Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  Maybe this wasn’t his blood, I told myself. Maybe he got in a fight or something. I was thinking these thoughts and more as I carefully rolled him onto his belly and saw his bloodied shirt and my heart sank and I felt a little sick but I continued my examination. I removed his shirt and gasped—he was one big open wound. Very little of his skin remained intact, he had been burned with cigarettes and whipped mercilessly. But I was just getting started.

  Just as before I reached into his briefs and felt around but this time my fingers came back soaked in his blood. And even though I didn’t want to because I didn’t want to get sucked into his shit—which was really kind of laughable because come on, I was sucked into his shit the first time I laid eyes on him—I pulled down his briefs and caught my breath because the same torture he’d endured up top continued down below with the added benefit of having the backs of his thighs shredded with a knife. His skin hung in strips and he was bleeding everywhere. It was horrific and for a moment I wondered if I should call Oscar and take him to the hospital to have someone examine him.

  But if the tables were turned and I was lying unconscious in his bed, I would want none of that because I had secrets and from the looks of his body, so did he.

  Instead, I breathed deeply, dipped the cloth into the hot water, and began carefully cleaning and bandaging him, trying to push him back together a little here a little there. Then I threw clothes in the wash, hoping they would be clean and dry before he woke—otherwise he was going to lose his shit. Covering him, I moved to the head of the bed and set about cleaning the wounds on his face. First I stitched up his eye, then his lip, and when he remained unconscious throughout I wandered into my kitchen, found my new wand, hoped it worked as well as the old one, and returned to his side.

  “Dutch.” I sat next to him on the bed and whispered into his ear. “I’m going to kiss you because I so badly want to press my lips to your skin so if you don’t want that to happen, can’t bear the thought of me on you, now’s your chance to speak up.”

  I sat up and waited and when he didn’t stir didn’t respond in any way at all to my words I knew it was safe to proceed. I held the wand in the palm of my hand, closed my eyes, and for the thousandth time I thanked its creator for having the good sense to design such a small piece of mischief-making as I ran it over his injuries. I healed him internally while to the regular naked eye, he remained as brutalized as ever. When he woke he would never suspect a thing but at least I would know he would not die in his sleep from something horrible I couldn’t see. It was unfortunate I could not do the same to heal his devastated soul.

  I hid my wand in the nightstand then watched him breathe in out in out thinking to myself that he didn’t look so dark and dangerous while he slept knowing he was utterly deadly when awake. He stirred and I stilled, scared of something but what I didn’t know. Minutes later when he still hadn’t moved I lowered my exhausted bones to the bed next to him, careful not to get in his space or touch him, and closed my eyes for just a second

  which wound up being the longest second ever. Seven hours and twenty-two minutes later my eyes opened and I was very much awake and aware. And so was he. I was lying on my side with my head on my hands as if I had wanted to watch over his suffering body all night; he remained on his stomach but his head was turned my way, quietly studying me. I smiled even though I knew I shouldn’t because now that he was awake he could go right back to hurting me but it couldn’t be helped—I was happy to see him awake even if he was a mean cold dark asshole. He maybe-smiled at me but I couldn’t tell and I didn’t trust him to do anything caring or considerate when it came to me.

  “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t touch you. I mean I did but only because I had to not because I wanted to and only to clean your wounds and stitch you up and if you weren’t bleeding so badly and cut so deeply I wouldn’t have done any of it.”

  He closed his eyes and I waited wondering if he had passed out again and just as I started to grow alarmed and considered moving closer to check his breathing he opened them again.

  “Also, I didn’t put you in this bed my security guard did and the only reason you’re still here is because I didn’t know who to call and I was going to take you to the hospital,” and here his eyes widened slightly, so I was right, he had some secrets, too, the kind he didn’t want some doctor looking into and for a moment I wondered if he was kind of like me but only a moment because I knew he was nothing like me, “but I didn’t because if the tables were turned I wouldn’t want you to call a doctor so I just cared for you myself the best I knew how.”

  I waited for some wisecrack about how not only was I a fucking whore but I was also a doctor. I braced for it, knowing it would hurt but understanding it could not be avoided. He closed his eyes and his lips parted and I wished he wouldn’t say anything because I didn’t want to hurt anymore cry over his words cringe at his opinions.

  “Thank you . . . Juma,” he whispered, his voice laced with pain, and even though I didn’t want to think on it knew it was neither the time nor the place I loved the way my name sounded on his tongue. As if he really thought about it before he said it rolled it around in his head kissed it before putting it out there.

  I relaxed and closed my eyes and let down my guard because at least for the time being he wasn’t going to hurl any knives and maybe just maybe we had turned a corner in our dealings with each other. I had seen him stripped bare and bleeding and raw I had seen the proof of the demons he carried and knew they were sick and twisted and maybe just maybe after all of that after sharing after trusting after needing I was safe.

  “Dutch,” I whispered, keeping my eyes closed because I could tell he was listening to me I could feel him watching me, “are you going to tell me what happened to you?”

