by Ashley Grace
"Matter of fact, I do know," he said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask, slopped some brown liquid into each of the remaining two drinks, knocking down the foam.
"Getting started early, Joey? Don't forget about what happened last night."
"Oh, I'm not forgetting," he said. "I smoked a big joint first thing this morning. Doctors prescribe weed for seizures, you know."
"Maybe Dr. Dre does, but I don't think a real doctor's gonna tell you to smoke a doobie before breakfast. And what about the bourbon?"
"Alcohol only causes seizures when you're withdrawing from it—Delirium Tremens, the DTs. Making sure I've got a bit of booze in my blood is probably the safest thing I can be doing, right now."
"I don't remember Bernstein's doctor friend saying anything like that last night."
"Whatever. Next topic." He picked up the second cappuccino, gulped it down just as quickly as he'd drank the first. "I've got my coffee. I'm ready. Tell me, what's on your mind?"
Now that he was asking about it, I didn't know if I wanted to talk. I'd done too much talking in the past year already, mostly with shrinks. I picked up my espresso, the little cup so small that I had to pinch its handle between my finger and thumb, and took a sip. The coffee was strong enough to make my eyes spring open.
"Good stuff, right?" Joey said.
I nodded. I took another sip, feeling the bitterness biting into my tongue.
He waited another few seconds, then prompted me again. "Right then, Trace. Spill it."
I thought of Anne, of what it had been like to be with her last night. And what it had been like to wake up without her this morning. I looked over at Joey.
The waitress came back in with our food, dropped it off in front of us. Joey ordered three double-shot espressos, and she wandered off to get them.
He started shoveling food into his mouth, but he turned to me and spoke between mouthfuls. "Lemme cut to the chase. It's about the girl, Anne."
I nodded.
"What's the problem?"
"When I woke up this morning, she was gone."
"Maybe she had to go to work or something."
"She didn't leave a note or anything."
"Maybe she thought it was a one-night thing."
"Maybe." I reached down for the tiny espresso cup, tilting it so that the foam washed over the bottom. "I asked her to come with us to L.A."
"I knew it!" he said, grinning around a mouthful of hashbrown mush. "I knew you liked this girl. I could see it in your eyes, the old fire-hearted Trace showing through. And it's about goddamn time!" He paused to swallow. "So, what did she say?"
"She didn't say anything. We were falling asleep when I asked her. And when I woke up this morning, she was gone."
His eyes looked off into the distance for a moment, and then came back to mine. "Maybe she went to get some stuff, to pack for a weekend trip?"
"I don't know." I broke off a piece of the croissant, put it in my mouth and started to chew. "There's more. She spoke with Sara last night, and Sara told her about Lucy. What if… what if she left because of that?"
He seemed to consider it. "Well, you won't know unless you ask her."
"Ask her?"
"Yeah, ask her. Do you know where she lives?"
"She's a student at the local University. She lives in the dorms."
"Well, why not catch a cab over there? Track her down. Ask her."
I tore off another piece of the croissant, thinking.
"What?" Joey said.
"I don't know if it's that simple."
"Oh here we go. You’re gonna turn this into some big, complicated, theoretical mindfuck. Again. Like you always do." He lifted his pointer finger in the air, eyebrows jumping like he'd just had an inspired thought. "Or… how 'bout this? Don’t overthink it."
I felt a little flare of irritation. "Forgive me for wondering whether or not tracking her down like a stalker is actually a good idea. What if she left because she doesn't want to see me any more? What if she got freaked out by what Sara told her? What if she thinks I'm just too fucked up, and she doesn't want my toxic life to infect hers? Did you ever consider that?"
"No, but apparently you did. Over and over and over and over again."
"My last girlfriend died in my bed!" I said. My voice was getting louder, but I couldn't seem to stop. "Maybe that's a sign, Joey. Maybe having a girlfriend who fucking kills herself while she's in bed with me is a sign that I'm not fit to be in a relationship. Maybe I don't want to put Anne at risk."
