by Sunniva Dee
It’s hard to take my eyes off of him nowadays. When he flirted with me the other night— Yeah.
Unsettling.
Still, to mingle with foreigners like Emil, from way up north in Santa Land, should be the safest way to go if I want to try out my option number three. I remind myself of how the snow puts those guys on ice and gives them a bleak strain of love compared to the hot-blooded crazy of my race.
In the midst of my euphoria, fear tickles, reminding me of what happened to my great-aunt. She gave it all. Lost it all. Succumbed to the misery of a love that was never hers.
Emil lowers his face, targeting me as I suppress the memory of my aunt’s lifeless body. Life comes. Life goes. It’s what we’re taught.
Aunt Dika’s beloved was a Romani though, and Emil is a handsome, lovable non-Romani. Emil could never feel what we feel. Emil’s love would not crush me if I owned it, because when ice hits hot water, does it not turn lukewarm?
His features stretch in a dazzling smile, his body emanating the joy I feel whenever I’m around him. Shandor’s glare follows me too, but I ignore him and slant up on my stiletto toes. Raise both hands to my mouth. Then I throw him a kiss with the tips of all ten fingers.
Emil sees me and laughs softly into the mic as the music ebbs on the last note. Used to his antics, the band doesn’t react when he lowers on his hands and crawls forward on the stage until his face peeks over the edge.
The audience roars, and between their response and Emil’s eyes, my determination blazes. I’m not waiting. I’m not leaving this opportunity to some fan, because he’s never been closer to becoming my prize.
I press forward past whooping ticket payers. Emil’s stare remains on me, inviting me forward, and I leap the last few feet until I’m inches away, my face even with his. I grab the stage with my hands, letting my eyes burn freely with my people’s fervor. It’s arousal, desire, need, and everything that’s red, and I can’t help it and I don’t fucking care. All I know is Emil’s here and I’ve got air in my lungs to live and breathe and not fear.
Santa Land, I think as he leans down to find my mouth.
Harmless, I think as soft lips meet mine for the first time.
Crazy, I think when he feels so much better than I hoped.
EMIL
Gypsies are well-known in Sweden. Back when, people hated them, considered them thieves of property, money, trinkets, and good folks’ hearts. They were prosecuted as a race, put away, even castrated so they couldn’t have children, but when enlightened times set in, Sweden gave them monetary compensation.
To us stationary Swedes, it seemed most of them bought Mercedes and luxurious campers to continue their nomadic lifestyle. Some grumbled about it, while most of us thought the compensation was theirs to do with as they wanted.
I recall them as exotic birds resting their wings in my hometown of Skala during the month of May. Their women were stunning and exotic with long, dark hair snaking over their shoulders and down to their waists. Their skirts got my dick hard: long and old-fashioned, they looked like they were made to be lifted by someone. Like me.
Almost no matter their age, I wanted a peek under those skirts. I’d fondle, give a lap or two at warm skin, for sure. What horny teenager wouldn’t dream of a taste? The opportunity never presented itself.
Each year, the Gypsies stayed for a few weeks before they moved on to wherever their souls took them next. I never even exchanged looks with their women until Aishe entered our tour bus.
Fuck.
The high from the club got to me, and Aishe was there, hot as a bonfire and with those gorgeous black eyes staring me down from the audience. She’s crazy gorgeous. The least I could do was get us a separate hotel room from my regular setup with Troy.
Her cousin is pissed off—you don’t even want to know. I’m aware I’ll have to watch my back tomorrow, because if the Gypsy stories are true, I could be stabbed in the nearest alley after what I’m about to do.
Decades-deep tales about her people, myth and reality combined, makes me stall for a second, but then her chest heaves so exquisitely, like she’s Zorro’s Lolita.
Of course there’s no backing down now. I press her against me harder than I do with a groupie. Her skin feels so soft it’s buttery, moist and dry at once, absorbing my fingers when I dig into her.
