by Alynn, K. H.
We even read Tom Jones together.
It was slow going. Real slow. In fact, it took us more than 18 months to get through those 346,747 words, many of which were far from easy. But it was worth every last one. Because while I’ve read hundreds of books since none have been anywhere as good.
Though it wasn’t because of Sophia Western, even if I did like her a lot. It was because of Tom. I fell totally in love with him from pretty much the first page he appeared, and after finishing the book I told myself I was gonna end up with someone just like him—a rogue with a big heart.
“I’LL HELP YOU,” I tell Mark, after again putting my arms around him, “just like I was helped. You’ll see—you’ll read just as good as me. Probably better. I still struggle. I’ll always struggle.”
He nods his head, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. So, I take the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the basket and show it to him—and I say, “You don’t know how many seconds it took me to read this right. But I did. And so will you.”
“We better get out of here,” he says, clearly trying to change the subject.
“What about the cops?” I ask.
“I don’t see them anymore,” he answers, while glancing outside.
“I just have a couple more things to get,” I insist, before reaching for the toothpaste.
“Is it really necessary?”
“Yes,” I reply, and, after grabbing a pair of toothbrushes, we head off toward the Cosmetics department.
WE SLOWLY APPROACH the registers—and, with Mark pretending to read a magazine a few steps away, I go up to a middle-aged checkout lady with my basket of items.
Suddenly, just as I put the toothpaste on the counter, a police siren rings out in front of the building, causing me to jump a bit.
“They’re everywhere today,” the woman tells me with a smile, as we watch the car continue on toward the mall.
“So I’ve heard,” I say to her.
“They’re looking for that prince guy.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you heard about him?”
“A little.”
“They say he killed a bunch of people with his bare hands.”
“Really?”
“Really. And I believe it. You should see pictures of him. Wow. To be real honest, I wouldn’t mind getting roughed up a bit by him myself, if you know what I mean.”
I force a smile in reply, and, while the woman rings up my stuff, I wonder if it’s true—I wonder if Mark really is a killer. I also wonder if it would make any difference to me.
“That’ll be $21.67,” the woman utters. So, I take out the money Mark gave me earlier. I further glance at him, with his face partially hidden underneath the magazine. And at once I know nothing would make any difference to me at all.
WE EXIT WALGREENS and see no police anywhere, not even by the mall. I also look down the endless street in both directions and notice lots of stores and strip malls everywhere, along with a motel way off to the right.
Which I point at while giving Mark an inquisitive expression.
“How are we gonna pay for it?” he asks. “That money I gave you—it’s all I have.”
I respond by glancing to my left and spotting a pawn shop not far away—and, while fingering my gold bracelet, I say, “I’m sure I can get something for this.”
“But I’m not gonna let you.”
“I was gonna have to pawn it eventually.”
“No.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I can find a fight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I fight, Aimee. That’s how I make a living.”
“What kind of fights?”
“The unsanctioned bare-knuckled kind.”
I shake my head at this, and murmur, “It doesn’t seem as if you’ve made much of a career at it.”
“I’m actually good at fighting,” he insists. “It’s the gambling I’m bad at.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do either one.”
“Look, I just need to make a call.”
“How? You no longer have a phone, remember? And neither do I. And, if you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t a lot of pay phones around anymore. Besides, we need to get off the streets. We need to get off them now. And finally, and most importantly, I have to dress your wound.”
MARK ARGUES WITH me the whole way to the pawn shop, but he doesn’t stop me from entering it.
Not that he could have.
Right away, I see a big man behind the counter, who’s looking at me as if he were a bird of prey.
“Can I help you, little lady?” he asks, with a bit of a smile.
“Yeah,” I reluctantly answer, as I step forward and take off the bracelet—which I even more reluctantly hand the man while remembering how happy I was when my mother gave it to me.
Carefully, the man looks it over—almost as carefully as he looks me over, before saying, “I can give you one and a quarter.”
I sigh, knowing it’s worth more than that. A lot more. But I’m in no position to argue, and he knows it.
WITH MARK WAITING outside, I enter the motel office and see a balding and bearded clerk in his thirties, who’s sitting behind the desk and staring blankly into his phone.
Actually, he looks enraptured by it.
As I approach him, I suddenly hear faint voices coming from the device—voices of people having sex.
“I need a room,” I tell him.
He jumps a bit in response, clearly not having heard me enter—and, after awkwardly pressing something on his phone, he looks up at me with his face bright red, and he breathlessly utters, “What?”
“I need a room,” I repeat.
“For how long?”
“One night.”
“$74.29, with tax. In advance.”
Sighing a bit, I take out the hundred-dollar bill the pawnbroker gave me. At the same time, the man puts his phone down next to a small plastic box, from which he grabs a registration card.
