by Grace, Pella
Rejection. Drunken stupid rejection.
“It’s because I’m an old hag, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“I’m too old for you. It’s gross, isn’t it?”
“It has nothing to do with age and everything to do with not taking advantage of someone. I’m pretty sure you get enough of that shit at home. Speaking of which, I should probably be taking you there, before Adam thinks you’ve run away again.”
“Adam left for the weekend. He won’t be home until late on Monday.”
“Is that so?”
I nod.
Cash slides away from me, rising to pull us to our feet. The light is clicked off. Down the stairs and slowly everything is put to bed. Television. More lights. And then us.
His bedroom is a reflection of the rest of the apartment. Small tokens of his childhood lingering in the details. A picture of his family. Someone I assume is his mother, Poppy. A thick comforter is folded down before he digs through a dark-wooden dresser, pulling a shirt out.
A long finger calls me over.
Just like in the park, he undresses me, slowly tugging my dress away, over my head. Replacing it with a soft cotton shirt of his. He hoists me in his arms, walking us over to the bed and lays me down, removing his own clothing, sans underwear before he spoons himself along me.
“If I push you away during the night, don’t get a complex, Lilla. I’m just an emotional sleeper.”
I smile in the darkness. “Okay.”
He kisses my shoulder.
“Dream about something you’d like to do tomorrow. When you wake up in the morning, tell me what it is.”
PART TWO
CASH
Chapter Ten
I see Lilla peaceful and clean. I see Lilla a wonder and light. I see her small and precious. I see her soft and wrapped in warmth.
Just watching. Admiring the picture in my bed.
Green lights of the alarm clock tell a story I’ve already read. Four in the morning. Sleepless. Hopeless. So still I sit at her side, watching, breath shallow. The clock ticks. My fingertip skates lightly down her arm, seeking bumps. I’m treated well. Given many.
Lilla shifts, rolling to her stomach. I want to press my mouth against the back of her skinny legs. Kiss just below the crease of her ass cheek. I pull the covers over her and exit my bedroom, quietly.
Or, so I thought.
Lost inside of the bristles sweeping over the blank page, suddenly I sense eyes. A shadow blocking the light gives her away. I don’t look. I keep working, trying to knock the vision inside of my head onto the canvas.
Sleepy warmth rests down beside me, legs tucked under her gentle frame. She smells like marshmallows and vanilla. Smokey from my smoking. Familiar because of my bed and shirt.
Lilla’s head rests on my back. Her voice is raspy and tired. Scratchy from the alcohol. Smoke.
“What are you drawing?”
I dig the bristles into the canvas, angrily.
“It hasn’t told me.”
She remains against me as I keep my hand moving, creating something and nothing. The warmth of her body so close and heavenly, calling to me. Twisting to seek her out, pull her into my arms so that she can linger in the comfort of my lap.
“Why aren’t you sleeping, Honey-girl?”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Me either.”
Small fingers play with the crease of my arm. I watch her face as she runs her digits along the black ink, tracing the lines. A thin brush finds its way into my hand. The sleeve of my shirt she wears is pushed up, the tip replacing it as I scroll along her skin.
“My mom used to yell at me when I was little for coloring on my hands,” she gives away.
“What did you color?” I dip a new color and continue my design further down her arm.
“Nonsense,” she laughs sleepily, “mostly flowers.”
Her thin arm twists in my palm as I move the brush to her wrist, swirling an intricate pattern.
“What kind?” I choose another color.
“Crappy ones.”
Lilla smiles up at me, lying still as I use her for a human canvas, allowing me to do as I please. Briefly I pause, before pressing the tip to her skin, creating a rose on her hand. As I finish, she pulls her hand to her face, admiring what I’ve done.
“Pretty. Thank you.”
But, I have no words.
