by JA Huss
“No. Not really God. Just… some asshole.”
It’s my turn to scrub my hands up and down my face. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Anyway. This asshole’s job is to hand out destinies. But we get a choice too. Like… maybe in some past life you did good things and you earned choices. Does that make sense?”
“No.”
“Or,” he says, ignoring me as he directs his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Or maybe you did something bad and you get demerits. Or whatever. So when it comes time for your next life—”
“Hold up. What the fuck?”
“—you get limited options. Like… OK. Last life you were bad. You did bad things for bad reasons. So the next life you have to start with more hardships.” He tips his head back and stares at me again. “Or who knows, maybe if you really fuck up the asshole decides you’re not ready for another hard life. Maybe that dude decides you need something cushy next time? A softer landing, so to speak. Right? So like… maybe the people with the hard lives are really more evolved than the people with the soft ones?”
He stops. Like I’m supposed to weigh in on that.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Do you think I got this life because I was horrible? Or because I kicked that last life’s ass and now I’m being challenged?”
He’s serious. He’s really asking me this question.
“Because I’d like to think,” he continues, “that I chose this life because I felt like I could do something with it. Make something good from the bad.”
“There’s no dude handing out destinies,” I mumble. “And even if there were, what makes you think we’d get a choice?”
“Because that’s the only way life makes sense. I mean… think about it. There’s no purpose to life. None. There’s no way to win. We’re all gonna die. We work our asses off for years building something up. Making something, looking for happiness. Whatever. And none of it matters, Megan. Not one fucking bit of it matters because we can’t take it with us. We can’t take this life into the next.”
“That’s assuming there is a next life.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Exactly.” Then he pauses for a moment. “But if there isn’t, then it’s even worse. Then this whole fucking thing is one pointless exercise in futility. And I don’t know about you, but for me… I’d rather conjure up this fake-ass destiny dude and pretend it’s all a game of winners and losers than fully embrace the fact that it might just be a whole bunch of nothing.”
I think about that for a moment while he stares up at the ceiling.
“On the other hand,” he says, “if it’s totally meaningless then what I do, what they do…” He looks at me, his face upside down. His frown looks like a smile from this angle. And he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I could kill ten more labs filled with nerdy psychopaths and it won’t matter. There’s no one keeping track. Not anyone who matters, anyway. Not anyone with the power to control your next destiny. When I die, I’m just gone. Poof. Like I was never here. Like I never mattered.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and in the beat of silence after his last few words I let it out. “Well, that’s fucking depressing.”
“Yeah,” he says, sitting up and resuming his hunched-over, head-in-hands posture. “Very fucking depressing.” He looks over his shoulder at me and says, “I still hate the way you swear.”
“Fuck you.”
He looks forward again with a shrug. “If I were in charge of you, I’d expect more.”
“More what?”
“More everything.”
“Yeah, because that makes sense. You’re crazy, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“You’re damaged beyond repair. Your mind is sick. Like truly fucking sick. And this… mythology you’ve conjured up to justify your choices. God.” I laugh. “I mean, where do I even start with that?”
“I dunno, Megan. Start wherever you want.” He stands up and turns to face me. “This is how I see it. You don’t get many real choices in life. Sure, you can make good or bad decisions every day and perhaps they lead to something better, or worse. But those aren’t really choices. In the best-case scenario it’s mostly about doing the best you can and in the worst case, it’s just not giving a fuck. But choices—true choices—are a rare, special thing. They almost never present themselves. Some people will go a whole lifetime and never get one true choice before their death. But here’s the thing, OK? Death? The way you go out?” He nods at me. Smiles. “Now that’s a fucking choice.”
“How do you figure?” I say too loud. “People don’t choose to get sick.”
“No. They don’t. You’re right. But sick isn’t the same thing as death. Sick can lead to death, for sure. But death is really the only choice we’re born with. Think about it, Megan. We don’t even get to choose to be alive! We just end up here! Like… what the fuck, right? But death?” He sighs. “Death is a choice we all have.”
“Are you fucking crazy? Are you telling me to kill myself?”
He shrugs. “It’s your choice.” And then he laughs.
“God, you’re sick. You’re fucking mental.”
“I think about this a lot,” he continues. “I think about how I’ll go out, you know? Like… if death is the only real choice I have then I should make sure it’s spectacular. I should plan it. I should… I should fuckin’ plan it like most people plan their wedding day.” He laughs. “And hell, marriage isn’t even forever, right? Hardly anyone takes that shit seriously. But death”—he shakes his head and smiles—“death is eternal for sure.”
I… I don’t even know what to say to that.
“Or not. If my destiny dude theory is correct. My point,” he says, “my point is this, Megan Machette. If you want to whine and complain, if you want to blame others for your shitty fucking life, if you want to be the victim and cry over your bullshit circumstances—”
My mouth drops open.
