by JA Huss
“The same thing I always write about,” I tell her, grabbing a bunch of paper towels off the roll standing up on the counter and turning on the faucet so I can get them wet. “Get up on the counter.”
She places her hands flat on the stone and sits. Then lifts herself up to her full height above me.
I uncap a brush marker and close my eyes for a second to picture it all in my head.
And then I begin.
I start on her foot the way I used to. A stupid Roses are Red poem. Just something small and childish that can fit across the top of a foot. My touch affects her the same way it always did. She’s ticklish.
I smile at her as I make the letters. Fancy R’s and loopy L’s.
And then I move to the next foot and write a childhood rhyme. Red Rover, Red Rover, I’m gonna bend you over.
If I had a lot of time, I’d decorate it with flowers. But I doubt we’ll get that far tonight.
My hand wraps around her calf, another sensitive spot that makes her gasp, and then I begin a beautifully scrolling poem about something a little more serious.
You are in front of my window
Ready for me to take you
I remove your clothes and keep your rose
And when you leave
A part of you stays behind.
I use both legs to fit it all. When I look up at her she’s frowning. “What?” I ask.
“I wish you took my virginity.”
I glance at the movie on the wall. Katya is moaning as I lick her pussy. Her legs hiked up over my shoulders. Her hands holding on to my longer hair like she might float away.
The music is back. That hypnotic thrum that seems dark and ominous, but so completely captivating at the same time.
“Leave the past where it belongs,” I tell Kat now. “Time to move forward. Now sit and lie back so I can get to the best part.”
I hold out my hand so she can use it to lower herself. When her back hits the cold soapstone counter, she hisses some air through her teeth.
“You won’t be cold for long,” I say, rubbing her breasts.
Katya closes her eyes and enjoys the moment as I drop my pants to the floor, step out of them, and then climb up next to her, lifting her legs up to give me access. One knee on each side of her ass. Her legs drape over my legs until we are both comfortable.
My hand is on my cock, pumping it a little to get myself hard again. It doesn’t take much. I’m always ready for Kat.
I ease forward. My knees painfully pressing on the stone island until the tip of my cock finds the entrance of her pussy. I enter her and then relax.
I place both of my hands on her hipbones, helping her move in sync with me. It’s a long, slow fuck. Agonizingly slow. A slow you can only accomplish if you’ve recently come and your thoughts are more about the act of sex than the end result.
But we’re not fucking.
We’re making art now.
I leave my dick inside her as my marker takes on a life of its own. I sketch out the motorcycle on instinct only, switching between different shades of black and gray. I have been drawing bikes since I was little. My father had a habit of doing this too and there is one particular sketch he did that hangs on the wall in the Fort Collins Theater. A gift to my Aunt Rook back when they were young together. The bike belongs to my mother now, but it was Rook’s at first.
It’s the same drawing that graces my father’s back. My mother’s handiwork. And I always found it interesting that so many of the people in my life were interconnected by this one particular piece of machinery. My sister Jasmine did my ink years ago. Before I ever even met Katya. When the road was nothing but a dream that slipped me by and life was dark.
Every few minutes I stop sketching so I can fuck her. Flick the top of my dick up against her clit and make her whine and whimper.
“I can’t take it,” she mutters, over and over again each time I do this. Her hips rising up to make me penetrate her deeper.
But we both know she can take it. And we both know I’m fucking her deeply. I’m in her mind. I’m in her heart. I’m completely surrounding her soul.
When I start the lettering—a fully complete circle of words that ring the bike on her, just like they ring the bike on me—she begins to beg. “Let me come,” she whispers. “Please, let me come.”
I say nothing because this is the best part. He words and my words are different in every way. But in context, they are the same thing.
Around my bike they spell out my longing for a new life, a new direction, a new way forward.
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
And around her bike they spell out the satisfaction I could only find in her.
I give you my love more precious than money,
Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
Around her bike they are the completion of a journey.
I put my marker down and let out a sigh. Katya opens her eyes. “Are we done?” she asks.
I shake my head slowly. “No, darling. We’re just getting started.”
I fuck her for real then. For the first time since we met, I fuck her for real. Everything that came before this moment is junk. Trash. Pretending. Fake. And everything that will come after is genuine.
I place my hand over the tattoo just above my cock. The last promise I made that last night we spent together as kids.
You express me better than I express myself.
You shall be more to me than my poem.
And yes, I was a kid too, even though I was twenty-four. Everything that came before that night I inked my promise on her body was childhood. Silly wants and wishes. Delusions and hallucinations. The world of dreaming just for the sake of dreaming. Younger Oliver and Younger Katya are gone.
There is only here and now.
I kiss her when we come. Her moans filling my mouth like my cock fills her pussy. The music playing on repeat. The sex tape that is so much more than a sex tape. It is art and I would play it in public to pay homage to our love, if I could.