"Trace," Joey said, putting his hand on my arm. "Listen to me."
I glanced around the diner, saw the old guy with the newspaper looking over at me with a sour expression. I slumped down in my chair, letting my eyes settle on Joey.
"Let her decide, Trace," he said. "Let her decide whether she wants to get to know you better, or not. Don't make the decision for her."
"I don't want her to get hurt, Joey," I said, my voice suddenly sounding small and weak. "I don't think I could live through it if another girl got hurt because of me."
"Trace, believe it or not, but Lucy had problems that had nothing to do with you. You're not the center of the fucking universe, you know, even though you sometimes seem to think so." He took another bite of eggs. "If you like this girl—and I know that you do, I can see it in your eyes—if you like Anne, then let her know you're interested. Let her know the offer is still on the table. And then, let her decide what she wants to do."
I looked down at the croissant, torn to shreds in front of me. Grudgingly, I nodded my head.
Joey lifted his last cappuccino, drank it all down in one go, and then put the empty cup next to the others.
"You're a thoughtful person, Trace. You like to think things through, and that's not a bad thing."
The waitress brought out Joey's three espressos, setting them down next to the three cappuccino cups. He pulled out his little flask once she'd left, topping up each espresso with bourbon.
"But it is possible to do too much thinking," he said, "and that's not healthy either. Like I always say: moderation in all things."
And then he lifted each little cup, and gulped them down one after the other.
Chapter 6
Anne
When the Political Science class finally ended, I went straight to the Student Health Center. I had to take a number and wait for forty-five minutes, but eventually a woman came into the waiting area and called on me. She was tall, dark-skinned, with long dread locks that hung down over the shoulders of her white lab coat. She leaned her weight on the door handle as she watched me stand up and come toward her.
"You seventy seven?"
I nodded, holding my hands tight together in front of my waist.
"Okay, honey," she said. "Follow me."
In the room she had me take a seat, and then she sat down on rolling stool, and wheeled it up in front of me so that we were face to face.
"So," she said. "What'd you come in here for?"
My throat went so tight I almost couldn’t answer. I looked down at her name tag: Dr. Jackson.
"I'm scared I've got an STI," I whispered.
"Have you noticed any unusual vaginal discharge, any open sores or lesions?"
I shook my head no, feeling my face blazing with embarrassment.
"No unusual pain or discomfort when you urinate? No itching or stinging in your genital area?"
"No."
"Any fever or loss of appetite?"
I shook my head.
"Why do you think you might have an STI?"
"I had unprotected sex with a guy."
"Vaginal or anal?"
"Neither."
"Neither?"
"Neither."
She gave me a look I couldn't read. "What did you do?"
"Um, oral sex. And we used our hands."
"Did he perform oral sex on you, or you on him?"
"Both. Him on me and me on him."
"And did he have any sores or lesio
ns, any unusual growths on his genitals?"
"No."
"No? What makes you think he might have been infected with something? Did he tell you he was?"
"No. He said he was clean. He said he'd been tested recently. And a year ago, too. And that he hadn't had sex since that first test."
"Do you believe him?"
I thought about that for a moment. "I'm not sure. I think so."
I thought of the internet gossip articles I'd seen, about him being in a mental health center and corresponding through the mail with Milton Joyce.
"I mean, I haven't heard anything about him being with anybody," I said. "And I don't think he's a liar."
"But you're still worried?"
I looked up at her, feeling my eyes start to sting, my chest going tight. I nodded my head.
I saw her eyes soften.
"Listen, honey," she said. "Lemme level with you. We're supposed to push the safe sex thing pretty hard here—it's school policy. And we do push it hard, because an STI can be a real pain in the ass. It can be a bother for the rest of your life. You follow me?"
I nodded.
