To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  With my gun in hand, I turn the knob. It is unlocked. I enter the house.

  I hear the song “Hallelujah” from the movie Shrek coming from a TV sound system. The air tastes murky and salty, like rusted steel. I recognize the stench. Bloodstains smear the flat screen, covering Shrek’s green face. Blood permeates the interior of the house.

  In the middle of the TV room, in the center of a blood-saturated rug lies a male. An inert gun lies beside him. I check his aorta for a pulse. Nothing. I step to the woman next to him, and search for her radial pulse. Nothing. I see a child splattered on the couch, eyes and chest wide-open. Also no pulse.

  I hear a whimper. My hair stands on end and I’m alert. I step toward the sound and I hear another whimper.

  Behind the sofa, a boy curls around a baby. Under a veil of blood, both gleam as if ruby stones. My heart halts. For the first time in the line of duty, my vision wavers, my stomach churns and demands relief. When the boy sees me, his eyes widen and his body hovers protectively around the baby.

  I approach slowly and with caution. I inhale deeply. Each movement is calculated, calm, and friendly. The boy must be a little older than Ella. His eyes are glazed and strikingly white under the bright red blood covering his skin. His body trembles. He is going in shock.

  “Hi, my name is Mel. I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”

  He is silent, his petrified eyes scan the room.

  “We’re alone. Just us, you’re safe now, I promise.”

  I continue to walk slowly toward him.

  “Tell me your name,” I say, kneeling in front of him. My voice is warm and calm, but my eyes scan the room for any remaining danger.

  “Micah,” he finally says in a small voice. That’s the cue that he trusts me.

  “Who is that?” I kneel beside him, my hand that firmly holds the gun urges me to hold the boy. But, I follow protocol. I always do.

  “My sister, did I save her from him?” He asks and looks around. “Dad got home so weird and he started shooting.” Fear and desperation swamp his eyes.

  Screw protocol. I return my gun to the holster.

  Slowly, I sit next to him. “What’s her name?” I whisper calmly. My fingers probe the head of the newborn swaddled in pink. I gently unwrap her arm and search for brachial pulse. I swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Mindy.”

  “Here, let me put her back in her basket. Babies like to be in their cradle.”

  “She is dead, isn’t she?”

  I nod and place my hand over his, slowly releasing his tight grip of her.

  He hesitates before he hands me his bloody sister. His hands are limp. I identify a wound on his chest near his armpit. It is bleeding profusely.

  “Micah, I bet Mindy will brag to everybody in heaven how brave you are.” I return the baby to a Moses basket and gather a baby blanket.

  “She doesn’t speak. She is only a week old.”

  “Guess what? I personally think that everyone in heaven speaks.”

  I inch closer to him, gather his limp body, and pull him to my lap. He is lanky and frail inside my embrace. I place the blanket on the wound and apply pressure.

  “Where is Mommy?” he asks in a whisper.

  “Oh, honey, Mommy is in heaven with Mindy.” I rock him gently.

  “Am I going there too?”

  “I don’t think so, not today.”

  “I want my mom.” His eyes are glazing. “Can I go there too?”

  I hear a distant cacophony of sirens. My heart hurts for this family. My heart hurts for Micah. I wish the paramedics wouldn’t make it time. He should go to heaven with his mom and siblings.

  I swallow my anger, frustration, and pain. I begin to tell him how wonderful of a place heaven is. What I don’t tell him is that for the remainder of his life he will live in hell.

  THE DAY PASSES in a blur. We have ice cream, feed ducks at the small pond near the house, and play guitar for about two hours. If this is an indication of how I handle being a dad, my guess is I’ll be decent. The thought is unnerving.

  After dinner, I put Ella to sleep, and text Mel.

  Me: Do u have a double?

  Mel: Caught up at a crime scene. Be home soon.

  I grab the remote, sit on the couch, and turn on the TV. I flip the channels until settling on the evening news. I idly watch as the news anchor announces the weather, an eminent war, a local union strike, and then a murder/suicide in this town. The reporter describes graphic details that churn my stomach. Shit, my mind becomes sharp as I watch attentively to see any indication if that’s the same crime scene that has trapped Mel. I shut off the TV and pace on the polished hardwood floor. A frightening thought crosses my mind. Mel’s uniform makes her sexy as hell, but her job entails risks that I never before considered.

