Finding North (Naïve Mistakes Series)

by Dunning, Rachel

  "Backpack?" He seemed a little grossed out by it.

  "Yes! Real backpacking!"

  "My, that's ghastly!"

  I mimicked him (more like teased him): "Ghaahhsstly. Hmpf!"

  "Why don't you just book some hotels and travel it like a real person?"

  "God, you sound like my mother."

  "Oh, goodness, please don't say that of all things! Remember? We're trying to get away from the whole you're-still-in-school thing?" He stretched over to the picnic basket and opened it.

  "Yeah, sorry."

  "Anyway, I was just taking the piss out of you." He enunciated every single word so I would finally get the phrase. "I've always liked the idea of backpacking. Once I actually—" he stopped abruptly.

  "Yes?"

  "Oh, never mind." His face went serious. He looked out into the distance where the kids were playing, but it was as if he was looking at something else entirely.

  Ahhhh, must be the 'friend'. I was not going to ask about her...

  "So, do you approve or don't you?" I asked.

  "Of the backpacking idea?"

  "Approve? Oh, please. You don't need my fucking approval for what you want to do. You're an adult, I mean, basically."

  "Right, sorry. I did it again."

  He pulled out some containers with salads in them. "So, we have here the perfect balance between protein and carbs, all ideally chilled by some ice-packs I had in there." He ruffled around in the basket. "OK, the ice has melted. But they're still cool. Total calories: I have no idea!"

  "I'll have the chicken salad you have in there. Did you make it yourself?"

  "Do I look gay? Don't answer that. No, I didn't make it myself. I stopped by that DeLite Salad Bar by your school."

  "Oh, in that case, it's less than three-hundred-and-fifty calories in the chicken salad!"

  He chuckled. "My goodness, you weight-lifter types." He paused as he dug his fork into one of the salads he'd chosen. Again with that "not here but somewhere else" look, like a DVD sticking for a second and then continuing.

  I couldn't stand it anymore. I gave in: "Who was she?" I asked.

  He knew exactly what I meant. "Her name was Alexandra."

  -3-

  My heart sank. She had a name now. But I had to hear it. I wanted to know where this...magnetism or....whatever it was, was going to lead. And he was leaving in three days. And if I kept on falling for him the way I was, then it was a gonna be a whole lot harder to let him go when Thursday came. And I wasn't willing to go through that wrenching pain for someone who didn't mean anything to me.

  "She was a friend. Just a friend. But I did love her. I loved her more than anyone could love another. I think. I don't really know. At least that's how I felt at the time.

  "She was quite a bit older than me so maybe it was infatuation. Five years. She was twenty when I first met her.

  "Are you sure you want to hear this? It really doesn't affect us at all..."

  "Yes, I do." And I've seen the look in your eyes when we get close to that wound. This does affect us.

  He took a forkful of salad.

  "I was fifteen, into weight-lifting and stuff. Actually, I started two years earlier than you did, when I was thirteen. But I think it's different with boys.

  "I met her at the gym. You must understand that I was pretty well, um, 'developed' at the time. So I might have lied about my age a little at the start.

  "She was a personal trainer there. She was taller than you, and her skin wasn't as dark as yours but she was also pretty tanned. I'm just saying that because I don't want you to get the idea that I only gave you my card because I thought you looked like her or reminded me of her. I mean, you did—you do—but, well, I am a guy after all. I do have hormones just as you do and, well, I was attracted to you as you. So I gave you my card. I just wanted to put that out there so you understand and don't get creeped out by this 'dead woman' or something.

  "So, anyway, she and I started hanging out together a lot. It got me to work out quite a bit, I must say. At one stage—when I was sixteen—I even competed. Croydon Championships for Under Eighteens. It was a small competition. I came third. I wasn't tanned enough to place second. And the guy who came first was a friggin monster for his age. No doubt taking juice.

  "She and I went partying that night. We kissed, only briefly. It wasn't like I kissed her or she kissed me. I mean, we were at a club and we kissed, together, end of story.

