by Jo Raven
All your fault, Ross, all your goddamn fault—and it’s Dad’s voice but it’s echoing inside my head, between my ears. Worthless dumb shit, I’ll kill your mother for dumping you on me, I’ll show the bitch... I’d sell your hide if I thought it was worth a fucking penny... I’ll show you what happens to little pussies like you... If I hear a single damn sound out of your mouth you’ll find out what pain really means...
The dark roars and twists around me, rocking me, blinding me, but this time, it’s not the belt that hits my back but a long knife, cutting through me, all the way to the heart—
I jerk awake, panting, a scream caught behind my teeth. Fuck, fuck, what...? Did that ever happen, did he say those things—?
A noise. Coming from across the house, from the trees. Someone is crashing through the weeds, stepping on rotting branches in the undergrowth.
A stupid fear grips me that Dad is here, come to punish me for... for what? Liking a girl? Missing her? For smashing the mirror and trying to change?
I’m on my feet and down the steps before I realize what I’m doing. No, it can’t be Dad, no way, he’s in prison, and you know it, Ross, or you would if your brain wasn’t so damn sleep-addled.
If it’s Ed and his buddies, I fucking swear to God...
I’m casting my eyes around for anything to use as a weapon, because fuck if they’re gonna descend on me while I’m still half-asleep and disoriented, looking for a branch or something I can swing like a bat, when I see her.
Not my fan club of bullies, but the girl I’ve been missing and thinking about.
“Luna!” Forgetting about the damn branch, I walk to her, starting to jog half way through the front yard to reach her faster. My arms stretch out, closing around her, doing their own thing, and I sigh in relief when she’s pressed to me. “You came.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, muffled against my chest. “I couldn’t... had to talk...”
I can barely make out what she’s saying, all lost in that overwhelming goddamn respite from the nightmares and the strange misery that grips me sometimes, turning the world dark—but it’s not just that. The relief is deeper, going all the way to the marrow of my bones, to the pit of my mind, turning the black into gold.
After some time, she pulls back and I let her go, shifting my hands to her face, not willing to release her just yet. Maybe it’s the nightmare still playing havoc with my senses, but my scars still burn, phantom pains all over my body, and the fangs of irrational fear are still worrying at my thoughts, mad dogs determined to haunt me till morning.
Her cheeks feel cool under my palms, and as I drag my thumbs under her eyes it finally dawns on me that something’s not okay.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“I feel so bad, Ross. I’ve been so wrong about many things.”
I wipe more tears from her eyes. “Whatever bad thing you think you’ve done, you have the consolation that it will never be as nasty as the things I’ve done in my life. You’re a good person, Lu. Unlike me.”
“You don’t understand. All these years I was convinced it was all Mom’s fault—leaving, not visiting, not calling us and now... now it turns out she may have had good reason, and I spent my time so upset with her, and Josh was following my example and... God, Dad must hate me.”
“I bet he doesn’t.”
“Ross...”
“No, listen, sweets. Let me tell you what it sounds like when your Dad fucking hates you. He’d say, look here, my bastards are worlds better than you, you dumb fuck. Living in the same town, proving themselves, when I’m saddled with a fucking retard, lazy as hell, too. Did I have better luck with your Mom? Nah. I got better bitches than her, too. I should have gotten rid of you along with her. What goddamn use do I have for you? You’d better work your ass off at the garage or I’m gonna kick you out on the street and see if you like it.”
It’s become a rant, retold in Dad’s bitter, angry voice, and it’s not until she folds her arms around me once more that I realize I’ve upset her more.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I mumble into her sweet-smelling curls and rub her back. “I’m a fucking idiot, that’s not what you needed to hear, I’m just...”
