“I know. I’ll get you some water.”
Instead of fighting it like I know I should, I relent.
“Okay.”
He comes back with a glass of water, and I drink greedily. Some of it slips down my chin and I make a face and wipe it away.
“I’m gross. Look at me – getting all sloppy in front of my mortal enemy. Unexecutable. Inexhaustible. Un…un…under the sea.”
“Inexcusable,” Jack offers.
“Yes!” I point at him. “Yes. That.”
There’s a shriek from downstairs and someone yells ‘oh god I’m bleeding’.
“So if,” I sit up on my elbows. He’s right in front of my face, sitting on the side of the bed, his knee level with my eyes. “So if Kayla makes you have sex, do I owe you money?”
He snorts, and looks down at me. His fingers stop playing with the hem of his shirt.
“I’m not having sex with Kayla.”
“But you’re going out.”
“Not really.”
“You can’t…you can’t string her along like that! She really likes you!”
“And so do a dozen other girls,” he says wearily.
“Yeah? Well sorry we like you,” I snap.
Jack freezes. I freeze.
“’We’?” He asks.
It all happens so fast, like a shooting star, a lighting bolt; all the feelings I buried, all the things I wanted to say, all my fears batter down the bomb safe doors I’d been keeping over them, helped by booze and exhaustion and emotional bruises that left me soft and ripe for the picking.
“I like you.”
I reach out for his hand, my own trembling. His fingers look so long and slender, and gentle. They feel smooth, and warm. I take hold of a few of them, like they’re a lifeline. A raft in the sea. A rope in a deep hole.
“You smell good,” I say. “And you’re fun to pick on. And I like your mom. You’re smart. Kind of dumb, but also kind of smart. I had fun. With the war. And the kiss. And the date. And you called me beautiful and it was nice. So even if we never battle again, even if you hate me forever for saying I like you, thank you. Thank you a lot -”
I never get to finish.
Jack leans down, his lips on mine, and I roll over and push myself up, and he pushes back, and I’m against the pillows and headboard and he’s kissing me –
- and this time she kisses back. This time she is not shocked into motionlessness. This time there is no one watching. This time she is hungry. This time, she darts her tongue out, kisses the corner of my lips, bites at my bottom one and pulls, hard, and I make a noise between a strangled groan and a hitching of breath. She’s curious, and inexperienced, but curious and stubborn and looking for something, anything, to kiss, anything to put her hands on –
- his neck tastes even better, and his throat is soft, and his adam’s apple goes up and down as he swallows nervously (nervously?) and I pull away and murmur happily against his skin.
“I can feel your pulse on my lips.”
- and she has no idea what she is saying and how it’s wrecking havoc, how it sends a molten jolt of static electricity down my spine, through my stomach, and straight to my crotch. The thin pirate pants betray everything. My own body surprises me – I had no idea it longed for her with this buzzing, frantic intensity. It wants to taste her, tease her, f**k her with the slowest, softest, deepest mercy, the kind that’ll curl her toes and make her beg. I press against her harder and wrap my arm around her waist and she giggles (giggles!) and my every instinct screams at me to move down her body, to pull the ludicrously hot latex suit off inch by inch and drag my mouth over her collarbone, her br**sts, her stomach, between her legs until she is screaming for me, screaming and panting my name and she forgets all about that bastard, all about pain, all about sadness –
- he pulls me down, lower on the bed, my head on the pillows, and he’s suddenly on either side of me, straddling me, and I’m shaking and afraid but I’m not, not at all, my outside is betraying my inside, because my inside wants this more than anything, but he could hurt me, he hurt someone, this is wrong, he loves Sophia, not me, not me, not me, he could hurt me, he’s going to hurt me again –
- she’s trembling. I kiss her neck, her shoulder. Her whole body is quivering uncontrollably.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
Her face twists, collapses, and she hides it in her hands.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “It isn’t right. This isn’t right.”
Something in my chest cracks down the middle and tears in two. It feels right. God, this is the most right-feeling thing I’ve felt in months, no – years. I’d been stumbling through client after client, closing myself off and forcing my way through it all with mechanical responses and sickly pleasure. But just touching Isis now, I can’t be cold. It’s impossible. She burns it all up, all the resentment I didn’t think I had, all the cynical professionalism that compounded on my fear for Sophia. I’d forgotten how to enjoy, and her every soft breath against my face and touch of her fingertips shows me how again, clear and bright and warm as a fire. It’s right. Dear god, it’s f**king right.
But she’s scared. She’s unsure. She’s wounded in more ways than I can count. And she’s drunk. I’m buzzed, but she’s drunk. Doing anything now would be uncalled for. I back off immediately.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – ”
“N-No,” She sobs. “It’s my f-fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey,” I say gently. “Hey. Look at me.”
She quivers, cracking her fingers and staring up at me. Her eyes are red, tears wetting her cheeks and her mascara blurring, but not running.
“It’s not your fault. Nothing is your fault.” I get up, and grab my hat from the chair. “Stay here and sleep it off. Drink that glass of water. Lock the door behind me and don’t open it until morning. Understand?”
She sits up, sniffing. She doesn’t nod.
“Understand?” I repeat. She shakes her head, purple streaks sticking to her cheeks.
“Don’t go.”
“It’s better if I do. I make you uncomfortable.”
“No!” She shouts, and lowers her voice. “No. I – I would feel better if you…if you stayed. In here. And made sure no one comes in.”
“Kayla will get worried.”
Isis’ face falls. “Oh. Oh, you’re right. You should g-go.”
I watch her, her body giving a shuddering sigh, trembling constantly and shallowly. She clutches her own arms and rubs them like she’s cold. I did this to her. I can’t leave her. Not like this.
“Here,” I say, and walk over. I pull the comforter up, and the blanket, and she eagerly worms her way beneath it.
“Are you sure that latex isn’t uncomfortable?” I ask. She looks down, and I instantly regret saying it. “I wasn’t implying you should take anything off. Just, it looks very tight, and that might be hard to sleep in, I didn’t mean –”
“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s okay. I would take it off, but I don’t have anything else.”