by Ella James
We come fast and hard, within seconds of each other. He’s sagging against me when he bolts up. “Fuck!”
“What?”
“No condom!”
I laugh. “We have a bit of a history with the no condom. But it’s okay.” I wrap a hand around his damp nape, guiding his head back to the crook of my arm. “I’m on birth control, and I figured if you thought you might not be clean, you wouldn’t do it.”
“I am—clean,” he murmurs. “I’ve…actually never done this with anyone but you.”
“No?”
He shakes his head.
We lie in a tangled heap. His arms wrap around me, so he’s holding me against him, shifting so my cheek’s against his chest. I look up at the ceiling.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers.
“You are.”
“No,” he murmurs, heavy-lidded. He pulls blankets over me, then slides out of the covers and rubs them over my hips and my legs. “Wait right here.”
Dash is low on food, but he has two nice, ripe bananas, so we eat those in his bed and then we fuck again, this time so slowly I think I’m going to cry.
Twenty
Dash
I wake up in the wee hours of Monday morning, having dreamed about a masquerade ball. Am was a torero and I was a bull. Somehow, she wound up bleeding. I wake up fully, and she’s in my bed, her lashes soft on her cheeks, her hair everywhere, her breaths soft on my throat. I can’t comprehend it, so I go into the bathroom, wash my face.
When I was younger, I was, for a while, obsessed with karma. I read the Upanishads and spent a lot of time thinking about reincarnation—wanting, I guess, for what happened to me to make some sort of sense. Of course, it didn’t. Not without the context of some past life which would have seen me doing terrible things worthy of punishment.
I tried to tell myself I didn’t deserve it. That I was innocent and clean: merely a victim of my circumstances.
I look into the mirror and try to believe that now. My scruffy face, my tired eyes. Do I look like a blameless man? Do I look like a bull?
Amelia
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday blur together—in the best way. Dove has gotten all the pre-production green lights, so at work we fall into a frenzied pace, our little studio alive with chatter, art, and energy. We all pull late nights, eager to present our best, and Dash and I find time to slip into a closet here and there. We ride home every night together and he walks me into my apartment, where we throw our clothes off and dive into my covers. Afterward, we shower, Dash tries to help me eat curry with chopsticks, we watch HGTV, I make slice and bake cookies.
He never stays the night, but that’s okay. Before he goes, he kisses me just right and rubs his brow against my brow and smooths my hair back off my face. And I feel dear. Like someone treasured.
Weeks slip by, and we grow bolder, worshipping each other’s bodies, brushing up on each other’s tastes, cooking new things, and sometimes even just falling asleep together after a long day.
My best friend Lucy finds out that she’s pregnant—she had a one night stand with that hottie Prince Liam in Southampton—and I can tell she’s panicking, so I fly out to Colorado. When I get home, I find Dash sitting in front of my door with a bag of Chinese food and two Dr. Peppers.
He kisses me so long and hard, my legs feel weak—and then we go inside, and he spends half the night between my knees.
“I want to take you out,” he tells me quietly when we’re lying in the dark. I’ve got the curtains open in my room, so we can see the city glitter.
“Yeah?” I trace a circle on his upper arm, and Dash sighs, his head leaned against me.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, mister. I could be persuaded.”
“Friday?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I stroke his hair. “Where do you want to go?”
“I know a taco place.”
“Taco ’bout awesome.” I giggle.
“Don’t worry, Am. I guac this.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I can feel his body still. “You want it to be a date?” he says at last.
“I do.” I know him well enough—I think I do—to detect worry underneath his words. Instead of being insecure that he would even ask, I try to reassure him. Mostly with my mouth and hands.
That night, he stays over and sleeps behind me, his big, thick arms wrapped around me like a cloak. How easy, I think the next day. How easy all this is.
The week is long and challenging and fun, so Friday after work when we ride home together, I’m excited. We kiss in the car and then he walks me to my door and says he needs to go.
