Sloth

by Ella James

  His blue eyes flick from the road to my face. “What do you mean?”

  “A little less worried I guess. Just feeling better.” I haven’t wanted to broach the subject of his uncle, but I hesitantly do so now. “Is Pace okay? Stable and stuff?”

  He nods.

  I lean away from his shoulder so I can see his face. “I’m really glad.”

  He swallows and nods. I wait for more—a flicker of emotion on his face; details of what happened in the wreck—but Kellan just drives, perfectly still and quiet, as if he’s alone in the car. I polish off my burger and relax in the silence, looking out the window at the swaying pines.

  “What music do you want to hear?” he finally asks.

  “Oooh, how about that song from earlier?”

  “Which one?”

  “The protector coming home.”

  He looks uncomfortable—irritated?—then says, “I don’t know what list that one is on. Other requests?”

  “Do you ever listen to Broken Bells?”

  He nods. “Good stuff.”

  “Ooooh, no, I know what I want to hear! It’s such a good song. If you don’t think it’s too cheesy, you’ll like it. And you’ll see why I like it. Total optimist song. Hmm, let me see if I can find it.”

  I pick up my phone, which is still plugged into Kellan’s iPhone cord, and flip around until I find one of my favorite folksy bands, a Portland group called Blitzen Trapper. I start the song I have in mind—called “The Tree”—and adjust the volume.

  It’s a very uplifting song. Not blindly so, but with a kind of heaviness I appreciate. I’m disappointed to see Kellan looks more and more unhappy as it plays, until finally I turn it down.

  “Not a fan?”

  He shrugs. “It’s nice.”

  “But you don’t like it.”

  “I liked it.”

  “Not like ‘Helter Skelter,’” I tease.

  The corner of his mouth pulls up in a reluctant smile. “Can’t knock The Beatles, Cleo. Not unless you want to hitchhike home.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh yes.”

  I thump his leg through the same worn jeans he had on yesterday, and think for a minute how weird it is to never see him in khakis anymore lately. The sun beams down in sheets of brilliant white as we near Chattahoochee.

  “You can talk to me, you know,” I tell him as he slows to exit. “About Pace, about whatever. I’m a good listener.”

  “Mm.” His blue eyes meet mine, then return to the windshield. “Thanks,” he says belatedly.

  Whatever’s going on inside his head goes on until we reach the dirt road to his house. Then I feel a shift in his energy. No longer distracted, he seems edgy. Restless.

  I’m almost expecting to be hauled up to the bed when we reach his house, but it doesn’t happen. Kellan dresses in khakis and a button-up, makes both of us a sandwich, and asks me if I want a ride to campus.

  “You have a class?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

  “Make-up lab,” he says. I wonder when he missed it, but he still seems moody and I don’t want to pry.

  “Sure... I’ll go with you. I’ve got a two o’clock I shouldn’t miss. Stupid palliative counseling.” I grab my bag as Kellan shakes his head. “Those dying bastards.”

  “Exactly.” I smile.

  He smiles. He takes my hand for the short walk to the front door, and I get that butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling I remember so well from middle school. I steal a glance at him and find him looking at me. One of the butterflies swoops. I laugh. We smile at each other like two idiots as we step onto the porch and Kellan locks the door. He opens my car door for me, gets settled behind the wheel, and cranks the car... and I can’t hold it in any longer.

  “I like you,” I blurt.

  Kellan’s brows shoot up.

  “Too much? Too soon?” I pucker my lips, caught between exuberance and embarrassment.

  He surprises me by leaning in to kiss them. “Neither.” As he steers toward campus, his eyes move over me. “Hey, Cleo?”

  “Hey.”

  He brakes at a stop sign and looks full-on at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. “Thanks for going with me,” he says softly.

  “No prob, Bob.” I squeeze his shoulder, but it’s not enough. I nuzzle the softness of his shirt sleeve with my cheek.

  I feel embarrassed as I pull away. Where did these tender feelings come from? I feel so... needy around him. Not just for sex.

