by JR King
There was only one rasp I wanted to hear. All I could think of was that I would never see him again. Never see the tightness of the twin arrows of corded muscle that ran at the lower sides of his abdomen, over his sculpted hipbones, pointing at his masculinity. The thought frightened me more than dying. I was never going to fall asleep next to him, and he was never going to make love to me again. Never going to wake me up with his lips against mine, his damp mouth insistent, his body draped over me.
Not going to fuck my brains out.
Not going to…eat my pussy.
There, I said it.
I could afford to be vulgar. There was no fairness, no God, so why would I feel guilty thinking about sex as I lay dying? I didn’t deserve this. The injury I’d sustained from the impact itself didn’t hurt. What hurt was realizing I’d never hear Alexander Turner telling me I do.
Funnily enough, I didn’t pray.
I just accepted my faith.
My life flashed before my eyes. Clichéd saying perhaps, but it really did. People say it happens to you before you die, or when you almost die. My life and the carcasses of my dreams did flicker before my eyes at the end. As they did, I saw myself as a little girl imagining the great things I’d do with my life. I saw myself as a teenager who studied harder than she played. I saw myself as a scared college student, raped by a boyfriend then saved by another one. I saw myself as I’d been for the past year. I liked being the confident woman standing beside Alexander. Liked what he’d taught me, what I’d become. I could also see myself as the woman I’d be if I’d accepted his offer to marry him, and immediately hated myself for not making the right choice. I’d apologized a hundred times in my mind, practiced in front the mirror as I tried to bring up the subject. His fear of commitment withheld me from asking him. At the last moment, he might freak out and leave me. Life would be a glass half empty without marriage, but I could come to terms with it. Coffee and low-cal pastries mornings, evenings filled with filthy, sheet-gripping copulation, hearing a deep rasp of a voice telling me how much he loved me. I’d harbored high hopes for us staying together, and now it was too late.
Why?
Maybe the universe was punishing me. It felt like the sun mocked me, beating down on me so intensely that beads of sweat collected at the tip of my hairline. I gazed at the sky, oh so blue with a smattering of clouds, trying to lose myself somewhere in it as it made my sight wonky. In the end, the contrail against the sky faded, and it became hoary. Clouds covered the sun and all the bright colors went away. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the loss and pain.
Alexander Turner
The Outcome
Call it high-speed lunacy. Blame French efficiency. As I let desperation get the better of me, simmering fear and awful imaginings had shot up to a full-scale boil. I fought hard. Fought the urge to lower my right foot further and drive the damn car the way it’s designed to be driven. I barely made it through the junction before my survival instincts kicked in. I didn’t quite hit anything as I braked, but it was a very near thing. The Veyron was a pinnacle of civility; the deceleration from warp speed to standstill was squeak-free. The car behind me honked, alerting me that I’d come to a full stop in the middle of an intersection. Hair-trigger awareness crept in. Two pedestrians rubbernecked around the car, trying to make out what’d happened to the driver.
“It’s just a fluke, Alex. Don’t you fucking dare to be stupid! You had better stop that car because Elena needs you! I left the Whitman family to grow old quietly and with pride, not see this day! Don’t wimp out. Man up and be there for her.”
My despair withered and died. “Perish the thought. I’m turning into a parking lot. Could you pick me up?”
“We’re almost there.” Robert hung up.
My focus narrowed to the road ahead. I parked the car somewhere and shouted in a flat, affectless way, the way you shout when you’re frightened. My brain ca-thunked. My head fell. The swallow I forced down my throat scratched like sandpaper. My lips trembled, but I didn’t cry. I refused to submit to the chaotic emotions swirling within me. My mind verged on the edge of logic, and then dove headlong into an abyss of denial. I felt raw, lost, drowning in adrenaline. A kaleidoscope of images flashed before me. I fleetingly saw my life in frames, like a reel racing past my eyes.
This is like mom…all over again.
