by Zoey Parker
I try to say no, but my throat is too sore from the smoke and him choking me. I crawl towards him on hands and knees, too dizzy to stand.
Grady is too focused on the matches to notice me approaching him. I tug on his pants, trying to pull myself up and intervene. He looks down, snarls, then swings a meaty hand at my face.
His knuckle connects with my jaw. I fly backwards and land on my back a yard away. The world is pin-wheeling wildly. Empty blackness is eroding the edges of my eyesight. My mouth is ringing with pain. Above, I hear the match catch with a bitter wrenching noise as Grady says, “There we go.” He tosses the lit match onto the pile of canvases I had just put out. They begin to crackle and writhe in the growing heat.
Grady stalks back over to me. He picks me up by my hair and starts dragging me down the stairs. “Fucking whore,” he curses at me as I bounce over each step, bruising my legs and torso. I’m too weak to do anything but flop weakly in his grasp. “Who do you think you are?” He drags me outside and onto the sidewalk.
“Now,” he says, wrenching me to a seat against the outside wall of the studio, “I’m going to—”
“Don’t lay another finger on her, you motherfucker,” booms a voice behind me. I look hazily over my shoulder to see Mortar leap off his bike. He takes one step forward and unleashes a rapid punch straight into Grady’s face.
I hear bone crunch. Grady stumbles backward, holding his face in both hands as blood streams between his fingers. His eyes are flared in anger. He tries to draw the baton from his belt, but Mortar is too quick. He lowers his shoulder and drives Grady to the ground. Punches fly in both directions as the men smash each other repeatedly.
I’m too dazed to do anything but watch. I hear footsteps pounding the sidewalk, and I look up as a dozen Inked Angels sprint around the corner. They peel Grady apart from Mortar, though it takes four men to hold back each of them. The look in Grady’s eyes is pure, unadulterated hatred.
“I own this bitch and I own this building,” he screeches. “I’m going to burn them both to the fucking ground!”
Mortar spits blood on the ground between them. “You touch her again, and I will end you. Permanently.”
Grady starts to move towards him as if to strike, but I see Vince, standing at Mortar’s side, reveal a gun. He points it straight at Grady’s face. “Don’t move again, Officer.” Grady freezes, furious but outnumbered.
“Leave, Grady,” Mortar commands. “Right now.”
He grits his teeth but he knows he doesn’t have a choice. He raises his hands and slowly backs away until he reaches his car, which is parked on the far side of the street. I don’t know how I missed seeing it on my way in. Vince didn’t lower the gun until Grady had started the engine and pulled away down the street, out of sight.
“You okay?” he asks Mortar. I see Mortar nod, wiping a hand across his mouth.
“Yeah. I’m good.” Something catches his eye and he looks up. Before anyone can stop him, he races into the burning building.
I struggle to my feet and dash after him, screaming for him to stop. “Mortar, no!” I squeeze the railing as I move up the stairs. The smoke is ten times as thick as before. It billows blackly through every inch of air. The heat is oppressive. I reach the landing and glimpse Mortar’s back for a moment before he disappears in the plumes.
I can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t do anything, but I need to find him. I can’t let him die up here. The floor could collapse, the ceiling could cave in, any number of things.
I scream his name again, but no response. Then I hear the metallic hiss of the fire extinguisher. Jets of foam soar through the air. The smoke begins to abate as Mortar sprints around the room, coating everything. I can barely make out his silhouette.
“Mortar!” I shout. “Mortar!”
His hands press against my lower back as he envelops me in his embrace. The smoke is filtering out the window, thinning faster every moment. I burrow my face in his chest as he picks me up in his arms and carries me down the stairs.
We emerge into the sunlight coughing, red-eyed, and reeking of fire— but alive. Mortar runs a thumb across my forehead. “Are you okay?” he asks. His face is full of concern.
“My throat is scratched to hell, but I’m fine,” I say.
“Did he hurt you?” Before I can answer, he sees the swelling in my lip and the trail of blood from where his ring struck my jaw. I hear him hiss. He runs a careful thumb over the wound. “That motherfucker.” His eyes are brewing with a storm of emotions.
I don’t know what to say. I’m feeling numb, in a weird way, still not sure what all has just happened. Grady, the fire, coming so close to losing the studio. But Mortar had run back in. He went in to save it because he knows I care so much about this place. He didn’t give a damn about the danger, the smoke, the fire. He went in for me.
I’m speechless.
* * *
We mount his bike and go home, not saying a word the whole ride. Mortar doesn’t look at me as we walk inside.
I’m ready for the explosion I know is coming. I fucked up; I shouldn’t have left the house. He explicitly told me not to, but I’d ignored him. “Don’t go anywhere without me,” he’d said, and what did I do? Left. To the one place that Grady knew I would go.
I’m flinching at every motion Mortar makes, hoping to avoid the first lashing fist. If I learned anything from Grady, it’s that the first punch is always the worst. I doubt Mortar will be any different.
