And like a crazy girl I smile.
I smile because he’s giving me a hickey.
He’s taking a bite out of my pulse, my heart, the heart that’s filled with all the love for him, and I come.
My womb contracts.
My pussy clenches over his ramming length and I have to give up the violins pulsing through the wall and arch up against his chest.
But it’s okay.
I’ll give up everything for him, all the sad love songs and all the bike rides. All the desolate bridges and lonely places.
I’ll give up myself because I belong to him.
I belong to my darling Arrow.
As soon as I think that, he comes too.
He comes with a roar, his hands clenching and clenching my flesh and his hips stumbling and jerking against me.
His cock expands so much that I think the latex will burst and all the ropes of his cum will shower over my womb. And my greedy, lovesick womb will absorb it like I absorbed the violins and his violent fucking.
My entire body will absorb him.
Absorb everything he gives me.
The guy I’m in doomed love with.
My Arrow.
Something is wrong.
Very, very wrong.
I mean, of course I knew that. I knew that something was wrong because not only did he come back from LA feeling all mysterious and strangely restless, he also actually told me that he had a shitty week.
So I know things aren’t all that great.
But then as soon as we were done back in the alley behind the bar and he dressed me up like I’m really his doll – without looking into my eyes though and with very tight, angry movements – it started to snow.
The very first snow of the season.
That’s when I realize it’s November now. Mid November.
I’ve been at St. Mary’s for two and a half months. That’s almost the same amount of time that Arrow – new Arrow – has been back.
Ever since he arrived, I’ve lost all sense of time. I’ve been living in a dream, walking on clouds and I don’t like the reminder.
I don’t like this reality check.
I don’t like the snow either.
I know people think snow is pretty and auspicious and whatnot. But I’m the girl who loves summer and sunshine and open roads.
Snow interferes with all of that.
Now I have this foreboding in my chest that something awful is going to happen.
But I try to push it aside. I try to be rational and strong as I climb off his motorcycle when we reach St. Mary’s.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, the wind brings the flakes of snow into my face and I huddle inside his vintage leather jacket that I’d worn to the bar. And I’m reminded of the first night that I saw him, kissing that girl.
He was so unapproachable back then, so deliberately tight-lipped.
And right now, he appears exactly like that first night. Tight and agitated. He hasn’t even looked at me, actually.
He’s staring straight ahead, into the darkness, his back all rigid. His fingers are clenched so tightly around the handlebars that I want to reach out and loosen them up.
I want to loosen him up.
Clutching the lapels of his jacket around my neck, I ask, “What happened?”
‘In LA’ is implied, I think.
I’m right when he clenches his jaw and says without looking at me, “You should go.”
I take a step closer. “Arrow, tell me what happened?”
This time, the clench lasts longer. He even flexes his fists around the throttle. “I said you should go.”
The longer he doesn’t look at me, the louder my heartbeats become, and I have to grab the sleeve of his wrinkled suit jacket. “Arrow, please. Tell me. Did you see her? Did you see Sarah?”
I’m not sure if it’s because I’m clutching onto the sleeve of his damp jacket or if it’s the mention of her name, but he snaps his eyes over to me.
His dark, furious eyes.
And God, again, I think of the first night at the bar.
When the mention of my sister’s name changed everything.
It changed everything that I believed in. Everything that I thought to be true.
That just makes me even more frantic, more desperate. Desperate enough to pull at his sleeve with not one but both hands.
“Arrow, tell me. Did you see her? What’d she say?”
“Leave,” he says curtly.
But I don’t listen. I can’t listen.
How can I leave when he looks like this? When he looks… so furious and so flushed with anger. So scarlet, like his blood is rushing too close to the surface.
“Not until you tell me.” I shake my head. “Just tell me what happened. Tell me what she said.”
“Salem. Just leave.”
His voice is quiet but it’s dripping with warning. It’s dripping with authority and a heavy threat. I should heed it.
I know that.
But the next question that bursts out of my mouth is so reckless, so fucking thoughtless and yet so urgent and important that I don’t know how else I could have said it, if not in a squeaky, high voice, with my nails digging into his arm, my body trembling with dread.