Loving Abel Adams might be the purest and truest thing I’ll ever do.
After every shoot, he carries me out, like he did the first time. He takes me home, washes my hair, presses a kiss on my tummy, and then we cuddle. There’s no sex or lust, only companionship. His movements are so gentle, his fingers such balm to my aching soul, and thoroughly vandalized and pleasured body.
He’s so layered, my Abel.
He is a product of this society. He’s a product of all the hatred and narrow-mindedness of my hometown. It makes me think that monsters aren’t born, they are made. Not that my Abel is a monster, but still. We make them, through our actions, through our thoughtlessness. We make them with our own hands and then, point fingers at them.
It makes me cry. It makes me see how capable my husband is of being hurt, of being angry over his past. It makes me realize how angry I am, and how my fury has been growing over the years.
It all comes out now, in front of the camera.
So this is basically our own fucked-up version of therapy.
But when I see other couples on the street, laughing, kissing like they have no care in the world, like they don’t have any burdens, I wonder. I wonder if we will ever get to their place, all happy and care-free.
I wonder if we will ever get to a place where we’re not angry anymore. Will we ever move on?
Where does this fantasy end?
I’ve been married to Abel for seven weeks now, and not once have I talked to my parents.
Well, obviously.
They don’t care about me. They don’t even know that their only daughter’s married. They probably pray to God that I’m dead, while I’m showing them the finger with my clothes off.
I shouldn’t be thinking about them, but I am. Today’s my dad’s birthday and it makes me realize that I’ve been in the city for about three months, but it feels like forever. It feels like I’ve lived here longer than I lived in Prophetstown.
I’m melancholy and Abel isn’t home to distract me. He’s hanging out with his friends. And even though I’m sad, it makes me smile that Abel is socializing.
My husband is a classic loner. He doesn’t make many friends but he’s made some ever since he started working at the studio. Both he and Ethan are out so I have the apartment to myself.
I call up Sky. Usually, I don’t ask about my parents when I talk to her. But this time, I drop the question: “How’s my dad?”
“Fine. He’s fine,” she says, quickly. “So, how’s married life treating ya?”
I’m not fooled by the false cheer in her voice. “Sky, how’s my dad? My mom?” Do they ever ask about me? I can’t say that, but I’m silently asking the question.
“I said he’s fine. They’re fine.”
I plop down on the bar stool in the kitchen. “Sky, tell me.” I sigh. “I know, okay? I know they hate me. I’m prepared for the worst. So just, lay it on me.”
She’s silent for a few beats. “I don’t think you’re prepared for the worst.”
I sit up, my heart slamming in my chest. “What? A-are they okay? Is my dad okay?”
She scoffs. “Oh, yeah. He’s fine. I saw him just the other day. He was at the church with your mom and they were chatting up Mr. Knight and that asshole I’m gonna murder: Duke.”
A broken laugh releases from my throat. God, I miss my best friend and her bloodthirsty ways. She’s getting ready to go to college. She’ll leave in a few weeks. I haven’t thought about school in so long; it almost feels like I’m too grown up for it, or maybe not grown up enough.
“You still hate him, huh?”
“Well, yeah. It’s only been a few months since you ran away. Not that long. Besides, I’ll always hate that asshole. He’s my enemy number one.”
“Really?” I prop my chin on my palm, thinking back to the conversation I had with Duke on prom night. “Because I think he might like you.”
She sputters and I can’t help but laugh. “He does not. Ew. That’s the most disgusting thing ever.”
“Is it? Because I think you hate him a little too much.”
“Hey, you know? I think you’ve lost your mind,” she says, mimicking my tone. “Besides, there’s no such thing as too much hate. The more, the better.”
I laugh again, but then stop because it turns sad. I wish I could see her. I don’t know if I ever will. I wish I could… go back and see my town.
No. Bad Evie.
I don’t want to go back. But sometimes I think what if…
What if I tell them that I’m married and I’m happy? I mean, I know they are angry but what if they come around? They are my parents, they are biologically programmed to love me.
