by Tara Wylde
Guess I am.
No—I definitely am. There’s a heat in my belly I haven’t felt in...in way too long, and I’m barely holding back from hooking a leg around his waist and giving myself over to whatever he wants to do to me, over the back of his car. He’s got one hand in my hair now, the other under my shirt. The wind’s freezing on the strip of bare skin around my waist, but I can’t bring myself to care. I want him to manhandle me more. Want him to—
“You feel so good.”
“You—you too.” I don’t want to talk. Never know what to say. I kiss him some more. If he’d just bite my lip, if he’d just...oh! And there it is! Oh...and he’s nibbling my neck, and I’m shivering and burning, grinding shamelessly against the bulge in his pants. Whatever’s got into me...whatever’s got into us, I don’t want it to stop.
“We should—“ I hear the peep-peep of an electronic key, and a lock pops behind me. I let him lower me into the back seat. Something goes sliding, and my elbow knocks something else off the seat—something that flops open and sends papers spilling to the floor.
“Oh, I dropped your—“
“Fuck it.”
There’s a ton of crap back here. This guy might be many things, but a neat freak he isn’t.
And he’s on me, pressing me into what sounds and feels like a pile of plastic bags. The door clunks shut behind us, and the sounds of the street give way to crinkling plastic and squeaking leather, and Nick’s breathless laughter as we fit ourselves into the tight space. Instead of claustrophobic, it feels incredible, the way there’s nowhere to go, no space that isn’t filled with him and me and the closet’s worth of shit he stores back here.
One of his hands is pinning my hair, pulling a little. I tug against it, loving the sensation of restraint. His other hand’s down my pants—forward as hell!—and I can’t hold back a gasp as he finds the right spot.
“You like that?”
“Would it sound slutty if I said yes?” Did I seriously say that out loud?
“Only if I’m slutty for doing it in the first place.”
“Keep—keep doing it.”
He’s got my shirt open, sleeves pushed down my arms—no room to work my hands free. I wonder if he knows I’m trapped, if that was his intention all along. Can’t hide anything like this. I glance down; fuck. Had to go for a sports bra; what’s he going to—
He’s pushing the dowdy thing out of the way—huge hands; God, he could probably wrap them most of the way round my waist—and just like that, I’m exposed. Flat on my back, helpless, and he’s devouring me, kissing me everywhere—is that me, moaning like a hussy?
“Fuck, I could cum just like this,” he groans.
“Don’t.” I can feel his dick throbbing against my thigh. “Do you have—I didn’t bring any condoms, or....”
“You want to?”
I really do. “Yeah, if you’ve—“
“My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“My hands are tied.”
His eyes go wide, as he takes in the state of me, trussed up with my own shirt. “God, that’s hot.”
Seconds later, I hear the wrapper tear. He sits up as far as he can without hitting his head on the ceiling, so I can watch him roll it on. I can’t see much in the glow of the dashboard, but I can make out strong thighs, narrow hips, and a proud cock jutting straight up.
“It’s...it’s been a while,” I warn him.
“Me too.”
I lift my hips. He tugs down my pants just enough to wedge himself between my legs. I try to kick them off the rest of the way, but my boots won’t let me.
“Bound hand and foot,” he murmurs, low enough that I’m not sure he meant me to hear that. It sends a thrill down my spine all the same. I’m hot all over, back already arching as he pushes inside. He doesn’t even use his hand to guide himself; he’s got both of them in my hair, forcing me to look him in the eye as he takes me. Not that I’d be looking anywhere else. His eyes are black with lust, lips slightly parted. It occurs to me, with a shameful little shock, that I probably look just as desperate. I’m panting for it, making sounds I don’t ever remember making.
“Give me—“ I shut my mouth quick—what was I about to say?
He seems to get it anyway, picking up the pace, thundering into me like the bombs are falling, and this is our last chance. I can’t lift my hips to meet his thrusts; all I can do is beg for more... And I do. I’d probably be blushing, but I’m so dizzy it feels like there isn’t a drop of blood in my head.