“—then just go fucking do it. OK?” He pans his hand to the side of the boat. “There’s a whole fuckin’ ocean out there. Sharks, and eels, and fuckin’… giant squid. Barracudas?” He laughs. “Right? Like so many cool fucking ways to go out in the ocean. Just jump overboard and get eaten. Or,” he says, holding up a finger. “Or… I hear that drowning is kinda peaceful. Like you just enjoy that underwater white noise, ya know? Then take a few gulps and…” He shrugs. “There you have it.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
He shrugs with his hand and grins at me. “Johnny Boston. In the flesh.”
“No, I mean who the fuck are you to try and sell me this line of utter bullshit? Like who the fuck do you think you are? Some mystical fucking prophet? Some wannabe Jesus? Are you writing this down, Johnny? Gathering up disciples? Are you trying to take us all with you? Oh,” I laugh. “Oh, maybe… maybe there’s some comet passing by and you’re gonna get everyone to drink your Kool-Aid so you can take people out with you? Is that the kind of spectacular you’re looking for?”
He points at me. “That’s a mixed metaphor. The comet people and the Kool-Aid people are two totally different sets of suicide pacts. The comet people ate pudding.”
I blink at him. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fuckin’ crazy. But you know what? At least I’m fuckin’ trying.”
I scramble across the bed and get to my feet. I stand at my full height and look up into his eyes. Press myself up against his chest and point my finger in his face. “You don’t get to tell me I’m not trying. You don’t get to spill out your psychobabble bullshit and put me neatly into some group. OK? You don’t even know me. I didn’t ask for this life either. I didn’t ask to be born into a… a fuckin’ cult, or whatever the hell the Way is. But here I am and I’m doing my best.”
“Are you? Are you really? Is this a choice, Megan? Or just another decision born from circumstance?”
I pull my hand back to slap him. But he grabs my wrist and holds it tight. “You wann
a slap me?”
“Yes,” I growl, grabbing his forearm with my other hand and digging my nails into his flesh. “Yes, I want to slap the fuck out of you. Who the hell are you? Huh? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna stop it, Megan.” He stares me right in the eyes. “I’m the guy with a plan. Because yeah, OK. Fine. I’m here, I didn’t ask for it, and it’s all a bunch of bullshit. But unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of giving up. I have two brothers coming up behind me. That’s two more opportunities for the Way to fuck with me if I make my one and only choice and end it early. And I’ve been protecting them for too many years to give up now. So you can call me insane all you want. You can pretend I’m not making any sense. You can build yourself up by playing victim but here’s a newsflash for you, Megan. We’re all victims. None of us asked to be here, we’re just stuck. So grow the fuck up and for once in your life choose something.”
I just stare at him. “Choose you, you mean?”
He lets out a breath and in that moment he softens, if a man like Johnny Boston is even capable of being soft. He, at the very least, relaxes and lets go of my wrist.
Both his hands come up to my cheeks and he holds me like that. Our eyes locked.
And then he kisses me.
I struggle in it for a moment. Refusing to kiss him back. Refusing to let him control me like this. I will not allow him to wind me up and then twirl me out of it with a goddamned kiss.
But his mouth—that hard mouth that just spilled out all those harsh words—softens. His lips part and he pulls back just a little. Just enough that our top lips are barely touching.
He presses his forehead against mine and stares down at me. “Just choose,” he whispers. “Yes or no. I don’t really care. I just need an answer.”
I pull back farther, so done with this asshole. “You don’t really care. That’s the first true thing I’ve heard all year.”
He pushes me away and walks forward as I fall sideways into the mattress. But I catch myself and scramble across the bed to cut him off at the doorway. I stand in front of it with outstretched arms, palms planted on either side of the doorjamb. “Fuck you if you think you’re walking out.”
“Oh, now you want me to stay?” He laughs. “Figures. Just more reacting from Megan. Yet another example of her victimhood.”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
His hands drop to my hips. And my tank top has ridden up a little with the act of blocking the doorway, so his fingertips find bare flesh. He doesn’t grip me hard, just barely touches me, and this makes a chill run up my spine.
“My problem?” he whispers. “My problem is you, Megan. And your inability to make up your mind. So here. I’ll help you out a little.” And then one hand comes off my hip and his fingertips find the latch of the pocket door, forcing me to drop my arms as he pulls it closed behind me. “There,” he says. “I made your choice. But going forward I will expect more from you. Because that’s the kind of asshole I am.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN - JOHNNY
Megan lets out a long breath and looks at her feet. “Hey,” I say, tipping her chin back up with my finger. “Look at me.”
She hesitates. And I give her a moment. Because I’m done making choices for her. After a few moments she gives in and looks up to meet my gaze. “What?” she whispers. “What now?”
“I’m gonna say one last thing and then I’m gonna drop it for a while. Mostly because I’ve got other things on my mind…” I look down at her body. Her nipples are hard and erect underneath the thin cotton of her tank top. Then back up at her eyes. They’re blue with little swirls of green. I poke a finger between her breasts. Not hard, but enough pressure for her to understand that I’m being serious. “You’re in charge of your life, Megan. No one else, just you. And this is cool in a lot of ways. But it sucks too. Because in the end it means you’re the one responsible for the outcomes. All of them. No matter what shitty deck you’re dealt. No matter how out of control things seem. No matter how many corners you find yourself backed into.” I poke her again. “You’re responsible for all of it. Do you understand me?”