There’s just her face illuminated softly by a sixty watt light bulb in my make-shift studio. Frizzy locks that have tangled and kinked. Velvet cream skin pairing with warm brown eyes. Papers crinkle as I shift, sitting her up in my lap. Connecting our lips swiftly, needful.
A mouth on fire, encouraged by a heart beating its way slowly back to life. Igniting under borrowed cotton, it beats against my own. Sandwiched together. Kinked curls threaded between my rough fingers. Yanking with a playful desire to be more to her than a sad reflection of regret. I want Lilla to look into my eyes and find a new world. See herself through my lens. Her own truth.
A tug of my borrowed shirt. A casting to the wayside where useless things belong.
A roll. A flip. Softly onto her back. Same as before, but vastly different. Her eyes are awake. Blood slightly refreshed. Foolish desire knocked to the curb—at least—the desire to do things under the guise of a sloppy drinker.
This is Lilla. I see her. She’s nervous while calm. She’s curious and needful.
Two brushes fist into my hand.
The papers are scattered, each one an individual scrap, yet when captured under her, collectively become one. How poetically perfect for this moment. Starting at her head, I trace around her silhouette. Pausing when I reach a pulse point. Pressing my lips along her skin. The inside of her neck. Crease of her elbow. Wrist. Her left side, working my way along her right.
I watch her chest rise, eyes close, reopen. Flutter to find me.
The brushes jerk in my hand, going from the paper to her chest, causing her to jump from the tickle. Warm smiles tug at my heart strings. A thick red heart is painted over her quick thumps. I toss the fucking paint brushes behind me and hover over her.
“Such a beautiful melody you’re playing, Lilla.”
I witness the world explode behind my eyelids as she pulls me to her mouth. A wilted flower standing tall as our forms meld. This is what I’ve been looking for. These are the feelings I want to be stirred within the depths of myself. A self I know without fully knowing. She could be anyone. I could have anyone under me. I want so few. I find nothing.
But Lilla … soft repose wrapped in thorn wings.
A sea at unease and I, the dinghy.
I want it.
I want to be a part of her storm.
I want the bitter on her sweet tongue. The sadness in her bright eyes. The silence in her screaming mind. The enigma that is really quite simple. A complicated happiness.
I want to knock her love out.
I want to pull it from her chest while it’s beating fervently and be slapped for doing so. To play. To rumble. Truth and lies. Ugly sin and the prettiest fucking thing I have ever seen.
Satin cream perfection along her thighs. I dig my mouth into the crook of her neck, sliding my arms under her back, ass, everywhere. She crushes my fingers to the floor as she writhes, finding pleasure in my groping.
I want to knock her off the road of routine and complacency and make her motherfucking squirm in discomfort.
I want her to look at the scene unfolding around her and carry me home. The light to burn her eyes and paint my face over her husband’s blank stare.
Flipped on her belly, tugging her ass towards me. Underwear on a date with my borrowed shirt lying in the corner. Smacking my palm to the apple, not letting go. My thumb smearing across her skin to spread her open and taste in between her loneliest place.
Papers rustle as they are fisted in her hands, trying to hold on as she lets go of all the bullshit. Another night I’ll go slower. Another night I’ll kiss her fuckin
g toes and keep my mouth on this pussy like a man should. Tonight I’m too lit up. Breaking at my own seams.
“Say no,” I murmur in her ear, sliding my hands to pull hers from the paper. Into mine.
She locks her fingers around mine and that’s all I need.
I bury my face into her shoulder, falling into the bouquet of her hair. Sliding myself along where she is pushing herself against me. Ready and swollen. We connect easily.
I’m going to leave marks on her shoulder from how hard I bite her skin, unable to believe how fucking good she feels wrapped around me. Under me. Inside of me. She’s swimming through my fucking head and veins. An invasion of my senses happening right before my eyes.
I want to hear my motherfucking name escape from her mouth.