"And while it is true, technically, that you can get an STI from unprotected oral sex—even from one single, isolated incident, so you should always use protection." Her eyebrows came down over the bridge of her nose for a second, glowering, before her face returned to its more neutral expression. "It's also true that it's not especially likely."
I realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out.
She rolled her stool over to a computer, clicked the mouse and typed something on the keyboard.
"For example, a recent UCSF study found an HIV infection rate of point zero four percent in unprotected oral sex. That's about four infections out of ten thousand acts. Pretty small."
"Oh," I said. And then I was leaning forward and catching my head in my hands. "Oh," I said again, fighting back tears of relief.
The doctor turned back to me. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful in the future, especially if you aren't sure about your partner's sexual history. I'm going to give you some condoms before you leave, and I strongly suggest that you use them during any future sexual activity."
I nodded my head, wiping my eyes quickly.
"Good. In the meantime, try not to worry too much about it. If you develop any symptoms in the next few days, make an appointment to see me and we'll test you. But, in my professional opinion, a test at this point isn't really necessary."
She stood up from her chair, turning to a cabinet on the wall. I stood up too, almost dizzy from the relief. She turned back to me, holding out a handful of condoms. I took them, shoving them into my sweater pocket.
She smiled. "Try not to worry, honey. Sex is a normal, natural activity. It can even be good for your health, in certain ways. Just be careful. That's all."
I nodded again. For a moment I had a nearly overwhelming urge to hug her, but before I could, she patted me on the shoulder and then walked out the door.
-
The sense of relief was so strong that I stumbled out of the health center feeling almost like I was a little drunk. I'd worked myself into such a state of worry that I'd nearly had a panic attack, and there wasn't really any logical reason for it. And as I weaved through the crowded campus, heading back to the dorms, I started to think about why.
Why had I been so panicked? Well, a lifetime of scare-tactic sex-ed probably had something to do with it. Still, I didn't think that was the whole reason for my nearly overwhelming anxiety.
Was it because Trace was famous? That was probably part of it, too. But at the same time, I didn’t think that was all of it. I mean, it's not like I'd had a lot of action with anyone else before Trace. I was less experienced than most of the girls I'd met since starting college.
Was I afraid of sex?
Maybe. A little. But why?
The conversation I'd had with Becca the night before, in the bathroom at the band's party suite, came back to me. I'd said I was afraid that I'd fall in love with Trace, afraid that I'd get hurt.
Afraid to take a risk.
The girl at the front desk of the dorms was talking on her cell phone, so excited that she nearly seemed hysterical. I walked past her without bothering to show my I.D., my mind still turning over what I'd said to Becca, trying to understand why I felt the way I felt. The elevator dinged open, and as I stepped into it something the front-desk girl said caught my ear.
"No, by himself. Yes it was him! Yes I'm sure! A little older than I thought, but in a good way. Yeah, he looked better than in the pictures. He said he knew some girl here. I dunno, but he gave me a hundred dollars, and he said he'd give me a hundred more when he left, if I kept it quiet."
The doors closed, and the elevator lurched and started to climb. My mind was chewing over what the front desk girl had been saying, but when the elevator doors opened and I saw the Safe Sex display again, with the horrific picture of the diseased woman, I forgot all about what I'd overheard.
Jesus. With scare-tactic stuff like this, it's no wonder that sex made me frightened.
I turned down the hall and walked toward my door. I slipped my key inside, unlocked it, and stepped through.
My eyes were looking down, so the first thing I saw was a pair of black boots, attached to a pair of legs covered by a pair of black jeans, standing in the middle of the room.
I froze, completely stunned.
It was Trace LeBeau, standing in the middle of my dorm-room.
"Holy shit," I said.
Chapter 7
Anne
He turned toward me.
"Anne!" he said, his eyes lighting up.
He took a step toward me, and then stopped himself.