I picture her in one of those medieval blouses with drawstrings at the top. I’d pay money to untie one and get the first view of her tits that way. They’d spill out over a super-loose neckline. I’d make her top fall down her body so fast it’d be like a dream.
She’s wearing a Clown Irruption T-shirt. My face smiles back at me from its center, but I crumble it in my fist when I drag the fabric over her head. She gasps—gasps the way girls don’t gasp until I press inside of them.
Holy. Shit.
For a second, my brain flickers on. Reminds me that I’m in over my head. You’re about to sleep with a Gypsy. You’re sealing your own death warrant.
It’s bullshit. Maybe a hundred years ago, it might have been true. But these are modern times, and this is Aishe, a member of our crew.
Right now, all that matters is that Aishe and I both want this more than anything. It’s need, a biological urge to procreate, and there’s nothing stopping us.
I grab her neck to make sure she doesn’t run. There’s no sign of it, but I’d lose my shit if she did.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I hum against her throat.
“I can’t wait to prove you right,” she murmurs. I thread my fingers through her locks. They’re so long they envelop all of her in a thick, pitch-black curtain that’s captivating as hell.
“Have you thrown a spell on me?” I tease, clamping around her waist and dragging her pants down together with her G-string.
“Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” she teases back, a plump smile lighting her face.
“Shit. Look at you.” I stare at the narrow, unassuming slit that throws my hormones into mutiny. “A believer in baldness, huh?” My voice is literally cracking.
“Boldness and baldness, I guess,” she whispers, biting her lip.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
I stop thinking. I attach myself to her mouth, hike her around my waist, and carry her to the bed. I flop down over her, grinding my bulge against her while we kiss, and she moans—she moans like she means it, not like we’re playing games–and God, I dig it so hard.
Aishe’s hands circle my face, touching our lips while our tongues meet. It’s wet, hot, giving me a preview of how it will be when her pussy takes me, and I grunt out my approval. “You know what you want, don’t you?”
She devours me with shining irises as I toss my clothes away. I curl her hand around my dick and feel her grasp tighten, making my eyes fall shut with pleasure. She gives me a small pull, back and forth, and it’s all I need.
It makes her laugh quietly when I push her into the mattress. I want to claim what I crave, and she doesn’t slow me down. There’s so much smooth skin and thick locks fanning over these sheets.
So many reasons why I shouldn’t be above her, why I shouldn’t sink into her and lose myself in silky heat. She’s my employee, she’s Shandor’s cousin, and I’m using her like I use everyone else.
“Sorry,” I say when I do it anyway. I need to get a head start on my apologies. Aishe isn’t mine, and I’m not for her. This is the stupidest thing I’ve done since losing Zoe. I can’t say I wish I’d chosen a groupie instead, because that would be a lie. Aishe is exactly whom I wanted.
She arches off the bed, colliding with my thrusts, rolling with me, smooth and instinctive. She’s delicious and flowing with my flow. When I speed up, she bridges her body below me, meeting my insistence as I dig into her with all my force. There’s deep-set fire in her eyes, and suddenly her breath shudders in climax.
I want to kick myself once it’s over. It was spectacular, but ah. She’s not just a groupie, neither is she Zoe, my love, my love.
Talk about letting my schlong take over at the expense of everything else. It’s simple: if Aishe bears no grudge, then Shandor sure as hell will bear it for her.
I shake my head at myself in the bathroom mirror as I clean up and toss the condom away. Any girl but her.
I’m not heartless enough to throw Aishe out of my room. She smells like flowers and lotion, a mouthwatering mix. I suppress my sigh as I cover us both with the comforter and accept her thin, naked body over me.
Yeah. I’m not heartless.
We fall asleep, her contented sigh the last thing I hear.
I wake up earlier than usual in the morning. My limbs protest. Despite her bird-like build, Aishe is heavy over me. One of her legs has slid between my thighs, and my dick is engorging with the contact and the early hour.
I untangle us carefully and head for the bathroom. According to my phone, it’s eight in the morning. I’m often the black sheep on Troll’s wake-up list, but today I’ll be beating most of the guys to breakfast. That should make Troll’s day.
