by Foxx, Gloria
I don’t want solicitous treatment from Boston. I just need a few minutes to wallow. He ushers me through the door and, following Lyla’s directions, into her office.
“Sit,” Boston commands.
“No.”
“Fine, then stand and when you fall down, don’t blame me,” he says, pushing me backward with a hand at my chest until I find the edge of the desk beneath my butt. My knees buckle as the adrenaline seeps from my bloodstream.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” I didn’t know, raising my eyes, I find him looking at Lyla, asking her, not me. “We’ll need some ice too,” he directs, “unless your kit has a couple of ice packs.”
Boston turns back to me as I begin to slump and just before I topple, he hooks his forearms under my arms and lifts until I am sitting firmly on the desk. Kneeling in front of me, his chin at my chest level, one hand on my thigh. “Hey,” he pats my cheek. “Don’t pass out on me.”
My eyes snap fire. “I’m not going to pass out.” At least I’m not now, I think, as Boston inventories my injuries. I’m irritated at being pulled away from Logan. This is all my fault. I deserve everything I get.
“You’re going to have a shiner. Did he hit you?”
“No. Logan let me go when you confronted him. I hit my head on the dumpster.”
“So it’s obviously my fault.”
Contrite I mumble, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Logan isn’t a violent man. I didn’t need you to protect me.”
“It sure looked like violence to me.” His hands are on my lower leg, one cupped behind my ankle the other under my pant leg, sliding up my calf. I’m buzzing like the adrenaline is back. “You have abrasions on your ankle, scrapes and a contusion on your knee, a black eye and probably a sore scalp.”
“Logan’s in pain and lashing out. It’s my fault. I deserved it.” I’m shaking my head in the negative, my gaze pinned to my fingers twining with nerves and hope and embarrassment.
“Hey.” Fingers at my jaw lift my gaze from my hands. “I can’t accept that you did anything to warrant this kind of treatment and even if you did, victims shouldn’t seek retribution for their grief.”
“He’s not the victim. It’s Emma who’s dead.”
“Well obviously he’s been victimized by her loss.”
I had nothing to say and appreciated the interruption as Lyla arrived with the first aid kit, a bucket of ice and a couple bar towels. My world is clearer now, but my strength has not returned.
“Here. Lean back.” Boston pushes me back with a palm against my collarbone, fingers curling over my shoulder. Not yet strong enough to resist, I slouch on the desk, my shoulders resting against the wall behind me as he wraps ice in a bar towel. Shoving it into my hand, he moves my hand to my temple as if I’m an invalid. “Hold it there.” The authority in his voice left no room for dispute. Besides, my strength is meager. The excitement of starting school combined with the grief and nightmares of the past summer have taken their toll. I begin to drift, not asleep, but not aware either.
I’m not really hurt; my injuries are minor. Something else is troubling me now and it’s not physical.
Breath sizzles from between my teeth pulling me back to the here and now. Boston dabs something against my scraped knee and it stings like a sonofabitch. He tapes a bandage in place just as I can’t grasp where my pants leg has gone. Before I have a chance to ask he balances another homemade ice pack on my knee. He’s moved to the desk chair, my foot propped in his lap.
Hissing again as his fingers probe my ankle, I am no longer drifting. I can feel frost seeping into my temple, the iciness working its way to my eye. My knee is numb, whether from shock or antiseptic or ice, I don’t know. Tape is pulling at my ankle as Boston works my flat black slip-on back onto my foot. Something pulls at my hair too.
“Ouch!” I turn my head to find Lyla threading her fingers through my hair.
“Sorry sweetie. Just checking to make sure there isn’t any torn or bruised skin on your scalp.”
I’m glad it’s Lyla and not Boston. He makes me nervous and I don’t think I could stand his fingers combing through my hair.
“Looks like you’ll survive,” he says while closing the first aid kit.
“Of course I’ll survive. I would have survived without your interference too.”
“Why didn’t you use any of your fancy self-defense moves when he grabbed you?”