My hips buck into her steadily, pausing when she begs for more, torturing her slowly. Myself. Spots flicker behind my closed eyelids. Praying for mercy as I hold my shit in. I won’t be that goddamn guy. That lame punk-ass kid she thinks I am, spilling my shit before she gets what she’s here for. She can go home for a letdown.
Her fist thumps against the floor, head resting beside it as I hold steady, not giving in.
Wet lips beg for my movement.
“Please please please.”
I press the side of my face to Lilla’s cheek, suffocating her under my weight. Soft, soft cries as she begs again and again. Steady, my rhythm continues, going slow when slow is right and fast when slow doesn’t fucking make her whimper.
“Cash, Cash, Cash.”
Small fingers dig into mine, her body a tight curl beneath my own as her voice breaks. The loudest fucking cymbals crashing in my eardrums as her orgasm takes a hold of mine, running away with my discipline.
***
Banging. Loud banging. Incessant loud banging.
A handful of Lilla’s tit in my palm, arm scooped under her body as she sleeps. We sleep. For once. Like the dead. Her ass is pushed up against me. The covers bunched around our naked forms. This bed never felt more perfect or comfortable.
Banging. Incessant fucking banging.
“Whatthefuck,” I groan, twisting away from Lilla. Exactly where I want to be.
Banging. Incessant loud motherfucking banging.
The lock clicks. I jerk the door handle ready to pounce. My skinny four-foot-eight weirdo neighbor with hands on her hips.
“What the fuck do you want, Georgia? I was sleeping. You better have been dying.”
Pushes right past me.
“Can I hide here?” She looks over her shoulder. “My stalker is following me.”
I swing the door closed. “What stalker?”
“This guy Joseph. He keeps following me. Sending me messages online. Posting on my Facebook wall his love and devotion. Changing his status to read he’s married to me. It’s damn creepy.”
My fucking head throbs.
“I thought girls loved that shit?”
“I don’t want my body raped or killed, Cash. I have limits.”
Coffee. I need coffee.
“He probably just wants to ask you out and doesn’t know how.” I pull filters from my pantry and swap the old grounds for new ones. Fill the tank. Flick the brew button and pray for quickness.
“How about coming up to a girl and just plain asking! I’m so scared to go home. What if he follows me? What if he has a shrine in my honor that he prays to every night, Cash? What if he has skins of other women he has mutilated that he drapes over his body, using them like last year’s Versace? What if!”
“Do you realize how crazy you sound, Georgia? And no offense, but you’re not really that interesting. If I was going to stalk someone, I think I’d choose a chick who is at least mildly amusing.”
“I know a Facebook stalker when I see one! This fool is straight up cray-cray for my vah-jay-jay.”
“Don’t speak internet language in my presence, please.”
“I tell ya, you randomly friend one lonely person on a social networking site and your whole world goes down the shitter.”
“Yes, because real-life friends are such less trouble. Thanks for coming to my apartment, by the way. Now your internet boyfriend will think you live here. I appreciate it.”
Lilla appears in the hallway, sleepy perfect. Bashful, silently questioning who this shouting woman in my living room is. My day is improving.
“Hey.” I look to Georgia. “This is Lilla. Lilla, this is my insane neighbor Georgia—who is incredibly sorry for waking us up from that delicious slumber we were enjoying.”
“Oh man,” Georgia groans, “you didn’t fall for this moron’s sob stories did you? Did he use the one where he was an orphan or did he go for the homeless child living on the streets bull-fuck? He was neither, just so you know.”
“I actually fell for the I drank too much. But thanks?”
“Do not let him near your vagina, girl. He is no good. Handsome as sin, yes. But I’m telling you, that dick of his is the black plague.”
Ushering her toward the door. “Good luck with your stalker, Georgia. I’m sure your skin will look spectacular as a trench coat.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” she bellows before I lock her out.
How do you proceed after such an interaction?
“Coffee?” I turn towards the kitchen, grab a mug from the cabinet.