The shower’s soothing, washing away the feeling of guilt at taking advantage of Aishe. For weeks now, she’s been following me with soft eyes whenever we’re in the same room. Does she realize how obvious she is?
Either way, she’s seen me with the groupies. I bet she understands that last night was just pent-up energy being released after an awesome concert.
AISHE
In the months I’ve been with Clown Irruption, I haven’t seen Emil be with the same woman twice. Clearly, he isn’t on a mission to find a girlfriend. After we slept together, he started avoiding me. I took the hint, and I’ve been keeping a low profile since.
That night, I went with Emil because I saw him as my potential option number three. What if a relationship with someone as mild as Emil could stop me from becoming my aunt, our neighbor, my grandfather on my father’s side?
But I’m new to this. All I know is fleeing, so to take it easy makes sense. A slow approach will leave me with time to ease into things and see if he’s right for me. If I can melt his ice gradually, enough to cool my scorching heritage, then he is.
I think a lot about my family. They all moved so quickly. Jumped into love heart first and without thinking, and then the plague raged in, stopping them, rattling them, until their pain brought them past the point of madness.
The first step is always flesh. Flesh I’ve done, and sex with Emil was extraordinary. He was needy, his eyes all over my body, shaming me and making me wet at the same time. Then he entered me and made me combust. His remorse only came later.
At first, he apologized with words, but later it was in his touch, in the soothing way he embraced me afterward. It was in how he rose before I opened my eyes even though his morning hardness told me he’d rather stay with me.
Yes, so I keep a low profile. I’m always close. If there’s a need for a soda, a beer, a glass, I’m the one handing it to him. I don’t lure him away from his random groupies. I’ve got others’ experience to lean on, and the more you smother someone, the harder it is to win your prize.
I’m biding my time.
It’s been five days. Emil didn’t pick a girl after tonight’s show, probably due to our overnight drive to another state. At the moment, my burst of easy joy is drunk, and he’s fighting with Bo.
The bus has been packed for a while. Everyone has left the venue except Troll, who’s in the director’s office settling the show and collecting our money. Clown Irruption played a new song tonight with some incredibly sad lyrics courtesy of Emil, and I think it’s why he downed half a bottle of Jameson and is now ranting at Bo in the dressing room.
“You’ll never understand!” he snivels, mucus and saliva garbling his voice.
“Emil, I, of everyone, understand, but I’m telling you it’s time to give up.”
I jump when Emil shouts, “Did you give up? Huh?”
“No, but Nadia’s withdrawal didn’t make any sense. I knew something was up with her situation.”
“And Zoe’s does make sense?” Emil’s question rises at first, then it cracks on the last word like he knows the answer. Bo doesn’t reply.
Thirty minutes ago, the bus and the loading dock behind the arena was a flurry of movement and sound. People shuffled back and forth, shouting commands and hauling gear out of the venue. Now, Emil’s drunken sobs are all that interrupt the silence backstage.
I peek through the crack in the door. Watch as Bo takes his friend in his arms and cups his head against his shoulder. He mutters soothing words in a language I don’t understand. They don’t stop Emil’s shoulders from shaking, and I want to help, so bad.
I’ve laid low for days, but tonight I wonder if he needs me. So I show myself in the doorway, finding Emil still in Bo’s arms. He doesn’t see me, but Bo’s frosty greys zoom in on me at once. I don’t say anything. I want Bo to judge if I can be of help.
“Aishe?” Shandor’s voice echoes down the main hallway. I leap into the dressing room and lean into the corner behind the door. My cousin suspected that I hadn’t used my room the night I snuck off with Emil, and since then he’s been more in my business than ever.
“Aishe, are you here?” Shandor is almost at our door. I hold my breath in my sad excuse for a hiding place.
“We’re about to leave,” Bo says loud enough for my cousin to hear. Through the crack, I hear Shandor breathe, and my heart skips. I bite my lip, eyes on Bo to see if he’ll give me away.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt. All good?” Shandor sounds concerned from behind the wooden panel.
