The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  I fling myself at him, jumping up to wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. He catches me with a pleased smile, a quiet laugh, and then I’m kissing him. His face, his hair, anything I can reach.

  “I hope these are good tears,” he says, brushing one off my cheek, and I’m too choked up to do anything but nod.

  He cups my jaw and then we are kissing, and neither of us is laughing or crying anymore. I reach behind him to lock the door and slide to my feet, opening his coat, letting my lips graze his collarbone. He’s in jeans and thick-soled boots. I never dreamed that combination could inspire so much lust.

  He pulls me closer and finds my mouth once more, his hands digging into the small of my back. I feel small and safe like this, wrapped up in the cocoon of him, with his overcoat falling around us, his erection digging through the thin fabric of my dress.

  “I have five minutes until they start banging on that door,” I warn him.

  His ridiculously large hands palm my hips. I feel tiny in his grasp. “That’s not nearly enough time,” he says.

  I pull him down to me again by the lapels of his coat. “I love that you came here to see me.”

  “It didn’t feel like a choice,” he says, his mouth ghosting over mine, sliding to my jaw. “I couldn’t fucking stay away.”

  “Can you wait for me?” I ask. “I can be done here in an hour, tops. Less if I’m rude.”

  “Sure. But I fully support rudeness.”

  I reach down to his jeans and undo his belt, untuck his shirt. There’s something about the sight of him like that—dressed, zipper beneath my fingers slowly sliding down, that I find irresistible. “Drew,” he says, a warning in his voice, “fuck. Don’t. Not if someone’s coming in here in a minute. I don’t have a condom anyway.”

  I slide to my knees, dragging the jeans down with the boxers beneath them. His erection springs up, swollen and lovely, begging for my mouth.

  Which I provide.

  “Oh Jesus,” he says. I look up to see his head fall backward as if it pains him, but only a moment later he’s opening his eyes again to watch. Dark, drugged eyes at half-mast, mouth slightly ajar, watching as I lathe his cock from top to bottom, before dragging it into my mouth, letting suction do the work.

  I’m so wet my panties stick to my skin. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next hour aching like this.

  His eyes start to fall closed. His head sways back as if he’s drunk. “Drew. God. I’m gonna come.”

  My fingers sink into his hips to hold him in place and with a gasp he lets go. His body sags against the door with a groan he can’t stifle, his thighs trembling. I rise to my feet, wiping the corners of my mouth like the classy little lady I am.

  “I feel like I got the better end of this deal,” he says with a shaky laugh.

  I take his hand and pull it between my legs, beneath my panties, so he can feel what it did to me. “You did get me the brioche. But you’ll be making it up to me, I promise.”

  That drugged look is in his eyes again already. He pushes my panties to the side, spears me with his longest finger, pressing it to exactly the right spot.

  “Oh,” I whisper.

  “I can probably make it up to you right now,” he says, dropping to his knees, pushing my legs apart. He looks up at me from the floor, eyes hooded and hungry and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He buries his face between my parted legs, his tongue flicking in small, hard strokes against my clit while that incessant finger of his slides in and out.

  Someone bangs on the door. “One minute!” I cry, my voice regrettably strangled. He laughs against my thigh. It’s the exact kind of situation in which I would normally be unable to come—people right outside the room, pressure, chaos. Instead, it all seems to swirl around me, and the sight of him groaning against my skin is my only focus. “Yes, yes, yes,” I whisper like a prayer, and somehow he knows this means more, faster, harder. I fly right over the edge, tugging his hair, my knees giving out until I’m on the floor, too, and the two of us lie down on the carpet and laugh.

  He’s already hard again. “You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now,” he whispers in my ear.

  “No condom,” I remind him.

  “I’d fashion one. I’d turn into fucking MacGyver and create it from a shoe lace and my driver’s license.”

  I laugh. “Sounds hygienic.”