  I hear the Ford motor rumbling outside. I open the kitchen door and see Mel inside the car. My feet jump up and take me to her.

  I snap the jagged door open. Mel has a deadly grip on the wheel and a horrified expression on her face. Tears fill her eyes and, like water escaping from an opened dam, flood her face. I’ve never seen her so distraught.

  “Mel, what happened?” But I already know the answer. She was one of the officers responding to the family massacre.

  I gather her in my arms. Mel hides her face on my chest. I reminisce about the day I carried her home. Unlike that day, I’m not the source of her anguish. That gives me little comfort. Seeing this girl suffering pierces my heart.

  “Shhh…” I take her inside the house and to her room. I sit on the bed with her on my lap. She snuggles my neck and I feel the warm tears wetting my skin. After a long while, she stops crying. She stands and removes her belt. I take it from her. Wow, the damn thing is heavy.

  “The safe.” She walks to her closet and opens the safe. I place the belt inside and close it.

  “Oh, Tarry.” She turns to me, and enlaces my waist tightly.

  “Let’s get you in bed.”

  I guide her to her bed. Mel takes off her shirt, pants, and boots. I talk to my cock, hoping to keep the boy at bay. It’s highly inappropriate for me to have a hard-on at this moment.

  Wearing a tank top and sex-as-hell lacy panties, Mel looks at me and whispers, “Can you spend the night with me? I don’t want to be alone.”

  I oblige. I kick off my Converses and slide in bed, pulling her with me.

  “He survived, Tarry. His father shot everyone, including his son. As I held him while he was almost bleeding to death, I begged God to take him. But God didn’t. Why do people who should die don’t, and those who shouldn’t do? Why?” I embrace her tightly. For the second time today, I feel inept. What does one say at times like this?

  “Oh, Mel, I don’t have the answer. But according to your father, God knows what he’s doing. Let’s just hope that he does.”

  The light from the hallway filters from the half-opened door. Mel turns on her side and we spoon. With Mel tucked inside my arms, a sense of purpose weaves itself inside my chest. It’s hard to describe. Hearing the sound of her breathing—a lullaby on its own—and with her ass pressing against me, I inhale the chamomile aroma from her hair. I fall into a peaceful sleep.

  SUNLIGHT POURS THROUGH the window. My last recollection of the previous night is strong arms woven tightly around me. The pleasant aroma of coffee draws me out of a hazy morning moment. I open my eyes and glance at the clock. Eight. Shit. Panic swamps me. I climb out of bed, scramble inside pajama pants, and soar to Ella’s room. She is up. Almost relieved, I go in search of her.

  Tarry, who is barefoot, stands at the sink. He is wearing jeans and a crumpled shirt. He is putting the dishes on the dishwasher. The radio is tuned to The Elvis Duran Show.

  “Where is Ella?” I ask.

  “Good morning.” He turns, flashes me a smile, and grabs a mug. “Ella is on her way to school as we speak,” he says smugly. He pours the black liquid and hands it to me.

  I take it as if it’s manna from heave
n.

  “Thank you, and good morning.” I sit on the stool. Guilt settles in my chest as I realize I neglected Ella this morning. I work a lot, but her needs are always before my own. I’ve never overslept before. Not even when I pull doubles. Tarry. Unconsciously, falling asleep in his arms gave me reassurance. I guess that’s what married couples do with their children. They share responsibilities. A shudder runs through my body at the foolish thought. A domestic Tarry is as fleeting as a morning spring dew.

  Tarry proudly sets a plate of bacon, eggs, and pancakes in front of me. I realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.

  “Thank you,” I say. Today, more than any other day, I need the support of a friend. Truth be told, I’m glad that someone is Tarry. Last evening’s event unleashed a new perspective inside me. I glance at the quote at my windowsill and let the words drench in my soul like never before. Life is short. And a precious gift not all of us get to keep.

