Last Hope

by Jessica Clare

  No handgun is that big.

  Thing is, I don’t care about the size of his dick. I mean, not as more than a conversational sort of topic, like my heterochromatic eyes. But I know Mendoza’s a guy, and if we snuggle—based on his reaction to me before—he’s going to get wood. That will make things super awkward.

  But if we don’t snuggle, he sits in the rain and we lose out on body heat. That puts things decidedly in the “snuggle” column. I cradle my bad arm against my chest and pat the palm fronds on the ground, avoiding any misgivings I might have about this. “Come on.”

  Mendoza moves in next to me, though I can tell he plainly doesn’t want to. All right. I’m going to have to make the first move if we’re going to get past all this awkwardness. I wait until he stretches his long legs out and then I move a little closer to him, tucking my head against his shoulder again and pressing up against him. Not in a sexual way, just in an innocent sort of cuddle.

  He hesitates for a moment, and then puts a hand around my shoulders.

  “Watch the wrist,” I say, gesturing at my bad arm.

  “I should look at it.”

  “In the morning,” I say, because it’s getting so dark I can barely make out Mendoza. I actually don’t want anyone to touch my wrist right now, including myself. It hurts too much. I lean against him, and he’s warm like my own personal radiator. That’s really nice. I almost don’t mind that it’s raining and getting cold and dark.

  Almost.

  It’s silent in the jungle as it gets dark. Too silent. I hate it, so I speak again. “Maybe we should play a game.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Yeah. You tell me one thing about you that I don’t know, and I tell you one thing about me that you don’t know. Each night. By the time we get out of here, maybe we’ll come out of here as friends.” I nudge him with my good elbow. “Though I’m gonna be real honest and say I’d prefer we left as strangers because we get rescued so fast.”

  He chuckles.

  “I’ll start,” I say. “My eyes are two different colors.”

  “I knew that.” His voice is soft in the darkness.

  For some reason, I feel a blush creeping over my cheeks. “Okay. I told you that I’m a hand model, right?”

  “You did. Keep going.”

  “Okay.” I try to think of a different fact for my game. “Here’s one. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen. Camp. He was a counselor and all of fifteen. It was all very glamorous when I was a kid, but looking back, I guess it’s pretty stupid.” I smile faintly at the memory of what a dumb, rebellious teen I was. “He had such smooth moves, though. Even sang me a Justin Timberlake song. I was hooked after that.”

  He snorts. I can’t tell if he’s amused by my anecdote or grossed out. I guess I wouldn’t blame him for either.

  “Your turn,” I say.

  Mendoza’s quiet for such a long time that I start to wonder if he’s going to play our game or not.

  I drum my fingers on his chest, waiting. “Well?”

  He stiffens against me. After a long, tense moment, he says, almost grudgingly, “My friends call me Rafe.”

  I roll my eyes. This is what I’m getting from him? “Gee, what a secret,” I say dryly.

  He doesn’t respond. Against my shoulder, he’s all tense again. Uncomfortable. I wonder if he has another erection.

  I wonder if he’s going to spend the next few days—God, please let it be only a few days!—awkward around me. I guess we need to get things out in the open. “Maybe we should talk about it, Rafe.”

  “It?”

  “You know. Godzilla.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  RAFAEL

  I wonder how long it takes to drown yourself in a rainfall. Or at least kill an erection permanently. If I believed in a higher being, I would suspect that I was being punished for some bad deed I’ve done in the past. I’ve done a lot of them, so I guess this is karma shitting itself all over my head. It’s the only way I can explain how I am stuck in the jungle with the hottest piece of ass in all of humanity.

  Unfortunately that hot-ass woman is looking at me like I’m a freak—which I am—and that I could hurt her—which I could but have no intention of doing.

  “Godzilla?” I try to muster a smirk but from her confused look, it probably appears like I need to take a shit. “You have an imagination.”

