Elliot pushes back on his haunches and swipes his arm across his face. Then he stands and pulls me close, cradling my skull with one hand and circling my waist with the other. He hovers his mouth over mine and I can smell me on his skin. “You like when I eat your pussy,” he says and he's not asking. There's no question about it, anyway. I do like it; more than that, I love it. Even when I hate him the most, I still want him to fuck me. I want him to want to fuck me. I want him to want to make me come. “I'm the only one that can make you come like that,” he says and I can hear the unevenness in his voice. He's going off the rails and I can't stop him.
He's already kissing me before I can say anything. He's shoving his devilish tongue in between my teeth and forcing my mouth open wider to accommodate him. He moans into me and presses me back against the wall. The concrete is damp and soaked with rain and it's cool against my overheated skin. The steam is rising between us, from underneath our soaked clothes. I fumble with his shirt, trying to get it open. I want to touch him. When I finally get it unbuttoned, I slide my hands under the white cotton, pressing my palms to the skin of his chest. He moans into me and tightens his hold on me.
It's getting easier to let go. Easier to let him do whatever he wants and to take it. Last night was hard and today was hard, but maybe tomorrow will be a little easier. And then the day after that and the day after that. For the first time, it feels like it won't always be this way between us. Someday, maybe it'll actually be real again. Maybe someday I'll really be his wife and he'll really be my husband. I don't know if the afterglow of the orgasm is shading my perception, but I know that I can't go on like this forever. The anger will have to go somewhere. The grief will fade as well. For the first time since I saw Elliot at the top of the stairs and covered in my husband's blood, it feels different.
I'm already starting to forget.
*****
It still doesn't feel right.
I've been trying to make it right since we got to Mexico, but I keep fucking it up.
She's my wife now, I tell myself. I married her in a white dress, in a church, in front of a priest like I was supposed to. I did everything right. I bought her a ring and I put it on her finger in front of God and whoever else. I killed for her and took what was mine. I lost my mind over her. I've lost everything over her, in fact. We've both suffered. I know that when she looks at me she sees blood and gore and murder. She doesn't know the whole truth, though. She doesn't know why I left in the first place. She doesn't know how much I've truly fucked up. I want her to know. I don't want to keep things from her because when I do, everything goes to shit.
Now, she's looking at me differently. She's looking at me like she sees me again. Last night, she was being stubborn. We were both angry and we did and said shit that we didn't mean. She's not ready to forget yet, but time is on my side. I know she'll come around, she always does. Which is why I have to do it now. I don't want to, but I have to. I have to pull off the scab even if it makes me bleed. It'll be worth it tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.
“Joanie,” I say. She furrows her brow and I know she can feel the change in me. I'm ready to stop fucking around. Maybe this isn't the right time or place for it. My dick is hard and her beautiful tits still call me. I want to taste her mouth as I thrust inside of her. I can wait, though. This is more important. She adjusts her dress, pulling it back over her tits. She smoothes her hand over her hair, trying to hide her shaking hands. She looks so beautiful like this. This is the real her and I'm going to remember her just this way. It's not like that painted up, artificial version of her that used to hang in her husband's house. This is the real Joanie.
Although, soon enough, her name won't be Joan anymore.
“We should get back,” she says, turning away from me and surveying the street. “It'll stop raining soon.” I hold out my hand and run my fingers over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin is moist and hot and I want to taste it again. If I tell her what I have to tell her, who knows when I'll get to touch her again. She'll be angry, I know she will. Maybe it's a mistake, but I can't stop myself.
“I killed that cop,” I finally say, forcing the words out before I can rethink it.. Blunt and to the point. There's no reason to do it any other way. There's no better way to tell the woman that you love that you killed someone. I see her muscles stiffen but she doesn't say anything. “That cop that was sniffing around in Seattle. I killed him.” She still doesn't answer, and she doesn't look at me either. The words hang in the air between us, but I can't stop until I've told her the whole story. He came to your old place and I lured him in. I killed him in your living room.”
