by L. B. Dunbar
Suddenly, Morte’s two blocks struck and a flicker of flames sparked.
“Morte, don’t do that on Guinie’s bed,” Arturo warned, trying to pass Ana. He brushed against her as she hardly moved to allow him through the opening.
Morte struck again and a stream of fire lit. He pulled the two blocks slowly apart and the flame grew as a straight line. It looked like a current of electricity. I was mesmerized by it.
“Morte,” the firm tone of Arturo broke both our concentration. Morte looked up at the angered voice. The stream of fire fell to the bed.
Instantly, the duvet caught fire and I scrambled back from the flame. I was momentarily fascinated by the burning fabric. A small circular hole was forming.
“Morte,” Ana shrieked, and I moved into action. I used my bare hands to pat at the fire. I swatted frantically until I felt cold water splash my side.
“Fuck,” Arturo said in a deep tone of distress. I could only assume in his attempt to reach for my water glass, he knocked it over. The water was cascading off the nightstand as if poured out of the glass which lay on its side. My attention turned back to the duvet, when Arturo grabbed one end and folded it over the growing flame. Extinguished, the silence in the room proved we were all staring at the charred spot on the bed.
“Morte, I warned you about that trick,” Arturo began. “You could have set Guinie on fire.” His voice shook as he spoke, whether from anger or fear, I couldn’t tell. Morte looked at me, completely astonished. His face fell instantly when he saw mine.
“I’m so sorry, Guinie. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to…”
“Enough,” Arturo snapped. “Get out.”
Morte scrambled off the bed. I remained motionless, my hands turned upright in my lap. The burn of skin across my palms was slowly hitting me. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Guinie, oh my God.” Arturo reached for hands, but was only able to grab one wrist. He tugged me from the bed, and I followed staring at my red welts growing on my palms.
“Is she all right?” Ana asked from somewhere behind me. I was being guided to my bathroom.
“Go get some ice,” he yelled over his shoulder.
I was led to stand before the sink. Arturo turned on the cold water then forced my hands under the spray. I hissed and went rigid. The pain shot up my arms.
“Shh,” he whispered behind me. “It will pass in a second.” His left hand still circled my left wrist. His right arm only leaned against mine. I stared down at our hands – only three of them. My heart skipped a beat at the loss of his. My eyes met his in the reflection of the mirror. He knew what I was looking at.
“Does it bother you?” he softly asked me in the reflection.
“No. Does it bother you?” I replied. I hoped my voice proved I was curious, not repulsed. My question wasn’t meant to be hurtful, just one looking for honesty.
“Sometimes yes. This moment, yes. I wasn’t thinking and I reached for the glass. Wrong hand. I knocked it over.”
I was suddenly reminded of the wet material on my left side where the water sprayed at me.
“Other times, it’s all about the guitar. I miss playing. The feel of the strings under fingers.”
I remained silent as his left hand reached over mine and gripped my right wrist, forcing that hand to get equal attention under the spray. His right arm had wrapped around my waist. He was holding me still. I remained rigid, trying desperately to not be aware of his bare chest behind my back. His head had come over my shoulder, and he returned his eyes to look down at our hands.
“Mostly, I miss the touch of you,” he said in a hushed voice. His head had turned and the words were said into my ear. I could feel his breathe, but I saw him speak to me in the mirror.
I turned my head to face him. His mouth was less than an inch from mine. My body had a mind of its own and I had leaned back into his chest. The warmth of his showered skin seeped into mine and brought me comfort. A comfort I recognized and longed for.
My mouth watered with a desire to touch his lips. I saw the throb of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, too. His eyes concentrated on my mouth. I was convinced he’d kiss me.
“I have ice,” Ana said behind us both.
Arturo stepped back instantly, and I returned to my attention to my hands under the water. Red and raw, the bulge of blisters covered each palm.
“Here,” Arturo handed me the bag of ice and I took it between each palm.