  "Anyway, even that kiss didn't go very far. I never saw her with anyone else so she didn't have a boyfriend or anything. Or a girlfriend. I don't know, maybe she was that way inclined. Or maybe I was just too young... Ironic, isn't it?

  "We had a lot in common. Started hanging out together more and more. She told me all about herself. She'd had a rough upbringing. Rough father, never a lot of money. She'd gotten herself up to a point where she was renting a room at someone's place and doing some Fitness Modeling on the side. You know, working her way up.

  "And then"—he sighed out heavily—"she met my brother. And she got onto coke. And E and speed and fucking everything under the sun, I don't know. She stopped showing up at work. (I didn't know she and my brother were hanging out.) Maybe they fucked. I don't know. I never asked. I think when you're high you'll fuck anything...

  "Two years into my degree, news came via the gym where I lifted weights that she'd died of an overdose. No suicide note. Nothing. Speedballing or powerballing they call it. It's when you mix coke and heroin. Deadly.

  "Man"—he ran his hand through his hair—"they found everything in her. I mean: Fucking. Everything. Clenbuterol, abnormally high levels of Testosterone, Sustanon, you name it, all these different types of steroids. Then there was obviously the coke and the H, also MDMA—that's ecstasy—and THT (marijuana).

  "What a waste. What a waste of a life.

  "The worst part about it is: I can't even really blame my brother. I mean, I can, but ultimately, I can only blame myself. I had noticed when she'd started getting big. I mean, you know how it goes. As a woman, there's only so far you can take your body. Same for a man.

  "When I finished school, she and I went backpacking. Yes, Europe. We did it all: the hostels, low on money (purposefully, because my folks are far from poor, by the way.) Once or twice we even slept on the streets! Man, it was scary, and awesome.

  "I think that's when I fell in love with her. I remember us in Frankfurt. You know prostitution is legal in Frankfurt, right?"

  I shook my head.

  "Well, you'll see these prostitutes on street corners. Then, just outside the main train station there are a bunch of drunks and there's also the red light district and boobs flashing you everywhere!"

  Conall smiled as he reminisced.

  "So, we got there and were low on cash. It was twenty Euros for this one hostel and it was a choice between a McDonalds burger or a bed. We took the burger! She cuddled up to me outside on the street, slept on my shoulder, people walking past all night. I barely closed my eyes. I was so fucking scared. I was worried someone would think she was offering services or something. She slept like a baby. When we caught the train to Berlin the next day I finally passed out. Slept all the way. She never knew.

  "You can't put into words, how close that brings someone to you, to spend a night on the street with them. I loved her. I think she loved me, too. But she never let anybody get close to her.

  "So, to call her a 'friend' is a gross misnomer, an injustice. A crime against humanity.

  "She was my closest friend, my sister, my lover, my soul.

  "After that trip, that's when she started getting unnaturally big, and fast. And she hadn't met my brother then. You know, street drugs you can get on the streets. But juice? You get that at the gyms.

  "I didn't say anything. I watched it, knew what was happening, and turned a blind eye. She must've been hurting. Juice doesn't give you a high—"

  "But the weights do," I interrupted, understanding her plight more than he could imagine. Afra
id of getting close...

  "Right. The weights give you that high. And when you've lost everything, you know you can still win against that fucking bench press, or that squat. Heavier, more weight, harder!

  "I should've asked her. I should've pried. You know what the problem is with people these days? They don't pry! When they're nosy, it's usually with an angle. No one is nosy with the desire to actually get through to someone, run an intervention or something.

  "I wasn't nosy enough."

  I put my hand on his knee, said nothing.

  "After it happened, I wanted to hurt myself. Not psychotically, no. But I wanted to feel something, to remind myself of what happened. To never make that same mistake with someone. To never turn a blind eye. Ever."

  He took his coat off. It was the first time I'd gotten a good look at him. His body bulged under the tee had on. He took it off as well. His intercostals muscles looked like the fingers of two hands interlocked.

  He turned his back to me.

  My breath caught. My mouth opened in shock.