“Are you—are you close?” Sounds like he is.
“Whenever you’re ready....” I can never quite get there with a guy—feels like I almost could this time, but... I can’t be the girl who puts his back out making him pound her for an hour in the back of a...a...whatever kind of car this is.
“I’m—“ He shudders all over. “Oh—oh, that’s—“ I feel him throb inside of me, over and over, and for a second.... There’s a tingling, a warmth; my toes start to curl, like I could nearly....
“You...you all right?” He’s sort of...half-collapsed over me, one arm keeping him from crushing me completely.
“Fantastic.” I feel a sudden laugh well up inside me, and swallow it down so as not to give the wrong impression. “We...we fogged up your windows. Anyone walking by would totally know....”
“Mmph...let ‘em.” He does the nose-rubbing thing again. Feels...affectionate.
“A cop could see.”
“Ugh, lemme bask! This is my first afterglow in...uh, embarrassingly long.” He pulls out, though, and makes a token effort at tugging his pants and my bra into place. “There. All good.”
I manage to free one arm enough to give him a light swat on the back of his head. He messes with our clothes a bit more, and soon, we’re kind of half-sitting, half-lying across the seat, snuggled under his coat. It’s warm, and his heartbeat’s slow and soothing even after all that exertion, and...
...and it feels like five seconds later I’m waking up in a panic, with the first light of dawn in my eyes.
Joey!—fuck—what time is it?
Nick’s arm’s in my face. I check his watch as I wriggle out from under it—almost seven! How the hell did I...?
My pants are still somewhere around my thighs. I shimmy them back up as subtly as I can. I cannot do the crack-of-dawn drive to Brighton Beach with some stranger I’ve fucked out of nowhere. What was I thinking? I wasn’t even drunk, wasn’t even buzzed, and—
—and it was good—
—and I’ve got to get out of here, stay on my side of the tunnel, pretend this never happened. Can’t afford...can’t do any of this.
Nick grunts and stirs in his sleep, but doesn’t rouse when I ease the door open. I grit my teeth when it clunks shut—don’t wake up, don’t wake up, and if you do, be too tangled in your pants to chase after me—and then I’m practically sprinting for the subway.
It’s not till I’m halfway home that I realize my shirt’s still hanging out of my pants, and I’ve left my coat behind. My makeup feels smeared. A quick look round tells me no one’s paying attention. Thank God for phones and tablets and Angry Birds.
No one who matters ever has to find out.
138
Nick
“Everyone else’s parents sent a driver.”
How late did the Sharps let those kids stay up? Katie’s got full-on suitcases under her eyes, and an attitude to match.
“Yeah, well, everyone else’s kids’ll miss out on pancake breakfast with their dads.”
“We already had breakfast. Fruit and pastries and champagne.”
What!? “You had—“
“Non-alcoholic—duh.”
I cannot wait for this “duh” phase to be over. “All right. Well, we can still go to the park, say hi to the animals.”
“Zoos are cruel.” Katie whips out her phone. Clearly, Twitter needs to hear about her evil, clueless dad. I open my mouth to tell her to knock it off, but fighting with a tired, grumpy kid
doesn’t seem like a good use of my time.
Besides, I’m kind of grouchy myself. Woke up half an hour ago to an empty car and a king-sized crick in my neck. My mad dash across town barely got me to the Sharps’ in time to be pulled up by their doorman: “Excuse me, sir, but there’s something unfortunate on your shoe.”—last night’s condom, of course; where else would it be?—and Katie wanting to know why I was so late and...homeless-looking was how she put it. She and her friends shared a nice giggle over that.
Checking my reflection in the lobby on the way out didn’t do much for my ego: I do look pretty rough. My hair’s sticking up on one side, and there’s syrup on my shirt from the diner. And I’m missing a button—when and how did that happen?
Well, I have a fair idea when, and the how isn’t much of a stretch, but....
“Cindy Rajania’s mom says you’re nouveau riche.”
I blink. “Uh...and what did you say to that?”
“I said her mom’s a nouveau bitch.”
