by Lime Craven
She's dripping blood on my hardwood floor, and I don't know whether to be annoyed by it or turned on. Adrenaline saws through the thrill of my recent orgasm and starts to irritate my nerves.
"Fine." I take a sip from my glass of liquor and Coke, watching the shadows in my dark room play on her naked skin. "Next time, we'll choreograph everything before we fuck. Happy?"
This only makes her tears spurt faster. For every heave of a sob, she clutches herself between the legs. "Fucking? We're fucking now?"
I give up.
"I can't find my tank top," she weeps. For some reason, she's searching behind my TV. Like there's anything behind there besides dust bunnies.
"It's in here somewhere."
"Why won't you help me?"
For a girl who doesn't like the word fucking, she's awfully eager to hump and dump me tonight. Not cool.
The time flashes on my clock radio: eleven forty-two. Shit. Mom will be home soon, probably with her man of the month, and there will be a whole other kind of noise to block out. One far worse than simpering Rachel.
"Aeron." She crumples against the wall, still clutching herself with one hand and holding her pink panties in the other. Her bare legs are a devil's mural, dark wet red swirled across pale skin. It's worse than usual—even I can see that. "I think...can you take me to the ER? Only it hurts more, and I keep bleeding, it's not going...away..."
I thrust my glass in her direction. "Last thing I need is a DUI."
"But how am I going to get home?"
I shrug. "Stay here."
She shakes her head slowly. "My curfew—"
"Bullshit. You told your mom you were staying at Lindsay's. I heard you on the phone."
"I don't want to stay," she whimpers. "I think I need a doctor."
"And how would you explain this to a doctor, huh? You'll just get into trouble. I thought you were smart?"
Nothing. She just starts to cry again.
Maybe I should've stuck to her thighs. She was getting used to that—even enjoyed it, goaded me on at times.
With feigned patience, I slip out of bed and pad over to kneel with her. She bends sideways into my embrace, her forehead jutting to seek my kiss.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I murmur. "I got carried away."
"I know." She keens, low in the back of her throat. "But it really fucking hurts, Aeron."
"Can I see?" Can I take a photo?
She seems to shrink away from me and back into the wall. "It hurts to spread out like that."
"You know what? I'll call you a cab." I start up to find my cell.
"But I don't have any money."
"I'll pay. You just worry about finding your clothes."
"Thank you." She sniffs.
With the cab on the way, I end up searching for Rachel's clothes—half of them are still balled up under my comforter, where they came off. Her jeans are dark, which is lucky, but she has to stuff her panties with tissue paper so she doesn't leak everywhere. Problem with cutting inside her is that my band aids aren't exactly going to stick. I need to drink less liquor and make better plans.
The cab honks outside. Rachel, who is sweating on the bed and contorted sideways, looks up wearily into the faint glow of headlights.
"I'll help you down the stairs," I say like a gentleman, offering my arm. "You'll be fine in the morning, Rach. I promise."
It takes her another moment to get to her feet, and she winces with each step. "Hey. Um—is my book here? Can you get it?"
I force a smile. "Hang on, babe."
A book. She's apparently in great pain, but she wants her fucking book. I waste more precious seconds searching until I spot her beaten-up copy of American Psycho near the bed, on the floor. Its yellow spine is now anointed with a viscous spatter of blood.
"Thanks." She tucks it into her bag, rubbing her fingernail through the drying blood and scraping off the evidence.
Such disregard for something so beautiful. It angers me. Makes my fists feel heavy.
Rachel hobbles down the stairs like an old woman, and I walk beside her, restraining my flared temper with white knuckles and a bitten tongue. Even in the light of the hall, it's plain to see she's already bleeding through the tissue and her jeans. Shit. Her goodbye kiss isn't as passionate as usual; I don't get nearly enough of her tongue.
"Will you call me in the morning?" she whispers.
Ah. So she's not lost completely. "Always. Text me when you get home, okay?"
She attempts a smile, though it's thin and washed out. Wobbly. "I love you, baby."
"Love you too," I mumble into her hair, tucking a twenty into her back pocket. "Now go get some rest."