“I’m going to go get dressed,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Okay…I mean, thanks,” I said without looking at him. I could feel the presence of Ana behind me, lingering for a moment before she followed Arturo to his room.
After leaving Guinevere in her bathroom, an argument ensured with Ana. She didn’t seem to understand the reasons my boat trip with Guinie could not be turned into a family affair. Ana and I had come to an agreement. I was going to recognize my son. While there wasn’t going to be a big public display of it, as we mutually concluded that this would be detrimental to Morte, we also settled that I would not deny he was my child. We decided I could take Morte to more public venues and share that he was mine. No matter what, my concern was the protection of Morte, not the destruction of his childhood by being my son. More importantly, being my son, by my stepsister. I shuddered each time I thought of that distant memory, but again, as Ana and I had come to some sort of truce, I thought we were all good.
With our return back to New York, Ana’s attitude had changed. She was returning to the possessive person she’d been before. Slowly, I saw traces of the old Ana sneaking out of her. Her behavior in Portland had been inappropriate, but understandable. That’s when we had to have the talk, and that’s when arrangements were made. I would acknowledge Morte. He was my family.
She was being quite stubborn about my not taking Morte that day on the boat. I was all for family time, but there were other times I craved as well. Being alone with Guinie was one of them. It felt like merely five seconds we were in her bathroom, rather than fifteen minutes. I hadn’t been alone with Guinie other than in the hallway yesterday, where she told me touching her was a mistake. My dick was leading me, instead of my head. I needed to step back and get a chance to talk with Guinie. Alone.
“I don’t see why we can’t come with you. At least take Morte.” Ana glared at me. I could see her in the reflection of my mirror. What the hell did she have on? Standing behind me with her hands on her hips, the strap of her camisole top slipped off her shoulder. Her stomach was exposed as the top was clearly too short, and her long legs stretched on below a rather skimpy looking pair of silk shorts. The black material matched her black hair and contrasted sharply with her pure white skin. In a drunken, lust-filled stupor, I had been attracted to that. At the moment, I wasn’t.
She licked her lips and I sighed, looking away. Her mouth had been the thing to tempt me. What she said to me at seventeen, a high school boy at a college party. What she did to me with it. I felt dirty and excited at the same time, and I had to shake my head to clear my thoughts. I’d spent too much time with Ana while we were in Portland; way too much time.
Her begging me to take Morte was almost like she expected Guinie to hurt me, as if Morte could be a human shield against Guinevere’s advances. Little did Ana know that Guinie wanted nothing to do with me, but I still felt the need to make things right. I still owed her, as my one time fiancée, an explanation of what happened and why I stayed away. I also had a few questions myself. I needed this time with Guinevere.
On second inspection of Ana, I wondered why she was in my room and turned to face her. I still stood in only a towel, not prepared to change in front of her like I had several times in Portland.
“What are you doing in here anyway?” I questioned. Ana couldn’t play the role of sheepish, so a coy expression crossed her face.
“You kicked me out of my room, so I thought I’d come in here. For old times’ sake,” she hissed in a voice I recognized as attem
pting seduction.
“What room?” I asked, trying to avoid her as I pulled out shorts and a t-shirt from the dresser drawer.
“My room. The one she’s in.” The hiss was more defined this time: stronger and bitter.
“Guinevere is not in your room. As a matter of fact, she’s in her room.” Frozen, I stood still, holding my clothes. I’d walked away without helping her bandage her hands. The ice would numb the pain, the blisters. I remembered, all too well, the cool compresses on me that soothed me. I also remembered there were many things I could not do alone. Even with two hands, if both were hurt, Guinie couldn’t wrap her own hands.
With a start, I headed to Guinie’s room, still holding my clothes, when I felt a tug on my towel. It came loose. One hand held my shorts and shirt. The other hand was gone. I wasn’t fast enough to even stop it with my stumped wrist. The towel slipped to the floor and I stood bare to Ana who stepped into the doorframe with me. As fate would have it, Guinie walked out of her bathroom at the same time.
