's reserved but without the tinge of bitterness I'd expected. He's being polite. I want more from him, even though I shouldn't.
The breath that I draw begins in my navel and rises up through me, the way a new emotion might. "May I come in?"
He quirks an eyebrow. "Thought you weren't talking to me."
"This won't take long."
"Then the front stoop should do fine."
"I humbly disagree. The birds are eavesdropping."
"Daddy Chaste sent you to apologize, didn't he?"
I reign in my annoyance. "I came willingly."
"I'm flattered."
"If you would only, this once, cease your roguish sarcasm and let me in before the sun rises."
Impressed, he steps to the side. I struggle to get past him without quivering from his leather and spice scent, a combination of earthy and sweet. It pains me beyond belief when I see the duffel bag already packed and stationed on the floor beneath his wall mural.
He closes the door but stays near it, holding onto the knob. The stove fills the place with the scent of burning wood as flames lick the air impatiently. It's the only source of light in the room. I guess he was headed to bed, after all, when I arrived.
I school myself to act dignified. "I must apologize for messing up dinner tonight. I was upset."
"No shit."
"I broke up with David."
His features twitch and then smooth out again into impassiveness. “About time, Duchess.” He has such a hard jawline for such a boyish face.
"Maybe I was a little cranky," I add.
Cassius glances at the floor. "How are you now?"
How to answer that? I'm still upset. I'm worse than upset. My heart has been trampled upon by something more monstrous, and less easy to operate, than a tractor.
My hands fall into my apron pockets. "It hurts."
I'm not talking about David. I'm talking about now. Right here. Right now. I don't want things to end this way. I don't want them to end at all, I realize. I dread letting this man go. I dread entering this cabin tomorrow and finding it empty. I care too much.
"Any other reason for your mood?" he inquires. The curtain of indifference slips, revealing a more vulnerable desire. It's so unusual coming from him that it terrifies me.
"No," I lie.
Why can't I tell him the truth? What is the truth? Why can't I stay away?
The side of his mouth twists upward in self-mockery, as if telling himself he should have known better. I don't want him to think that way about me, that I'm the predictably stoic and dispassionate girl he once accused me of being, that his departure doesn't matter.
"Well. Thanks for the apology," he says. "Then we're done here."
I stop him from opening the door and kicking me out. "Wait. I-I'm not done."
"You need someone to talk to about Asshole?"
I'm amazed he would even tolerate it if I'd come to him for that reason. His exterior is far too calm and calculating to trust. He's pretending what we have is only skin deep, when truly it reaches further depths, beyond our physical selves. Beyond his city and my countryside. Beyond the wheat fields and beyond our clandestine trips on his motorcycle. Beyond other people, especially David.
My voice is dry as straw and just as thin. "To marry someone, they have to mean everything to me, not simply be a dependable friend and share the same faith. I couldn't devote myself to him that way. But I'm fine about that."
He crosses his arms. "I don't doubt it. You usually are fine during catastrophes," he remarks in spite of the admiration that I detect in his words.
"Not each time," I answer. "But in this case, yes. I'll survive without him."
"So I'm curious. What can't you survive without, Annabelle?"
"I didn't come here for you to dissect me. I'm bothered enough already."
"By what? What's the problem?" he asks casually.
"Can I sleep here tonight?"
Though I look down when I say it, the plea comes out naturally, as do most things with him. This moment is what I crave. It's only happened once, but the memory of those arms around me is too rich. I have one more night to feel them before he leaves me. I need this one last night.
Cassius' tone is mild, which means it's nearing the edge of a more volcanic rea
ction. "I thought you said you'll be fine."
My head snaps up. I lose my grasp on the meaning of dignified. "This isn't about David. It's about you!"
"How is this about me?” he rasps. “It's never been that way before. I'm the last thing you consider."
"You do not believe that."
"I'm just a deviant intruder in this farm. A non-Catholic fuck-up who breaks laws and doesn't fit in. But oh, what a dangerous and exciting distraction for you. The perfect excuse to call it quits with Asshole."
The comment knifes through me. "You were more than that."
His features clench. "Were, huh?"
"I mean, you are. You...you're..." I wring my hands. "Do not depreciate yourself like this. And do not insult the way I see you."