  “My pleasure.” He grins and goes back to the mundane task of cleaning the kitchen. Stunned and feeling a bit pampered I eat the meal. I sit back and refuse any thoughts of the crude images of the murdered family.

  I pay attention to the show. The hosts babble about friends taking a platonic shower, making funny remarks. I let out a small laugh.

  “I’m a little insulted right now,” Tarry says as he sits next to me and pops a mint in his mouth.

  “What?” I ask, still laughing.

  “I’m bending backwards here to please you and you’re laughing at Elvis?”

  “Got to give it to them, they’re funny.”

  “What’s so funny about platonic showers?”

  “Nothing, they just make it sound funny.”

  “Yeah, like there’s such a thing as taking a platonic shower.”

  “I beg to differ, of course there is,” I say and without my full consent, my traitor voice is flirtatious.

  “Nope. It doesn’t happen without moving to second or third base,” he says.

  “You want to bet?”

  “How would you prove me wrong?”

  “By showering with you,” I answer, a little short of breath.

  “I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, Mel,” he says. His voice is an octave lower.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “What’s the prize?” he asks.

  “If I win, I get to choose whatever I want, and vice versa.”

  “I like it, especially knowing who will be the winner.”

  I grab his hand and lead him to my bathroom. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I hope my feeble attempt at seducing Tarry doesn’t seem as foolish as I feel.

  Once in the bathroom, we face each other. Tarry’s eyes are dark and smoky. Like a quiet jungle cat waiting for the right moment to strike, he observes me.

  My entire body tingles in anticipation. I remove my tank top and shimmy out of my pajama bottoms. Oh, God, this feels so scary and wanton. I say a little grace that I’m wearing cute undergarments.

  Tarry swiftly snatches off his shirt and pushes his jeans down. He is going commando and his erection springs free. He is rock hard. I bite my lower lip. I turn the water on, setting it on hot. I look at Tarry and remove my bra and panties. I step under the scalding stream and gaze at him invitingly.

  Never breaking eye contact, Tarry steps in. He is so intent and delectable standing in the nude. This man is handsome. No, he is strikingly, perfectly, and irrevocably handsome. My hungry eyes scan his chiseled muscles. His workouts are showing. I want to lick his chest. I grab the soap and hold it tightly to conceal my trembling hands. I breathe in deeply. It’s a vain attempt to rein in my desire.

  Maintaining eye contact, I glide the soap over my chest slowly and what I hope is seductively. My nipples are hard and sensitive. The smooth texture of the soap makes me moan lowly. Tarry must hear me, because his breath catches. I continue to soap my chest and stomach. Tarry’s eyes don’t leave mine and his pupils are dilated. I decide to wash my pussy. Yeah, I think I’m panting a little.

  The moment the soap touches my folds I see Tarry swallowing hard. But he never breaks eye contact.

  I wonder if all the courage inside me sprouts from the changes I’ve forced into myself lately. But, no, in reality, we don’t change all that much. We evolve and our true self gets either magnified or atrophied. In essence, I’ve never been more myself than during the last months.

  With courage coursing through my veins, I grab Tarry’s hand and bring it to my breast. For the first time since we got under the water, Tarry closes his lids and breaks eye contact. He takes a deep, ragged breath. When he opens his eyes, they are gray as a stormy twilight sky.

  Without removing his hand, he says, “Mel, if you want me to touch you, I need to hear you say it.” His voice is sultry and haunting.

  “Please, Tarry, I need your touch.”

  “Do you need it?” His brows knit together.

  “I need it because I want it so badly,” I say.

  Tarry’s eyes pierce through me. His thumb rolls over my nipple. All the muscles of my core tighten. Tarry’s tongue glides over his lips. He reaches my other breast. I arch slightly, hungry for his touch.

  Tarry lowers his head and captures my nipple in his mouth. He strokes his tongue, circling it lightly and teasingly, and then he sucks it. Hard. I moan. His hand pinches my other nipple, elongating it and squeezing my breast. My legs weaken and my body trembles.

  Tarry swiftly turns me, pinning me against the wet, cold tiles. He ravishes my skin, sucking and kissing his way up my neck, leaving a trail of fire. I squirm. My breath hikes. There is a vast void inside me I need urgently for him to fill. His lips find mine. His mouth, warm and minty, ravishes mine. His body presses against me.

