by Susanne Beck
For those words, I would willingly sell my soul and damn the devil himself.
Grasping my hand, she brought it to her breast, laying it over her warm, firm flesh. "Touch me," she whispered.
I could hear myself moan as I closed my eyes against the exquisite sweetness of the feel of her beneath my trembling palm. When her body responded unmistakably to my hesitant touch, surging against my hand, I felt drawn up in a tide of overwhelming emotion that I was hard-pressed to contain.
"Let it go, sweet Angel," she whispered, using her free hand to draw our lips together again, tangling her long fingers in the short locks of my hair. "Just let it go."
Like a siren’s sweet song, I allowed the sound of her voice, the movement of her body, to wash away the shame and the grief, the anger and the fear. Our lips met again, incendiary almost, and I just . . .let go.
I ran my fingers over her breasts, lightly at first, then with more urgency as the passion and the need for her flamed within me; a furnace with love and desire as its all-consuming, never-ending fuel.
I could feel her breathing deepen as I tasted her moan on my tongue. My hands moved with more surety, imprinting the silken feel of her flesh in my whirling mind with indelible imagery. Even the bandages which swaddled her ceased to be an impediment. Rather than hiding her wounds from sight, they became instead badges of her immense courage, her unbreakable will, each fiercely guarding the reminders of a battle hard fought and a war well won.
I laid gentle kisses to them all, imbuing myself with the strength of this wonderful, wondrous woman beneath me. The scent of her filled my senses; her taste, my sacramental wine. The sound of her voice more beautiful to me than the music of a thousand choirs on a thousand worlds.
When I lifted my head from my benediction and my eyes were seared by passion-dark indigo, I felt the immovable, unbreakable strength of our elemental bond, its roots sinking ever deeper into my very soul.
And when my hand slipped down between legs which opened to me and beckoned me to come nearer, to come inside, tears of joy ran anew down my cheeks as my fingers were welcomed sweetly home by the silken wet heat of her body.
"I love you, Morgan," I whispered, thrusting my fingers to match the tempo her own body had set. A curious combination of pain and ecstasy displayed itself on her beautiful features, but her eyes . . . .
If love is a tangible thing, capable of being seen as well as felt, it is the look in her eyes when we make love A look that says that I am the most precious and beloved thing the universe has ever created. That says that I am more wanted and more loved than I ever have even the hope of comprehending. That says that within me, the dream of the woman I love with all my heart, mind, body and soul, resides.
My fear tried to come back then; tried to remind me that I was far from being worthy of the gift she was giving me.
She saw it though, as she always did, with senses too foreign for me to comprehend. Surging upward even against the agony of her wounds, she pulled me to her, devouring my lips with her own, once again conquering my shame with the power of her love.
As my fingers continued to dance within her, hers trailed fire down my body and slipped past the insignificant barrier of my clothing, bathing themselves in essence newly sprung, painting me and arousing me with the evidence of my own desire before sliding deep within and filling me full.
Bodies merged by mouths and hands, we gave and took, advanced and retreated, gathering energy between us only to return it doubled and redoubled, our hearts beating loud, our breathing labored. Our souls twinned and separated, only to come together once again with the sounds of panting grunts and primal moans as each touch, each stroke, drove us higher and higher until, at last, the abyss was reached and we stepped off the peak as we’d climbed it.
Together.
And then we slumped together, bodies sliding against passion’s sweat, riding out the last currents of incalculable bliss, shuddering with each small movement, until, at last, we became earthbound once more.
When enough strength returned for me to lift my head, I saw a single tear trail a path down her cheek. Her blinding smile told me all I needed to know, and, kissing the tear away, I laid her tenderly back down upon the bed we shared, returning the smile as I felt her face flushed and hot against the flesh of my neck, knowing the very second she slipped into the healing calm of sleep, her lips a gentle brand on my skin.
And, wrapped securely in a blanket of love and trust so strong and deep, I followed her into the shadows where nightmares didn’t dare follow.
* * *
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I tried to focus on the face hanging over me. "Corinne?"
"I’m trying for ‘Louella, the tattooed Librarian’ today," she responded, grinning. "Is it the right look for me?"
Looking at her closely, I saw for the first time the myriad of colorful bruises that lined the right side of her face and jaw. I felt a flush rising, ashamed that I hadn’t noticed them before now. "How do you feel?"
"Pretty much as one would expect to several days after being pistol-whipped, I suppose," she said, her eyes twinkling.
I winced. "I’m sorry, Corinne."
She laughed. "For what? That was the most fun I’ve had since the demons of hell saw fit to release me from their little den of iniquity!"
"Our definitions of ‘fun’ seem to differ a little."
"But of course, Angel. You’re merely a criminal wannabe, while I," she drew herself up to her full height, nose at a regal tilt toward the ceiling, "am the Black Widow."
Groaning, I rolled my eyes at her display of faux pomposity, then turned quickly to see if Ice was still asleep.
