“I won’t say I just stopped. It’s not like I just willed myself sober.” He scoffs quietly. “It’s been one hell of an identity crisis, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I glance down at the tattoos peeking out from the edge of his shirt-sleeve, finally daring to ask the question that I couldn’t voice when I first noticed them. At the scrapes and bruises on his hands. At the two bandages encircling each wrist that I’m afraid to ask about. “Is that what these are?”
6
Caleb
The needle tears into my skin. A thousand times a minute, delivering the pitch-black ink to a subdermal layer where it will stay. The second of two words is almost complete. The first still hurts like a son of a bitch.
* * *
I’m afraid to look over at Nalini. Afraid to see pity. Or judgment.
But I’m tired of being a coward. I lift my gaze to hers and find something…unexpected.
Compassion. Not pity. Not sorrow or judgment. Compassion.
“It’s not what you think.” My voice is thick. Rough. It’s not, this time. And beneath the ink are the scars I’m trying to hide from the world.
I peel one bandage off, revealing the swollen red skin outlining stark Latin script.
Quo is on my left wrist. Vadis on my right.
She frowns. “What does it say?”
“It’s Latin. Quo Vadis? It means ‘where are you going’ in Latin.” I swallow. I didn’t explain to Vega what the words meant when I asked him to ink them into my skin. But the dream that brought those words back to me was so real I’d woken up in tears after hearing my mom’s voice again after so long.
And when I’d run after her, into the desert, I ran smack into Bruce.
I’d tried to forget it, throwing myself into work for the last twenty-four hours. But when I left Bruce’s shop, I knew I couldn’t go home.
“My mom used to ask me that when I was a little boy. There’s an apocryphal story about St. Peter on his way to Rome before he’s crucified. He becomes afraid and he turns to flee but Jesus meets him on the road and asks him ‘Quo Vadis?’ Where are you going? Peter finds the courage to return to Rome and well, we know how the rest of that story turned out.”
She frowns. “No, actually, I don’t. I know enough to know that’s a Catholic legend but that’s about it. St. Peter?”
“He was the first pope. Legend has it that he was crucified upside down by the Romans for preaching Christianity because he felt unworthy to die the same way as Jesus.”
“You were raised Catholic?” There’s a wariness in her voice.
“Carmella Acardo was my mother’s name. That’s about as Italian as it gets.”
“Wait.” She sits up. “Hold on. Then why were you surprised that I have so many aunts? Don’t Catholics have big families?”
I look away. I didn’t mean to bring up my family. “I have a brother. We don’t talk much. Haven’t since my mom died. My dad shipped us off to military school about a year after she died. He couldn’t handle the two of us on his own.”
She’s silent for a long moment. I can’t tell her about Tony. I won’t tell her what he did. What he allowed to happen.
The thing I tell myself I’m over.
West Point was tame compared to the Lord of the Flies bullshit that went on at that hell of a military high school.
Her palms are warm against my cheek as she slides them over my face. Smooth and softer than any other woman’s hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. She’s on her knees in front of me. The candlelight flickers in her deep brown eyes, flecks of dancing gold flame. “No one should ever be that alone. Not at twelve. Not ever.”
I kiss her then because to do otherwise is to let the pain and darkness rise up and consume the rest of my soul. She’s a light, liquid heat in my arms as I press my lips to hers with a need, a hunger. A simple touch won’t do. I slide my hands over her ribs, tugging her toward me. She slips into my lap, her body pressed to mine in so many of the right places. Sensation sparks over my skin, little firecrackers of pleasure bursting against me.
Quo Vadis?
I don’t have an answer to the question. Maybe I never did. Now, the words my mother used to call to me when I was younger are permanently etched into my skin where I can see them.
I offer up a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of yoga pants. The fabric is thin—so thin I can feel every crease of her flesh beneath my palms. There’s an ache deep in my belly, a piercing need in my cock. An unfamiliar erotic arousal.
When you’re sober, everything seems sharper and more focused. And in this moment, I feel every curve of her body. Every point of pressure where her heat presses against my erection. It’s a fire that could consume me if I let it.
I want to let it. I want to lose myself in the sensation of her touch. The taste of her that has echoes of the scents from the studio upstairs. Sandalwood, maybe, and rose.
It sends me over the edge.
I’m not a religious man. At least, not overly so. But having Nalini in my lap, her body pressed to mine, her breath filling me, completes a piece of me that I’ve always known was missing but hadn’t known how to find. Having her here is as close to a religious experience as I think I’ve ever known.
She pulls away slightly, nipping at the edge of my jaw until she gets to my earlobe. Her teeth scrape over the sensitive flesh and she traces the outline of my ear with the tip of her tongue. I shiver, closing my eyes and letting the sensation wash over me.
If I die in this moment, I will know true bliss, surrounded in sensation and pleasure and a feeling of being utterly connected to another person. I can feel her breathing as my palms press against her back, the rapid rise and fall of her breath as she presses her lips to first one eye, then the other, then to the center of my forehead before finding my mouth again.
