The Thrill of It

by Lauren Blakely

  And I decide to do the same. I open my eyes, look up into his. They are so earnest, so heartfelt. “Yes, it hurts. But it’s okay. I can handle the hurt,” I say, and it’s strange, but true. Because maybe it hurts now, but it might not hurt the next time. Or in five minutes, or in five seconds. And with that, I start to relax, to let go, to give in. As I do I realize the pain is fading, and now I just feel full with him deep inside me. I let go of the tight grip I have on his ass, and of the way my strong thighs are holding him like a vise.

  Then he slips his hand between my legs, and he slowly, softly rubs me with his finger while he moves inside me. I gasp in pleasure for the first time.

  “Oh!”

  I let my eyes roll back into my head, and I can feel him smile.

  “That better?”

  “Yes,” I say with a happy sigh. “More.”

  He slides his finger across me, rubbing me, stroking me, all while sliding gently in and out, and the sweep of pleasure from his finger starts to consume me. And soon, I’m opening my legs farther, and I’m wrapping them around him, and I’m taking him in. And holy fuck. He’s all the way in me and it no longer hurts. It starts to feel good, this feeling of being filled, of his hard length moving in and out of me, of his nimble finger rubbing me. Then the tingling sensation grows stronger, ripples through my veins like a wave, and I shudder.

  “God, I fucking love this, Harley,” he groans as he touches me. “I fucking love being inside you. I love touching you. I love you so damn much.”

  His words thrill me. His feelings shred me and soon, all the hurt washes away, and I am left with only the barest of essentials – this imperfect moment in time with this perfectly damaged man who is mine and who knows all of me, and still loves me, and still wants me, and doesn’t want to turn me into his fantasy, but he wants us to create a new reality together. I wrap my arms around him and he sinks deeper. The stretching is still bizarre but it’s delicious at the same time, and I want to feel every second of it as I start to rock with him, to move with him, and then his pants and groans aren’t solo anymore. They’re meshed with mine, with these sounds and noises I make as I gasp and moan from his finger working me over in the most delirious way all while he thrusts into me.

  “Trey.”

  “Oh fuck, Harley. Is there any chance you’re going to come? Because I can’t hold back much longer. I am so fucking turned on.”

  “Yes,” I answer, and I dig my nails into his back, so deep I’m leaving marks, but I have to hold on, I have to mark him. My body tenses, then it’s like there are sparklers set off in my belly, lit up and burning brightly, and they become an explosion of color and light and sounds, and that sound is my sound, it’s my voice, it’s me, calling out his name, and then he’s doing the same, chasing me into this sweet release on the other side.

  Here, where there is sex and love, and love and sex, and they don’t just spill over into each other.

  They are one and the same with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Harley

  “I’ll expect your first writing exercises on character development by the end of the week. You can deliver them via email, and remember to think about what makes each person unique. What events informed them, how they grew up, how they were raised. All of those are part and parcel of what makes a character in a story come alive.”

  My writing teacher taps the laptop screen for emphasis.

  I grew up strangely, I was raised in a topsy turvy world. But now and then, memories flutter in and out of my mind of peaceful, sunny days from long ago. Maybe they’re all part and parcel of me.

  “See you next week,” he says, then dismisses us.

  Summer classes have begun, and I am hoping to enjoy writing again. That when I write for fun, it won’t be so bone dry. Funny, how blackmail can sap the love of something. I leave the classroom, grab my sunglasses from my purse and slide them on as I head outside.

  I stop in my tracks when I see my mother waiting for me outside the building.

  She’s been calling and writing to me for the last week, but I’ve ignored all her messages. Let’s be honest, there’s not much to say to each other.

  “Harley,” she says crisply from her post standing sentry on the sidewalk.

  “Barb,” I say, and this time I use her name not because she wants me to. But because she doesn’t deserve to be called mom.

  “You haven’t returned any of my calls. Nor my emails.”