  She wanted to play some game like “Never Have I Ever” in the jungle? I could top her stories on the first try. I’ve never sucked spider venom out of my own leg. Drink. I’ve never tracked a murderous Chinese thief into Saint Petersburg and killed him. Drink. I’ve never killed a Columbian drug dealer inside his fortified compound. That one was particularly sweet. Drain the cup.

  “Oookay,” she says, and it’s evident she doesn’t believe me. “Look I’m not afraid you’re going to rape me. After all, you say you’ve been watching me, so I presume you’ve had plenty of opportunities and just aren’t into that. Which is good. Very good.”

  She pauses and it’s clearly my turn to talk now.

  “Right. I’m not into that. The rape thing,” I clarify.

  “Good to know.”

  I shift slightly away but her body follows mine, and despite the awkwardness of the conversation and her obvious distaste for what’s in my pants, I get hard . . . again. I rub the back of my head against the tree as if the sharp bark can pierce my thick skull.

  I’m in the fucking jungle. My eye may be permanently damaged. I have to get one hand model and myself out of this place before Duval and his little army descend on us and decide to kill us in the middle of the Amazon rainforest.

  I should be focused on getting what sleep I can so that tomorrow I can find enough supplies to help us make it to a village, which may be ten miles downstream or a hundred. Instead I keep thinking about how soft her fucking hands are and how, despite the fact that it’s 2,000 percent humidity and we both sweated like dogs earlier, she still smells good—womanly and delicate, which isn’t possible.

  My nonstop erections around her defy explanation, too. Sure, I’ve gotten hard before but not from just looking at a woman. Not since I was a perpetually horny teenager and even the local department store circular could raise a half chub. But since then I’ve spent a lot of time putting sex and women out of my mind. There’s little point when I can’t do anything about it.

  My dear sainted mother dubbed me a killer before I could spell the words. I was the result of the most vile experience a woman could suffer. I ate my twin sister in the womb. Nearly killed my mom on my way out of the birth canal. My giant dick was the evidence of my cursed existence.

  I should never have been born, she hissed at me repeatedly.

  She’s probably right but not much she could do about it when abortion went against her religion. So I lived, but not a day went by without her reminder that I was a monster created by the devil. I existed only to hurt women, and the very evidence of that hung between my legs. From before I could form words, I knew that my own body was a weapon fashioned to harm, maim, and kill.

  I tried. Fuck I tried to make my mother happy. I tried to ignore what was happening in my pants. I tried and failed and proved her right. I existed to hurt women. So I stayed far away from them.

  And that’s where I’ve gone wrong, I conclude. I spend too much time with Garcia and the men. That’s the only rational conclusion. Somewhere along the line, I started avoiding women and now the first isolated exposure to one is sending me reeling. If I were home, I could remedy this by taking myself in hand—literally—but I know better than to stand outside of our shelter in the pitch black of night with my dick in hand jerking it while a dozen predators lie in wait.

  She shifts again and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from moaning out loud.

  “So who are these friends that call you Rafe?” she asks.

  “Aren’t you tired? Because I’m bushed.” I make a big show of stretching my arms, almost knocking some of the leaves off our shelter.
/>   Maybe if she sleeps then I can sleep. I was in the military. We were taught to sleep anywhere in any conditions no matter how hot or cold or how many enemy artillery shells were flying over our heads. I can sleep through this torture, too.

  “I’m kind of cold.” She burrows even closer and I swear to fucking God her hand brushed against Godzilla. He roars to life and the blood flow that rushes into my groin is so swift I nearly pass out.

  I jump up before I do something insane like grab her hand and press it even tighter against me. “I’m going to find you a blanket.”

  She grabs my leg. “You said that we shouldn’t go out in the dark—that it’s too dangerous. It’s pitch black out there. You can’t leave.”

  She was right but I had to do something. “I’m going to take a piss.”

  “Can I at least have your knife?” Hurt and fear war for supremacy in her voice.