But he doesn’t do anything. He walks over to the couch and sits down, wincing. From where I’m standing shadowed in the doorway, I see blood on his knuckles and chin, and he is favoring one side like his ribs are broken. The split across his cheekbone is the worst. It’s oozing blood, and bruises are already spreading towards his jaw and nose.
Moving slowly, he starts to unlace his boots. His fingers are shaking. Every motion elicits a new gasp of pain. He’s trying hard to hold it back, but I can tell that his body is in agony.
I cross to kneel at his feet and take over for him. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Instead, he leans back on the couch and presses a palm against his injured side. I tug apart the knots and work each shoe off his feet. He lets loose an audible sigh of relief.
I sit back on my heels and look at my hands folded in my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t.”
“I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“I said don’t.”
I look up at him, confused. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t apologize.”
“But aren’t you angry at me?”
I can’t tell whether the look he gives me is cold anger or just exhaustion. The swelling from the cut on his cheekbone is forcing one eye shut.
“No, I’m not angry. You should have listened, though. I told you not to leave the house.”
I keep my eyes downcast. I’m scared to look at him. He says he’s not angry, but Grady used to do the same, right up until he hit me. It’s hard to know what to believe.
“I know,” I say in a whisper. “I shouldn’t have left.”
Mortar drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, grimacing in pain as he moves slowly. He takes my face between his hands and forces me to look at him. His eyes are fierce, but they aren’t mad. “I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me.”
“I just wanted to clear my head,” I said. I’m so close to tears. Maybe I’m not cut out for this life of violence and crime. Maybe I can’t be around it. “There’s just so much happening at once to me. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“But you had to go there? That’s the one place Grady would look for you first. You know that.”
I nod. “I do know that. But it’s where I needed to go, Mortar.” I need him to understand how much that place means to me. I’m struggling to find the words for it, to shape the context that will communicate to this man exactly how important it is that I keep the studio. “It’s t
he only place that’s truly mine. It’s the only place where I’m truly me. If I can’t have that, I don’t have anything. I don’t have myself.”
His hands are tight on my face— not painful, just intense.
I take a deep breath. “And I can’t believe you went in to save it. You could have gotten killed. The roof may have caved in, or the floor given out, or something fell, or exploded, or, or…”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious! It was—”
“I said stop.”
I fall silent, hands tucked in my lap.
“Look at me, Kendra.” I look up. Tears are welling at the corners of my eyes. “I want you to listen very closely to what I’m about to say. It’s important. It might be the most important thing I’ve ever said.” I take another long breath, trying to still my rapid, shallow pulse. “I promised to protect you. And I will go to the ends of the earth to fulfill that promise. I will do anything, go anywhere, fight anyone it takes in order to keep you safe and happy. As long as I am alive, I will protect you and everything that matters to you.”
I can’t hold them back anymore. The tears overflow, running down my face in twin streams. I press my head against Mortar’s shoulder and throw my arms around his neck. It’s easy to give myself over to the tears, to letting the sheer ridiculousness of the last few weeks rush over me like a rogue wave.
I don’t have words for anything. Not for the emotions going supernova in my body, not for the connection I feel to the man holding me, not for the way it feels to hear someone tell me I’m safe.
I start talking, murmuring in Mortar’s ear while he holds me. There’s no more barrier between us, not the slightest suggestion of separation. I tell him about I’ve been on my own since my mom got sick. I tell him what it was like to grow up with parents who told me that what I wanted didn’t matter, that what I cared about was unimportant. That all I ever wanted was to have a pretty, sunlit space where I could draw beautiful things. A whole lifetime of simply wanting the shelter to be myself comes pouring out of me in tear-stained words.
Or maybe I don’t say these things. Maybe, instead of saying all those words, I just hold onto Mortar for dear life and let the need evident in my grasp do the talking. It doesn’t really matter either way. I get the feeling that he knows what I mean, even if I don’t say the words out loud.
He looks me in the eyes—or maybe somewhere deeper, I can’t be sure—kisses my forehead with soft lips, and tells me that none of it matters. That the only thing that matters is this: me in his arms, letting go and trusting.
I notice a warm trickle on my face and realize that the cut under Mortar’s eye has ripped open. I rush to my feet.
“You’re hurt! I’m so sorry. Let me help you.”
He starts to protest, but I hear him curse in pain when he tries to get to his feet. I tell him not to move as I dash to the bathroom. Tearing through the medicine cabinet, I find a small first aid kit and sprint back to him. I tear it open and pull out some needle and thread, gauze, and anti-bacterial ointment.
I take a deep breath and steel myself. I’ve never sutured a wound before, but I’ve done enough sewing to know the basics.
“Are you ready?” I ask him. “This is going to hurt.”
“Go ahead,” he grits out.
I pierce the needle through the torn flesh back and forth as quickly as I can. It only takes four or five passes before the split is closed. He doesn’t cry out or even flinch, though I can hear his teeth grinding.