Questioning blue eyes met mine across the room as I stood stark naked in front of Ana. Her presence was so close to mine we were almost touching. I immediately knew how this looked.
“Guinie,” I called out, turning to face her. I was even more exposed as I realized my limpness hung front and center. Problem was one look at Guinie and I stiffened. One unintentional glance from her eyes to my growing wood, and I was standing erect. Problem was Ana was still next to me. Her hand touched my hip and I jumped.
“Maybe you should get dressed,” she whispered in a voice just loud enough to be heard across the room. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Guinevere, but she had already looked away. She spun on bare feet and returned to her bathroom. Holding the bag of ice between her two hands, her foot guided the door closed and she was cut off from me.
I was prepared to bang down the door, convinced that Guinevere was locked inside. I had turned away myself, hustling into my own bathroom to dress quickly. When I returned to my bedroom, Ana had thankfully disappeared. Ironically, Guinie’s room was empty, completely devoid of her presence. I had taken the liberty of having her suitcase and cello case moved from Ingrid’s house to mine. I sensed that when Guinie woke she wouldn’t feel well, being hungover and all, and I wanted her to be comfortable with her own things. Realistically, I believed if I moved her here, she would at least stay.
I was wrong. I raced down the stairs to see Guinie’s cases in the front hall and found her on the phone in the kitchen.
“If you could be faster than fifteen minutes, that would be better,” she said with a smile and a slight tease into the phone. Whomever she was talking to, she was clearly comfortable with him. So confident in that person, he put a smile on her face. I didn’t like that she smiled. It was evident she was smiling for the benefit of that person. I wanted to recapture that smile for me. She hadn’t smiled yet since I’d returned. Rather she hadn’t smiled at me, in that way.
“Who are you talking to?” I demanded. She startled and the phone jumbled in her hands. Recovering it, she righted it to her ear, and quickly said, “Just hurry, please,” into the phone. She pressed the button for off and let her bandaged hand fall to the side. Each of her palms was wrapped in thin gauge giving her the look of a fighter readying to box. She gave a small snort as she raised them up and spoke.
“Unattractive,” she said without humor in the laugh. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look beautiful,” I said without thinking, as I stared at her face instead of the bandages.
“Arturo,” she said softly, a hint of warning in her tone. Blue eyes flicked up to my face, then away and I was distracted for a moment by the look. In one sweep, that glance could be seductive or avoidance.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked again, returning to my original question with renewed bitterness in my tone.
“I called someone to pick me up. I don’t know how my stuff got here,” she said, raising an eyebrow at me, “but I need to go.”
“Back to Ingrid’s?” I questioned. Somehow I sensed a different answer before she spoke.
“Back to the city,” she replied, looking down at her toes. Light pink I noticed for the strangest reason. I always noticed her painted toenails when we first met. The color seemed to change as she blossomed. Bright pinks to deeper reds: innocence to vixen. For the millionth time, I had a flash of her standing before me in sheer material that draped from shoulder to floor. I could see every inch of her yet she was covered. It was alluring and tempting, and it called to be removed. I swallowed hard and noticed Guinie shift her legs. The movement moved me and I stepped closer to her.
“Don’t go,” I said. It came out firm and determined, as if my words could force her to stay.
“Arturo, I don’t belong here,” she said, peeking up at me and then quickly looking to the side to stare at nothing out the kitchen window. I stepped closer; approaching slowly like a hunter nears his prey.
“Yes, you do. Don’t go,” I said again, forcing my tone to soften. My left hand itched to touch her: the curve of her neck, the roundness of her shoulder. The juncture of the two was a trigger for her. If I nipped her where they joined, she’d bend to my will. I couldn’t take that risk. I did come closer. Her eyes slowly came away from the outside view and she stared into mine. I read a thousand questions. I’d answer what I could. I just needed time.
