by Roxie Noir
Also, you told him you wanted to feel every inch of his cock as he filled you up, I think. And now you have to look him in the eyes and pretend you’re a normal person.
“Yeah, I had a positively lovely time,” Stone says, his voice a low, lazy drawl. “You should come over for tea and crumpets this weekend.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” I mutter.
Stone just laughs.
“I’m not the one who went from ‘please fuck me, Stone,’ to high society lady,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I’m just teasing you,” he says, his head still back on the futon. “You’re right, it was fun.”
“No, the ‘fuck me’ stuff,” I say.
Stone is silent for a long, long moment, and I start squirming.
Too much, Rivers, I think. Way too much. Dial it back next time.
“You’re apologizing for talking dirty?” he finally asks.
He sounds genuinely baffled, and now I feel like a huge dork for bringing it up at all. I stare at his handsome face, into his incredible green eyes, and feel like the world’s most awkward person.
“I’ve dated a couple people who didn’t really like it,” I explain. “Sometimes it kind of... happens.”
By a couple people I mean most of the guys I’ve been with, because somehow I’ve mostly dated losers who don’t even like dirty talk.
Stone raises his eyebrows, looking skeptical.
“Did I seem like I didn’t like it?” he asks, his voice still low and slightly raspy.
“No,” I say. I swallow and look away, my face still bright red. “But you wouldn’t be the first guy to like it in the moment and decide you prefer nice girls later.”
Stone just laughs, leaning his head against the futon.
“What the fuck about me says I like nice girls?” he asks. “I came so hard I think one of my balls went back inside my body.”
“Ew,” I say.
He rubs his thumb over my knee.
“You can talk dirty to me any time, Detective,” he says, and grins. “I’m more than happy to listen.”
Cool, I think. I met someone who does sex really well and wants to talk dirty to me and he’s a juvenile offender with a million tattoos and a GED.
“Thanks,” I say, and Stone just chuckles.
We just sit there for a moment. I put my head back on his shoulder, and start wondering when he did move in. Based on the amount of stuff stacked on top of the moving boxes, it wasn’t all that recently.
Then I frown. I think I’m sliding toward Stone very, very gradually.
I sit up and look at one end of the futon, then the other.
“Hm?” says Stone.
“Shit,” I say.
The corner of the futon is against the wall behind his head — a good foot from where it started — and there’s a mark and a dent.
“Your wall... got fucked up,” I say. “We should pull this back out.”
Stone looks behind himself, then shrugs and gets off the couch. We pull it away from the wall, and then we both stand there, looking at it.
“That’s crooked, isn’t it?” Stone asks, sounding more than a little amused.
“Maybe something got bent?” I ask, tugging at my hair.
Stone just laughs, then walks to the doorway and flips on the lights. He lowers himself onto the floor next to the futon, looking under it.
I take a moment to appreciate the way the muscles in his back ripple as he does, moving under the black and blue lines of his tattoos, though there aren’t as many there as on his chest.
Then one of them catches my eye. I take a step closer and lean over, staring at the wavy, faded lines inked into his skin.
“Yeah, the thing that supports this bar is fucked,” Stone says. “Damn, cowgirl.”
I barely hear him, because I’m staring at a tattoo of an eye over crossbones, wrapped in barbed wire. I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe, and I wish, desperately, that I could take the last hour back.
“I can probably bend it back later,” Stone goes on.
It’s old and faded, more blue than black, and the lines are totally uneven: wider in some parts, thinner in others, like it was done by an unsteady hand. Part of the crossbones looks distorted, like something bent it out of shape after the tattoo was done. It’s obviously amateur.
I know a prison tattoo when I see one.
Stone rolls over onto his back and looks up at me.
“It’s just a futon, detective,” he says, and grins. “Don’t worry, it was worth it.”
“Where’d you get the eye tattoo?” I ask. I think my voice is shaking.
It feels like something sucks all the air from the room.
“The eye with the bones and the barbed wire,” I say, and clear my throat. “It’s on your back, on your left—”
“I know where it is,” he says.
We stare at each other.
“When were you in prison?” I finally whisper, my throat nearly closed.
“It’s from juvie,” he says, looking me dead in the eyes.
I don’t answer, because I’m afraid I’ll scream or cry or both. I just walk across the room, grab my pants, and pull them on without bothering about underwear.
“Luna,” Stone says, getting to his feet.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say through my teeth.
“It was years ago,” he says.
I whirl around, still wearing nothing but pants.
“First you lied and then you thought it was okay to fuck me without mentioning that you were in prison?” I ask.
My voice is shaking, and I take a deep breath. All I can think about is every statistic I’ve ever read about all the diseases that are rampant in prison. HIV. Hepatitis.
“I’ve gotten tested,” he says. “We used a condom.”
“Condoms break!” I shout.
I take a deep breath and try to get control of myself, because getting into a screaming match isn’t going to fix anything here. I see my shirt on a box and grab it, pulling it over my head.
