In silence they remained like this, sitting apart in their wicker armchairs. Music played somewhere down below, over the sound of dim laughing voices. Other voices.
Mirabelle inhaled like she was about to cry. “I don’t know why you’re acting like being here with me is the worst thing that ever happened to you,” she said, her soft voice breaking. “Do you want to just take me home?”
“I think I do, Mirabelle,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you so worried about? What makes you think if we got together that we’d even stay together? We wouldn’t, most likely. Nothing is permanent, especially in this town. Everything is just another set, waiting to be dismantled and hauled to the dumpster. We’d hook up, have some fun for a few weeks, a few laughs, nothing wrong with that. And then we’d go our separate ways.” Her lips quivered. “It would end the way most things end. I’d think about you for a while. Maybe you’d think about me. I’d ache for you a little bit, the way one does when things are over, even things that aren’t meant to be. I’d get busy with my life. You’d get busy with yours. We’d say we’d keep in touch. But we never would. And when people asked, we’d say we had a thing once, you and me. One minute it was, and the next it wasn’t. It didn’t mean it wasn’t real. It just wasn’t forever. And years later maybe we’d run into each other on the street somewhere, and you’d barely remember my name. And I’d barely remember yours. I’d say to you, hey, remember how you once loved me? And you’d say sorry, not really. And I’d say yeah, me neither.”
Julian’s eyes welled up. He couldn’t look at her.
Her shoulders were quaking. After a few moments she shrugged, like it was all never mind, got up and went inside. He heard her put on some music, a smoky R&B playlist. It sounded like Ginuwine. Yup. There was “Pony.”
“I want to take a shower before we go,” she said. “Our hot water tank broke. Is that okay?”
She showered with the door half open while Julian sat on the balcony and stared at the sky. He may have cried.
* * *
Barefoot she came out and sat in a wicker chair away from him.
Julian said nothing to greet her. He barely acknowledged she was near. But he smelled her. She smelled of coconut verbena.
“You said to always leave on a joke,” Mirabelle said.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Do you ever sit on the bus, and the driver announces that the bus is being held at the station, and you think, gee, I wonder what it’s like to be held?”
Julian sucked in his breath at the suddenness of that, at the fragile look on her face, but said nothing.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “What kind of girl am I to come with a man I barely know to a hilly dark chateau where people die?”
“People live here, too,” he replied.
“Yes,” Mia said. “Other people. Who aren’t so blue. They come together under the stars, dance a little, maybe hum ‘Endless Love’ or ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You.’”
Julian turned away from the night sky, to her. She was damp, wearing her wrap dress loose and barely tied. Underneath the sheer chiffon she was naked. Her eyes stared at him with ineffable longing.
“I hope that I don’t fall in love with you,” she whispered achingly.
“And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you,” he said.
“Okay, so don’t.”
Julian stood up.
Her stretched-out legs parted slightly. “Don’t fall in love with me,” she said. “But maybe you’d like to touch me?”
Love is modern like a Thursday night, and a black hole swallows every shooting star.
Julian stepped between her legs, leaned over her, his arms locked on the chair rests, and kissed her. Holding on to his forearms, she moaned, her head tipping up. The chair wobbled, out of balance, and they nearly fell back.
He knelt between her legs, wrapping his arms around her. Her arms wrapped around him. Julian couldn’t explain how full up he felt. And she kissed him back like she was pretty full up herself.
Let’s go inside, he whispered, tugging on her nipples through the silk, listening to her moan, running his hands under her dress.
No, she said. Right here. Under the open sky. The night was hot, a night of the tropics, not of the desert.
He pulled apart her wraparound dress. Her body spilled out.
You smell like coconut.
It’s coconut oil. I carry some with me. Do you like it?
I like you.
When his mouth found her nipples, she didn’t even try to keep quiet. And he kissed her as if he’d never touched a girl before, spread her open like he’d never seen a girl before. His fingers trembled. Her body trembled. He was still on his knees.
Mia, can you try to be quiet. He lowered his head between her legs.
If you try not to be afraid.
He made no promises.
You’re still wearing your clothes, and I’m naked, she whispered.
Yes. He caressed her.
Julian, look at me. Can you see me?
Oh, beautiful girl, I see you.
Put your hands on me. Her back arched.
They’re on you.
Put your lips on me. Her legs quivered.
They’re on you.
O my God.
O my God.
She couldn’t hold herself up. Clutching his head, she kept sliding forward. He had to stop. His mouth over her was about to bring the hotel security to their door.
Hoisting her into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom, her clinging to him like a marsupial, her bare buttocks in his palms. His clothes came off.
Finally, his hard body collided with her soft body.
She cried out like she was weeping.
Mia, Mia.
She was too open, too delicious, too defenseless, too willing to receive him, too excited to be touched by him, too fragile. She was too everything.
Whatever he did to her, she said was good.
It’s good, it’s good, it’s good.
Yeah, that’s good, too.
She turned over for him, let him press his hands into the small of her back, her face in the pillows. She lay flat on her stomach for him, her fingers spread out in the sheets.
Oh, it is so good.
Just make it last.
Briefly they lay in a saturated respite.
