In the Absence of You Page 7

  Most chicks seem to consider their boyfriends projects. My Zoe didn’t. Despite all of her objections, decisions, and commands, she never wanted me to change. She loved the fight. I loved the fight. And I loved her.

  “Yes, Zee, dearie. Your ass is so small. You have a tiny, hot, firm ass—hold on. I’ll open it for you, ’cause I’m not sure how small and firm and hot it is on the inside.”

  “You liar. How many times have you been inside me again?”

  “Are we keeping track?”

  “Of course we are. Say it.” She dropped to her back and opened her arms wide for me, stare steely and determined despite her open embrace. I dove in. Every time.

  “Oh you’re so hot. I want to be inside you now.”

  “How many times though? You can’t until you tell me.”

  “How many?” I worked my cock against her opening, rocking back and forth, sliding in sweet juices. I could see her cut me off though. That was my Zoe. Whatever Zoe wanted, whatever her whim, she’d do it.

  “No, you say it.”

  “Sixty-seven.”

  She stilled under me then. Surprised. “Emil, that’s a crazy good guess. How’d you do that? It’s sixty-six.”

  “Nope. Sixty-seven.”

  She was quiet while I worked over her, not responding with raised hips the way she usually did.

  “Babe, gimme your pussy. Angle up for me? Don’t be hard on me now, pretty please?” I pulled back enough to pout my lip at her. She still didn’t laugh.

  “Soooo. Which was the sixty-seventh time, then?” she asked, random as always, my Zoe.

  “Yesterday night? Tonight?” I suggested.

  She snorted, but at least she widened soft thighs so I could ease inside her. Oh holy mother of utter awesomeness. Her breath hitched at my intrusion, the best sound ever, and I instantly sped up the way we liked it, the two of us, fast, rocking my bed against Bo’s bedroom wall, building heat so thick and hot and delicious it was impossible not to groan out loud.

  “Oh Emil!” she shouted.

  “Ja, baby!” I replied, ecstatic too. Bo banged on the wall, that loser. Fucking quiet sex over there with Nadia. I didn’t get the two of them.

  “Tell me,” she squeaked out even as we climbed together. It felt so good I had no idea how she could focus on former copulations.

  “At the beach in Santa Cruz?”

  “It… wasn’t all the way.”

  “No? I. Ejaculated,” I staccatoed out, the only way to form words.

  “That was on my skirt. It didn’t count. Wait!” she shrieked, commanding me to keep her from climaxing, but why would I do that? We both came, rocking hard against the headboard. Seconds later, Bo was at my door, telling me to open the fuck up, and I did, hell yeah I did. And my Zoe, she sat up in bed, curved her naked legs to a side, and covered her breasts with an arm as she waited for Bo’s head to poke in.

  “What, stud muffin?” I said to Bo, furious from the door.

  “Move that damn bed out from the wall so Nadia doesn’t have to listen to you two fuck. How many times have I—”

  “Four,” I say.

  “No, love, this is the fifth time,” Zoe interrupted from the bed. Bo’s stare flicked to her, until he realized she wasn’t all that decent. His eyes made a hasty retreat, so hasty it made me think of burns. How could he be burned by that beautiful sight? I turned to take her in myself.

  “Fourth,” I insist. “Which was the fifth?”

  “In Acapulco.”

  “You gotta be kidding. You and I were on the balcony, and I think he was just orgasming next door with Nadia and it just sounded like he was complaining. Right, Bo?”

  Equally interested, Zoe and I waited for his answer, because, come on—who won? She’d owe me breakfast tomorrow.

  The fucker turned and walked off, and I grimaced at Zoe. Another non-formal bet lost. “I’ll ask Nadia,” she said.

  I scoffed. “Like I’ll trust you unless I’m there. You get off on lying, babe. And if I’m there when you ask, she’s so uptight she wouldn’t even tell you.”

  “You suck.”

  “You suck,” I countered.

  “Okay,” she said and slid down my body to the floor, licking me nice and clean. Making me forget what we’d been talking about. Again.

  AISHE

  Over the last few days, I’ve spent a lot of energy avoiding Emil. It’s hard when you’re on a bus together. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m ignoring him, which hurts more than if he deliberately avoided me. I can’t say I’d kick him out of my bunk though, if he approached the way he did before.