  The doorknob rattles aggressively. A fist strikes it. “Drew, it’s Davis,” a voice announces unnecessarily. “I need you out here now. The natives are restless.”

  “I’d like a quick word with your manager,” Josh says, his nostrils flaring.

  I smile. Though part of me would love to watch him put Davis in his place, it will only make things worse. “No thank you. I’ve seen how your quick words work out. I don’t need another Come repeat that on shore, asshole moment right now.”

  Slowly, his mouth curves and he looks at me, his palms on either side of my face. It’s different than his previous smile. It’s not as if I’m the girl he just went down on, but someone he adores. I want to stay here forever.

  This must be what it’s like to fall in love, I think. Huh.

  We stand up and Josh fixes the straps of my dress, tucks my hair back behind my ears.

  “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to buy condoms,” I whisper, moving toward the door. “And Josh? Buy a lot.”

  37

  JOSH

  She snuggles against me, tiny and soft. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies. Her eyes are still closed but she smiles. And then she laughs.

  I don’t even have to ask why. She met me last night at her hotel and promptly grabbed one suitcase and her guitar and told me we were leaving. Apparently, Davis would just stroll right in, otherwise, which still enrages me.

  It was only once we’d checked in across the street under a different name that she left Davis a message, canceling her interviews for the day, and she’s been laughing about it ever since.

  “Davis is, at this exact moment, exploding,” she says. “Like, I think his brain might be literally exploding.”

  I push the hair back from her face. “I have the somewhat troubling suspicion that you’d like to watch that.”

  She hitches a shoulder. “Don’t act like it comes as a surprise. You know what I’m like.”

  “Yeah,” I say, rolling her on top of me. “I might need a reminder though.”

  The midday light is thin. Through the windows we look at the rooftops of Paris, covered now with a fresh layer of snow. “I could live here,” she says, pushing the room service tray away.

  “In this hotel?” I ask. “Let me reiterate: this wouldn’t count as living off the land.”

  She laughs. “Fuck off. I meant in Paris. I could be, like, a barista maybe. I think I could do that. I’d get fired for having an attitude back home, but here I’d fit right in.”

  I press my lips to the top of her head. “What about me? What would I do?”

  She taps her lower lip, thinking. “You’re…hmmm. You work as a gravedigger.”

  “A gravedigger? That’s the best you can do?”

  “Regular nine-to-five job and it would keep you in shape. I’d need a lot of attention when I get home from the coffee shop. Foot massages and such.”

  “I’ll check to see if anyone’s hiring before I leave,” I say and then regret it. I’ve referenced leaving and though her smile holds, I feel the way it turns a little jagged. I fly out tonight. It was the best I could do, but it’s not enough for either of us.

  “We can actually go outside the room, you know,” she says. “If I’m all bundled up and not wearing makeup, no one will bug us. Just please don’t say you want to go to the Louvre. You know how I feel about smart people shit.”

  I laugh, running a finger down her sternum. “Yes, I remember. For a girl who can recite criminal statutes on demand, you’re weirdly opposed to letting anyone think you’re smart.
But don’t worry. I have other ideas.”

  I lean over, pressing a kiss to the space between her ribs.

  She purrs, arching toward me. “I think I know what your ideas are. I’m fine with staying in if you are.”

  I lower myself on top of her. “Don’t worry. It’s not sex. Well, it is, obviously,” I say as I reach for a condom. “But it’s not only that.”

  38

  DREW

  In the afternoon, the snow stops suddenly. “This is my plan,” says Josh, holding my coat for me. “We are going to walk.”

  I raise a brow. “Just walk?”

  His mouth twitches. “Just walk.”

  Outside, the world is strangely silent and peaceful, the roads mostly empty. We buy cheap gloves and hats at a kiosk and then he links his fingers through mine and pulls me close. When we kiss, our breath hovers between us like a small white cloud.

