Interlude

by Anna Cruise

I don’t own a brush. I have a comb…somewhere. And I know what she’s doing. Stalling so she doesn’t have to answer my questions.

  I decide to humor her. “Comb work instead?”

  “Sure.”

  I shove away from the table and head down the hallway. It takes a few minutes, rummaging through drawers, but I finally find the comb, buried underneath an old tube of toothpaste and an almost-full bottle of lube.

  When I get back to the kitchen, Lydia is standing, her hands behind her back, a guilty expression on her face, like I caught her doing something

  “What—?”

  She takes the comb from my hand and pulls it through her hair. It’s almost dry and she looks like Christmas, her long red hair pulled over her shoulders, her green eyes trained on me. I watch her as she works the comb through, her hair hanging like a silk sheet against the tattered gray hoodie she’s wearing. My hoodie.

  “Thanks,” she says, handing it back to me. Her fingers graze my palm and it sends shivers down my spine. The good kind.

  “Uh, sure.”

  She flashes me a smile. “And thanks for the coffee. And the sweatshirt.” She shrugs out of it.

  “Wait. What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  She holds out the sweatshirt but I don’t take it. She drapes it across the chair she was sitting in.

  “Thank you,” she says again, her voice a whisper.

  Why is she thanking me? And why is she leaving? And what was she doing while I was comb hunting? I still don’t know who she is or why she’s in my house, looking for Joey. And I want answers.

  three

  “You can’t leave.”

  She tilts her head. “Oh?”

  “Not without telling me why you’re here. Why you’re looking for Joey.”

  “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

  I glance down at the discarded sweatshirt. The empty cup of coffee. The comb she handed back to me.

  “I was just thanking you.” She smiles. “That’s all.”

  “Okay…”

  She takes a step toward me. We’re inches apart and my radar goes off. What the hell is she doing?

  I don’t get any more time to think because suddenly her lips are on mine. Warm, soft. Her tongue darts into my mouth and I taste coffee and Jack – a hell of a lot of Jack – and her arms wrap around my neck and she molds herself to me, her tits pressing into my chest, her damp tank top wetting my own shirt.

  “Whoa,” I say, pulling away. But my breathing is uneven, short, unsteady gasps, and my hands are on her hips. How the fuck did they get there?

  She silences me with her mouth. Her hands drift from my neck, down my chest, then to my stomach. She pulls me to her, fitting against me again¸ her hands snaking around to cup my ass.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper against her lips.

  “Kissing you,” she says, chuckling. “Don’t you like it?”

  I like it. A lot. “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts.”

  She slips a hand inside my shorts, her fingernails light on my skin. My dick springs to attention, like a soldier saluting his superior.

  “Lydia—”

  “Shh.”

  Her mouth moves to my cheek, then my ear, then my neck, trailing kisses and nibbles. I groan and her teeth sink deeper into my skin and I tighten my grip on her waist.

  For one second, I think about Sara. Her black hair, her brown eyes, her hard smile. Her curves, her pussy.

  And then I zero in on the girl kissing me. Groping me. Her long red hair, her green eyes, her soft, dimpled smile. Her rail-thin body. And her pussy.

  Sara kicked me out. Showed me the door. Told me I need to get my priorities straight, go back to school, find a real job. Because I’m not good enough for the person she’s becoming.

  Yeah, fuck her.

  I focus on Lydia. Kiss her back. Hard.

  She moans, murmurs “yes” as her hand shifts to the front of my shorts. She grabs my dick and it’s my turn to moan. I walk her backward, maneuvering her toward my bedroom. Her legs bump the back of the bed and she sinks down, pulling me with her.

  I don’t waste time. My dick is throbbing and all I can think about is touching her, tasting her, getting inside her. I yank her tank top off and devour one breast, then the other. Her skin is still cold, her nipples taut on my tongue. I suck, then tease them with my teeth, and she whimpers.

  “Fuck me,” she whispers. Her hands are working the button of her jeans.

