Red Water: A Novel

by Kristen Mae

  It is enough.

  “In the morning, though,” he says, “when you’re sober? If you still want it, it’s on.”

  I nuzzle my cheek against his bare chest and allow myself a tiny smile. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  Judging from the strength of the light streaming through Rome’s window, the sun has been up for hours. Rome is still snoring lightly beside me, one arm thrown up over his head. He is not a superman like Garrett, no, but his walnut-brown skin is smooth and beautiful, and his short black curls are neat, chiseled with a clipper into a nice shape around his forehead. His eyelashes are a ridiculous kind of thick, like fuzzy caterpillars nestled against his cheek. I reach out and brush my knuckles against one of his eyes—just to feel how soft those lashes are. His chest is bare, nearly hairless, and though he’s not gym-buff like Garrett, I can tell he either takes care of himself or is lucky in the metabolism department.

  Garrett. He invited me home with him and I rejected him. My stomach turns over as the rest of the night comes back to me like a slideshow, one painful, humiliating image after another.

  I roll away from Rome and reach for my purse on the floor, dig for my phone. 10:22. Nothing from Garrett, of course, but several messages from Daphne:

  WHERE R U?

  ANSWER MY FUCKING TEXT.

  GODDAMMIT MALORY!!!

  Shit, I should have messaged her last night. I respond and tell her I slept in Rome’s room. I think she’s cool with Rome now, but even if she’s not, I don’t care. I tuck the phone in my purse and turn back to face Rome.

  His eyes are open, barely, and he’s watching me. “You still want me?” he says, grinning.

  I almost laugh, but I’m too sickened by the events of the night before. I cannot believe I went to Garrett’s after he deliberately taunted me by leaving with another girl. My fingers go to my throat, still tender where he grabbed me. I feel a throbbing in the back of my head, too, from when my skull hit the siding of Garrett’s house.

  Rome’s brow furrows. “Hey, I’m just messing with you.”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “What I gotta do to get you away from that guy, huh?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Rome. I think…” I sit up, my hand again floating to my throat, as if my fingers are trying to convince my brain to make a rational decision for once. “I think I shouldn’t go back to him.”

  “You think you shouldn’t?” He sits up too, and he’s making a face like he just sniffed a sunbaked carcass.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I badly have to pee. “I know it doesn’t make sense, Rome. Something’s wrong with me.”

  I wait for him to refute that, to argue, but he just looks down at the bed.

  I don’t know what else to say. “Well…I’m gonna go shower and pack up. I’m driving home later on.” I reach for my purse and stand. My temples throb dully in protest against the sudden movement.

  “I’ll be heading out too,” he says, pushing himself out of the bed. He’s only wearing boxers, and now, in the light, I have the decency to be embarrassed by his near-nakedness. He really is…ripped. God, you can’t tell when he wears his baggy clothes.

  I drop my eyes to the floor. He isn’t Garrett with the immaculate house and the Superman dimple and the wintergreen breath. The…personality. I try to imagine Rome sending me to my knees and making me beg, and I can’t. At all. He’s too fucking nice. What am I supposed to do with nice? Holy shit, I’m fucking insane.

  “Have an awesome Christmas down in Miami,” I say.

  “Yeah, I will. I’ll see you next year, eh?” He extends his arms for a hug, and I lean in, careful not to touch too much of him, as if it matters—I just slept mashed against his chest. I let him go down on me the other night.

  Garrett’s right. I am a slut.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Early afternoon. I’ve had a shower—cried through the whole thing—and now I’m packing the last of my belongings, tucking sheet music into my cello case and gathering my toiletries from my dresser. Gerta’s little hippo head is poking inquisitively from my duffle bag.

  Daphne’s parents have already come to get her. Her mom freaked out over how skinny she was, and I have a feeling there’s going to be some kind of intervention over break. I’m glad of that. Maybe someone ought to stage an intervention for me.

  I stuff a few more T-shirts in with Gerta and step back so I’m now in the center of the room, observing the space the way I did that first day on campus. The painted cinder block walls give the room an institutional feel. The inspirational posters Daphne hung there—Perseverance, Courage, Dedication, Triumph—do little to ease the feeling. And yet, this little cell is a huge step up from where I’ve come. I miss Liza, but I don’t want to go back there. Ever. I sigh and zip my duffle bag, gently tucking Gerta inside, and open the door to leave.