“Yeah, s’all good. Jameson took a toll on him tonight,” Bo says, voice neutral. Emil frees himself from his friend and turns, showing Shandor his back. “Aishe is probably on the bus already,” Bo finishes.
“I didn’t see her there, but…” Shandor chuckles apologetically, because it’s not Bo’s problem that he’s searching for me. “She knows when we’re leaving. Half hour, right?”
“Yeah. Half hour,” Bo says.
“She’ll be there. No worries,” Shandor murmurs, assuring himself more than anyone else. “Aishe would never delay departure for the band,” he tells Bo, who crosses his arms, waiting for him to leave. Emil rummages through the deli trays, head bobbing with inebriation. I have the urge to embrace him and comfort him with low hushes against his ear.
“No worries, Shandor. We know that.”
“Good. Yeah, because—”
Emil spins and sets his eyes on Shandor. “Don’t you get it? Just go!”
His outburst is what my cousin needed to leave us alone. Bo doesn’t berate his friend. Instead his gaze locks on me.
Emil sinks down on his haunches in front of the deli table, fingers latched around its corners like it’s a life raft. He’s sobbing.
Emil, the happiest, sunniest person—if an incarnation of joy were a possibility, Emil would be it, and if I hadn’t seen this firsthand, I could never imagine him sobbing.
Zoe. She’s a girl I’ve never met. Whatever happened was before I came on tour, so it’s at least a few months since their relationship ended. I haven’t probed Shandor for information. I don’t want him to catch on to my interest in Emil more than he already has.
All I know is she must be a horrible person. Or did he do something so awful it merited a complete disappearance from his life?
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a grown man actually cry before. But Emil will heal. He’s just a regular little white boy, and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be over his regular little white girl. I don’t worry about that. What I do worry about is how he feels right now. I hate that he’s in pain, and I, above some groupie he doesn’t know, could probably provide more oblivion than his half-bottle of whiskey has delivered.
“It’s Nadia’s last night with us on tour, Emil,” Bo murmurs.
“Go,” Emil whispers. “I’ll be there in a few.”
Bo doesn’t reply. Instead, he slaps a hand on Emil’s shoulder and walks to
ward me. “Are you up for it?” He jerks his head in Emil’s direction.
“Yeah,” I answer, understanding what he wants of me. We’re not being secretive about our conversation, but Emil doesn’t react. It must be the alcohol.
“I’ll make sure he gets on the bus,” I say. Because maybe I can heal his harmless, little heart and save my own in the process.
It wasn’t as hard as I thought to convince Irene, the light designer, to swap bunks with me. I blamed the need for a tallying of our merchandise before bedtime. Since the band keeps the tees on their bus, she just shrugged and shifted over.
Shandor was pissed. He hated watching me move off the crew bus, but Troll backed me up so he couldn’t openly object. “Good call, Aishe. You’re right. The business manager would ride my ass if we ran out of the broken heart ones. If the T-shirt provider gets the numbers tonight, they can start on them first thing tomorrow and we’ll rush-order to Seattle.”
Emil is propped up in a captain’s chair in the front lounge. Pain radiates off him in an almost palpable way. He’s deadly white, his eyes are closed, and he’s got a hand covering his forehead.
Everyone else is settling in for the night, discussing details from the concert and what they’d like different for the next one. Troy has a beer in his hand, safari green irises halting on me before he heads to the back lounge.
Nadia stoops to brush a hand over Emil’s head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”
He grunts, not answering. She rakes a few strands of hair from his face. He looks dirty now that the sweat has dried on him. I wring one of my washcloths in the kitchen sink and rub in some pine-scented body wash I find on the windowsill.
“Does he have a clean shirt somewhere?” I ask. Nadia nods and walks to the bunk area. She rummages in a big duffel bag on Emil’s bed and brings back a red cotton shirt.
“Here you go. It smells laundered.”
“I’ll clean him up and get him to bed,” I tell her.
