Love Is Strange (I Know... #2)

by Whitney Bianca

  Eventually the sun will rise and I know Elliot will be looking to me to guide him in the right way. I know that I have to make the right choice for us because if I don't, it could disastrous. Who am I kidding? It'll probably be disastrous either way. There's no way that this will end up happily for us. We don't deserve it. But I'm still going to fight for it. I'm going to fight for us for as long as I can. Next to me, Elliot moans and flexes his arm. His hand shakes and then goes still. I stare at his hand, wondering what the pain feels like. He says it hurts all the time and it looks bad. The scars are purple and red and pink against his skin. I haven't gotten used to his disfigured fingers. But I will. I'll suck them and lick the scars, I decided. Tomorrow or the day after. When he's looking at me with heavy eyes and dirty intentions. Then I'll surprise him.

  And then out of nowhere it comes to me. A name.

  A place to go. A possibility. I mull it over in my head. I've never been to Central America before but it seems like as good of a place as any. Belize, I whisper. I don't know why, but it feels good. Out of all the countries we could go, it just seems to stand out above the rest. I wonder why, but suddenly I'm tired and the rhythm of his breathing and the hum of the city outside is lulling me to sleep. I don't know where we'll live or what we'll do when we get there, but we have a possible destination. A goal. Something to move towards. That sounds so good right about now.

  So I close my eyes. It doesn't take long for me to drift off, away from this dingy room in a scary place. Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself. Tomorrow, we'll be on our way toward the future.

  I go to sleep.

  Epilogue

  Some mornings, he'll let me sleep in, even though there's tons of work to do. Too much for both of us to handle ourselves. I can hear the crack of the hammers echoing in the thick morning air and the drone of the concrete-pourer, and I know he's already gone into town without me. He usually takes the truck and brings back a few men to help. I can hear them out there, yelling over the noise of the construction. It's hot already, a thick all-encompassing heat that many would find oppressive. But I've gotten used to it, all over again. Having sweat running down my back feels normal. Heat feels like home and even though this isn't home yet, soon it will be. Someday we won't have to work as hard. Someday we'll be able to lay out on our porch in a hammock all day and drink rum and Cokes like royalty.

  Lily and John Prior could be royalty. Shit, they could be anything.

  I still slip and call him Elliot sometimes. But he never calls me Joanie unless we're alone in bed at night. To anyone else who asks, we're Lily and John. Two perfectly boring and ordinary names for two people who don't want to stand out at all. We're doing a good job of blending in, so far, if I do say so myself.

  I get out of bed and dress quickly in a pair of his old jeans and a tight, bright pink tank top that I got the last time I went to town. I pull his thick leather belt tight around my waist, clasping the big Texas-sized buckle. I run my fingers across the faded, worn engraving in the metal. It used to be a bronco, but these days it's looking a bit more like a calf. I like the heavy feel of it around my waist. It's like his arms are around me, holding me tight, even when he's not there.

  I braid my hair quickly and toss the heavy plait over my shoulder when I'm done. My hair has gotten long again, and it's tangled and unruly since I have no choice but to let it air-dry after my nightly shower. We'll have electricity all the time in the new house. For now, we have to deal with the generator. A hair dryer isn't high on the list of priorities, unfortunately. Cooking dinner is more important. And sometimes, if we cock the antennae just right, we can get a real, American football game on the radio.

  It's the little things that matter most, these days.

  I see the white paper cup on the table on my way out the door and I stop and stare at it. He's already been to town and he's brought me back my morning coffee. It's a warm caramel color and I know he's put just enough milk in it. Not almond milk, but it's good fresh milk and it tastes better than anything else I was used to before. I slide my fingers around the cup and bring it up to my face. I take a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful scent. It smells like love. I take a sip. It tastes like love, too.

  I step out of the little tin shack we're currently calling home and plop down on the steps that he hastily fashioned out of loose pine the first week we were on the property. I set down my cup and pull my black rubber boots on. I let my eyes wander over to the far side of our land, where we broke ground on the new house almost three months ago. It's been slow going, just like everything else. But I can see it now. When he first showed me his hastily scribbled drawings, I couldn't envision it at first. Now, the foundation's been laid and the framing is going up and I can finally see it. It's exciting. This is our house and we're building it from the ground up. We're building it with our own hands.