“Don’t go?” I questioned, raising my left hand and giving into my desire. I traced the path over her ear, taking pieces of that silky chestnut hair with me. I let my hand travel down her neck, fingers tickling lightly, and she shivered. I brought my face closer, my mouth reaching out for her ear.
“Please,” I whispered, hoping the plea in my voice climbed through and wound its way to her heart. It was like a calling, an echo, of my longing to be with her again.
“Okay.” It was so tiny, more like a squeak, but I took the sound. My lips met skin under her ear. I lingered but didn’t press harder.
“Thank you,” I sighed as I pulled back. I stood taller, feeling a weight lifted off my shoulders. My lips quirked in a smile I knew I hadn’t experienced in months. In response, her pink mouth turned up a little at the corners, too.
We walked in silence down the long, windy gravel drive. It was awkward. What should I say? I kept thinking. I’d heard Arturo and Ana arguing after I said I’d stay. Ana wanted to go with us on the boat, to make it a family affair, I heard her say. The Ana I knew had returned in full cobra fashion. Her eyes blazed, her mouth smoldered, and she slithered to delay her leave, but whatever she was waiting for didn’t happen. I was surprised Arturo didn’t give into her plea. That’s when a touch of tantrum took place. She slammed out the front door, yelled at Morte, and pulled down the drive dramatically spinning her tires.
Arturo didn’t seem fazed by this reaction and simply pointed the way for me to exit the door before him. He carried my bag, which I had propped over my shoulder, but it kept slipping down my arm. My bundled hands made repeatedly pushing it upward difficult. Arturo reached over and removed it. He had his right hand attached at the moment. I tried to stay focused forward, but my eyes continued to wander over to him. I was curious.
It looked real enough. The skin tone material matched Arturo’s slightly darker complexion, almost. On first glance, it was hardly noticeable, but there was enough of a difference that caused a second look. The hand hung stiff, rather unnatural, at the end of his arm. There was a small stretch of extra “skin” that overlapped his wrist, forcing the connection between the prosthetic and his wrist. He had grabbed the straps of my bag with his right hand. The coolness of the polypropylene fibers brushed my shoulder. It had a texture I wasn’t certain I could describe. It wasn’t rubber, but something clearly synthetic that didn’t feel like real skin. It was missing something.
I pulled my eyes away, but Arturo spoke.
“It was hard to get used to at first. I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. I was ready to suffer without it.” He cocked a one-s
ided smile. “But I was talked into trying it. It took some getting used to. Having something attached to your body, yet working for you. I feel robotic at times.”
He was holding the hand up in the air, examining it as he twisted and turned it from side to side.
“It looks almost real, but it doesn’t feel real.” He sighed deeply. “It just takes getting used to,” he repeated again, letting his hand fall to his side.
In a gut reaction, I reached for him as I was walking on his right. My fingers brushed his arm in reassurance. He stopped, and I quickly removed my hand. His eyes watched the retreat then travelled up my body.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, but the crooked smile on his face only grew larger. “What?” I teased.
“That’s the first time you’ve touched me,” he said, then shrugged and continued walking. He couldn’t be correct. We’d been in the hall together. I was touching him then. He carried me upstairs. My eyes drifted to his hand. Surely, I touched him then. In the bathroom this morning, I recalled him holding my hands under the water. I…images flashed through my mind. He’d been touching me each of these times. A small wave of guilt trickled through me.
When we reached the dock, he made quick work of loading our things then helping me into the boat. Handing me his right hand for support, I almost thought he did it on purpose. It was as if he was forcing me to touch him. However, once I entered the boat, he quickly pulled away realizing what he’d done.
We motored cautiously away from the dock, and I had a déjà vu moment of another warm afternoon a year ago. He’d first kissed me on this boat. My over-excitability and lack of self-control caused me to orgasm at that kiss. Literally. I fell apart under him, in a moment of first bliss, and then utter embarrassment. Being true to himself, he was actually kind and patient with my inexperience. Before me, he had well earned his reputation as the Chivalrous Lover. He was thoughtful of a woman and her needs.