  This feeling is new to me. I think on it as he circles the psych building, and I decide it’s a sensation of comfort—and affection. I’m comfortable around him—more so than I’ve ever been with any guy, come to think of it—and out of my comfort comes this... gladness. And appreciation. Gratefulness, I guess.

  I think, as he edges nearer to the drop-off point and I begin to contemplate being in class—sitting at my desk; the teacher’s caramel coffee; the dreadful small group study we always do—that maybe the worst thing about life is being “out and about” and having to just... be you. They say hell is other people. I believe that. But what I didn’t know until now is so can heaven be.

  Kellan brakes at the mouth of the walkway to the building, and I flash a silly smile at him. “You know, you’re a kinky bastard.”

  “And?” His mouth quirks.

  “I love it. That’s all.” His big hand comes over my head. I lean back. “You’re messing up my hair.”

  He lunges for me with both hands outstretched.

  “Eeeep!” I shrink against the window.

  He surprises me by leaning over, framing me with his arms—his palms against the window—and leaning in to kiss me... on my nose.

  “Kinky?” He wiggles his brows.

  I reach out and ruffle his hair. He leans in and... closes his mouth over my boob? “Kellan!” His teeth clamp around my nipple and his warm tongue flattens over it. He nips a little, hard enough so I can feel it through my bra. I feel a shot of heat between my legs.

  “People will seeeee!” I push against his blond head and he leans back, grinning.

  I look down. “There’s a wet spot!”

  “More than one I’d bet.”

  I hmph. “You’re evil.”

  He just lifts his brows and lays his hand between his legs. I feel another burst of warmth between my thighs as his fingers curve around a huge erection.

  “God... that’s hot. I’m not going to lie.”

  “Good.” His voice is low; a purr.

  He reaches for me again. I slap at his hand. “I’ve gotta go!” I giggle—not a sound my mouth is used to making.

  Kellan’s eyes are hooded. His smile back is dark. He pushes the base of his palm against his dick one more time, watching my face as I watch him.

  “I’m putting you on Smuffins,” I say. “It’s decided. Secret footage... upload, BAM. Everyone gets to enjoy. Your dick is so big.”

  He strokes it and smirks. “What happened to ‘I’ve gotta go?’”

  “I do! Now leave!” I slide down from the Escalade and pull my shorts up—high. Then I bend down, pushing my ass into the triangle of space created by my open door.

  I hear him groan as I straighten up and grin. “What? Just dropped my pencil.”

  I catch that dark look in his eyes again as I slam the door shut.

  When I sit down in my desk in class, my phone’s screen lights up with a text.

  ‘Hope that ass is ready. Tonight... Pick u up at 5 after your art class?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  I mean I can’t wait to see him again, but I decide to let him think I’m clamoring to have his dick in my ass. If he wants to do it, I’ll end up letting him, so might as well have the added satisfaction of seeing him all eager for it.

  I sigh and clench my pussy. I’m so wet. I’m pulsing all through class.

  Art instruction techniques, my next class, includes a lecture on sculpting. I can’t quit picturing my hands over Kellan’s naked body. God, he’s hot. Soft, so
ft skin... The hardness underneath.

  I can’t believe things have taken a turn this way. Kellan the asshole, Kellan the kinky bastard, is someone I like. Like... really like.

  I’m not sure I can sit through class, I want to see him so badly. I want to touch him. Want to suck his dick. I really do. I want to cup his balls and stroke my finger over his taint and feel his cock pulse in my mouth. I want to hear those hoarse sounds he makes.

  I want to swallow. And then after he’s satiated, when he’s gone all sleepy and soft, I want to curl around him and whisper funny things into his ear.

  It’s strange to have these feelings. They’re so big and... engulfing. But I feel happy to lay myself at his feet. Why? Because he’s giving me something no one has in... ever, maybe. It’s... this sense of peace. In my counseling classes, my professors go on and on about a happy place. It’s like... this little mental cubby you create for yourself, a little bit of fantasy where you can just relax. It’s a conceptual thing—something to tell clients in therapy; they think of something traumatic, you’re supposed to steer them to a happy place when they’re done—but with Kellan, life feels like that. Cozy.

