by Julie Frayn
“How does your leg stay on?”
“It just does.”
“You don’t even limp. Can you run?”
She grinned. “Why don’t you come to the gym with me and see?”
His face broke out in a big smile. He looked ten years younger when he was smiling. Better than any face lift, any Botox injection. “It’s a date.”
Billie stretched and reached for Peg Leg. The pillow was cool to her touch and empty of her furry companion. Her eyes flew open and she bolted upright.
Was that bacon?
Sun streamed in through the gauzy curtains of Bruce’s large bedroom. She found the clock radio. Eight-fifteen.
“Good morning, Billie sunshine.” Bruce came into the room, freshly showered, his short curls damp. He wore only boxers and a grey T-shirt. He was laden with a tray, the Sunday paper tucked under one arm, his biceps prominent, the veins in his forearms bulging.
She pushed herself against the pillows, wiped her fingers under her eyes, and tried to pat down her morning hair.
He sat on the bed and placed the tray between them. The newspaper fell onto the comforter. He leaned over it and planted a kiss on her morning-breath mouth.
Oh, God, why didn’t she carry a spare toothbrush in her purse?
He settled onto the bed and lifted a napkin from the tray with a magician’s flair. Ta-da! Underneath the napkin was a large plate with a mound of scrambled eggs, cheddar melting on top, a pile of buttered toast, jam on the side in a little bowl with a tiny spoon. And bacon. Lots and lots of crispy bacon. Could he read her thoughts? She must have told him how much she loved bacon.
“You cooked breakfast?” The tray held two cups of steaming coffee.
“Of course. It’s Sunday. That’s always a big breakfast day for me.” He picked up one of the forks and handed it to her. A red pen rolled out from beneath the rim of the plate.
She picked it up. “Are we editing justice gone awry this morning?”
He fit half a strip of bacon into his mouth. “Or doing the Sunday crossword.” He swallowed. “Or both. Or neither.” He flashed his eyebrows at her.
She squinted. “Well, I’m starved. And there’s just enough time to eat and maybe start the crossword before you have to get me home by nine, as promised.”
“Right. God awaits your presence in His house.” He didn’t even try to mask his sarcasm.
“You’re not a believer, are you?”
“I’m not sure anymore. I used to be, when I was a kid. There’s just too much that can’t be explained. Too much bad that, if there really were a God, He’d prevent.” Bruce ran his hand over the blanket that covered her amputated leg. “Just too many good people are dealt shitty hands to think He can be up there watching out for them.”
She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth and stared at him while she chewed and swallowed. “I don’t think His purpose is to keep everything right.”
Bruce’s eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Then what is it?”
“It’s to give those who are dealt a shitty hand something to hold onto. Something to prevent themselves from drifting out into a bitter sea and drowning in their own self-pity. He gives strength to get up every day and face the crappy truth about life.” She snapped off a bite of bacon between her teeth. At least the salt and nitrates would camouflage her hangover wine breath. She chased it with a gulp of sweet, creamy, perfect coffee. “Will you show me how you make your coffee? Mine sucks.”
He took the cup from her hand and set it on the nightstand, moved the tray to a long dresser with a mirror hanging above it.
Billie caught a glimpse of her reflection. Hair matted, pillow seams denting her face. And what little mascara she’d worn the night before now rested under her eyes and on her cheeks.
Bruce kneeled on the bed and put his fists on the mattress on either side of her hips. He brought his face an inch from hers. “You, Ms. Wilhelmina Fullalove, are the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”
Heat rushed to her face. “I doubt that.”
“Believe it.” He kissed her.
She closed her eyes and let the heat spread through her chest, into her abdomen, and pool in her groin.
He shifted forward and took her into his strong embrace. He lifted her from the bed and brought her into his lap. The massive T-shirt he let her wear as a nightgown bunched around her waist.