  I rub a hand down the side of my face. My five-o’clock shadow is going to be a full-on beard if we don’t get out of here soon. “Sure.” I pull off my belt and reattach the knife to the buckle. “Don’t kill me when I get back.”

  “Don’t act like a predator,” she retorts.

  Too late for that.

  I retrace our steps from earlier today. The pilot is going to get eaten tonight. It’s just a fact of life. We might as well salvage what we can from him. I locate him easily and strip off his clothes. The white dress shirt is a lost cause soaked with blood. The suit coat isn’t much better but it’s made out of decent enough wool. I can take a knife to it and make strips that we can wrap around Ava’s wrist if she needs a splint, although from my cursory look, the hand and wrist look more bruised than anything. Still probably hurts like a motherfucker but if she had broken anything she wouldn’t be able to take a step without the pain overcoming her.

  In the pilot’s pockets he has two energy bars and a pack of gum. I ball up his socks that are still mostly dry and stick them in my pockets. The one shoe that Ava nearly stubbed her toe on was too soft of a leather and worn to be a decent weapon. The clothes she might not like but we could use them for bedding.

  I find nothing else, not even his pilot’s pistol. Maybe he didn’t carry one. I walk a little ways away and take out my dick and piss. The dead pilot has done a good job of deflating my erection. I rub my hands in the soil and then find a wet leaf to wash the debris off. I roll up the clothing, pull out the socks, and stuff those in the roll of clothes.

  “It’s me,” I call out as I approach.

  She moves inside the shelter and I duck inside, tucking the roll of the pilot’s clothing to my left so she doesn’t see it. No sense in having her worry about it tonight.

  “Did you find anything out there?”

  “A couple of health bars. Want one?”

  I feel her shake her head. “No.” She hesitates. “Did you get that from the pilot?”

  “Yeah. Better that we have it than one of the jungle dwellers.”

  “What’s going to happen to him tonight?” From the sound of her voice she knows exactly what is going to happen.

  “He’s dead and he won’t feel anything.”

  She shudders. Her fear generates an itch at the back of my neck, and as she sits huddled beside me, I realize I’d rather have an excruciatingly painful erection and solid blue balls for days than have her be this upset. This woman’s a trooper. She hasn’t cried except for that one time when she realized she was sitting in the middle of a tree. I think those were actually tears of relief and gratefulness.

  She hasn’t complained. She hasn’t done anything but try her damnedest to survive. And I’ve been taking shots at her for trying to be friendly and stave off her terror. I stretch out my legs and then pick her up.

  She yelps.

  “For warmth,” I mutter.

  “Yes,” she breathes out. “You feel like a radiator.”

  In spite of all her curves she weighs less than a few banana leaves. Or maybe I’m just distracted by all that plump flesh in my grip. I settle her between my outstretched legs and wrap both arms around her. I try to position them low so I’m not crushing her tits. Oh shit, she feels good. She feels like ice cream on the hottest day in August or sunshine on a cold spring day. She feels like a shower after a long day of manual labor. She feels so damn good.

  “Sorry.” My dick presses into her thigh. Lying down, I feel like the circulation in my leg is getting cut off but I make no move to readjust. Being uncomfortable, painfully so, may be the only thing that gets me through the night.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings by calling it Godzilla. I guess I figured guys just love to brag about their penis size and that it would be funny, but it wasn’t and I’m sorry.”

  “Guys don’t get hurt feelings,” I reply.

  “Oh really?” She twists to look at me, and her tits brush up against my chest. Marshmallow soft and just as tasty I bet. I grind my teeth a little.

  “No, just tired. Really, really tired. I’m exhausted in fact.” I lean my head back and close my eyes, but immediately I conjure up a picture of her, sweaty and nude with her breasts swaying in my face.

  “Well, I’m sorry for making you tired, then,” she jokes.

  “You’re forgiven.” I snap open my eyes and stare out into the night. Maybe a jaguar will attack us and I’ll have to leap from our hideout and wrestle him into submission. No, because then I’ll have a post-adrenaline erection.

  “You do have to admit it’s rather large.”