  I slip out of art class a few minutes early and go wait for him behind the building. Mmm. I’m going to stroke his dick while he drives us back to his house. When we get there... God, it’s crazy to say, but I kind of hope he does put it inside me. Back there.

  I smirk as I stand on the curb, watching the cars that flow in and out of the U-shaped lot.

  I hope his uncle’s still doing okay. I wonder if he’ll talk about that sometime, and I hope he will. I think of how upset he was, and all I want is to make him feel good. The way he made me feel when we drove down to Albany.

  I stand there for what seems like an entire day, feeling soft and raw and wanting and... exposed, in such a weird way. Like everyone who drives and walks by can see my longing for Kellan.

  Maybe they can.

  Geez, where is he? I check my phone, and find it’s ten after five.

  That’s kind of strange. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. I don’t know where he parked, after all.

  By 5:20, I haven’t seen him, and I can’t get an answer on his phone. I’m stuck between annoyed and concerned—until I remember my car is here on campus.

  I rush to his house and find him sleeping in the windowed room. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he’s curled over with his palm pressed to his throat. I see a half a Xanax—it’s got jagged edges, like he bit it—on the bedside table and feel a curl of sympathy. Concern.

  Something’s bugging him. My thoughts of sex fly out the window. Later, I think to myself.

  I climb up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I press my cheek against the firm plane of his back. In his sleep, Kellan sighs gently.

  WHEN YOU ADD IT ALL UP, it’s never enough. It wasn’t enough with any of the others, and it’s fuck sure not with Cleo.

  I watch her sleep. I stroke my dick and dream of sliding it inside her.

  I’m not going to.

  She doesn’t know it, but our time is up.

  When I wake up in the canopied bed, I have no idea what time or even what day it is. Wasn’t Kellan in here with me? He was... I remember, but he’s not now. I’m alone. The window wall in front of me is dark, which makes it easy to see the flashing of my cell phone.

  I hope for him until I see the number: (800) 627-7692.

  Ugh. I quickly debate answering, and decide I will because I think it may be the Albany power company. One of the last times I went home, I dropped by the office and changed the phone number on my house’s account from Grans’ to mine. This way if they’re late on the bill, I can pay off some of it, so when Grans or Mom gets the money to pay it, it’s less than they expected.

  I swallow, clearing the sleep from my throat. “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Autumn Whatley?”

  I slide off the bed, eager to go in search of Kellan. “This is Autumn—otherwise known as Cleo.”

  “Hi, my name is Cindy and I work with Be The Match.”

  My heart stops. At least, it feels that way. I urge my lungs to breathe again and lean against the bed. “Um... yeah?” The word cracks.

  Fuck fuck fuck...

  “I’m calling to request a preliminary evaluation. Our records indicate you might be a match for someone on our roster. Would you be willing to undergo basic testing in the next few days, understanding we may make additional requests pending results?”

  I let my breath out. “That’s why you called?”

  “We’re on an expedited timeline, so we’re asking that you act on this as soon as possible.”

  I nod slowly, letting this sink in. It’s been years since I heard from them. I never thought I would again. Not unless... I shake my head. “Sure... that’s fine. No problem. If I am a match, I would... go through this again?” Would it be to the same person? My pulse races.

  “If you are a match, you would be called upon again. I see here in your records that you’ve done this before.” There’s a brief pause, in which I try to breathe. Then she says, “Are there any other questions, Cleo? We’re so glad that you’re a part of Be The Match.”

  I inhale deeply. Exhale. Let my two-ton question tumble forth. “Can you tell me anything about Robert?”

  “Robert?” she echoes.

  “You don’t know the name of my last match?” My tone is sharper than I intended, but I find I don’t care.

  I hear a brief pause, followed by loud typing. “What information are you requesting, Miss Whatley? I’m limited by—there are rules in place to—”

  “How is he?” I whisper.

  I hear a delicate clearing of her throat. “It looks like... mmhmm. I can see your chart is marked with blue—which means you’ve been flagged based on your file from last time.”