She was, her body and face relaxed, yet retaining that undercurrent of tension which was always present within her, save when she had been knocked out by the drugs Bull had given her. I could feel my face soften as I reached out and smoothed the sweaty tangle of her bangs.
Her face tensed momentarily, processing, no doubt, this intrusion into her personal space, then smoothed out into the soft planes of sleep once again as her breathing evened out and her body sank deeper into the nest of pillows surrounding her.
When I looked up, I saw an evil little smirk on my friend’s face. "Not one word, Corinne. Not one."
Her eyes widened in mock innocence. "Moi? Surely you must have me confused with some other degenerate, Angel."
"Mmm. Hmm. Maybe we should start charging you for your nightly entertainment."
She pouted briefly, then grinned. "Would it help if I said I’d been moved to applaud a time or two? Or that I’ve been known to take notes on occasion?"
I could feel a whopper of a blush coming on. "More than I wanted to know, Corinne. Much more than I wanted to know."
She chuckled. "Then I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about the times I . . . ."
"Stop!" I commanded, raising my hand and burying my face into the pillows next to Ice’s head. "Please."
"Oh, al . . . ." The phone rang, mercifully cutting off her comment before it could be birthed from her lips. Before I could move, she was by the nightstand, lifting the receiver and cradling it against her ear, murmuring words I didn’t really have the strength to listen to.
After a moment, she laid the phone back down and fixed me with a look I couldn’t decipher.
"Who was it?"
"A certain septuagenarian who’s a bit miffed that she wasn’t invited to the tea party."
Oh shit. "Ruby. Damn, I forgot all about her. With everything going on, it just slipped my mind."
"Well, that’s certainly understandable to one who actually knows what’s been going on."
"You mean you didn’t tell her?"
"Of course not, Angel. She simply was told what the doctors were told."
"Which was?"
"That I felt a bit of weakness and fell down, hitting my head on the table. They believed me. She didn’t seem to, but she didn’t push the issue at the time."
"She’s pushing now?"
I nodded, convinced. "I’ll call her right now."
"Don’t bother. She said she was going away for a couple days to visit a friend. When she gets back, though, perhaps you could invite her over for a chat."
Sighing, I slumped back against the headboard. "Later it is, then." I smiled slightly. "At least one good thing came of this, though."
"And that might be?" she asked, giving me a very good ‘Ice’ imitation, eyebrow and all.
"You two seem to be getting along better."
"We . . .understand one another," was all she saw fit to comment.
* * *
That conversation took place several hours ago, though gauging by how fuzzy my thoughts feel as they continue their unending journey through my mind, it could have been a week past, or a year. A quick glance at the clock tells me that another day has given its life so that a new dawn, now not far in coming, can shuffle forward, like the beast of Bethlehem, to be born.
Replaying the last year or so of my life has made me tired beyond telling, yet I can’t seem to dredge up enough energy to lay myself back down on the bed and try for sleep. Or perhaps it’s not energy I lack, but simple courage.
Where mostly pleasant dreams helped along many a lonely night in the Bog, nightmares rule the roost here, in the very place I’d thought to make those dreams come true.
By my side, Ice still rests, her breathing deep and even. Do you dream? I wonder, bringing the warm hand that still lays in my own up to my lips and brushing a gentle kiss across the knuckles.
She doesn’t answer, of course. In all the years I’ve known her, it’s one of the only questions I’ve never had the courage to ask.
Save for the tension which characterizes her even in this most peaceful of states (except, perhaps, for the afterglow of making love), she seems always to sleep the sleep of an innocent, unsullied by time and death and anger, all of which have been her constant companions for far longer than I’ve taken up cherished residence by her side.
Perhaps a peaceful sleep is her reward for wrestling down her inner demons and choosing to walk in the light.
Or perhaps she does dream; nightmares based on a reality that I can never hope to comprehend, only to understand and accept, which I do.
Perhaps they’ve kept her company for so long that her body no longer expends its energy reacting to them, choosing instead to conserve its power for when the darkness comes calling once again.
But in the end, I realize that it doesn’t really matter. Ice’s dreams are her own. That she chooses to share her life with me is the important thing, and something I treasure for the profound gift it is with every breath I take, waking or sleeping.
Experience has taught me the bitter lesson of ever taking that gift for granted.
When I told Corinne I would willingly give Ice up if I ever did that again, I meant every syllable. It’s a promise that lives in my heart every day.
She’s opened up so much to me in this past year; bared a soul filled with such brilliant light and such murky dark; been everything that I needed her to be, and more.
So much more.
Perhaps spending a few hours going over everything that has gone wrong, and right, in the last year of our lives together has proven that better than anything else ever could. My body literally aches with the realization of just how deeply and profoundly I love her, how much of my soul she owns without trying, and how close I came to losing it all.
Shame still hides in my heart, no doubt biding its time, waiting to attack when I am most vulnerable. But I don’t fear it anymore. Let it come. I’ll fight it with the most powerful weapon in the world.
Love.
