Head Rush

by Carolyn Crane

  Otto watches black smoke trailing up in the distance. “Lord help us if that’s the river on fire again,” he says softly, pulling out his mobile and scrolling. The winter before last, the Midcity River went up in flames. It never freezes because of all the pollution.

  Simon wipes his chin with Otto’s now-bloody handkerchief, though it’s more like he’s smearing the blood around his face. He blows his nose. “I’m going to look hideous for the bridesmaids’ dinner tomorrow.”

  “You’re not a bridesmaid,” Otto says.

  Simon smiles. “I understand you’re having blue crab flown in from the coast. That’s going to be delicious.”

  “Simon,” I warn.

  “We have a deal,” he says, offering Otto the handkerchief back. Otto shakes his head and pockets his phone.

  “Behavior unbecoming a bridesmaid will nix that deal,” I say.

  “What deal?” Otto asks.

  I plop my head back and stare forward as we bump past razor-wire fencing. “I told Simon that if he located my car”—I turn back to Simon—“in good working condition—then he can be a bridesmaid.”

  Otto is silent a beat, likely coming to terms with the fact that he can do nothing about this. He looks at me admonishingly, out the side of his big, brown eyes. “How delightful.”

  “Isn’t it?” Simon says from my other side.

  And then Otto laughs his warm laugh. “Oh, Justine.” His laugh makes me smile. He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kisses it.

  When I look over at Simon, his lip is curled in disgust. Quickly he pastes on a grin and touches his tooth. “I really wanted to keep this one,” he says. “It’s my third-favorite tooth.” He turns to look out his window, wiggling the tooth.

  I stare at the back of his head, baffled. When Simon has an opinion, he always offers it; the more upsetting, the better. Why is he holding back?

  Up front, Steve grunts something about section D-13 and passes a clipboard back to Simon. “Just so you know, Mayor Sanchez, this is irregular. Civilians never ride along like this.”

  “I thank you for making this exception, Steve,” Otto says.

  “And for what it’s worth, this is the first I’ve heard of clerical errors. I’ll be damned surprised if that car’s out there.” Steve seems sincere in this.

  Otto nods. “All that’s important is getting it back, if it is indeed there.”

  I can’t get over Simon’s disgusted look. What did it mean? But if my friends didn’t like Otto, they’d tell me. Shelby used to dislike him—she used to tell me so all the time, but she’s long since changed her mind.

  Ten minutes later we’re all standing around my little gray car. So it was towed after all. “Why would it have gotten towed?” I ask nobody in particular. “I left in it my own space behind my building where I’ve parked it for years.”

  “You sure?” Steve asks. “No offense, but lots of people forget where they left their cars. You’d be surprised.”

  “I’m 100 percent sure.” I look at Otto. “I remember very specifically—it was when Francis picked me up, on our way to, you know—” I give him a significant look. I mean when Francis and I and some guys went to find him. Back when he was kidnapped.

  “Could be some kids took it out for a joyride, and then it got towed. If it was in our system, we’d know where and why it was towed.”

  Simon says, “Maybe we should search the car. Maybe there are clues for what happened.”

  Otto pulls on his leather gloves. “Don’t touch. I’ll have crime scene come out and dust it first.”

  “I want to drive it home,” I say. “Look—” I pull my mittens from my pocket. “Okay? I really want it back. More than I want answers.”

  Otto gives me a warning look.

  “I’ll hardly touch anything.” Before he can stop me, I unlock the door and get in.

  Otto comes over and crouches between me and my open car door, scanning the interior. “Wasn’t hot-wired. Are the mirrors and seat adjusted correctly?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And this is the only key.” I start it up and the engine growls to life. Through my windshield, I see Simon gesture like he’s lifting a top hat from his head.

  “Hold up,” Steve says, “got some things for you to sign.” He goes back to his truck.

  I get an idea. “What about the thieves who robbed me the day you were kidnapped? Maybe they took my car at the same time.”