“What else is hurt?” I ask.
“Ribs,” he coughs.
I frown. “We’re going to have to take your shirt off.” I help him raise his arms above his head as I peel the shirt from his muscular torso. Sweat, dirt, and blood are soaked into the fabric. I suck in a sharp breath when I see the massive, scraped bruise swelling on one side of his ribcage. The center of it is a hideously ugly black.
“I need to rub some cream on it,” I tell him. “It’ll help with the swelling and the pain.”
He nods, brows furrowed. As gently as possible, I daub the ointment onto my fingertips and rub it in wide circles on his side. He still doesn’t cry out or acknowledge the pain. I can only imagine how bad it hurts.
When I’m done, I help him to lie down on his back on the couch behind us.
“Thanks,” he says, looking up at me after he settles down. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
“Of course I did,” I reply. “You were hurt. I can’t let you be the only one doing some protecting around here.” I give him a sly wink. He starts to laugh, but stops halfway to hold his side and cringe.
A drop of blood is oozing from the stitched cut. I lean forward to dab it off with a bundle of gauze. I start to retreat, but he grabs my wrist softly.
“Don’t go,” he says.
I stay.
His eyes are twinkling. I lean forward and brush my lips against his. His hand rises to stroke my face and entangle itself in the hair at the back of my head.
“You’re too hurt for this,” I whisper.
“No. I need this. I need you.”
My heart twinges at his words. The whole time I’ve known him, he has been this warrior, this impenetrable, unassailable man, impossible to read. It’s hard to know what he’s feeling, and I still don’t know how much I mean to him. Even after seeing him run into the burning studio to put out the fire and save the place that matters to me, I struggle to believe that it wasn’t just a show of dominance, another way for him to show that I’m dependent on him.
This, though, this wordless moment, somehow feels like it says more than anything else combined. Somehow, this is the tipping point. It’s like there’s a lever sliding in my chest, saying that yes, he cares; yes, he wants me; yes, he needs me, every bit as much as I need him. The fire in his irises is more confirmation than anything he could say. The gentle pressure of his fingertips on my wrist is a bold underline on all the words I wanted to hear. It makes them unnecessary, even. I don’t need him to say it. I just need to know it’s true: he cares.
Careful not to knock him with my knee, I swing my leg over his waist and straddle him. He sighs as he rests his hands on my thighs. We’re both still covered in ash and blood, bruised, reeking of smoke, but none of that is important right now. What’s important is the feeling of my lips running over his, of his hands claiming my body, of our tongues meeting in the middle.
He teases the straps of my dress off my shoulders, letting the top half of it fall to my sides. I unhook my bra and lay it to the side. His touch on my breasts is exactly what I need right now to feel like the world isn’t falling apart. This man under me can hold it all together. When I feel his hands, I’m reminded that he can do that.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I say, pulling back from his warm mouth. “I don’t want to make anything worse.” I point at the bruise leeching across his torso.
He looks up at me and says the perfect thing, “Impossible.”
He pulls me back down towards him and devours me with his kiss. His hands squeeze my back and hips, like he wants to confirm that I’m here and in one piece. Thanks to him, I am. The salty tang of blood from both of our split lips mingles together, but neither of us cares.
I sit back, tug off his belt, and shove his jeans halfway down his hips. His member lurches upward. I take it in my hand, relishing like I always do the heft and warmth of it, how exactly it fits in my grasp.
There’s no time to waste. I pull my dress off over my head and hover my entrance over his cock. Spreading myself open wide with one hand, I guide him into me with the other. The slow descent, like every time before, is equal parts painful and perfect. I sigh, settling down and beginning to rock my hips up and down, gliding over him as I expand to take his engorged length deep within me.
“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he tells me.
I laugh. My skin is sooty, my lip is busted and swollen, and my hair is a mussed rat’s nest. But one look at him tells me he means it. There’s
not an ounce of pretense in him, no room for lying or flattering. When he looks at me and tells me he thinks I’m beautiful, I know that it’s the truth to him. It makes my blood run hot.
This won’t be long. I can feel him stiffening under and within me already as I ride him. This is for him. I want to make him come, to let the satisfaction of climaxing inside me wash away the pain and the tension of the day. I moan and bite my lip. Reaching around to stroke his balls with one hand, I rest the other gently on his abdomen to balance myself as I bounce up and down on his shaft.
I’m being as careful as I possibly can, but I can tell he is close to coming and needs just a little more. I ride furiously, aggressively, throwing my weight up and down and back and forth, sliding along his whole length with each stroke. I lean forward to dangle the tip of one breast in his mouth. He seizes it and sucks greedily on the nipple. The soft shimmer of the sensation teases through my body, encouraging me to go faster. I’m eager to make him explode, to know that I can bring him some satisfaction. He’s pressing hard fingertips into my thigh, gripping, just about to climax.
