Run

by Byrne, Amanda K.

  I couldn’t explain why I’d hidden the ink in that particular spot. I couldn’t explain why I’d originally gotten the tattoo, since it had taken on an entirely different meaning in the intervening years. And I wasn’t here to talk, anyway. I twisted my arms behind my back, unhooked my bra, and pushed the straps off my shoulders.

  He stroked his hands up to cup my breasts. “Trying to distract me?” He thumbed my nipples, and another voice faded away.

  “Just think there are better things you can do with your mouth besides talking.” I leaned in and wrapped my arms around his neck again. “Want me to show you?”

  He grinned, bringing out those sexy mouth creases. Then he turned and led me to the bedroom.

  The dark was a comfort. I could be anything I wanted in the dark. In this dark, I could open up, abandon myself, push and tease and beg. In the dark, he couldn’t see my hands trembling as the reality of what I was doing hit home. He’d think the shudder wracking my body was the result of his lips on my collarbone.

  And in a way, it was.

  I fumbled with his belt, then the fly of his jeans, tremors rippling through me as his mouth found new spots to torture. Behind my ear. The hollow of my throat. I pushed at his pants, trying to get them past his hips. I was done with languid. I wanted the rush.

  His hands caught my wrists. “You sure about that?” He leaned back, his face shrouded in shadow.

  I wanted. “Yeah,” I whispered.

  He rubbed soft circles over the thin skin of my inner wrists, his right thumb unknowingly caressing the tattoo there. “Told you once they came off I’d have a hard time stopping,” he said just as softly. “But you say stop, we will.”

  In answer, I pushed at his jeans again, and this time, he didn’t stop me. He released my wrists, yanked at the button of my jeans, and the war was on.

  Here was the rush, the surge of touch and heat and lust, the frenetic movements that carried us to the bed. Here was his hurry to get my jeans out of the way, dragging them down my legs, going back for my panties and tearing them off in the process. Here was skin on skin. He stretched out on his side, his mouth everywhere, wet, burning kisses searing me. I arched up as he bit a little too hard, nipple trapped between his teeth. “Fuck.” I dug my nails into his back. “Do that again.”

  He lifted his head, gave me a wicked little grin, and proceeded to flick his tongue over my other nipple. “Never was one for following orders,” he murmured.

  I scraped my nails over his abdomen in retaliation, taking advantage of his distraction to push him onto his back. Stretching out on top of him, his cock thick and hot against my thigh, I went for his mouth, his groan more satisfying than I’d thought possible. Stubble scratched my lips, my tongue, and his skin carried a faint hint of soap under the sweat of the day. The scent did funny things to my head and stomach, twisting and swirling and I wanted to stop there, nose buried in the crook of his neck. Hoping he’d hold me close, like I mattered. Like he’d listen if I ever wanted to talk.

  A voice woke, the whisper a saddened hiss. Your fault. You knew. Your fault. I shut my eyes, breathed in, and moved on. Teased his nipples with my tongue. Traced the ridges of his stomach with a touch designed to make him squirm. Bit down on the muscle running toward his groin, stroked my hands up his thighs and palmed his erection, testing the weight of him. Swollen and rigid, the tip glistening and slick.

  Reality intruded, and I barely stopped myself from sealing my lips around the crown. A stranger, and I’d no idea where he’d been. Better not to tempt fate. He didn’t seem to notice the hitch in my stride, his hips jumping as I stroked him, twisting my hand from base to tip.

  The voice died down, lowered its head in defeat, and I released him, crawling up the bed to kiss him. “You better have condoms, or I’m going to be real disappointed,” I murmured.

  “Former Boy Scout.” He groped through the dark and came back with a condom. “C’mere.” He slipped a hand between my thighs, no preamble, no fuss. No need. His fingers slid through the growing wetness and circled my clit. Orgasm was a ways off, but I was beyond it. I didn’t need it. I was getting exactly what I’d come for.

  “Now,” I whispered. “Fuck me.”

  His hand stilled. “Last chance.” His fingers plunged, and my hips rocked forward of their own accord.