“Aww,” I whine. I tug on his striped t-shirt.
“I’ve got something to pick up.” He winks.
He kisses me, and as I watch him walk away, I think how surreal this still sort of is. Dash and me: an item after all.
We’re supposed to meet at Taco Roberto’s—a place two blocks away—at seven. I put on a short black dress and strappy sandals, leaving my hair down and wavy. I can’t help but smile as I take the elevator down into the lobby, where I almost hope I’ll run into Dash.
I get to the restaurant first and, since we have a reservation, I’m taken to my seat, where I order two beers and chips with cheese dip. Again, I can’t help smiling, this time as I tell the waiter that I’m waiting for my boyfriend.
I came back from Southampton willing to coast and keep an open mind, but I feel surer now, more comfortable, more able to let the past live there and see what happens in the present.
Dash is running late, so I order an appetizer. When my beer is finished and I haven’t heard from him, I text under the table cloth.
‘Hey—you okay?’
Ten minutes later, I ask the staff if they might have seated him somewhere else. Forty minutes later, I pay for my food and Dash’s unclaimed beer and start walking toward our building.
There’s a deep pit in my stomach, that old, awful feeling that something terrible has happened.
‘Dash—please text. I’m worried,’ I send as I walk.
Thirty minutes later, as I sit on my couch hugging a pillow and debating knocking on his door, I get a reply. ‘Something came up. Sorry.’
Something came up. Sorry.
Just like that, it all falls down.
I’m not proud of myself. I’m aware that I have good qualities, and among those qualities are optimism and forgivingness. That’s all well and good—for normal, everyday life. When those things don’t work? When they work against me? Any time Dash Frasier is concerned?
I’m stupid.
Blind.
Who threw themselves at whom?
Oh, right—that was me who first leaned over right in front of him to grab my not-really-dropped pencil.
Who asked for that first ride home?
I accepted his apology why? It wasn’t even a good one. Why’d he leave the way he did that summer? He claimed he didn’t feel worthy. Was that the problem last night, too?
I realize, as I cry and watch The Princess Bride and cry into a bowl of ice cream, that—as cliché as this sounds—Dash is obviously some kind of commitment-phobe. Maybe it is because he doesn’t feel worthy. I don’t know. I never saw him as someone with a self-esteem issue, but maybe he has one. It’s true his parents were almost never around when he was growing up, and Mr. Frasier had some definite asshole tendencies.
I think of texting Saturday night—a split-second urge, fueled by worry about him—but I rein myself in. I have a glass of wine and curl up in my bed, looking at the city through my windows as I drift into a fitful sleep.
Sunday I am sad. Just really sad. That I thought we had something we didn’t. I allowed myself to want it so much. God, I really wanted it. Why can’t I stop wanting him?
I will, I promise myself.
I will find another guy, damnit, and he will be superior to Dash. He will want me. He will love me. He’ll want more than sex.
I’m sitting on my couch with
an ice pack on my swollen eyes when my phone rings. It’s a local number: a Nashville number. I answer, thinking it’s someone from work.
“Hello…Amelia?”
“This is her.”
“Hey. This is Poppy. I know you don’t know me, but I work at The Wasted Quarter Horse.”
“Um, what?”
“It’s a bar. In Nashville.”
“Okay…”
“Right. So I work here, and every week we have this thing called Trivia Tuesdays. A group of people from Imagine entertainment always comes, and there’s this guy who comes sometimes. Hottie with glasses. His name is Dash. Do you know him?”
My stomach curls into a small, unpleasant ball as I say, “Yeah.”
“He came here Friday, sat alone, and drank a lot. I’ve never seen him drunk, but he got pretty shit-faced. Left at closing. I didn’t see him yesterday but he came back today and drank all day. Like—allllll day. I think he’s passed out now, and I don’t want to call the cops. He always seemed like a nice guy. Anyway, he left his wallet on the table and I found a sticky note with your name and phone number. Are you somebody who—”
“He’s passed out?”
