Head Rush

by Carolyn Crane

  “Don’t diminish it.”

  He puts his forehead to mine. “You’re driven by a sense of justice. I just wanted you.”

  “That’s not all it was.”

  “And you came back. I trusted you would, and you did.”

  I push him away, overwhelmed, wishing I could trust like that. I shouldn’t have come. Seeing him tonight, it’s already made everything harder. “This won’t work.” I back up. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

  His eyes seem a brighter green against his flushed cheeks. “Who needs wits?”

  “Maybe I do.” I back up some more and hit the wall.

  “You don’t need wits. You have good instincts.” His voice is husky, and he looks at me with the forward focus of a predator. Or a lover. “Sexy, hot, wonderful, delectable instincts.” He comes in closer.

  “Oh, God—” I put up my hands to stop him, only to touch his shirt. I bunch up the fabric in my fists. “Goddammit.”

  He pulls my fists off him, clenching his hands around mine, then, slowly, he opens my right hand and kisses my palm, watching my eyes as he presses it against the paneling above my head. The surface feels cool and smooth against the back of my hand, and my stomach goes quivery.

  He’s near enough I feel the warmth of his ragged breath on my forehead. He turns to kiss my other palm, and pushes that hand to the wall above my head, so that both my hands are trapped. Then he kisses the silky slip of skin between my elbow and my armpit. Everything is spiraling out of control.

  “You okay?” he grates.

  I don’t know if I’m okay.

  He pulls away. “Justine?”

  “Do it again. On the other side.”

  He kisses the tender part of my other arm now. I want him to kiss everywhere tender. I want to open up to him, and cast everything to the wind. To be as undone as my skate laces.

  I go up on tiptoes to kiss him. The graze of his lips and the press of his cock make my belly go liquid. He lets go of my hands and slides his fingers down my arms, pushing his hard ridge between my legs, a keen deliciousness, even through my long underwear, jeans, and snow pants. I suck in his tongue, a substitute for his cock—not near enough, but delicious all the same.

  I tangle my arms around his waist, needing to keep him pressing specifically in that spot. He’s gone on to the buttons of my shirt, feverishly. Soon he’s kissing my breast, sending a blunt wave of lust down through me.

  “Justine, I want to discover every inch of you!” he says. He has gotten my shirt open and he kneels, nuzzling my bare tummy with his sandpapery face, pushing down my snowpants. I fist my hands in his hair and step out of them.

  “Every single inch of you,” he adds, enthusiastically. He looks up at me, holding my gaze as he fingers the top button of my fly. I watch him watch me. He snaps it open.

  “You’ve already discovered every inch of me. You remember it just fine. I’m the one who can’t remember.” Air chills tender inches of bare tummy above the lace of my panties.

  “Not really, because, you’re not the woman I made love to that day. You’re the woman who had that day stolen from her. Who fought like hell to bust the revise. And this is the first time of forever.”

  I swallow. I have nothing to say to that.

  He pushes down my pants, sliding his warm, rough fingers up and down my hips, like he’s learning me.

  I grab onto his hair and pull him up for a kiss. I want everything to last. It has to be enough to last. I stiffen up at this thought. God, what am I doing?

  He feels my hesitation. “Fall into it. Trust us. I trust us,” he says. “I trust us enough for both of us.”

  He trusts us. He believes I won’t let him down; it’s a gift, this trust of his. It’s a gift he’s never given anybody else. He’s as bare and vulnerable as when he went after the Brick Slinger. I see that now.

  “You're amazing,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He kisses me, and I get this flash—this feeling memory—of being down in the Tangle and first realizing I’d been revised. I trusted, I jumped, fell into it. I found what I needed.

  And it was glorious. Liberating. That’s the feeling I have now as he nuzzles the top of my head, sways into me, almost like he’s drunk. I move my hand to his cock, touching the outline of him, and he exhales forcefully.