Still lost in the nightmare, in my past, dammit, and that bit of blank terror that tails my nightmares like the sting of a scorpion, hiding from my memories but waiting to strike—
“No, it’s okay,” she whispers, it’s okay, “God, you’re right. I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” I frown, confused, seeing faces in my mind, hearing distorted voices. I glance around to make sure I’m not in prison but in front of Dad’s house. “I just open my fucking big mouth every time and say whatever—”
She cups my face, pulls me down and kisses me. “Not your fault,” she whispers against my lips, “I understand now, it’s okay...”
I realize I’m shaking, and I blame the fucking nightmare for it, because it can’t be her words. “Words don’t matter,” she said, but they seem to be weaving a spell over me.
“Will you stay with me?” I ask and what I mean to say is, I need you, I can’t breathe without you, fuck please, say more of those useless words that are changing the fucking world.
“I’m staying,” she says and there it is, the magic word, and the bright smile I’d give everything to keep on her face. “I want to stay, and I don’t... I don’t care about the rest of the world. I’ll stay if you want me here.”
“You have no fucking idea,” I mutter, and it comes out so fucking choked that I have to swallow hard before I speak again. “No fucking idea, sweets, how much.”
***
We fall on the sofa and lie together in silence, a hurricane lantern I found in a kitchen cupboard the other day the only light.
I wrap her up in my darkness, buying time while I’m trying to think of a way to comfort her, reassure her. Her breath is feather-soft on my neck, her legs tangled with mine. She’s wearing a summer dress, white and blue, and my fingers brush over it, finding tiny buttons running along the front. Then I brush over bare smooth skin, and have to tamp down the want that flares whenever I’m around her.
“What kind of music do you like?”
I blink. “What?”
It’s the last damn thing I expected her to ask me tonight. When I look down, I find her eyes on me, wide and curious. Innocent.
“What music do you listen to?” she insists. “What hobbies do you have? What interests? It occurred to me that... I know practically nothing about you.”
“Apart from the asshole part.” I bare my teeth at her.
“No, I... you’re not like that, Ross.”
I laugh, and it comes out more bitter than I’d intended. “You sure about that?” She has such faith in me, it slays me. She’s... unlike any girl I’ve ever known. Honest, strong, persistent, sweet.
Everything I’m not.
“Yes, I am.”
It shuts me up, and gets me thinking. “Well I just like...classic rock and rap, I guess? I’m not really into music.”
She shifts against me, to see me better, a smile on her face. “Oh? What are you into, then?”
You, I think and bite back a sigh. “Engines. Cars. Bikes.”
“That can’t be all that interests you.”
“I dunno, sweet cheeks. I was never good at school, not like you were. I was never much for history and art, literature and the likes.”
“Your dad... probably didn’t approve of such time-wasting stuff, did he?”
I shake my head, feel heat seep into my face—anger, embarrassment when I remember Dad ranting about stuff I liked. “Art and music? Literature. You mean fairytales. That’s for sissies. You go work on that engine like a man, and I never want to hear again what your idiot of a teacher told you about art waves and bullshit. Men only talk of sports and cars, you hear me?”
“I don’t think... art is bad. Or music.” Wh
y is it so hard to get the words out?
I blink and she’s smiling at me expectantly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Rock is cool. I thought...” I duck my head, draw a breath. “I thought I’d learn to play the electric guitar one day.”
“Sounds great. I love rock music.”
I glance up, startled. “You do?” Her green eyes have that sparkle they get when she’s on... a mission, of sorts. When she gets an idea in her head that she deems important, one that makes her happy.
“Yeah. Dad got me into it since I was little. I have it on my phone. Want me to play you some songs?”
“Not now. I... like the silence.”
She nods, as if she understands. I hate silence, but I like hearing her voice. Finding out what she likes.
Then she catches me by surprise again when she asks, “Why do you like metal?”
“Metal?”
The blush on her face turns darker, touching the tips of her ears. It’s... fucking cute. “In your dick. You told me once, it was to “feel”. What did you mean by that?”
Ah fuck, she says “dick” like it’s such a bad word, and I’m rock hard, aching to stop this conversation or turn it down a dirty path leading straight to the gutter. But this seems important to her, like she really wants to know more about me.
