Don't Leave Me Breathless

by A Kelly

  ‘Those patches of hell. Put the fire out, Bobby. Put the fire out,’ she begged.

  So he crawled over her once more. His tongue dug into her scars – the crinkly ones, the smooth ones, the big ones, the small ones. Bobby’s love was nothing like that of a man who wanted to please his bride, nor of a husband who couldn’t wait to build a family with her. Traditional? Not Bobby. Bobby’s love was in his breathing, Bobby’s love was in his calluses, and in his saliva.

  ‘Now would you soothe my pain?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He rolled off her, spread her legs and positioned himself in between. He pushed his fingers into her and twisted them inside her. She could feel blows of breaths on her thighs and on her stretched pussy. Bobby must’ve been watching his fingers closely. His moans were soft but constant.

  ‘I love you, Summer,’ he said and yanked his fingers out. He turned her over to face him and he sucked his fingers. ‘Did I turn you on?’

  He didn’t. Luckily this time he didn’t bother to force her to utter the word ‘yes’, otherwise he would’ve known she was lying. He shoved his hard cock fully inside her without further preparation and pumped vigorously, like a teenager jerking over porn.

  Sex – in whatever form it came with Bobby – she’d take. Fast, flat, immature; it was collateral damage.

  Bobby screamed, his hips shuddered, his abs contracted, then he relaxed. She could smell his cum. It almost made her sick, but she simply closed her eyes.

  Still dealing with the aftermath of his climax, in between his panting he said, ‘You didn’t come.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I can read anybody, Summer, including you. Especially you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t come.’

  ‘Let’s try again then,’ he said, and rubbed himself.

  So he was eager to please her. And he’d said he loved her. Sounded traditional. Why did it feel strange? Had the psychopath label made her feel his love was strange? The public and media had imposed that label on him, people who didn’t know him, and for a while she’d believed it was simply an uneducated, biased, narrow-minded way of describing Bobby. She liked to think she knew men, and Bobby was no traditional man.

  Bobby kept rubbing, almost sanding his cock. It turned red, refusing to rise.

  ‘Bobby…’ she said and wrapped her palm around his rubbing hand. She motioned him to let it go and took over. Slowly she pulled his foreskin towards her to cover the head. She placed the tip of her tongue in the creases. The chlorine smell of cum almost made her retch but this time she put on a lover’s face. Using her tongue, she gradually exposed his head and when it was out, she teased it and teased it and teased it. Right before her eyes the narrow tip swelled, and Bobby released a long sigh as Summer took it into her mouth. His precum dripped steadily.

  Bobby withdrew and swiftly slid down to reach her groin.

  ‘Argh…’ His cock pushed in. Once again he pumped, same pace, same weight.

  She squirmed.

  ‘Now you won’t fake it,’ he said.

  She started to feel that warmth… that tightness… that fireball that would soon explode. He was capable after all. His hips kept moving, but he slowed down as he searched for the deeper end. She was going to come – and that was when he wrapped his hands around her neck. His grip was firm, his two thumbs pressed down on her throat, playful at first, then gradually tightening to choke her. Bobby’s face faded, and so did the walls around her.

  Was he killing her right now?

  Air-deprived, limp as a corpse, body and soul separated – what kind of arousal was this? What kind of climax was this?

  As she gasped, she could hear Bobby whispering in her ear: ‘I love you, Summer. I love you. I love you. I love you.’

  9

  Dear Summer…

  So Bobby loved her, and he pleased her. It should’ve been marital bliss, but to Summer it was a failed marriage. Her husband never wished to talk about his scars, he didn’t show any interest in knowing her pain. Every now and then she saw the killer in Bobby come out, when he strangled her hard and his eyes told her she would draw her last breath. He satisfied her then, but when she came out on the other side alive, somehow it disappointed her. Life had no purpose but pain, yet pain had no meaning. Was there any point in living? Was there any point in being human?

  Nothing.

  Now the question was: should she wait for Bobby to end it all for her, or should she do it herself?