“Yeah. He pretty much is. Maybe I should call the police, and they could put him—”
“No. Hold on.” I put a hand up to my forehead. “You said you’ve never seen him drink?”
“I have, I just haven’t seen him drunk.”
“Was he with other people?”
“No. And here’s the thing… He came in Friday in a shirt with stripes, and he’s still wearing it today. I just…I—”
“Stay there. Okay? Stay there with him. I’m coming. Where are you?”
I dress quickly, throw on flip-flops, and rush down to the parking garage, where I put the Quarter Horse into my GPS and pull into the line of downtown traffic. There’s not much—it’s a Sunday night—and the Quarter Horse isn’t far. I try to keep my mind quiet as I drive there. I don’t know what’s going on; I’m going to find out. I start to second-guess coming to get him, but I stop myself. Maybe this is why he doesn’t drink much. Maybe he has issues with alcohol. All I know for sure is he was wearing a striped shirt last time I saw him, and Dash is one of those guys who always showers, every single night, no matter how long and tiring our day was.
I parallel park in front of the Quarter Horse, slowing for only a moment under the awning before I take a deep breath and walk in.
I know Dash’s artwork on the back wall within a second or two of looking at it. I don’t really get the faerie link, but I know Dash painted that wall. Probably a year or two ago, based on the style. I’m blinking at the wall when a pretty, red-haired waitress says, “It’s seat yourself, but we’re closing—”
I shake my head, casting a quick glance around the bar. “I’m here to get someone.”
“Oh! Amelia from the sticky note.”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
I follow Poppy to the back of the room, where we hang a left into a larger room. I see Dash slumped over a table in the back corner and my throat constricts.
“He’s not completely passed out. I think with some help, you can get him to a car. Did you drive?”
I nod, wanting her to shut up, to go away, but she goes over to the table with me, watching as I gently shake his shoulder.
“Dash?”
He moans and folds an arm over his head. I notice several empty glasses on the table.
“Who kept serving him?”
“It wasn’t me,” the girl says.
“Dash?” With my hand on his thick shoulder, I slide into the booth beside him. “Hey—it’s Ammy. Dash? Can you sit up?”
To my surprise, he does. His eyes are bloodshot, sagging; they look tired as hell. What I really notice is the lack of glasses. Then I notice that his jaw is bruised and puffy.
“Am?” His eyes roll slightly.
“Hey—it’s me. C’mon. We’re going home now. Can you stand up?” I’m surprised when he blinks slowly, looks around, and starts moving toward me. I slide out of the booth, and Dash follows. I hold my arm out to him, looking in the booth as his big hand closes around my arm.
“Did he have glasses?” I ask the waitress.
“On the floor,” Dash slurs.
Sure enough—they’re underneath the booth. I grab them, slide them on his face, and wrap an arm around him.
“C’mon… I’m driving.”
He mumbles something I can’t understand, and then we’re walking toward my car. I open the passenger’s side door and he plops down, his eyes rolling a little as I shut the door.
Good God.
By the time I get into the driver’s seat, he’s snoring.
He smells like alcohol and sweat. When I turn, en route to our building, he falls slightly to the left. I push his shoulder, and his head hits the window.
“Shit!”
When I park the car and shake him, he gives me a few dull blinks and then a small smile. “Ammy…”
“C’mon, D. We’re going inside…”
I help him out and watch his profile as I help him inside. He’s all eyes and a solemn, frowning mouth. In the elevator, he wraps his arm around me and leans on me—so hard I feel like he might take me down with him.
“We’re going to go to my place,” I tell him. I don’t feel entirely welcome at his place right now, and if I’m going to take care of him, I’d rather do it where I feel the most at ease.