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I fumble with her zipper, then coax her jeans off her legs. They’re damp and the fabric clings to her so I tug harder. My thumbs hook the top of her panties and I caress her hip, letting my fingers knead her flesh. I cup her pussy and she’s damp there, too, and I don’t know if it’s from her wet jeans or because she’s that ready for me.

  Ten seconds later, I know. I ease into her and she’s wet as a slip-n-slide. Jesus, she feels good. I thrust deep and she wraps her legs around me. Her nails dig into my back and she whimpers again.

  I look at her as I fuck her. Her red hair fanned out across her shoulders, her green eyes almost glowing in the darkened room, a harsh smile on her face as her eyes lock on mine. She’s so beautiful and so wet and I pump harder, faster, deeper. I come hard and she cries out as I spasm inside of her, her legs clamping around my thighs.

  It takes me a minute to catch my breath. Her legs drop to the bed and I collapse to the left of her, one arm draped over her chest. She’s breathing hard, too. Good.

  “That was nice,” she says. Her fingers dance along my arm and leave a trail of goosebumps.

  “Mmm.” It’s all I can manage in the post-sex fog.

  She wiggles a little underneath me and with some effort, I manage to lift my arm off her.

  “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” Her tone is almost apologetic.

  “Huh?” I blink a couple of times. “No, no. That’s fine.”

  “And”—she looks around sheepishly—“do you mind if I borrow a shirt or something? Maybe a pair of sweats? I don’t really wanna get back in those.” She motions to the pile of wet clothes on the floor.

  “Yeah, of course.” It’s been a while since my last casual sex hook-up, but it isn’t the first time I’ve sacrificed – and never seen again – articles of clothing. Par for the course, I guess.

  I stand up on shaky legs and open the bottom two dresser drawers. I dig out a clean pair of sweats and a Rubio’s t-shirt. I hand them to her.

  “Thanks.”

  She’s standing now, too. Her skin is flushed from sex, her cheeks almost as red as her hair. My eyes travel the length of her. She’s so thin – no hips to speak of, breasts the size of cupcakes. Not like I was complaining when they were in my mouth.

  “I’ll be quick,” she tells me.

  I nod and smile and flop back on the bed.

  I roll over on my back and listen as she starts the water. The pipes are loud, especially since the tub shares the wall my bed is pushed up against. The shower door opens, then shuts, and I close my eyes and picture Lydia standing under the showerhead, that red hair going dark, droplets of water dripping off her skin. My dick twitches at the thought.

  I force my eyes open and the reality of what I’ve just done comes crashing down. What the hell am I doing? I just slept with some chick who showed up at my door in the middle of the night and I’ve never seen before. I glance at my nightstand, at the box of condoms almost visible in the top drawer, the box I didn’t even think about reaching for as I buried myself inside of her.

  Fuck.

  What if she isn’t on the pill? I’d just been accused of being a child, of needing to grow up – the last thing I need is to find out I just created a kid with someone I don’t even know.

  The muscles in my jaw start to twitch. Sara will kill me if she finds out. If she plans on talking to me again.

  I shake my head. I can’t believe I was so stupid. What the hell was I thinking?

  More m
inutes go by as I think about all of the potential consequences of my five-minute hookup. Babies. STDs. A pissed off girlfriend. If she still is my girlfriend.

  The water is still going. She’s taking a long shower. Maybe she’s having regrets, too. Trying to scrub every inch of skin I touched.

  After fifteen minutes, I’m somewhere between irritation and worry. Slightly pissed because she’s running my water, and slightly freaked out that maybe she had such deep regrets, she offed herself in my bathroom.

  I stand up and reach for my pair of shorts. I’d kicked them off on the bed and they’re tangled in the comforter. I pull them on and step out into the hallway. The bathroom door is cracked open. Sherlock is sitting in the hallway. He glances in my direction, then directs his gaze back to the bathroom door. I wish I spoke cat because I’m pretty sure he’s trying to tell me something.

  I approach the door. “Lydia?” I knock softly. “Everything okay?”