I’ll tell them how great Abel is and how he’s the most wonderful husband ever. Yes, he drives me crazy and he’s controlling but he loves me. I’m his world and he is mine.
Why can’t they make peace with it? Maybe if my dad sees him with me, he might apologize to Abel for beating him up and throwing him in jail. Maybe they won’t be best friends but they might tolerate each other.
I gather my courage again and say, “Now are you going to tell me how my parents are? How’d they look?”
A big, long sigh, and there goes my heart again. It’s pounding, with dread, with anticipation. “Evie, you don’t wanna hear this.”
“Oh my God, just tell me, okay?”
“Fine. Here it is: they are not looking for you and they’ll never look for you because they are pretending you’re dead, okay? Your mom had a wake for you. They told everyone that you’re dead to them and that they don’t support you.”
For a second, I don’t feel my heart anymore. It’s stopped beating. I don’t feel myself. I don’t even think I exist.
“Evie?” Sky sounds concerned. “Hey, you there? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, babe.”
I shake my head. It’s not her fault. It’s mine for asking. For hoping. And yet, I can’t help myself. “Was my…” I clear my throat. “Was my dad the one who said it?”
“I wasn’t there. I, uh, heard it through my mom.”
“Well, I bet it wasn’t Dad. I know he’s mad at me but he’d never say that about me. I bet it was Mom.” I nod my head, squinting at the kitchen counter.
It can’t be my dad. I know he didn’t always come to my rescue when Mom was being a bitch but he still loved me. He said that to me the night I ran away. He said he was doing it for my own good. Doesn’t matter that it was wrong what he did and I hated him.
“Evie, your dad burnt the treehouse.”
“What?”
“He found more photos of you and Abel and…” She sighs again. “Everyone in town knows this. He burnt your treehouse the day you left.” I hear some static, then her voice seems much closer. “Evie, your dad’s not your fan either. I don’t think they’re ever gonna forget what happened. Just be happy, okay? Just be happy that you’re with Abel. Just think about that. Think about your new life and how it’s perfect and —”
“I-I have to go.”
***
Ever since I talked to Sky a few hours ago, I’ve managed to make myself sort of tipsy on beer. I’m not a big alcohol drinker; I’ve only had it once, on our wedding night. Hangover was a bitch though.
I don’t care about a hangover right now. I don’t care about anything.
I’m digging out my journal and flipping through its pages like a maniac. I want to cry but the only thing holding me back is my promise to Abel. I promised him that I wouldn’t cry for that town and I won’t.
But it’s hard. So hard.
When I first came to New York, I had plans of collecting stories and pouring them out on the pages but along the way I forgot all about it. I forgot how I wanted to be a writer and write epic, legendary stories.
Instead, I became a porn star.
Isn’t that great?
And guess what? I’m not even that. People don’t know my name. They don’t gather around me, begging for autographs. Nope. I’m not even a porn star. I’m
just a fucking weirdo who’s angry. So angry that I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to control myself anymore. I don’t know how to get the image of my burning treehouse out of my head.
I keep seeing the yellow-orange flames eating up my most favorite place on Earth. It must be ashes now. Gone. Dead. Mixed in the mud, the dirt that I spent my childhood running around in.
My treehouse is gone.
My dad made it for me. He painted it yellow for me because it’s my favorite color. I spent days and days in that place, dreaming about being a writer. Within its four walls, I had my first kiss, the first hug. It’s the place where my love story started, the place where I heard the big bang. It’s the place where I fell in love with my golden-haired boy, who grew into a god of a man.
Abel.
Oh God, I love him so much.
I want him here with me, inside me, making me forget, curing me. I lie on the bed clutching the pillow I bought him. I want my husband.
And then, suddenly he is. He is here with me. His arm hooks around my waist as he turns me on my back, and I let go of the fake Abel, the pillow, when faced with a real, live one.
“Abel.” I blink my eyes open; I don’t remember falling asleep.
I groan when lights pierce my foggy, sleepy eyes. But he is here. He’s back. Everything is going to be okay now.