Her arms floated until they were around his neck. One of his hands slipped under her T-shirt and ran up the length of her spine, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. He held her with one big paw, explored her skin with the other.
When his fingers grazed the side of her left breast, she gasped and opened her eyes. He was staring at her, his eyes soft but anxious. She rested her forehead against his and drew her lips away, gulping for breath and commanding her heart to stop pounding.
He ran his lips over her neck, suckled an earlobe. “Tell me to stop.” His voice rasped in her ear.
She swallowed and looked at the clock. If she was going to make church she’d have to cry uncle now.
He pulled the neckline of the T-shirt away from her skin and kissed along her collarbone until he got to the edge of her shoulder and the end of the skin the taut material allowed him access to.
Uncle. Uncle. Come on you chicken shit, you’re not ready. Cry. Uncle.
“Billie.” His other hand found its way inside the T-shirt. “Tell me.” He pulled away and looked into her eyes, his hands on the bare skin of her waist. “Tell me now.”
She closed her eyes and felt the lump in his boxers against her wet panties. The red pen struck through her fear, slayed the chicken, murdered uncle. She shook her head, clamped her lips shut, and stripped off the T-shirt. She counted three hippopotamuses, swallowed, and opened her eyes.
His gaze was fixed on her face. He yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. He let his eyes drift over her body and swallowed hard. “My God, Billie. You’re perfect.”
She cast her eyes to the end of her right leg. Her mental red pen inked in the rest of her calf and a perfectly manicured foot.
Bruce wrapped his arms around her, pulling her bare bosom to his hairy chest. He eased her to the bed and licked her lips, kissed her with an open mouth, and darted his tongue in and out.
She responded in kind, with hot, wet kisses, their hearts throbbing against each other’s.
He slid down her body, kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tender strip of skin between her breasts. His tongue left a wet trail along the curve of her right breast until his mouth found her nipple. He took it in, suckled and nibbled.
She arched her back and moaned. His breath cooled his saliva and her skin bubbled with pleasure. Shivers rocked her body.
He slipped further down, lapped at the fine hairs of her belly at the edges of her white cotton underpants. He hooked one finger under the elastic waistband and inched them down, his tongue chasing behind. He slid his tongue into the space her grandmother always said was Billie’s private place.
Billie’s eyes flew open. Her red pen scratched the vision of her gray-haired pseudo-mother from her consciousness. She covered her eyes with one hand and dug the fingernails of her other hand into Bruce’s shoulder. “Oh, my fucking God,” spurt from her mouth.
To hell with church.
Bruce pulled away and cool air rushed in where his head had been. “Well. That was a long time coming.”
Billie was afraid to look at him, her hand firmly over her eyes. She giggled at the double entendre, whether he’d intended it or not. “Only a decade and a half or so.” She split her fingers and peered at him. He kneeled on the mattress between her legs and smiled at her, his grin lopsided and filled with satisfaction. She glanced between his legs. He’d stripped off his boxers. At the sight of his erection, something she’d only ever seen in artsy photos or Google image results, her legs liquefied. “So.” She gulped. “Can you make me do that one more time?”
He threw his head back and roared,
his face heavenward. “Oh, sweet Billie. I can do better than that.”
Tuesday morning
BILLIE EXITED THE CHANGING room in her usual workout gear: long, loose, grey sweat shorts and an oversized grey T-shirt doing its one and only job — hiding her sports bra and her curves.
Bruce sat on a bench along the mirrored wall and laced his shoes. He looked up when she approached. His eyes lit up and he whistled.
She held her hands out and dipped in a shallow curtsy before sitting next to him.
“That is spectacular.” He pulled the leg of her shorts up and inspected the blade. “It’s not long like those Olympian guys wear.”
“Not for the gym. I’d like one, do some track running. But they cost a fortune, so one will have to do.”
“Well, let’s see it in action.” He got to his feet and held his hand out. She took it and stood. He kissed her nose and led her to the rows of treadmills. “You have a preference?”