  “No, Juma, I’m not.” So final but neither harsh nor angry.

  I opened my eyes to meet his stare wanting to know whether his eyes held the anger his voice did not. And when I did, he spoke again and everything about him seemed gentle and quiet and sweet and even though he was never those things around me right at that moment he was and that was all that mattered. “I’m not going to tell you because it’s ugly and I don’t want you to know any more ugliness about me than you already do.”

  And I didn’t want him to see me cry again so I closed my eyes as his words settled somewhere deep inside me and I ached for him and his tired brutalized soul. And I knew again that he was going to be the death of me that I was too far gone when it came to him that no matter how much I wanted to rid myself of his burn I could not because there was nothing more I craved than his heat.

  I also now knew there was a slim chance he felt the same way for me. It was why he followed me this night and suffered through watching me with another man and found me randomly all those nights ago and suffered through my touch. And even though I had already shared so much of myself with him, I took a chance and shared a little more in hopes of convincing him that if it was safe to share himself and his pain with anyone, it was safe to do so with me.

  “The summers in Atlanta were brutal, so freaking hot and humid and miserable but when we were kids, it didn’t matter. I just remember wanting to be outdoors whenever possible.” I smiled because it was true it was miserable but it was also ridiculously fun. “So one evening when I was five the heat relented a bit and the humidity crept back into the clouds and the adults in our lives released us into that summertime perfection. It was amazing all that brown and black and white and laughter and excitement and joy at just being young and carefree and so. easily. pleased.”

  I never told anyone my story because I hated my story the pain the agony the terror. I hated reliving it because it only reminded me of what was coming. And yet.

  “I remember running and doing cartwheels because I had just learned them in my tumbling class and the grass on my hands was cool even though the sun had been out all day and I loved it I wanted to pull up clumps of it and make a pile to bury my hands in its coolness. And
in the midst of all of that youthful cacophony and exuberance and wild energy suddenly everything stopped.”

  I closed my eyes because I couldn’t finish my story with him watching me so intently, as if each word tumbling from my mouth mattered as if he loved the sound of my voice as if he never wanted me to stop speaking. I hated this part of my story and I knew he hated chitchat.

  “There was a pop! pop! pop! and then everyone started running and screaming and grabbing kids and doing everything they could think of to get as far away from those sick sounds but all I remember was this bird who kept singing her song in the middle of all that terror and heat she just went right on chirping away as if nothing in her world was amiss.”

  I paused and gathered myself and I sensed that he was waiting for me somewhere out there he was waiting and wondering and hoping I would keep sharing myself with him and I suddenly wanted to be very present and in the moment so I opened my eyes because he was waiting and wondering and hoping.

  He was still lying on his stomach and it took every ounce of my willpower not to reach out and rub his back press a kiss to his shoulder and whisper that I would take care of him and heal him and hold him forever but I did none of that because it was all stuff he could not abide. Instead I continued speaking.

  “Then someone stepped on me and brought everything back into focus made it real sharp things got real clear real fast and I wanted to move and run with the crowd and find my ma and da so they could tell me it was okay and we were fine and life was good but it wasn’t okay and I was not fine and life was hardly good because I couldn’t move. In fact, I could barely breathe I was choking on my own blood from one of the bullets that was fired from that gun and found its way into and out of my tiny five-year-old throat and I knew I was going to die because there’s no way a tiny human survives a big gunshot wound so I focused on that bird and her beautiful voice.

  “And then the bird became my ma and suddenly strong hands were under me and there was all sorts of rushing and voices pleading with me to keep my eyes open and I tried I swear I did but after a while I had to close them because you know what?”

  And here I paused and it seemed like I was waiting for him to say, “What?” only I wasn’t, I just needed a break to calm myself and manage the fear and somehow he knew this and remained silent just waiting for me to continue watching my every move probably wondering why I was telling him all of this. And then as quickly as I’d made the decision to open myself to him I wondered why and I felt so fucking stupid just so goddamned dumb and I hated myself for loving him so much that I fooled myself into thinking he wanted to know any of what I was telling him.

  “What, Juma?” he finally asked after many long minutes passed between us and I died too many times to count, each death at his feet begging for his affection his touch his words. I opened my eyes and dared to meet his stare, uncertain of what I would find lurking beneath all of his dark danger bloody torment fucked-up menace.

  “Don’t stop,” he urged, his voice quiet and unsure, which was not how I thought of him at all. “Tell me what. I want to know, what is your ‘what.’”

  “It was my pain,” I replied quickly before I chickened out and went back to being the girl who held her story close to her chest shared it with no one revealed nothing to anyone. “I couldn’t bear it and I just needed it to end so I closed my eyes and hoped to shut it out and away but that didn’t work because it was like fire and it consumed me and I wanted to scream but I couldn’t because I no longer had a throat and I wanted to cry but I couldn’t because I no longer had a throat so I just closed my eyes and faded out.”