  She had come back to where it had all begun. She’d told Bobby she was attending a martial arts convention in Sydney – it was true, but her main agenda was to spend time in the Rideau’s residence, hoping to find an answer.

  She stared at the five-bedroom, two-storey house with its black fence. She’d spent a year with her family here before moving to DC, and a further few days after Pierre’s death. The gardens were overgrown and the mailbox was empty; perhaps this place had been truly forgotten. Through the corner of her eye she saw a man wearing a yellow sweater coming from the house next door.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, holding out a plastic bag full of envelopes.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You’re Summer Rideau?’

  Summer didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m Matt, next-door neighbour, and a friend of your dad’s. The last time I saw you, you were quite little. I doubt you remember me.’

  ‘Is that mail for this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and handed over the plastic bag. ‘Welcome back.’

  Summer nodded. She waited until the man had gone back to his house before she closed the gate and headed to the front door.

  Her parents used to keep a spare key under one of the pots in front patio. There used to be gardenias in those pots, now there was only soil and weeds. She lifted the first pot, the key wasn’t there. She hoped it was still somewhere so she wouldn’t have to do a Sherlock. Under the third pot, she found it.

  The air inside the house reminded her of St Therese’s hall. This house was coldness, oldness and heaviness. She almost forced herself to have a tunnel vision so she couldn’t see what was around her as she rushed upstairs, past Pierre’s shut study door, to her bedroom.

  The room had been untouched. It was full of things she’d left behind before heading off to Melbourne as Summer Washington: Sam the fairy penguin, Chevy the emperor penguin, Jake’s sketches, her law diplomas and honours, her lawyer clothes, and her original IDs. In a box next to her bed were some of Molly’s and Milo’s toys. The two rodent rebels had been her only friends then, and now they were gone. Milo had died last month, and Molly followed last week.

  The bedsheet creases were still there. She had cried for hours on this bed after Pierre’s death, before she’d decided to pursue Bobby Swinburne. On this bed too, she had spent hours on the phone with Sofia – Jake’s last girlfriend – begging her to use her position at Births, Deaths and Marriages to create Summer Washington. Sofia tried to convince Summer to simply change her name; but there was only so much that sweet girl knew. Summer wanted to be someone else who married Bobby Swinburne, and a simple name change just wouldn’t do; Bobby could know. Besides, much as she hated Pierre, she couldn’t let Bobby taint Summer Cattarina Rideau – she was her mum’s daughter and Jake’s twin sister.

  Somewhat feeling the pressure to ‘repay’ Jake’s kindness, Sofia had eventually agreed to help – not by creating a fake identity, but to open a channel for Summer to use her dual citizenship to create Summer Washington legally. Through Sofia’s contact in New York, Summer was able to change her name on her US passport and, leveraging her influence in the Australian immigration, still within the legal boundary, Sofia managed to fast-track Summer Washington’s temporary visa – a year was all Summer had needed.

  Summer sat on the edge of the bed and took the mail out of the plastic bag. It seemed all correspondence for Summer Rideau had been coming here.

  MacMillan & Barnes Lawyers

  After Pierre had died, Bernard MacMillan ha
d persisted on getting her signature to transfer her father’s trust money into her account. She’d instructed Bernard to keep the money where it was. She didn’t understand why he’d kept writing to her about the same thing. The letters were old; she would need to write back before the lawyer thought something had happened to her. And she would instruct him the same thing.

  She would do that later, after she had read this letter from a US Armed Forces Post Office. From Marine GySgt. Tim O’Brien, Al Qaim, Iraq.

  Dear Summer,

  We’re back on the old stomping grounds. Out there, sometimes I wonder if I would make it alive. Yet, in this short window of peace, in my bed, I have chosen to write to you.

  I’m sorry to hear about your dad’s passing. I hope you and your mom are coping. I’ll be back in Montana this winter. Come and visit us if you need a break. We can track the wolves again and perhaps this time we might spot that illusive wolverine.

  Randall is married now. I’ll soon be a granddad, can you believe it? He’s changed, he’s a man now, a far cry from the stupid teenager you knew.