  “Not saying no. Fuck me.” I pulled his hand away and felt around for the condom he’d dropped. The foil ripped easily, too easily, and I rolled the contents over his cock, squeezing the base.

  He flipped me onto my back and settled himself between my thighs. Slow, slow enough I wanted to moan, he pushed into me, not stopping until hips met hips. I was right. In the blurry dark, his shoulders braced over me were amazing. I wished we’d turned on a light. I wanted to see them move and bunch. I wanted to see them covered in sweat, how they led to the cords of his neck, standing out as he fought the release his body sought.

  I wanted to drive him over the edge. Because as long as I focused on him, my brain shut off. Completely.

  To, fro, to, fro, gentle at first. He took his time, time to find our rhythm. That personal, synchronized undulation. And when we did, I placed my hands on his ass and pushed for speed. I threw everything I had into it, trying to get him to break, driving him up and up and up.

  “Christ.” He dropped his head, his mouth found mine, and I tightened around him. Held him close, felt the sweat gathering between our bodies. “Fuck. Too good. Feels too good.”

  We devolved into a sweaty, slippery mess, all sloppy kisses and flesh striking flesh. There was nothing but fire and lust in this room. No demons sleeping in the corners. No shadows to fight off. There was just him, above me, chasing his pleasure.

  I memorized the way his hips rocked into mine, how his breathing hitched as a new spike of pleasure hit him, his gaze locked on mine, even in the dark. It made it more than two strangers fucking. Filled the gaps inside. Gave me something to hold onto.

  He groaned, long and low, and ground himself into me. Panting, he dropped his head to the crook of my neck, and I focused on the thrum of arousal and frustration. It had worked. Even this soon afterward, no release in sight, I was empty. My mind was wonderfully, perfectly blank and calm.

  He shifted and rolled off the bed, stumbling through the dark. The sudden flare of the bathroom light made me squint. Now what? Get up, get dressed, go home, finish myself off? Lie there for a while? I sucked my top lip into my mouth as I considered my options. Safety dictated I leave. I’d gotten what I came for. Clothing it was.

  Before I could slide out of bed, though, he came back and stretched out on his side, propping his head up with his hand. He left the bathroom light on, the glow falling across the bed. “That what you were after?”

  I kissed him softly. “Exactly.” I sat up. “I ought to get going.”

  His hand closed around my wrist. “No names?”

  I could tell him mine. Ask for his. But this was a one-time thing, and names would only complicate matters. It would give hope of a next time, and the next time the guilt and anger and fear wouldn’t shut up, I’d try something else. Because that’s what the point of this year had been. To find that solution I couldn’t find in Bend.

  “No names,” I murmured. He pulled his hand away and settled back on the bed, hands under his head. I found my destroyed panties and held them up. “Trash can in the bathroom?”

  He squinted. “Maybe I wanna keep ’em. Like a trophy.”

  I snorted and tossed them at him. “Knock yourself out.” I dragged on my jeans, found my flip flops, and bent over the bed to kiss him one last time.

  In the living room, I slipped my tank top on, then clutched my bra in one hand while I dug for my keys with the other.

  It was cooler out than when I’d come in, but not by much. I got into my car before the urge to stay grew any stronger and drove out of the parking lot.

  I rolled down the window to let the hot air whip through the car. I felt amazing. Like I’d actually sleep well,
and in the morning I’d wake up hungry. The sounds of the night grew louder and angrier as I got closer to my apartment, and I ran up the steps and hurried inside, throwing the deadbolt the moment the door was shut.

  Alone, it was easy to come, my fingers a poor substitute for his. I showered off the sex, propped myself up against the cool tile, and remembered what he’d looked like above me, racing for the finish. My broken moan was embarrassing. Almost as embarrassing as how fast I’d gotten myself off.

  Short term solution to a long term problem. But I slept better that night than I had in almost three years.

  Chapter Three

  The diner was about half full. Most of the patrons had their food, which was good for Charlie. The cook—you couldn’t call him a chef, not in a place like this—needed the break. His line cook was out, again, and the dishwasher had been conscripted into making salads and other easy shit. Unfortunately, he’d only succeeded in screwing up the orders and was sent back to the dishwasher.