  But Rome is standing in the hallway, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a small suitcase on the floor beside him.

  “I thought you would’ve headed out by now,” I say.

  “I just needed to…” He lets the words idle, pulls his hat off the way he does when he’s been overcome by a thought.

  “What, Rome?” I step aside, making room for him to pull his suitcase over the threshold. Tension billows out from him like a fog, thick and unmistakable. Or maybe that’s coming from me.

  “Can I just…” He sets his backpack down on the floor, tossing the hat alongside it, and takes one of my hands in his. He steps in closer. His eyes are locked on mine—he’s testing me, waiting to see if I’ll pull away.

  I don’t. “What are you doing, Rome?”

  “Let me show you…will you just let me show you? I was about to leave, and I thought of going three weeks, having to wait…I can’t leave you without even trying. I want to show you what love is supposed to feel like.”

  I shiver like someone’s tickled the back of my neck with a feather—a violent, obvious kind of shiver, the convulsive kind that rattles the whole body.

  Rome takes this in with a few surprised blinks. “Hey—what? What did I say?”

  Love? Aw, come on, Rome. Fuck you. “It’s just that…” My hand is still in his. I can’t remove it now—won’t remove it. “You really are much too good for me.”

  He puts his other hand on my waist and pulls me even closer. “You think I’m too good for you?” His eyes narrow in confusion.

  Of course you’re too good for me. I’m a whore. “I’m a very bad girl.” Another shudder quakes through me, as obvious as the first. I didn’t intend those words to come out like naughty sex talk; I meant them literally. But when I flick my eyes at him, thinking he’s taken my words the nasty sexy way, the way they sounded, I can tell by his plaintive expression that he caught the true meaning.

  Then he kisses me. Slow, like before, simple and soft and giving. Therapeutic, if that’s possible. Well, of course it is, because he’s doing it, and I’m melting under his sweet kiss, a kiss that speaks forgiveness and acceptance and an entire world of want. He’s desperate for me, but it’s a confident sort of desperation. He’s probably the only one capable of pulling off such a feat.

  The shiver is gone now. My body is tense and still, amoral with curiosity. “I don’t love you,” I whisper into his open mouth. It’s like I have to prove to him how truly awful I am.

  “You don’t have to,” he whispers back. His hands are under my shirt now, sliding up, asking permission with every slow inch higher, and I’m kissing him back, but my hands are stiff at my sides. I should give him something in return, touch him somehow. It isn’t fair the way I take from him.

  He pushes his fingers up under my bra and lifts it, skimming over my nipples, exploring my topography, listening, evaluating, and then he grabs my breasts, almost cruelly. A grunt slips out of me then, of shock or of pleasure, I’m not sure which—and I feel a sudden shift inside my chest, and a sense of falling, like a boulder being forced over a cliff. I still won’t mo
ve, still won’t give him a thing, but I’m thinking Go ahead, Rome, give it to me. His lips are on my neck now—where Garrett’s angry hand was last night—and his touch is a salve. But I told him I liked when Garrett hurt me, and Rome is experimenting, pinching and twisting my nipples, too careful to hurt me but rough enough that I want more; and I’m standing here with my head tilted to the side pretending I don’t feel anything, but my breath is coming harder and harder, so hard I’m swaying on my feet, and when I glance at him I see hope in his eyes, joy in the set of his full mouth.

  He knows he’s got me.

  He slides my shirt up and over my head, then unhooks my bra and slides that off too. Bends and kisses down my belly and I want to pet his head but I stop myself before my hands budge an inch. I won’t let myself touch him. I have to have control over this one stupid, ridiculous thing.

  Then he’s on his knees before me, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down, kissing over top of my underwear and stroking me with his fingers everywhere, my hips, my back, my breasts, so fleetingly that the moment I begin to enjoy one touch he’s moved his hands somewhere else and is making me enjoy that too. My breathing is a racket now, my nipples hard little mountains, encouraging him to keep going—as if he needed affirmation that I like what he’s doing. Oh, he knows. I wonder idly who taught him how to touch a woman.

