VENGEFUL QUEEN

by St. Germain, Lili

  Rome takes a half step back and rips his shirt over his head, then tosses it onto the hood of the car. It’s still hot, the engine still idling, but he makes it safe for me and lifts me into his arms, shoving me back onto the hood. He yanks down my panties and they’re lost to the desert sands—I don’t care. He shoves my legs apart and pushes my dress up to my hips, bending to kiss my clit. It’s a glancing, tender kiss and it turns me into a column of burning flame.

  The sun loses more and more heat by the minute, but the car is warm underneath me and Rome’s body is hot between my legs. He drags me to the edge of the car hood with a low groan and pushes inside me and yes, yes, this is what I’ve always needed, this is what I’ve always been searching for. My nipples pull tight at the intimate knowledge that someone could drive up any second, catching us in the headlights. Rome pulls at the front of my dress, letting my breasts bounce free of the thin material, and my nipples, exposed to the night air, stiffen to diamond-hard peaks.

  No one sees us, but I feel like we’re in the spotlight anyway, on display for the whole world to see. The real world. Not the fake world of jail cells and dungeons and Capulets and Montagues. The real world is here, in the desert, in the wild. It’s a full-circle moment from the horror we lived through in that dungeon, from the moment Rome was shot and bleeding out, as I was held down and raped like a lioness in the wild while he was forced to watch. I thought that moment would kill us both, but we’re still here, still alive, and we escaped. We’re far away from that hellhole, and we’re together, and goddamn it, we survived.

  Rome fucks me with abandon, hand tracing my throat, palming my breasts, bracing my hip. I crane my neck up so I can kiss the healed bullet wound marring his shoulder, a physical testament to our captivity. It’s beautiful, the way we both carry marks only we have endured, only we have witnessed, only we have survived. I gasp as I get closer to breaking apart, each breath coming harder and closer. Rome spreads my legs wider and looks down, slowing. Slow, deliberate thrusts. He’s memorizing this and I’m trying, I’m fucking trying, but all I can do is stare at him, his face framed by the rising moon and a sky full of stars. All I can do is hang on for the steady roll of him inside me. Pulling away. Pushing back in. We were made to fit together, I think. We were made to be one.

  The moment expands and becomes infinite, and then it contracts again in a haze of pleasure. An orgasm sneaks up and tackles me from behind, dragging me under. I come hard around Rome’s cock, screaming into the still night. He fucks me through it, his pace unrelenting, and it’s only at the bitter end that he pulls out and spills himself on my shaking thigh.

  He takes a moment to catch his breath, taking the t-shirt from underneath me and wiping my leg clean. Then he pulls me down and takes me in his arms again. My legs are jelly, my knees rubber. They’re nothing. So I lean against Rome like he is the last structure standing in a plundered world. I drag my nails lightly over his chest, pressing my ear to it, his steady heartbeat anchoring me back to the earth. After a few minutes, I let him rearrange my dress, pressing my breasts safely back into the thin material, smoothing down the skirt to cover my bare pussy and thighs. We never do find the panties, but that’s okay. I have more in my suitcase. I help him back into his shirt. When he leans down to kiss me again, I let him. I let him take as long as he wants. For this moment, at least, we’re finally free.

  “You taste good,” I murmur into his mouth. “Have you been hiding mints from me?”

  “You taste like you should get fucked on the roof of this car again,” Rome answers.

  “We’re on the side of the road. You want to get caught like this?” The breeze picks up and rustles through his dark hair.

  “I’d get caught like that every damn day if it meant I got to fuck you.”

  I suck in a breath, take a step back, arrange myself. Rome does the same. It’s so heated, so reckless, and the energy of it crackles over the empty space around us. Every time we’ve had sex–twice in total, and both of those times today– the aftermath hasn’t been satisfying. It’s as if the desire only increases every time he pulls out of me. He’s more addictive than heroin. Instead of feeling pleasantly sated, I feel unhinged, possessed. I look at him and I want to drop to my knees and suck his cock until he comes down my throat, I want him to press me down onto the car hood and fuck me again, I want to put my tongue on every inch of his skin and mark it as my own.