Looking out the window, I see that the rain has stopped, but the pregnant clouds paused over the somehow haunting darkness of the lake promise the cease fire to be a temporary détente only.
My eyelids feel heavy, yet my body continues to fight sleep’s seductive lure.
Until a hand detaches itself from my own and a long, lean body moves up to gather me into strong arms, cradling me tenderly as she lowers us both back down to the mattress. My hair is smoothed back from my brow, baring space for a pair of lips to linger.
"Sleep now," a resonant voice whispers, followed by the soft humming of a lullaby which bathes me in its sweet serenity, sung by a woman with a heart and a soul more beautiful than the dawn which finally beckons from beneath dark clouds.
And if you wonder, as I do, what I’ve done to deserve such beauty and joy in my life, I’ll answer you honestly.
I don’t know.
But what I do know is that every day, in every way, I will make myself worthy of this gift beyond price.
It’s the most fitting retribution I can think of for all she’s given to me. Her heart, her soul, her body and her spirit.
Her life.
* * *
Five days have passed since that night. Days filled with a sense of peace and belonging that is unexpected, yet very welcomed, given everything that has come before. I suppose that being forced by danger to reexamine your life—foxhole theology, my father would have called it—really does put things into perspective. I’ll have to remember that truism. As if I could ever forget.
Ice is well on her way to a complete recovery, as you’d expect, given everything I’ve told you about her so far. By the third day, she’d even managed to scatter the group of well-wishers gathered around the bed—deathwatch vultures, she called them—like a flock of frightened quail with one well placed look and one menacing snarl added for effect.
I tried hard to stifle my laughter at the looks on their faces, but I’m afraid I didn’t succeed very well. It felt good to be laughing again, truth be told.
The rains seem to have settled in, putting a somewhat premature cap on this year’s tourist season. Though many of my friends make their living from the out-of-town visitors, I can’t say that I’m at all sad to see it come to a close. The faster the summer ends, the faster I’ll be able to put all the horrors the warm days brought with them behind me.
The added bonus of a shortened season is, of course, the early closing of the Silver Pine and the attendant loss of its proprietress, one class A bitch by the name of Millicent Harding-Post.
I can assure you that the only tears I’m crying over that particular loss are tears of joy.
Ice says she has the beginnings of a plan to repay Ms. Harding-Post for all the kindnesses she’s doled out to us over the year. She isn’t ready to share it with me yet, but I’ll be patient. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, this I know. And I also know that I’ll enjoy every minute of it.
Bull left us a couple days ago. I was sad to see him leave, but, friendship aside, his healing skills really weren’t needed anymore. Ice is a pretty good medico in her own right, and even if she weren’t, he left us stocked with enough medical supplies to open up a clinic. And while the rains have chosen to visit us here in the lowlands, up in the mountains, snow is falling and he needed to get up to the hunting cabins while the roads were still passable to ensure they were properly weatherproofed and stocked for the harsh season to come.
Tom and John bid us their own goodbyes and went back to their families who were, no doubt, ready to tie yellow ribbons around old oak trees in the hopes of their eventual return. Even Corinne decided to give us some time to ourselves, choosing to spend several days in the company of Pop, who was feeling a bit under the weather after all the excitement of the past couple of weeks. I worry about him, for he’s become someone whom I love dearly, but I know he
’s in good hands with Corinne.
The Black Widow seems to have lost her bite around Pop.
And, if I know Corinne half as well as I think I do, if he does wind up leaving this life, he’ll go out with a smile on his face.
The rain let up just a bit this morning and Ice was outside before the last drop had fallen, determined to help along her rapidly regaining strength with a brisk walk through the woods. Tall and proud, with clothes to cover her bandages, anyone would be hard pressed to tell that she had even a scratch on her, much less two bullet holes and several long, deep cuts; even me.
I had watched in awe—and, truth to tell, no small amount of jealousy—as she washed and dressed and strode through the house without even a hint of pain while I lazed around on the couch, nursing my still sore knee and pouting.
With a smile and a kiss, she left to test her body the way those of us who must content ourselves with being mere mortals might test a cake to see if it is properly baked. Still, I couldn’t help but return her smile, and nod, knowing enough not to expect her until dark, at the least.
And that left me, of course, alone with only one thing left to do.
Call Ruby, who had come home last night, and invite her over for, as Corinne put it, a little chat.
It’s something I’ve been dreading since Corinne saw fit to bring the subject up five days ago. While I very much want to see my long-time friend and mentor and explain things to her, I’m very much not wanting to see the look in her eyes once she realizes that pretty much everything I’ve told her since we’ve met was a lie.
I hate lying. It goes against everything I believe in. I’m not very good at it, as you’ve no doubt guessed by now, and every time I think I’ve succeeded, I turn around to find bite marks on my ass.
Still, the longer I put this off, the longer I let the truth hide beneath the weight of my guilt and shame, the harder the final truth telling will be for us both. As my mother always told me when I was young, pulling the bandaid off quickly was a whole lot less painful than ripping it off inch by slow inch.