I don’t care that she’s here to betray me. I don’t care that she’s made a deal with the devil. I don’t care what my friends think of that. And I don’t care about the consequences.
I love her.
The heart wants what the heart wants.
I will throw everything away to keep her. I will betray everyone I know. I will make my own deal, sell my own soul if I can just walk beside her in this life. Hold her hand as we face the reality of our decisions together. Give her a home in me, in my love. A safe place where no such thing exists.
I know she is filled with lies. Lies people told her. Lies she has told me and lies she has told herself.
And I don’t care.
I have tried to be in control of things for as long as I can remember. It sucks. Making all the decisions sucks. Hiding from the past sucks. Keeping secrets sucks. I know hers, and now it’s time for her to know mine.
I have been in control for far too long and this is where it ends.
I give it over to her freely. Willingly. Completely.
This is where it ends.
In the background the movie is still playing. We are still fucking, and laughing, and oblivious to everything that comes after.
More… gimme more… gimme more.
“Oliver,” she says. I can feel her heart beating fast against mine. We are artists and we paint our pictures with sex. “Take me to bed.”
I smile about all of it. The lies, the betrayal, the anger and the hurt.
None of it makes any difference.
“Sure,” I say, getting up off her and then offering her my hand so I can pull her up from the black stone slab.
If sacrifices must be made on the altar of life… well, I’m OK with that.
There is no gain
without pain. I came to terms with that fact a long, long time ago.
I lead her across the room and up the stairs, our naked bodies and bare feet absorbing the chill of the dark night. We make our own heat when I turn on the camera sitting atop the tripod and get into bed.
New movies filled with new memories. New art to replace the old.
It’s all I need.
Just her and me and the camera to document it all.
I want more.
More lies, more betrayal, more deceit, more fucked-up beginnings that lead to more fucked-up endings.
Bring it on, motherfuckers. We’re ready.
More… gimme more… gimme more.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - KATYA
“Hey,” Oliver says, wrapping his arms around me. My face is resting on his chest. My fingers play with the little trail of blond hair that leads beneath the covers. His are tracing light circles on my upper arm. “I gotta go to work in about an hour. You wanna shower with me?”
“And wash off all this talent?” I say, smiling up at him. “Not a chance.”
“OK.” He laughs. “Let me rephrase the question. Would you like me to carry you into the bathroom and fuck you in the shower?”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
But I’m too comfortable to even think about getting out of bed. And he must be too because he makes no move to make good on his offer.
“What are you gonna do today?” he asks.
“Work,” I say. “Like usual, I guess.”
“What does that look like?”
I close my eyes and enjoy his soft touch as I think about my answer. “Well, I guess I’ll have to start over with the body art.” I squirm a little so I can look up at his face. “Since you’re insisting on washing it off me.”
“I said fuck you, not wash you.”
We both take a second to laugh.
“But if you want photographs, that camera can take stills. Besides, I used the waterproof markers. It’ll come off, but it might take a few days.”
“Well.” I sigh. “Decision made for me I guess. I won’t be working today after all. Not on anything original at least.”
“My work is original.”
“I can’t sell your work.”
“What if I sign over copyright?”
“Oliver.” I laugh. “You’re on drugs if you think I’d sell photos of your words on my body.”
He lifts up the hair covering my left ear so he can kiss my tattoo. “My words are on all your pictures.”
“I edit them out.”
“Nah,” he says. “I saw them in that pic you uploaded on Hook-Me-Up.”
“Yeah, because I was sending it to you and only you.”
“About that…”
Shit. We are getting dangerously close to the reason I’m back in town.
“You could’ve just… called me up, you know? Like on the phone. Or came over to the office and said, ‘Hey, I’m back in town. How about a fuck?’”
“You and your fucks.” I laugh. But I don’t want to talk about this right now. It only leads to the bad stuff.
“I’m serious.”
“I just didn’t know how you’d feel about me. It’s been four years. More than four years.”
“I thought about you almost every day of those four years. I’m not just saying that either.”
I know he’s not.
“I pictured you at school.”
Fuck.
“Your life there. What you were doing. Who your new friends were.”
“I dropped out,” I say quickly, before he can say anything else. “I went, but…” Shit. “It wasn’t for me.”
“Hey, you know what?” Oliver’s finger lifts my chin up so I have to look at him. “I totally skipped college too.”
We laugh for a few moments.
“I mean, yeah, I’d have probably finished if I wasn’t, you know, accused of rape freshman year. But whatever. I kind think it would’ve been a waste of time. Plus, I probably would’ve never come home. Would’ve never have met you. Hook Me Up was just a stupid college gig. I had no plans of being Mr. Match for real. It was always Ariel’s project.”