  I can tell he feels the same way.

  I blink, clear my throat, take a step away from the man I’m completely obsessed with. I cannot get fucked again right now. If I do, I’ll faint. Then what is he going to do? Drive to Joshua Tree with a passed-out girl in the passenger seat?

  I take one last look out over the stretch of desert. This is a two-track, not completely untouched space, which means that someone will be along sooner or later. “Okay,” I tell Rome. “I’m good to drive.”

  “Not a fucking chance,” he says good-naturedly. “I’ll drive. Get in the car.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AVERY

  The rest of the night slips away. The second I sit down in the passenger seat, exhaustion pulls me under and I fall deeply asleep. The next thing that wakes me up is the sunrise. My eyes are glued together with old mascara and sleep, and I rub at them for a while before reality jolts me fully awake. We’re free.

  The reality of Rome, driving my dad’s car, is surreal. He looks rumpled and delicious and I want more of him. Rome catches me looking out of the corner of his eye.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up? I thought we were taking turns. How far—hey. We’re here.” This is the Joshua Tree of social media fame. Stacked boulders teeter on top of one another and the massive agave trees have been pulled right from a Dr. Seuss book. The mountains. Holy shit, the mountains. I’ve seen mountains plenty of times before, but not like this. Not at sunrise with Rome. And up ahead....

  Trailers.

  An echo of the laughter we shared over these trailers passes through me like a ghost.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I whisper. “These are the trailers.” They sit close together in neat gatherings, and more than one has colorful fabric stretched between the gaps. Outdoor decks. It really is heaven. “This is magical.”

  Rome’s hand comes down on mine. “Be careful, Aves.”

  “Careful of what?” I want his hand on mine, but not as a warning.

  “It’s magic, right? It’s not reality. Don’t mistake it for reality.”

  Fine. I won’t do that. But another worry quickly descends as I glance at the clock built into the dash. It’s not even six a.m.

  “Are we going to wake everybody up?”

  “Doubt it.” Rome pulls into a spot in front of one of the trailers. “These hippies are usually up with the sun for one reason or another.” He stretches, then glances into the mirror. “Let’s let them know we’re here before they get the wrong idea. And if they do...come here. I’ll show you.”

  We get out of the car and he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me away from the trailers.

  “Woah.”

  “Yeah.”

  This isn’t just a row of trailers sandwiched next to some highway. This place is gigantic. The open plain is dotted with...

  “Are those yurts?”

  Rome nods. “I didn’t want to say it...you know. Back there. Because I thought you’d kill yourself laughing.” He means it literally and it’s so sad, but also true.

  “All right. Let’s do this.” Before I back out.

  Nervousness bands itself around my lungs. I haven’t seen Rome’s dad since I was a child. And now we’re on a commune, which seemed a lot more quaint in my torture-house fantasies. What if his father doesn’t want us here? What if he’s just as dangerous as everybody else?

  Rome strides up the rickety steps on the outside of the closest trailer and knocks on the door. A pair of footsteps move quickly across the floor inside, and then the door swings open.


  Rome’s dad used to be a high-powered businessman. A power broker in Verona. The kind of guy who shaved twice a day and never wore a suit with a mark on it. He was just like my father, until he wasn’t. This guy has the same face I recognize from my childhood, only it’s hidden by a cropped beard and a deep suntan—the kind you get from working outside all day. He has a large metal pot in one hand.

  “You’re here.” He blinks at us, and then a smile breaks over his face. “Things must’ve gone okay, then, Rome?” He seems at home here, which is more than I can say for myself.

  “You’re in an excellent mood for this early in the morning.” Rome’s expression is half-disbelief, half-resignation. “Something going on?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rome’s dad looks distractedly back into the trailer. “My wife’s in labor.”

  It’s too quiet in the trailer for that.

  “What? Where?” asks Rome.