By the time we reach my door, I’m feeling miserable and misguided. I shouldn’t have gotten him. I shouldn’t have. But now he’s here and… I don’t know. Maybe I could break into his phone and call someone. But who? If he has a drinking problem, would it be wrong to tell the studio he’s off the wagon?
Maybe it would be right.
I sigh and lead him in. I’m going to put him on the couch, but when we get into the den, he just keeps walking—into my bedroom, into the bathroom, where he shuts the door and then turns on the sink.
I hear the click of something falling onto the floor—as if he knocked something off the vanity—and then the door swings open. Dash is shirtless, eyebrows rumpled, his eyes blinking slowly.
“Am?” His head lolls back as his eyes scan my room. “Am I at your place?”
“Yes.”
He frowns, and in a hoarse voice says, “I drank too much.”
“I think you did.”
I stare at him, and he stares back. I wait for him to mention our date, but he just looks right through me, seeming tired and troubled.
“I’m gonna shower,” he says. Then the door is shut, and I’m in my room by myself. I hear the water run, and then I hear him getting sick.
Perfect.
I tell myself when he comes out, I’ll offer him my bath robe and some sweat pants and I’ll send him packing. If he can’t talk about the way he stood me up, he needs to get out of my place.
I feel a shot of guilt as I listen to him gag and groan, but I shove it aside. I’m not going in there and taking care of him. God knows I don’t have a lot of self-respect, but what I do have, I’m looking to hold onto.
It’s a while before he re-emerges, freshly showered, one of my plush towels hanging from his chiseled hips.
I notice, as he steps toward me, that he’s not wearing glasses. Then his arms are wrapped around me and his head is on my shoulder and he’s kissing my neck.
“Ammy—please.” The words sound gasped.
“Please what?” My arms hang at my sides.
Dash cups my head, kisses my throat. “I need you. I need you.”
“I can’t…”
“Please,” he moans.
“You didn’t come Friday.”
“I know.” His mouth is on mine, and I’m kissing him; not because it’s smart, but because I just respond to him. I close my hand around his nape and let him kiss me. I’m surprised he tastes so good and minty, that he’s coordinated enough to make me pant, to get me on my back on my bed, where
he strips my clothes off and kisses up and down my inner thighs.
“I’m sorry… So, so sorry… I love you,” he breathes against my leg.
My body stills.
“I love you. I’m sorry…”
I can’t move as he licks his way up to my center, parts me with his tongue, and traces slow circles around my clit. He slides a finger into me, then adds another one…and then they curl and thrust as he laps at my clit, working me into a fervor, so I’m clutching his hair, moaning, arching up against him.
“God… oh God…”
I don’t just come—I come apart. When he gathers me in his arms, I drip tears onto his chest and Dash runs his fingers slowly through my hair. We stay like that forever, and he starts to whisper, “Sorry... I’m so sorry, Ammy… I’m sorry.”
His eyes are closed, I note when I look. He looks solemn, not quite conscious somehow. In a way I can’t describe, it feels like he is somewhere else. Like he is someone else. So when he spreads me out and moves between my legs, it’s this Dash I’m responding to. Dash with glowing, somber eyes, Dash with his body bathed in city light. Dash who whispers, “I love you” against my chest and pushes into me and holds my face while I gasp. This Dash fucks me hard and steady, almost gently.
He comes with a hoarse sound in his throat, and then he’s moving off me, handing me his towel; his eyes meet mine for one split second in the dark glow of my room, and then he’s stretching out beside me.
Passing out, I think. Except when I get back from cleaning up, I find his shoulders shaking.
“Dash…?”
I touch him cautiously between his shoulder blades and feel how damp his skin is. Then I hear his low sob, blunted by my pillow. I’m so stunned, I wait a few more beats, until it’s crystal clear that Dash is weeping. I scoot slowly closer, wrap my arms around him.
“Dash…?”
He turns toward me, so he can pull me up against him. With his arms locked tight around me, he rests his face against my neck.
“Am,” he groans, “my sister’s dead.”
Twenty-One