“Are you mocking me?”
“No, but what good is self-defense if you don’t use it?”
“I didn’t need to defend myself. I already told you. Logan’s not violent. He’s just in pain and lashing out.”
“Lashing out at you,” says Lyla, still sitting on the edge of her desk and stroking my hair.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” It’s been a long day and I’ve had more than my fair share. I jump from the desk, some of my vigor restored. “I’m going home.” I toss the ice pack in my hand into the ice bucket. The other falls to the floor and I ignore it as I attempt to escape the well-meaning duo.
“Sterling stop.” Lyla wants to help.
“Let her go,” says Boston. He seems to know that if they try to stop me now I will lash out, even if I don’t want to. At least I know I would.
They follow me down the hall, into the lounge and behind the bar. I pull my purse from below, digging out my car keys.
“Can you give me a ride?” Startled by his request, I stop moving, my eyes going to Boston, suspicious of ulterior motives. “I missed the last bus of the night.” His eyes are soft, friendly and a little needy, although not at all weak. It feels good to be needed for a change.
“I’m sorry you got mixed up in this.” I feel bad now, having pulled him into my life. “Sure.”
As we leave the lounge, I hear Lyla say, “Take care of my girl.”
My scalp aches and my knee and ankle are hot, stinging with the force of a thousand bees as we walk to my car. Surprisingly my temple doesn’t feel too bad. Overall I feel better than I had in weeks, the physical gauntlet providing a kind of release. For the first time ever I think I finally understand cutting, a practice I could never comprehend. Now I get it.
* * *
I deflated as we walked into my apartment, hoping he didn’t expect me to entertain. I’d wanted to drop him at his dorm, but I couldn’t convince him that I’m fine. If I’d felt better, I would have argued. Instead I gave in. Maybe he has a point.
Wiped out, I drop my bag on my desk, wanting nothing more than to pass out and sleep for about twenty hours.
“Can I get you a drink or something?”
“You don’t need to entertain me. I’ll be gone just as soon as you’re settled.”
I want to sit, but I’m afraid I’ll never get back up. Instead I rummage for yoga pants and an oversized tee in the dresser while watching Boston drop his backpack on the desk right next to my bag. Hugging my fresh clothes to my chest, I head toward the bathroom. “Kitchen’s here.” I point left. “Bathroom’s this way.” He didn’t need to follow. You can see all of the kitchen and the door to the bathroom from the front door to my apartment.
You can’t see the bedroom door. It’s in the alcove, opposite the bathroom. I like it that way, first for privacy and now so I don’t have to see the door, at least not very often. My mom thinks I should move, but I can’t afford it. Besides now that I’m in school, I like that I’m near campus.
I disappear into the bathroom to get out of my wet work clothes and find that I don’t want to remove everything with Boston around. When I emerge, Boston is standing where I’d left him, jacket hanging from his fingers. “Are you okay now? Want me to go?”
“You can go.”
“I could sleep on your couch.”
Freezing in panic, my throat closes, choking off my words. A cold stillness settles over me. My mind works furiously for an answer, but short circuits when it gets to the possibility of sleeping in the bedroom. I begin to sweat, unable to come up with a response. It’s that
icy cold sweat that reeks of tension and distress.
Boston watches me as I dive off into crazyland, my eyes huge, pupils dilated; my mouth opening and closing with silent words; my rigid posture, pallor and cold sweat screaming panic. I’m mortified by what he must think, but I don’t have any solutions.
“It’s okay. I’ll go.”
The adrenaline rushes out of me as Boston shrugs into his jacket. I pin my lower lip between my teeth, feeling bad about his walking home.
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to see how you’re doing.” His eyes pin me down with a pointed stare.
I have an idea. “As long as you’re coming back, you wanna use my car?”
“You’re okay with that?”
“Hey, I know where you work,” I offer glibly, stepping toward him to find my keys. He’s close as I rummage in my bag. I can smell his jacket.