I heard the commotion. A car came to a screeching halt. A noise of urgent, rattling footsteps, then the unmistakable sound of the door swinging open. Pounding of footsteps. Shouting voices. Concerned pedestrians vesting interest.
“Snap out of it!” Robert’s hand flew up so quickly I didn’t have time to react. It was a soft blow to my head, to the soft part of my skull near the temple. Not enough to hurt, or even exhibit a bruise, but enough to make me gather my wits.
As per habit, whenever I set foot in public, a security detail patrolled around me to hold the media at bay.
“Step aside,” Robert yelled as we waded through the people that tramped around the car. Amid the commotion, Ray paced with celerity in our direction.
Jerry was already in the limo.
“You called him first?” My breath left me in a rush.
“It was a hit-and-run. A friend of mine paid the driver a visit. He didn’t kill her, but she’s not alive anymore,” Robert answered. His voice grated with frustration as he reported the niceties of Elena’s whereabouts.
Jerry exhaled heavily, “Boys, this ain’t the right time to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war. The media vultures started tilling, and they won’t rest until they find some senseless clue to write the next award-winning exposé.”
I wiped a tear away. “Fuck my image.”
Jerry reached over and took my hand. It was warm and friendly. “Have you considered her wellbeing? When she recuperates?”
That threw me. My heart jolted. “She’s all right? What do you know?” My voice sounded too shaky. Too high.
Jerry slipped his fingers higher, to my wrist, feeling the thud of my pulse. “She will be. You need to calm down. No coke, no nothing.” He lifted his eyebrows, keeping the rest of his face frozen.
I wasn’t going to blow my brains out, but getting wasted was a distinct possibility. “I can’t promise you that,” I whispered falteringly.
His expression turned to stone as he ripped his hand away. “Shut up, you nihilistic little shit. Fuck this up and you’re done.”
I took a deep breath and mentally prepared myself.
Not just a craze of motley thrill seekers and riotous paparazzi infested the hospital scene, major media outlets had besieged the area. I shielded my eyes from the intrinsic brightness of cameras. A helicopter racketed by, and wailing sirens deafened me. Just be alive, I thought.
Elena Anderson
The Masquerade Ball—Hers
Sara was an impresario of style and fashion. The cream Bianca Colombina mask she’d chosen had gold brocade around its edges, simple yet super elegant. She disliked fad embellishments and trivial adorns, so I’d asked her to help me. I didn’t delude myself to be a fashion expert. I wasn’t a lackluster dresser, my snap decisions were tasteful, but still and all, I paled in comparison to her.
Sitting at her vanity desk, I tried to put my hair up in a chignon to the best of my ability, but miserably failed at winding a good knot. “Being a guy is so much easier than being a girl,” I sighed.
Through a veil of thick eyelashes, Sara squinted. “You want to walk around with a tiny snake in your pants? Hold it to pee? Gah. No thanks.”
“I should be grateful for having a vagina?” I broke out in laughter, laughing at my own folly.
“First and foremost, we have to prettify those eyes, El. Nothing else.”
I smiled at her reflection in the carved-wood mirror. “Less is more.”
“Less is not more, more just needs to be vindicated.”
Powder, blush, and eyeshadow took seconds to apply, lipstick required a bit more time, and no overloading on eyeliner
. Mascara was the most complicated part of makeup. The eyelashes had to be perfectly separated by the millimeter, no smudging just elongating to create a bigger, complex stare that captivated men.
I studied the minuscule piece of fabric of my G-string. “And they call this underwear?” Nevertheless, the sophistication of the semi-diaphanous triangle that was held together by toggles and jewels looked attractive on my pubic bone. It also eliminated the vestiges of panty lines. On our way to Dover, I admired my crystal-embroidered wristlet pochette. It was a safe bet because it went well with the intricate crystal beading around my dress’s waistline. The birch-white gown was backless, highlighted my pert derriere, and the tight, basque-like bodice was flattering for my chest. An implant of underwire made the most of my little breasts, giving the cups a push-up effect. Strappy rhinestone sandals finished the designer ensemble that Sara’s father had gifted me for the occasion.