  Otto stands, winds a gloved finger into my hair. “And made a copy of your key, leaving you with the original?” The featherlight brush of his glove on my ear makes a whisper sound, and gives me shivers. “Unlikely. Nevertheless”—this now in his rumbly and commanding, sexy detective voice—“we need to treat this seriously. Don’t touch the glove compartment. Don’t touch the trunk. We’ll see what we find.”

  “But I’m still driving it home. Anyways, I already touched the wheel with my mittens.”

  Otto smiles down at me. “Yes, you’ve already compromised that bit of evidence, haven’t you?”

  I inhale sharply; this is something he sometimes says when we’re playing X-rated Detective Sanchez. He’s the stern detective, and I’m the unrepentant criminal.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say in my saucy gangster-moll voice. “Too goddamned late for the steering wheel, I guess.”

  “But not too late for the glove compartment and certainly not the trunk,” Otto says slowly. “I’ll be mercilessly thorough there.”

  I make a supreme effort to keep my expression neutral.

  “I won’t rest,” he grumbles, “until I’m completely and one hundred percent satisfied that there’s nothing more to be yielded.”

  I widen my eyes minutely at Otto, shocked that he’s bringing our secret detective-sex game so fully to this level.

  Simon’s there, suddenly. “Well, we know what Packard would say, huh?”

  I give him a hard look. For once I wasn’t thinking about that horrible scene, Packard shooting Avery. Pulling the rug out from under my entire world.

  Otto holds up a finger. “Ah, yes, our friend Packard.” He turns a cool gaze to Simon, “Our dear friend Packard, who would have us believe that the day after the kidnapping, Justine drove around on some mysterious errand while some other person shot Avery.” He turns back to me. “And then Sophia brought you to the lake parklands, marched you up to the crime scene, erased your memory, and implanted the false one of Packard killing him. And your car languished until towed.”

  Sophia is Otto’s assistant, and a powerful memory revisionist.

  “The day I’d ever let Sophia look into my eyes,” I say, “I’d gouge them out first.”

  Simon inspects his fingernails with strange ferocity, like he’s struggling to stay out of the conversation. It’s so unlike him! Back in the old days, Simon was always the first to condemn Packard. He and I used to bond over our hatred of being Packard’s minions, trying to think of ways to get free. Of course, neither of us thought Packard had it in him to shoot a man.

  And Packard’s explanation of what really happened—that somebody else shot Avery, and Sophia revised my memory to make me think I saw him do it—it’s just the sort of outlandish claim Simon would make fun of. But he doesn’t.

  Something’s not adding up.

  Just then I feel the warning tingle of pain again and I clap my hand to my head, willing myself to think of something else…anything else. Otto catches my eye. He gets it. He puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s with me.

  Thank goodness for Otto.

  Steve comes back with a clipboard. “Some items before I can let you go.”

  I get out of my still-running car, and he hands the clipboard over, points out the blanks he wants me to fill in. I try to concentrate wholeheartedly on this little task while the guys talk—something about Steve giving Simon a lift back to his car at the little trailer office. Otto and I will be along shortly. Otto wants to check a few things.

  I pray the warning tingle doesn’t turn into full-f
ledged pain. Maybe it’s a vein degrading. But it was never like this—so frequent, so scary. Tension seems to bring it on, especially the tension of thinking about the shooting.

  Steve and Simon take off in the truck, bumping between the rows of cars toward the distant edge of the lot, where they’ll skirt the perimeter until they hit the outer gate.

  I stand by my open passenger door. “Ready?”

  Otto shakes his head sternly. He walks to the front of the car and points to the hood.

  “What?”

  “Come around the car,” he says. “To the front of the car.”

  Traffic Stop. My favorite Detective-Sanchez game. Is he kidding?

  “Otto—”

  “Come around to the front of the car, with your hands where I can see them.”

  My mouth falls open.

  Otto waits, all rumbly and detective-y.

  In the distance, Steve’s truck has reached the outer gate. They’ll be out of sight soon.

  “Otto, I have that weird thing—that pain tingle.” I touch my head. “I have to concentrate on not thinking about it. Or the shooting. Or anything.”