“When?” she says finally, her voice so low it's almost lost under the loud rhythm of the rain.
“The first day you were in the hospital.” I don't like to reminisce about that day, for many reasons. Killing the cop is one. But thinking of her lying helpless in that hospital bed because of me is another. She's fine now, apart from a slight deeper tone in her voice, but things could've turned out differently. Much differently. Maybe if I'd done the right thing and stayed away from her, it would've been better. Not that it matters now. “He was going to keep coming. He was going to keep pushing until he figured it out.” I say. It sounds like an excuse, but it's true. I know types like that cop; they never stop digging. Especially when what he really wanted was Joan. I couldn't blame him for that, but I also couldn't forgive him.
“So you killed him?” she asks, her voice flat. “How did you do it? There wasn't any blood.”
“I strangled him,” I say.
“Like Lassiter.”
“Yeah,” I clench and unclench the fingers of my fucked up hand. The pain is spiking, but I know it'll pass, eventually. “Like Lassiter.”
“What did you do with the body?” She smoothes her hand over her hair again. Her hand is still shaking.
“Took his car and drove him out of state. Went up into the mountains and dumped him.” I say. I don't want to sugar-coat any of the details. I just want her to know the facts. It's so important. “Then I dumped the car and kept heading north. I didn't stop.”
“But you came to see me in the hospital,” she whispers. “Was that before or after?”
“After.” I want her to look at me. I want to see her eyes. I know she's upset and I don't blame her. I knew she would be.“I couldn't leave without seeing you. I grabbed my shit and loaded up the car and then I came to the hospital.”
“Where was he?” Her voice rises and I can hear the hysteria on the edge of her voice. I know it's hard for her to hear but the truth keeps pouring out of me.
“The trunk,” I admit.
“You brought his body with you to the hospital?” Finally she turns to look at me. Her eyes are wide and I can see that she's not taking it well. “Do you know how fucked up that is?”
“I'm sorry, Joanie,” I say, because it seems like the right thing to say.
“Sorry for what?” she scoffs. “You're not capable of being sorry.” The rain is finally tapering off. The banging on the roof above us has muted to a soft, rhythmic pit-pat. The streams of water in the street are seeping away. The sounds of the city around us are returning to normal. I know we shouldn't keep talking about this here, where anyone could be listening. Maybe I shouldn't have told her at all, but I couldn't lie anymore.
“I didn't want to hurt you,” I say because it's true. She's right after all; I'm not really sorry about killing the man. I'm only sorry that it meant I had to leave her when I never should have. I'm only sorry for all the time we spent apart, all the years we couldn't be together. It was selfish of me.
“Do you know how easy it is to hate you?” she asks. “It's easier to hate you than try and forgive you. Not that you're really asking for forgiveness, anyway.” She sighs, her breathing ragged and full of contempt. I can feel her disgust. I don't respond, because she's always known me better than I know myself. She's right; I don't want forgiveness. I'm not sorry for what I've done,
except for leaving her. Letting her go was my biggest mistake and I'm still suffering for it, even though we're together again.
Without another word, she turns and steps down onto the street. She pushes through the people on the sidewalk and into the street, running in front of a truck and barely avoiding getting hit by a biker. Cursing under my breath I hop down and follow her, blinking in the bright light out on the street. The sun is starting to push through the gray clouds in the sky. The storm is passing. Cool drops of water hit my face but I ignore them as I run after her. She doesn't know where she's going; she's moving in the wrong direction from the hotel. I don't know why she's bothering to run; there's no escaping me. I know it's my fault. Everything that has happened, everything that will happen, is all my fault. We can create new names for ourselves and pretend to erase our dark shared history, but I'm still me and she's still her. I'm never going to change. She, however, has done nothing but change. She's nothing like the girl she was the first time I met her. She's changed because of me. She's becoming more and more like me with every passing day. She's trying to fight it, but it's inevitable.
