by Kitty Cox
"You want to?" He sucked in just a bit more, then relinquished the drugs over to her. "Touch, I mean. Do you ever wish you could, or are you just happy like this?"
Dez laughed and lifted the pipe. "That's gonna take a whole lot more pot, Chance."
"I got more."
"And I'm getting cotton mouth."
"While your kitchen may be empty, mine's still full. Unlike you, I eat and drink. You don't have to tell me, kid. Fuck off is an answer I'll accept."
She chewed at her lip, cradling the warm metal pipe in her cupped hand. "I miss who I used to be, back when the world was waiting for me to take it. I still have those dreams – to fall in love, have someone think I'm amazing, and all that – but it's just not going to happen." She lifted the pipe to her lips.
"Yeah, but you can do all of that without touching. Love isn't touch."
Dez pulled her legs closer, hugging them. "It's hard to explain." She dropped her chin to her knees. "I guess, yeah, I wish I could. It's more that I wish I could be happy about doing it. I wish that someone could touch me and make me like it, but if that won't happen, just learning to suffer through the gross feeling on my skin isn't worth it."
His next question was soft and worried. "It feels gross when I touch you?"
A tiny smile touched her mouth, and she turned, pressing her cheek into her knee so she could see him better. "No. I guess it's kinda like seeing your skin peeled away, but even though you expect it, there's no pain. Normally it would be bad, but I guess because we're friends, you know? And you're always so careful about it. It never really hurts."
"One day, I want to be able to hug you. Like in there, when you fixed Silk. It was so hard not to. Or right now, I want to flick that little strand of black hair out of your face."
She smiled and pushed it back. "How come you're so gentle?"
His eyebrows jumped up. "What do you mean?"
She flicked her fingers at the building. "Your dates. You don't bend them over the sofa and cram it in until you get your rocks off."
Chance chuckled, sounding embarrassed, and turned to face her. "I'll answer, but if something I say makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me, ok?" She nodded and he went on, "Getting off is pretty damned easy for a guy. If all I wanted was an orgasm, I don't need a partner. What I need is that interaction, to see her look at me, hear her say my name, and feel her fingers dig into my skin." He ducked his head, checking to see how she was taking his words.
She slid her hands over her calves, remembering the times she'd caught a glimpse of him in the loft. "Why? Why is that touch different? I mean, it looks different."
He smiled. "Got a sucker? I'll show you."
She shook her head. "Nope, fresh out."
"Then I'll make you a deal. Go grab a shower and wash all that mascara off your cheeks. I'll find us something to eat, and then we'll show you about touching. And I won't touch you to do it. K?"
Chapter 9
Smoking pot did make her hungry. Dez probably hadn't eaten anything in three days, except the suckers and a few sodas. Climbing out of the shower, she wiped the towel across the mirror and stared at her own reflection. She was almost a walking skeleton. Dark circles hung under her eyes, her collarbones stood out against her shoulders, and the bones of her hip were sharp and clear under her skin.
Bold colors hid the scars on her body. All of her tattoos were based on games. Under each one was a gash, a blemish, or a thin, pale line that had been worked into the design. It was her way of reclaiming her own skin. She'd taken the devastation and made it her own, then she'd never let anyone else touch her if she could help it.
Except Chance.
He probably didn't even remember the comment he'd left on her blog so long ago, but she did. He'd asked what her dream game was, and she'd made a post the next day about blurring the lines between genres. Something with the longevity of an MMO, the purpose of a crafting system, and the player against player combat of a shooter. He'd used the name Fyre – she had no idea he was a redhead back then. It wasn't until he announced Deviant Games' first project, Silk, that she made the connection between his name and his hair.
She'd thrown her support behind him, but he would never see it. Not that it mattered now. The post had been written but never published. For three years it sat idle, held on some server, somewhere in the ether. If she ever got brave enough, she'd print it for him, but that meant facing her past, and she wasn't ready to do that yet.