“Looking for these Sterling?”
I spin around, startled by how close his voice is behind me. “
Where’d you get my keys?”
“I drove you home, remember?”
“Oh.” I snag my lower lip between my teeth again, lowering my eyes, embarrassed to have him so close in my tiny apartment.
“I guess I better go.” His words fan across my cheek.
“I guess you better go.” I lift my eyes to his. I think to make sure he’s leaving, but I’m not entirely sure.
Neither of us moves, at least not intentionally, although we’re pulled together like the moon that moves the tides or the wind that moves the trees. His lips part slightly, as do mine, as if it will help us to breathe. We draw closer and our breath mingles. My respiration picks up. There isn’t enough oxygen in the air as his breath whispers across my lips. Invisible threads pull us together until our lips meet, clinging and questioning. Nothing else touches, just our mouths.
It’s sweet and tentative with experimentation and inquiry and hesitation.
I don’t want this, my mind screams. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I pull away groaning, “Oh God, I groan.” I do want this, but I shouldn’t.
Like a magnet that both repels and attracts, I’m pulled in two directions. The battle within me rages as my mind wants one thing and my heart and soul another. I want to remain where I am, protected by isolation, but I want to go forward too. I want to have hope and believe in dreams and trust in love.
His eyes hold mine, almost captive. They’re dark with glints from the dim light in the kitchen. They’re compelling, calling to me, or maybe I just think that because I want what they promise. His fingertips graze my cheeks, slide over my jaw, his palm warm against the side of my face as I lean into him. His thumb teases and catches on my lower lip. He’s pulling me toward him, without pulling as I comply.
I can’t worry about yesterday or think about tomorrow. I have too much going on right now. Giving in without sound, without protest, our lips clash, consuming. I need this man. I need to feel and live and savor. I clutch at his shoulders as our lips ravage and suckle and devour. I strain toward him, wanting more, needing to meld my body with his.
My tongue traces his lower lip, not waiting for him. When he groans, I delve into the dark recess, demanding to taste even more. My pulse is driving, blood rushing through my veins. I’m hot and quaking and I can’t get close enough to Boston’s body.
He tries to help, hands at my back and fingers splayed he holds me close, almost lifting me from my feet.
Bending my knee to hug his hip, I groan as his knee slides between my thighs. He drags me close and I’m straddling his leg, heat and steam building against his denim-clad thigh. My head is tilting back and forth my oxygen deprived brain voracious, but not for air. I need more of Boston.
Slipping my hands beneath his shirt, I revel in the smooth expanse of ultra-heated skin below my palms, the tang of him on my lips, the strength of his thigh between my legs, until I am bereft.
Without quite understanding what happened, I find myself standing alone on legs as weak as a feather trying to hold up the earth. The pulsing of my body turns sluggish, the heat in my cheeks glowing a dull red as Boston’s hands at my shoulders steady me.
I find myself embarrassed and uncertain, wondering what just happened. My eyes plead with confusion, seeking answers that only Boston has.
He steps back, dropping his hands from my shoulders. I watch, mute as he grabs my keys from the desk. “I’ll be back early.” A half smile plays about his lips and his eyes sparkle as he backs toward the door. “Get some sleep.”
Boston looks like a man with a secret and he’s gone, slipping into the darkness, before I can ask about it.
Chapter 7
I love that moment when I first wake up, when I first come into consciousness. I’m midway between sleep and alert and I gradually become aware of myself. I recognize my life, the person I am, my place in the world, the people surrounding me. When full realization hits, I find that moment to be nothing more than a lie. A lie I desperately crave.
The mind is a tricky thing. It wants to comfort and reassure, to restore peace, if only for a minute. I revel in the respite, however brief, when my mind wakes to better days, forgetting for a moment that my world has changed. That first flash of consciousness hasn’t yet caught up with current events, hasn’t yet reconciled with that which is different, hasn’t yet reminded me that I’m sad, unless maybe that’s just my mind.
