Until the End of Time

by Nikki Winter

Another slap.

  “Ow!”

  Nyssa shoved him aside and went for the food. “The choice was taken out of my hands. My bra became a device of hellish torment today.”

  “Oh?” Sansone stepped behind her and put his chin atop of her shoulder. He crooked one finger into the neckline of her V-neck and stared down at her bare chest.

  “I’d be more than willing to help with this sudden discomfort. Allow me to offer my therapy services. Twenty bucks gets you fifteen minutes of undivided nipple attention, but only on the right one. To do the left one would be another twenty.”

  She barked out a laugh and swatted him away. “You perverted bastard. Like I’m really going to pay you to do what I could get for free?”

  He grunted, splaying a hand against her belly. “I’m very much so capable of efficiently getting rid of a body, cara,” Sansone nipped the shell of her ear. “Don’t play with someone’s fate that way.”

  “And risk having my living Ken doll placed behind bars?” Nyssa mocked. “Never.”

  He popped her on the ass for that smart remark and moved away. “I’m anatomically correct, as you well know.”

  She came to join him at the table, took up an opposite chair and scooted so that she could rest her feet in his lap. “Oh, I know. I know very much.” Getting through half of her sandwich, she suddenly informed him, “I also know I’m starting to hate that new aftershave you’ve been using lately—the same one I complained about—and yet, what did I find under the double sinks pushed behind your astronomical amount of hair products?”

  “Er…a bridge to Terebithia?” Sansone tried.

  His wife brought her heel down on his thigh. “It makes me nauseous, Sunny!”

  “Everything makes you nauseous lately! And moody! You’ve been really goddamn moody!”

  Her pretty mouth formed a moue. “I think shark week is approaching.”

  Wincing, he sat back. “Am I allowed to run away from home and not return until it’s over?”

  “Absolutely not,” she instantly replied. “If I must suffer, all must suffer.”

  He sighed. “Tyranny at it’s greatest.”

  Nyssa suddenly looked off. “Although, it is a bit late if I’m counting the days correctly.” Her eyes narrowed. “About ten days late to be exact. It could just be my lack of tolerance for that rat-faced kid we recently signed on. He and all his Aryan privilege.”

  Sansone immediately skimmed over her annoyance for the soccer player as his mind began to unravel what she’d said. “Your nipples have turned mutinous—”

  “I could argue…but that sounds about right.”

  “—my insanely expensive aftershave set is causing all this uncharacteristic tummy sadness,” he placed his sandwich down. “And shark week, that frightening stretch of days when I’m not particularly sure if I’ll leave this home outside of a body bag, is late.”

  “I feel like you’re doing math right now,” his wife told him, swiping mustard from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “Is that why you have that pained look on your face? Are you trying to think again?”

  “Yes. Yes I am.” Sansone stood abruptly. “And what I think is that you need to pee on a stick and soon.”

  Nyssa had followed him numbly after that, quiet and fidgety. A run to the drugstore had produced what they needed and soon they were hovering over the test in much the same way that they’d done just a half an hour ago. Except then, the minus sign hadn’t brought on this overwhelming sense of failure. There had been an odd air of relief. Children, they loved them. However, at the time they weren’t particularly sure they were ready for them. They had only been going on their second year of marriage then, determined to enjoy just each other for a little while longer after eight years of fighting an attraction, three years of cohabitation and two of marginally unholy matrimony. Now here they were, running against time and losing.

  Sansone found Nyssa’s cookies and finished topping off the tea in her favorite mug with honey, cinnamon and cream. Once done, he grabbed a few napkins and took up everything. He stopped at the double doors and pasted on an easy smile.

  Be the rock, Sultana. Be the fucking rock.

  Two

  Nyssa’s determination had turned hellish. No stone went unturned, no clothing lasted long in their home and God forbid she find another natural remedy to infertility. Sansone was a man on the edge. It had been weeks since the last failed test and he was beginning to question why heaven had abandoned him. His wife was relentless now more than ever. Any other man in his position may have felt as though he’d been smiled on but he knew better. He knew far better. All she wanted was his sperm. No more and no less. Normally he’d be happy to give it, however, things were getting disturbingly out of hand. So much so that he’d begun to find excuses to be out of the house as much as possible. He felt like a goddamn breeding stud.

