by B. B. Roman
Frederic wrapped his arm around me and held me as I cried, the emotional release almost as intense as it had been the first time when my mom called me. I knew I'd never forget this and I'd spend the rest of my life actively wishing that things hadn't turned out this way. It was that thought that made me want to finish the job, to ensure that my efforts weren't in vain—but what else could I do now?
Something told me that my path was going to become very clear, my choices limited, the outcome fixed. I don't know if it was excess optimism or just the hope that after so much suffering, something would go right. I had grown to hate making decisions.
Frederic grabbed the entire half-filled box of tissues from the bathroom, pulling it out of the plastic frame on the sink and bringing it to me. "Thanks," I said between sniffles. I blew my nose and realized how cheap the tissues felt. "I'm going to use the whole box right now," I said jokingly.
"I can get us more if we need them," he said.
"Maybe." My stomach grumbled. I hadn't eaten anything since the morning. "I don't really want to eat, but I probably should."
"Yeah, I'll go grab us some food. I know a good place around here. Keep the door locked, okay?"
"Sure." He kissed me as I stood up, my lips stiff, yet accepting of his gesture. The door opened and closed, the outside swallowing him.
I pulled back the comforter and sprawled out on the bed, relieved that I had that moment to myself. There were strange patterns in the paint that had been used on the ceiling and my eyes followed them, looking for an identifiable shapes. It was something I had done my entire life starting when I was young and in my room for time out.
I'd sit there for the duration of my sentence, just staring at the shapes in the carpet, making up stories in my head about the creatures that appeared to live there. God, I wished I could be that creative anymore. The reality of life had stolen that innocent, free part of me, and in this tense moment, I realized I desperately wished I could have it back.
Once it fully set in that I was alone, I instinctively thought to grab my cell phone—I was by myself now, so I guess that meant I could call Ramón—but realized I didn't actually need to call anyone just yet. The phone remained off, serving no purpose aside from maybe being a paperweight. I was too scared to turn it on, worried that Roland would call me and I'd have to curse him over the phone and face the consequences—and then he'd show up at the hotel door five minutes later.
I would have liked to call and tell my mom that I was okay, but it would just have to wait for now.
Many things passed through my mind while Frederic was gone. I hoped he was actually going to get some food, not carrying out a murder or an act of espionage. I had no way to tell anyhow, unless he came back covered in blood.
What was it like to be Frederic? At some point, he was Roland's right-hand man, even if he wasn't in this moment. I know he had worked hard to get to his position, but what did that really even mean? I remembered when he had told me about his job managing Roland's reputation. Had that just been a bunch of bullshit to distract me from his real involvement in Starland Enterprises?
In reporting, I worked hard and took shitty starting positions, working my way up by doing other people's dirty work. But what was dirty work in a world of corporate espionage? I had an idea of what that meant, but I wasn't sure if I should entertain it. Did Frederic have to go through some situation like I did, one where he unknowingly committed an act of violence in exchange for his boss's approval? Maybe, he knew when he did it. Roland could have handed him a gun and said "Take care of this guy, he's really bothering me. If you don't, I'll kill you. If you do, you get a promotion."
Or maybe none of this was true. Maybe he did actually manage Roland's reputation and that was it. Ramón had said that the FBI didn't know a lot about him. Was that a good or bad thing? God, there were so many unanswered questions, so many avenues of thought that I could peruse.
Being in the middle of this, I felt so bad for on-screen characters I had abused in movies, disgusted at myself for shouting my unheeded, unrequested advice at the screen during tense situations and growling at them when they didn't follow it. When you're safe in your living room, cuddling with a glass of wine, you're usually more clearheaded than that poor sap that's running from the mob lord, battling a psychotic killer, or caught in the middle of a growing, multi-billion dollar scandal. This was hard.
Never again, I thought.
When the door swung open, I grabbed my phone like it was a weapon, brandishing it in my hand to use against the advancing intruder—Frederic. "God, you scared me," I whined. The smell of fried food suddenly made me realize just how hungry I had grown during his absence. I was almost drooling.
"Sorry it took so long. That place is a local favorite. They feature it on TV sometimes. I hope you're okay with burgers and fries."
"I don't think anything sounds better right now."
"What about a milkshake?"
I giggled. "Really?"
"Yeah, it's not soda in those cups."
"Oh," I said jokingly. "I was hoping it was whiskey."
"Just eat!" Frederic smiled, his youth still prominent, yet obviously diminishing. Ten more years of this and he'd probably look like an old man. Maybe he'd get promoted or quit before that and save himself. I didn't need to think anymore though—I needed to eat.
Oh my god, the food was absolute bliss. It was everything they told you not to eat—a greasy bacon cheeseburger, a huge pile of grease-glistening fries, and a real ice cream chocolate milkshake—but it was absolutely perfect. For some reason, it felt like a last meal, the sort of thing you'd request before heading to the electric chair. Binge and then let them cook you alive in the chair. It was such a macabre thought while I ate.
"I didn't eat like this growing up," Frederic said.
"Really?" I asked, somewhat shocked. It made perfect sense, but I'd never really considered it before.