“You are not alone,” she whispers against my lips even as she slips her warm heat against my aching cock.
My eyes roll back into my head and I try not to embarrass myself by coming in my pants.
Her words slide up to the edge of the crevice inside of me. The gaping black abyss that was left behind when my life exploded in a firefight half a world away.
And they start to span the gap. Leaving me with a sensation of pleasure.
And a sense of belonging that I’ve been craving my entire life.
* * *
Nalini
I rest my forehead against his, absorbing the heat from his body, the energy.
The pain.
I can’t say what made me crawl into his lap and press my body to his but there was something so lost in his words. His pain moved me, drew me closer. I needed to offer comfort the only way that felt genuine.
“No one knows what it feels like to lose someone that important to you, that young, unless they’ve gone through it. I can’t tell you I know what you’re feeling. I won’t tell you I understand.” My words are whispers against his lips. “But you are not alone.”
His eyes are still closed. His breathing slow and steady.
It dawns on me that we are sitting in silence. That the storm overhead has moved away after hours of battering our world.
“I don’t know what to say to that.” His words are like something dragged over a grater; shredded emotion. After another moment he says, “I think the storm has passed.”
It should hurt, his lack of response, but it doesn’t because I can feel his fingers pressing into the small of my back. Deep pressure, telling me without words that he doesn’t want to move.
I don’t need the words. Words are empty without deeds.
His continued touch is enough.
“I think you’re right.” This was not a one-night stand but that’s what it feels like now. Like we’re severing a connection that had years to form instead of hours.
“I should go upstairs and check for damage.” I don’t want to move. I love the feel of his body against mine.
Sensation delayed, turned to torment.
&n
bsp; He holds up his cell phone. “I can light the way.”
I smile against his mouth. “That was pretty cheesy.”
“I’m trying out different styles of sarcasm to see how they feel.”
“Were you sarcastic when you were drinking?”
He closes his eyes, his fingers tensing against my back. “I was pretty much every dude bro stereotype you can think of.”
“So…obnoxious and insecure?”
“Yeah. Among other things that I’d rather not process without heavy doses of alcohol.” He brushes his lips against the pulse in my throat. I want to hold him there, to savor the sensation of his tongue on my skin. But I don’t.
“I have to go.”
“I know.
But neither of us moves for what feels like eternity.
I thread my fingers through his hair before sliding off his lap. My body cools instantly from the lack of his touch. His cell phone illuminates the area with harsh synthetic light as he blows out the candle. I mentally thank the squat fat candle for holding back the dark before this. It’s a foolish thought but the softness of the candlelight made the moments between us more…real.
I lead the way upstairs to my studio. The power is back on upstairs but not down. “Must have snapped a breaker.”
“Nalini…”
I glance over at him then follow his gaze. There’s a tree where my car might have been if I’d parked it there today. Okay, maybe not an entire tree, but definitely a big piece of one. A massive oak branch taking up the entire space in front of my studio.
Part of it has crashed through the front window and taken down a good portion of the front wall and a chunk of the roof. Mala beads and singing bowls that I imported from India are scattered across the floor, mixed in with glass and debris. A part of my heart sinks down into my belly and I take a deep breath, trying not to cry. “Guess I’d better call the insurance company.”
I feel him move before I hear him, his palm touching my back gently. “How can I help?”
His words, his touch is soothing despite the chaos at my center.
I take in the destruction. I’m mentally running through a checklist, praying that I made sure my insurance would cover acts of nature. “I can’t…I need…I need some time to process everything.” To call the insurance company, and then my studio members, to let them know everything is cancelled for today, at least. Probably for the rest of the week, or the month or…how long does it take to repair a building?
I drag my fingers through my hair, unable to process what I’m seeing. Unable to ask for help. Unable to think. To move.
To breathe.
His palm slips away from my back, and I feel an emptiness that I haven’t felt since my mother told me she was disappointed in me for going to West Point.
I turn and look at him, surprised that he’s leaving. “Where are you going?”
He pauses and looks back at me, a funny expression twisting his lips. He takes two steps toward me, pulls me close, threads his fingers into my hair. I expect the force of him against my mouth.
Instead, he rests his forehead against mine. Saying nothing. Saying everything without saying a word.
And then he’s gone, disappearing through the branches of the downed tree and the debris.
Leaving me abandoned and alone.
7
Nalini
When a man walks into the destroyed remnants of a yoga studio with a chainsaw, most women do not think oh, my hero. No, most sane women would think this is usually how horror movies start.
But when that man is the man you just spent the last three hours with down in a dark basement, there are definitely dark and dirty thoughts happening.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been so happy to see a chainsaw in my life.”
He holds it up and offers a tired grin. “Give me some sugar.”
I hold up one hand. “Okay wait, now you’re doing Evil Dead lines?”