"I have no idea how you see me."
"You always have an idea! That's how you break me!"
He explodes, throwing his arms out to the sides. "What the hell do you need from me? Huh? I've made it abundantly clear how much I want you, and you've made it clear that it can't happen. I get it. I'm not trying to be a prick.” He laughs bitterly. “For the first time in my fucked-up life, I’m not trying to be a prick. I'm doing what you asked and backing off. So just..." He rakes his fingers through his hair. "What, Annabelle? Why are you here?"
"Please," I whisper, mortified by my rickety tone.
I listen to the fire humming. I listen to his steady breaths reaching me from across the room. I listen to him sigh. I listen to the sound of him locking the door. I listen to our footsteps when he takes my hand, his thumbing gently massaging my skin, and guides me to the bed. I listen to our inhales and exhales converging into a single, weightless, caressing sound. Which extends into one long sleep.
And in the morning, I wake up and listen to his heartbeat. I press my ear to that magnificent chest, counting every thump, wishing they could all be mine. The mattress winces as I lean up and study his sleeping face. Always unapologetically beautiful.
It's around dawn. I can tell from the weak light outside. As he wakes up, a groan rumbles from the back of his throat. The way he puckers his lips, then blinks up at me, is too cute for his own good. "Still here?" he asks, though there's a teasing lilt to his words.
"Still here," I say, because I'm not the one who's leaving. We have a couple of hours before that policeman picks him up, and I have an idea. But I hesitate.
He can tell. "What's up?"
"Will you take me somewhere?"
We get on the motorcycle and ride back to the hill. It's a terrifically chilly, eye-popping drive, but it's warmer once we get there. As we sit in our usual spot together, Cassius Gunner unpacks the blanket we brought and wraps it around me, refusing even an inch for himself.
This early and from this far away, the city looks faded. Like the concept of a place rather than a real one. Or like an aged photo that has been forgotten.
"Show me where you live," I say. "So if I ever make it back here, I'll know where to look."
He points out the Gunner café in a gap between the skyscrapers. "There’s an apartment above. Needs work. I'll be staying therfe, and I'm gonna try and get Dylan to stay with me, too. I don't want him alone with Mom. She basically disowned me when I got arrested again."
I'm relieved he won't be returning to her, but it must wound him to know the person who should care for him most in this world doesn't. The longer we sit here, the more devastated I become. Suddenly, I don't want to talk about the life waiting for him on the other side of this hill.
Cassius stares at the distance. "Last night, Elsie asked me what I learned from you."
I remember. That was the moment I lost my temper at the dinner table.
He twists his ring around his finger. "I learned you have this beauty mark hidden behind your ear, and when you touch it, it means you're nervous. I learned that when you laugh, it lasts exactly three seconds—no more, no less. I learned that you sleep soundly when you lay on your side, and you kick off the covers when you sleep on your back, and you mumble when you sleep on your stomach. I learned that you love to eat, but more than that, you love to gather what you eat. I learned that you're selfless and fiery and brave and a real pain in the ass. And you're completely irreplaceable."
My throat coils into a small knot.
"I learned that there is one person I will never fool, because she sees right through me every single time. I like that about her."
He waits for me to respond. The backs of my eyes mist. I'm shattering. He's shattering me. Yet I'm unable to do him the honor of answering. How could anything I say measure up?
His laughter is dry. "I've also learned that your flair for parting words is fucking profound."
Before I can stop him, he stands and holds out his hand. "We gotta get back."
I take it and rise. I make it a short distance before I stop. I watch him walk back to the motorcycle, where he bends his head to check something. Desperation rears its head because this is it, and I can't find one thing to say. One way to make him understand.
Please, don't go.
It's an irrational request. He can't stay, but I want to beg him anyway. Not to leave. Not yet.
I know what I want. I can't imagine feeling anything stronger, or more right, than what comes to me right now.
"Cassius Gunner," I say.
"Get on the bike, Annabelle Chaste."
"I would very much like to...to give myself to you."
Slowly, the back of his head lifts. My pulse stutters to a complete stop and then picks up again as I wait for his answer. When he turns, the untamed look on his face causes a flurry of sensations to spiral down my body and unite in one very sensitive place. He heard me loud and clear, but he doesn't move a muscle.
