When it's over, my senses return in an uncomfortable a rush. The hard, bumpiness of the mattress beneath me. The scratchiness of the over-bleached sheets. The sneaky scent of mildew and fried food that permeates the small room. The bumping music from the street below, barely muffled by the thin walls. We're still in a shitty hotel room in Mexico. We're still fugitives and criminals and murderers. The orgasm dissipates and my body goes numb. I'm hot and sticky and sweaty and I hurt. I struggle against him with the last of my strength and he finally lets me go. He releases my hands and unlocks his arm from around my waist. Once I'm free, I shove at him and dig my heels into the mattress, trying to push him of of me. He doesn't fight me and I'm able to get away from him, dragging myself to the end of the mattress.
I roll over onto my side, breathing heavy. The air in the room is thick and sticky and I have to force it into my lungs. My body feels thick too, my muscles moving slow like molasses. It's hard to do anything in the heat of the room except lay there. The ancient ceiling fan above turns slowly and I can hear it creaking with each rotation. I can't feel any breeze on my overheated skin, though. My pussy throbs, as do the bruises and bite-marks he's given me. But I'm still in the afterglow of the orgasm and I don't really want to move even if I could.
I haven't been fucked like that in a long time. I haven't been abused and degraded like that in a long time, either. I feel disgusting, like I need to take another shower even though my hair's still wet from the first one. It's fanned across my face, stuck to my cheek, but I don't bother pushing it off. I just don't have the strength. I feel him move behind me but I keep my back to him. I don't want to look at him. I don't know if I can.
He kisses my shoulder and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steel myself against him. I don't know if I can take more. He's already taken all that I can give. I don't know what will happens if he wants more. His fingers caress my side, rising up my ribs and over my shoulder and down the curve of my throat. I let out a slow breath, my whole body on edge. Then he smoothes my hair back and out of my face, softly. He's barely touching me now, but his hand still lingers over my face.
Then he moves away. The shitty mattress shakes as he pushes himself off the bed. I hear him fumble with his belt, but I don't turn around to look at him. I'm exhausted, I realize, and it's too hard to open my eyes. I just want to sleep. Tomorrow, I'll deal with all the shit. I'll figure out how we're going to make the money stretch and where we're going to go. I'll figure out all the shit I don't want to deal with. I'm too tired to thing about it now.
I hear him moving around the room, but he doesn't come back to bed. He doesn't say anything either. I open my eyes in time to see him pulling on his boots. I stay silent as he grabs his T-shirt off the floor and pulls the sweat-damp garment over his head. He's getting dressed and I want to ask him what he's doing but I don't bother. I don't know if I really want to know. When he throws open the door, I jerk with surprise. He's leaving, I realize, a second before he walks out the door. He glances over his shoulder as he goes, but I quickly turn my eyes to the wall. I study the cracked, faded plaster instead of looking at him. My body jerks involuntarily when he closes the door lightly behind him. I have no idea where he went or when he's coming back.
“Asshole,” I mumble to no one. I shiver, despite the heat in the room.
He's gone.
I study the crack in the wall until it starts to seem like a gaping chasm. Then my eyes droop closed, the traumatic events of the past days finally taking their toll. I'm too tired to move, too tired to think about where he's gone and when he's coming back. With my eyes closed, I can almost pretend like I'm back home in my big master bedroom and my soft bed, with my man asleep beside me. But it's not Mitch that I dream about lying next to me. It's Elliot, but a different Elliot. Not the one that was just in the room with me. It's an Elliot that maybe never existed. He's the Elliot that I've kept with me for all these years, the Elliot that I lived with me for a few weeks in my little cottage in Seattle. We slept together and fucked and did everything together, but even then, the cracks had widened. Eventually, we couldn't ignore them anymore.
He's a ghost, no doubt about it.
But I fall asleep with the memory of that ghost and the memory of a life I no longer live. I fall asleep next to the Elliot that doesn't exist, because it's a hell of a lot better than sleeping alone.