Lilla sits at the breakfast counter, resting on one of the stools. I feel her eyes on me, watching as I stir sugar and pour milk. I bend at my knees, slurping down a mouthful of coffee when the cup is too full. Pour more milk. Another sip and I pass her the mug.
“Drink this one, Honey-girl. It’s perfect and that never happens twice.”
We exchange a brief glance as she takes the cup. I busy myself with making another coffee.
“Hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure?” I finally look at her, but she’s keeping her attention on the mug. “We could go get breakfast.”
She nods, but I don’t know if that’s answering the first or second question.
“Lilla.” Hesitantly she looks up. “What’s wrong?”
“Just tired.” She lies.
“And?”
Her bottom lip rolls between her teeth, eyes cast down. Back to her hands on the mug.
“The silent shit might be alright with your husband, but it doesn’t work for me, Lil. In fact, it drives me insane. I’m not Adam.”
“Exactly.” She pushes away from the counter, feet on the floor and down the hall. The bathroom. I give her until half of my coffee is gone before I hunt her down.
She’s leaned against the counter.
I rest my face into her hair, toying the ends with my fingers.
“I didn’t think I’d feel guilty,” she whispers.
“What did you think you’d feel?”
“I don’t know. Better? Like I proved something? I just feel like shit.” Her head lifts, looking to me in the reflection of the mirror.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Now I’m hurting you, too.”
Surrounding my arms around her shoulders, trying to prevent her ugly crying in my bathroom.
“Do you honestly think you’re the first married woman who has regretted having sex with me?”
She pulls away and I smile. “It’s not funny, Cash.”
“I know, but I wish it was. I’d much rather see these lips smile,” my thumb touches her, “than those eyes cry.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“I’m not. Not at all. Well, that’s not true. I’m sorry you feel like shit. That part has to go.”
Her eyes dance between mine. “I don’t want you to think that I feel like this because of you. I don’t. If I was single and twenty-something …” She shakes her head.
I slide my hands to her hips. “You’d what?”
“I’d have woken up feeling completely different. Let’s leave it at that.”
“No way.”
Hiding her face against my ches
t.
“I probably wouldn’t have got out of the bed. Ever. Now shut up.”
“One night with me and already she’s ordering people around.”
“Cash,” a warning, twisting her head to look toward the mirror.
I follow, eyes unable to look away.
Soft girl pressed to my bare chest, the aftermath of my presence. My existence in her world. My teeth embedded in her skin. Red marks that tell a truth. Scratches along my arms where her nails have left a reminder. Where she has walked along my streets. Imprinted herself onto me. Traces of the paint on her hand, palm flat to my chest. I lower my hands, treating myself to the same luscious skin claimed last night.
“What did you dream about, Lilla?”
Highlighted cheeks turning crimson as she silently remembers where all these designs came from. How they came to be. Adam at the back of her thought process.
“You.”
As intended.
Chapter Eleven
DAY FIVE
I wonder where her leash is.
I wonder if he will permit her to use the restroom or if she will have to lift her leg and seek a silk plant.
If she finishes her shopping quickly, will she be treated to a cookie from the bakery? A swift pat on the head and a ‘that’ll do pig’.
“The fuck.” I push off the glass window, overlooking the sales floor from the office above, watching as Lilla and her damn husband begin unloading items to Mary’s register. It’s her first day of training. Mary. Not Lilla.
Brown eyes are searching for me. Left, right, all around. Hide and go seek, my pretty. Catch me if you can. I flail my arms, knowing this is only a one-way conversation.
Frightened little Lilla. Adam must be in a hurry. An exchange of grumbles has her putting items on the belt with an irritated quickness. There go the eggs. Mary is going to break up this marriage, today. She has only scanned two items, so far. Entering fruit codes is not her forte.
Not that anything is.
“Give the girl a hand, son. Stop being a jerk.” My father, Claude, gives a glance to the floor below.
“Which one?” I josh.