I’ve wanted to touch you for so long, Julian, she whispered, her hands stroking him gently, gently, gliding on him, caressing him. I wanted to feel you in my hands since I first met you. Since you wore your Armani to impress the understudy.
An Armani is timeless in any age, suitable for any occasion, he said. What I mean to say is, I’m glad I found my way into your hands.
I can’t explain it, she said. I looked at you, and it was like the light came on.
You don’t have to explain it, Mirabelle.
She knelt between his legs. I wanted to feel you in my mouth since the first day I met you. I know. I deserve your penance stare for that. It’s pretty shameful. She lowered her head to him, her long hair tickling his stomach.
Julian wanted to say he was glad he found his way into her mouth but couldn’t speak.
Afterward he asked her to get the coconut oil she carried in her bag.
She gave him the small jar. Will it be enough?
No, he said. But it will do. Rubbing it into his hands, he kneaded and caressed her whole warm moaning glistening body, circling her with his knuckles and palms from her neck to the soles of her feet. He made her slippery all over, as if she weren’t slippery enough, and then kissed her where his hands had just been, from her neck to the soles of her feet and everything in between. She moaned with the astonishment of angels. Her abandoned cries were a ratchet in his loins.
You are so sweet, Mia.
My God, it is so so good.
He soldered himself to her molten body.
She was gasping, and helpless, and wordless,
and writhing. One unbroken rapture, one continuous cry.
Release brought tears that felt like happiness but looked like pain.
Release brought tears that looked like happiness but felt like pain.
Oh, Julian, she whispered, kissing his neck, holding his face, how do you know how to touch me like that?
Like what, Mia? Shh. Don’t cry, why are you crying? He wiped the tears from her eyes.
Like I love to be touched, how do you know how to do that? Who are you? Why do you make love to me like you know me?
He wanted to tell her it was true: she felt familiar—yet new. He had seen her in his dreams and sometimes, before they turned into nightmares, he touched her. But not like this. Nothing was like this. Because the impassioned drenched girl in his hands was real.
Love me until I say no more, the real girl whispered, giving her body to him over and over. Take me until I say no more.
But she wouldn’t say no more.
Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me.
What she said was, Julian, my every breath exhales me and inhales you until all that’s left inside me is you. All that’s left inside me is you, Julian. Do you hear me?
I do. All that was inside me is now inside you. He watched her face. Why are you looking at me like that?
Like what?
I don’t know. Like I’m all you want.
Do anything you want, she whispered in reply, grabbing on to the headboard. Take anything you want.
And Julian took it.
Deep in the night, she went to get him water. He looked thirsty to her, Mirabelle said. She rummaged through the shelves in the kitchen to find a tic tac. She turned on the oven. She called room service from the living area, quietly talked to them on the phone, waited for them by the door, and tipped the guy out of her own money. Julian waited on the bed, flat on his back, knocked down but not out. Something smelled good, besides her. A toaster popped. She brought in toast and jam and hot tea with lemon—and warm chocolate chip cookies. I baked them, she said. I asked room service for cookie dough. They were very accommodating. A man needs his strength, she said. You never know what he might be called upon to do.
You mean there is something more he might be called upon to do? Julian said.
She watched him eat and drink, and then crawled into his arms, pressing her body into him, stroking him with her slickened hands.
Why can’t I get enough of you? she murmured. I’ve had so much of you. Too much. I’m raw. Yet I still want more.
He pushed the plate of food onto the floor.
You want more?
Her arms flew above her head. Her body softened, flattened out.
Mia, Mia.
She cried out.
Come inside me again, come inside me, come inside, come.
She makes hungry where she most satisfies.
44
Mystique and Doctor Doom
THE NEXT MORNING THEY STAYED IN BED. SILENTLY SHE gawped at him with an expression you could pour over waffles. She had ordered raw eggs from room service and scrambled them herself; she brought him coffee, juice, toast; she sat in bed, propped up against the pillows, and watched him eat.
“You’re not very chatty this morning,” Julian said, lying on his side, smiling up into her face. “Surprising, because yesterday, you were an unstoppable chatting force.”
“Yesterday,” she said shyly, “I was trying to find a combination of words that would get you to touch me.”
“Including telling me you watched When We Were Kings and read The Fight?” Julian laughed.
“They weren’t just words. I really did that.”
“When did you do that, yesterday?”
“No. Last week, if you must know.”
“Last week,” he repeated. “What’s your actual favorite movie?”
“Gone with the Wind. Have you seen it?”
“No. Should I?” He smiled. He was teasing her.
“Only if you want to.” She stared into her lap.
He rolled her onto her back and straddled her, threading his hands through her hair, stroking her face. She was gazing up at him like she was ice cream completely thawed out.
“Holy God, you are so fly,” she whispered, rubbing his arms.
“But I got no game?” Julian liked making the naked girl underneath him blush.
“What, you wanted to prove me wrong?” She pinched him.
“I just want to hear you say it.”
“Okay, fine, I admit it—you got a little bit of game. Happy?”
“So happy.” He kissed her lips, her face. “So so happy.”
They didn’t have morning sex, they continued the nighttime sex.