  His dad lifts the pot and uses it to point behind us, toward a large rainbow-painted yurt between the trailers and the rest of the landscape. “I was about to boil more water for the birthing tub.” He smiles again, looking like an old hippie version of a first-time dad. “A lot of us are there. You two are welcome, if you’d like.”

  He goes back into the trailer and comes out again with a larger pot—a spaghetti pot—balanced in his hands by way of two oven mitts. This one is full of water, steam pouring off the top. “Hey, Avery. Rude of me back there. Can you get the door?”

  I pull the door shut behind him and Rome and I trail after him, exchanging incredulous glances. This is not what I expected to walk into when I was imagining heaven.

  “Have you ever seen a birth?” Rome asks me. He’s lit up by the sunrise and all of him seems like it might catch on fire.

  “No. I haven’t.” I haven’t, and I’m nervous as fuck. This isn’t a hospital. If something goes wrong—when something goes wrong—

  “Do you want to leave?” Rome catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. I know this is a lot. Especially with your brother and everything.”

  “No.” Rome’s dad disappears inside the tent with his big spaghetti pot of water and I fight back the urge to chase him. Hard as it might be, I want the full weird commune experience. I’m not leaving any part of it behind. “I’m good. Let’s stay.”

  So we go into the yurt.

  If the ragged wilderness of Joshua Tree was insane for a spoiled city princess like me, this is even more so. The whole yurt is hung with bright fabrics, cozy and warm like something out of a movie. I can’t decide whether it looks like medieval times or the seventies. Rome’s father carefully tips his pot of water into a big blue plastic birthing tub in the center of the tent, where his wife, a woman who can’t be more than thirty, labors. Twenty-odd people crowd the rest of the yurt, all of them talking softly among themselves. It’s a crowd.

  She wears a bright green sports bra and nothing else, and as Rome’s dad adds the water, she moans through a contraction. One of the other women from the commune presses against her lower back, whispering something to her. Then, abruptly, the moaning tapers off, Rome’s stepmother opens her eyes, and holds her arms out to us. “Rome!” Joy suffuses her face. Now I think we should get out of here. Nobody in the throes of delivering a baby should be that happy. “Come here. I’m so glad to see you. And you brought a friend. Welcome.”

  How the fuck is this woman talking in the middle of this? We start our full commune experience by accepting wet hugs from Rome’s stepmother, who goes immediately into a fresh contraction as soon as we step away.

  “These people,” I whisper to Rome. “They’re on something.”

  He guides me to a cushion at the edge of the yurt. “They’re on magic mushrooms.”

  “Why am I not on magic mushrooms?”

  A man next to us stands up and hurries outside. The next sound is his vomit hitting the ground.

  “Okay,” I tell Rome. “I’m good without that.”

  His dad comes to crouch down next to us, eyes shining. “Now, everybody joins in here. It’s not like a hospital birth.” His eyes flick toward me. “The birthing ceremony on the commune includes any member who wants to participate by having a spiritual experience in support of the birth.”

  The spiritual experience of throwing up outside? I nod instead and hope I’m wearing a placid expression to disguise how fucking crazy I feel right now. Is this even real?

  The laboring woman’s contractions intensify, getting closer together. People take turns stepping out to throw up and come back in with varying expressions of ecstasy on their faces. Only a few of the women get close to the one I’ve since learned is named Indigo—they must be acting as her midwives. The rest utter soft words of encouragement from their places at the edge of the tent.

  The longer it goes, the less sure I am that I should be watching this. Rome’s stepmom hunches over the edge of the tub and her moans morph into weird, guttural screams. If she weren’t actually in labor, she’d probably be embarrassed. Or maybe not. I’m new to commune life. What do I know? The energy in the room intensifies along with her wails. Rome’s dad goes to hold her hand, whispering encouragement over the side of the tub. Two small boys—her other sons, I guess—run into the tent half-naked and hang over the side of the tub. Would I want my young children watching me give birth? Probably not. Full commune experience, I remind myself.