Chapter Nineteen
When I wake up, it's bright outside and the room is stifling. Sunlight streams through the threadbare curtains. I can hear the rumble of traffic outside the open window. It's hard to move, but I force myself to sit up. My hair is still wet, soaked with my sweat now. It sticks to my cheeks and neck. I wince as my thighs rub together. My body is still throbbing. I check out my injuries. The bite-mark on my inner thigh is red and scabbed over. I press my fingertip to the edge and suck in a breath through my teeth. It's painful, but it's already started to heal. The evidence of what he did to me is all over my body. It's all over the bed. There's blood and dried come and sweat and tears all over the sheets, I can see it and feel it. Strands of my hair are tangled there as well. I get the odd urge to just burn the whole room down to the studs.
It occurs to me then that he's not there.
He hasn't returned.
I stand on shaky legs and walk to the window. I lift the curtain and glance out. The street below is busy, full of moving bodies, speeding motorbikes and cars jammed bumper to bumper in traffic. A cacophony of horns blares as the line of cars starts to move. Drivers yell and curse at each other through open windows. I'm in Juarez, Mexico, a few miles from the United States border, but I could be oceans away. I'm just one person in the middle of the stream. Life is going on like nothing happened in Seattle. The death of one person and the destruction of another doesn't matter to the people below me. They don't give a shit about me. In this new life that I'm suddenly living, no one does.
I drop the curtain and take a step back. The invasive mix of smells from the street below—car exhaust, fried dough, grilled meat, rotting garbage–is giving me a headache. And I have an audience. There's eyes on me, two men sitting on wooden crates in front of storefront. They're looking up at me and I don't like it. My purse is still sitting on top of the old tube TV. I hurry over to it and rifle through, looking for the Glock I have hidden at the bottom. It's still there, along with the box of bullets I brought with it. I carry the purse to the bed and quickly load the gun with bullets, loving the satisfying clink as I load the clip. I still don't feel completely safe though. How could I? I'm all alone in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. I don't have a lot of money and I only know just enough Spanish to get by, but that's the least of my problems.
I have no idea where Elliot is.
He could be fucking someone else or killing someone or robbing a bank or be a hundred miles away by now and I'd be none the wiser. I don't think he would leave me, but then again, he's been gone for hours. I check that the door is locked and then I carry my purse and my gun into the bathroom. My hair is still all over the floor and sink. I grab the hand towel from the bar and drape it over the toilet. I set my purse down and then the gun beside it. If I need it, I know exactly where it is. I crouch down and sweep up the hair with my hands, getting as much of it as I can. I stuff the long brown tresses into the plastic bag from the drug store, telling myself I'll throw it in the nearest dumpster I see when I leave the hotel room. I don't want to leave any more of myself in the room than possible.
Not that I have any plans of leaving the hotel room until Elliot gets back. There's no way in hell I'm venturing out onto the streets of Juarez alone. I practically have a sign on my back that says 'Stupid American Girl. Please Do Bad Things To Me'. I'm only half-Mexican and anyone here could spot that a mile away. My heritage is only a slight advantage to me, especially since I'm not as fluent in the language as I was as a child. I'm very keenly aware of the danger I'm in. Juarez was only supposed to be a pit stop, a cesspool that we could disappear into for a day or two an
d then move on. I'm not sure where is next, but I have no intentions of staying in Juarez a minute longer than I have to.
After I clean up the hair, I hop in the shower. I only allow myself ten minutes this time. I'm too jumpy to spend too much time in such a vulnerable position. The bathroom door is off the hinges and I'm not able to lock myself in. I'm naked and my hand isn't on the trigger of my Glock. If someone were to barge in, I'd be easy prey. It sounds paranoid, but I don't care. I'm not taking any chances. The second I relax or let down my guard is the second that I fuck myself and I've already been fucked enough lately. I get out and towel off quickly with the last clean towel. I feel better, but I know it won't last. I'll be covered in sweat in no time.
