Furnace

by Livia Llewellyn

  I cut the engine. As it ticks the heat away, silence blankets me, the kind found only between mountains, in the sleeping valleys and plains. It’s like someone just took the pillow off my face, and let me breathe again.

  He’s already out of the truck, a large sheepdog groveling at his feet. A peaceful pleasure radiates from his face, erasing the sharpness of years. I watch him caress the dog’s soft ears. Goosebumps and prickling nerves, like my skin is on fire, like my first date in high school—I never thought I’d feel that way again. I grab my bag and get out of the car. I’ll make him forget about that dog, if only for this night.

  Following him across the dirt drive, I walk up several steps to a sleeping porch. Face hard again, he opens the door, motions me inside. I slip past, feeling a bit like I’m trespassing. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get this far. He drove to his house so fast, I was chasing him most of the way.

  “Have a seat.” As I perch on a worn brown couch, he hangs his hat up, runs his hands through his hair. Without the wide felt curve framing his eyes, he loses a bit of the severity. He wipes his palms on his jeans, stares at the floor. One boot rubs at something invisible. Is he nervous?

  “Beer?”

  I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen. I sit for a minute, all polite and mannered, then decide he’s giving me a chance to snoop. So I circle the room, gleaning for clues. What kind of man is he? Well, he’s not stupid. The bookcase next to the TV set is full. I run my fingers along the spines: Pynchon and Kerouac sit next to McCarthy. Below them sits a shelf of thick technical manuals on agriculture. Several posters hang on faded cream walls—country landscapes, an Ansel Adams photo of the Rockies. No photos of him, though—nothing personal at all. I still know nothing about him, other than that he wants me here. I think, that is. If he wants to fuck, he hasn’t shown much interest.

  “You a reader?”

  He stands in the doorway, beers in hand. There’s a look on his face—amusement? Well, I can’t pretend I wasn’t snooping.

  “Not much anymore. I got rid of most of my stuff when I had to move. The books were the first things to go.”

  He doesn’t reply. Anxious to keep the conversation going, I slide one of the manuals out from the shelf.

  “Guidelines for World Crop and Livestock Production. Light reading?”

  “I’m not a light reader.” He sets a beer onto the coffee table with a thump. The conversation on books is over, it seems. Frustrated, I sit back down on the couch. He returns to the edge of the door and takes a long pull from the bottle, his eyes never leaving me. I drink my beer, feeling self-conscious. It’s like he’s sizing me up, the way he’d size up a horse before deciding if it was worth the ride. It’s a territorial stare.

  Gathering up my courage, I stare back. His hair is longer than I thought, but there’s also more grey in it than I noticed before. Dark brown eyes, and fine lines running from nose to mouth. My age, maybe older. Not beautiful, but compelling. His mouth is beautiful, I decide. Not the plump wet lips of a boy, but hard and dry, experienced—the mouth of a man. A sudden urge to feel that mouth moving over my breasts, between my legs, sends a violent shudder through me.

  “Cold?”

  “No,” I mumble, playing with the label on the bottle as a blush warms up my cheeks. He saw me stare, knows why I shivered. Time to act coy. “I’ll need sheets for the couch, though.”

  He shoots me The Look. I know that look. It’s a sardonic half-smile, accompanied by raised eyebrows and the slightest of eye-rolls. It’s the look my mother used to give me when I lied about not touching myself. I knew he wasn’t going to make up the couch, that I wouldn’t be spending the night there. We both knew it. And so he gives me The Look. It’s like waving a red cape before a bull. I sit up, back stiff, face tense.

  “What.” It’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

  He says nothing. Now it’s a contest. But my impatience makes me crack. I keep my voice light, but I can’t disguise the anger.

  “What? What did I say that’s so amusing?”

  He shakes his head. “Please. You didn’t follow me all the way out here just for my couch.”

  “Well, I didn’t follow you out here because I’m a slut, if that’s what you mean.” I spit the words out like bullets. My mistake. His whole body shifts, like a snake’s casual recoil before striking.

  “Don’t pull that shit on me.” His low voice oozes polite menace. I ignore it.

