I scooped her back up in my arms. Fuck the hurt, fuck the tired. I was going to get us back, god damn it. Despite what she may think of me. Or, because of it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MADDOX
God's flashlight made its appearance just as we got to the campsite.
It certainly would have helped if it had shown up before, as I trudged through the sand with Ramona in my arms. More than a few times I'd stumbled over things I couldn't see, other times over my own feet.
She'd insisted on trying to walk at least a dozen times, yet, after the second or third attempt she did nothing but grind our snail's pace down to a sloth's. We tried piggy-back style, but her leg couldn't take it. A fireman's carry impeded our progress even further – and it was awkward as hell. Made me feel like some kind of Neanderthal Tarzan.
Her face kept edging closer and closer to my aching buttocks, and while it was primordially effective, she almost slid off my backside when I stepped over a dead tree trunk.
We therefore stuck with the bride-over-the-threshold position. For what seemed like hours.
The moon lit the little encampment, casting it in a spotlight of sorts. I fell to my knees just beside the remains of the fire I'd let die, being so, so careful not to tumble on top of her when I hit the sand.
My arms were nothing more than limp, sunburned noodles by now, and with strength I simply didn't have, I gently placed her on the ground before I completely collapsed. I'd expended every ounce of energy I'd ever had, and tapped into the reserves until they ran dry.
I wanted to just lay there, let the fatigue run its course, pass out and go to sleep. I picked myself back up, instead, and crawled over to the stack of supplies – to the survival blankets that looked like tin foil.
I may have been cold, but Ramona was freezing. She needed warmth, and as I was dumb-shit enough to let the fire go out, I hoped that wrapping her up like a burrito would suffice.
She was breathing hard and heavy. Her teeth still chattering like maracas, her entire body shivering to the point of seizure. I flapped out one of the blankets, and went to cover her.
“Don't,” she said, putting up her hands.
“I'm not going to do anything gross, okay? You're freezing to death, and–”
Ramona struggled, mightily, to prop herself up on her elbow. She started unbuttoning her shirt – my shirt – and for the scantest of seconds, I thought of seeing those beautiful brown breasts of hers again. Her nipples, frozen like pink ice cubes, and I swear to God, I almost slapped myself.
“What are you doing?” I asked, still holding out the foil blanket, watching her fingers fumble for the buttons.
“Cold… have to get, this, off...I'll, stay cold...”
I understood. She wasn't coaxing me into a strangely timed round of foreplay, and I was a savage ass for thinking along those lines. The shirt was still wet, stuck to her like a second skin. It would keep the chill right next to her.
“...so, cold… because someone, was dumb enough, to let...the fire–”
“Alright! I get it, okay? Jesus Christ,” I said, put the blanket down, and went to help her with her buttons. “I swear to God, Ramona. One click away from death by hypothermia and you're flinging insults.”
“Fuck yeah, I am. Shit head.”
“Move your god damn hand out of the way,” I said, and began unbuttoning the shirt. I slipped it off her shoulders, and I'm sorry, but her breasts were works of art. Exotic, Hispanic obra de arte. I shook out the blanket, and put it around her. “Better?”
She kept shivering – no way was that blanket helping – and nodded.
Her gaze was trained on the ashed wood, longing for it to light again, as she rocked back and forth, slowly. She winced, and sucked in her breath through her teeth. It made a soft, trembling whistle. Beneath the blanket, I saw her hand move to her busted leg.
“Ramona? What, what can I do?”
“...l-light the fire...”
I looked around my immediate area like a spaz. What was I expecting to find? A Bic? Flame thrower? I actually patted my chest. Muscle memory – not brains – thought I could find a lighter in a shirt pocket that wasn't there.
Even in her compromised state, Ramona couldn't believe what she was looking at. “Matches,” she growled, and widened her eyes, looking toward the survival kit.