“Your bra’s behind you,” Stone says.
“Why would I believe that you’ve been tested?” I ask. I’m trying to use my regular voice, but it’s still too loud and too high-pitched. “You lied about being in prison.”
Stone stalks back and forth, between a pile of boxes and his futon, running one hand through his hair.
“It’s from juvie,” he says. “I fucking told you about that.”
I’m completely sure he’s lying. I’m not even sure why — it looks too recent, tattoos in juvenile detention aren’t as common — but I know he is.
I pick up my shoes with one hand and my bra and blazer with the other, fighting tears. I don’t know where my underwear went but it’s a small price to pay for getting the fuck out of here before I start crying, so I’m happy to leave it.
“Don’t call me,” I say, heading for the door. “Don’t text me, don’t fucking spray paint your own garage again.”
“Luna,” he says.
“You can’t lie about shit like this,” I say, yanking the door open. He walks toward me, like he’s going to follow me out.
“I didn’t—”
“No,” I say, holding up one hand. It’s the one with my bra in it. “Just fucking don’t, okay?”
Then I practically run down his steps into the cool night air.
“Luna,” he calls.
I keep walking.
“Luna!” he shouts. From the corner of my eye I can see him, naked and silhouetted in his doorway. I ignore him and hurry to my car, biting my lip to keep from crying, and throw my clothes in.
Stone’s door slams shut.
“FUCK!” I hear him shout. I get in my car and slam the door shut.
Then I crank the engine and burst into tears.
Ten minutes later, I’ve got the crying out of my system. I hate, hate, hate crying, but I’ve also come to terms with the fac
t that a good hard cry works. By now it’s just part of my crisis-solving method: step one, sob hysterically for a couple of minutes; step two, take a deep breath and consider the problem objectively.
I’m on step two as I pull into my driveway. I rent half of a small side-by-side duplex that’s owned by the nice retired couple who lives in the other half. They’re lovely people, particularly because they travel the country in their giant RV for about six months a year.
I toss my clothes on my kitchen table and look at the shelf with the whiskey on it. I’m tempted, but whiskey’s never made anyone cry less, so I drink a glass of water instead.
In concrete terms, it’s a fairly simple problem: I had sex with someone who may have been exposed to several serious fluid-borne pathogens. Therefore, I get tested, even though we used a condom, because I am straight-up freaking out.
It’s the other shit that’s more complicated, like the fact that I banged someone who I knew was a little crazy, who I already thought wasn’t telling me the whole truth. And the fact that he didn’t tell me he’d been in prison before we had sex, which any halfway decent person would have done.
Do a lot of decent people go to prison, Rivers? I think.
I’ve got a good point.
It’s still only eight-thirty, so I decided to deal with first things first and call Raine.
“Sup, Luna?” he answers.
“I need a really big favor and you can’t ask any questions,” I say.
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Cedar probably knows way better places to bury a body,” he says. “Being Mister Forest Ranger and all.”
I can’t help but smile.
“I’m not there just yet,” I say. “I just... need some blood work done.”
“What happened?” he says quickly. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no,” I say. Something about the concern in his voice makes me choke up again. “I did something dumb is all.”
“What kind of blood work are we talking?” he says.
I can hear him walking around his place, and something clinks in the background. I swallow.
“Full STD and blood borne pathogen panel,” I say.
He’s quiet again, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.
“When did you do this dumb thing?” he finally asks.
I sigh and swallow, trying to make the lump in my throat go away.
“An hour ago?” I say.
“You’re at your place?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” he says.
I shower, change clothes, and make myself a giant mug of my mom’s home-blended stress-relief tea. Even though I take all her natural, herbal medicine stuff with a grain of salt, drinking tea does make me feel a little better.
The door’s open, so Raine just comes in.
“Mom’s de-stress tea?” he asks, sniffing the air in my kitchen.
I nod, looking up at my little brother.
“Oh, shit, Loony,” he says, his voice mildly alarmed.
“I look that bad?” I ask.
Raine just crouches on the floor next to me and gives me a long side-hug. I lean my head against his and sigh as he rubs my shoulder.
After a long time he pulls up his own chair and sits down, looking at me very seriously.
“I know you said no questions, but I’ve gotta ask some,” he says. “You said this incident occurred earlier tonight?”
I nod.
“Have you ever... performed this incident before tonight?”
I shake my head. Raine leans in.
“I’m guessing this involved a transfer of bodily fluids?” he asks.
I open my mouth. Then I clear my throat.
“Not any of the important ones?” I say.
Raine raises one eyebrow, and I give up with the charade.
“I had sex with someone I shouldn’t have,” I say, putting my head in my hands. “We used a condom, but I’m pretty sure he’s at least been exposed to a whole lot of shit.”
“And the condom remained intact?”
I nod.
“Was there any unprotected genital-to-genital contact?” Raine asks.
