by Bera, Ilia
I ask him what he shifts into. His brow lowers and he smiles, as if to say ‘are you serious?’ “A timber wolf.” He turns his arm and shows me his wolf-paw tattoo. “Thing about wolves is, you never see ‘em comin’.” He grins and then sinks back down.
He keeps his face down as he descends the length of my body, like a hound tracking its prey, following a scent. He stops at one of my tits and wraps his lips around my nipple. Sucking, pulling, playfully biting, he gets carried away quickly.
“Ow,” I mutter, and he hears me. He looks up with a grin and then inhales, as if to consume my escaped expression of pain like it’s a powerful stimulant. Still curled over me, his chest expands, his ears perk up, and his muscles flex. If he had any hair on his body, it would be fanned up along his spine.
His grin, among other things, continues to grow as he looks down my body. He bites his lip. If he were in animal form, I would be covered in drool right now. If he were in animal form, I would probably think he’s asking for a belly rub, now that he’s rolled over onto his back with his knees up. In one swift motion, he slips off his boxer shorts. I don’t think it’s his belly he wants me to rub.
He looks at me and raises his eyebrows before motioning me to admire his cock. I don’t need to look down at it, I can see the beast just fine through my peripheral vision, nestled in the dip between his abs. “That dick isn’t suckin’ itself, darlin’.” He winks before motioning his head towards his cock again.
Darling… He’s lucky I don’t bite his dick off. I sit up on my knees and turn towards his member. Something tells me Freddie always got what he wanted as a child. He still gets everything he wants as an adult. Whenever he says jump, Mel asks ‘how high?’ Maybe if more people said no to Freddie, he wouldn’t be such an ass. I run the tip of my finger from the base to the tip of his cock. Maybe the first step towards taming the gypsy fighter is a good “No.”
“What?” he says, his grin now crooked and his brow pinched and lowered.
“I said, no.” I smile, pulling my teasing finger away. He’s slow to understand; the ‘no’ bounces around his head but his brain doesn’t know what to do with it, like a calculator trying to divide by zero. His slow reaction gives me ample time to swing one of my legs over him, straddling his chest, not his hips. I inch my knees forward, towards his face. He stares up at me, his expression still pinched. His lips part and his eyes slowly scan my body. I watch his pupils expand as he clues in.
I can’t help myself. “That pussy’s not going to eat itself out.” I grin and wink, doing my best Freddie imitation.
Gripping the top of the headboard, I glide my pelvis over his face in a long sweeping motion, teasing his lips with mine. As his hands secure around my hips, I hear him laugh. He pulls me down and I clutch his head between my thighs. Then, his tongue…
I’m surprised when he starts slow, with long, gentle strokes. That’s not like him. He usually forgoes the foreplay, dives straight in. He navigates me with expert precision, using the tip of his tongue to draw shapes and patterns, adding and withholding pressure in seemingly complex sequence. With nothing but some paint and his tongue, he could give Rembrandt a run for his money. Where did he learn to move his tongue like this—scratch that—I don’t want to know. Each lick sparks an elated pulse in my body. Each pulse lingers and never fades, spiralling through my body before returning to my pussy and joining the others, building, strengthening into something staggering, overwhelming. My eyes close.
His muffled laughter snaps me back to reality. I can hear myself moaning, breathing heavily, but that’s beyond my control. I open my eyes to see my hair dangling over his face, and my hips swaying, grinding my crotch against his mouth.
“What’s funny?” I ask quickly, in a rare moment between breaths and moans.
He tickles my clit with his tongue before responding. My legs tremble and a flash of weakness consumes my body. “You’re easy,” he says before nestling his face back between my legs, penetrating me with his tongue.
An involuntary convulsion runs through my body and a long, high-pitched moan escapes my lips. I catch my breath for an instant, long enough to say, “Fuck you.”
I might be on top, but he’s in control. And he knows it. I hate to admit it, but I am easy. In his hands, I don’t last five seconds. The pulses continue to course through me, too overwhelming now to bare. I bite my tongue to suppress my scream as I come on his face.
As if I weigh no more than a blow-up doll, Freddie throws me onto my back and rolls over me. He doesn’t spare a second. To spare a second is to lose the moment, to lose prime time. Freddie has no intention to miss out on prime time. He grabs my legs below my knees and spreads me wide. He shimmies forward and his hard cock presses against my lips. I can feel it, throbbing, ready, impatient. I want it. I’m ready for it. I’ve been ready for it for too long. He hesitates. Don’t hesitate. Give it to me, already. He pushes into me.
My lungs suddenly fill with air then lock, holding everything in. Yes—finally. I try to reach out and hold onto Freddie, but my muscles are also locked, tense, and rigid. He pushes in deeper. It hurts, but I can take it. He’s big—almost too big to bare. Almost. I remind myself to relax: you’ll get ripped to shreds if you don’t relax. It takes my body a moment to get the message. As the tension between my legs melts, Freddie slides in deep.