  “Ava,” I bite out.

  “Yes?” She doesn’t sound at all cowed. In fact, I think she’s trying to hold back giggles. Although those could be fear giggles. Bennito laughs like a schoolboy when he’s nervous.

  I should just confront the issue head-on. It is the elephant in the room and it’s not going to get any smaller with her sitting in my lap. “I have a large dick and obviously I’m very attracted to you, but nothing is going to happen. I promise. I would never hurt you.”

  “Sex done right never hurts. Unless of course that’s what you’re into, which is perfectly fine but not for me.”

  “Ava, can you not talk about sex right now?”

  “Oh God, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  She shifts, trying to find a comfortable place among the branches and hard soil. She shifts and every fucking time, she rubs against me.

  “Ava, you need to stop moving,” I rasp out hoarsely.

  She stills immediately. “Sorry,” she says quietly. She leans her head back against my chest and I hear her taking long, concentrated breaths as she tries to find peace in her mind. Enough so that she can fall asleep.

  I concentrate on moving the blood from my dick into other areas of my body.

  There’s one easy way to get Ava out of my mind, and that’s to think about the first time a girl saw my dick. She pointed and then screamed, stumbling up from the sofa where we’d been making out. Her father had burst down the stairs to find out what was wrong. We’d made up some story about seeing a mouse. She broke up with me the next day. Then there was the girl who thought she could give me a blow job, only she tried to go too fast and ended up puking all over me.

  One by one I bring up all my teenage catastrophes until the throbbing in my cock subsides. I even pull out the worst of my memories—the one I keep locked away behind a concrete wall of shame and horror. The one where my attempt at sex ends in blood, pain, tears, and retribution.

  My stomach churns as the screams of the girl and my mother mix together in an unholy chorus. You’re an animal. A curse. You should have died in the womb. You are my cross, my penance.

  No, I’d never subject Ava to that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AVA

  “I think I just saw a spider eat a bird,” I tell Rafe as I come back from the bushes after taking a pee. “Did I mention I hate the Amazon?”

  He chuckles and hands me the water bottle. “I’m not a fan of it at the moment, eithe
r.”

  I eye the water bottle. My mouth is dry, but the water isn’t super clear. It’s rainwater, which means it’s only as clean as whatever it fell on before landing in our bottle. Ugh. I try not to think about the things I’m ingesting as I swallow a mouthful.

  “Drink more than that,” Rafe commands. “You need to stay hydrated.”

  “You’re joking, right?” I peel a portion of my wet shirt away from my skin. “Every ounce of me is freaking hydrated at the moment because it won’t stop raining.”

  “Drink it,” he says again, in a tone that brooks no argument.

  Prick, I almost call him, but I choke back the word a moment later, conscious of our conversation last night. “Jerk,” I say instead, and he simply grins at me.

  Rafe’s a bit sensitive about his big equipment. It’s a little surprising to me. Most guys with that big of a dick would probably relish the opportunity to whip it out and impress people. Rafe acts all scandalized at the thought of me even noticing it’s there.

  And really, I’m good at tuning things out . . . but I’m not that good. It’s like a python lying in wait, and clearly visible through his wet pants no matter how much he adjusts himself or tugs his shirt down. I felt it against me last night while I tried to sleep.

  Thing is, I’m probably exaggerating its size because his clothing is probably making things seem bigger than they are. Maybe that’s why I’m so fascinated and terrified at the same time. It’s like in horror movies, where they delay the reveal because the reality isn’t as scary as our imaginations.

  Right now, my imagination is having Rafe walking around with a two-foot club between his legs. Which seems ridiculous, because—

  “Here,” Rafe says, appearing out of the corner of my eye.

  I jump a little, startled out of my thoughts. A hot blush steals over my cheeks as he holds a health bar out to me.

  “Eat this,” he says.

  Is that a health bar in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? I stifle my insane laughter and take the bar from him. “It’s from a dead guy,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “Do I have to?”