  “That is a correct observation. I see your reporter skills are strong,” I say, and I can barely contain a wicked grin, because holy cow – I sassed her. I talked back and she’s not used to it.

  She raises an eyebrow sharply as if that action alone can bend me back to her will, into her submission as the sister she wishes I were.

  But I am not my mother’s daughter anymore. There was a time when we were cut from the same cloth, but no more.

  “In any case, I’ve decided to forgive you.”

  “Excuse me?” I scoff. “I think I might have heard you wrong.”

  She nods. “I have been thinking about what you did. Your actions. Your choices. And I have a way for you to be forgiven.”

  I’m dying to know what she has in store. “Oh, do tell.”

  She gestures grandly to the modern building I just left. “I pay for your college. And I am glad to do so because education is a vital element in one’s growth. And I will continue to do so under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you come home and live with me again. That way I can help you.”

  “Oh,” I say, letting the one syllable last forever. “Like rehab for my bad behavior?”

  My sarcasm is lost on her.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I would call it. We can start over, we can have nightly chats, we can have dinners together. We can be open about your whereabouts so you don’t descend into your bad habits again.”

  Right. Because talking with her would change things.

  “So if I do this,” I say, as if I’m truly trying her experiment on for size, “Would you be willing to go to Miranda and confront her about the blackmail? Because I’m pretty sure what she did in forcing me to write that book is illegal, and you could expose her since that’s what you do. You expose people.”

  She presses her plum-colored lips together as if she’s considering my request. “I could but I’m not sure that’s best. We don’t really want that getting out, do we? I think it’s best to let that sleeping dog lie.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, nodding as if I completely agree. “Definitely that one lie. I mean, sexting senators are so much more important than editors blackmailing your own daughter. You wouldn’t want that out. Because that might besmirch your unblemished reputation.”

  “That’s not it. I just think we could both benefit from moving on. What do you say? Truce?”

  She extends her hand. I look at it like it’s a diseased object.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then you leave me no choice but to cut you off.”

  She parks her hands on her hips, waiting for me to grovel. She has the trump card, right? She thinks she can buy me back. She thinks she can buy my love.

  I shake my head. I’d like to cry, but my eyes are dried for her. I have no more tears. I have no more emotions to waste on her.

  “So cut me off then,” I say like it’s no big deal.

  She blinks, as if a UFO has just crashed through the sky, splattered onto the sidewalk and little green men are pouring out of it announcing they’re from another solar system. She’s as astonished at my brinksmanship as she’d be by the miniature aliens.

  “Are you just going to drop out of college? Become a hooker full time?”

  I point a finger at her. “Actually, allow me to make a correction since I know precision is important in your line of work, Barb. I wasn’t a hooker. I was a call girl. I was a specialized one. A very high class, high price call girl. So guess what that means?” I can
’t bother to contain the grin. This is wonderful. This is me stubbing out a cigarette with my pointy heel.

  “What?” she says with a quaky wavering voice.

  “I made some serious bank, and I saved every single penny of it. Never spent a dime. So you can’t buy my love and I don’t need your money. Which means I don’t really see that there’s anything more for us to discuss.”

  I could snap my finger, swivel around then strut off, reality show style. But I don’t. Instead, I simply walk away, and it hurts that she isn’t who I wanted her to be, but it also feels good that I finally found the words to tell her so.

  In my own way. In my own time.

  * * *

  I am not my past. I am my present. I am my future. The past can chase you if you let it. You can spend your life trying to outrun it or you can stop running, turn around and look it in the face. I’ve stared down my past, and now I’m moving on. I am more than my past. I am my future and it belongs to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Trey

  “Do you trust me?”

  She rolls her eyes and says “Duh. I thought we’d established that by now.”

  “I know. But do you trust me to do this without watching? I want you to close your eyes or else look the other way, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She sits on the stool, crosses her legs, and clasps her hands in front of her. She’s wearing a jean skirt, black combat boots, and a tank top with a cartoon cat on it. In other words – she looks like my girl and I fucking love it.