"Sorry to come into your dorm without your permission," he said. "I just… people were starting to notice me downstairs. I got worried that a crowd would build up, and then campus security would come, and I'd have to leave before I ever got a chance to see you."
I hadn't moved yet. I was still frozen in the doorway, my hand holding the door open. The sight of Trace, in black jeans and a black sweater—like a pool of darkness in the middle of the sterile and dim dorm-room, more vivid and powerful than the mundane surroundings—it was so jarring that for a moment I just had to pause and process it.
My eye flicked up toward the Belletrists poster I had on the wall. He followed my gaze.
"Handsome devil," he said, his voice making it playful. "Don't know about that eyeliner, though."
He looked back at me. I still hadn't moved. I saw a hint of worry come into his eyes, and thought of how different it was to look into those eyes in real life, instead of in a poster or on a video screen. How much deeper his eyes seemed when they were looking back into yours.
"Anne," he said. "Was I wrong to come? Should I leave?"
Finally, my feet seemed to come unstuck from the floor. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.
And then—before I'd even realized I'd made a decision—I was striding across the room, closing the distance between us.
His arms came up, inviting me in. I crashed against his firm chest, my mouth meeting his, grateful for a solid place to land.
In that moment, all the worry and the panic and the fear, it all seemed to drop away. There was nothing in the world but the feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue dipping and sliding against my own.
His arms wrapped around me, embracing me, holding me in strength and shelter. And a part of me marveled that such a sensitive soul could come packaged in such a sturdy, powerful body.
That body. Suddenly, I needed to see it. I needed to feel it against mine.
My hands slipped beneath his sweater, my fingertips tracing along the taut skin covering the muscles of his abdomen, his sides, his back. My hands followed that muscular back upwards, fanning out wide toward his shoulders, feeling the dense and thick flesh like a layer of armor, the warmth of a body that sometimes seemed
so lonely and cold.
He raised his arms, letting me slip the sweater over him, stripping him bare from the waist up. For a moment I paused, drinking in the beauty of his form—the muscles long and lean like a swimmer's, but covered with more tattoos than any swimmer I'd ever seen.
And then need took hold of me again, the need to feel his bare skin against me, against my bare skin. I reached down and caught hold of the bottom of my sweater and my shirt, and pulled them both up over my head at once.
His hands were on me before my head popped through the collar of my sweater, and the feel of his touch was like fire in the darkness, lighting me up. I pulled in a gasp of air as he unclasped my bra, the sudden removal of that restricting garment making me feel free and wild.
As the cups of the bra fell away, and the tender tips of my breasts met the cold air of the room, my nipples drew hard like little pebbles. A moment later, his hands were on me again, cupping and squeezing my breasts, rubbing his broad palms over those tender peaks. Tingling pleasure sparked from either nipple, echoing between my legs.
Finally, I got my head free from the tangled bundle of my sweater and shirt. I opened my eyes and looked down just in time to see Trace's face dropping toward my chest. He pressed his full lips into the softness of my breasts, planting wet kisses across them, until finally he closed those lips around my nipple and sucked it in, his tongue washing back and forth.
"Ohhh," I sighed, feeling my pussy growing moist.
He moved to my other breast, his tongue thick and flat, lapping at my pointed tip. His hand came up to catch the nipple he'd just left—slick, now, from his saliva—and to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. The pleasure was bright and breathtaking, arcing into my chest, making my pussy tingle even more.
"Oh, Trace," I moaned. "Oh."
I brought my hands to either side of his head, raising his face back to mine, and kissed him again. I leaned into him, pressing him back toward my bed. Twice now I'd lain with him, been intimate with him, and yet I hadn't felt his manhood inside of me. This time I would, I told myself. The hunger for it burned inside of me, making me determined.
He felt the edge of my bed against the back of his legs, and he sat down on it. I moved forward, standing with my legs between his knees, and reached down to stroke the hard bulge at the front of his jeans. It made my heart race, made me want him even more.