  No answer.

  I knock a little harder. “Lydia?”

  Silence.

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  I grab the doorknob and push the door open. Steam rushes out and Sherlock bolts down the hall.

  I step into the bathroom. Hot water streams from the showerhead, pinging the glass door.

  The shower is empty.

  four

  My first thought is relief.

  She’s not slumped over in my shower with slit wrists.

  But then I get pissed. I open the shower door and twist the knob. The water slows to a trickle. I wipe my arm on a towel and head toward the living room.

  Empty.

  I check the kitchen.

  Empty.

  But the bottle of Jack is gone.

  “Goddammit!” My fist crashes down on the kitchen table and the coffee cups bounce.

  I stalk back into the living room and open the front door. The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle but the wind is still gusting strong. I slam the door shut.

  I’m irrationally pissed.

  Pissed that she left. Pissed that I don’t have a clue who she is. Pissed that I had sex with her.

  “Bad choices, man,” I say out loud.

  Sherlock looks at me, then closes his eyes. He’s curled up on the couch now, probably happy that everything is back to normal.

  Except it’s not.

  I have more questions than answers. And no one to ask.

  I should just go back to bed. Go back to bed and pretend this night never happened. Don’t think about it again, don’t talk about it again, and sure as shit don’t mention it to Sara.

  But I can’t. I’m wired. There’s no way I’m gonna fall asleep, not with thoughts of babies and diseases and strange, beautiful women who show up and seduce me.

  I stand there, halfway between the foyer and the living room. Because I realize there is someone I can ask.

  Joey.

  I double back to my bedroom and grab my phone. Scroll through my contacts, find the right one.

  It rings four times.

  “Yo, this is Joey. You know what to do.”

  I sigh and end the call. I walk into the living room and toss the phone onto the couch. Sherlock jumps.

  I grab the remote and turn the TV on. A dark-haired woman smiles at me and tries to sell me eyelash extensions. She looks like Sara and my stomach feels queasy.

  Fuck.

  I drop the remote and head into the kitchen. It still smells like coffee. I grab the mugs from the table and dump them in the sink. My gaze drifts to the countertop, to a half-full bottle of Captain Morgan’s. I reach for it.

  A pounding at the door stops me and my pulse quickens.

  She came back.

  I stride back to the door and fling it open.

  Lydia is not standing on my doorstep.

  A guy with a nose ring and a wicked snarl reaches for me. “Where is she?”

  I back up. “Whoa. Who the fuck are you?”

  He shoves me and I stumble backward but manage to hold on to my footing. “I’m the one asking questions, bitch. Where is she?”

  My heart is in my throat but I try to keep my cool. “Sara? How do you know Sara? She’s at home, man.”

  The guy glowers at me. He’s not tall. Lean and wiry, with a tattoo running up the side of his neck. Not someone I wanna mess with.

  “Who the fuck is Sara?” he growls.

  I manage to look confused. “My girlfriend. She’s the only chick who’d—”

  He cuts me off. “Save it. You know who I’m looking for. Where is she?”

  I throw up my hands. “Look—”

  He punches me in the kidney and I double over, gasping for breath, my eyes tearing up from the pain.

  “Start looking,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Two guys slink through the door, long and lean, like the guy who just decked me. One reeks of cigarettes, and the other is wearing brass knuckles. If I wasn’t scared shitless, I might actually laugh.

  “Which room is Joe’s?” the guy who smells like an ashtray asks.

  Weakly, I nod in the direction of Joey’s room. Christ. I should have known.

  All three disappear into his room. I know they won’t be in there long. He took everything with him. At most, they’ll spend thirty seconds poking around in the closet.

  I wince as I make a dash for my room. Because I know they’re looking there next and I remember what’s still on the floor.

  I kick Lydia’s clothes under the bed just as they cross the threshold.

  “The fuck you doing?” Tattoo Guy asks me.

  I don’t have a good answer. “N-nothing.”