  We head over toward Île Saint-Louis, an island that sits right in the center of the Seine, just past Notre Dame. He pulls me inside a café and we order chocolat chaud—hot chocolate, but nothing like the drink I know from home. This is thick, velvety, bittersweet. Something you sip. Maybe an acquired taste but on this weird, offbeat day, it feels right.

  We sit with our drinks on a bench he’s cleared for us. The sun’s dying rays descend upon the Seine, painting it in splashes of orange and crimson and gold. My arm rests against his and I let my head lean on his shoulder. If it weren’t for his looming departure, I’d be so weightless right now I doubt gravity would keep me on this bench.

  “I’d do anything to feel this free all the time,” I tell him.

  His lips press to the top of my head. “You don’t need to do anything to feel this free, though.”

  He’s right. This outing has barely cost us a penny—we could easily afford it in my barista/gravedigger fantasy—and I’ve never been happier. I certainly wouldn’t need more, but I doubt it would hold up if he wasn’t here with me.

  “I’m not sure my mother has ever had a moment this peaceful,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He’s already told me she’s probably got two years left, maybe three. It weighs on him, that ticking clock. He wants to fill it with all the things she won’t have, and it’s too late for some of them. “If she did, the shit my dad’s done has tainted it by now.”

  “Why does she stay with him?” I ask.

  “Because of us,” he says. “I found out when I was a teenager and it was already old news to her at that point. She was willing to pretend things were fine, for our sake, so we’d feel like one big happy family.”

  She just didn’t realize what a strain it would be on her oldest son. Or what a strain she puts on him now, with that all-encompassing love of hers, and the way he struggles to live up to it. I might be the one wrong thing, the one deceitful thing, he’s ever done.

  When dusk falls, we link hands again and head toward the hotel. “How long do you have?” I ask. My voice sounds small and childlike. I wish he could stay. I just want one more day with him. It seems like so little to ask and yet I know it’s impossible for either of us.

  His hand tightens around mine. “A few hours.”

  We stop at a bar on the way back to the hotel. He orders us mussels and frites and two glasses of red wine.

  “I could listen to you speak French all day,” I tell him.

  He grins. “If you worked at Dooha, you probably would. I promise it wouldn’t seem so exciting then.”

  “Pretend I’m your nurse,” I say, tipping my head up and closing my eyes. “Say something.”

  “Je pense qu’il y a une hémorragie interne.” His voice is soft as velvet. My nipples tighten under four layers of clothing.

  “That sounded sexy,” I tell him. “What was it?”

  “I think there’s internal bleeding,” he replies and I laugh.

  Our food arrives and we eat quickly, suddenly famished. We’re only half done when the bar grows crowded. The mood is celebratory—it’s not every day the city is unexpectedly shut down. We are bumped from all sides and Josh turns us so I’m seated and he’s standing, blocking the crowd with those ridiculous shoulders of his.

  I take a sip of my wine, savoring it the way I did the hot chocolate. His gaze falls to my mouth and my blood heats in response.

  “What are you thinking about up there?” I ask.

  His eyes drop to my mouth again. “Watching you drink wine is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says. His nostrils flare a little, as if he’s trying to breathe me in.

  I swallow. I need him undressed right now and looming over me. I need those large hands of his palming my hips, pulling them off the mattress to meet his. “Maybe we should go back to the room,” I say breathlessly.

  He nods, the check is paid, and the two of us stumble from the bar, walking too close to be graceful. On the street, he presses me against the building’s crumbling stone facade and kisses me, the air biting cold, his mouth warm and needy. I press against him, my hands sliding beneath his coat.

  “I want to be so far inside you, you’ll never forget I was there,” he whispers.

  You already are, I think, pulling him down the street.

  We reach the room and shed our clothes as if they’re suffocating us. And then we are on the bed, deliciously naked, and he’s above me, pinning me down with his heavy limbs, moving inside me like he’d sooner die than stop.

  He wrings the first orgasm from me easily, but then demands another. I can feel it building, a tight ball of heat in my stomach, but it’s the sight of him there, trembling on the cusp but refusing to be pushed over as he waits for me, that finally sets it off.