  I want him inside me so badly, I feel almost crazy. I move to unbutton his pants. He puts his hand down to help, but I move it away. I just want to do it on my own, to follow that feeling, to fall. His jeans slide easily over his hips; his blue briefs not so easily. I enjoy the silky heaviness of his cock in my hand, and the way his whole being tightens up when I tighten my grip. He nudges my face up, kisses me against warm wall. It’s like I’m enclosed in a slice of heaven. It’s so easy. Things are sometimes easy.

  A crinkle. He’s got a condom.

  He stops kissing me, out of breath. I let go of him, let him put it on. “Aha, you planned all this,” I joke breathily.

  “Planned?” He looks up at me, eyes shining feverishly. “Of course.”

  “Oh, that’s a good, good answer,” I breathe, pulling him back for a kiss. “Good, good, good.” I’m all nonsense. He kisses me, pushing his hands all over me, fingers hot between my legs, and my hands roam all over him—belly, shoulders, neck. His skin is warm. Sweaty in places.

  He reaches down to my thigh, the back of my knee, and lifts my leg free of my pants, nuzzling and kissing me, and pushes the fat tip of his cock to my core, and I let my head tip back onto the wall, wanting to take him in, wanting everything.

  He pushes into me, deeply, filling me. The world seems to stop in midair. Packard exhales. Packard not in control.

  “Again,” I say.

  He pulls out and presses back into me, and then again, and I open my eyes and find his, and I watch him as he moves, as I move against him. It’s like an underground wave is swelling between us, with every slow thrust, every kiss. Then he’s out—he slides his hands around my butt and lifts me up.

  “Hey!” I laugh as he turns and thumps me down on one of the sturdy Mongolian Delites tables. But he looks serious in the candlelight. He pushes things off it—candle holders and silverware crash to the floor.

  I lay back onto the scratchy tablecloth, napkins and sugar packets in my hair, heaven all around me. His cheekbones shine with sweat; red curls around his forehead have grown moist and dark.

  I wrap my legs around him. “Come here,” I say.

  He comes to me, one hand on my belly, one guiding his cock a little ways in. I gasp, wanting more. “Oooh,” I say, coaxingly, smiling.

  He goes still, watching me, with all his love and trust bared, it seems, and I stop my smiling and coaxing.

  Something real is here.

  Slowly, he pushes in. He makes this grunt—not quite a cry. The grunt feels like it contains secret things—surrender and pleasure, and also, ancient need, maybe dredged up from his deepest core.

  I have this sense that, with this sound, he’s baring himself more fully than when he pulled off his clothes. Like I’m hearing the sound of a voice in the wilderness, alone no longer. It breaks my heart and also strengthens me.

  “Packard,” I say.

  He touches my cheek, kisses me. The moment is naked. The way we move together, the way he offers himself up. Trusting me with everything. Trusting us.

  It changes something in me, his trust, his gaze, so bare and brave. It scares me a little, and I do something I’ve never done before: I let it scare me. Fear, suddenly, is not the biggest thing.

  And just like that, I know something: I can fight Otto. The fear is still there, but it doesn’t matter. The fear of the fear is…gone. So simple, so strange.

  New.

  His heavy hands slide across my skin. He bends to me and I run my tongue along his neck as he fills me, swells in me. His breath tickles my ear. Everything’s out of control, and I just fall into it.

  I love him. It's scary and I let it frighten me. Everything’s new.<
br />
  He covers my breast with a heavy, dragging touch, and the swell between us breaks apart, like a powerful wave breaking and crashing through me, phosphorescence at its edges. I cry out as I feel his shudder inside me.

  He collapses over me, all heavy goodness. He tries to pull out, but I wrap my legs around him, keep him there locked inside me. I don’t want to be apart from him. “Don’t go.”

  “Ever?”

  I smile. It’s okay. I can do it. It’s shocking, and a relief. A puff of a laugh escapes me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just everything. Tomorrow.”

  He lifts himself onto his elbows. “If you’re still worried…your instincts…” he tilts his head. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

  “Oh, it has to be me,” I say. “It’ll be me.” I kiss him on the cheek.