  He doesn’t let me think too long.

  He helps me step out of my jeans so that now I’m standing in the middle of the sunlit room in nothing but a pair of ordinary, boring white underwear. I wasn’t expecting to get fucked today. I’m still half expecting not to. Still kneeling, he nips at me again, through my underwear, and he obviously doesn’t care that my underwear is boring, because his hands are on my ass, pressing me to him so he can put his mouth all over me. And me, I’m breathing hard now, trying not to tremble too much. I want to put my hands on him, but I can’t—I can’t give him anything. So my hands go into my hair, fisting and tangling there to avoid the temptation, and I grit my teeth against the building moans trying to pour out of me.

  He’s pulling my underwear down, dropping it to my ankles, pressing his mouth between my legs, licking me. Another grunt escapes me, fuck, he’s good, god, his mouth is hot on me, holy shit. Has Garrett never gone down on me? How did I never notice that? Jesus Christ, Rome.

  Oops, I said that aloud.

  “Relax, Malory,” he says, and then he keeps on with the kissing. I step my feet apart to give him easier access, and immediately his hands are on my inner thighs, moving up, teasing, teasing, then his fingers slip inside me and now my legs are giving out and I’m gasping, about to come undone.

  He pulls away from me and stands, then walks me backward until the edge of my bed hits the backs of my legs and I sink onto it, muscles quivering. In one quick movement, he swipes his own shirt off over his head and cascades over me, smooth like honey, at my neck again with his mouth, then at my chest, my breasts. My legs are splayed open but he’s not touching me down there, and suddenly I want to grab him and pull him to me. I want to beg him to fuck me. I want to rake my fingers over his stomach, feel the softness of his skin, the hard ridges of the muscles beneath. But I can’t give him any of that. It’s the taking that I’m after, just the taking, and so I ball my hands into fists at my sides, force them to stay put, to behave, though I’m writhing with the effort of keeping my hands off him.

  His mouth is still all over me, his kisses following the hectic rise and fall of my chest, and now, finally, he puts a hand between my legs. I squeeze my fists harder until my nails dig into my palms. Suddenly I picture Garrett bursting through the door, smashing Rome into the wall, yanking me by the hair, and punishing me, fucking me while Rome sits and watches, powerless to intervene, forced to watch me scream and cry and come. God, I really am a sick fucker, because that twisted little fantasy just sent tingles rippling up and down my body.

  Rome’s pulling on a condom now—I can hear the wrapper crinkling—and I’ve still got my fists clenched tight, trying to maintain control, trying to be the taker. Then I feel the tip of him pressed against my opening, patient and slow-pressing, and I have to catch my breath. This pushing in sensation doesn’t usually feel like a big step, and sometimes it is such an insignificant detail that I hardly notice it happening, but it feels like something here, with Rome. It is more than a mere physical joining—I can’t deny this, hands-in-fists-at-my-sides or not.

  I open my eyes and he’s staring at me, his face rapt but serene, and then he kisses me on the mouth as he sinks into me, and one of his hands is groping down my arm, finding my fist, prying open my fingers one by one even though I fight him—it’s like that time at the symphony when we saw Mahler’s Fifth, when he had to peel my fingers off the arm rest. He wins that little battle against the one hand, and then he’s moving it, placing it on his waist—“It’s okay, Malory”—and so I let my hand stay there, flat against his warm skin. He does the same with my other hand, gentle but determined, teaching me, I think is what he’s trying to do, he’s trying to teach me how good love can be.

  And now I’ve got my arms around him, stroking his soft skin and the hard, flexing muscles underneath, and I know this is bad, what I’m doing. This is horrible. I don’t love him at all and I know he loves me and I’m letting him have me like this anyway. I shouldn’t do this.

  But my hands are moving now, up and down his back. My legs spread, my hips pressing up into him, inviting him deeper inside. He’s slow with his ins and outs, and I can feel him listening to my breath, responding to it, though he’s still kissing me and I’m shuddering into his mouth, moaning, and I’m murmuring against his lips, I’m saying something, though I don’t remember deciding to speak, and it’s something like You’ve always wanted to fuck me, haven’t you, Rome, you don’t even care that I feel nothing for you, do you, you’re just as masochistic as I am, fuck me, yeah, fuck me.