We're too similar already.
“Stop running,” I hiss in her ear as I catch up to her. I slide my arm around her waist and pull her close to me. “There's no point.”
“Let me go,” she hisses back, swinging her elbows and hitting me in the ribs.
“It's not safe here,” I say, tightening my arm to make her more uncomfortable.
“Safe?” she scoff. “You just left me alone all night in a hotel room and now you want to worry about my safety?” I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling her that she was fine in the hotel room because she doesn't want to hear it and it's not entirely true. She's right; I shouldn't have left her alone. The truth is that there's nowhere safe for us yet, but being with me is the safest she could be, especially in Tijuana.
“You're never going to forgive me for anything are you?” I ask, pressing my mouth against her hair. She smells like sweat and rain and sex. She smells delicious. I want her to soften towards me again, but I don't know how long it will take. The devil doesn't get forgiveness, though. I know she'll never forgive. But hopefully soon she'll start to forget again. At least now I've told her everything there is to know. There's nothing hanging over us anymore.
Finally.
*****
I'm angry.
I'm not sure why. I'm not sure what I'm more angry about. I'm not sure if it's the killing or the way that he left me or or all of it. I don't know if angry at myself for letting this happen. If I hadn't told him about Wilson, or had lunch with Wilson or any of it, maybe Wilson would still be alive. Maybe none of the things that have happened would've happened. I can't help but think of all the things that could've been prevented. The problem is with Elliot, though. He doesn't think twice about killing. He kills first and thinks later. He can't control himself. He's a ticking time bomb. I've known that as long as I've known him. And I don't forgive him for it. I never will.
I think I'm starting to understand it, though.
Elliot's's insane, but I can see how it made sense to him on some level. He killed Wilson to protect us. He also killed Wilson out of jealousy and anger and frustration, though. He killed because he's a murderer. He doesn't need an excuse to kill. He uses me as an excuse to lose control, but he would do it with or without me as a reason. As we pass through the streets in silence on the way back to the hotel, it dawns on me. We're stuck with each other. We're going to have to figure out how to make it work or kill each other in the process. I have no idea which will happen first, but I have to try.
I have to help him. I have to save him from himself.
For both of our sakes.
We reach the hotel and he pulls me up the rickety wooden stairs to the room and then shoves me up against the wall beside our door. He towers over me, blocking out the light. The heat has risen again and the rain is evaporating from my skin, but I still feel wet all over. I stare up at him defiantly, daring him to say something. He doesn't. He just digs in his pocket and then leans over and unlocks the door. He nudges it open with the toe of his boot and the door creaks open lazily.
Then he surprises me again.
He bends and slides an arm behind my knees and another behind my waist. I don't even have time to fight him before he's hoisting me off my feet and carrying me over the threshold into the hotel room. I have to suppress a smile as he kicks the door closed behind us and twirls me around in a circle. I squeal and loop my arms around his neck to steady myself as an unwanted feeling rushes through me. I'm taken off guard by his change in demeanor and the way he's been acting all day. I don't like when he surprises me but he has. I never would've guessed he would be so traditional.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to still be angry at him.
“I'm treating you like my wife, 'cause that's what you are,” he says and suddenly his Texas drawl hits me square in the chest. I haven't heard it in awhile. He's been suppressing it, I realize. He slips here and there, but I haven't heard him sound so thoroughly Southern in a long time. I hate to admit it, but it feels like home. Living in Seattle almost knocked all the Texas girl right out of me. Almost. He sets me on my feet and I quickly put space between us, because I need it. He cocks his head, his eyes flashing in a threatening way. “Are you going to keep fighting me?” he asks, bringing his hands up to finish unbuttoning his shirt. I watch his hands work, his ruined hand and his unblemished hand working awkwardly together. “Cause I'll fight you, if that's what you want.” He slips his wet shirt off and tosses it on the threadbare chair. I don't look away, because I can't. His body is impossible to ignore anyway.