  He bumps his chest against mine, his nose so close, I can see the hairs inside it. “You know where she is, you better tell me now, man.” He reaches for my hair and grabs a handful. “Because I can make you hurt good. Real good.”

  “I told you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Sara isn’t here.”

  He yanks hard and pulls a clump of hair from my scalp. “I’m not fucking looking for Sara!” he screams.

  His fist drives into my stomach again and the air whooshes out of me. I fall to my knees and his knee slams into my cheek.

  “Not gonna talk, huh, pretty boy?” He gets down on one knee and looks at me. My vision is blurry but I notice his eyes. Blue like the ocean. Cold. Deep. “I have a message for her. A message you’re gonna give her.”

  “I don’t know who—”

  He raises his hand and I wince, bracing myself for another blow. But he brings his pointer finger to my lips and presses it gently against my flesh.

  “Shh,” he says, his voice soft. Not a sweet soft. Menacing. “Just listen. You’re gonna be my messenger, pretty boy. Tell her I want what’s mine. Tell her I know she has it. And tell her she’s fucking dead if she doesn’t give it back to me.”

  He rakes his nail against my lip so hard it bleeds. He grins. “Take care of him, boys. And make sure he remembers Gino came to call.”

  five

  A woman’s voice. In my room.

  I groan and roll over.

  My bed is hard. Or maybe it’s just because I ache all over.

  I force my eyes open, slowly bring them into focus. Sunlight streams into the room, casting light shadows on the wall and ceiling. But my bedroom window faces west. What the hell time is it, that light is shining in?

  I lift my neck and groan again. Every fucking part of me hurts. I glance around, trying to get my bearings.

  I’m in the living room, sprawled out on the braided area rug. Sherlock is still on the couch, staring at me. I wonder if he’s watched me all night. And the voice I hear is the morning news anchor. A steady, pleasant voice relating the traffic woes on the 5 and 805.

  A new voice speaks. A man’s voice. His is firm, urgent. Sad.

  “Recapping this morning’s top story, a man was shot to death on the 2400 block of Turlock Street late last night. Identified as Joseph William Armstrong, he was found with a single gunshot wound to the chest.
”

  I sit up straight, ignoring the pains in my gut and my head, and stare at the TV. The silver-aired anchor continues to speak solemnly.

  “Police are asking for help in locating a person of interest in the case. Armstrong was last seen at Buddy’s Bar, at the corner of 24th and Turlock. Witnesses say he was with a woman, described as in her early twenties, with long red hair. Police stress that she is not a suspect at this time.”

  My stomach rolls.

  Jesus Christ. Joey is dead.

  I don’t know how to feel. Horrified, I guess. We had never been close but we shared living space. That counts for something, right? I think it does, even though we’d always kept our relationship more professional than friendly, mostly because of his line of work.

  And now he’s dead.

  I grab the remote and rewind the feed.

  “Police are asking for help in locating a person of interest in the case…Witnesses say he was with a woman, described as in her early twenties, with long red hair. Police stress that she is not a suspect at this time.”

  My stomach clenches again.

  Lydia.

  I get up on my knees, then push up off the floor. Every inch of me hurts. I don’t remember anything after Gino’s threat. I must have blacked out – either that or his buddies beat me up so bad, I’d gotten a concussion and couldn’t remember.

  I stumble at a snail’s pace to the bathroom and flip on the light. I steel myself before looking in the mirror.

  It’s not good. Scraped, bloodied lip. Black eye. A bruise blooming on one cheek. My scalp hurts but I don’t see a batch of bare skin where Gino ripped out a chunk. Bruises cover my stomach like a patchwork quilt, varying shades of red and blue and purple.

  I take a deep breath and wince a little. No broken ribs, I don’t think.

  I turn off the light and head back to the living room on unsteady feet. My phone starts to ring and I look around, confused, before I spot it on the couch next to the cat. I limp toward it and see the face on the screen. Beautiful, smiling.

  Sara.

  I don’t answer it.

  It rings again.

  I know her. She’s going to keep calling until I answer.