  Charlie took his break leaning against one of the long metal counters, curly hair sticking to his head from the sultry heat. He’d waylaid me with the same question he asked every day. A drink, a meal, a movie, hell, a walk. Anything, anything at all, just to put his poor misbegotten heart at ease. And he did it all in such an over the top fashion I knew he was joking. The ring he carefully placed on his left ring finger when his shift was over cemented it. I took the teasing and horded it. It fueled the spark and made it last a little longer, and I had hope that someday it would catch and burn the forest.

  “Kenny, babydoll, you’re breakin’ my heart here.” His eyes rounded and his mouth drooped at the corners.

  I snorted. “Dude. The puppy dog eyes don’t work on me. I thought we’d been over this.” I grabbed the salad sitting in the order window.

  “Works on everyone else.” He grinned.

  “If by everyone else, you mean your wife, good for you. Because, you know, it should. Would kind of suck otherwise.” I carried the salad out to table five and set it down, flashing a smile at the woman who’d ordered it. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I checked on my other tables, refilled water glasses, retrieved another fork for a young mother who’d lost hers when her son decided it would be better on the floor. It was normal. It was spectacular. I felt better than I had in days. Weeks, maybe. I could box up the negativity roiling inside and chain it, lock it down. Keep it from escaping.

  The diner helped some. It reminded me of the old cafe outside San Diego I’d worked at all through college, with its faded Formica tabletops and scuffed linoleum. I felt more comfortable in this worn place than I had in the last bar I’d picked up some shifts in. Gwen, the owner, hadn’t blinked at my hair or the tattoos she could see.

  I wasn’t about to delude myself, though. My mystery lover from the night before was the reason for my good mood. The knot between my shoulders that no amount of yoga could get rid of was gone. I’d eaten a full breakfast this morning, and lunch, too. Dinner was hours away, and already my stomach was looking forward to it. Sex healed. I just hoped the magical properties would last long enough for me to find a safer, healthier way to cope.

  Gwen stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Kenna? My office when you have a minute.”

  I dropped off the check for a man holding his hand up like he was in a classroom and made my way through the kitchen to Gwen’s miniscule office. “What’s up?”

  She waved a hand at the door. “Close that and have a seat.”

  I shut the door and sat in one of the half-wrecked chairs in front of her desk. She pushed a piece of paper across the desk at me. “There was a problem with your Social Security number.”

  A shock of cold shot through my chest and formed a lump in my stomach. “Oh?” The paper was my I-9 form. I’d used my passport for my employment papers. I’d managed to alter the birthdate so I could still use it. I’d faked the social, coming up with a random nine digit number. The diner, and Gwen, had looked like the kind of place that wouldn’t look too closely at something like that. I’d been wrong.

  “It came back belonging to a fifty-four year old housewife in Detroit.” Not so random, then. Not so random at all. “You don’t look like a middle aged housewife.”

  I swallowed hard. Stared at the form. Realized this meant I’d have to quit. Find work elsewhere. Maybe move on. I’d been in Austin less than a month, here for about two weeks. I had some money. Not enough.

  I wasn’t ready to go home.

  “Are you in trouble?” Gwen asked, her tone blunt. Almost harsh. “Running from someone?” The question must have shown on my face, because her expression softened. “I help out at a women’s shelter. You don’t exhibit any of the usual signs of abuse, but I’ve learned you should never assume.”

  I shook my head. “Not running. Just not ready to be found.” The fake birthdate and Social Security number might have been overkill, but it helped keep me calm most of the time.

  Key words being most of the time.

  My knuckles were white. I loosened my clenched hands. “I—” I couldn’t do this. I had to give a truth, a part of the story, because I wasn’t ready to leave. Selfish of me. “I’m a horrible person,” I muttered. “Horrible for asking for this.”

  Gwen’s expression had closed off. “If I could give you the reason to pay me under the table, would you let me stay? I’ll leave if you can’t. I’ll leave at the first hint of trouble if you do,” I added.