  It's special.

  When we first came to Belize, I'll admit I was impatient. I was tired of running, of moving from one town to the next. From one country to the next. I wanted to buy a casita and fix it up but we didn't have the money. He was the one who insisted on this scrubby little plot of land with only an ancient shack attached to it. I wanted the house and the property to be easy. I didn't want to get my hands dirty. But I should've put more faith in him.

  I watch him work, carrying stacks of lumber from the back of the truck to the woodpile. It's still early, but his T-shirt is already soaked in sweat and clings to every defined muscle of his back and shoulders. His hair has gotten long too, so long that he has to tie it back into a little ponytail at the nape of his neck with one of my rubber bands. He's gotten back to his former splendor. He's not gaunt and haunted looking anymore. He's healthy and broad and his skin has darkened under the unwavering sun. I'm proud of him, I realize, as I watch him work. Ever since we've settled here, he's done everything he could to make it work. He's worked from sunup to sundown on his dream. On our dream. And even when he falls into bed at night, half-dead with exhaustion, he still fucks me like he can't sleep without it. He's a good husband, better than I could've ever imagined. Probably better than I deserve.

  He catches me watching him as I finish pulling on my second boot. His expression softens a bit but he doesn't smile. I stand and grab my wide straw hat off of the hook by the door. Then I grab my coffee and hop down off the step and blow him a kiss. He lifts his chin in response. I know what that means. He'll kiss me later, when we take our nightly shower in the makeshift stall beside the house. When everyone's gone and it's just us again, that's when we can touch. During the day, he has his job and I have mine. If we kissed now, we wouldn't get any work done. We would devolve into our dirty, violent little games. Someday we'll be able to do that, to be complete slaves to our kinks all day, everyday. But today is not that day.

  The dog trots up beside me as I stroll to toward the perimeter of our lot. It's a stray that wandered onto our property a month or so after we arrived. I haven't named him yet, because I don't want to get too attached. He's a speckled black and brown and white thing, with legs slightly too long for his body. The mutt's put on a little bit of weight since I started feeding him, but his ribs still show under his dusty coat. He sleeps under the house most nights and I don't mind having him there. Someday he'll probably run out in front of a car or something, I think to myself, as I stare down into his black beady eyes. But he's been smart enough to stick around this long. So maybe he's not a total dummy.

  “Toffee, maybe,” I murmur. “Or Cappuccino.” Neither of those names seem right though. Those are names from another time, a time when I used to pay five dollars for designer coffee and wore white pants and stilettos and jewelry that cost more than our used truck. “Shoo,” I say, waving my hand. The dog yips but stays at my side, not getting the hint. I shake my head but I can't resist a smile. It's an ugly little thing, but it seems to like me, so I can't help but like it in return.

  When I reach my destination, I sip my coffee and study my work from the day before. This is my
first big project and I'll admit, I've kind of been winging it. I've never done anything like this before, but I think I'm doing okay so far. Elliot already set all the posts for the fence in concrete. They stick up out out of the flat scrubby grass like leafless trees. He's put them up around the whole perimeter, but I've only gotten about halfway through, filling the empty spaces between with mismatched boards. We've salvaged a lot of the wood, some painted and some raw stock, from the abandoned properties around town. He also tosses me the warped pieces they can't use for construction. He wanted me to agree to cinderblock, but I thought that would be too cold and ugly. Too much like a prison. But this place is supposed to be the opposite of a prison. It's supposed to be our sanctuary. So I want it to look warm and interesting. I don't care how long it takes, I will finish this fence.

  I set my coffee down on a flat stone and grab my leather work gloves off the pile of scrap lumber and slide them on. Then I get to work, digging through the pile for the right pieces to fit together. It's like a puzzle that I have to work out, bit by bit. It's relaxing to work like this, I think. I can see why Elliot likes working with his hands. It keeps my mind and my body busy. I'm not sitting idly around. I have time to think, but I don't let my mind drift too much. Mostly I think about the future. I think about what the house will be like when it's done. I think about taking a shower inside in an actual bathroom and cooking on a real stove. I think about what kind of furniture we'll have and what colors I'll paint the walls.