"Sure," he said, chewing his bite of burger before continuing. "This food is certainly available in France now, but we don't really like you Americans do."
"God," I remarked, "this stuff reminds me of my childhood. It reminds me of growing up."
"I only started to eat this stuff when I came here. But I don't eat it that often. I try to make it a treat. For special moments."
"Didn't you have fries there? They're called French fries for a reason, right?"
"Pommes frites," he said, his French perfect. Sometimes I forgot he even spoke another language, even though his accent was a constant reminder that English probably wasn't his first. "I don't really know if they did come from France. Some people say Belgium, but I don't really know. I don't think food is so simple."
We continued to gobble down our respective piles of food, a mountain of wadded up napkins forming on the bed near us. I kept thinking about my childhood, the home movies playing in my mind on repeat.
After I got my driver's license, my friends and I would go up to the beach during the summer and spend the days swimming and tanning. And then, when we were starving, we'd go to the burger joint and eat as much as we could. It just didn't matter back then. And then we would drive back home as the sun was setting, the trip relatively short, but long enough that we could enjoy the full spectacle of the day's conclusion. It was one of those pure moments from growing up, the ones that you begged for as you got older. None of us knew how serious the world could be—and I begged for that same innocent ignorance now.
The sunset in my mind quickly morphed into the one that I had watched with Roland the previous night, the glowing orb suddenly becoming the flames in the Provence. Damnit! I couldn't control that destruction in my mind. Why couldn't I just think about the happy thoughts, the thoughts that would help me sleep at night? Instead, those dirty-black, sobering realizations of mortality always seemed to creep in when you just wanted to be prancing around in endless fields of golden wheat, the prototypical image of young bliss.
My eyes flooded with tears, almost as if a switch
had been flipped inside of me. I had no idea how long I had been drifting alone through my thoughts. Was Frederic doing the same? Audible weeping was emerging now—and there was no way for me to hide that.
"Oh god, Frederic," I sobbed. "I can't believe what I've become."
"It wasn't your fault, Marisa! Damnit, don't blame yourself for the actions of sadistic men." He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against his chest. Normally I would have worried about crying on his fancy shirt—but not now.
I just couldn't accept his advice. It didn't fit. I was purging, my body desperately seeking to rid itself of this emotional buildup. "I took in that case! I hated him for humiliating me!"
"Just because you didn't like the guy doesn't mean you're in any way responsible for his death. You're shooting the messenger."
"Bullshit! I left a bomb in that building and killed innocent people! I'm not the messenger—I'm the executioner!" Sobs kept escaping from me, trapped sounds of sorrow that were finally breaking free. Somehow, I hadn't spilled my guts about Ramón, even though I had totally lost myself.
Frederic held me tight, even during my flare-ups, almost like he was doing his best to contain a fire. "You delivered a message. You had no idea what you were doing. You said you only saw money in that briefcase, so how can you blame yourself?" He gently stroked my hair with his hand, his gentle motion instinctive. "You're never going to want to forgive yourself for this, but you're going to have to try."
"I'm just not made for this," I said.
"I'll agree with you on that," he whispered. "Take some deep breaths."
I breathed in as much as I could and exhaled until my lungs were empty.
"Again," he said.
I complied—somehow I was calming down, my nerves relaxing and the tension evaporating from me. It was such simple advice, but you never thought about it when you were dealing with your sorrows. "Wow," I said. "Thanks, Frederic." I was still sniffling, but I was nothing like the absolute wreck I had been only a minute before.
"You're welcome, Marisa." He kissed the nape of my neck and continued stroking my hair. I was relaxed again, my volatility nearly winning another round.
"What do we do now?" I asked quietly. "I don't think I can ever face Roland again."
"We're just going to wait," he whispered.
And then, the warmth started flooding through my body, a heat of passion that was flaring up just as my emotions had the prior moment. I could barely remember who I was, the surge of arousal drowning out everything except that sudden burning need.
I kissed him hard, my tongue tracing over all of the interior surfaces of his mouth, mapping it out as our saliva mixed. He quickly fought back, doing the same to me. We twined like that, our hands climbing all over each other like they were independent creatures that existed only to seek the feeling of bare flesh.
My heart was pounding in my chest, the moisture flooding between my thighs. I don't think lust had ever overtaken me like this before. Flashes of reality mingled with the strange perception of the world that I was facing. I was kissing down Frederic's chest, unbuttoning his shirt as I went. His fingers were sliding up my thighs, desperately pulling at my panties to obtain to what lied beneath.
I gasped as his fingers brushed against that tiny bundle of nerves, my clit never before so sensitive, so flushed with blood. But I fought the urge to melt, the urge to allow him to just have his way with me. This was a two-way street, one that required me to assert my body's dominance.
His erection was throbbing through his pants and I frantically rubbed it after his shirt was unbuttoned and wide open. I peppered his chest with desperate kisses, sucking in his scent like it was air after I'd nearly drowned. He was parting me with his fingers, my juices pouring onto his skin as he pressed inside of me.