  “Now.”

  I smile, disbelievingly. “Seriously. I have to concentrate.”

  Otto smiles slyly.

  A fluttery feeling in the pit of my pelvis, like feathers inside me. “Jesus, Otto.”

  He points to a spot on the hood of the car. “Right here.”

  Is he bluffing? There’s nobody here, just acres of cars; Simon and Steve are too far away to see us, and they’ll soon disappear. Still, it’s a public place. It’s kind of exciting. I cross my arms. “You want me to compromise more evidence? By sitting on the car?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says. “Are you going to comply?”

  “Hell, no.” I stroll over with a sassy smile, and I laugh as he lifts me onto the hood of the car. “Hey!” The hood is warm beneath my coat, and the vibrations of the motor touch the center of me. “You have got to be kidding, Otto.”

  A lock of hair has fallen over one of his eyes, but he makes no effort to remove it. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re wearing under that skirt?”

  Unaccountably, my mouth waters. I put on my gangster-moll voice. “You really think I’ll tell you?”

  He holds my gaze with his. “Yes.”

  “Dream on, copper.” I bite my lip to keep back a smile. “You don’t know nuthin’”

  “Maybe I do.”

  I press my thighs together, which feels sort of delicious. My head is feeling normal again, and the air is mild and misty. “Oh yeah?” I glance around, searching for Steve’s truck, or any other sign of human life. Nothing.

  “Don’t look around, look at me.” He takes my mittened hands in his and positions them behind me.

  I leave them like that. The car engine vibrates, warm beneath me. He draws in close, between my thighs, cheek brushing against my cheek. My breath speeds as I feel his warmth, his energy. He whispers into my ear: “You know I always find out.”

  I love how unlike himself he is in this game. It’s dizzying, and suddenly I really want to fuck.

  He puts a gloved hand on my knee, bare above my boot. Nearby, a crow caws.

  “Ignore it,” he whispers.

  I watch his eyes, the irises are lines of cocoa alternating with burnt sienna. His lashes are thick, and the olive skin below his cheekbones is baby smooth.

  “Maybe I want to see what the crow is doing,” I whisper saucily.

  “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you compromised all that evidence.”

  “What’re you gonna do about it?” I ask as he slides his hands onto my bare legs. He’s never worn gloves before. I like it, on a sort of dirty level. He presses his fingers onto my knees and firmly pushes them apart. Then he pushes his hands up under my skirt, up my thighs. There are little ridges around his gloved fingers that drag lightly along the skin of my inner thighs. I gasp. It’s all quite exciting.

  “Shhh,” he says. He stops and takes off the gloves, slowly, face stern and serious, or as serious as he can consciously make it. When he’s truly feeling serious, his jaw is more defined, and his lips are tight, not pillowy like they are now. His lips always give him away.

  He pockets his gloves and continues up toward my panties with ungloved hands. My heart beats wildly as he pushes his fingertips under the elastic, grazes my tender center.

  “Take them off,” he whispers.

  I narrow my eyes. “Or what?” I say it slow and mean, lingering over the w and the t. “Or what?”

  With a happy smile he pulls back, totally breaking the role—the detective in this game isn’t supposed to smile. And then he leans in to kiss me, passionately.

  He’s not supposed to kiss me passionately either. I don’t like when Otto ruins the Detective Sanchez game.

  I thump a mittened hand onto his chest and push him back. “What do think you’re doing, Detective? You want them? Fine.” I pull off my mittens and set them aside. He steps back as I wiggle out of my panties and present them to him on one finger with my best unrepentant-bandit-girl smile.

  He pockets then without expression. Then he pulls a condom from his pants pocket.

  I snatch it away. “I don’t know about your methods, Detective,” I say.

  “You don’t?” His delivery is lackluster, almost melancholy.

  I wait for him to say something more; when he doesn’t, I feel this jolt of annoyance. He shouldn’t have started the Detective-Otto-Sanchez-traffic-stop game if he didn’t want to play the part.