  I've already decided to dig up the flower bushes from around the yard and planting them along the fence when it's done. I think about how beautiful it will be when everything's overgrown and in bloom. My mother's yard always used to be so manicured and perfect and still. I want this yard to be alive and wild. But first, I have to finish the fence. Honestly, I can't wait until it's up, so I can take a true sigh of relief. When we're all walled in, then and only then will I truly be able to relax. It's not because I'm afraid of the outside. Quite the opposite. The fence isn't to protect us from the people out there.

  It's to protect them from us.

  I work until I hear the familiar sounds of the neighborhood kids getting off the school bus. I hear them screaming and laughing before I see them, but I know school's letting out. I guess that it's already around three in the afternoon. I don't bother with watches or clocks anymore. The normal routine and rhythm of the day is enough. I jam the handle of the hammer under my belt and lean against the nearest fencepost, deciding it's as good of a time for a break as any. I watch them walking up the road in their school uniforms. They're not paying me any mind. When we first bought the place, they would stare at me but now I'm too boring to pay attention to. I'm not new and foreign anymore, I'm just as boring as any of the other adults around.

  They pass and I give them a wave, even though they're not paying me any mind. There's a kid near the back that catches my eye, a little boy with a big gap-toothed smile. He has a big red backpack on his back and blue uniform shorts on. He instantly reminds me of a boy I've seen before, a long time ago. For a second I let myself get transported back to that day, when I stood on the front lawn at Elliot's old house back in Austin. I thought Elliot was dead then and I thought I was going crazy. Now, that all seems like it happened to someone else. It seems like another life.

  The dog bumps my leg with his nose, taking my attention off the kids. I scratch him behind the ears and turn back to the woodpile. I'm halfway down this section of fence and I want to get as much done as I can before dinner. But as I stand there staring at the pile of mismatched lumber, I can only think about how there's something else I'm avoiding, something else that's been nagging at me all day. But I have to keep it to myself until I know for sure. I let my eyes roam back to where Elliot and the other men are working. I watch him for longer than I intend, but I can't help it. He's so powerful like this. He's so strong. He's in his element and it's mesmerizing. That's the problem, really. I can't resist him. No matter what he's done or what he's done to me, I'm stuck in his trap. And now he might've given me the one thing I want the most, purely by accident.

  My period is late.

  It's only been a few days and I know it doesn't mean anything yet. But I can't help thinking about what life will be like if my belly swells with his child. Maybe our bond isn't as cursed as I thought it was. He's ruined me for everyone else, but maybe he's also blessed me in the one way that still matters. It's stupid to be hopeful. Even now, as we build our house, our one shelter, from the ground up, there's still broken glass under my feet. One wrong step and I'll cut myself to shreds. Since we've been here, we've both been so consumed with work that there's no time to talk about all the things that've been left unsaid between us. I know I shouldn't dare to think about it because I'll just jinx it but I can't help myself.

  Across the yard, Elliot glances up and catches my eye again. I look away quickly because I know it will provoke him, but I also can't chance that he'll see something in my face that'll make him suspicious. This is a secret I have to keep to myself for now. I pull my hammer out of my belt and grab a piece of wood. I turn back to the fence and position the board between the posts. I lay it flush against the board directly beneath it and then reach into my pocket for the nails to secure it in place.

  Smiling a smile that he can't see, I get back to work.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My name is Whitney Bianca and I'm a new dark erotica writer. My debut book, I Know What Love Is, arrived in August 2014.

  I'm a true fan of LOVE, romance, and sexy times.

  I enjoy writing about power plays between two people, whether they're in love or in lust. I love taking my characters to the edge and shoving them off.

  If you like to take a walk on the dark side, you're my kind of person. Maybe we can be friends. Shoot me an email: bia.whitney@gmail.com Thanks for reading!