Held: A New Adult Romance (7 page)

 Everglade snorted about the patriarchy at every opportunity, but I kind of liked that he forced his way into every aspect of my sex life, even the most private aspects. Knowing that I was following his instructions made me feel is presence, as if he was always there, holding me, his hand cupping me where I was bare and soft and ached for him.

 Whenever he thought my attention was flagging he would send me pictures - either nude selfies or pornographic drawings of us together. He worked part time at a tattoo parlor on the beach, where he drew custom designs. The first time he took me there I was fascinated, like I was with everything else about him. He showed me the design he'd created for the Reaper tattoo on his back - "Based on the Rider-Waite tarot, baby," he said. "The most famous deck - designed by some chick who was part of Aleister Crowley's sex cult out in Sicily."

 I think he expected me to turn squeamish at all the blood and needles, but my little henna tattoo hadn't hurt that much, so when he turned up one day with my name tattooed at the top of his spine, I just laughed.

 "Are you crazy?" I said. I didn't say that we might break up - already I was too far gone for that.

 "Maybe," he said, trying to stick the dressing back in place. I leaned forward and taped it back for him, over the bloody Gothic letters at his nape. "It's only five letters, cher. Six for you."

 "Six?"

 "Yeah. Amber is five letters, Justin is six."

 I caught his meaning and stared at him. "You want me to get your name tattooed on my body?"

 He didn't smile. "You want me to take your virginity. What's the difference?"

 "A lot," I said. The word 'virginity' sounded ridiculous now - was I really a virgin after all the things we'd done? I didn't feel like one any more. "It's...permanent."

 "And I'm not?" he said, crawling over me on the bed. I glanced at the door - Everglade wasn't due back for a while but I hadn't thought to put a sock on the door handle to indicate that we were busy.

 "You know what I mean," I said, as his hands slid up my inner thighs and his fingers crept inside me.

 "Nope," he said, against my lips. I could feel he was hard, just like he always was. Sometimes I wondered what he did when he left me unsatisfied on purpose; were there other girls he went to? I arched up against him, my flesh defenseless against the buttons of his jeans. I looked up into his eyes and his jaw was set firm - no chance that this was going to be it, the one time he finally relented.

 "Please," I said. "Please. I'll do it if you'll fuck me."

 He smiled. "Swear?"

 "I swear," I said, my hips already stirring with need.

 "On your mother's grave?"

 "Yes," I said, deciding this was no time to tell him she'd been cremated. And then just like that he unbuttoned and stuck it in me, without ceremony or a condom.

 "Oh," I said. I don't know what I'd expected - earthly bliss or something. Instead I was just anxious. This was everything they had told me not to do in health class. Our school had been pretty lousy in all other aspects of education but they'd briefed us extensively on safe sex. "Um...shouldn't you?..." I started to say.

 He rolled his eyes and went to pull out. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him close, determined not to lose what I'd waited so long for. I made him go too deep and I winced, but I'd have him like this or not at all. "What's up?" he said. "You're on the pill, aren't you?"

 "Sure," I said. I made a mental note to run down to the health center the next day. Maybe grab a morning-after pill too, just to be on the safe side.

 "Good," he said. "'Cause I fucking hate condoms."

 Afterwards I wanted to cry; I was so disappointed. Justin was annoyed because I didn't come and I was ashamed that I hadn't. The truth was it didn't feel nearly as good as it did when he went down on me, and I couldn't relax because I was too worried about getting pregnant. But I'd sworn I'd do it, which is how I ended up in the chair in the tattoo parlor.

 I wasn't prepared for how much it hurt. The henna tattoo had been on the fleshy part of my upper arm, but this was right on the bony part at the bottom of my neck. When the needle went in I could feel the vibrations all down the length of my spine. Tears sprung to my eyes right away.

 "Are you okay?" said the tattooist. "You did say you'd had this done before, didn't you?"

 "Henna," I said. "I'm okay. Honestly."

 She looked skeptical but carried on anyway. Her name was Theresa - Justin had introduced us before. She had bright blue waist length dreadlocks and so many piercings that I didn't think her pain threshold could be anything like a normal person's.