  Today’s excuse had been a visit to Trenton Home for Boys; the establishment that Luciano had bought, relocated and remodeled years ago. The mindless action of kicking a ball about and play boxing with hordes of kids had managed to set his mind firmly away from the cloud looming over his head. At least for a little while.

  “Ah, the brooding stare has emerged,” Luciano intoned as he dropped onto the porch steps beside Sansone.

  Sansone snorted. His adoptive brother had invented “the brooding stare.” For several years that seemed to be the only expression the big bastard had. At least until he met Samara. Then came this disturbing gooey-eyed thing that he did when he thought no one was watching. Sansone had mocked him relentlessly for it whenever the opportunity presented itself. Of course this always ended in violent fistfights, but…meh.

  Luciano nudged him, bumping one of his shoulders into Sansone’s. “Express to me why you look uglier than usual at the moment.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Sansone retorted, smoothing a hand down his own jaw. “This face is angelic.”

  “The first demons to claw their way out of the pit were angels once, so that completely invalidates your argument.”

  Sansone squinted off and nodded. “Kind of does, doesn’t it?”

  A comfortable silence fell.

  “I know societal standards dictate that having a dick means that we shouldn’t discuss our feelings,” his brother started. “But societal standards also have a lot of strange rules in place. Like those signs that say ‘No shirt. No shoes. No service.’ What about pants? Why did no one read over the first draft and think, ‘I wonder if someone will come in with both of these and wearing an adult diaper?’”

  He felt himself grinning. “Your mind is a dark place, Antonelli.”

  “As my wife has reminded me time and time again,” Luciano retorted. “Doesn’t take the substance out of my concerns though.”

  Yes. The wife who could get pregnant from just holding Luciano’s hand. Considering the fact that his sibling had run from commitment the way wanted criminals ran from warrants, Sansone had to say that he was on the list of those shell shocked to find Luciano comfortably taking on the domestic role. Not that there was something mentally or emotionally wrong with the retired heavyweight champion, but he hadn’t always worn the hat of a family man. And Jesus Christ was it a big family. One adopted son, a little boy conceived through chance, a daughter conceived through matrimony and a kid in utero. No one knew the sex of the latest child yet, but Sansone had the feeling that once the time came for them to enter the world, it wouldn’t take much more than a sneeze for Samara. She’d become somewhat of an expert at this.

  “I’m gonna ask you a question here,” Sansone announced. “And I want you to refrain from tempting me into hitting you in the balls, all right?”

  Luciano snorted. “Ears are on.”

  “Why is it so fucking easy for you to knock up your wife?”

  There was a momentary pause of silence and then… “Did Pop not have this conversation with you?” Luciano rotated his hands around one another. “You know, about how everything works?”

 
; Sansone stared. And stared. And stared.

  His brother’s smile slipped a notch. “Wait, are you and Nyssa having trouble,”—he made the motion of a hammer hitting a nail with his hands—“making it happen?”

  How much detail did he want to go into without the aid of alcohol? Heh. Not much. Pride normally wouldn’t allow it. Poked and prodded by doctors? Sure. Poked and prodded by his loud mouth of a sibling? Absolutely not. However this time…

  “We’re making a conscious effort and there have been no results as of yet,” he responded.

  Luciano grunted, sitting back as he eyed Sansone. “When you say ‘conscious effort’ are we discussing the assistance of fertility physicians or the assistance of maca root?”

  He winced, remembering the nightmare of that particular incident. “Both, but I’d rather not talk about the latter. According to our doctors, we’re literally in the ideal state health wise. It’s just not taking. No one has a theory as to why.”