I watch Rachel hobble into the cab to pinch her legs together and read her book. I don't know why she bothers—I read three chapters and it was all a heap of narcissistic bullshit.
You know those books about delusional psychos, the screwed up dudes who make you laugh because the joke's really on them? I look at Rachel, who comes back to me each time so bloodied and broken...and I kinda think the joke's on girls like her.
11
Peace (noun): the snatched second of weightlessness before you land a punch
The knot in my tie got pulled so tight that I have to cut Leo free. It was worth it. If ever I have to choose my preferred method of ruining a Gucci silk tie, I'll pick rubbing her wrists purple every time.
Afterward, she lies splayed on the bed with her pussy angled toward the lamp light, and I tend to her scalpel wound with the medikit I brought.
"Is it bad?" she asks quietly.
"Deep breath...this'll sting." I'm still talking when I push the antiseptic wipe across her cut; the tendons at the top of her thighs tighten and her belly ripples, but she manages to stay quiet. Scrubbed and sterilized, her skin is pink and angry, but it looks like it'll heal clean. "It probably feels bigger than it is."
"And how big is it?"
I hold my finger and thumb up, maybe an inch and a half apart.
She sighs. "Oh."
"You sound kinda disappointed."
Leo's laugh cedes into a whimper. "I don't know what I am."
I shake my bag, and out tumble boxes of butterfly stitches and dressings, their contents spilling across the sheets with a faint rustle. Then I peel the edge off a new wheel of white tape. "Stockings are probably out for a couple days."
"First world problems."
I grin up past her bare belly and flushed breasts. "Poor baby."
"Yeah, Aeron. Where's my sympathy?" She gropes around, pats my head. Segues into stroking my sweat-damp hair. "Although I quite like this playing doctors and nurses thing."
I lean forward and drag the tip of my tongue over her exposed clit, ushering a sweet little moan from her lips. "There's your sympathy." Then I can't stop myself, I keep going, dipping in over the rise of her vulva and then out along her smooth, tanned thigh. "God, there's a lot to feel sorry for."
"I like your pity," she breathes.
Perhaps because it feels like worship. Of all the places I could find religion, let's be honest—it was always going to be in a pussy. I just never guessed it would be hers. Is that what all this has been about, this seduction? Leaving offerings at her altar, putting my face in the hymn book and conjuring the right prayers...?
We make stupid small talk while I pretend to know what I'm doing. A couple butterfly stitches, loose dressing with tape, and she's patched up well enough. She's like having one of those Operation games.
When I'm done, I kiss my way back up her body, sucking in mouthfuls of pale gold breast and releasing broken capillaries and bruised pink skin. Each bite earns me a moan or curse in that haughty, lovely accent. She's my work-in-progress. My patchwork doll. By the time I reach her mouth for full-on kisses, her hands are running along my shoulders, rubbing into my hair again. We're pseudo-fucking, our hips bumping lazily and her thighs hooked over mine. Her familiar mulled wine scent is spiked with sex and antiseptic.
"You look different," she mu
rmurs. "Seem different. More relaxed."
"I hear sex has that effect on people." I do feel relaxed. Peaceful, even. My efforts have finally come full circle and I'm basking in the glow.
"You know what I mean."
I tuck my palm underneath her and scrunch the cheek of her ass. "So who do you prefer then? Pre-fuck Aeron or post-fuck Aeron?"
Her smudged eyes grow darker. Deeper, if that's even possible. "Is there an option for mid-fuck Aeron? Because I'm all his."
"Huh." I'm panting. Still coming down. "That so?"
She chews her lip. Looks away before turning back to me. "I'm...ah. I'm yours. It's obvious, isn't it? Seems stupid." A nervous laugh escapes her lips. "I don't mean to come on all needy. I know this is just a—a thing—"
"Oh?"
"Don't be mean, Aeron."
I snort. "But it's my default setting."
"No, it isn't." She leans in, brushes a kiss below my ear. Her warm, wet mouth in the cool air makes me shiver. Then she whispers, "I just thought you should know."