“Fill this out,” he says as he hands me the card. “I’m also gonna need to see some ID.”
Calmly, I take Michelle’s driver’s license from my wallet and give it to the man—and he looks at both it and me over and over, before muttering, “Do, do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, while trying hard to hide my fear. Which increases considerably when I start filling out the card and notice the man’s phone, and the paused video displayed on it.
The picture is dark and grainy, but not nearly dark or grainy enough for me, as I can kind of see the two people on the screen—two people I know well.
Because one of them is me.
chapter eight
Mark
HURRIEDLY, I CHEW and swallow the last of the Double-Double burgers Aimee bought. Then, while sitting on the edge of the bed, I dial a number on the phone—over the sound of a running shower.
On the third ring, a man picks up—and it sounds as if he’s eating, too.
“Shane?” I call out, while rubbing the bandage on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he answers, just before finishing what’s left in his mouth. “Who’s this?”
“Mark.”
“Prince Mark?”
“Fuck you.”
“Dude, I had no idea.”
“Neither did I. I still don’t.”
“What can I do for you, Your Royal Highness?”
“Don’t call me that! It’s bullshit!”
“Whatever you say. What’s up?”
“I need some action.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now? After the beating you took last night? Dude, not even Ali in his most arrogant prime would consider that.”
“Action, Shane. Action.”
“There’s nothing I know about, other than . . .”
“Other than what?”
“San Pedro.”
“Shit.”
“But you’ve got a much bigger problem tha
n finding a fight. Larry Lee’s looking for you.”
“I know.”
“He’s pissed. Man, is he pissed. He’s also got a bunch of big fuckers with him—even bigger than him. They better not find you.”
“Thanks,” I tell Shane, and I hang up, with pain shooting all over my body, especially in my head—pain that just won’t go away. Though I also realize I have to make another call—a call that’s going to be much more difficult.
Hesitantly, I pick up the receiver again and dial a number. Then, I listen to it ring and ring, and more than once I almost hang up.
“Hello?” a hoarse female voice finally speaks—a voice belonging to someone who clearly just woke.
“Mom?” I utter.
“Marky? Is that you?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry.”
“Then it’s true?” I gasp, suddenly doubting everything about me.
She doesn’t answer my question. She just cries. She cries and cries.
“Mom?” I once more utter.
“I’m so sorry, Mark,” she wails. “I always wanted to tell you. I swear I did!”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. It’ll never be all right again.”
“I want to know everything, Mom. Everything. Right now.”
However, she doesn’t say a thing—and cries even harder.
“Please,” I tell her.
“Wendy,” she mumbles.
“Who’s Wendy?”
“My sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“She was so beautiful, Mark. You should’ve seen her. She was so much prettier than me. She was tall, too. And had brains—lots of them. Why, she could speak three or four languages, at least. She could’ve been anything she wanted.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“She left Boston when she was still a teenager—to become a fashion model. She traveled all over—Europe and Asia, and who knows where else. I used to get postcards from all over the world—from places I never even heard of. I had to look them up on a map.”
“Mom—”
“—But I hadn’t seen her in years. Then, one day in the middle of the night the doorbell rings, again and again—for like five minutes straight. It was your Aunt Wendy. Actually, it, it was your mother.”
“My mother?”
“I didn’t even know she was pregnant, and there she was in my front door with you. You must’ve been only a few weeks old.”
“And?”
“And she was talking crazy. I thought she was on drugs or something. You know these models.”
“What did she say?”
“She said dangerous people were after her, and she asked me to take care of you until she got out of the fix she was in. She promised she’d come back for you. But she didn’t. I never heard or saw from her again.”
“And that prince guy really is my dad?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me who the father was. She didn’t even tell me your name. I’m sorry, Marky—I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you the truth so many times.”
“So, so there’s no such person as Donald Stuart?”
“There was, and he really was Billy’s brother. They lived over on Dorchester. I dated Donnie a few times in high school before he joined the Marines—and, after he died, Billy agreed to make believe Don was your dad. It didn’t seem like we was hurting no one. You don’t know, Mark—you don’t know how much I wanted a family. From the time I was a little girl all I wanted to be was a mother. And you were my only chance.”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“You don’t have to call me that anymore.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, Mark—what are you gonna do? Is it true you killed those people?”
“No, it’s not. Somebody’s trying to get me, because of all this prince crap.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. But I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Reluctantly, I hang up—and only then do I realize I’m crying. I’m crying like a baby. I also realize something else. The shower has stopped and Aimee is standing in the bathroom doorway wearing a towel. And she’s crying, too.
“I need you,” I tell her, desperately wanting to make both our tears go away. I want them to go away forever. “I need you so fucking much.”
She doesn’t say a word back. She just drops the towel, and my mind goes blank while looking at all her beauty. Nothing exists but her, and her body—and everything they represent.