 It was terrible. I kept wincing away from the needle and she was getting slowly more and more impatient. "I shouldn't do this," she said, taking out a bottle of tequila from the desk drawer. "But I keep this for emergencies. If you don't relax I'm going to have to stop and you're going to have a half-finished tattoo."

 "How far have you got?" I asked.

 "I'm just starting the S," she said.

 "Oh God."

 Justin came in. "How's she doing, Tess?"

 "Awful," said Theresa, like I wasn't there. "Keeps wincing. She's lucky I didn't slip."

 I drank off two straight shots of tequila. It tasted like nail polish remover to me, but if it promised to keep me numb then I was willing to drink a quart of the damned stuff. Justin held me still in the chair. She got as far as dotting the i before I asked for another break and some more tequila.

 “This had better be worth it,” I said, when she’d gone out for a smoke.

 “Sure it is,” said Justin. “Looks great. Makes me happy. What more can a girl ask for?”

 “Less pain?”

 “Life is pain, baby,” he said, giving me a sloppy, tequila scented kiss. “It’s how we know we’re still breathing. You should embrace it.”

 “What? Like Theresa?”

 He laughed and looked furtive. “Maybe not that far,” he said. “You know she’s got a metal bolt through her goddamn clit?”

 I didn’t have time to ask him how he knew that, but I knew. I knew as soon as she walked back in the room and the expression on his face shifted to one of amused interest – he wanted to see how I’d react. I felt sick, but I had to keep sitting there. The other option was storming out with the word JUSTI inked on the back of my neck.

 Maybe he was trying to distract me. It worked. I barely felt it as she worked on the N – I was too angry. I kept thinking of all the times he’d left me high and not-so-dry, wondering where he was getting what he was withholding from me, at great cost to himself. Men, as Everglade was fond of telling me lately, were almost always looking for some sort of hole to fuck.

 “You’re done,” said Theresa, clapping a sterile dressing on the nape of my neck. “Keep it dry, keep it out of the sun and whatever you do, don’t pick the scabs off when they form.”

 I shot out of the shop like it was on fire. Justin came out after me, easily keeping pace with my angry strides. “You okay?” he said.

 “What do you fucking think?”

 I kept walking, the ocean roar a kind of cool white noise in my head. I headed down onto the beach, wondering if I could wreck Theresa’s artwork by taking a dip in the water. I couldn't remember ever being so mad. I went raging off down the beach, not even sure where I was going. I knew he was behind me but I couldn't run on the soft sand, so I ran towards the shoreline.

 "Amber, come back here. Amber! What the hell has gotten into you?"

 You. There was no other answer. Once he'd gotten under my skin there was no getting him out. He was the one who made me act this way. He made me crazy. He made me feel like I couldn't breathe - like there was no room in my chest for air when he was in the room. I was all heart, all hunger, all him. I'd never behaved like this before him.

 I ran down into the surf. My foot slipped out from under me and I went down. I screamed in anger as the water soaked into my clothes, but I was cut off when a wave smacked me in the face and pulled me under. My mouth was full of salt and I remember thinking this was one of the dumbest ways to die - caught off guard by the ocean surf while having a shitfit. I had no air in my lungs before I went down. The next wave turned me over in the dark and I didn't know which way was up or down or anything.

 Then somehow just before the panic took over I was pulled up. He had a hold of the back of my shirt. The weight of me must have knocked him off balance because he fell, but when the next wave came we were lying with our feet to it and he was on top of me, pinning me to the sand.

 "Are you okay?"

 I coughed salt water out of the back of my throat, but he stayed put, almost crushing the breath out of me. As the waves crashed again I could feel them tug at our bodies, but he held me firm against them. "You lunatic," he said. "You little fucking psychobitch."

 "I'm sorry." I was so ashamed. I'd made such a fool of myself. I knew what was coming next. A cold, wet ride home. A goodbye. An 'I'll call you' that never materialized.

 He held me pinned. "You love me, lunatic?" he said. "Do I drive you this crazy?"

 I nodded and sputtered and sobbed. I'd never said it before. I was so afraid I'd scare him off - it had only been three weeks, after all. I couldn't breathe all that well, but it didn't matter. I was cold and wet and afraid but it didn't matter, because he crushed his mouth on mine and said, "I love your crazy. I love you. I never loved anyone like you before."