“I didn’t mean anything,” I hedge.
“No lies, Ross. Tell me.”
I shift on the sofa, groaning when my hard-on presses on the inside of my jeans. She has to know I crave her like a drug when she’s around, that even when she’s not, my dick is still so hard it can drive nails through a wall, always ready to go.
But it seems I will have to answer this question that seems so important to her—if I can keep my dick in my pants long enough for an intelligent conversation, that is. Even if it’s one I’d rather never have.
“When I was in prison,” I start and have to stop, bury my fingers in her curls for something to ground me as the black maw of memory threatens to open and swallow me whole, “I went... through some bad shit.” Understatement of the year. Faces sneering down at me, pills rattling in a bottle, distorted voices and a hospital room... “After I was released, I couldn’t... couldn’t feel much. Not here,” I rock my hips a little, just to hiss in pleasure when my hard dick rubs on the inside of my pants, “or... here.” I lift my hand, rub at my chest. “I felt so fucking empty.”
“And the metal helped?” Her voice is small. I scared her, I think, uneasy, when I look down and find her eyes round.
“No.” I chuckle. “Nothing helped.” I tug on her curls, pulling her head back lightly until I can bend and kiss her mouth. “Until you.”
***
Morning finds us tangled up on the sofa, as I come up for air from the viper pit of dreams I keep falling into. Telling her bits and pieces seems to bring the memories closer to the surface—though sleeping with her molded to me helps me go back to sleep whenever I wake up. So it’s been a restless night, for both of us.
This time, though, I’m wide awake and sleep doesn’t seem like an option. Instead, I lie there, gazing down at her, memorizing the fine lines of her face, her body.
It’s the first time we’ve just slept together, no sex, no getting off in any way. It was...nice, my mind supplies the word. Pleasant. Peaceful. Well, as much as my dreams allowed.
My arm that’s trapped underneath her is numb, but I don’t wanna move. Her lashes flutter, her mouth is soft and rosy. A stray curl rests on her cheek. I want to brush it away, stroke her face.
Sunlight slants through the window slats, turning her hair to burnished copper, her skin to porcelain. Her dress has ridden up her legs and her panties peek out at the curve of her hip—pale blue lace. My body is tired from the lack of deep sleep, but my dick has a mind of its own, and just that glimpse of skin and lace is enough to get me from half-hard to granite in the space of a damn second.
Eventually I have to shift. My hard-on is a painful throb where it’s trapped awkwardly in my jeans, and I need to get some feeling back into my arm. I do my best to slip away from under her without waking her, but the moment I move, her eyes blink open.
Shit.
She smiles, though, and uncurls slowly, stretching her arms over her head—giving me a nice view of her cleavage. Fuck, her tits are almost spilling out the top of her dress, and I can’t quite swallow a groan of need. “Morning,” she whispers.
“Rise and shine.” I wink at her, and then groan for a different reason. My bladder is full to bursting, though how I can take a piss when my dick is hard like a rock, I dunno. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah. But you...” Doubt enters her gaze. “You barely slept at all.”
“I’m fine.” I shift again and she sits up, a frown creasing her forehead. “Swear to God.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Need to take a leak.”
Her gaze drops to my crotch, the tent there, and her smile widens, teasing. “A leak, huh?”
I shrug, grin. “Your fault. You’re too damn sexy.”
She lowers her hand over the bulge in my pants, cupping my erection, and I jerk, a surprised moan escaping me. “Need help with this?”
“Is that a trick question? Hell yeah. But...” I don’t know why I stop her, lifting her hand, not letting her unzip my jeans. “Luna...”
“What is it?”
“Come here.” Ignoring my unhappy dick, I gather her in my arms. “I... need to hold you.”
I don’t recognize myself. Asking for these things. A guy doesn’t ask for hugs, to be held, doesn’t show weakness, but as she falls into my embrace and clings to me, I know that it’s okay. I’m allowed. She doesn’t mind.