  And then he lets go—a desperate, hoarse cry in my ear, his body shaking above mine.

  “I’m not going to forget, ever,” I whisper against his skin. “I promise.”

  He doesn’t have long after that. He tells me to stay in bed as he gathers his things, so I watch him move across the room, stepping into boxers, tugging a t-shirt overhead.

  When he’s dressed and his stuff is gathered, he comes to the edge of the bed and presses his lips to my forehead. They hold there for the longest moment and neither of us says a word.

  I will probably never see him again. The thought hits me hard and fast, creating a desperate need to hold on to this moment.

  It’s only when the door shuts that I let myself feel the full weight of my loss. My chest aches. I want to cry but it’s as if the tears are stuck there, too painful to be dislodged at all.

  When I wake the next day, there’s nothing to open my eyes for.

  Very soon—in a few hours, in fact—I will need to pay the price for my defiance and face Davis. I was so brave, so joyful when Josh was here because I was leaning on him, even if I didn’t admit it to myself, and now is when I fall. Now is when the label comes down on me for blowing off interviews, when Davis tells me I’m in breach of contract and extracts concessions to make up for it: extra shows, extra appearances. He will drive me until I don’t know what city I’m in and pass out on stage because I’ve forgotten anything matters more than keeping the machine running.

  I get to the airport that afternoon. We travel by private plane when we’re on tour—a luxury, in theory. In reality, it means Davis gets to spend the entire flight bitching at me. I close my eyes and for once I don’t see myself sitting on a bus, alone and frightened. I see myself sitting at Île Saint-Louis with Josh, watching the sunset and feeling absolutely free.

  I’d work myself to the bone for that feeling, except Josh was right: I don’t have to. I was born entitled to it. Everyone has a right to be happy, to feel peaceful. And the most successful third album in the history of third albums won’t give me any more of it than I had yesterday.

  Maybe it’s time I truly consider getting off this particular ride at last.

  When I’m in my room, I grab my phone and text Ben Tate, the attorney Tali’s been on me about. He agrees to meet me in New York when I’m there next month. I writ
e the info down on the hotel notepad, oddly terrified. It’s as if I’m trying to escape a cult.

  And as tangled up as all my business dealings are, escaping a cult might be easier.

  39

  JOSH

  I go from snow and Paris sunsets and Drew’s breath mingling with mine to armed guards pointing guns at me in a customs line. And this is the safe part—if there is a safe part—of Mogadishu.

  I used to feel like I wasn’t giving up too much coming back here. The work was interesting and I liked my coworkers. Today, though, I’m not interested in the faint pleasures of living within the confines of the camp: getting to know the families, camaraderie with the rest of the staff, the occasional hookup with a cute nurse. The assurance it provided that I’m not like my father is no longer enough.

  I want my weekends back. I want a modicum of safety. I want to be able to go to a pastry shop to buy breakfast for the girl waiting back at my place. I want a huge soft bed, where that same girl will be stretched out beside me, suggesting I become a gravedigger.

  My shirt clings to my back as I get my first whiff of dust whipping off the dry plains outside the city. The drive to Dooha is the most dangerous part of leaving and returning. I’m normally hypervigilant, looking for signs of trouble, but today I’m just gazing at the picture I took of Drew outside the patisserie—steam rising from a cup beside her face, her sweet, surprised smile.

  We are in a shitty, unfixable situation. Soon, she’ll find someone who can actually see her. Who can actually admit he’s with her. Cutting this off now would be easier than reading about her and the guy she replaces me with in a week or a month. But when she texts, I’m thrilled.

  It means I still exist somewhere in her world.

  I’m also thrilled because she says she’s meeting with a lawyer about getting rid of Davis. I video call her the second I get to my tent, abandoning any attempt at restraint. She’s in her hotel room, smiling wide. I never once saw her smile like that for my brother. “Give me a tour of your tent!” she demands.