 Chapter Seven

Jaime

I'm just about to head out from the gatehouse when Beca calls. "You busy?"

 "Yes. Why?"

 "Nothing. I was just wondering if you were free this evening. I got a sitter and I thought we could out to eat - bring Emily. Make it a double date."

 I barely stifle my groan. This means she's already told Emily that I'm interested. "Don't you want a little alone time with Marcus?" I say. "You don't see enough of each other."

 "Since when were you a marriage guidance counselor? Me and Marcus are fine. I just thought it would be fun is all."

 Yeah right. I'm not going to let myself get railroaded into this. I know what she wants. She's playing matchmaker and she's got it all set up perfectly in her head. She's probably already figuring out what to wear for the christening of mine and Emily's firstborn. "I can't," I say.

 "Jaime..."

 "No, I'm serious. I've got to stay late."

 "How come? How much security do these people need? They've got dogs, fences, cameras - I've seen those places up on Laurel. They're like Guantanamo."

 I sigh and turn around, coincidentally into the face of the security camera over the gate. It winks a lazy red eye at me. Time to come clean. I can't keep letting her construct this little fantasy in her head. It's not fair on any of us. "Listen," I say. "It's not that I don't like Emily..."

 Beca hisses like a pot boiling over.

 "...don't make that noise. It's not my fault I don't love her even half as much as you do. She's very nice, very pretty, but I'm kind of...I don't know. My mind's elsewhere lately."

 I hear her exhale. It sounds a little like she might even be giving up. "What are you saying?" she says. "You're seeing someone else?"

 "No. Not seeing. Not exactly. It's complicated. Besides, it's none of your business."

 "You don't have to be rude."

 "I have to go, Beca. It's time for my rounds."

 I'd like to think we were done, but I know it's wishful thinking. My sister has a way of moving heaven and earth in order to get exactly what she wants. She didn't want to go into hospital to have Chuy, even though she was a first time mom and the doctors recommended it. Beca was adamant - it was too expensive, she said. Which is why she kept the lid on her contractions until the baby was practically crowning. She had him right there on the living room floor. What she saved on hospital bills she ended up spending having the carpet torn up, but that had also been on her to-do list - for several years she'd been on at Marcus to get rid of the old carpet and put in hardwood floors.

 The wind is hot and dry as I make my way up the hillside. The summer is nearly done - hurricane season on the Gulf coast, brushfire season here in California. Another year older and still no wiser. By the time they were my age my parents had been married for eighteen months; it seems insane to imagine that they were ever that young, or that stupid.

 When I reach the pool I nearly turn back. I don't know how I'm going to stand being there. Amber is stretched out on one of the sun-loungers, wearing a little black bikini and giant sunglasses. Her skin is so pale it almost glows. Her legs seem to go on forever. She lies motionless, her fingers carefully spread to catch the sun. If it wasn't for the slight rise and fall of her chest you'd swear she'd been carved out of marble.

 I clear my throat. She doesn't move. I do it again and this time her hand comes up, tips the sunglasses down. "Hi," she says. A phone rings at her side and she picks it up. "Time up," she says, and gets up off the lounger. "Can you help me with the umbrella? I think it's stuck."

 It's on the tip of my tongue to say that she needs to take the plastic off the damn thing first, but I see she's already done that. She's right - it takes a little jiggling to push the umbrella up.

 "You should have had this up in the first place," I say. "You'll burn."

 "I won't. I'm on a timer - twenty minutes. I need the vitamin D. I'm getting prison pallor."

 "Is this where I ask you why you won't go out?"

 She pulls another lounger into the shade and pats it. I sit down. She settles into her own. I see how her little bikini bottoms are held at her hips with two little interlaced C's - Chanel. Complicated, I'd told Beca. Understatement. She's a million miles and a million dollars out of my league.

 "Do you want to know?" she asks, picking up a bottle of sunscreen.

 "Only if you want to tell me," I say. "If I wanted to know I'd have looked online, wouldn't I?"

 "I guess," she says. She's very thin - too thin. When she leans over to put sunscreen on her legs I can see the bumps of her spine where she bends. I want to ask about the scar at the back of her neck, but I don't want anything to spook her. I don't think I could handle it if she told me to go away and never come back. When she kissed me the spot on my cheek was tingling for days.