by James, Ella
Cleo starts to hum.
My fingers twitch over the volume key on my steering wheel. This girl is all about the questions. I don’t want to answer any, so I let her hum “Friend of the Devil” without mentioning it’s one of my favorite Dead songs.
I think of Truman back at the Pecan house and I grit my teeth. I should have brought him with us. Manning doesn’t want a dog, and Cleo was ready to write songs about him. Tomorrow maybe. I couldn’t do it today. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter.
I inhale deeply, working hard to keep my chest from rising with the effort. I may be unraveling, but I can fix it so Cleo never knows. I can keep my thirsts and all my pains a secret.
Three weeks. We said three weeks, but I may make it less. I may leave early. It wouldn’t hurt her. Nothing about my situation will touch her. I make that promise to myself as I park the Escalade beside a pear tree and kill the engine. Midday sunlight streaks in through the windshield, playing over Cleo’s heart-shaped face. After a minute of sitting there in silence, she casts her eyes to mine.
“Are you going to be this way the whole time I’m here?”
“What way?”
She lifts her brows. “A moody prick.”
My mouth twitches. It wants to bloom into a smile. I clamp my lips down, giving her a stern look. “You think I’m a moody prick?”
She shrugs. “I think you’re hot and cold. You say you’re going to protect me, we get high and mess around, and then you just ignore me? That’s annoying. I don’t want a boyfriend, Kellan, but if we’re going to mess around, you’ve gotta at least be cordial. I’m not that hard up for money, you know?”
So if I keep being “hot and cold,” she’ll leave. That’s what she’s saying.
I suck air in. Blow it out. “Fine.”
“Fine?” she echoes. She’s looking at me as if I have three heads. “What the hell does ‘fine’ mean?”
“It means fine. I’ll keep it lukewarm, just for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Perfect.”
I pop the knuckles of my left hand, enjoying the dull throb. “For the record...you look good choked on my cock.” Too fucking good. I don’t blow down any woman’s throat. I seem to break that rule every time she puts her lips around my dick. I can’t let it happen again.
She quirks one elegant brow. “Well, as long as there’s that.” She rolls her eyes—but Cleo doesn’t get it. I haven’t accepted a blow job on a whim since I left USC in January 2011. Gillian came to see me in New York, but...
I shake my head. “It won’t happen again like that. I don’t get high,” I tell her, forcing myself to meet her eyes. They’re crystalline green—a color that I’ve hardly ever seen except on her. “I initiate what we do,” I add. “Every time.”
She shrugs. “Unless you don’t.”
“You want to get your pussy paddled?” The words spill from my lips as my dick stiffens.
“I don’t not want to.” She locks her jaw. Her eyes on mine are steely. Challenging.
Fuck me. “No?”
She thrusts her lower lip out. Fucking minx.
I breathe so deeply, I can feel my nostrils flare. “Do you want to get your pussy paddled, Cleo?”
“I don’t care.” Her eyes are emeralds; I can see the twinkle of rebellion there.
“Are you sure about that?”
The corner of her mouth wavers. Then she nods.
“Get out of the car then, Cleo. Go inside and wait up in your room.”
* * *
Cleo
This is what we’re doing, then. I don’t know what. I don’t know what it’s called, but I can feel it taking shape inside me: something dangerous and beautiful.
I walk slowly up the stairs. I want to hear his footsteps, but the house is quiet and empty.
He told me to lie face down on the bed and take my leggings down. I spend a moment in the room, and then I go out on the balcony.
It’s a windy day. The treetops sway slowly. Pine bristles tremble with orchestral restraint. All around their roots, the river spills—an open vein. The rushing water hurts my ears, like someone turned the volume too loud.
I wait for him with my hands on the cold stone railing. I daydream him behind me. The way he will scoop me up. Throw me over his shoulders. Take me to the bed.
I didn’t plan on this. I didn’t plan for how exciting things would be with him.
I hear him moving—really there now. I can’t breathe. He grabs my elbows. I am whirled around. His face is cold and hard. I try to match his look.
“You’re a defiant girl, Cleo. It’s time for you to get your due.”
“What’s that?” I ask, smiling naughtily.
“I’ll show you.” His low voice is strained. His cock is bulging in his slacks. I smile wider.
With his hands around my elbows, he pulls me down to the cement balcony. He urges me onto my hands. He yanks my tattered leggings down, pulling so hard they get stuck on my boots.
My stomach twists as I remember when he tore them. Then he smacks my ass—so hard I yelp. I rock forward on my arms.
“That’s for making me come down your throat.”