I'm so weak for him. He's already given me a taste of what he wants to do to me. I would be lying if I said that I didn't want the rest of it, especially when he unbuckles his pants and slides his hand down his pants and cups his erection. It doesn't take long before he's completely naked, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at me like he knows I want him just as much as he wants me. “You don't have to forgive me,” he says, leaning back on his arms. All the ridges of muscle in his chest ripple beautifully and between his lean thighs, his cock is hard and begging for attention. He's presenting his body to me like a piece of filet on a golden platter. It doesn't matter that we're in this shitty hotel room in the middle of Tijuana. We could be in a rich mansion somewhere with the best bedding and the most perfect circumstances because that's how it feels when I look at him. And I'm starving, I realize.
I tug at the straps until the knot releases and then I let the dress pool at my feet. I step out of the clingy wet fabric, relieved to have it off. The hot air in the room caresses me. His eyes roam all over my body, taking in every inch of exposed skin. I don't bother trying to cover up. I keep my arms loose at my sides, wanting him to see every bit of me. I want him to want me, just as I am now. Not as I was five years ago. “Come here,” he says, crooking a finger in my direction. I obey because I want to, not because I have to. At least that's what I tell myself as I cross the room and straddle his lap. He grabs me immediately, pulling me to his chest. He kisses me first, before I can react. His hand finds my throat and I stiffen against him, even though I tell myself not to. It's a natural reaction to an unnatural memory.
“Don't flinch when I touch you here,” he whispers, running his thumb over the scar at the base of my throat. “I won't go that far ever again.” I swallow hard because it's difficult to push past that fear and discomfort. It's not just the fear of being hurt, it's also a reminder of the dark days after he left me, the days when I was so numb I might as well've been dead. “If I do, you can cut off my balls with a rusty steak knife,” he says, flicking his eyes up to meet mine. “I swear.” I see he's trying to make light of the situation and can't stop the small smile from crossing my lips at the image.
“I want that in writing,” I say, forcing myself to relax the tense muscles in my shoulders. He rubs the scar with his thumb, softly, and it reminds
me of all the times he's wrapped his hands around my throat when he's fucking me and made me feel good. All the times I wanted him to do it. My skin there is so sensitive; his touch sends little shots of electricity down my spine. He leans in and presses his mouth to the side of my neck, running his tongue all over the skin and making me arch my back at the force of the arousal that he unleashes in me. He hasn't even touched my most sensitive spots and I'm already wet and aching for him.
His ruined hand is lightly moving as well – up my thigh and to my hip. That hand feels strange on my skin, not in a bad way but in a different way. I don't stop him from moving up my thigh, even though I haven't let anyone touch me there in the past year. I didn't want him to feel the scars. I didn't want him to see what I was doing to myself in the name of pleasure. I didn't want him to see how weak and disgusting I really am. It was embarrassing, but it wasn't embarrassing enough to stop. And now I'm just as scarred and ugly on the outside, just like I am on the inside. “Don't do this anymore,” he says, like he can hear my inner thoughts. He covers my scars with the palm of his hand and I wince, because the bite mark he gave me there is still sensitive. “If you want to bleed, I'll do it for you. All you have to do is ask.”
My whole body shudders at his words, because that was what I always wanted all along. I want him to hurt me. I want him to make me bleed. But he's the only one who can do it right. Now that I'm back in his presence, I know without a doubt it's true. I hate it though. I hate feeling like I need him so much. So I wrap my fingers around his hand, feeling the bumpy scars and the oddness of its shape. “What happened?” I ask, because we both need a distraction. I need to find some control over myself. I can't let him win this easily. I can't. He groans, nipping at my neck like he doesn't want to answer.
“On the boat,” he says, his voice hoarse in a beautiful way. “I grabbed a rope I shouldn't have grabbed. It was stupid, but it was instinct. It happened so quickly I didn't know what hit me.”
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 27