“Katie, Jjesus!” I’m practically crushing the steering wheel. Calm down. “Next time, you stick your nose right in the air, and tell Miss Cindy Rajania that by European standards, there’s no such thing as old money in a country as young as America.”
“Whatever.” And she’s tweeting again. Or texting. Or whatever it is she does on that thing all day.
“So...no park, then?”
“Huh? So I’m grounded? Just for saying ‘bitch’?”
“You just said it again.” Sometimes, I swear.... I take a deep breath. “And, no, you’re not grounded. I thought you didn’t want to go. I was all ‘let’s go to the park’; you were all ‘zoos are the worst’. Do you want to go?”
“Ob-viously.”
By tween girl logic, maybe.
We end up skipping the zoo in favor of skating. Katie dives into the back seat in search of her skates, and what’d I do with that condom wrapper? Is there anything...anything incriminating back there? Is she about to—
“Daddy?” She’s got her skate bag in one hand, a lady’s soft sheepskin coat in the other. “Whose coat is this?” Busted.
“Oh, that’s, uh...that’s Mary’s, from work.” My face is burning.
“What’s it doing in your car?”
Good question. “I gave her a ride home last night.”
“In the back seat?” Katie looks doubtful. “With the junk?”
“No, she...uh, the heater was blasting in her face. Guess she must’ve got hot, tossed it back there.” I reach for it. “C’mon, give it here. Let’s get our skates on before everyone else scratches up the ice.”
Katie’s bad mood is gone by the time we hit the rink. I don’t even try to keep up with her as she twirls circles around me. This could be an idea for her birthday: skating, hot chocolate, and...something to do with horses? Makeovers? Or am I supposed to fly them to Aspen? Apparently, the tenth is a big one. Like a dry run for sweet sixteen.
Still. Christmas comes first. One set of sky-high expectations at a time.
As soon as I’m positive Katie’s not looking, I go through Lina’s pockets. There’s a pack of spearmint gum, a tin of no-nonsense cough drops, an old bus transfer, and—paydirt!—a card with Cyrillic script framing a steaming plate of food. There’s an address in English, and a phone number underneath.
I flip the card over. Scrawled on the back, I find Mon AM; Weds AM, Thurs-Sat PM.
It’s a schedule—her shift schedule? This has to be where she works.
Monday AM, huh? I could swing by tomorrow for lunch. The coat’s the perfect excuse. She’s got to be missing that by now.
Then again, maybe—
Katie skates up behind me and throws her arms around my waist. “Race me, Dad!”
“Aw, no, don’t make me—“
But she’s already away. I take off after her. Her skates barely seem to touch the ice. I feel like a bear lumbering after a cheetah. Still, it feels good to stretch my legs, and by the time Katie’s looped all the way round and come up behind me again, I’ve decided on borscht for lunch tomorrow.
There were two of us in that car, and from my perspective, we had a great time. If she felt differently, I want to know. If she didn’t....
Hell, I just want to see her again. It’s been a while since I did something crazy. And, more than that, I felt something. Those few seconds in her arms, outside the Happy Bean—it felt like coming home. Felt like getting something back that I didn’t even know I was missing. I’ve got to find out if that was twelve years of grief catching up with me at once, or...or a genuine moment of understanding.
“Why are you carrying that around?” Katie’s eyeing up Lina’s coat again.
“Forgot my gloves. It makes a pretty sweet muff.”
“Ugh, Dad! Don’t say ‘muff!’”
Where’d she learn to be offended by that? “Fine. It makes a pretty sweet...hand-warmer. And people will think you have a vulgar mind if you get grossed out by proper words used in their proper contexts.”
“People will think you have a vulgar mind.”
“Come on. Don’t start that.”
“Come on. Don’t start that.”
I zip my lips. Katie can do the let’s-copy-Dad thing for hours.
She conks out on the couch the second we get home. Poor thing must’ve been up all night. I toss a quilt over her and head for my study.