“What?” I snap.
He smacks my ass again.
“Ungrateful bastard!”
He hits me again.
“You loved that! I could—”
Again. I screech.
He hits me one more time, then growls, “What’s your safe word?”
“Hit me again,” I taunt. I look over my shoulder, at his poised palm. Little bolts of glee race through me. My ass stings bad. My heart is racing. I think I kind of love making him growl.
“Pick a safe word.” He sounds strained, as if pausing in mid-air like that is costing him. “One word to stop things—if it gets too much.”
He slaps my ass again, and I pant.
“Safe word?” he prods.
“Sloth.”
“What?”
“Sloth. My word is sloth, asshole.”
I wag my ass a little. It burns like hell, but I am ready for his hand. This fucked up game—I’m in. I fucking adore making him react.
A drama queen, a needy little girl: that’s what I was always called. I guess I am.
“Too scared?” I ask over my shoulder.
The breeze blows a strand of hair into my eyes. I look behind me.
No one’s there.
Part II
“Once you start to live outside yourself, it’s all dangerous.” -Ernest Hemingway
ONE
Kellan
September 18, 2011
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I hold my forehead as the words spill through my brain. I wrap my other hand around the waist of my pants, keeping them from sagging.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My hollow head and frenzied breathing keep out most of what’s around me. I cling to the details I need. I’m in an elevator, going down. I don’t have shoes.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Is my jacket zipped? I look down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I need to zip it. Can’t. I tuck its flaps together. Then I shove my hands under my arms and try to tamp my breathing down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
The elevator lurches to a stop. My elbow bumps the mirrored wall. Too suddenly, the doors swish open, revealing a glossy, glass-ceilinged lobby. My insides are dead to the familiar sounds and colors. Even the novel sight of people wearing jeans and sweaters, laughing and chatting, ignites no feeling in me.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to quiet my gasping breat
hs. No dice. When the elevator bounces like the door’s about to shut, I step onto the glossy tile.
My feet.
“Oh, FUCK.”
For a minute, I forgot. I step from one foot to the other, trying to escape the pain. I grit my teeth so hard I hear a crack. I groan.
I start to walk.
There’s a row of glass doors over on my left, past the information desks. I tuck my chin against my chest and shuffle toward them. My tongue finds the fault line on my tooth and traces up and down.
When I get through one of the glass doors, into the building’s entry corridor, I’m forced to stop. Pain laps up my calves like streaks of fire. My breathing is so loud, a couple coming through the doors stops to stare. The woman reaches for me, but her husband yanks her arm down.
“Come on, Anslee...”
Good. I don’t need anybody recognizing me. Thinking of me makes me think of him. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I use my shoulder to push through the next door and keep my hands pulled close to my body.
The moment that I step outside is indescribable. The sunlight is so white, the air electric. I forgot the stench of smog. It reaches into my throat, filling my nose with the memory of living. My lungs deflate. My eyes blur as I watch cars file by. Taxis line up by the curb, and people—out, then in. People on the sidewalk. So much movement. Adjusting a hair band, sipping coffee, unzipping a purse.
Purpose and intention. Both feel sharp.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I disappear into the crowd, moving east. I’ve thought about this so many times, I know where I’m going, despite my current state.
I pull the jagged air into my lungs. Cement is cold beneath my aching feet. I pull my jacket closer.
I’m trying to move fast, but I’m so unsteady. People stare at me—of course they do. I look fresh out of a war zone.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My mind swims: drinking in the chaos of Manhattan; reliving what just happened. I can’t believe I’m really out here. Christ, I’m almost scared.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I glance up the street and back behind me, looking for... what? A police officer? A frantic civilian?
One foot in front of the other... Keep on moving, Kellan. My lungs make a sound like tissue paper. The inside of my nose and throat is raw—raw and so painful, I’m starting to tremble and sweat.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I think of what I’m running from. A moan escapes. A woman in front of me turns to look at me. Her eyes widen. She spins around, lengthens her strides.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I’m moaning with every step I take now. Pain is a monsoon—drenching me inside and out. It’s a reminder of the many risks I’m taking. When I was there, I was comfortably numb. When I was there...
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Finally, the subway. Fear penetrates the thick fog of denial as I move down the filthy stairwell. I try not to touch the rail, but I can’t descend without it. I wrap my fingers around the cool metal—consequences be damned.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I stick my dirty hand into the pocket of my jacket and flex my fingers, fumbling with my Metrocard. Somewhere nearby, a train thunders. I shiver. Inhale exhale. Quiet, Kellan.
