"I'm sorry, okay?" I murmur. "I got carried away."
"I know." She keens, low in the back of her throat. "But it really fucking hurts, Aeron."
"Can I see?" Can I take a photo?
She seems to shrink away from me and back into the wall. "It hurts to spread out like that."
"You know what? I'll call you a cab." I start up to find my cell.
"But I don't have any money."
"I'll pay. You just worry about finding your clothes."
"Thank you." She sniffs.
With the cab on the way, I end up searching for Rachel's clothes—half of them are still balled up under my comforter, where they came off. Her jeans are dark, which is lucky, but she has to stuff her panties with tissue paper so she doesn't leak everywhere. Problem with cutting inside her is that my band aids aren't exactly going to stick. I need to drink less liquor and make better plans.
The cab honks outside. Rachel, who is sweating on the bed and contorted sideways, looks up wearily into the faint glow of headlights.
"I'll help you down the stairs," I say like a gentleman, offering my arm. "You'll be fine in the morning, Rach. I promise."
It takes her another moment to get to her feet, and she winces with each step. "Hey. Um—is my book here? Can you get it?"
I force a smile. "Hang on, babe."
A book. She's apparently in great pain, but she wants her fucking book. I waste more precious seconds searching until I spot her beaten-up copy of American Psycho near the bed, on the floor. Its yellow spine is now anointed with a viscous spatter of blood.
"Thanks." She tucks it into her bag, rubbing her fingernail through the drying blood and scraping off the evidence.
Such disregard for something so beautiful. It angers me. Makes my fists feel heavy.
Rachel hobbles down the stairs like an old woman, and I walk beside her, restraining my flared temper with white knuckles and a bitten tongue. Even in the light of the hall, it's plain to see she's already bleeding through the tissue and her jeans. Shit. Her goodbye kiss isn't as passionate as usual; I don't get nearly enough of her tongue.
"Will you call me in the morning?" she whispers.
Ah. So she's not lost completely. "Always. Text me when you get home, okay?"
She attempts a smile, though it's thin and washed out. Wobbly. "I love you, baby."
"Love you too," I mumble into her hair, tucking a twenty into her back pocket. "Now go get some rest."
I watch Rachel hobble into the cab to pinch her legs together and read her book. I don't know why she bothers—I read three chapters and it was all a heap of narcissistic bullshit.
You know those books about delusional psychos, the screwed up dudes who make you laugh because the joke's really on them? I look at Rachel, who comes back to me each time so bloodied and broken...and I kinda think the joke's on girls like her.
#11
Peace (noun): the snatched second of weightlessness before you land a punch
The knot in my tie got pulled so tight that I have to cut Leo free. It was worth it. If ever I have to choose my preferred method of ruining a Gucci silk tie, I'll pick rubbing her wrists purple every time.
Afterward, she lies splayed on the bed with her pussy angled toward the lamp light, and I tend to her scalpel wound with the medikit I brought.
"Is it bad?" she asks quietly.
"Deep breath...this'll sting." I'm still talking when I push the antiseptic wipe across her cut; the tendons at the top of her thighs tighten and her belly ripples, but she manages to stay quiet. Scrubbed and sterilized, her skin is pink and angry, but it looks like it'll heal clean. "It probably feels bigger than it is."
"And how big is it?"
I hold my finger and thumb up, maybe an inch and a half apart.
She sighs. "Oh."
"You sound kinda disappointed."
Leo's laugh cedes into a whimper. "I don't know what I am."
I shake my bag, and out tumble boxes of butterfly stitches and dressings, their contents spilling across the sheets with a faint rustle. Then I peel the edge off a new wheel of white tape. "Stockings are probably out for a couple days."
"First world problems."
I grin up past her bare belly and flushed breasts. "Poor baby."
"Yeah, Aeron. Where's my sympathy?" She gropes around, pats my head. Segues into stroking my sweat-damp hair. "Although I quite like this playing doctors and nurses thing."
I lean forward and drag the tip of my tongue over her exposed clit, ushering a sweet little moan from her lips. "There's your sympathy." Then I can't stop myself, I keep going, dipping in over the rise of her vulva and then out along her smooth, tanned thigh. "God, there's a lot to feel sorry for."
"I like your pity," she breathes.
Perhaps because it feels like worship. Of all the places I could find religion, let's be honest—it was always going to be in a pussy. I just never guessed it would be hers. Is that what all this has been about, this seduction? Leaving offerings at her altar, putting my face in the hymn book and conjuring the right prayers...?
We make stupid small talk while I pretend to know what I'm doing. A couple butterfly stitches, loose dressing with tape, and she's patched up well enough. She's like having one of those Operation games.
When I'm done, I kiss my way back up her body, sucking in mouthfuls of pale gold breast and releasing broken capillaries and bruised pink skin. Each bite earns me a moan or curse in that haughty, lovely accent. She's my work-in-progress. My patchwork doll. By the time I reach her mouth for full-on kisses, her hands are running along my shoulders, rubbing into my hair again. We're pseudo-fucking, our hips bumping lazily and her thighs hooked over mine. Her familiar mulled wine scent is spiked with sex and antiseptic.
"You look different," she murmurs. "Seem different. More relaxed."
"I hear sex has that effect on people." I do feel relaxed. Peaceful, even. My efforts have finally come full circle and I'm basking in the glow.
"You know what I mean."
I tuck my palm underneath her and scrunch the cheek of her ass. "So who do you prefer then? Pre-fuck Aeron or post-fuck Aeron?"
Her smudged eyes grow darker. Deeper, if that's even possible. "Is there an option for mid-fuck Aeron? Because I'm all his."
"Huh." I'm panting. Still coming down. "That so?"
She chews her lip. Looks away before turning back to me. "I'm...ah. I'm yours. It's obvious, isn't it? Seems stupid." A nervous laugh escapes her lips. "I don't mean to come on all needy. I know this is just a—a thing—"
"Oh?"
"Don't be mean, Aeron."
I snort. "But it's my default setting."
"No, it isn't." She leans in, brushes a kiss below my ear. Her warm, wet mouth in the cool air makes me shiver. Then she whispers, "I just thought you should know."
Post-coital courtesy confession. I've never seen a meme for that on Facebook. "You want a drink?"
"I'd kill for one."
"Ha." I'm even picking up her mannerisms like some pathetic beta...and I'm too relaxed to give a shit. I heave myself up toward the door. "What can I get you?"
"Just water—and some painkillers from the bathroom, if you can find them. There's beer and pop in the fridge. Help yourself."
"What the hell is pop?"
She comes up on her elbows, jutting nipples first. "Soda. Sorry. I still forget I'm not in England sometimes."
"I like your crazy English words," I find myself muttering, almost more to myself than her. Well, there's my own confession. I won't tell if you don't, sports fans.
On the way back from the kitchen, I grab her old cell from the hall table and bring it in along with her glass of water, a box of ibuprofen and my can of Dr Pepper. Now tucked under the covers, Leo sits up to accept the glass, but when the phone lands in her lap, her brow dips in a flicker of concern.
"Did it go off?" She shuffles along so I can climb into bed beside her.
"Nope." Air rushes out as I crack the can open. I press my body into hers. "If you're going to be mine, we can't have any more secrets. Figured we'd start with the phone you use to contact Rachel."