  “Oh,” Indigo says suddenly, almost languidly. “Fuck.” She turns over onto her back and spreads her legs wide in the water, a wave sloshing over to the edge. Impending doom comes down over me like a heavy cloak, or a bad magic mushroom. I don’t realize I’m turning until Rome catches me with his arm.

  “She’s okay,” he says. “Look.”

  I do look, and what I see is the new mother with her chin down to her chest, red-faced and gritting her teeth. One other woman has put a pair of gloves on—good—and reaches down into the water. “Almost there!” she’s saying. “Almost there, almost there—yes!”

  And then she pulls a baby out of the water, placing it on Indigo’s chest.

  A full baby.

  A minute later the baby cries. The midwives wait patiently, for what I don’t know, until I see one of them lifting a placenta out of the water, still attached to the baby by a springy umbilical cord. People swoop in to lift Indigo out of the tub, dry her off, and wrap her in blankets. They take her over to a low bed at the side of the tent, and she lies down gratefully with her new baby, the placenta sitting in a metal bowl beside the bed. It’s still attached to the baby. That’s it...birth on the commune.

  The little kids run away, whooping and cheering, and the rest of the tent breaks out into applause. They keep cheering as they filter out, one by one, until finally we’re the only ones left with Rome’s dad and his stepmom.

  And the new baby.

  “A girl,” Indigo exclaims, after opening the swaddle around the baby long enough to take a quick peek. “I knew it!”

  Rome’s father sits on the edge of the bed, smiling as he strokes the baby’s cheek. He looks absolutely elated, and increasingly I feel as if we’re witnessing a moment meant only for them.

  “We should go,” I say quietly.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Rome’s stepmother says. “Avery?”

  I feel like refusing would be the rudest thing in the world. Like she’s spent all kinds of time baking an intricate dessert and pretending to be full would make me a complete bitch. I suddenly realize I’ve never actually held a baby. How can that be?

  “Sure. Of course.” I step over to the bed and she carefully presents the new little bundle to me.

  I thought I wouldn’t care. This isn’t my baby, and I’ll probably never see this baby again after we leave here. But something hitches in my chest and my eyes fill with tears. I had a baby brother, once. We buried him. I never got to hold him like this. I never got to hold him at all.

  What’s the appropriate amount of time to star
e at a newborn baby and trace her tiny features with a fingertip? I don’t know, but I do it longer than that. And then, reluctantly, I hand her off to Rome. I’m not surprised that Rome knows how to hold a baby. I’m only surprised at the softness in his face when he looks down at the new little life. He lost a baby brother, too. I still remember the flames outside my bedroom window, the way the sky lit up as the mansion next door burned and Rome’s mother screamed as someone restrained her from running back inside the fire to save her baby.

  Rome blinks rapidly, his blue eyes glossy. The baby sighs, her little eyes slowly looking around the room.

  And the world keeps going. It never, ever, stops.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ROME

  We go to the after-birth celebration, avoiding offers of magic mushrooms, and gorge ourselves on commune food. There’s some kind of stew that’s fucking delicious and ten thousand corn muffins. Vegetables soaked in butter. The baby’s safe arrival is toasted and celebrated all morning and through the afternoon. The sun gets lower in the sky and both of us keep eating and people-watching until the choice is to either sleep or pass out on the spot where we sit.

  Avery is quiet on the way back to our place, a low-slung house out beyond the yurts. I think the house was the original homestead here. The rest of the commune grew around it. Its best feature is how normal it is, except for all the glass. Glass windows. Glass ceilings. Whoever lived here wanted to be able to look at the outside world with all the beauty of the outside world looking back in. Back when it was built, there probably weren’t a ton of people wandering around outside. It’s a little like being in a fish tank, on display in every corner of every room. Even the bathroom is an exhibitionists dream complete with a rain shower and floor-to-ceiling glass, though thankfully the toilet is hidden away in a separate mud-brick alcove away from all the glass panels.