This interests me. Not the part about us meeting. That was a little bit more than just fate. But the part about what he had planned for himself before that shit went down with the rape accusation. “What was your thing?” I turn and prop my head up on the hand that rests on his chest.
He shrugs, his eyes less thunderstorm and more light showers. “Bikes, maybe. Tattoos? Art? Probably art. You know what’s funny?”
“What?” I say, enjoying this morning talk.
“Nolan Delaney.” He laughs. “I kinda hate that dick. But he and I are a lot alike.”
I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t see it.”
“No, most people wouldn’t. But he’s an artist. And I’m an artist. Maybe not as talented as him. Or twisted.” Oliver winks at me. “But he puts his fucking soul into his work. I’m just a dabbler.”
I throw the covers off us and bare my body to him. “This is not dabbling. And I do want pictures. Do you have time to take them?”
“I would make time, even if I didn’t,” he says. “But back to you. Your days. Your life. What was it like? I only ask because I’ve been stuck here in my home town for a…”
He suddenly stops talking.
“Oliver?”
He just stares at the ceiling.
“Oli?”
“Sorry,” he says, distracted. “But you know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“It’s been eleven years.”
“What?”
“The eleven-year anniversary was two weeks ago and I never even noticed.”
“Do you usually notice?”
“Every fucking year,” he whispers. “Every fucking year I get up, get on my bike, and ride until the day is over.”
Suddenly he makes a lot of sense. “‘Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.’”
“Yeah,” he says. “When I came home from Brown about a week after the accusation, the first thing I did was stop by the tattoo shop to see my sister, Jasmine. I had a thing for that poem. Song of the Open Road. I already had the bike. She did it the summer before I left. The second I turned eighteen—and I do mean the second, because I was hanging out in the shop the night before my eighteenth birthday—I had her ink me up.”
He stops to smile. Like this is a really good memory.
“My fucking parents. My dad threatened my Uncle Vic. Said if that tattoo machine put one speck of ink on his only son a minute before he turned eighteen, he’d kick his ass.”
I picture it in my head. I don’t know who would win that fight. Probably the guy who had something to fight for, and not something to fight against.
“He was being dramatic. They used to fight a lot, but hadn’t fought seriously for a few years. Vic took the warning to heart. Anyway, Jasmine had already done the bike. So that evening I came home from Brown she did the words. Because all I wanted to do was disappear. And it didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t. I was out on bail.”
God, that sucks. “You know what I was doing that night?”
Oliver pulls himself out of his past and enters mine. “That night?”
“The night you were accused of rape I was getting my throat cut.”
“That night?” Oliver squints his eyes at me.
I nod. “That same night. I was eleven.”
“What the fuck?” He’s looking at me like he has no idea who I am. And he doesn’t. Not really.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means. I was young. I had some clue what my parents were into, ya know? But not really. Little kids have a hard time imagining the dirty shit that happens in the dark. So I would hear the word Bratva and my American mind would translate it to brothers. I called the Vory uncles. My father was Shestyorka. Associate. A nobod
y. But he wanted to be a somebody.”
“No,” Oliver says. “Tell me he did not give them permission.”
“He did. I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand it now. Because I would never let anyone hurt my little sister. No matter what the promise was. I’d take her cuts myself before I let them do that to her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Oliver asks, propping himself up on his elbow.
“I think they loved me,” I continue without answering. “My parents. They left me money after it all went to hell. An escape plan. A very well-thought-out escape plan. That’s how I got here.”
I want to tell him that last tiny detail about how I got here. But I can’t. Not yet.
“But before it went to hell, they made my father Vor. Thief. Bratva. Family. He earned his respect by letting them cut me with that scalpel. I wasn’t supposed to fight back.” I look up at Oliver. “But I’m just a fighter, I guess.”
He traces the words that cover the scar on my shoulder, looking down at it for a few seconds before looking back up at me. “This one was an accident.”
I nod. “And it wasn’t pretty. But it was my fault. They made that very clear when they sewed me back up.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
It’s funny how you hold things in for so long they almost start being a fantasy. But then there is one moment that changes everything. One moment and the words just come spilling out. One moment to make them real again.
“But just because you’re made Vor in the Bratva doesn’t mean you stay that way forever.”
“What did he do to lose favor?”
“He refused to give me to one of the Italians. The one who cut me.”
“Lucio Gori.”
“Senior,” I add, because it makes a difference. “Senior. I was promised to Senior and Victoria was promised to Junior. At least he was close to her age. I lied about which one did it because I wanted Tori to feel a connection to me. But it wasn’t Junior who ruined my life. It was his father.”
“Did he rape you?”
I don’t answer.
“They killed my parents a few months before I met you.”
Oliver sinks back into his pillow. His arms tightening around me once more. “I don’t need to know the rest.”