While she thought, she dressed, and part of that was repainting her face. A little concealer, a lot of eyeliner, more mascara, and deep red lips made her look like something resembling a human. The office was closed – or as closed as a game company ever really got, so she pulled on Chance's red tank again and found a pair of black shorts. Styling her hair involved wiggling her fingers through it. She didn't need shoes and a bra was a waste. Not like she had anything to hold up.
When she headed through the warehouse, Gavin was still hard at work. He looked up, smiled, then turned back to his computer. Thankfully, Dez was high enough that she didn't care. There was nothing wrong with being friends with the boss, right? It's not like they were doing anything wrong. Hell, it's not like she could really touch him. Let the guys think what they would.
Upstairs, Chance was in the kitchen. He looked back when she entered, a flash of surprise on his face. "Love the lipstick," he said, then pulled something from the oven.
Shifting the food onto a pair of plates, he carried them both to the sofa, tilting his head for her to join him. He took one corner, pushing the second plate, filled with egg rolls, toward the other side. Two bottles of Pepsi were waiting, condensation dripping from them, proving they were ice cold.
"So." He flopped into the corner. "We got high together, I'm buying you dinner and drinks," he cracked open his soda, "and you've got on lipstick. I think that makes this a date."
She groaned. "Thought it wasn't a date unless you got laid."
He took a deep breath. "Would you believe me if I said the sex isn't important?"
Pulling her plate into her lap, she couldn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Of all people, Chance? I'm pretty sure I get it."
"So." He twisted, propping his feet between them as he shoved a bite into his mouth. "After this, do we get more stoned or do I kick your ass in Battlefield?"
She finally smiled. "Both. But I need a Vicodin." Dez held up her hand to show how bad it trembled.
"Toss me your bottle." It was no secret that she always had the pills with her.
When she did, he opened it, pouring two into his palm. He checked to see how many were left, closed it, then leaned forward. One pill was held out between his finger and thumb. "Can you do it?"
Setting down her food, she looked at the pill, his hand, then his eyes. "I can try."
"Just like a lollipop, kid. Close your eyes, but I'm not going to move."
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you do this? Why do you even care?"
He smiled slightly, the pill waiting. "Your addiction. Mine. Close your eyes."
Obeying, she leaned forward, lips parted. Her mouth brushed over his skin and her tongue found the tiny white pill. As she sucked it away, she dared to look. He watched, his eyes soft and tender, not hungry like she'd expected. He also wasn't embarrassed. In that moment, Dez realized that he desired her. When he said she was beautiful, he meant it, and she liked how it felt.
"Stay here tonight?" he asked softly.
"Do it again?"
He smiled. Without looking away, he grabbed the second pill and held it out. This time, she was brave. She watched him as her mouth slipped around the tips of his fingers. Her tongue cradled the bitter pill and she sucked gently, tasting his skin, surprised to find it salty. When she pulled away, her lips flowed softly off him. Chance took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, terrified of the answer.
He lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking away the traces of Vicodin. "You want the safe answer or
the brutally honest one?"
"The honest one."
He nodded. "I want to kiss you so bad." Reaching over, he grabbed his drink and took a gulp. "I want to feel your tongue on mine, the sweet suction of your lips, and the heat of your breath in my mouth. I want to taste you, and remember it, knowing exactly what it sounds like when you sigh."
She pulled her knees closer. "Wow."
"Scared?"
Dez shook her head. She wasn't, not really. Maybe she wasn't quite ready to go that far, but she liked the idea of it. When she was younger, she'd dreamed about kissing a man like that. She had never expected to want it again, but she almost did.
"I was a nerd," she told him. "No make-up, no fashion, just me and the games. I spent all day in school, all evening learning code, and every spare second reviewing the next best thing." She focused on the bottle of soda. "I kissed a guy once, in the ninth grade. No tongue, though."
He tapped the end of his bottle against her leg. "So, do I get to be the first, one day?"