  “I’m not looking, I’m not looking, I’m not looking,” she says in a sing-song voice as she pointedly stares at the framed photos that line the walls of No Regrets. Blue butterflies on upper backs, stars on hips, dragonflies on forearms. The shop is closed now, it’s nearing midnight on a Thursday, and I wanted to do this after hours when I’m not on the clock. Besides, it’s a gift to her. An early birthday gift.

  I press the transfer paper on her shoulder, the drawing I made to replace the first time I marked her with a design that kept her tied to her guilt. The red ribbon that was supposed to symbolize her love of her mom. She’s moved past it now, and I want her to live a life with no regrets, and god damn it, if that’s the name of our shop, then I need to be able to deliver. I’m building her red ribbon into a new design.

  An hour later, her eyes are still fixed on a point on the wall. Maybe the butterflies, or maybe the tribal ink next to it. Hard to say, because I’ve barely glanced at her. Only enough to know she’s focused, and she’s tough, and she’s gritting her teeth through the pain that’s very nearly over.

  I finish the final letter, giving a script-y end to the T in the words.

  Then I put down the needle, and she relaxes, her shoulders slumping forward.

  “You did great,” I tell her.

  “Now let’s see if you did great,” she says. “Am I allowed to look?”

  “Yes. You can look.”

  Harley

  I can’t stop staring at my shoulder.

  I trace my finger around the design, mesmerized by its beauty. By its perfect-ness. By what it means.

  Trey turned my red ribbon into a heart. But it’s a badass heart, the edges of it torn and tattered. It’s like the one on the notebook Joanne gave me, only it’s not misshapen. It’s whole, and it’s complete, and it’s tough as nails with the way it’s frayed on the outside. An arrow pierces it, clear through the center from one side of the heart to the other. Then there are words in a V at the bottom–Carry My Heart.

  “It’s so unbelievably perfect,” I say, and I am awestruck. “I love it so much.”

  “You do?” His voice is wobbly.

  I glance up at him, barely able to tear myself away from the new ink. “Are you kidding me? It’s the coolest tat ever. It’s perfect for me. And it’s from you. And it means something. Why wouldn’t I love it?”

  He shrugs. “I was just hoping you would. I mean, I didn’t want you to have to hunt down some other tattoo artist to redo mine. Or worse, get laser removal.”

  I cup his cheeks, stubbly against my hands. “This is never being removed. I love it and I love you.”

  “Happy early birthday.”

  “My birthday’s not for another month.”

  “So I like getting you stuff. I’ll get you something else when you finally turn twenty. What do you think about the arrow?” He returns his focus to his work.

  “I love the arrow in the heart,” I say, then consider it thoughtfully, running my finger across the art on my skin. “Is it coming or going though?”

  He shakes his head. “Neither.” He reaches for my hand, links my fingers through his. “It’s staying.”

  “Like you,” I say and I’m vaguely aware that my voice has turned breathy, but then so has the moment, shifting into something more, something expectant.

  “Like me. And like you,” he repeats in a low, husky voice.

  In one swift move, he lets go of my hand and yanks off his own shirt. There, over his heart, he now has an arrow. It matches mine, and I am overwhelmed, bursting with heat and light and unfettered happiness. My hand is drawn to his chest, and I trace the tattoo, then kiss the arrow on his chest. “I love it,” I tell him.

  “It matches,” he adds playfully.

  “Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “I figured that.”

  Then, his hands are in my hair, and he’s pulling hard, exposing my neck, kissing me, marking me, claiming me with his mouth. I respond instantly, my hands looping around his back, tugging him close. His breath is hot on me, and there’s sweat on his neck from working, from inking me, and my skin is slick too. From the summer, from the heat, from the needle.

  And I want to have hot, sweaty sex in his tattoo parlor.