  My stomach hollows out. “Are you saying that I’m being called again as a match for R.—Robert, I mean? Could I be matched with him again?”

  Silence fills the line. “What’s the last report you received on Robert D., Miss Whatley?”

  I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. “I haven’t gotten one. Not since a while back. That’s why I’m asking. It’s been really bugging me, the silence from him.”

  A heavy sigh comes through my phone. My throat tightens. My stomach heaves, and I just know. I can feel the bad news coming like a train. “Cleo. I’m so sorry to inform you, your last match is listed as deceased.”

  “Deceased?” The word makes no sense. Less than no sense.

  “I’m sorry that you didn’t know. We don’t want to discourage—”

  Her voice sounds like it’s underwater. I hang up the phone.

  Eight forty-three PM, my phone says.

  I sit down on the rug. I wait for tears, but they don’t come. My face feels like a slab of wood. My heart thumps painfully.

  I check Kellan’s bedroom first, peeling the blanket away from the wall so I can examine the hidden door. As I dash downstairs, I wonder why I’ve never asked what’s in there. I wonder why I didn’t tell him about the girl I saw today.

  But I already know the answer: because I didn’t want to rock the boat. Despite the strong connection I feel to him—a connection that seems to grow stronger every minute—the boat with Kellan feels unsteady. Probably because he runs so hot and cold. My mom has always been that way: happy when she’s on a two-day off shift from the factory; quiet and withdrawn on work days. I grew up trying to make her happy, trying to help keep our struggling household steady. It’s why I got good grades. To avoid rocking the boat. I do the same thing now as I press my lips together to hold in a sob, despite the awful ripping sensation in my chest. I want to fall onto the floor and wail.

  Instead, when I get downstairs, I stalk through the living room and kitchen, then the formal dining room, the half-bath, and the library, which I’ve only ever peeked at through a half-cracked door till now.

  I can’t find Kellan. I can’t sit down. I swallow repeatedly as I g
et Helen more diced chicken, re-fill Truman’s water bowl, and rearrange the pillows on the couch.

  I pace the living room, peek out the back door, the house’s front door, and then dash back upstairs. I give the rumpled bed a glance—I imagine Kellan and me, intertwined tightly enough to extinguish the awful ache behind my breastbone—before I change into a black cotton sundress, pull a gray sweater on over it, and slide my feet into black flip-flops. Then I step out onto the balcony.

  The pine trees are a dark mass. I aim my gaze above them, looking frantically for Leo.

  I drank a shot of Snow Queen for you 8/7 also. Maybe in an alternate reality, we were drinking them together.

  Just as hot tears start to come, something pale near the ground attracts my gaze: a smoke cloud. I know without question that it’s Kellan.

  Why did he tell me he never smokes? What’s the point in lying, I wonder as I trek down to the river. I want him to feel like he can tell the truth with me. So I can tell the truth with him. Raw pain slices my heart as I wonder if I’m being foolish, letting myself feel this way.

  No choice.

  I have no damn choice, I’m finding.

  It feels dangerous. So dangerous, especially tonight.

  Oh God...

  I cross the lawn with long strides, my flip-flops sinking into warm, damp grass. Please be okay, I find myself chanting.

  With this loss sitting heavy in me, the night air seems to vibrate. I can’t see in the growing darkness. Unease is a small hand knocking on my chest.

  I find Kellan leaning against one of the thicker pines, his bare feet planted in the muddy riverbank. The fingers of his right hand cradle a blunt. Truman sits beside him on his haunches, stiff-backed, as if he’s trying to make his wayward owner more respectable.

  I stand a few feet from them, waiting for Kellan to look over at me. When he doesn’t, I press my trembling lips together and wait until I can’t wait anymore. I murmur, “Hey.”

  His gaze glides to mine, and I feel cold in my soft dress and flip flops. The sweater I’ve got on doesn’t shield me from the river breeze. The air slaps at me, seeping into my chest.

  I fold my arms under my breasts and try to read his face. It’s so... still. At the moment I need connection more than ever, Kellan gives me no clues to his mood. When he shifts his eyes back to the water, I look him over frantically.