  And in my story my real one not the one I was sharing with him but the real shit the scary shit that was the point where I died and I floated above all the terror in that emergency room and she came to me. Death. And she made me the offer I could not refuse did not want to refuse and now here I was today alive albeit not quite human scared of what was coming for me any second around any corner and hopelessly in love with a man who had been tortured within inches of his life and who had tortured me every chance he’d gotten who swore he could not stand me who claimed everything about me made his skin crawl and yet could not stay away from me.

  And even though I heard my ma’s voice in my head, warning me that he could steal my shine, something told me he would not. And perhaps believing that and believing in him and believing in myself was folly but it was my folly and I was going to own it like a motherfucker.

  “Did you die?” he asked, with a strange expression in his eye as if he knew something about me about Death about Poochas, but that was ridiculous and just my paranoia at having shared my story for the first time ever with anyone.

  “Do I look dead?”

  I smiled because I was teasing and a little nervous but he did not return the gesture he just eyed me real close looked me over and under and all around. And for a second I panicked and wondered if I had fucked up, if he was some test or cruel joke invented by Death. But then he smiled all lazy-like and I forgot everything but him and my nipples hardened and my pussy dripped because that was what he did to me. Because he was lying in my bed right next to me and even in all his pain and agony he was so. fucking. sexy.

  “No Juma,” he whispered as his eyes closed and his mouth curved a little, “you do not look dead at all.”

  I had to place my hands between my knees to keep them from touching him everywhere anywhere all at once and it was a struggle but I had already touched him too much and knew promised swore if I ever touched him again it would only be because he wanted me to, needed me to, begged me to.

  “Good,” I replied, and he opened his eyes and we just lay there and held each other’s stare and the silence was both suffocating and exhilarating and it was ours and I couldn’t help smiling and hoped my smile killed him softly because that’s what he did to me. “I’m glad you don’t think I look like a dead girl.”

  He contemplated me for a second and then, as if something clicked in his being, he seemed to make a decision about himself and me and us. Leaning close, so close I could feel his warm breath on my lips and his energy in my space, he whispered, “The words ‘dead’ and ‘girl’ most definitely do not describe you, Juma. It’s plain as day you are very much alive.” He dipped his head toward my throat and ran his breath and up and down my insanely sensitive skin never touching me but making me ache everywhere before pulling back and running his heated stare up and down my body undressing me laying me bare totally naked without touching a stitch of my clothing.

  Then he sucked in his breath and clenched his teeth as if fighting some otherworldly battle that pained him like no other and finally after long heated seconds of tension-filled yearning he allowed himself to breathe, to speak, to live.

  “And holy fuck, are you a woman.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DUTCH

  She was heaven, her smell, her tits, those goddamned sexy hips, the curve of her smile, the tip of her nose. And her face when she told that story—she had me mesmerized, wondering why the fuck she picked a bastard like me to offer all that beauty and sex and love to. It just made me want to climb on top of her and pin her hands and watch the look in her eyes when she realized she couldn’t move and was at my mercy and that I was going to bend low and press my lips to all those places on her body that craved my touch. I was going to find them and learn them and make them mine and listen to her moan and whisper my name and beg for me to do all kinds of wicked things to her.

  And then I was going to do them, each and every one, because I wanted to make her happy and I wanted to love her and I wanted her to feel loved. And in my imaginary seduction of her, when I pulled away to study her face and revel in her beauty she would touch my cheek and my lips and my chest and I would let her because there was nothing more I wanted than her skin on mine, her lips on my body, her tongue in my mouth.

  Instead.

  “Do you have a happy story? Because I could really fucking use one.”

&nbs
p; She was lying next to me with her hands between her knees, fighting the urge to touch me. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted and she was all kinds of horny because I was being an asshole, not touching her but coming pretty fucking close, and I bet if I tweaked her incredibly hard nipple with my tongue like I wanted to she would come right on the spot.

  My random request helped her gather herself, slow whatever was happening between us but would never happen between us because I would probably do something to fuck it up, and she smiled slow and seductive and fuck if my dick wasn’t hard as a goddamned rock.

  When she finally opened her eyes they were still dark and wild and my dick jumped, wanting to be all up in her, right then and there, and I think she knew that and it was why she started speaking.

  “After I was shot,” she began.

  “Juuuuumaaaa, come on, a happy story,” I groaned and she laughed, her hands still shoved between her knees so there was none of that covering her smile like women always did when they laughed. Hers was just out there and I wanted to grab her and pull her to my mouth and just fucking devour her.

  Instead.

  “Patience, my dear Dutch.” She smiled and her eyes that had been so full of lust and desire and heat now danced with mischief and laughter and she was so light, she fucking blew my mind. “As I was trying to tell you before you so rudely cut me off, after I was shot my family moved to Snellville, a small town outside of Atlanta, to a house with four bedrooms and three bathrooms, a yard, and two dogs, much more befitting a chief of surgery, as my grandma liked to say. There were woods and creeks and all kinds of places for mischievous kids to get into trouble and as much as I loved our apartment complex in Atlanta, I really loved our small-town neighborhood.”