He presses a soft kiss on my forehead and smells my hair. “Why do you smell like beer?”
“You smell like beer too.” I nuzzle my nose in his t-shirt.
“Yeah. Had a couple with the guys.”
“The guys. Aww. I love that, honey. I’m so glad you’re making friends. Yay.”
His chest shakes with laughter, and then he’s filling my vision, his silver cross pooling in the hollow of my throat. “You drunk, baby? How many have you had?”
I squint my eyes and look up at the ceiling. Then I hold my fingers up: two. Then, three, four. Then, I hold open both my hands. “Can’t remember.”
“I can’t leave you alone, can I?”
“Nope. I need you all the time.” I arch my hips and push against his cock. “I missed you so much.”
His fingers bury in my hair as he runs his nose along my cheek. “Me too. Hated going without you. I wish I could turn you into a drug and shoot you straight into my heart so I never have to be apart from you. Not even for a second.”
Moaning, I duck my face to get to his throat and lick his Adam’s apple. “Me too.”
And then I giggle because it’s funny. Drugs are bad. You can’t be a drug to someone, you’ll only poison them one day. You’ll only bring them down.
Downfall.
Abel can’t be my downfall, remember? I promised myself that. I can’t be his downfall either.
So, I’m saying no to drugs.
My laughter makes my head feel heavy and currents ripple under my skin. Maybe I’m a little tipsier than I thought. Maybe I’m totally, completely drunk. Or maybe I’m something in between.
But who cares? Abel is here, he’s going to fuck me and make me all better. He’ll make me forget about everything but him. I won’t think about my treehouse, the burnt photos, the burnt journals. My dad. That godforsaken town and its fields.
Smiling, Abel kisses my lips. “Something funny, Pixie?”
I nod, bumping our noses together. “You. Me. Us. Everyone.” He laughs and I grab his face, planting a big kiss on his mouth. “You’re so pretty when you laugh.”
His eyebrows arch. “I think you wanna say I’m handsome when I laugh. Or sexy.”
“I won’t know how sexy you are until you sex me up.” I pop the p of ‘up’ and lick his lips.
“Ah, so my Pixie is fishing for dick, is she?”
Oh gosh, yes. I’ve been waiting and waiting for his magic cock all evening. Plus, I feel ultra-sensitive right now.
“Yes. Please, Abel. I need it.” I begin fisting his t-shirt, tugging it up, but my movements are fumbling and slow, and Abel takes over. He raises himself up and takes off his shirt, baring his sculpted muscles to me.
He’s right. He’s so sexy, I can’t stop running my hands all over his naked chest.
Then he makes me lift up my arms so he can tug my sunflower nightshirt off my body before stripping me of my panties. When I’m all naked and ready, he works on himself and in a flash, he’s covering me.
This is the safest place on this earth, under him. He’s so strong like this. Like he can protect me from all the monsters in the world.
“I love you so much, Abel,” I whisper, placing a soft kiss on his lips — or maybe it’s his jaw — and holding on to his shoulders.
“I can’t believe you’re mine. I can’t believe I made you mine. Something so pure, so fucking beautiful.”
“I am. I’m yours, Abel. I’ll always be yours. It’s you and me against the world. Always. I know that now. No one can take me away from you. No one has the power.”
Definitely not my parents. What did my dad think? Did he think that by burning the place where I fell in love with Abel, he’d burn down our love too? Did he think those flames would touch us here, in our new life? If he thought that, then he was wrong. So fucking wrong.
I’ll burn down the world before I’ll let anyone touch our love. Nothing will destroy us. I won’t let them and neither will this man in my arms. He’ll never let anything come between us.
Abel throws his head back and emits a loud groan, when he enters my body. He finds a hard rhythm, slamming into me, our flesh colliding together.
I smile. This is perfect.
Gosh, I never want to look away from his magnificent eyes.