He shrugs. “I had a really boring tour in Iraq. Punctuated by a lot of not boredom but you…well, you get the idea.”
He sets the chainsaw down and pulls a pair of work gloves out of his back pocket. “So where do we start?”
“Wait. Where did you get a chainsaw from?”
He tugs one glove on. “Bruce’s shop is only a few blocks from here.”
“And he has chainsaws in there?”
Caleb narrows his eyes at me as he pulls the other glove. “Do you know what a Maker Space is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a fancy name for a crazy ass craft workshop. Power tools, 3D printers. Tech and electronics. Basically everything you could ever need for any type of project. Bruce has opened a couple of them. Home Depot has them. Encouraging people to get back into working with their hands. Craftsmanship. Tinkering. That sort of stuff.”
I tip my chin, studying the man who looks so different from just a little while ago. “Who knew?”
He looks so rough and tired and yet he’s still standing here, offering help that I didn’t know how to ask for and have even less practice in accepting. I look at the wreckage of my shop. My studio. My entire life.
“Are you okay?”
I haven’t felt this lost in so long. The feeling is still familiar, though. As though it never really went away after my deployment. “I don’t know.”
He takes a single step closer. I can feel the warmth from his body. Part of me wants to lean into him. To ask him to help me. To take this burden and carry it for me.
Because I am so tired all of a sudden.
“I don’t know,” I whisper again.
His hands are strong on my shoulders. I’m trying so hard not to fall apart right now. I have insurance. I can recover from this.
But right now, in this moment, I can find no sense of movement. No path through the debris.
No way out of the darkness.
I’m trapped. Just like I was back in Syria. Only there’s no screaming. No crying.
Just emptiness. And sadness that echoes off the buildings like ambulance sirens.
I don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t know how to say the words. I want to. I know I need to. That I don’t have to do this alone.
But the words are lodged in my throat.
His hands slip away when I don’t move. I want to ask him to stay.
But I can’t.
I close my eyes. Breathing.
Letting the cold, damp air from the hole in the glass flow into my lungs. “Kali.”
“Who’s Kali?”
I turn, having forgotten, however briefly, that I am not alone. “She is the destroyer. The protector. The giver of liberation.”
“She sounds amazingly complicated.” Caleb frowns, bending down to pick up a small white statue half-buried in the dirt from a plant that’s having a really bad day. “Who is this?”
“Ganesh—he’s the remover of obstacles.” I take the statue from his hand, wiping the white elephant-headed figure clean and placing him on the counter. “The remover of obstacles.” I smile then, the knot in my chest easing up as though I’m waking up from a deep sadness. “From death comes rebirth…”
My voice trails off as I survey the destruction. And I am suddenly seeing it not as destruction but as…freedom.
He lifts both eyebrows. “So the goddess of destruction is responsible for this? I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
I lift one shoulder. “I didn’t say that. I said I struggle with it.” I bite my lips, looking at the chaos around me. But I am no longer filled with loss and fear and sadness.
This path laid before me is daunting. Terrifying. And just because I’m starting to find meaning in this disaster doesn’t mean…it doesn’t mean the path will be easy.
“I guess…now is when I start salvaging what can be salvaged.” I glance at the small white statue, who’s fallen from the small shrine where I’d placed him the first day I opened my studio. “And see where the universe leads me.”
“That’s an awful lo
t of faith.” He sounds skeptical. I don’t really blame him.
“It’s a coping mechanism,” I say, more lightly than I feel. “It’s that or I’m going to start drinking and I’m thinking that major construction projects don’t go well with alcohol.”
He glances down at the chainsaw at his feet. “That they don’t.”
* * *
Caleb
Chainsaws are therapeutic.
Honestly. It’s just usually better to run them when you’re not on an overtired high, when your wrists aren’t throbbing from new tattoos.
But.
It’s calming to cut through the tree branches. I watch Nalini drag them out of her shop even as I try to keep my hands from shaking from too little sleep and too much vibration.
The tree that’s smashed through the roof and torn through half the building and its front window is a monster. Big enough to create a hell of a lot of damage and big enough that cutting it with a chainsaw is back-breakingly painful. Nalini’s already filled two contractor bags with broken glass, cut-up tree limbs, and other debris.
But she looks as if she’s taking everything in stride, to be honest. It’s a little unnerving how calm she is now, after seeing her face when we emerged from the basement.
I don’t know how she managed to switch gears so quickly. One minute, her breathing was fast and she looked like she was about to shatter like the glass in the center of her shop. The next…she was fine.
Okay, maybe not fine, but…a hell of a lot better than she had been.
I kill the chainsaw after the last chunk of the tree branch splits apart. She’s made a neat stack of logs on the pavement outside.
She’s not even sweating. What the shit is this? I’m ready to cry from my back hurting so bad from bending and sawing and she’s just happily stacking wood.
Until We Fall Page 6