  “What shit is that? Enlighten me, please.”

  “Acting like you don’t know why you came here. You’re far too old to pretend you don’t know what’s going on.” A slight twang has entered his tone, a bit of the country. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so unnerved by him—yet I can’t stop goading him. Fucking up my life overcomes my fear, every single time.

  “Well. If I’m too old to understand you, then I guess I’m too old to fuck. Problem solved.” I sit back and pound the rest of the beer.

  “Put that down, bitch, and get over here. I don’t have all night.” He eyes his watch. “Some of us actually work, you know.”

  That’s it.

  “Fuck you!” I slam the bottle down and grab my bag. It’s only five steps to the door, but I don’t make it. All of a sudden he’s just there, arms around me, same way he’s probably done it a thousand times with animals wilder and stronger than me. As he spins me around, covers my face in hard kisses, I’m surprised by how good it feels to be grabbed, to be handled. There’s no poetry in it, it’s all need. I still want to hit him, but I was oh so right about those lips of his, and my whole body rocks with the overwhelming desire to fuck. He slams me against the door—I match the grind of his hips, panting as I spread my legs, rub my crotch against the hard bulge in his jeans. But when I reach for his zipper, he breaks away and drags me across the room, hand clamped firm on my arm. I stumble behind, lips and cheeks burning from his rough stubble, as if a ghost of him remains locked against my face.

  The bedroom is dark, and he keeps it that way. The moon is bright, though, and I see everything: hard muscles, beads of sweat, the flame-red spark of his eyes….

  …one thousand four…

  There’s no foreplay. He takes off his clothes with absolute economy of movement, while I let my dress fall to the floor, pushing it aside in a flowered crumple. I fall back on the bed, but I’m barely off my feet before he’s crouched over me. Two thumbs hook into my panties, and they’re ripped apart, gone. He’s not looking at me, not touching me, not caressing me. I’m not here.

  In the dim light, I see the ragged line of a scar across his lean stomach, glowing white against tan. It reminds me of that last sliver of light above the mountains, before the sun disappears. He spreads my legs wide, then places a hand against my shoulder, as if he thinks I’ll bolt. He’s not wrong. This isn’t what I wanted, though—he’s in complete control, there’s no taming of anything happening here. Straining my neck, I catch a quick glimpse of his cock, long and hard as he strokes it, before he lowers and blocks my view. I close my eyes, grimace as he enters me. One expert stab, and I’m pinned to the sheets like a butterfly on wood. A gasp of pain escapes my mouth, but the hint doesn’t take. He’s fucking the hell out of me, and he won’t slow down. But he doesn’t make a sound—no grunts or groans, nothing to indicate pleasure.

  The spackled ceiling overhead catches moonlight from the open window. I watch shadows dance in tiny patterns but they can’t distract from the pain. I raise my arms, thinking if I put my hands against his chest, he’ll slow. The movement triggers a violent reaction: he grabs my wrists and holds them against the mattress. I kick out, but he ignores me, probably doesn’t even feel the blows. His cock pumps in and out, methodical and sure. Instinctive, against my will, my hips arc up in slight thrusts. My traitorous cunt contracts, grows slick. The pain doesn’t lessen, but it doesn’t grow worse. I’m not thinking of the ceiling anymore.

  He presses down harder, crushing my breasts. Sweat trickles from his hot skin to mine, and I smell h
im, sharp and musky. A foreign scent, not unpleasant. He buries his head into my neck and hair. Hot breath floods over my skin as his mouth moves against me, murmuring some strange language I can’t hear. Fear and anger dissipate, replaced with slow wonder. He’s gone, somewhere so far away that I can’t follow. Does he see me there? Am I in that dreamscape of his? He chose me. Even with that face, those dagger eyes, he could have had anyone. He wanted me. But, he’s not with me.

  “Stop,” I say. He doesn’t, and I try again. “Just stop for a second. Where are you?”

  His sudden grab at my face is the last thing I expected. Two large hands hold my head tight. His lips brush mine as he speaks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Wherever you are, I’m not there. I’m right here.”