Concentrating on work proves tougher than expected. I find myself indulging in the kind of time-wasting crap I look down my nose on other people for: a quick peek down the Facebook rabbit hole is on the verge of becoming a full-on spelunking expedition, when it occurs to me to investigate what Katie might’ve said about me on Twitter.
@gardengnomeparty * 3h
my dad has old popcorn in his hair and doesnt even know trollolol
@gardengnomeparty * 3h
@cinnndyboohoo my dad says u r noveau rich too haha
@gardengnomeparty * 1h
skaaaaaating wohoo! thanks dad ur cool for ur age
Can’t believe I’m getting misty over that. Not that she thinks I’m cool for my age, but that she wasn’t actually badmouthing me in the car. A quick scroll through her feed reveals nothing more than a sweet kid having fun with her friends. Good.
I should check out the contacts on her phone again. Make sure I still know everyone on there.
I should check out the contacts on my phone.
Takes me a few seconds to remember I put zzz in front of all my friends’ names, so they’d drop to the bottom of the list, out of the way of work stuff. The words fucked-up priorities come to mind. I stuff them back down. Not fucked up: practical. Normal. Everyone—
—and there it is, zzzMark, automatically transferred from phone to phone for the last decade plus. I used to call it sometimes, before his plan expired and the number went out of service. I can still hear the message, if I concentrate: You’ve got Mark Carter. I’m clearly not here. I can see your name in my missed calls, so don’t leave a message unless it’s important.
I have a vague memory of screaming “Come the fuck back! Is that important enough?” into his mailbox, about a month after he...did what he did.
A couple of months after that, I called to hear his message and got a “this number is out of service” robot.
On the first anniversary of his death, I called and got someone else. That was the worst.
I hover my thumb over his contact, not sure what I’m planning to do—call it? Delete it? Add more zs to the front, till it plunges so deep into bottom-of-the-list hell I’ll never stumble across it again?
I end up keying in another number, instead, the one from Lina’s business card. Maybe she’ll have a Sun PM scheduled. I could use a friendly voice. I could—
An aggressive male voice barks something in a language I assume to be Russian.
“Uh, yeah—hi—you wouldn’t happen to speak English?”
“English, yeah. What you want?’
“I’m calling for Elina; not sure if
she’s—“
“I told you once, I told you a thousand times: lose this number!” The guy slams down the phone hard enough I’d swear I feel the vibration on my end.
Wonder who pissed in his Cheerios?
I scroll through the rest of my contacts, but there’s no one else I feel like talking to. Not even sure who half these people are.
Would it be a total dick move to wake Katie up so I don’t have to be alone?
Yes. Yes, it would.
139
Elina
Should’ve called in sick. Almost did: haven’t had a lazy day of blanket forts and Hungry Hungry Hippos with Joey since...shit; the leaves were still green, my last full day off. He’s been whiny the last few mornings, not wanting to let me go. Hate having to choose between giving him Christmas or giving him every other day of the year.
Can’t even ask which he’d prefer. Can’t let him live in a world where he knows it’s one or the other.
At least Mama still had my old bike, rusted all to hell and with two flat tires, but...fixable. Not sure I’ll pass it off as new, but I might manage shiny. Pretty close to the right size too. All I need are the training wheels, and that’s the big present taken care of.
The bell dings behind me: order’s up.
Not sure what Vanya’s doing back there, but the level of steam pouring out of the kitchen is out of control. A person could suffocate in that. Worse still, I’m hot and clammy all over, hair wilted flat to my head, damp clothes sticking to my skin. And I smell like a giant cabbage. Won’t even have time to stop home before class; I’ll be stinking up Intro to Digital Integrated Circuits Design like nobody’s business. Everyone’s going to hate me.
And someone’s snuck into my section, right at the back, cozied up in a booth that’s supposed to fit four people. I’m in the weeds; Katya’s barely breaking a sweat—who thought I needed another table?
At least he seems to know what he wants. His menu’s still face-down on the table. Dodging a busboy with a tray of dirty plates, I make my way over.
“Dobryy d—oh!”
It’s him, it’s Nick, from two nights ago. Bad, not good, so not good! He must’ve followed me, and how weird is—