Sara asked, “Do you think we’ll meet any handsome men? Older, but not too old.” Her slender figure was wound in a vintage Valentino faille flare dress that cascaded to the ground in a sea of fuchsia layers. Three roses stitched to the hip part added much pizzazz and edginess to it.
“I don’t know. Keep your fingers crossed.”
I did meet a handsome man. Rejection hurt.
Senses assailed by apprehension, I stutter-walked to the nearest powder room. The state of torpor my legs had entered was killing me. My stomach’s acidity was slowly rising into my mouth, acid reflux maybe, dampening my confidence even more. I balled my fists and shook them out, repeating the action. I paced back and forth in the dressing room. Head high, chin up, strut as if you own the damn room. A few deep breaths later, I no longer teetered on my heels.
We had limited access to cigarettes. Sara managed to cadge a few from a guy in a Melpomene mask, and we went to the courtyard. Guests brayed with too much laughter, irritating me. Sauntering back to the ballroom, two guys stopped me to compliment my mask. I complimented theirs too. One wore a Jester mask and the other a Phantom of the Opera mask.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous. I’ve been looking all over for you. Excuse me, boys. She’s with me.”
Feh. Mr. Anonymous again. Begrudgingly, I stayed put, my emotions oscillating between elation and misery. I was sure I had a speech bubble above my head saying kiss me as he stood before me and explained himself. Interesting. Being a cool-ass gentleman and all, he wouldn’t kiss me, but he still wanted to dance with me. Yay. I vacillated on purpose. “Why are you following me? A little obsessed, old man?”
“You don’t know the half of it, pretty girl.” Repeatedly, his forefinger tapped his bottom lip while his other hand pulled at my Dama Colombina mask. “Let’s play a game. You must do everything I say and not ask why. Absolutely everything, preferably with a smile.”
My head moved against my own volition toward him, like an affectionate pet to a good-hearted master. “Why would I do that?”
“Games are fun, and there’s a prize at the end. There’s always a prize for obedient behavior.”
“What kind of prize?”
“It’s a surprise.” He took a step forward. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
I retreated, only to realize I was crammed between him and a wall. “Hey wisecrack, stop bullying me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Nope, no way. Not playing with you unless you tell me what the catch is. Gig’s over. Pack and go home, funny old pervert.”
“Don’t be bratty, not with someone like me.” His voice was biting and suspicious.
“Screw you. Go away.” I jerked my head away from his touch. “The game is over.”
“The game hasn’t even begun.” His humor fled. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you? I love feisty, sweetheart. I think it only makes me want you that much more. For a tight dance, of course.”
I curled my upper lip in a contemptuous, silent sneer. My mind registered flinging my hand at his chest. Glug.
“Did you purposively hit me?” he glowered, his exasperation evident as he ran a hand through his hair.
I slipped away from the nutjob. Brushing past a score of guests, I reached the ballroom in the nick of time. Upon stepping into it, I realized he’d never catch me. Not with all the guests around who assembled to go to the dance floor. I threw a quick look back and saw a man as though he were walking out of the shadow, a half silhouette, large and muscular. Saw the sharp outlines and contours of threatening muscle following me, the Grifone mask not looking so attractive anymore.
Bringing up the rear, I followed like a sheep and blended in between the crush of people. Before I could take in the details of the dance floor, heavy footfalls closed in on me, and an arm tightly gripped my waist. “You can’t run from me. Can’t hide either. Let’s see what you can do, little girl,” he growled. “Let’s dance.”
“I have two left feet. I can’t dance,” I protested, fighting hard to keep up a poised veneer. “Let alone a waltz.” I was trembling like an earthquake in a swamp.
He entwined his other hand with mine and fluidly twirled us into the middle of the dance floor. “This isn’t a waltz, it’s a foxtrot. You’re too stiff, loosen up and follow my lead. Will you dance with me?”