  “You know what I think?” I snap. “I think you’ve crossed a line!”

  He regards me thoughtfully.

  I tip the sharp corner of the foil package onto the tender skin of his throat. “I know it. I know you’ve crossed a line.”

  He closes his fingers around my wrist. Then, “I don’t cross lines; I make hard choices.”

  “Hard choices. Rrrrrright.”

  “Yes. Right. I make the choices that have to be made. The choices nobody else has the guts to make.” He pulls my hand away from his neck, condom and all. “I see what needs to be done and I do that thing.” He rests his other hand back on my thigh, heavy now. He’s even managing a serious mouth, which surprises me. He looks like he’s actually being serious. “I handle business and I accept the consequences. I take the hit. Your choices are easy. You only have to comply.” He comes closer, whispers hot into my ear. “Compliance is your only remaining option.”

  He’s silent for a while and I wait, unsure where he’s going with this. Is it a prisoner thing? That could be exciting, though we might need props.

  I pull away. “If you think compliance is my only remaining option, you’re crazy, mister.”

  He gets this strange look. “You should be glad. It’s making things easy on you. It’s a kind of gift when things are made easy like that.” Suddenly he seems to remember himself. He releases my hand and tilts his head, giving me the Detective-Sanchez eagle eye. Then he undoes his belt buckle. “Now. Are you going to put it on me?” He holds my gaze as he unzips his pants. “Or am I going to have to put it on myself?”

  I rip open the little foil package. “Guess you’re going to have to wait and see.”

  “Put it on me,” he says in the rumbly voice.

  I unroll the condom over his hard cock.

  “Come here, you,” he whispers, but he’s the one who comes to me, snaking a hand around my waist, touching me gently with the other, in all the ways I like, and eventually he guides himself into me. I rest my hands on his shoulders as he fills me slowly, being sort of tender, which really isn’t the game—I’m the felony girl and Detective Otto Sanchez is supposed to be all action and say dirty, demeaning things, preferably using the word fuck a lot by this point.

  Instead, he holds me tightly, presses his cheek to mine, makes love to me slowly, with emotion. Even if I didn’t sense it from the desperate cadence of his breath, I’d feel it in the way he moves
, the way he holds me.

  If he hadn’t ruined the game already, this would’ve definitely done it. And really, why did he pull off the gloves? The gloves were good.

  This intensity—this rawness I feel from him—is suddenly dizzying. Is it passion? Grief? Distress? And then it hits me: it’s love. They say love is a kind of wound. That’s what I’m feeling from him. It’s as though his heart hurts with it. He’s being real.

  I suddenly feel inadequate, unable to match his level of emotion.

  He wraps his coat around us like a cocoon, and I try to lose myself in his scent, his warmth. I push up his shirt and run my hands over his chest, wanting to enjoy him for just him. All his familiar Otto sounds. My fiancé.

  After we’re done, Otto stays in me, holding me tightly, face buried in my breast. He stays there for a long time, panting, overwrought.

  I wait for him to let me go and pull out of me, but he doesn’t. It starts to feel a little uncomfortable—not physically, but emotionally. Like there’s too much truth here.

  I don’t want him to think I don’t love him! If he could maybe just wait, I know I have love inside me, but it’s as if I can’t locate it. Like it’s hidden away. Like love is a thought from inside a long-forgotten dream.

  He kisses my neck. “I’m so sorry,” he says right up against my skin.

  I stiffen. “You? For what?”

  “I’m just sorry.” He holds me, like he doesn’t want it to be over.

  Is he sorry he ruined the game? I close my fingers tightly on his shoulders and straighten up, and he finally pulls out of me. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him.

  He looks at me so strangely. I’m starting to feel nervous.

  “I’m going to be a better man,” he says, pulling off the condom.

  I tilt my head with a you’re-crazy look. “Otto, I don’t need you to be different or better in any way whatsoever.”

  “Justine—”

  I press two fingers to his lips. He seems so serious. “You have nothing to apologize for or be better for. Nothing. Got it?”