  Unabashedly, I reach for his erection. His body shudders and I can feel his desire matches mine.

  “Oh, Melody,” he breathes in my ear. His teeth roughly scrape my earlobe.

  My hand moves around his shaft. It’s soft and hard. I want to taste him, but I want him inside me. There seems not to be enough of him, enough time to fill my desperate need.

  “Not here, I want you under me, in your bed,” he says possessively.

  “Yes,” I reply, surrendering to his alluring, yet dominating voice.

  Tarry shuts off the faucet, he moves fast. He soars out of the tub and grabs a towel. He turns to me and wraps it around my body. Without a word, he sweeps me off my feet and strides to the bedroom.

  He places me in front of my bed, gathers the towel, and dries my body. He pats his own body briefly and tosses the towel on the floor.

  “Tell me what you want, Melody,” he commands with a husky voice.

  “I want you to take me.”

  “No running away after,” he says.

  “No running away,” I repeat.

  He approaches me, his hands cups either side of my face. “Do you know what you do to me; do you know how much I want you?” He kisses me again. The kiss is urgent, but gentle. Scorching but soothing. Lustful but loving. I grab his shoulder so I don’t fall.

  Tarry lowers me to the bed. Lying down, I look at the six feet of him standing before me, eating me with his eyes. He breathes hard. I grin internally that I shake him a little. He continues to ravish my body with his starving eyes.

  “Tarry, please,” I say.

  “No, love. This is going to be my way, my pace. I will savor every second with you, brand every inch of your skin with my tongue.” He runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back.

  As if possible, my breathing becomes faster.

  His eyes languidly scan my body. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel sexy and empowered. I can see he is holding back.

  “I’m gonna make love with you, Melody. I’ll mark the inside of you. You won’t run away again.” His brows knit together. “Ever,” he says with the finality of a dropping guillotine.

  He circles the bed. I follow him with my eyes. I’m panting. Between my legs burns. My entire bod
y trembles in torment and anticipation.

  He probes the foot of the bed. His calloused index finger glides on the arch of my foot. His tongue strokes the place his finger touched. I’m on fire. A trail of flames is left where his mouth touches. He spreads my legs open and settles near my feet. I feel exposed and vulnerable. He holds up my ankle and his mouth trails kisses, creating his own little map up to my thighs. I touch my breast, more because I need something to do to avoid an implosion.

  Tarry stops. “Your skin tastes so much better than all my fantasies combined.”

  His lips move to my other foot. He bites the arch. It sends a sharp pain with direct contact to my groin. Jeez, no wonder he has the reputation. I tell my mind to shut the hell up. This is not the time to think of that part of the deal. I want to believe I’m the only woman he ever made feel this special. I don’t care how untruthful it is.

  He continues his pilgrimage up to my other thigh. Then, again, he stops. His eyes search mine. “Do you want me, Melody?”

  “Yes, Tarry, please.” I don’t recognize my voice.

  “Good girl,” he says.

  He sprawls his long palms on my inner thighs and spreads me open. “So fucking beautiful,” he says before his mouth devours the most sensitive part of my body.

  An animalistic moan escapes my throat. My fingers, with a life of their own, grip his hair and pull his face against my core. His hand grabs my ass and squeezes hard. He sucks and thrusts his tongue. His finger slides inside me with ease. I’m soaking.

  “Tarry, please,” I cry. “Please, I need you. Now.”

  He ignores me and inserts a second finger inside me. Slowly he thrusts in and out, stirring a tension. I moan as he swirls his tongue on my clit and intensifies the speed of his fingers. I feel my muscles clenching, begging for release. I’m at the edge and am about to fall. It feels so good, so close. He stops.

  I growl in complaint. Tarry now hovers over me. His eyes pierce mine. He said his tongue was going to brand me. He was wrong. His eyes are branding me. I know at this moment, I’ll never be anyone else’s. I’m not naïve to put a claim on him. I know I’m his thrill during the dull period of rehab. But in spite of the crude reality, I’m his.