Post-coital courtesy confession. I've never seen a meme for that on Facebook. "You want a drink?"
"I'd kill for one."
"Ha." I'm even picking up her mannerisms like some pathetic beta...and I'm too relaxed to give a shit. I heave myself up toward the door. "What can I get you?"
"Just water—and some painkillers from the bathroom, if you can find them. There's beer and pop in the fridge. Help yourself."
"What the hell is pop?"
She comes up on her elbows, jutting nipples first. "Soda. Sorry. I still forget I'm not in England sometimes."
"I like your crazy English words," I find myself muttering, almost more to myself than her. Well, there's my own confession. I won't tell if you don't, sports fans.
On the way back from the kitchen, I grab her old cell from the hall table and bring it in along with her glass of water, a box of ibuprofen and my can of Dr Pepper. Now tucked under the covers, Leo sits up to accept the glass, but when the phone lands in her lap, her brow dips in a flicker of concern.
"Did it go off?" She shuffles along so I can climb into bed beside her.
"Nope." Air rushes out as I crack the can open. I press my body into hers. "If you're going to be mine, we can't have any more secrets. Figured we'd start with the phone you use to contact Rachel."
A strange silence descends, tepid and sticky with truths awaiting escape. Leo pops a couple pills. She doesn't know whether to be annoyed about the Rachel mention or curious about the secrets—I can tell by the way she pretends to scratch her face.
"How did you know that?" she asks quietly.
"Let's call it an educated guess. Put the code in. I want to see."
"Is that what this has all been about?" Her cheeks flush; she looks ready to smack the can out of my hand. "You just wanted the phone? Seriously?"
I roll my eyes.
"I thought you wanted honesty." She's near enough hissing. "So come on out with it."
"You really think that if all I wanted was the damn cell, I wouldn't have just taken it?"
"You need the code," she mutters.
"Oh, come on. I run a fucking news corp. You think my team can't hack a phone?" I pat her on the head, and she scowls, her nose wrinkling. "Question is...what are you hiding on there?"
"Very little, currently. But like you said, you can hack a phone."
"And I was never supposed to know about this one, huh?"
She sighs. "Something like that."
I set the Dr Pepper on her bedside cabinet and lean around to cup her chin. "Sweetheart, I won't be mad."
"You not being mad never seems like a very good indicator of whether or not you're actually mad."
"It's a carefully cultivated facade, and I'm very proud of it."
She bumps her shoulder against mine. "Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face."
That only makes me grin harder. "Put the fucking code in." Then I pout. "Please."
"No," she laughs.
I hold up the old Nokia, my upper lip twitching at the sheer weight of it. "What the hell, anyway? A 3210? Where did you even get this, a fucking museum?"
"It has a lot of sentimental value!"
Impatient, I swipe away her barely touched glass of water and deposit it next to the lamp.
She holds up her hands in mercy. "Okay, okay. Just let me compose myself...sorry. This is all a bit surreal."
"What, because that cell probably contains some kind of plot to murder me, and you're busting a gut laughing over it? Yeah. Very surreal."
"For crying out loud. You're so paranoid." She tugs the old Nokia from me and bashes the code in one stiff button at a time. Then she thrusts it into my lap. "There, knock yourself out."
The thing about old cells is that despite the fact smart phones are far more complex, analogue models are far harder to navigate in comparison because you have to press actual buttons. I keep looking for things which aren't there—a camera, a browser—and I have to squint to read the LCD screen in the dim light.
Leo's right; there isn't a lot on here that I can see. Seven missed calls, all from the past forty eight hours or so, and two text messages.
We need to talk, L xx
Jeez why don't you answer? What I do? xx
They're all from the same unlisted number. Rachel's, I assume.
"This is bullshit," I say flatly. "You've deleted almost everything on here."
"Yep. I delete it most days."
"Why? What's the point if you're not even answering her?" I slip a hand under the covers and run my palm along her thigh until I find the dressing. There, I apply a light pressure; enough to get her attention, but not to harm. Yet. "You met her, what, six years ago? And she's still contacting you?" I don't want to let on that I know about Rachel following Leo. Have to be careful here.