“Right,” I said, and found a box of Zippo Waterproofs right on top of the kit. “Waterproof matches? How cool is that? I didn't even know there was such a thing as –” I cut my own words off. If looks could kill, I'd be a dead man three times over.
Next to the lean-to, was a small stack of dry driftwood. Not a lot, but enough to stoke the flames until I could gather more. I placed them onto the pile of ash, apparently in the correct fashion because Ramona wasn't assigning derogatory terms to my existence.
I struck one of the matches on the box, and lit the wood from the bottom. Also correct.
A single flame took hold, and began licking at the pile atop of it. I smiled. I'd made fire! Well, actually, no. The match made fire. I was just a shit head who had to be told where the box was.
The warmth was instant, and felt wonderful against my bare skin.
I glanced at Ramona, hoping for approval but trying not to show it. She stared into the flames, still shivering, still chattering, her hand kneading her leg.
“Is it broken?”
She shook her head. “Hope not.”
“Um, well… where's the aspirin? That'll help,” I said, looking through the bag.
“Used it all on you,” she sighed, disgusted. I didn't know who she was more repulsed with. Me, or her. Then, a little light in her eyes. She looked at me. “Chocolate...?”
I visibly deflated. She looked quite excited at the thought of chocolate. Which, I'd eaten. I didn't have to tell her. From the look on her face, she already knew. She kept nodding, but I couldn't tell if that gesture was in agreement with what she was thinking, or the iciness refusing to leave her body.
Her eyes closed.
Her lips pursed together.
“Ramona...?”
She was teetering, now. Swaying back and forth, on the verge of passing out.
I'd heard that a person who's freezing to death shouldn't be allowed to fall asleep. Or was that concussions? No, it was freezing. Both? I guess it didn't matter. Not now. I retrieved the other blanket, and crawled up next to her.
“You're not going to like this,” I said, opened her blanket, and placed my warm body against hers. She was an icicle. It was a shock to my own flesh which was warm and comfortable.
I drew her closer, wrapped my arms around her, tightly, and placed her head against my chest. God, her hair was cold, too. brushed it away, settling it on top of the blanket away from her skin. “I really am sorry, you know.”
“N-no you're not...”
Her hand moved away from her knee, and laid against my stomach. A slab of ice upon my belly, and I flinched at the sensation. Held her tighter.
“You're not one to accept an apology, are you?”
“...depends, on who's apolo-gizing...”
“How'd you fuck up your knee?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going. Trying to keep her awake.
“...fell into a tide pool...”
“No, I mean before that.”
“Balance beam,” she replied quietly. “How'd you... fuck up…your life?”
“You think I fucked up my life?”
“Pervert,” she said, burying her face beneath my neck.
I sighed. “Yeah. I dunno. Born predisposed to deviancy, I suppose.”
“Heartless asshole.”
“Okay, well, that? Sure. Yes. On some levels.”
“...all levels...”
I looked up through the trees, to the stars in the sky. The moon was almost full and descending toward the horizon. I wondered if Josh was up there, looking down on me, which was strange, as I'd never really thought that before.
Ramona shifted a lit
tle, and let out a slight cry. “God. Fucking dammit,” she said, and drew in a small sniffle.
“Hey, Ramona? You want to know something?”
I felt her shake her head.
“You're…epic.”
Her head raised up, just a scosche. Not enough for me to see her eyes, but enough for me to know she was paying attention. Which meant clarity. That was a good sign.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, very cool! You said a whole sentence without stuttering. Feeling better?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you being epic? Well, just the way it sounds. You may have guessed, Ramona, that I tend to get involved with high maintenance types. They're easier that way, and I know that sounds sexist because it is. You, on the other hand? You're like… you're like Annie Oakley. Or Princess Leia. Carrie-Ann Moss, the gal who played… um,” I paused, knowing full well the name I was pretending not to know was Trinity. “Aw, dang it, you know. The Matrix movies? The total badass chick.”
“Trinity.”