She sighs. Like she wants to add an asterisk to the end of my statement.
“The answer I’m looking for is, ‘Yes, Johnny. I get it. No one’s in charge of me but me.’”
“It’s just not true,” she says. “That’s just not true. Do you think those people in the lab—”
I stop her with a firm fingertip placed over her lips. “I’ll explain that better later. But not now. Right now I want you to choose me.”
Again, she hesitates. But I’m not going to save her this time. I’m not going to make it easy. Finally, she says, “What does that even mean?”
“I’m glad you ask.” I grin at her and she almost… almost smiles. I’ve been told, on the rare occasions when I offer up real smiles, that they are charming. So I know I’m getting through to her.
All my fingertips are suddenly playing with the hem of her shirt, flitting along the edge of the soft cotton like they have things to do. “It means I want to kiss you.”
“You already did that.”
“I mean really kiss you. What I did before?” I shrug. “That was simply getting your attention. And it worked. But you handed me back something less than honest and now I want the real thing.”
She makes a face and huffs out a breath.
“So kiss me,” I say.
“Me?” She points to herself. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Yes. Because last night when we were out in the ocean I made the decisions for you. And I’m going to assume you were on board because you didn’t protest, but tonight—after what happened today—that’s no longer good enough. Tonight I need more. Tonight I need you to choose.”
“So…” She almost smiles again. “Let me get this straight.” She looks up at me and innocently blinks her eyes. I think I grin because she bites her lip and takes a breath. “I have to choose you, and that means I have to kiss you. Which probably means I have to fuck you?”
Her voice pitches higher than normal at the end of her question.
“I never said that.”
“I know. I’m saying that. I’m just asking you for clarification.”
“Do you want to have sex with me?”
“Sex? Johnny. We’re talking about fucking, OK? I know you don’t like that word, but it is a more accurate description of what we’d be doing, if in fact it is fucking you’re after.”
“Well, let me be clear.”
“I would really appreciate that.”
“I’m not going to turn down your offer for fucking.”
“My offer?”
“Because I think you’re really pretty. And even though I just accused you of being a spineless go-along just a few minutes ago, I actually think you’re strong and courageous. In fact, I’m trying my best to point that out to you—”
“Really?” She laughs.
“—because I think, when we bumped into each other in that underground secret dungeon, you were kinda down on yourself.”
“Oh, God. You’re really perceptive. As far as men go, I mean.”
“And I get the feeling that you’ve done a lot of reacting in your life. Maybe so much reacting that you forgot you’re in charge. So I’m gonna play it straight with you right now, OK?”
“Good. Great. OK. Be straight with me.”
“If I were running this show—”
“This… we’re-going-to-fuck-in-the-cabin-now show?”
“The very one. Then I’d stop talking and just… ease my hands down your hips like this.” She hisses out a breath when my palms wander over the curve of her ass and push the back of her shorts up and aside so I can feel the soft skin of her ass cheeks.
“Then maybe I’d tease you a little by rubbing your ass, but every two or three caresses I’d tease you a little more by pretending that my fingers accidentally slipped between your legs, like this.”
Her
eyes—which had wandered down to my chest—immediately flit back up to stare at me.
I press my fingers even further between her legs and she blinks. But the blink turns into a full-on eye closing and she bites her lower lip. “And of course,” I whisper, “even more accidents would happen. And then my finger would slip up inside you.”
She moans a little. Eyes still closed.
“But I’m not in charge.” I remove my hand from between her legs and place both hands back on her hips. “So… none of that actually happened.”
“God, you’re a dick.”
“I love how you’re always telling me things I already know.”
“Dick,” she says again, but now she opens her eyes. “So basically… you want me to seduce you?”
“Why, thank you. I’d love that. It’s been a long time since I was seduced.”
“How long?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
She shoots me one of those clenched-teeth smiles. “Am I going to regret this?”
“Probably. Most decisions end up in regret eventually.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I thought I was.”
She sighs. Loudly. “Fine. I can be in charge.”
“I knew you had it in you.”
“I can be the boss.”
“Be the boss, Megan. Start with my belt buckle.” And then I take her hands and bring them to the front of my pants. I unbuckle the belt myself, but hold her fingers close as I do it. She catches on and pulls the loop of leather thorough the buckle. Then pops the button on my pants.
“Bossy enough?”
I laugh.
“Fine,” she says, tugging my zipper down. And that’s all it takes for the blood to start filling up my cock. It grows thick and hard as she slips her hand inside my pants and cups her palm over the length of my shaft. “Like this?” she whispers.
I nod and close my eyes when she begins to squeeze. “Just like that is fine.”
“Should I jerk you off? Or are you expecting more?”
“Do you care what I want?”
“I… don’t know.”
“You shouldn’t. I’m no one. I’m a sick, psychotic murderer. You should not give one fuck what I think about anything. And anyway, this isn’t about me, it’s about you.”