  Running across his entire back, from the top to the bottom in gothic font, were all sixteen lines W. H. Auden's Funeral Blues. But instead of "He," Conall had had it replaced with "She":

  "She is Dead."

  "She was my North."

  -4-

  I couldn't help it any more.

  I put my hand on his bare, undulating back.

  And one tear escaped.

  Just one. From each of my eyes.

  I leaned forward and kissed the first blue word. Then the second, then the third. I kissed the words on the second sentence. He turned around.

  "I think I should put my shirt on. The parents of those kids might call the cops."

  On his front there were other tattoos.

  "Did you get these later?" I touched one.

  "Yeah, I did. I got them all later. Each one is a reminder in a way. Even if only because of the sensation I felt when I got them."

  I looked at his gemstone eyes. Not a tear. Not a drop of red. Just cold, emotionless regret.

  "It wasn't your fault, you know? I mean, I know people say that, but it wasn't."

  "It doesn't matter, does it?"

  I shook my head. "No, I guess it doesn't."

  I thought for a second, twiddled some grass. Then had a thought: "She was five years older than you. I assume this Soundgarden wasn't before her time..."

  He shook his head.

  "And the abusive father. Was it..."

  "Sexual."

  "Right." I thought of his hatred for the slimeballs who drugged Kayla. His instant reaction. Throwing away half a million, maybe more over time.

  "Is there anything in your life that isn't defined by Alexandra?"

  "Yes." He looked me deep in the eyes. "You."

  CHAPTER TEN

  -1-

  I clutched his hand, moved in to his earlobe and licked it. Then I whispered, "Take me to your place. Now."

  Packing the basket up, getting in the car, and driving, we said nothing, my hand always on his. I could think of only one thing: I was going make love to him. No more questions asked, of him or myself. I was going to give myself completely to him.

  Conall was in another world when we got to his room, deep in his past. He threw his keys on the table and walked to the window, looked out onto Time Square.

  I walked behind him and put myself against him, put my arms around his waist, rubbed his abs. He held my hands, still saying nothing. I put my head to his back, hearing the words of the poem inscribed on his skin underneath his shirt.

  She is dead. She is dead. She is dead.

  He turned, looked down at me (I reached to about his chin). He moved the backs of his fingers against the skin on my face like a feather, curled my hair behind my right ear, then again on the left. I looked at his red lips, crystal-blue eyes, his black hair.

  I looked away.

  He put his hands on my waist, pushed me back against the table. I heard the crystal vase on it fall, roll, land on the carpet. He pushed me more and lifted me slightly so that my butt got on it. My right foot left the floor, then the left. I was sitting on the table. He put his pelvis against its edge, jerked me forward so that my legs were around his, my crotch touching his belt. If it weren't for him standing there, I'd fall on the ground. My ass was just on the edge.

  He moved down on me like an eagle to prey, kissed me. Our tongues played with each other and then the tip of his licked my bottom lip from left to right, then back again. Then my top lips, left, to right, then back again. Back to the bottom one.

  I gave out a whimper.

  He put his hands on my knees behind his back. I held onto the edge, almost afraid I would fall. He got on his tip toes briefly. And there it was, hard, so hard, pushing against me. I clenched my eyes shut, increased the friction by tightening my legs around him even more. But he couldn't come any closer. The only way he'd get closer would be to get inside me.

  And that's all I wanted right now.

  He ran his open palms up my thighs, under my school dress, grabbed my panties. But this time, there was no gentle caress and lacing of the fingers underneath the straps. He grabbed them, began to pull. I edged myself back so my butt was on the table, lifted it off so the panties would slide.

  He peeled them off my thighs, down to my knees, my ankles, over my shoes, his eyes locked on mine. With an abrupt movement he yanked my skirt from under my ass, back, so that my bare butt was now touching the cold table.

  I was so wet. I couldn't wait any more. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him to me. Hardly able to speak, I said gruffly, "Take me"

  He held me firmly by my waist. I wanted to jump off the table and scream at him: Please. Now. I can't wait anymore for you.