I could tell he couldn't wait any longer, his hands desperately clawing at my blouse until the tops of my breasts were visible. He buried his face in that soft mass of flesh, his breath so delicate and hot against my skin. My hands were toying with the button on his pants while he did so, trying to free his cock as quickly as I could. I got the front opened and pulled his pants and boxers down at once, freeing that hardened length that I eyed so hungrily.
The napkins and other remains of dinner tumbled to the floor as we shifted on the bed, his shirt falling off as he again fumbled with my blouse. This time—with my assistance, of course—he managed to get me free from my clothes, my body fully exposed and ready for him. His lips met each of my hardened nipples, his hands caressing my breasts as he moved. I was buzzing by this point, my mind totally fixated on the sensations of my body.
Frederic pushed me hard against the bed with his arms and penetrated me all at once, the sensation that of both pain and pleasure. Normally, I would have hated such a rude, animalistic gesture had I not been in such a state of overwhelming arousal. Tonight, however, I needed it more than anything. My muscles clenched around his erection, fighting to accommodate him. Our eyes locked as he lustfully watched the expression on my face as he went deeper and deeper.
I groaned loudly, but said no words, my brain only functioning at half capacity. I was reduced to nothing but nerves and sensations, my perceptions so limited, yet so vivid. In a way, it felt like I had lost one of my senses and the rest were working in overtime.
Frederic pumped into me with such fury, my body accepting the full force of each thrust. He was reaching all of the right places deep inside of me, enthusiastically stretching my limits. My blood was boiling, my mind raging with pleasure. Vulnerability had caused this storm to explode in me and overtake everything I knew as reality. Nothing was sensible in that moment except for our lovemaking.
Sweat dripped down Frederic as our bodies coiled on the bed, his stamina seemingly limitless. There was such aggression in his movements. I could see his muscles throbbing and flexing each time he inched in and out of me, his length vanishing and reappearing at will.
My fingers found my nipples and tweaked slowly, the burning pangs shooting down to my throbbing clit. I was quickly approaching orgasm, quickly ascending to that place of pleasure that my body had utterly demanded. I felt like Frederic was fucking all of me, mind and body, taking me out of the room and to somewhere else entirely.
I started to come, the undulating waves overtaking me at once. My cries filled the room, accompanying the wet slapping sounds of our sex. Oh god, I was losing it, losing my grasp on my already diluted reality. My pussy fluttered around him, pulsing with each peak of my orgasm. And he quickly followed me to that same exotic place of bliss, letting out a guttural cry and allowing me to milk him of every drop of release he had.
My back arched against the bed, my nails digging into his back, my toes curling as the tension uncoiled inside of me. A huge weight was being lifted, one that was leaving me with an incredible peace. Every spurt of his seed kept me at attention, kept me aware of his larger-than-life power and pleasure.
As his orgasm slowed, he fell onto me, his mind abruptly returning to normality. His chest frantically heaved like mine, his cock still deeply inside of me. I held him as I felt something like trust, something like relief. We both had needed that moment together so badly, even if it would seem irrational in retrospect.
I passed out almost immediately, the world a fleeting thing that my emotional state just couldn't handle anymore. Oh, how I had needed that...
***
Frederic suddenly woke me in the middle of the night, his hands gently shaking me until I was conscious. "Wha—"
"Marisa, we have to go." Frederic's voice was deadly serious. Were we in danger here?
"What are you talking about?" I rubbed my eyes, squinting at the dim light from the lamp on the nearby desk. It peered at me and forcibly stole away my sleepiness, a glowing eye in the darkness of the room.
"The deal is on," he said firmly. "We're going to meet Roland" He spoke with continuing finality.
"Deal?" I asked. "I don't want any part of this. I can't see him again."
"Am I in danger?" I asked. My fatigue was now a relic from my past, a fleeting memory. Adrenaline was pumping.
"You are if you don't come," he said.
"Frederic, I just can't—"
"Hurry the fuck up!" he snarled. "I'm not kidding about this. We need to go. Get your stuff, now!"
"Okay, okay, okay," I whined. There was so much ambiguity surrounding his intensity.
Why was he acting like this? Were we in danger here? Was he threatening me? Or were we just in an unsafe place because Roland might dispatch his cronies to come fetch us? God, we had shared such a beautiful moment earlier, one that had been both tender and frenetic, thoughtful and passionate. There was passion here, sure, but it wasn't pleasant in the least—and it was scary.
I got my things together and dressed quickly. "Can I use the bathroom before we go?"
"Hurry up," Frederic said. He was pacing back and forth near the window. "Don't try anything funny."
I froze in my tracks. Was I a hostage? I somehow convinced my feet to move and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. My brain sprung to life, infinite possibilities surging through my consciousness. Had I chosen the wrong person yet again? Did they know I was undercover? Maybe Frederic was about to drag me to Roland and throw me at his feet to beg for mercy. Fuck! My phone was in my purse in the room.
This was fight or flight—but was there anything I could do? God, nothing made any sense. He had seemed so distraught about Roland's violent actions last night. What was this?
Calm down, Marisa. Don't assume anything. Don't trust anyone but yourself—
"Hurry up!" I heard from outside the door.