  I have become more forward, more outspoken in the last few weeks with him. So I unbutton his jeans, sliding them down to his knees, along with his boxers.

  “I want you on the chair.”

  “Gladly,” he says and he takes a seat, and in seconds he’s grabbed a condom from his wallet and handed it to me. It’s become our thing; I love to put them on him, and he loves it when I do. In an instant, he’s hiked up my skirt, pulled my panties to the side and is inside me.

  I groan as he fills me. “Trey,” I say, letting his name slide off my tongue in a sexy purr, because I love the way his name sounds when he’s deep in me. As if I’m owning his name when we’re together like this. When I take him all the way in.

  “So I guess this means it turns you on when I ink you,” he says, in a hungry voice as he rolls his hips upwards.

  I inhale sharply. I can feel him so deep inside me, and I’m still not sure I’m used to his size. But then I don’t know if it’s something you get used to, or something you just thank the heavens for, then lean your head back, let your hair fall down, and imagine you’re on a wild motorcycle ride after midnight as he drives into you with abandon. And that’s what he does, fucking hard and fast. Soon, I am panting and moaning, greedy for more of this heat, this love, this life.

  “Yes, it turns me on when you ink me,” I say, finally managing to answer in between my erratic breaths. “But then, everything you do turns me on.”

  “Good. Because I want to do everything with you,” he says. “And right now, I want you to ride me hard, Harley. I want you to fuck me with everything you’ve got.”

  I take over the reins, my hands gripping his shoulders. I ride him, up and down, until my thighs are quaking, and even then I keep going, watching as his face contorts in pleasure, and he tells me over and over how much he fucking loves me, and fucking loves fucking me, and fucking loves everything. His coarseness and his love send me spinning, and my body is consumed with wildfire, and the whole damn forest is burning down, taking everything in is wake.

  I shout his name, louder than I’ve ever been, and then he’s doing the same, and we’re both savage and sweaty and hot and horny and we collapse into each other’s arms. He tosses the condom into the trashcan nex
t to us, then wraps his arms around me again.

  I don’t let go for a long time, and he makes no move to pull apart. The longer we stay like this, the more I know that there is a difference between love and addiction, and this here with him – this is some kind of love, and some kind of good.

  My thoughts drift off, roaming these last few weeks, these last several months. How my life isn’t black and white, but it’s not gray either. It’s bursting with colors, and sometimes they are shades of black as I grapple with the darkness and the fear that still lives inside me, and other days it’s purple or blue when I’m happy and sad at the same time. Some days everything is orange and fiery and I am alive and burning like the sun.

  I am learning to live with all these colors, all these pieces of me. I am beginning to stop swatting away the girl I was. Because I can let go of who I used to be, but I don’t have to hate her, nor do I have to be ashamed of who I was. She served a purpose. Layla freed me from my mom. Besides, had I not been Layla I might never have met Trey.

  I trace my fingers over the trees on his ribs, the reminders of his brothers.

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Yes,” he says into my hair, as he gently rubs his hand up and down my naked back. “But then I have to believe there was a meaning behind it all. And look, if they hadn’t died, I might never have become fucked up, and if I wasn’t fucked up, I might not have met you.”

  I pull back to look at him. “You’re crazy and I love your crazy, because I was thinking the same thing. Well, about me.”

  “If we weren’t addicted we might never have met.”

  “So maybe there’s a purpose to everything, even the shitty stuff in life,” I say. “Even Miranda.” Then, in a low worried voice. “I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

  “But you’re not supposed to, right? I mean, it’s over?”

  “Yeah, it’s over. But the book will come out, and what if someone recognizes themselves in it?”

  Because some days it’s hard to believe our debts are really paid off. Are scores ever truly settled? Can we ever stop looking over our shoulders? I wonder if I’ll always sleep with one eye open, always watch my back to see who’s going to try to trip me up next. God knows, there are so many more people who could surface, who could emerge like a mirage in the desert made real, and demand something from me. More blood, more words, more ink.