  Smirking now, Luciano opened his mouth to undoubtedly say something that would bring a great deal of violence upon himself when Sansone’s phone began to ring. The tone alone told him who was calling. He didn’t even look at the screen when he smoothed his thumb across it to quiet the sound.

  “Not gonna to answer?”

  Sansone squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a bit. “No.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “Because it’s more than likely a call for me to return home and…” He abruptly stopped and tucked in his lips. Blinking a few times, he continued with, “Do you remember that trip upstate to the countryside that we took some of the older boys on? The one where we visited a farm in between off-roading and hitting a few of the country fairs?”

  “Ale, turkey legs, and well made machinery to do donuts on? Of course.”

  “And can you recall our lesson on what takes place between a bull and his harem of heifers?”

  Luciano waggled his brows slightly. “How could I not?” He placed a hand to his chest. “I spent time admiring his lifestyle.”

  “Did you also spend time admiring the cold, dead look in his eyes?” Sansone queried, staring off. “The cold, dead look of a man that had been drained of his energy and youth? A man used in an unnatural repetition at the whims of nature and her cruelty?”

  “Are we still discussing the stud?” Luciano whispered from beside him in a tone that said he was uncomfortable. “I suddenly feel as though we’re no longer discussing the stud.”

  Sansone gave him a sidelong glance. “We’re still discussing a stud, brother of mine, that stud just happens to be me.”

  At that point, Luciano attempted to stand and walk away. Sansone’s punch behind the other man’s knee, which caused his legs to buckle and slammed him back onto where he’d been seated, hampered that.

  “You see,” he calmly went on over Luciano’s mutters of him being a bevy of horrible, godforsaken things. “Your sister-in-law is on a warpath for a baby. A baby that she’s willing to damage us both for. And by damage, I mean she’s trying to snap my dick in half.”

  Once again, Luciano tried his hand at moving. Once again, Sansone brought him back down. A shot to the gut did the work for him.

  “Sex in my household has become a chore, Luc. I cannot step across the threshold without finding myself in a multitude of uncomfortable and unreasonably awkward positions.” He turned to partially face his gasping and cursing sibling. “How does a woman, a human woman, rip boxers? Sturdy, athletic, expensive boxers? When did that become a thing?” Sansone bit the inside of his cheek. “When did I lose the right to say ‘no’? Where did I go so wrong in the midst of my marriage that I would now rather set my beautiful, full, wondrously sculpted eyebrows on fire as opposed to going home to my wife? As opposed to watching her plant her feet on the bed after sex, thrust her hips up into my face before asking me, ‘Did all of it go in this time? Are you sure all of it went in this time?”

  “If I have to fucking crawl back to my truck, I will,” Lucian gritted out, shoving Sansone’s hand off of his shoulder so that he could move away. “But I refuse to sit through more of this.”

  Taking his brother’s forearm, he bent it up behind Luciano’s back and wrapped his free arm around the man’s neck, holding him in place. “Listen to me,” Sansone murmured against his sibling’s ear. “I’ve spent the last several months doing yoga with parts of my body that I’m sure I’m not supposed to have complete control of because my lovely spouse suggested that perhaps I’m not limber enough. There is a frightening strength in me that I’d rather not reveal, so if I were you, I’d remain where you currently are and take in every word of my complaints. Otherwise I’ll wrap my entire being around your oversized muscle mass and squeeze you to death like a giant anaconda that has had the luck of stumbling upon an unsuspecting wildebeest. Capiche?”

  Luciano nodded, tapping Sansone’s arm until he released him.

  Easing back, Sansone said, “I shower in fear. I sleep in fear. I dress in fear. I eat in fear. I’ve hidden in closets, beneath beds and even inside of the patio crawl space out on the deck just to avoid small, incredibly strong hands. Hands that I’ve become tempted into shocking with a cattle prod because they just won’t stop touching me!” He stopped and sucked in a breath. “I don’t know what to do, what to say. All I receive in communications now are monosyllabic words that mostly consist of, ‘Pants. Off.’ I’m terrified that it will only advance to her grunting harshly and pointing to her crotch. I am in need of help, possibly counseling.” Sansone nodded, speaking more to himself than Luciano now. “Yeah, counseling.”