I cover my eyes with both hands and shake my head, because I can’t look my little brother in the eye right now. Thank God he’s using his professional voice and sounding clinical as fuck.
“Oral-genital contact?” he asks.
I turn bright red, my hands still over my eyes, and nod.
“Were there any open wounds or sores?”
“No,” I say.
“Did you come into contact with any of the other party’s fluids besides saliva?”
“No,” I say.
Raine puts his hand on my shoulder again and squeezes.
“You’re probably fine,” he says. “That’s the good news. Bad news is, everything I’d test you for takes more than a couple of hours to show up in your blood work.”
Somehow, that hadn’t occurred to me. I take my hands off my eyes and lean on one fist, looking at Raine.
“Right,” I say. “I think I knew that.”
“You’re up to date on your vaccines, right?” he asks.
I nod.
“Dude, you’re gonna be fine,” he says, and squeezes my shoulder again. “You’re not gonna pick up anything worse than what you’d get making out with a stranger at a bar. Get tested in a month, just to be on the safe side, but I think you’re good.”
I want to say dude, I don’t make out with strangers at bars, but given that my little brother is coaching me through a sex-related freak out, I keep my mouth shut.
“Sorry for making you come out here,” I say, taking a long drink of my tea. “But thanks.”
Raine grins.
“It sucks that you’re upset, but it’s kinda nice that I’m not the one who fucked up this time,” he says.
“It wasn’t even my fault,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s never your fault,” he says, still grinning.
“Shut up.”
“Loony fucked uuuuup,” he says in an irritating, sing-song voice.
“What are you, eight?” I ask.
He does a goofy wiggle dance in his chair.
“Loony fucked up and this guy—” he jerks both thumbs at himself, “—saved the day.”
“You didn’t save the day,” I say.
“You stopped crying,” he points out. “Plus, now you’re annoyed at me instead of upset about boy problems.”
He almost has a point, and I sigh.
“You know what helps me when I’m bummed?” he asks.
“You get high and watch cartoons?” I say, because I already know the answer.
“Exactly,” he says. “I’m off tomorrow, so we can order pizza and go to town.”
Sometimes I can’t believe he’s entrusted with saving lives, even though I know he’s actually good at it.
“Okay,” I say.
Raine blinks.
“Really?”
“I’m not gonna get high, but I’ll eat pizza and watch dumb shit with you,” I say.
Raine drums both hands on the table, grins, and stands.
“Sweet,” he says.
15
Stone
Life is just so fucking unfair sometimes. It’s not news to me, but when that unfairness rears its head I still want to take a sledgehammer to everything in sight and then set it all on fire.
Luna drives away, and I turn back to my house, slamming the door.
“FUCK!” I shout. “FUCK!”
I punch the wall next to the door before I even know what I’m doing. It fucking hurts, because it’s a wall, but the pain at least distracts me.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, walking through my living room. A box gets in my way, and I kick it. It spins into wall and I hear something inside crack, but I’m already stalking away, hand throbbing.
I don’t know why I ever bothered to do the right thing, because now I’m fucked both ways. I kee
p the terms of my parole and witness protection and Luna never looks at me again. I spill, and the last six months of my life could be for goddamn nothing.
The kitchen sink is full of silverware, and I grab some with my left hand and throw it across the counter, where some of it bounces off the fridge and most of it clatters to the floor. I plug the sink, throw some ice in, run the cold water, and plunge my right hand under.
Then I stand there for a long time, buck naked and still furious in the dark. I still want to punch shit with my other hand, like maybe the window in front of me, but for once I’ve got the consequences on full display already so I don’t.
Far away, an engine roars. It sounds like a motorcycle, probably on Highway 1, which isn’t too far from my house.
I could just fucking go back, I think. I can’t talk to anyone I used to know, but I could find someone to fence stolen cars for me no problem. Do a job or two a month, live easy.
It’s pure fantasy, and I know it, but I still let myself think about it for a minute. I’m no goddamn good at getting along in this world. Even before I did time, most of my shit fit into a duffel bag and most nights I went to bed at sunrise.
I’d be alive a month if I went back. Maybe two. Word would get out about me, and next thing I knew, the Syndicate would be knocking on my door.
This, right here, this house and these boxes and this lopsided futon? This is my only choice if I want to stay alive.
I flex my hand under the ice water. It hurts, but I’m pretty sure nothing’s broken, just bruised pretty bad. I look at the counter full of thrown silverware.
I fucking deserve this, I think. You can’t be good enough for her. There’s no way. Not ever.
Stop thinking about her. Just stop.
Luna’s all I think about for three days straight.
I drive to work remembering how she saw through my spray paint ruse in about two minutes. I do oil changes and replace brake lights thinking about her legs around my waist. I go home with her voice whispering please fuck me rattling through my brain.
The only solace comes after I get home, because then I get drunk in front of the television. There’s a perfect level of intoxicated just below “blackout” where I can watch terrible sitcoms and not think about the look on her face, half terrified and half angry, as she ran out of my house.