A laugh burst from her lips, and she pressed her hands over her face. "Maybe?"
"I think you're blushing. C'mon, lemme see?"
"No!"
"Dez." He leaned back, sounding completely content. "I like this. You and I? It's kinda nice." He tapped her leg again, the plastic on her bare skin. "I like this girl. A lot."
"I'm completely fucked up."
He shrugged. "And I still like it. I like that I don't have to lie to you. No, I love that I don't have to lie to you, and that you don't try to lie to me."
"You make me feel safe."
There. She'd said it. It shouldn't mean the same thing to him as it did to her, but the way he reacted, she wasn't sure. Chance smiled at his hands wistfully and nodded. His fingers toyed with the bottle.
"That's a pretty heavy word. Safe." He looked up. "What are we doing, Dez? You and I, this thing, what is it? Doesn't feel like just friends."
"Does it matter?"
He mimicked her pose, then crossed his arms over his knees. "Does if you expect me to change."
"I don't."
"The girls?"
She shook her head. "The Vicodin?"
"Not the same." He took a deep breath. "Dez, I can't promise to stop. I go to a convention to promote Silk, some chick slides up next to me at the bar? I don't know if I could say no, but I like what this is. I don't want to piss you off."
"I didn't ask you to quit." She bit her lip, unable to believe they were even talking like this. "Chance, we work together, we share the same passions, but I still can't be what you need. I just can't. I thought you understood that."
"I do." He gestured at the space between them. "And I still like this."
"And I'd be stupid to think that a guy as sexy as you would give up women to hang out with a gamer dork that doesn't touch people." She sighed, her frustration tinting the breath. "I like this, and to be completely honest? One day, some girl is going to be exactly what you want, and I'm going to hate it, but I'm not dumb enough to think it's me."
"I am." He stood and grabbed the plates, carrying them into the kitchen.
She sat there on the couch completely stunned. "What?"
He groaned softly. "Fuck, I'm stoned. I shouldn't have said that." He wrenched open the fridge, grabbed a beer, and threw the cap into the trash, hard.
"What?" she asked again. "Chance, you didn't mean that."
He turned for the hall, heading to his room. "I did, Dez. Now is when you run out of here or follow. It's your call."
She followed. His bedroom was dark, lit only by the light trickling through the door. Chance pulled off his shirt, throwing it into the corner without looking, then slowly turned back to look at her. He tilted the beer again, sucking back at least a third of it.
"Don't leave the project," he begged. "Silk needs you."
She nodded. "I need it, too."
"K. I'm sorry, Dez. I really shouldn't have said that, but I mean it. I like this. I like being able to feel real, not like a mask." He lifted the bottle again, the light picking up a line down his forearm. She'd noticed it before.
"What's the scar from?"
"Box cutter. Down the road, not across the street. I was twelve. I missed." He took another drink.
Taking another step into the room, she asked, "Why me?"
He finished the beer and set the empty bottle on the table. "Because I didn't tell you that I had surgery for carpal tunnel."
She looked at him, just letting it all sink in. His pants hung low, exposing the V of his lower abdomen, the faint line of hair little more than a shadow in the darkness. He didn't move, refusing to invade her space, giving her the respect that no one else seemed to understand. On the outside he was so beautiful, a brilliant fire god made of ivory and copper. She knew he could have any woman he wanted, and did, but none of them saw who he really was. They wanted him to meet their expectations just like everyone wanted her to "just get over it."
Dez understood. Her shoulders relaxed and she crossed the room, flopping down onto the corner of his bed. "I kinda like what we have."
"What is it?" he asked.
She shrugged. "No fucking idea, but it's real."
"Am I allowed to come over there?" He tilted his head, looking at the other half of the bed.
She nodded. "I make no promises, but being near you doesn't really scare me."
Chance took one side of the bed, stretching out, facing the middle, and motioned for her to claim the other. She did, her arms tucked tight to her chest. A foot of space lay between them, but there was something about the darkness and hush of the room that made it feel comfortable. He slowly shoved his arm over until it lay below her neck, the pillow separating their skin.