  The other man was quiet for a minute before he decided to imbue all of the wisdom his simple, Philly bred soul had to give when he said, “Pack her up, put her on a plane, and take her out to an island where there are possibly boars still running free. Be accommodating only to a certain extent and remind her that what you do—everything that you do—doesn’t have to simply revolve around the creation of some large haired cretin that I will most likely knock over on occasion just for the hell of it. Remind her that there is a man behind the genitalia, and while he will never match me in looks, charm, or general worth, he still exists. He exists and he matters. Don’t give her what she wants until you’re good and goddamn ready to. When you finally do, don’t dress your dick in a top hat and monocle before presenting it. Don’t be polite. Rain down every drop of filth your putrid little cloud of a heart has carried from the start of puberty. You take charge. And the moment she falls in line again, you fuck her unconscious. That is my counseling.”

  Sansone pondered those sage words for a moment, finding them to be surprisingly sound. So much so that he even considered not backhanding Luciano for his commentary on his worth and possible acts of random hostility towards his future offspring. He bypassed the backhand and instead went for another jab to Luciano’s midsection. When he bent over at the waist, Sansone stood and stepped on and then over him. “Thank you oh so much for being a rock for me to stand on, Luc. Words can’t express how much I appreciate your advice.”

  “Gonna…kill…you,” his brother ground out.

  “The love is mutual, my friend, the love is mutual.”

  ***

  “Yo, baby! Yo, baby! Yo!” Sansone called out, making his way through the front door with a bundle of bags in hand. A quick trample down the stairs into the family room had him releasing everything onto the couch. “Love of my life, oh buxom one, I have returned with gifts!”

  The slow drag of footsteps to his left alerted him to Nyssa’s appearance and he began to quickly empty the bags. Clothing in varying styles and colors soon took over the cushions and he opened his palms to present it. “I give you the latest in swimsuits, sarongs, cover ups, maxi dresses, sandals and headwear. All of which you shall need for,”—he reached into his back pocket and pulled out two plane tickets—“our week long vacation in Moorea.” Quite pleased with himself, he added, “There shall be a private bungalow, sweetly nestled in
the French Polynesian and just a stone’s skip from Tahiti. We will enjoy sun, sand, surf, and foods that will make you never doubt the presence of God again.” He clapped his hands together and spun to finally face her. “We leave in…” Her expression brought an immediate halt to his words. “Cara? Qual è il problema?” She looked vacant. Like something had literally sucked the joy out of her.

  Sansone walked forward and reached out a hand to brush along her temple. “Sei non sentirsi bene?”

  She dodged him and circled around, stopping at his side. “No, I’m not feeling well. As a matter of fact, I’ve probably never felt worse.”

  Frowning, he turned to face her. “Nausea? Migraine?” He mentally calculated. “You’ve still got some time before shark week so what’s giving you problems?”

  His wife gazed at him for a beat and lowered her eyes to the floor, hugging herself around the middle. “I’m surprised that you came home so early.”

  He quirked a brow. “It’s almost nine, why is that a surprise?” His errands had kept him later than intended. He’d hit the office to get things in order for their soon-to-come disappearance. He’d hit Nyssa’s favorite stores so that she wouldn’t have to. And he’d hit the airport for their tickets. All that was left to do was pack and prepare for seven languid, blindingly delightful days in paradise. Seven days where he’d take his time reminding his wife that they were—and would always be—the inappropriate couple that snuck off to fuck when no one else was looking.

  Nyssa looked up then. “You still have your eyebrows so I’m assuming you decided against setting them aflame.”

  Sansone went rigid, scrambling for something to say as his stomach suddenly collided with his ribs. “Cara—”

  “Funny thing about phones,” she interrupted and smoothed her hands over her hips. “Sometimes you think you’ve ignored a call when really you’ve answered it.”

  He tried again to touch her, and again she evaded him. “Listen to me,” he said.