And I hang on to her until the last wisps of the dreams and memories fade.
“You’re still hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, and I almost laugh, but I’m afraid it will turn into something else. My throat feels clogged, my chest tight.
“Yeah.”
“Ross...”
“Just... gimme a moment.” I don’t even trust my voice, it’s too thick. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“It’s okay,” she says after a few breaths, and her hands draw circles on my back, a mirror of what I did for her last night. “It’s okay. Hey... I have a question.”
I draw a long breath, fight whatever it is that’s gripped me so hard. “What?”
“Am I your girlfriend?”
I still, the breath I drew burning my lungs. Then I pull away and paste on a grin. “Girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Then she laughs, cheeks reddening. “God, this is so high school. Sorry.”
“No. I mean, yes.”
Fuck.
“Make up your mind.” But she’s still laughing, softly now, unsteadily. Nervously. “Yes or no?”
“I just... don’t get it. Why would you wanna be with me?” I blurt out.
“Can’t you tell why?” she whispers, and I shake my head.
I don’t... I can’t. Can’t figure this out. The heavy feeling is back, pressing on my chest. My scars are itching like hell, and I have the sudden damn urge to get out of here.
I get to my feet so fast I almost fall over, and then I’m muttering some excuse and getting the hell out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind me. Fuck, I can’t breathe.
Stumbling down the porch steps, I lurch down, toward the river. I need...something but dunno what it is. My skin feels like it’s stretched too tight over my bones.
“Can’t you tell why?”
Too much, it’s too damn much, the weight of this moment, the pleasure of it, still undefined but still reeling me in so fast my head is spinning. What is she trying to tell me, to show me? How can I trust it? She’s sweet. I don’t trust... sweet, and kind. Makes me suspicious. I always thought kindness is a trap, a snare, until she came. My gut tells me to keep poking at it, testing it, fighting it to see if it’s real—and then I have to fight to make myself stop and believe it.
It’s damn e
xhausting.
Peeling my T-shirt off, I stop at the edge of the water and crouch down to splash my face.
Her concern, her affection, her forgiveness, her smiles. They’re real, right? They’re real. Let her in, Ross. Let your girl in.
I’m chanting this new mantra to myself, over and over, waiting for it to sink in and take root, when I hear steps behind me. By the time I get up and turn, she’s taken a step back, a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in the morning light.
“Oh God, Ross... your back.”
Well, fuck. Fuck me for forgetting about it, for thinking she wouldn’t mind the ugly scars and the story of weakness they tell. That takes care of my hard-on, that’s for damn sure. It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over my back.
My turn to step back and I almost fall into the stream, my bare feet slipping on rocks and pebbles, a new mantra forming in my mind, and it goes like this: “fuckfuckfuckfuck...”
“Did your dad do that?” she asks, a horrified whisper that sends me another step back into the cold water, the hems of my jeans drenched and heavy. “How did he...? That wasn’t done with a knife.”
“His belt,” I hear myself reply, my voice oddly calm despite the howling inside my head. “The buckle cuts deep if you hit hard enough.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” she whispers, hushed. “All these years...”
“I’m sorry.” I try to swallow, my throat bone-dry. “I know they’re damn ugly. Didn’t want you to see.”
Ugly as sin.
But she comes to me, turns me around to take a better look and I let her. I can’t hide from her anymore. Let her have her fill.
I think I’m holding up pretty damn good, keeping it together, standing there and letting the memories buffet me as she stares at the proof of my failings, crisscrossed over my upper back and shoulders. I think I’m all right, keeping inside the roar of pain that wants to rip out of me.
But then she reaches up and touches my scars, her fingertips featherlight on scarred, half-numb tissue, and the maw finally opens and sucks me in.
“You should have told me,” I hear her say through the roaring in my ears. “These are old. You must’ve been so little. God, you should have told me.”