It’s a losing battle. I’m panting like a runner. People back away and stare. I hear someone whisper, “no shoes,” and from another mouth, “addict.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My head is still so foggy, but I realize I need to choose somewhere to go.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I can only think of one hotel right now: the Carlyle, where Lyon and I stayed with Dad before he said goodbye to us that day in November. Almost a year ago. I bring my fist to my mouth. I pull my hand down at the last minute.
Now the train is here. People moving.
I manage the two steps up without losing my balance. It smells—like dirty laundry and old fruit. I grab a nearby pole, close my eyes to bear the pain in my feet.
The train lurches. I clutch the pole and let my broken body sway and tremble with the rocking motion.
Time thins out and starts to twist around things like a string. I can’t control the moaning. My knees can’t hold my weight. I’m on the floor and there’s a woman kneeling by me.
“Honey—you look ill. Are you okay?”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to nod, even though the motion hurts my head.
“Would you like me to help you at the next stop?” she asks. “You’re not an addict, are you? You’re a veteran.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I swallow, using the razorblade sensation in the back of my throat to stay conscious.
“We’re stopping now. You want me to help you off, honey, or call someone?”
I lick my cracked lips.
Hands and shoulders get me to my feet—maybe more than one set. I’m moving down the stairs. The hands let go. So much effort to stay standing. The next time I open my eyes, it’s because tears are spilling from them. I’m swaying under an awning. I don’t feel anything but pain.
“Come sit down, sir. Mr... ?”
“Walsh.” My voice is so soft, I doubt she hears me—but the answer satisfies me. I will never be Kellan Drake again.
“Sit here.” There’s a bench. I slump onto it, keening like an animal. I hear the stranger tsk around me, murmuring to herself.
“Okay now, here’s a cab for you,” she says in soothing tones. “Where should I have him take you? How about the VA Hospital?”
“Hotel,” I manage. I groan. “Cash.”
“You know, my grandson is a Navy SEAL. I’ve got cash—about a hundred in my wallet. But look here, I see an ATM right over there across the way.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I reach into my jacket and pull out my debit card. It feels strange in my fingers. I crack one lid and hold it out toward her shadow. “Zero three... zero... five.”
“How much would you like?”
“Max,” I croak.
I see a yellow cab through bleary eyes. I can’t seem to focus on the shadow woman’s face.
Maybe she’s my mother, come to guide me through—
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I don’t so much step as fall into the cab. The driver jets off. I can’t remember if I told him where to go, or if I got my cash. The woman was...
I bend over. Clutch my head. I can’t remember how I got into the cab, can only think of—
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I crack my eyes open to a view of beads hanging from a rear-view mirror. Underneath it, the city marching by. “Do you...have sanitizer?” I rasp. “Hand—”
A bottle is thrust into my hands. My fingers shake.
“Here!” The driver snatches it away. I blink and swallow. My throat burns.
The bottle lands in my lap, the top flipped open. I squeeze some out into my palm. The
smell of alcohol consumes me.
The next time I open my eyes, we’re at the Carlyle. My throat hurts so much, it’s making things blur.
I can’t go back. I won’t.
I hand the man my debit card. He shakes his head. “She paid, before we leave.”
I nod. Okay.
But I’m not okay. I can’t get my legs to move. My head is spinning like a top. I start to cough. The short man comes around to help me. As he wraps his hand around my wrist and I try to shift my hips, my jacket flops open. His eyes fly to my chest, and then pop wide.
“Not here,” he says, shaking his head. “This no the right place. You not get out here.”
I laugh and struggle out, onto my feet and through the hotel’s automatic doors. I stagger into the lobby like a bear into a palace. I find the nearest chair and list into it, sweating.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to focus. Breathe.
I guess somehow I get a room. I get a room with the wad of cash tucked into my jacket pocket, and manage to ride the elevator up to it.
When I open my eyes, the clock beside this strange bed says 11:49 PM.
My throat is dry. It hurts so much I start to shake.
My stomach is awash with nausea, even as my body screams for food. I roll over on my side and am surprised to find a tray beside me on the bed. With a trembling hand, I lift the receipt. My eyes seem wet. I can’t read it.
I tear a piece of bread, but it’s no use. As soon as I feel it in the back of my throat, I’m vomiting.
I feel the edge of panic start to fray around me.
Soon, someone will come...
I slide off the bed and crawl over to a chair beside the window. So dark outside. Maybe just stay here on the floor...
TWO
Cleo
September 10, 2014
I step through the glass door slowly. Once, while I was still down on my hands and knees out on the balcony, I called his name. But that’s the only time.