  He does as I ask, fucking me harder and deeper and then he’s biting my bottom lip, he’s biting me so hard I taste iron, and with one more thrust I’m coming, pulsing and trembling and clawing at him, heels digging into the bed, and he fucks me right on through it all, hard and strong until I’ve finally stopped clawing and only then does he let himself come, too.

  Well, holy shit.

  Chapter Thirty

  What a fucking dump.

  I can tell Liza’s made an attempt at cleaning, but Aunt Bonnie, sprawled on the sofa with a cigarette dangling from one hand and a bottle of wine—an actual entire bottle of wine—in the other, makes the place look grimy and bottom-barrel. We’ll need to open the windows to air the place out, too, for the smell.

  Aunt Bonnie lifts her head when I come through the front door of the trailer, then drops it again like it’s just way too heavy. I think I hear her mumble something like: “Oh look, Malory’s home.” Does she even know where I went?

  “Hey, Aunt Bonnie,” I say, lugging my cello through the open doorway and shutting the door behind me. I’ve left my duffle in the car, but I can go back for that. I wouldn’t leave my cello unguarded for two minutes out here at night.

  My cello. Ha. My heart sinks. Last time I stood in this room I was overflowing with hope and optimism and anticipation. Tenacity was the word that kept coming into my head. Now…well, I’m a different person now, aren’t I? Or am I the person I always was, but just more honest about it?

  Liza emerges from what used to be our shared bedroom down at the end of the trailer’s narrow hallway, and now she’s running at me, glee splitting her face into a grin. My insides light with happiness. I run to her like we’re in a daisy-filled, sunlit meadow and not a dark, smoke-filled double-wide with wood paneling and 20-year-old shag carpet.

  Liza squeezes me so hard I can’t breathe for a second. She smells fresh, like cucumber and flowers.

  “I’m so happy you’re home,” she says, and I almost correct her, tell her that this is not home, but I manage to hold my tongue. I roll my cello closer to the wall, out of the way. “G
onna get the rest of my stuff. Back in a minute.”

  Later, after I’ve settled in, we eat dinner sitting cross-legged on Liza’s bed—pistachios, macaroni and cheese, and a family size bag of Doritos. God, I’ve missed my sister. I tell her what I can about school, editing out the ugly parts. Nothing about Garrett. She is much too pure even for the knowledge of his existence. I tell her about my anorexic roommate and my sweet cello friend, and Rome, the genius masquerading as a thug, and she gets a kick out of that, eyeballs me suspiciously, like she’s expecting me to reveal something juicy. But I don’t.

  There’s a new picture of Mom on Liza’s dresser, one she must have put out since I left for college. Mom smiles placidly from beyond the grave, and I feel like she’s staring right at me, urging me to be a good, brave girl and do big things with my life. I can’t even look at her. The rest of the place echoes a whispered warning: Get out, get out, get out while you can, silent but adamant like a sinister playground chant. Even the dissonant chatter from the living room TV is an admonition against the life I left here. Left here for what? I’ve messed everything up. I’ve squandered my opportunity to make something of myself, to do something better.

  I let my grades slip, valedictorian to washout. How does that happen? How did I end up with this…this fucking lunatic, this guy who practically beats me into submission, and why do I like it? And Rome, poor, gentle Rome, I’ve injured him in the worst way, let him love me while I wished he were Garrett. But maybe this is exactly the trajectory my life was supposed to take, to have one more man prove I’m worthless while another man proves I’m cruel.

  I’m having trouble settling on any sort of truth about myself right now. The Malory that breaks under Garrett’s touch and melts under Rome’s is not the same Malory who sits in bed emptying a bag of Doritos with her little sister. This Malory, the Malory I am now, is a blank notebook, waiting to be filled. But the other Malory, Bad Luck Malory, her future is already set. Her notebook has been scribbled in, defaced, torn. And I know, the same way I knew my mom was dead the second I laid eyes on that bathtub—I know that I will go back to Garrett. It feels inescapable, like something that has to happen, as inevitable as…well, as inevitable as death.