  He put his hand on my shoulder, coolly, firmly, eased me backward until I was lying on my back. My eyes were on the chandelier above. He tugged me abruptly toward him so that it seemed as if the chandelier moved, the skin of my butt sticking briefly on the table.

  I kept looking up, ready for him, waiting.

  He put his hands underneath my knees, lifted, put my shoes on the table. One leg slipped. I tried to hold it there. But the school shoes had no grip. He took one of them off, then its sock. Then the other, its sock, put my feet back on the table where they now held by the heels, the toes hanging off the edge.

  I was open for him, completely. I closed my eyes, knowing with every part of me that he was who I wanted. Even if it was only today, only now, he would be my first.

  I felt his finger against my outer skin, then the inner. When he thrust it inside me I gave a deep, unexpected moan that lasted for an age and lifted my left butt cheek off the table, writhed. Pulsing emotion rolled over me, through the nerves of my right thigh and up to my shoulder and neck.

  My breathing quickened. He waited, held his finger there. I reached for his hand with my right, tried to push him deeper, but he stayed firm, too strong for me. My breathing was so fast now. He turned the finger up, pushed, slowly, constantly, up, until it went no further, held it there, pressed, until the pressure was too much for me to keep quiet.

  The guttural words escaped me without my control: "Oh, God."

  He kept his finger pressed upwards, still inside, rubbed back, then forth. My body moved back and forth with it. The chandelier moved. In and out, constant.

  "Faster," I begged, breathless. But he didn't go faster, always the same, always pressing up, my internal barometer ready to explode every time he touched that same spot inside me. He eased his finger out. As its tip reached the edge, my legs gave an inward jerk. I wrenched left, and right, desperate for completion.

  I started rubbing myself with my own hand. I could feel it building up, the climax, the surge, the shuddering release of energy, in my stomach, then—

  He clasped my fingers, held them away.

  I trembled. A cool and forceful breeze on my wettest part made an army of icy ants crawl up my spine, down my shoulders, my thighs, my feet. I
opened my eyes, looked down. He'd put his lips between my thighs and was blowing, steadily, stoking the flame, all the while holding both my hands decisively away from where I desperately needed them to be. My eyes closed without permission.

  And then, without warning, the wind from his breath stopped, and I felt a deep and maddening thrust drive into me. Hard. "Yes," I said. And then again! First one finger, deep into me, then two. I groaned, moaned. "Oh, God."

  For a moment, all was still, I tried to scream out but my voice wouldn't work, my arms tensed and my legs felt like they were made of reinforced steel until—in no time and yet after so much time—a rumbling growl came out of me that would be heard down the hall.

  "Oh. Fucking. God!" The phrase carried with it every contraction and expansion of every muscle in my body.

  Waves ran through me in pulses, my eyes rolled back, my muscles spasmed, contracted. My back arched violently. Only my right shoulder and heels touched the table. My lower body was virtually pegged up by Conall's hand as I twisted and tried to grind out the last few drops of electrifying pleasure from him.

  I bellowed out several more obscenities, each one flowing from all the way down in my stomach.

  And then, finally, I settled back onto the table. And I exhaled. A few times. My entire body felt like Jell-O.

  I closed my eyes.

  And I smiled.

  -2-

  My legs dropped from the table, my head lulled to the side. I caught my breath and fanned my shirt. My skin was drenched. I felt someone grabbing my hands. Conall pulled me up with the same steadiness and confidence he'd just made me come with. When I was up, he was smiling at me warmly. Still, he said nothing.

  I felt my head still wanting to lull to the side. My mouth was dry. When Conall was certain I wasn't going to outright fall on his floor or pass out he kept one hand on my leg while he bent down to the floor. He picked up my panties, got on his knees and eased my feet through them, then slid them on, lifting me off the table and onto the floor so he could hitch them into place, all the while still having me locked in his eyesight. (Damn it, if this guy carried on this way he was he was gonna need to do all of that to me again...)

  "Nice panties," he whispered.