His first thrust is slow and cautious, as if he’s making sure everything’s in its proper place—an engineer’s final inspection before starting up the machine; a baseball player’s slow-motion swing as he warms up his shot. Everything’s in its place; the machine’s in working order and the player is ready for his homerun. I can feel every inch of him inside of me, exactly where I want him.
He begins. Long, swift thrusts—wasting no time with senseless build-up, meaningless bed-talk, or boring interludes. He never bothers to ask what I want, or how I like it. And he doesn’t care, which is strangely refreshing. He plunges into me at a consistent, rapid pace, always filling me entirely or not at all, but never anywhere in between.
He doesn’t bother staring romantically into my eyes, and I don’t bother staring romantically into his. He’s more interested in watching my tits bounce on my chest as he pounds me senseless. I’m more interested in watching the glistening muscles of his back flex. He pairs each thrust with a grunt. Then, he scoffs.
“What is it?” my voice jerks along with my body.
“I’m surprised your pussy’s big enough for me.” He grins, staring into my eyes now as he awaits my response. He never stops fucking me.
I stutter through my response. “Maybe your cock’s not as big as you think.” Watching his grin stretch towards his ears, I realize I gave him the exact response he was looking for.
Before I can make a rebuttal, his hand slips around my throat. There isn’t much to say, anyway. His dick is huge, he knows it, and he knows that I know it. I can feel it stuffed inside, pressing tightly against all of me, filling me, making me whole.
His grunts louden and his grip around my throat tightens. I grab his forearm with both of my hands, but I can’t move him; he’s too powerful. I try to squirm free, but even my hips are locked in place by his other hand, the palm of which presses down on my pelvis as his thumb rubs my clit. I can’t breathe but I don’t want him to let go. I’m about to come again. I start convulsing.
I come—harder than I’ve ever come before. My muscles contract throughout my body as a wave of numbing ecstasy washes over me.
His final grunt is more of a war cry, loud, deep, and beast-like. He drives in deep and I feel him come.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A SON RETURNED
I wake to a commotion outside my trailer. Pale morning light seeps in through the slits between the shutters, drawing a silhouette around Freddie, who is half-dressed next to the trailer door.
“What’s going on?” I ask, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Not sure. I tried not to wake ya up. Keep sleepin’.” With his shirt in h
is hands, he slips outside.
The commotion outside loudens, moving closer to our trailer. I hear one man yell, “Come quick! He’s back!” and then another yell, “Is it really him?”
My gut sinks. What if it’s Nicky? What if he’s back? It’s impossible—Pesconi captured him—wasn’t he? Why else would a gypsy disappear in Vianna? Calm down, Olivia. Stop jumping to conclusions.
The commotion is right outside the trailer now, but I can’t distinguish any voice over the yelling. They’re happy—overwhelmingly happy. “I’m so glad you’re home!” someone yells. “Are you okay? Let’s get you to a doctor,” someone says. My gut sinks deeper, along with my heart.
Stop jumping to conclusions. It’s probably not as bad—
“—Nicky!” a familiar older woman screams in the distance. “Oh my God, Nicky! You’re alive!”
I’m dead. I spring to my feet and dive towards the door, locking it. “Fuck,” I mutter repeatedly under my breath. Think, Olivia, think.
The crowd outside begins to silence. I can practically feel their heads turn towards the trailer, realizing there is liar inside.
Knock, knock, knock.
I don’t answer it. I can’t. My body won’t allow it. Opening the door isn’t just a gamble, it’s suicide; it’s Russian Roulette, with a single-shot cartridge.
“Olivia?” a voice calls out. I think it’s Mel.
I scramble to dress myself. As I slip on my pants, I can feel Porsha’s black credit card in my pocket.
“Olivia. Open up!” I can hear the crowd’s flurry of whispering.
I scan the trailer for other exits. The only window is too small and there are no vents. The only exit is the front door. The game’s over.
I open the door. Thirty men and women stare at me. The old woman has her arms tightly wrapped around a young man with cuts and bruises on his face. I expect them to be angry, to scowl and throw stones at me. Instead, they look pitiful, like I’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Mel stands up front, his eyes distant and red, his lips parted. Of the crowd, Mel’s the only one who looks as though he’s been stabbed in the back. Even Freddie can’t look me in the eye.
“Well?” Mel says on behalf of the group.
I’d considered this scenario during the ride with Mel from Vianna. My plan was to act confused and ask to see Nicky. When they showed him to me, I would say, ‘That’s not Nicky!’ From there, I would convince everyone that Pesconi must have set up my escape, and then I would explain how Freddie sold me to Carmine. Everyone would turn to Freddie and say, ‘This is all because of you!’
But I have no intention of following through with that plan. I’m sick of living a string of lies. I’m sick of digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole—telling myself, ‘Just one more lie,’ over and over, throwing others into the fire to save my own skin. Looking down at the gypsies, I tell them everything. I tell them about my bootlegging business, stealing Freddie’s territs, escaping Carmine’s mansion, and my deal with Porsha. I show them her black credit card. Cold sweat runs down the back of my neck. Still, no stones. My story is met with silence.