  He doesn’t answer, only sighs before thrusting in again, like an engine that can’t stop. I struggle against him, trying to keep him still, but he’s too strong. He pushes down, pinning my arms between the both of us.

  “You’re hurting me,” I say.

  “Then make me stop. What are you afraid of? I can take it.” The intensity of his words, the clotted growl of need and desire confuses me. Now I’m the one with no answer. Does he want me to punch his face, twist his balls until he does what I say? That’s not my fantasy.

  “Please, just slow down a little.”

  “Make me.”

  “What?”

  “Make me.” Pleading.

  This is unsettling. “I can’t make you. You’re twice as strong as me.”

  “Goddamn, you’re stubborn.” Is he laughing at me now, or is it from despair?

  “Fuck you. I’m not livestock. You can’t break me.”

  “I’ve broken everything.” Desolation and sorrow in his voice, so deep I don’t think he even knows they’re there.

  “You can’t break me,” I repeat, voice cracking. Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to cry. “You won’t win.”

  A moment of silence. Then, out of the dark:

  “I always win.”

  His mouth covers mine, tongue sliding inside. Protestation forms in my throat, but it dissolves. His cock demands my full attention, hammering away as if it had never been interrupted. God, it’s so painful, and it feels so good. I can’t help it—it’s the way he moves his hips, the way the base of his cock and coarse hair rubs up against my clit, the slick pole of flesh filling me up. A perfect fit, like he was born for me. My nails dig into his back, barely able to keep a grip, mouth biting his shoulder as I come, thunderstruck into stiff spasms. A few more thrusts, and he stops—abrupt and matter-of-fact, like he lost interest. He rests on me, our hearts pounding in time together, with my muscles wrapped so tight around his cock, he couldn’t leave me if he tried. All that, and he never uttered a single moan. He never came.

  His head lies against my shoulder, breath light and untroubled. Do I dare? With the lightest touch, I caress his damp hair—a cautious attempt to show warmth. But the moment he feels it, he lifts up and pulls out of me, then rolls over, curling against the side of my body like a child.

  He’s asleep.

  …one thousand five…

  I stare at the ceiling. Beyond the roof of the house, stars run across the cloudless valley sky in silent flight. Everything sleeps below, dreamless and deep—horses and horn-crowned bulls, and all their men. Everyone safe at home, except for me. My hand creeps down to the matted hair, the throbbing folds of flesh. No one’s ever fucked me as hard as he did, but I’ve never come like that before. I think of waking him, hoping he’ll slide his arms around me, hold me tight—but the thought of his impersonal brutality keeps me still. And why didn’t he come? Why did he fuck me with such violence, and for no apparent pleasure of his own, save that he could?

  Well, that must have been the point: the bastard could. Leave it alone, I think. Let him sleep, before he wakes up and beats me to a pulp. I was lucky he didn’t—I haven’t been so lucky in the past. Rolling away from him, I slide the edges of the sheet over my worn flesh. I shut my eyes, concentrate on the wind in the trees, the passing of the stars.

  But the hours drag, marked by electronic ticks of a digital clock on the bedstand beside me. I can’t sleep, and now I have to pee. He hasn’t moved, except to slip one foot over mine as he sinks further into dreams. If I get up, I’ll wake him. But I really have to go, so I move, trying not to rock the bed as I pull my hair from under his head. He shifts, says nothing. I don’t look back to see if he’s awake, as I creep into the pitch-black bathroom. Only when the door’s shut do I fumble for the light switch, and let out a sigh of relief.

  The bathroom is sparsely decorated, much like the rest of the house. Under the glare of the light, I sit on the toilet and stare at the plain shower curtain, the half-curled tube of toothpaste on the counter, a chipped glass holding a single splayed-bristle toothbrush. Nothing on the walls except a mirror over the sink, and a small wreath of dried roses and crumbling greens. Not something a man like him would have bought in a million years. There was a woman here, once.