  He doesn’t reply. Maybe he senses something.

  “It has to be me.” I will love Packard tonight. And fight Otto tomorrow. And I’ll fight like hell not to die with him, but if that’s what happens, it happens. Packard trusts me, and I won’t let him down. I feel new. “The good guys will win. I believe that with all my heart.”

  He strokes my hair with both of his hands. “You sound so sure.”

  “I am,” I whisper, pressing my face to his neck, feeling his heart pound on my cheek, luxuriating in the simple feeling of it. “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have wonderful instincts.”

  I’m sitting sideways in the old back booth with my legs on Packard’s lap, smashing my soft-boiled egg over buttered toast. We’ve had sex three times and have eaten two sumptuous meals—our own little all-night orgy. I learned some odd, new things about him. One, he wants to go to Europe, but he’s never ridden in a plane—he’s not sure if he can stand the enclosed space now. Two, he can’t concentrate when he’s wearing socks that are too tight around the ankles—even his gift doesn’t work as well. We made some jokes about his Achilles heel, which I found uproariously funny, due in part to exhaustion, and in part to my buzzing core of adrenalin.

  “I need you to promise me something,” I say.

  “I’ll promise you anything. If you give me a bite of that.” He nods at my plate.

  “Just a bite?”

  “For now.” He smooths his hand along my jeans leg. “For appetizers.”

  I salt my eggy concoction, then pepper it, schooling myself not to think about the future or anything else, just to feel how much I love him. I sever a soppy square with my fork and float it carefully to his mouth.

  He chews and smiles at the same time, which makes me want to kiss him.

  “What then?” he asks. “Promise what?”

  I gaze out the restaurant window at the dawn light reflecting on the building across the street. Time is running out. I have to be at a special breakfast at 9 a.m. with the Midcity Daughters of Industry.

  “If it takes longer than expected to get the antihighcap glasses, and I actually do have to show up at the church for the wedding, you can’t come in. You can’t try to get into the church, okay?”

  “We know where the glasses are. We’ll get them to you before that. You’ll zing him before that, and I’ll be there to back you.”

  “But if it comes to that, to my going to the wedding, I don’t want you there. Simon and Shelby will be there, and it will be full of security, too dangerous for you. Can you imagine how distracting it would be? For the job we have to do? It will be up to us at that point.”

  He eyes me brightly. “Why do I feel so suspicious of this request?”

  “Yes or no? If it comes to that, I want you not to be there. Don’t you think our odds of success are better if Midcity’s number-one fugitive isn’t getting arrested or killed in the church aisle? I think it’s very logical, don’t you?”

  “Logic isn’t everything.”

  “And you had your bite, didn’t you?” I move onto his lap. “This is the promise I’m requesting.” I nestle into him with the sensation that we’re two creatures of the same species, the last two on the planet, and we’ve finally found one another. These moments feel expansive, like they contain everything. Like they’re almost enough for a lifetime. Almost.

  “Promise,” I say.

  “I’ll promise. Only because it won’t come to that.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stay mashed together, dallying over breakfast, until I pull myself away from him to go refill my coffee. I should be going.

  When I get back Packard is looking serious. “I don’t want to be apart anymore, Justine. After all this is over, I want to wake up together. Always be together like this. Not here, of course.”

  “Let’s talk about that after we get through today.”

  “But where are you going to stay, even tonight? Your old apartment’s condemned, and obviously Otto’s penthouse isn’t an option.”

  “I can’t think that far.”

  “Then I’ll think for both of us. Come stay with me at my place. For good. And tomorrow we’ll wake up and have coffee in bed, and we’ll go to the movies after that.”

  I look away. “That’s a sweet plan.”

  “Nothing sweet about it.” He moves his hand firmly along my back, and his breath warms my neck. He feels like home. “I want us to share a place together, Justine. And if you don’t feel like my home is home enough, we can find somewhere else. Anything together.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “I would love that.”

  “Good.” He goes serious. “And there’s something else I want to ask you. Something else important…”

  My core of adrenalin buzzes bright. “Let’s get this day behind us first.”