Mert steps up to me and gently plucks the black card from my hand. He looks down at it. I wait for him to snap it in two, but instead, he slips it into his pocket. “If y’ walk a few hours tha’ way,” he says, pointing towards a wall of woods. “Y’ll hit a town called Lemuria. Th’ won’t be lookin’ for ya there.”
The crowd disperses. Everyone returns to their trailers. “Keep movin’!” someone calls out. I don’t understand. Why don’t they want me dead? Why don’t they want revenge? I just told them I ratted them out to their worst enemy, and they don’t even care to scold me. The trucks rev up, and the caravan slowly continues along. They’re setting me free. They’re voluntarily taking Porsha’s burden away from me. Why aren’t they screaming at me, beating me up, or stoning me to death? Why aren’t they tying me up, putting me in a trailer, and forcing me to face Pesconi alongside them?
“Well. Best be goin’ now,” Mert says, pointing at the woods again. He digs a small compass out from his pocket and hands it to me. “Jus’ keep headin’ west. It’s a big place, can’t rightly miss it.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Y’ want yer freedom, there ’t is. Go ‘long now.”
“What are you going to do with Porsha’s card?”
“Goin’ t’ keep ‘t. No sense doin’ much else. Th’ don’t find us, then th’ll find you, ‘n keep lookin’ fer us.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“So be ‘t.” Mert pats me on the shoulder and smiles. “Sorry fer e’rythin’ we did t’ ya. Wasn’t right t’ treat ya like that.”
My stomach hurts and my head is spinning. They’re just letting me go and accepting their own death.
“Bye, ‘Livia.” Mert turns and walks towards the back of the caravan.
The caravan is back in motion, inching towards nowhere. My own trailer rolls past. In the window, I can see Freddie packing up his duffle bag. I hop onto the little platform and enter. He doesn’t look back at me as he zips up his bag.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Y’ should go.” He still doesn’t look back. “Go to Lemuria. No one’s looking for ya anymore. You’re free.” He is monotone, totally void of emotion.
“I don’t want to go.” Each word that passes through my lips leaves a dull ache in my heart.
He snaps his head around and scowls at me. “Go,” he shouts.
I suddenly feel very small and exposed. I wrap my arms around my body. “I’m going to stay. I can help you.” My voice is weak and raspy.
He shoves his wallet into his back pocket and storms towards me. “No. You’re going to go—now. If you’re still ‘ere when Pesconi’s men show, we all die for nothin’.” He clenches his teeth and controls his breathing. I notice his belt and coat are still on the floor, but all of my clothes are all gone. He wasn’t packing his own bag; he packed the bag for me.
“You’re not going to die.” I can hardly hear my own sheepish voice.
He shakes his head. “Goodbye, Olivia.” He shoves the bag into my chest and an invisible force constricts around my heart. I know that the image of Freddie walking towards the trailer door will haunt me for the rest of my life. It’s the last time I will ever see him. I can’t bare the thought. I follow him to the door.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my hand on the door.
He doesn’t look back as he throws the door open, ignoring my hand.
With one quick move, I snatch the wallet from his back pocket. He doesn’t notice. Instead, he hops down from the trailer and jogs towards the head of the train.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
FINAL HOURS IN LEMURIA
Before I take off into the woods for Lemuria, I make one final stop at Mert’s trailer. He takes a minute to answer the door after I knock. When he finally does, I immediately notice his red swollen eyes. He wipes them with the cuff of his shirt. He’s been crying.
“‘Livia. Y’ best be goin’, now.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. I quickly regret asking, realizing the stupidity of the question and the obviousness of his response.
“Yeah, why d’ y’ask?” That’s the one.
I wish I could tell him I’m going to make things better, but that would spoil the only half-assed plan I have. “I was about to leave when I realized I gave you the wrong card.” I hold out a similar black card that I stole from Freddie’s wallet.
“Did ya, now?” He takes the card and inspects it close to his face like my grandmother did when she forgot her reading glasses at home. He digs into his pocket and pulls out Porsha’s card. “Guess you’ll be wan’in’ this ‘n back, then?”
“Thanks, Mert.” I take the card, the tracking device, the Judas goat.
His big, sad, warm smile confirms my suicidal decision. Neither Freddie, nor Mert, nor Nicky, nor Mel, nor any gypsy in this caravan is going to die because of me. If someone’s
going to die, it’s going to be me—or Carmine.
I don’t look back as I run into the forest, west, towards Lemuria. I keep running. I don’t stop. When I finally glance over my shoulder, the caravan is long gone; even the hum of the engines has faded into nothing. I’m hit by an anxious sensation. Reality. I’ve accepted the card of death, and now I’m alone. I’m headed to die alone in a strange place where no one knows my name. My death won’t matter. My life won’t have mattered, and nothing about it will have any impact on the future; a pebble that leaves no ripples as it’s thrown into the sea.
They say everyone dies twice: once when their heart stops beating, and once when their name is mentioned for the last time. Far away from the caravan now, I know I’ve already died once.