"Stay here tonight? For as long as you can?"
"What if I freak out?"
He smiled. "You will. You'll also wake up screaming, but I'll be here to remind you that it's ok."
"Chance, I don't care if you bring the dates home." She looked up into his eyes. "I wish I could touch you like that, but as crazy as it sounds, I like that someone does."
"I think of you."
She swallowed. He had a way of dropping things so easily, laying it out there without preamble. "When you leave the blinds open, I watch you."
He blinked slowly. "Do you like it?"
"Yeah." She turned onto her back, unable to believe she'd admitted that.
"Dez. Look at me. I can't touch you, but at least look at me?"
"You have to think I'm a freak." She took a deep breath, expecting him to tell her to go back downstairs.
"I don't." He lifted his hand over her face and crooked his finger, begging her to roll back. "I knew you watched. That's why I left the blinds open that first time, to see if you would."
"Oh."
"And I like it." When she turned back, he smiled. "A lot. Makes me feel like I can touch you. I just have to figure out something now that the guys are always downstairs."
"You want me to watch you fuck some other girl?"
He shook his head. "I want you to watch me pretend to have sex with you."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh."
"But your kisses would be sweeter and your touches more personal." He traced a line down the comforter. "I love how you smell. I can only dream about how you'd taste." His eyes dropped, touching her body gently. "And I think you can feel my words better than any touch."
"Yeah." She felt them as if they were physical. "You going to explain the touching thing?"
"Do you trust me?"
She nodded. "Completely."
He grinned and sat up. "Lay on your back, pull your shirt up enough so I can see your tattoos. I'll be right back."
"What, gotta jack off now?"
"No," he assured her, heading toward the kitchen. "Some aches are too sweet to waste."
"Oh," she whispered to herself, listening to his feet.
A cabinet door creaked when he opened it, the hinge not yet broken in. Next, she heard
ice fall into a glass, then the rattle of pills on plastic. One by one, the lights in his apartment dimmed, until his shadow returned, his bare feet light on the thick rug beneath the bed. Chance leaned over and placed a glass of ice water and her Vicodin on the table beside her, then walked to his side of the bed. There, he set a bowl of cheap suckers.
He grabbed one and returned to the bed, finding the exact same place he'd been before. "Touching isn't just about the physical part of it. It's also the emotional – the mental." He held up the candy. "Is this enough separation?"
"For you."
He smiled and palmed the candy, using the stick as a pointer. "Good. Dez, tell me if I should stop."
"Promise."
He started on her bicep. "Halo. I like how you put Master Chief in blue. It's subtle, but here," the stick traced the highlights, "and here I can see it. Just enough to show what team you played."
"When I could," she admitted.
"That's normal touch, kid." He looked in her eyes. "The touch I crave?" He moved the tip down the back of her arm – gently – still following the line of art. "It's more personal."
Slowly, carefully, he found the crack in the helmet that was where they'd cut her. He traced it, soothing it, sliding in soft circles. Dez let her eyes close, enjoying the sensation. With the lollipop, he admired the lean lines of her arm, returning to ease the scar, never avoiding her imperfections, but treasuring them as a part of her.
"And Doom." The cardboard moved over her collar bone, shifting from sensual to clinical in a way she couldn't describe. "I wonder how many people assume that's some Satanic symbol?"
"It kinda is, if you remember the story."
He chuckled, shifting just a bit closer. "Yes, but doesn't mean you're a Satanist. I can't find the scar in this one."
Again, somehow, he changed the touch. "Between the teeth and the crack in the pipe," she whispered.
Dez shifted into the pressure, watching his face. His eyes were dark, the pupils dilated, but he took in all of her. As her breathing increased, the caresses moved lower, following the demon's head from her shoulder to the top of her breast, then moving to her belly and the tattoos there. He found the scars by the thickness of skin and ignored them.