“Bingo! Trinity. Dug her. I'd have found her a threat to my masculinity not so long ago.”
“You… you think I'm like her?”
“Oh, fuck yeah you are. And I know you're probably thinking, 'oh, he's a lying sack of shit and he's just saying that to impress me', but you know what? I've totally given up on convincing you I'm telling you the truth. So fuck it. I'll say what I want, and I don't care what you think.”
Ramona didn't say anything for a while. She was still awake, though. I could tell, as I felt her eyelashes blinking against my chest. That felt nice. Very, very nice, and I couldn't exactly remember the last time I'd just held a woman.
Honestly, I couldn't remember if I ever had. Bonus points went to my dick, that decided not to spring up to its immediate fuckherfuckherfuckher! attention mode. That was different. As if it, like me, were simply enjoying the closeness. More bonus points to Ramona, too, whose shivering was subsiding.
“They, um… they should have stopped. At the second one.”
“Reloaded? What, you didn't like Revolutions?”
“It tried too hard,” she said, went to adjust herself closer to me, and shrieked. Blood-curdling. Her arm shot back down to her leg, her teeth clenched, veins protruding like cables in her neck. “Mother fucking fucker!” she screamed.
For a split second, I thought she was referring to me. She very well may have been, but I was pretty sure her bad knee and busted leg were also playing into these particular metaphors.
“Hey, hey,” I tried to be soothing. Comforting. Two things in which I had little to no experience. I stroked her matted hair as her nails dug into my chest, her face buried so deep against me I wasn't sure she was able to breathe. “What's hurting the most?”
“Whole… fucking… thing...” she gasped.
This was bad. A broken leg in the middle of literal nowhere? Not only were we hundreds of miles from medical attention, we had no way to get to medical attention. There could be shards of bone floating around her blood stream, ready to lodge themselves into a clot.
I felt moisture, then, dripping against my skin. She was crying. Shit. She was crying.
I kept stroking her hair, not knowing what else I could possibly do. Hating that I was this helpless.
She balled her hand into a fist, and began pounding it against my breast. Rhythmically. Continuously.
It didn't hurt. It should have. Ramona Sanchez was a strong ass tamale. Her punch should be leaving marks at the very least. It was no more than a soft, half-hearted mallet.
She's not fucking dying, is she? Oh, holy fuck, no. No way. No fucking way.
What could I do? What could I god damn possibly do? I couldn't even offer her an aspirin because she gave it to my sorry undeserving ass, and...
Oh, holy crap. Ramona was right. I really was a dumb shit. Here she was, potentially dying in my fucking arms, what she needed was a hospital, and there was a fucking flare gun not five paces away from where we lay.
I moved, slightly. Perhaps I could reach it from–
“No!” She cried. “No, please. Don't… don't move...”
“Ramona, I have to. We have to get you out of here, okay? I'm going to get the flare gun, and–”
“No,” she said again, fighting to keep her labored breathing under control. “No, I'm fine.”
“You're not fine, stupid. You call this fine?”
“Don't, move...” she tucked her fist beneath her chin. “It hurts… when you move.”
“Ramona,” I began. “This is ridiculous. Just let me get it, yes?”
“No.”
I sighed. And like the dumbass she always accused me of being, stayed right where I was. Listened to her breathe. Felt her chest against my side, rising and falling away.
“What should I do, then? Stay up all night, make sure you don't have a heart attack or something?”
“Like… you'd know what to do if I did...” she coughed, her fist clenching again, then relaxed.
“It's beyond me, Ramona. This whole fucking thing, you know?”
“You must hate that,” she said. “Control freaks... can't deal with... being out of.… out of...”
“Control?”
“No, cornflakes,” she replied. “Of course, control.”
I didn't know if she chuckled, or coughed again. Her hand moved to her face to wipe her eyes, and she took in a big, deep inhale. Her body felt good against me, my arms wrapped securely around her, and I conceded that no, I had absolutely no control.