Mia wanted the luxury black cashmere throw, a Marmont exclusive, for a souvenir, and Julian wanted her. He called the front desk and bought it even after he found out how much it cost. He made love to her in broad daylight as she lay naked on it, open and shimmering on top of the soft black wool.
He thought she would tell him not to get it messy, but she said, get it as messy as you want.
It was the best seven hundred bucks he ever spent.
They lived a week reclined at the Chateau Marmont.
They rented Gone with the Wind. They played Lego Marvel Super Heroes. They sat out on the balcony and watched the world go by. They discovered they were both born on the Ides of March, though on different years, less than an hour apart, she at 11:40 a.m., he at 12:29 p.m. It’s almost like we are meant to be, Jules, she said. They danced. From housekeeping they requested toothbrushes. From room service they ordered champagne and steak. He ate around the edges and she ate the raw heart inside.
Julian told her about his life, the stuff outside the dark visions. In the little Marmont kitchen, she made him French toast with extra maple syrup, just like he liked; she made him Cajun grilled cheese sandwiches and lemon cookies. She told him about her life. About the roller derby and working at Sideshows by the Seashore, and how her mom never got over losing her dad. He told her about Topanga, the scar on his head, his lost ambition, his rebuilt career, about staying close to what he couldn’t live without. She loved the scar on his head, loved the long wavy hair covering it, loved his eyes, his lips, his jacked arms, his chest, his gentlest hands, loved everything. “You are the sum of all your parts, but you are also your parts,” she said.
“Is that all you’ve come for? My parts?”
“No, there is glory to all of you,” said Mirabelle.
“Maybe it would be easier to list the things you don’t love,” he said, and she fell quiet.
“I don’t love the dreams.”
“Join the club,” said Julian.
She told him about the cracked leather purse that was found on the body of her great-aunt Maria who died in the war, died all alone on Christmas on the floor of her house in Blackpool, told him about the contents of the purse: the crystal necklace and the wedding rings and the gold coins that allowed her entire family, aunts and uncles and cousins and mothers, to move to Brooklyn and start a new life. Julian told her he saw that purse in his dreams, but it wasn’t in anyone’s cold hands. It was hidden inside a wall. And Mia said, you mean a different purse, right? Yours isn’t brown leather with gold ribbons. And he said right. But he meant wrong. What he also didn’t tell her is that to get to the purse he had to scrape open the wall using nothing but his fingerless hands. What was inside your purse? she asked. The crystal, he said. And treasure, hidden in a pool of blood. You see, not the same at all, said Mia, and he said right but he meant wrong.
When she died, Maria’s mother, Abigail—who had no other children—left all the gold coins to her sister Wilma and the rings and necklace to Wilma’s youngest daughter, Kara, who left them to her daughter Ava, who was Mirabelle’s mother. For some reason, Ava did not care for the crystal necklace, “much like you,” Mia said, but her parents liked the rings. They wore them on their wedding day. Jack McKenzie was buried with his. “Mom gave me hers, said it was cursed.
She gave me the crystal and the ring. I kept the crystal, because it was worth nothing, but sold the ring a few years ago when I was broke. What was I going to do with one wedding ring anyway?” Mia said. “I went to the gold district on 47th Street. I thought I’d get a couple of hundred bucks for it, if I was lucky. But guess how much that sucker was worth. Twenty-five thousand dollars! I nearly died. The dealer said it was some kind of rare gold, nearly all pure or something. I had one of the best years of my life living off that gold ring. I went to Mexico, to Puerto Rico, to St. Croix, where didn’t I go. Z and I moved out here. All on that money. I can’t believe my mom buried my dad with the other ring. I don’t think she knew how much it was worth. What’s Dad going to do with it now?”
“Not much, I should think,” Julian said. “Um, did you say you went to St. Croix and Puerto Rico?”
“Yeah . . . why?”
“Where did you stay, Mia?” He poked her, tickled her. “Not hotel rooms, right?”
She laughed.
“I’m so easy,” he said. “If you wanted me to get us a room at the Marmont, all you had to do was ask.” He kissed her. “And not even that nicely.”
“You’re joking, right?” she said. “Do you remember nothing? I couldn’t get you to so much as glance at me while I was buck naked in a see-through dress.”
“I’m looking at you now.”
“Now you know I’ll say yes to anything, and you just want me to be bad.”
“You’re right, I do want you to be bad.”
“Like right now?”
“Like right now.”
Mia blew off her auditions. Julian blew off his life.
They spent the afternoons by the pool, tanning, lounging, swimming (in the bathing suits they bought at the hotel shop), playing Marco Polo, wondering which bungalow John Belushi had died in, playing Red Hands, which Julian, much to his delight and her frustration, always won. She asked him if he had ever killed a man. In dreams didn’t count. Julian’s right fingers twitched when he said no. Could you do it, she said, not accidentally, but like on purpose? He didn’t know. He didn’t think so. But maybe he would do what he had to do. Like to protect me? she asked with a giggle. Yes, he said solemnly. I would kill to protect you. She liked his answer. Her pupils dilated. Her breath quickened. Can you teach me how to fight like you?
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