Her usual machine stood empty. But to hell with usual. “Nope. Any will do.”
They chose the closest two and each stepped onto a machine, side by side. Billie pressed the buttons she always pressed, chose the pre-programmed route that took her up hills, down vales, had her jogging, walking, sprinting in random patterns. She would often listen to music, shove the earbuds in and block out the world, imagine she was running through the hills of Italy, or perhaps Greece. But today she didn’t feel the need to imagine. There was no desire to edit reality. Today she simply wanted to be in her own life, in that moment, with Bruce at her side.
The belt began to roll and she warmed up with a walking pace. Within a couple of minutes, she was jogging at a six-percent incline and a speed of five. The same feeling overcame her that did every time she ran. Confidence. Power. Freedom. Control. Even with the rubberneckers on the machines nearby watching, her blade hit the belt with precision and without any perceivable limp. They were probably on standby, waiting for her to stumble, to fly off the end of the treadmill and land in a broken heap on the rubber mat. But running was her comfort zone. It was when she took it up in her teens that her agility improved and her limp disappeared. Running was what took her from frightened mouse cowering in the corner of life to independent woman poking her nose out of her hidey-hole and living it. Even if it was a life lived safely. A life barely lived at all.
The program cranked everything up a notch and she was running at full tilt: speed, seven-point-three; incline, nine. The thud of her feet against the treadmill and the shoosh of the spinning belt lulled her into a familiar and comforting rhythm. She was in the zone, her face hot, sweat beading and dripping from her brow, her neck, her armpits, and her breasts. Should she be self-conscious that the first man to see her naked, to touch her and taste her and make love to her, was on the next machine watching her turn into a stinking bag of sweat? Because she wasn’t.
She cut her eyes to his face. He was just watching her, barely even walking.
“Hey, you’re supposed to be running.”
“Have to take it slow. My running days were a few years back when the running was mostly from the cops.” He beeped his treadmill off, leaned against the handrail, and crossed his arms. “Holy shit, can you move.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“I thought editing was your thing.”
“Then I guess I have two things.” On the outside, one side of her mouth curled slightly. But on the inside, the clouds parted and streams of heavenly light poured forth and shined upon her. And she kept on running.
When the treadmill slowed after her final ascent, she wiped her face and neck with the towel she brought from home. She glanced at Bruce. “So, that’s the running blade in action.”
He was a little pink-faced. In the forty-minute workout, Billie had run for about thirty. Bruce had maybe got through ten at a slow trot, the rest a walk. “Pretty damned impressive. Better than most folks with original equipment intact.” He stepped off the machine. “I need to practice to catch up with you. In the meantime, how about I show you my thing?”
“I’ve already seen your thing.” The blush of the century crawled up from her five toes and steam exploded out her ears. Did she just say that out loud?
His head rolled back with the force of his laughter. He put his hands on either side of her waist and shimmied her body against his. “Yes, you have. And I hope it wasn’t for the last time.” He stepped onto the belt of her treadmill and kissed her right there in the gym, gave the rubberneckers something new to gawk at.
Oh no, it wouldn’t be the last time. She wanted to see his thing as often as possible.
Bruce took her upstairs to the weight training area. It wasn’t the first time she’d used it, but normally she just did push-ups and chin-ups and avoided the over-stuffed men ‒‒ and a couple of women ‒‒ who looked like they ate steroids for breakfast. Had Bruce been one of the regulars at her gym, she’d have likely avoided him, too. Assumed him to be like all the others ‒‒ self-absorbed, egomaniacs who looked down on anyone who wasn’t as pumped up as they were. But Bruce was nothing like that. Who knows? Maybe the other guys and gals on the second floor weren’t like that either. Of all people, Billie ought to know that appearances don’t mean a damn thing. That what’s on the inside and what the eye can see on the outside rarely match up.