I do. Nervously, I untie the headdress from my head and drop it to the ground. It feels okay to do this, so I keep going. I let him watch. This is something special, and I want to pay tribute to it as much as possible before I lose all sense of cohesion.
I unwind my braid, letting it fall in waves over my shoulders. Glancing down, I attempt to unfasten my blouse, but I'm trembling so badly that I can't manage.
A warm hand settles over my own, stopping me. Somehow, he made it across the grass without me hearing. I force myself to look up. He's studying my face. Questioning.
Embarrassed, I sigh. "The snaps aren't—"
"Shhh."
I gaze into blue eyes that have darkened. We pause. A needy sound rises from the back of my throat. And something unlocks.
He hoists me into his arms so desperately that I grasp his shoulders for balance. Our mouths collide. It's been so long. Too long.
His tongue splits my lips apart and searches for mine like I’m cotton candy. When I offer it to him, he shudders, and all our restraint, all our resolve from these past weeks, falls to pieces. The kiss is feverish. Every flick of his tongue produces a gentle throb in my groin. The effect of it yokes from between my thighs.
His fingers grip my waist as he walks me backward toward the blanket. We sink to the ground. The wool blanket grazes the curves of my knees. The world spins as he twists and lays me down, the movement forcing our mouths to separate.
He pulls off my shoes, then slips his fingers under my skirt and finds the tops of my stockings, half way up my thighs. One by one, he rolls them past my calves, just the way he once said he would, then tosses them to the side. Without looking away from me, he runs his fingers across my bare skin, and I buck against his touch.
My billowy little shorts are next. His expression turns husky as he loosens the drawstring ties. They unfurl against my stomach and slide down my legs, beyond my curling toes. He links his hands around my ankles and pushes them until my knees bend and my legs spread.
Now, he breaks eye contact. His gaze travels into the gap of my skirt where I'm exposed. A thrill shoots up my spine as I lay bare for his heavy-lidded inspection. He licks the bows of his lips. "You're soaked. I can see it from here."
With that, his head disappears beneath
the garment. He hitches my legs over his shoulders and glides his arms under my waist, lifting my pelvis to receive him. I brace myself, my center twitching in anticipation. At first, he goes still, and I fret that I've done something wrong.
Then it happens. The pad of his tongue swathes along the wet track between my thighs. It's a patient, sensual introduction that has me arching my back instantly. A moan stirs from my mouth. He moans back in response and starts to lap at me greedily. It urges me on, and the noises multiply.
He finds that nugget of nerves and sucks it into his plush mouth. And I die. Over and over. I lose control. I'm loud. I'm grabbing fistfuls of grass and tossing my head from side to side.
Still, he persists. He sucks harder. His moans thicken as though he's been thirsty for decades. He increases the pressure until that nugget is vibrating like a leaf against his relentless mouth.
"Cassius," I cry out, so loud and so real.
He gives me one more tender lick, then reappears, a raw expression contorting his face. It is a delightful chore, having to catch my breath. I'm still recovering when he gathers me up onto his lap and brushes his lips against mine in a sweet kiss.
Breaking away, he pops the snaps of my blouse and drags it over my head, then cracks the closure of my bra and slides it off. His palms run over my breasts, thumbing the nipples until they ripen to a dark pink hue. I curl into him, marveling at how well we fit together. Those calloused hands travel over my skin and cradle my head as it falls back, allowing him to graze the column of my throat with his mouth.
This is passion, I realize. This is what passion does to you.
We grow impatient again. Cassius crosses his arms and yanks his shirt off, allowing me to do what I've been yearning to since the moment I first saw his naked chest in the cabin. My fingers span his broad shoulders, along his strong arms, and sweep across his abdomen.
When I reach the swell in his pants, he makes a strangled noise. We undo his zipper and ease down the waistband. Just enough. The solid heat of him fills my hand. Our foreheads press together as we gaze down at me holding his erection, stroking him, our breaths mingling. His eyes pinch shut. He falls apart so beautifully, reduced to whimpers, under the rhythm of my hand.