I tried hard not to bite my lip to fight off the anxiety I was feeling. “I can manage one dance.” I put my best foot forward, edged closer to him. Goosepimples flourished when he ran his hands down my arms until they rested on my wrists.
“Easy does it, sweetheart.” He whisked me off to the part where the light from the gigantic chandelier made it look bright. Pulling me to him, he slipped a hand around my waist and settled it on the small of my back.
Even as I was shaking, I managed to frame my posture in alignment with his. Questioning myself about propriety was unhelpful.
Then we were dancing. I pushed back the panic rising inside me and matched his sweeping steps in rote. We started flowing together with ease, and by some miracle, I botched trembling on my feet. With high heels, I didn’t have to stare at his chest. I looked him in the eyes, and occasionally over his shoulder to spot other dancers. Dodging other couples, we glided across the floor, our footsteps matching the suave melody, a synergy establishing between us. We shared a few lines about dancing. After that, he remained silent.
“Sir, what’s your name?” I tried one last time.
His lips curled, as if considering me while gaining momentum. “No names tonight,” he answered wretchedly, his voice brittle, like pork-cracklings.
I could feel his distinct body heat, his scent so awfully, painfully close. It was only then that I realized he’d slowly pulled me in nearer. “You make me feel so gracious and good,” I observed with a wry little smile.
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” he said with a ghost of a scolding. “Ready to swing?”
I had no time to demur, he swung me this way and that, then outward, and held out his trophy for a few seconds before spinning me back into the safety of his broad shoulders.
The music wound down and he slowed.
“Don’t do that again. Please,” I implored, my voice breathy and strained. I craned my neck to see if Sara was somewhere nearby.
“Hmm, no dipping? We have to try at least, you’re a natural born dancer.” His mocking tone brought my anxiety back.
“No,” I told him in time.
Luckily, the spinning had made me dizzy, I didn’t have time to process his actions. The deep dip made me lose my footing, establishing I was at the mercy of an unknown man on a dance floor full of reputable guests. A movement on the right outskirt of the room caught my eye. My overturned eyes looked into the censorious stare of Sara’s father who wore a distinguishable Bauta mask.
“My uncle is watching us closely,” I murmured when he pulled me back up. My hipbones briefly dug into his upper thighs, and as he shifted us back into position, I felt the distinct outline of something hard against my stomach, which I was pretty certain wasn’t a belt buckle.
“Ah.” His eyes lit up with glee, and he lowered his head to whisper into the glowing, magical space between our masked faces. “I know.”
“And you don’t fear him?” Deep lines formed between his eyebrows, so I continued before he could say anything. “It’s making me feel uncomfortable. Would you mind terribly if we stopped in the middle?”
“I would,” a low rumble tore from his chest. “I’m not letting you go just yet.” The way the words came out of his mouth, drawled with pronounced measure, his voice thick and copious like golden syrup, I knew they were final. “I can’t, let me…relax first.” I gasped when he lowered his hand on my back, splayed it and pulled me closer so I could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing into my lower belly. Hard as steel. Inerasable. Glorified. An uninvited guest. How could I have aroused a man—not a typical, self-centered, immature jock—in such a way?
Unable to find my voice, I agreed with a muted nod.
He moved his hand upward and put a good distance between us. Grandpa is right, I concluded. Only a passionate person is capable of making a meal out of dancing. Adrift in sensual thoughts while dancing with the devil, I failed to discern the tenebrous clouds hovering above us.
“May I cut in, son?”
We stopped mid-dance and my mouth fell open, eyes rounding like saucers. “U-uncle Paul…we…we were done,” I said stupidly. It was somewhere between a mumble and a whisper.
The man didn’t counter, tugged me toward Sara’s father and left.
“COME BACK!” I yelled.
The rutty, subtropical beach was shingled with white basalt, palm trees danced against a clear blue sky, and nonpareil blue water flowed back and forth. Alexander and I drank well-dosed cocktails and ate a light seafood lunch, digesting it as we strolled back to our rattan recliner beach beds. Fluffing the pillows, he raised a red flag for a refill.