  I’ve gotta to ask… have you found someone, Summer? I know you’re your own woman, but the fact doesn’t change that you need a partner in life. Husband, boyfriend, best friend. I hope you find that person. Well, I know you will find that person (if you haven’t already).

  Are you still practising? You know I worried about your blocks (especially your low blocks). I train close-quarter combat here, but I miss training you. I got an offer to be stationed in Darwin. I might take them up on it if Sylvia agrees. If that happens, come and see us! In the meantime, take care, Summer.

  Hugs,

  Tim

  Her handsome karate instructor hadn’t written to her in years. Why now? She assumed he was worried about her because of Pierre’s death. She imagined what had happened after he sealed the envelope. He could’ve gone to sleep, he could’ve rushed to respond to an emergency, he could’ve gone on patrol, he could’ve played night volleyball with his mates. Or he could’ve been shot or blown to pieces.

  She wondered how grandparenthood would treat him. Randall wasn’t even half the man his father was. But people changed. Perhaps his wife had made him a man. In the meantime, Summer had stayed the same – she was still alive. She’d thought being in this house would nudge her towards an answer: do it herself or wait for Bobby. Now she wanted to do neither. Should she carry on with the status quo and let fate decide? She hated fate; it was a weak word. But she didn’t have a better answer.

  10

  The Beam House

  ‘Give me time!’ Joseph said to Carlton on the phone. Month after month he had said this to his stepson, though Joseph didn’t have any intention of letting go of his house. ‘I’ve sent you five grand. Just give me time.’

  ‘Hard to let go of your house, huh? Yet it was so easy to let me go.’

  ‘Carlton. Carlton. I’ve loved you as my own son, even though—’

  ‘Damn, Joseph! You haven’t!’ Carlton said. ‘Where were you when the court decided to give Neil custody? Where were you when that bastard beat me up?’

  ‘I tried to get to you but your dad took out a restraining order on me.’

  ‘Huh. Never heard that story.’

  ‘I didn’t make it up!’

  ‘Where were you when he raped me?’

  Joseph took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t know until it was too late. I wish things could’ve been different. You never told me, no one ever told me!’

  ‘What did you expect? I was twelve and scared!’

  ‘When I found out you ran away from home, I offered you my home but you didn’t want anything to do with me. How was I supposed to make it right, Carlton?’

  ‘You’ve always been a too-late man.’

  ‘I’ve supported you.’

  ‘By giving me money. Yes, yes. I asked for it. I know you’re not a rich guy. Still, I don’t know why you can’t just say you’re sorry for abandoning me and choosing Cornelia over me. At least that bastard Neil said sorry before he died.’

  Carlton would never understand. No one had taught him to understand.

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ Joseph said. ‘Just keep your mouth shut about Cornelia.’

  ‘I enjoy your desperation. But I pity you, too,’ Carlton said. ‘Fine! Sort it out.’

  Joseph observed his neighbouring house. The ‘For Rent/Sale’ sign had been there for more than a year. The Beam House of Ellis Creek, as the name suggested, had an unusually high number of exposed beams, especially in the living/dining area. No one ever lived there long. Rumour had it a woman had committed suicide in that house. She was one of Penguin’s early settlers whose husband ran away to the mainland with a younger girl and ended up killing her. He came back to his wife and told her everything. They argued, she killed him, and then killed herself. It had become a folk tale that the couple’s ghosts were to blame for the house’s lack of occupants.

  Sandra McLeod, Joseph’s friend from high school, was the real estate agent in charge of the property. She had raked it in during the Sydney property boom and now believed Tasmania would be the next boom, but the Beam House had so far been anything but. Every time a deal had fallen through, Joseph said to Sandra, ‘Did they finally see Mrs Ellis?’ or something along those lines. And that would push her buttons and she’d start ranting that the house wasn’t that old, that the story about the early settlers didn’t really stack up. The house needed too much maintenance for what it was (no one thought it was pretty); the cobwebs hanging off the beams were too difficult to get rid of – spider 10, human nil.