  The silence sucked the air out of the room. I couldn’t blink. Everything, everything, stilled. Halted. Waited for her response.

  “Might not look like it,” she said, drawing out the words, “but I don’t hire illegals. I can keep you off the books for a few weeks and deduct back taxes if you need more money up front. Best I can offer.”

  In the year I’d been gone, I’d never been able to prove anyone was looking for me. I made the occasional phone call to my parents, reassuring them I was alive. Deirdra’s brother Adam had threatened my life before I’d run, but would he really waste money trying to track me down? Whenever I managed to convince myself I was paranoid, something would happen to make me glad I’d taken the precaution. Making my choice, I straightened my shoulders and drew in a breath. “My name really is McKenna Davis,” I said quietly. “My Social Security number and date of birth are false, though the birth year is correct. I am running from something. Someone. Google McKenna Davis teacher Deirdra Miller student. Exactly like that.”

  Greta lifted a brow. “Deirdre?”

  “D-e-i-r-d-r-a.”

  Keys clicked and I stared at the floor. Absorbed the quiet and the anxiety of finally, after a year, telling one person a tiny piece of the story. Someday someone would get the rest of it. Just not today.

  “This is you?” She’d found the top story.

  I wished it wasn’t. I wished so many things for so many months, and I had no more wishes in me. “I couldn’t take the guilt. The sympathy. Her oldest brother threatened me. I left. I’m not ready to be found,” I said.

  I waited while she read. Click. Click. Click.

  She glanced up. “Your tables are waiting.”

  Relief stole my strength for a moment, and I clamped my hands around the armrests, digging for it. I was okay. For a few days or weeks or months, I’d have funds to pay for my crappy furnished apartment and food for my belly. For gas and the occasional beer in a rundown bar.

  Someone had a piece of me I hadn’t relinquished in a year, longer still since I’d given it willingly.

  Untrue. I’d given a far bigger piece last night, to a man whose name I didn’t know.

  Yoga. I would do yoga. For an hour. More. I would not race back to the squished-down bar hoping to run into him again. I certainly would not take the first invitation I received and jump into bed. Or the cab of a truck. Or an alley. I would find other distractions, distractions that would let me rebuild a life. Something I wouldn’t demolish in a few weeks or months. Something that would last.r />
  The same thing I vowed with every new town I landed in.

  I gave Gwen a shaky smile and walked out of the office. I had a shift to finish. As I passed Charlie, his face sweaty from manning the grill, I paused. New life. Time to start building it. “You’re on.”

  “What’s that, Kenny? On for what?”

  I pushed aside the rising tide of doubts. “Come now. You gonna break my heart? Drinks. Bring your wife. I want to meet the woman who puts up with a rake like you.”

  He stared. Then his face broke out in a grin so wide and bright, it made the light in the kitchen seem dim in comparison. A grin you couldn’t help returning. I did, and the roaring in my head receded. Not completely. But enough.

  The rest of my shift was a blur of faces and noise, sometimes cranky, sometimes not, and I found myself looking for a shaggy head of hair and a set of broad shoulders. Ridiculous. The last thing I needed on this journey out of fucked up LaLa Land was an entanglement.

  Celia, one of the other waitresses, burst through the door about five minutes before we closed for the night. I frowned. “What are you doing here?” She wasn’t on the schedule for today, and I knew she was fiercely possessive of her days off.

  “Charlie called. Said you’d finally agreed to hang out. So here I am! We’re going. Now.” She bounced around me, a red-headed pixie of a girl, barely twenty one. Her energy reminded me just how old I’d gotten in the last few years. And I hadn’t even hit thirty. God.

  “She’s got work to finish first.” Gwen looked up from the pile of receipts, preparing the deposit drop for the night.

  Celia just smiled and grabbed the nearest chair, swinging it up on the table. She worked her way around the back third of the room, picking up chairs and setting them, legs up, on tables. I kept wiping down the tables in the front, their tops sticky with sugar and ketchup, one eye on the door, the other on the sole diner left.