  Flushing, I hobble to the sink and run the water till it’s lukewarm. Wetting the corner of a bath towel, I pass it between my legs, ignoring the pain. It’ll pass. In less than a day, I’ll be home, and this will all be a distant memory, just another foolish, fucked-up dream—

  I pull the towel away. The dull ache pulses like a second heartbeat. It’s blood, rushing through all the secret places he once was. It’s all I have of him, the pain of where he filled me up, where he left me. Do I want to erase it so quickly?

  I empty the chipped glass and fill it with water. As I drink, my reflection catches my eye. The woman staring back is a strange but familiar one—the young girl of my past. A quicksilver ghost, fine-lined around the eyes and mouth, but all the more beautiful for aging. A pale face, surrounded by messy brown hair, red-tinged cheeks where his stubble burned the skin off, and a bright sheen drifting across dilated pupils. A drop of water hangs from my swollen lower lip. Is this what he sees? I imagine him standing behind me, hands cupping my breasts, mouth pressed against one shoulder in soft worship—an image so strong, I glance to my side to see if he’s really there. I look back at the mirror.

  What I could be, with him. If I want it to be.

  “Stop it,” I whisper. “It’s just another dream.”

  But the image, the feeling, remains.

  …one thousand six…

  A knock at the door—the image dissolves. “I’ll be just a minute,” I start to say, but he’s already opening the door.

  “You all right?” He looks up and down my body, his face neutral.

  “I’m fine. I was thirsty.”

  “Took long enough.” He gestures, indicating that he wants in. I let him take the glass as I sidle past him, careful not to indicate my impulse to run.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” he says before closing the door. I notice he keeps it open a crack. The thin line of light guides me across the mattress to the headboard, where I curl up and listen to the sounds of running water. Night pours in through the window like a river, in the rustling of leaves, the distant howl of a dog. The light flicks out, and I sigh. I don’t want this again, all this rough handling, the impersonal stabbing of flesh. My heart pounds, unmoored and drifting—I curl up tighter, afraid it’ll break through my ribs and float away.

  He moves across the room, graceful and invisible. My body senses him standing over me, staring. I’m clutching myself like a child hiding in the closet from the monster outside, I’m trembling like a newborn colt. I want to shout no, my muscles ache, I’m battered and bruised. I want to cry, having him kiss the tears away. But he won’t. He lowers.

  The second time is like nothing I expected.

  My hair slides back from my face—he’s caressing it in careful strokes as he tucks it behind my ears. My eyes have adjusted, and I see all the sharp angles of his face softening. One finger traces my jaw line, moves up to my lips. His other hand rises—I brace myself, but don’t turn
away. His fingers suss out a length of hair, separating and smoothing it into three pieces. Something catches in my throat as I recognize what he’s doing. He’s braiding my hair, gently working the pieces into a single plait. His touch is comforting—inch by inch my legs unclasp, fall against his. Together we sit, heads bowed. Static crackles, and he licks his fingers before slicking the unruly strands down. My mother used to do that.

  When he gets to the end, he ties it off—a hard and neat knot my fingers wonder at, while he turns my head and starts another braid. I shift closer, draping one leg over his. His knee rests against my cunt, soothing to the sore flesh. My left hand lowers onto his thigh, casual. He doesn’t push me away. Inch by inch he works the plait, and I glide my palm up to the dark center, where he’s all silky curves and tight curls. My fingertips find a home in the tangle of hair right at the base of his cock.

  He ties the knot, then runs his hands over my face. Heat flares inside my cunt. His knee shifts, and I press against it, leaving his skin wet. He thrusts his hands into my hair, grabbing the braids, drawing me in. I don’t have to see to know where his lips are—I draw his hot breath in on a sigh, let it seep back from my mouth to his.

  “Don’t go,” he whispers. “Don’t go.” Each word is a kiss, a sigh, a plea.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Inside, my heart sinks. Is he going to start this all up again? But his response surprises me.

  “Don’t go home.” More kisses, and his hands drop to my waist, running over the wide curves. “Stay here.”

  “I can’t stay, I have to get home—” The sentence trails off, disappearing in the other conversation between our lips.

  “Your home’s not there.” His words are cruel, and true. Firm palms slide up to my breasts, where his fingers and thumbs begin rolling my nipples into stiff points. “You’re running to nothing.”