  “I want to ask you now.”

  “No Packard.” I can’t let him ask me.

  A glint of humor sparks in his eyes as he figures out what I thought he was going to ask. “Justine, it’s that I’ve never had a pet or anything, but I dream of having a dog. Adopting a rescue dog. A big, loping one. Would you be up for that?”

  I straighten. “A dog?”

  He grins, like the picture of it makes him happy.

  I swallow. “You should get a dog,” I say. “You have to.”

  A flash of confusion in his eyes. “I meant us. Me and you. Together. How would you feel about a dog? A dog is a lot of commitment.”

  A lurch of grief. I swallow against it. “I love dogs.”

  “Well, then,” He takes my hands— “Justine, would you have a dog with me? You and me and a dog. Like a family. Maybe we’ll have lots of dogs.”

  I smile a teary smile. “I love dogs,” I say. “And I love you.”

  He frowns. Stills. “What’s going on?”

  I want to throw myself against him, tell him I don’t want to leave him, don’t want to die, that’s what’s going on.

  His gaze intensifies.

  And it’s here I pull it out—all my years of acting like nothing’s wrong when everything is. Because I have to keep him from playing the hero, being the one killed. I reach down and gather everything I have and I smile. Not just any smile, but a radiant, heartfelt smile. “I just love you like crazy. Is that okay?” I lean in and kiss him softly, sweetly. “And you’re not paying attention to the time, but I am. I have to leave. And I don’t want to.”

  He smiles back. “We’ll get you the glasses. I’ll be there when you attack him.”

  “Unless it’s in the church.”

  Silence. I can see he regrets the promise.

  “And we’ll win,” I say. I extract myself from him and climb out of the booth.

  He stands, traces his finger down the side of my cheek. “Until then,” he says.

  This could be the last time I see him. Certainly the last time I’m alone with him. I close my eyes, drinking in his presence, thinking I ought to say something big and all-encompassing, something that will last him into old age, but he’s too smart. He’ll know. This will have to be enough now.

  So I take his finger, kiss his
fingertip, and look into his eyes. “You.”

  He smiles a big, cockeyed, heartbreaking smile.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sun is up over the lake, painting the snow-capped faces of the downtown buildings in pale yellow as I cross the bridge. My emotions roll through a Mobius-like maze from grief over leaving Packard to a fuck-you-Fawna defiance to determination to beat the prediction to a strange sense of glory, and even, here and there, to desire just to burn the city down.

  And of course, to fear.

  And yet…something is different. My fear doesn’t feel so suffocating, so all-encompassing. It doesn’t feel like my world anymore. Because I have a family now—Packard and I are a family, and I feel fierce about protecting him, and just fierce about him, like an animal in the wild. And the disillusionists are like our pack. They’ll walk in the sun, because no amount of fear will stop me from fighting Otto. And I’ll do my damnedest to survive it.

  I think about writing Packard a letter, for Shelby to give him just in case I do die, but I hate the thought of some letter about how I want him to go on to live a happy life. It seems maudlin, and also, it strikes me as a stupid and even dangerous thing to ruminate on my death like that—the ultimate in negative visualization.

  Just as I hit the promenade, I get an idea for something better than a letter anyway. On the next block I head up to Otto’s street, and use my key to sneak into the parking garage. The inside is cold and quiet. I doubt anybody’s hanging out in here at this early hour, but I don’t want to take the chance, so I stick to the shadows as best I can. Fear hums inside me like crazy.

  Let it, I think.

  My little car is on the second level. I open the door and get into the driver’s seat, rest my hands on the wheel. Good ol’ car.

  Then I take ahold of Gumby’s feet and yank him right off the dashboard. I scratch the glue bits off him, and I put his hands up, and even one of his legs, and bend his chest a bit to puff it out, making him look as happy as possible. Happy Gumby. Beyond-happy Gumby. This is my letter to Packard. He gave me peace and freedom I’ve never known, and his trust, and this excellent feeling of love.