Not now. Not in this situation. It was entirely out of my hands. I had no choice but to accept it, and oddly, I found that liberating.
“Do you think that's what I've been doing my whole life?” I asked her. “Playing the, um, I don't know… professional dominant? The ultimate lord and master? And if I have, then, why? Why would I do that?”
“...why, are you asking me?”
“Because I'm trying to keep you awake, dummy. Plus, I think, maybe I want to hear your opinion.”
She yawned. “You're over… overcompensating.”
“For what?”
“...Josh...”
Warm rushes of her air passed across my skin, and suddenly, it all made perfect sense.
She was right.
She was bloody fucking right.
I was an obsessive compulsive with a mean streak, flaunted my satyriasis around like flag, had to always be the one to call the shots no matter what they were, and the one thing I couldn't dictate or control was my brother sucking down a bottle of pills to make his pain go away. Throw in my parents not really digging me to begin with, and no wonder I was a fucked up mess with a strange, bordering on dangerous fetish.
And let's not forget what the world would think when and if the cavalry ever arrived. Maybe the wreck of the Insatiable was spotted by a plane, or a helicopter, and someone radios in its location. Help finally gets here, Ramona gets the medical help she needs, then what?
There would be a media frenzy. A journalistic riot. Microphones, television cameras, reporters, all wanting to know exactly what happened, how it happened, and if they didn't get the answers they wanted, they'd make shit up. Whatever would benefit the juicier narrative du jour. Depending on what would get more clicks, I would either be deemed a hero or a knave. And in accordance with the internet's domino effect, I'd either be exalted or destroyed.
Which would I prefer?
A few days ago, the answer would have been easy. Now? I honestly wasn't sure. I'd actually grown tired of myself. I'd concluded I wasn't pleased with myself anymore. And at the end of the day, it wasn't going to matter. Everything was up to Ramona.
Considering what I'd done to her, her sister, and subsequent family… she wasn't only within her rights, she owned them. She owned me.
I'm sure my team of attorneys would have plenty to say about whatever charges and accusations she would file, but most of me didn't care anymore.
Because the shittiest part of all of this, if we were ever off this island, was that there would never be a 'we'. Or an 'us'.
Ramona stirred slightly, and I froze. Expecting her to scream, expecting anguish to wrack her body, and then I would insist on getting that flare gun.
Nothing. Blissful silence. Her rhythmic, sweet breath rushing across my chest.
I gently put my hand against her head, shut my eyes, and wondered about that funny feeling I'd gotten after she'd turned the tables on me, when I watched her tend the open fire, cook a fish she'd caught, her beautiful legs toned and muscled. I think that was when I began to fall in love with her. I just didn't know it at the time.
That probably sounds weird, and it was. But I'd never been in love before, so how was I to know what it felt like? I just remembered how it was to feel a strange rush of emotion flowing through my heart, my gut…
I suppose it took the raw primitiveness of being completely disconnected to finally connect me.
Those were the facts. And this was the moment in which I was living – listening to the echoing roar of the waves, underscored by an occasional island bird. The pop and crackle of the fire. The quiet rustling of the leaves as the ocean breeze drifted through them. And a fierce, beautiful woman in my arms. With thoughts on the future – whatever it may hold – I drifted off to sleep.
Just another mistake in my ever-growing list of misguided choices.
Chapter Twenty-Six
RAMONA
It was just before sunrise. My leg was throbbing in dull, aching waves. The fire had reduced itself to glowing, ineffectual embers, and my stomach growled with hunger.
A pasty glue coated my mouth, reminding me of a terrible thirst. The only thing of comfort was the warmth beneath the blankets – the heat generated from two bodies pressed together.
Maddox was fast asleep, which I found fascinating. One of the hardest things to do when stranded on a desert island, or a tropical island, perhaps an Alpine mountain top was trying to adjust to a sleep schedule.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 22