This morning I have one more minute of peace before reality comes crashing down as I wonder what I just heard, why I’m awake.
I stretch warm and happy in the cocoon of my duvet. I realize I’m sleeping on the futon instead of my bed. I wonder why and then I know. I’m still warm, but no longer comfortable. My breath hitches at the heaviness in my chest. I drag in air at a measured pace in an attempt at calm. While I love the harmony that comes with the first blush of consciousness, I hate the dawning realization that takes me through the trauma over and over again. Sometimes the nightmares are better.
“Sterling? Sterling? Are you awake?”
That’s what I heard. Boston had my car last night and planned to return it early.
I never expected to drift off so quickly, but the tension and stress of the evening floated away and I fell, sleeping deeply. I never expected to come awake with Boston at my bedside either, but here he is, kneeling beside the futon whispering.
“I know you’re awake Sterling. Open your eyes.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Open your eyes Sterling.”
I do. His face hovers over mine, close enough to be fuzzy, except for his eyes, clear and bright. The warm citrus scent that can be only Boston embraces me as I whisper, “You’re beautiful you know.” I’d thought it before and right then, with my defenses lowered by sleep, I could admit it. He is golden in the dim light slanting between the living room blinds. Loose curls hug his ears and skim his neck. His lips quirk in amusement and his eyes glint as I watch their harvest-tint, rich and deep in the dim light. “Are you laughing at me?” I demand.
“No. I’m thinking you’re the one who’s beautiful. Now, tell me what happened last night?”
“Are you flirting with me?” I smile child-like and teasing, still not girded and fortified.
The command in his voice is compelling. He isn’t mean, but he isn’t playing around or flirting either. Boston is serious. “What happened last night?”
“You brought me home and then you left,” I pouted.
“Before that Sterling.”
“I bumped my head on the dumpster.” I couldn’t lie or deceive. The line where sleep meets wake is a dangerous place to be. There are no inhibitions, no shields for self-preservation, no half-truths or deceptions, and no filters to censor my words and keep my secrets.
If Boston asks about Emma, I’ll tell him everything. I’ll talk until I recognize the words spilling from my lips and then I’ll stop, upset about sharing my secrets. Unless like opening a shaken soda can, the words keep coming, overfl
owing. Once begun they are relentless, never-ending until the entire truth is revealed and calm prevails once again. He doesn’t ask.
“Where did you get this?” My finger traces the scar from below his ear to just above his jaw.” He smiles and the end puckers into a dimple, right where it should be, but about an inch too low.
“That’s a story for another time. I left your car in the lot, your keys on the desk. Go back to sleep now. I’ll see you later.”
Yet again he slips out on me. It’s what I want, yet it leaves me feeling so alone, when I never feel alone.
* * *
With my elbow propped on the armrest that supports the attached half desk, I unconsciously relax my wrist until my hand hangs limp at the end of my arm.
I contemplate how my plans could be so out of whack only weeks into the semester. I’d planned to focus solely on studies, committed to eliminating distractions, and that includes friends, parties and boyfriends. Now here I think I might like to be friends with Annie and Boston maybe a little more.
Shaking my head in irritation, the fingers from my left hand slide into position over my right and without thought I push, forcing the limp hand and fingers inward until my wrist cracks.
“Ewww. Did you seriously just pop your wrist?” The voice comes from a girl across the room. Her look of disgust mars an otherwise pretty face framed by long dark hair.
“I did seriously.” I emphasize the word seriously with a similar nasal twang and just enough boredom to mimic her tone.
Laughter erupts from a guy sitting two desks away.
“Sorry,” I say to him, ignoring the girl. “I broke my wrist a couple months back and the occasional popping makes it feel better.” I’m not at all concerned about what the girl thinks. I spent a lot of time on my own and learned quickly that contrary to high school, other people’s opinions don’t much matter, unless they’re your boss.
“No need to apologize,” he says. “I’ve never heard that before, but it makes sense.”