Already, I feel the beginnings of an orgasm in my toes and the pads of my fingers. But a moment later, it stops. Everything grinds to a halt and I’m left panting. And then the world turns upside down because I’m not on my back anymore. I’m on all fours; Abel just turned me.
“Abel, what…” I turn my face and look at him behind me. He appears a bit fuzzy.
Thank you, alcohol. I’m never drinking again. Ever.
“Stay like that, Pixie. I love this shot. I love how your ass shakes when I fuck you like this.”
I’m stunned for a second. Like someone threw me down on the ground after making me fly. My body jars and my bones shake as I watch him reach for the camera, lying under a heap of dirty clothes that I didn’t care enough to pick up.
As he opens the flap and gets it going, I realize I don’t want the camera. I don’t want Abel to tape our sex. I want him to look at me, be with me in the moment.
In the next second, he thrusts inside me once again and my back arches, making my protests dissolve on my tongue. The invasion is so deep, deeper than it was before, and my palms slip and stumble on the mattress. Though Abel keeps me from falling.
It’s only a small relief because he starts up his pace again, all the while watching the screen, instead of watching me in the flesh.
Look at me.
“Abel, stop. Not the camera,” I protest, my words stumbling like the drunk I am.
I don’t want this. I want us to turn around so Abel is over me like before, staring into my eyes, telling me how much he loves me with his gaze.
I want my husband, not a fantasy.
“What?” he chuckles, the sound rusty and horny. “Baby, you’ve got no idea what you’re doing right now. You look stunning, Pixie. Out of this world. You love the camera. Look at the way you’re moving. You’re loving it.”
No.
I’m not.
And I realize something. Something important. I never climax before looking at him. I can’t. I’m incapable. I need to turn my head or catch a glimpse of him to orgasm. It’s just my thing.
Abel pops his thumb in his mouth, wetting it. That move gets me every time. Like, how sexy is that? I moan, biting my lip and then I’m chewing that lip right off because he slides his wet thumb inside my ass. I jerk at the penetration, shake and shiver like a leaf as pleasure coils inside me. The butt-play always makes me
horny.
“Fuck, Pixie. The camera gets you so hot,” he grits out.
He praises me. He says I look amazing like this, I was made for this, made for the camera. And then he groans, biting his lip, fascinated by the screen-me. His lip-bite does me in and I shatter. My orgasm claims me and I clench my eyes shut as I come and come, spasming. My climax sets off his and he comes inside me with a roar.
Once he’s done, he collapses and hugs me from behind, sighing contentedly. My eyes are wide open, though. My sleep and beer-induced haziness are gone.
It’s never been the camera for me.
Yes, it’s sexy and it gets me going but only because it’s either him wielding it or it’s him getting all worked up when the red light is on.
It’s you, Abel. It’s always been you.
I hug his arm and place a soft kiss on his hair-dusted limb as a tear snakes down and drops on it. He winces but doesn’t wake up. I’m not breaking my promise by crying because my tears are not for my burnt treehouse or my parents. I’m crying for him, because of him, because of something that I didn’t even know I was missing.
My Abel.
Somewhere along the way, the camera became a third person in our marriage. Maybe it happened when he brought home the camcorder, I don’t know. But for me, it has always been just a fantasy, a form of therapy.
I didn’t notice it until tonight that somehow for my husband, it became a reality.
I’m trying to remember the last time Abel looked at me while having sex.
I think it was the day before our shoot was scheduled and we were lounging on the mattress, naked, of course. I was draped over his body, as I said, “You’re still hard.”
“I told you. It’s a sickness. I’m a sick man.”
Smiling, I kissed him sweetly. “Are you sure you’re sick for me? Maybe it’s the apples.” All day we’d binged on sex, Toblerones and apples. “I swear you’re like Adam.”
He fisted my snarly hair. “Who’s Adam?”
“Adam. From Adam and Eve. They got cast out of the garden because he was stupid enough to eat the apple.”
Letting go of my hair, he put both his arms behind his head and chuckled, looking like a king. “Yeah, no. I think, it was Eve. She tempted him.”
Gods & Monsters Page 24