I put back on my clothes from the day before, because I don't have anything else to wear. Then I shove my destroyed hair into a bun on top of my head and tell myself I'll try and fix the choppy cut later. I have other things to worry about now. My stomach is grumbling but there's no food. I'm afraid to drink the tap water so I don't bother with that either. I just grab my gun and position the faded striped armchair to face the door. I sit, the sweat already dripping down my face and between my shoulder-blades, keeping my feet flat on the floor and my back straight. I want to be ready.
Now, you might think I'm being paranoid.
But I know that I let myself get soft. I let myself get lulled into complacency by Mitch's comfortable life and his money and his niceness. I stopped going to the gun range every other day. I gave up swimming for yoga. I got used to laying in expensive beds and making love in the dark,, slowly and softly. Eventually, I got rid of all my bad habits and I let myself get weak. So I wasn't ready when he came for me. I was completely taken by surprise. Now, there's something different in me. I can feel it. I want steel in my bones. I want ice water in my veins.
So I sit and wait.
I wait in this rundown hotel room for the evil outside to seep in. Elliot's gone. I have no idea where he is or when he's coming back, but he's not the only evil thing walking these streets. There's devils outside my door. Drug traffickers, murderers, rapists – very bad people. Juarez is teeming with devils. I can't rely on anyone else to protect me. Elliot's left me all alone, run off to do whatever he thinks he needs to do. Maybe he's punishing me. But it's only a matter of time before others know I'm in here. Like those men out on the street, others will sniff me out like a fresh cut at the meat market.
I know I can't sit here forever. Eventually I'll need food and water. But for now, I try not to think about that. As the time passes, the light changes outside the window. I know hours have gone by. I try to keep my mind as blank as possible, my only focus on my trigger finger. I force all the shitty thoughts out, all the thoughts that bring me back to my old life. This my life now and I have to get used to it.
I have to get used to it.
Heavy footsteps on the metal stairs leading to the second floor of the hotel make my muscles jump. My body is sore from sitting for so long, but the second I hear the sound, I'm at attention. I dig the butt of my gun into my thigh, aiming the barrel at the little pinprick of light beaming from the peephole. I hear a man talking loudly in Spanish and I can make out a few words. He's talking nonsense, his voice loud and booming. Then he starts to sing, slightly off-key and slurring his words, and I hear a woman as well, laughing and joining in the chorus. They make a lot of noise, stumbling up the stairs and grabbing the railing. I can hear the metal promenade creak under their weight. It seems as though they're drunk, but I don't relax my stance. My eyes flick to the window as they pass, their figures silhouetted against the dirty glass and the patchy curtains.
I listen as they crash and bang their way down the promenade and open and slam the door at the end of the building. I sit there and listen through the walls as they laugh and sing in their room. Then it goes quiet for awhile, and then a different set of noises assault my ears. I can hear unmistakeable sounds, the bumping of the furniture and their exaggerated moans. I stare ahead at the door as I listen to them fuck, my mind wandering back to last night. I wonder if that's how Elliot and I sounded for the whole world to hear. I wonder if I sounded like the drunk woman, like I'm halfway between death and absolute bliss. I wonder if Elliot sounded like the drunk man, desperate and slightly angry, even as he gets what he wants.
After awhile, they finally tire themselves out and all is quiet again. I feel my shoulders slump and my toes uncurl. I didn't realize how tense I was until it was all over. I run my tongue across my dry lips and I realize how thirsty I am. My throat is scratchy. My skin is slick with sweat. Stray hairs stick to my forehead and cheeks. I feel my eyes drooping closed and I catch myself before I start to lose the battle with the heat and thirst. As the sunlight shifts outside, the room starts to tilt and swim in my vision. But I still don't move. I keep on waiting, even as my body fights it harder and harder.
It's not until I hear another set of footsteps that I jolt in my seat and realize that I'd dozed off. The light is amber outside and I make a quick guess that it's late afternoon. It's hard to move; my muscles are like slowly hardening glue. It takes me too long to point the gun at the door, but I force myself to focus. The footsteps aren't as heavy as the drunk man's, but they're still too heavy to be a woman or child. I know it's a man. He jogs up the stairs and takes his time walking towards my room, his boots clicking on the metal.
He stops in front of my door.