Awkwardly, I tumble off the bed and just as awkwardly I move toward her. At the same time, she rushes toward me—and our bodies meet—and she kisses me, with my hands clawing at her everywhere.
We kiss and kiss and kiss. I don’t even breathe—or want to.
Suddenly, she falls to her knees—and I suck in air as she rips down both my pants and boxers, which is just before she takes me into her mouth.
I gasp at this—as if I was punched in the stomach, and I stagger in every possible direction.
“Aimee!” I howl. I howl this so loud that the whole fucking motel must hear it—and half of Los Angeles, too. “Aimee!”
Faster and faster, she moves up and down me—impossibly fast. Not even that guy’s hands and feet this morning were moving like her. She sending me way past crazy, and I almost lose it.
Though at the last second I pull away. Barely.
“Do it,” she begs. “It’s okay.”
“No!” I scream at her. “It’s not okay!”
Not waiting for a reply, I reach under her arms and lift her into the air—and I throw both myself and her against the nearest wall.
The whole thing shakes—the entire building. And I shake, too, as she guides me inside her. Then I cry out in agony as I slowly push myself into her, inch-by inch, with her cries even louder than mine.
“Fuck!” she hollers when I can’t push anymore. “Fuck!” She also wraps her legs around me and pulls me somehow deeper into her. She pulls me until I can feel her bones pressed against mine.
I want to come. I want to come right now. But I don’t. Instead I grab her thighs and start forcing her up and down me, with both our bodies spasming.
We start moving as well—and banging into things. The TV falls and smashes onto the floor—and so does a table. Still we keep moving—into wall after wall.
Suddenly, for some reason she grabs hold of something—the shades, and she rips them off the window as I swing her into the door, where I start pounding her. I pound her so hard that the door seems like it’s coming off its hinges.
“Harder!” she screams, even though I must be hurting her. “Harder!”
“I can’t!” I tell her, but I do what she wants, and I can hear the wood crack.
“Almost!” she calls out. “Almost!”
Shrieking, I grab her flesh and slam into her with everything I have left—and she shudders and shakes—setting me off. I explode inside her over and over, before collapsing onto my knees, knocking over both the end table and a lamp.
Afterward, with everything spent, I just hold her, while caressing her body—her back and legs and hair. I’m touching her everywhere at once.
“Aimee,” I whisper into her ear while chewing on it. “Aimee.”
She doesn’t say a word back. She just flings me against the carpet, and my head knocks against the floor. Then she starts bucking on top of me. She also digs her nails into my chest. She digs them so hard that blood seeps out. But I don’t care. I don’t want her to stop. I want her to dig deeper. I want her to rip me apart.
Faster and faster, she pistons on me—to the point that she’s nothing but a blur. I can’t see—all I can do is feel. I feel her destroying me.
Again, she comes—and she pounds her fists onto my chest. She pounds them so hard I can’t breathe. But I don’t care. I don’t care!
Finally, she falls on top of me—and I p
ut my arms around her. And she clasps my head. She also kisses me. She kisses me while biting down on my lip.
WE’RE IN THE shower—the two of us, with burning hot water pouring down onto our tattered flesh.
Once more I’m inside her—with her legs draped around my waist and her back against the wall. Though this time we’re barely moving. And I realize I can’t get enough of her and know I never will. I want to stay right where I am, where it’s safe—I want to escape in her.
I even try telling her these things, but the words just won’t come out. She can’t talk, either. We’re just making sounds—sounds that aren’t even close to human.
But she understands me. Somehow I know she does.
I AWAKE FROM a sudden burst of light.
And I sense I’m lying on top of the bed, with Aimee lying next to me. I further sense that the same gray-haired guy who tried to kill me this morning is smiling down at us—holding the same gun he pointed at me earlier.
“Sorry to disturb you, Your Highness,” he jokes, in that accent of his—which causes Aimee to groggily wake.
“What?” she mumbles, while trying to cover herself with the sheets. “What’s going on?”
“You two are just about to show me the sights,” the man tells her, in a voice as friendly as it can be.
This causes Aimee to become fully awake, and fully frightened. And so am I.
“You gonna shoot us?” I ask.
“If I were,” he replies, “I would’ve done it already. Get up, you two—we’re late, we’re late, for a very important date.”
“Fuck you.”
“Pardon, I didn’t quite hear you.”
“You heard me. Fuck you. The only reason you’re not shooting us right now is because you don’t want to move the bodies. Actually, you can’t move them—especially mine.”
“Move!”
“No.”
“You fuck!”
As he says this, he flings the handle of his gun at my face, which I block before throwing a punch. Though it misses, and he grabs my nose and yanks me out of bed and onto the floor.
“Some fighter you are,” he growls. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in the neighborhood I grew up.”
“I did pretty good this morning,” I growl back.