He showed her proper form for squats and presses, different methods of curls that worked more than just that lump of biceps that, when flexed, made mere mortals swoon. She impressed him when she performed seven chin-ups without the assistance/resistance machine, and, blade and all, dropped and pumped out thirty push-ups. Not the ‘on the knees’ lady push-ups, but full-fledged military style.
“Look out world, don’t mess with Billie. She’ll fuck you up.” He faux-punched her arm.
Even his profanity was growing on her. His comfort with just saying out loud what she would only whisper in her head. But that was her deal with God, only in her head. Oh, how she longed to unleash onto the world some of what she kept bottled up, kept prisoner in her brain. But she wasn’t sure she had the strength for it.
Friday, July 10th
“YOU DON’T THINK it’s kind of gross?”
Bruce furrowed his bushy brow. “Gross? There’s nothing gross about you.”
“But it’s all stretched and discoloured and, and … gnarly. It doesn’t turn you off?”
He ran his fingers over her lips, down her chin, between the cleft of her breasts, and across her belly. He stared into her eyes and let his hand draw a map across her body, ending at the base of her stump. He cupped it in his hand and massaged it, while his mouth nibbled on her ear. “Billie,” he whispered, “every part of you turns me on.”
She closed her eyes and let the touch of his skin, the heat of his tongue, and warmth of his breath awaken feelings in her that she had never known. “You are so weird,” she said on a breathy exhale.
“I sure hope so,” he said into her neck. He rolled onto his back and dragged her with him until she straddled his legs. “You are so beautiful, Billie.”
Heat spread from her thighs and shot to her cheeks. “Stop it.”
“Nope. Don’t want to. It’s the God’s honest truth. I just wish you’d believe it.” He lay there and stared at her, his eyes like hot lasers burning every inch of her. “Nobody is perfect. Who’d want to be? Too much work. Too much to live up to.” He ran his fingers along her thighs. “What about me? Anything about me that grosses you out?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
One of his eyebrows shot up. “There is? Is it this weird bellybutton dent where they fixed the hernia?” He poked at his stomach.
She grinned and shook her head.
“How about the crooked nose. One too many left jabs that I was too drunk to block. Gross, right?” He smiled through every word.
She shook her head. “Nope. Keep guessing.”
“Well, shit, there are just so many things to choose from. Acne scars? Thirty pounds of extra weight? Too-c
urly hair for a grown man?”
She shook her head with vehemence through his whole list and that wretched giggle found its way out of her mouth again. Perhaps not so wretched. It was starting to grow on her. She’d even stopped editing it out. “No, no, and no.”
He jiggled her side to side. “Well come on, Billie Sunshine. Do tell.”
“Well, first of all, I love every one of your scars and marks and crooked parts.”
He raised both eyebrows until they wrinkled his forehead. A slight grin graced his lips. “Love?”
Her cheeks burned and she looked away. “It’s not the way you look. It’s one thing that you do that grosses me out.”
His hand touched her cheek and turned her face to look at him. “Tell me what it is. I’ll change it.”
She cocked her head. “That simple, huh?”
“Anything for you.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s the smoking.”
His brow furrowed. “I’ve never smoked in front of you.”
“You don’t have to. I can smell it in your clothes. Your hair. On your breath. And no amount of breath mints hide it.” Didn’t work for her mother, wouldn’t work for Bruce.
“Well I’ll be damned, I thought I was being so stealthy.” He pressed his lips together and cut his eyes to the left. He bit his bottom lip and nodded. “Okay, I’ll quit.”
“Really?”
“Really. I mean, I’ll try my damnedest. I’ve been smoking since I was a kid. Tried to give it up but one hard day and my first stop is the corner store for a carton.”
“Better than drugs I guess.”
He laughed. “Shit yeah. But according to my doc, not so good for my heart and lungs. He’s told me to stop or I’ll be dead on the floor before I’m forty-five. Cigarettes are killing the muscle, slowly but surely. You’d think that would be motivation enough.”