The pinprick of light that beams through the peephole goes dark and I can see his shadow in the crack under the door. I lean forward, taking a deep breath and letting it out slow. My senses are suddenly at full alert. My eyesight is sharp, and I hope my reflexes are as well. I know I'm half-crazy from lack of sleep and lack of food and lack of everything, but it doesn't matter. I'm going to be ready. The knob rattles and I tense my finger on the trigger. A drop of sweat rolls down the bridge of my nose and rolls over the tip. It lands on my thigh.
“Daisy,” he says, his voice muffled like his mouth is almost pressed against the thin pine of the door. I don't loosen my stance as he fumbles with the key in the lock and turns the knob. The door opens, the sunlight blinding me almost immediately. I can't help it – I turn my face and squint away from the bright light. But I only take a second and then I push myself out of the chair and on to my feet. My thighs feel like jelly and my knees hurt and creak.
“Where were you?” I hear myself ask before he can even close the door. I can't even see his face around the bright light, but I know it's him. I can feel the little zaps of electricity going off at the base of my skull that I usually feel when he's close. The hairs on my arms stand up and I get goosebumps, even in the sweltering heat of the room. I lift the gun and point it at him, aiming for his chest. I have a feeling he won't answer my question to my satisfaction and I'm too pissed at him to let it slide. He stares at me for what feels like a long time, but is probably only as slight as a minute.
“That thing loaded?” he asks finally, as he turns and closes the door behind him lightly. He locks it as black dots dance in front of my vision and everything goes blurry in the newly darkened room. I sway on my feet and all of a sudden my head feels light as air.
“Where were you?” I repeat, my teeth clenched as I blink rapidly, trying to force my eyes to focus. “I should shoot you.” I say, but there's no bite behind it. I can barely keep myself standing. It's like all the fight went right out of me the second he walked in the door. I'm relieved, even if I don't want to admit it to myself. It's so difficult to want him and hate him at the same time. The dichotomy is making my head hurt. Besides, it's getting hard to think anyway.
“You could,” he says, tossing a big brown shopping bag on the chair behind me. Suddenly, he's so close. I can feel the heat of his skin close to mine. “But you won't.” He closes his hand around the barrel of the gun and I let it slip out of my grasp. He takes it from me like it weighs nothing, even though it's felt so heavy in my hands for the last few hours. He tucks it in the waistband of his jeans, s
lowly, like he's afraid any quick movements will spook me. I just stand there, my hands dropping lifelessly to my sides. I want to punch him, slap him, kick him – anything, really. But I can't.
I don't have the strength.
“Are you going to be a good girl, Daisy?” he asks, softly, and instantly his words transport me back eight years, to the first night we ever spent together. The night I've tried to forget so many times. But I can't. He can't either. I wonder if he's tried to forget as many times as I have. I bet he spent all of his time in Alaska trying to forget. And look at where we are now. Right back in the same place. Time is a circle, after all.
The world tilts and I feel air rushing past my ears. The world goes blurry and then dark. I feel his arms sliding around me, the hard muscles flexing over his bones. He holds me so tight that I can't breathe. The room disappears around me and the only thing I can feel is his body. The only thing I can hear is his heartbeat. Then it all goes black.
When I open my eyes again, I can feel the hard mattress beneath me. I can smell the slight hint of bleach and cheap laundry detergent that lingers on the sheets. But I can smell him too, all over me. He's back, I remember. He came back for me. I gasp in a breath and then he's there, hovering over me, his hands running down my chest and up to my cheeks.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice tight and angry. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and I run my tongue across my lips, trying to wet them. He goes away for a second and then comes back. He presses something hard to my lips, and I realize it's the mouth of a plastic bottle. “Drink,” he orders me but he didn't have to. As soon as I feel the cool water against my lips, I lift my head and gulp down the water. I feel some of it escape and trickle down my chin, but I don't care. It tastes too good to stop. When he pulls the bottle away, I grunt in frustration, my whole body crying out for more. He stares down at me, not caring that I want more. He runs his thumb up my neck to my cheek, catching the drop of water.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 24