  Now he pondered about renting that house; he wouldn’t have enough money to buy it. Maybe he’d live there for a few months while he handed over the ownership of his house to Carlton. He would then sell his shop and leave Penguin.

  It was just a house – Joseph told himself while dialling Sandra’s number. He counted the number of rings. It was Friday night and he wasn’t surprised to hear Sandra’s voicemail. He hung up.

  He walked around the house, remembering Cornelia running around with Piper in the living room, his family waiting impatiently at the dining table while he was cooking in the kitchen. Was it just bricks and mortar? Could he bring the memories with him; share them with his imagined new wife, perhaps? Would he learn from these memories and be a better father?

  This house was his life. He couldn’t let it go, but he had to guard the secret about Cornelia.

  Joseph released a long sigh.

  His stepson was right, he hadn’t loved him as his own son. He hadn’t fought hard enough. Maybe because, deep down, he’d known the boy would grow up to be an arse just like Neil Davis.

  If he hung on to his house and Carlton did tell Cornelia the truth, perhaps she would understand. Joseph had raised her, he’d loved her. She was coming to Penguin soon. He should tell Cornelia the truth, not Carlton. And maybe then he would find out if he had done enough for her to still call him Dad.

  11

  Dance of fate

  ‘They fired me,’ Bobby said. He took off his glasses and slumped onto the living room’s two-seater sofa.

  Summer knelt in front of him. His eyes red, his lips flaking, his fingers trembling.

  ‘You’ll get another job,’ Summer said.

  ‘Don’t you wanna know why I got fired?’

  ‘It’s obvious from your eyes, Bobby. It’s all over your body. I can smell it.’

  ‘A fucking security guard caught me.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Did I hear your heart pound just now?’ he said with a lopsided smile. ‘No, I didn’t bash him. He reported me, the boss fired me, and I went home.’

  ‘You have to stop, Bobby. People might employ an ex-prisoner, but they won’t employ a drug addict.’

  ‘Fuck life!’

  ‘You need to ditch that Mo guy.’ The mobile phone shop man in Newcastle, it turned out, was Bobby’s supplier.

  ‘Mo? Oh, Mo. My smart mobile engineer friend. Yeah,
yeah. I intend to. I’m gonna meet another guy. People only know him by Cesario. A Sydney Kingpin. Real deal. A genius!’ His voice said genius in ecstasy, as if he’d found someone worthy of his own intelligence. ‘He’s a one-stop-shop kinda guy. But for now––’ He leaned forward, his face very close to hers, his pupils dilated. He grabbed her throat and got up with her in his hands. ‘I just want to be with you.’

  She twisted free and pushed him, causing him to fall back into the armchair. He smiled. Another game. They played it every week, or whenever they felt like it.

  Bobby leapt and wrestled her to the corner of the room. His body pinned her and his hands were firmly on her throat.

  ‘You’re sexiest when you don’t breathe.’

  She kneed him in the gut, forcing him to let go.

  ‘Ugh… Summer… Summer…’ he said, half laughing, trying to regain his balance.

  She could’ve kicked his jaw now, or his ribs. She could lift her knee high and swing her leg to inflict maximum damage. But she didn’t have the heart to seriously hurt Bobby, whatever the game. He cried at night, saying Summer, I love you, please don’t go. Could he lie in his sleep? No. It was Bobby’s genuine love. How could she ever seriously hurt him?

  So she simply threw herself at her husband, using her body weight to get him to lie flat on the floor. She sat on him and forced his arms above his head.

  ‘I like it when you win,’ Bobby said, still chuckling.

  She stripped herself naked and tied his hands with her bra. She tore Bobby’s shirt and forced his pants down, then placed her hands on his throat. Bobby had taught her, just like his older mate had taught him back when they were in high school. Gradually, Summer, he’d said when they were still practising. Just when I’m about to come, block my breathing completely.

  She rubbed her pelvis against his. He’d been hard a while now. Bobby moaned as she rode him and continued pressing on his throat.