Leo goes very still beneath my threat of a touch. "It's complicated."
"So simplify it. Now."
"Six years. How do you know that?"
"Because I background checked the fuck out of you, Miss OCD. Now answer my question."
"It's a valid condition," she mutters.
I press down on her wound in warning; all her muscles pull tight, and she gasps.
"I bonded with Rachel. We liked the same books and stuff...we just clicked. Confided in each other. Had a lot in common." She presses her thighs together, sandwiching my hand in smooth heat. "When I met her, I hadn't even been over here that long so it was good to have a friend, even if she was a bit older. We kept in touch."
"So I see."
"She doesn't like that I'm working with you." She pauses, scratches her cheek again. "And she's furious that I let you buy me out. Before I...before I met you, I told her I'd take care of things—ow!"
I dig the heel of my hand into the cut. The shivering pain in her yelp goes right to my cock, which is already growing hard against my belly. "That's for doubting me."
"I don't even know what that means," she says miserably.
"Go on with your little story."
"Like I said, all I knew of you was what you'd done to her...she's wrecked that you got away with it. Always has been. I'd have been the world's most rubbish friend if I didn't offer to help her."
"What were you going to do to me, exactly?" I watch her with great care, and though she recoils into the pillows, there's a part of her that likes my scrutiny. Is flattered. She keeps blinking, checking I'm still there. "Why doesn't she just expose me, if she wants revenge so badly?" Revenge is such a cringeworthy word. So soap opera. So 1999.
"I don't know." She shrugs. "I suppose we just hoped we'd get dirt on you, or something. It was all a bit hit-and-miss."
I run my hand away from her wound and rest it over her damp slit. "Was this part of the plan? Me in your bed?"
"No." She clears her throat. "No. Um. And Rachel doesn't know about that."
"Wow. You're a fucking awful friend."
"Gee, thanks."
I flex my fingers against
her clit, and we both inhale at the same time; it's the dirtiest kind of confession, that moment when we both know she's swelling for me. Getting wet again. I swear her outer lips are almost sucking my thumb.
"Tell me what you and Rachel had in common," I murmur, dropping until my lips are just an inch over hers. I haven't even wiped her blood off my face—I must be a menacing sight. "She sure as hell didn't have OCD."
Leo's eyes fall closed and she arches up, pushing her pussy into my hand. "We didn't trust people. Anyone, really."
"Oh...?"
"Men lie. People lie, Aeron. They lie and they get away with it, and they don't care who they hurt or screw over. They don't get how epically they fuck things up just with a couple of white lies."
"You're right. People are just shits." I slip a finger inside her, relishing her jumpy little sighs of pleasure and the jolt of heat this sends to my cock. "You do realise that I'm giving your antique of a cell to the nice people at Lore Corp forensics first thing tomorrow? If you're lying to me, they'll recover every single one."
"I'm telling the truth."
"And you decided to fight all these mean, nasty liars with your SilentWitn3sses, huh?"
"Y—yeah—oh God."
I curl my fingers up into her sweet spot, and muffle her cries with a hard, hungry kiss. Our last fuck was swift and brutal; surely she's sore, and yet already her hips work up on to my hand, desperately seeking the pressure she needs to orgasm.
There are far better ways for me to help with that.
"Aeron," she mumbles into my mouth as I climb on top of her. "Aeron, please..."
This time, my kiss is slower, my tongue playing softly with hers. "Please fuck you? You read my mind."
"No, I, I..." As I settle between her legs, she tries to scramble out from under me, which only results in me holding her still. "You're not exactly a small guy. I'm still waiting for the painkillers to kick in."
I chuckle. "Mmm. Are you telling me no?"
"We both know how that ends. I'm just asking you nicely."
I laugh again. "You're cute." Another kiss, my teeth around her bottom lip while I shift around, trying to fit the head of my cock to her open pussy. "I'm going to fuck you."
Every time I find her heat, she jerks away—a game I have no patience for. It's been so long since I've been with someone so willing; I'm not about to start taking no for an answer just because her previous lovers were evidently limp-dicked mathletes.