  Travel days go by with Troy and me playing board games at the miniature kitchen table. He makes a big deal out of my wins, alternating between praising me and mock-beating himself up over his losses.

  Whenever Emil passes on his way to the kitchen, he seems deep in some musings and doesn’t focus on us. For some twisted reason, it makes me need him even more.

  I watch him onstage, sexy joy personified, until he performs their new melancholy ballads. Then he’s so blue I want to hop onstage and press his face against my chest. The others accompany him, amplifying sadness with measured beats and whines from guitars. I think they should stop, that they shouldn’t do this to him, because there’s a limit to how long you can go on before losing your mind. This knowledge is ingrained in my people. It’s clear that it isn’t in theirs.

  On the fourth night, I wait until all lights are out and people breathe evenly around me. Then I curl my bare toes around the edge of Troy’s bed and open the curtains to Emil’s. I reach out. Stroke his waist through the blankets. With his back toward me, he remains still, not acknowledging that I’m here.

  I haven’t taken this kind of initiative before. Until tonight, Emil has been the one to sneak into my bed for moments of intimacy. I should leave, but I can’t take our distance any longer.

  I make up my mind. Lift a knee and place it on the mattress. Next, I pull myself up. He doesn’t accommodate me, but his sleep must not be deep yet, because his exhales are silent. I straddle him to wedge myself in against the wall.

  “Zoe?” he grunts, sleep-soaked surprise in his pitch.

  “Shh, no, it’s me,” I whisper. I think it’s instinct that makes him shift outward, giving me some room. I stroke his face with the back of my hand, and it elicits a sigh that’s not relaxed, not relieved. There’s darkness and sadness in that sigh, and it jabs my heart to know I’m not relief to him.

  I can become that though. I can.

  My brain warns me, but I still ask, “I’m cold. Can I get under your blanket?”

  “Baby, you should go back to your bed,” he answers quietly, warm air caressing me from his lips. But this is me, self-absorbed, doing what I need, and excitement whirls in my chest.

  “You don’t want me here?” I tug on the blanket. He angles backward so the corner stuck beneath his body is freed. I wiggle until I’m beneath it, finding him bare with the exception of a pair of boxer briefs.

  “I do. That’s not it. I just can’t keep you happy.”

  We both think of me.

  Guilt flares up and dies, and it’s the instinct of my body, of my hot-blooded heritage, that makes me slide a hand over tormented rock star skin. I locate downy hairs at the base of his ass. I wedge an arm under his torso and press my hands past the elastic of his underwear from both sides. Then I stroke, fingers wide, until I’m kneading his butt and he’s pushing against me, member hardening. I meet him, my pelvic bone providing the hard surface he needs to grind against.

  “Aishe,” he breathes. It’s a conflicted exhale, one where pleasure mingles with worry for me and for what we’re doing. I understand it well, but his aroused confusion, how he teeters between right and wrong, makes me wet.

  “Let’s not do this, baby girl,” he murmurs, his strange endearment igniting all of my fuses. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me still as he rolls into me.

  “Why not? We’re good, Emil. I don’t expe
ct anything from you,” I lie.

  “You like me,” he says simply, and what does that mean? Does he not like me? Oh he likes me. My G-string under a short-short nightdress is lowered with impatient fingers.

  He sits up, crouching under the low ceiling. The bus rocks, and in the darkness, I feel more than see him steady himself on the edge while he looks down on me. He must be making up his mind, because suddenly warm hands clench around my thighs and glide upward. I turn on my back and kick my lingerie off—fast—in case he changes his mind. He can’t change his mind.

  Emil doesn’t. A waft of air hits my core first. Even in the dark, he finds my clit instantly and sucks it into his mouth on a hushed moan. My breath hitches, and I bow off the mattress meeting his kisses, licks, his two probing fingers that enter me slowly.

  His body settles on top of me while he whispers, “You’re drenched. You want me that bad?” His question, the fingers that slide between my folds, it makes me stop breathing. With my whole body trembling, he needs no other clue; he knows how women react when we climax. Emil hooks a third finger inside of me and rocks in deep, his hand making a slick squishing sound as he works me through my first orgasm.

  “Shit, you’re so easy,” he praises. “I could look at you and you’d come.”

  I don’t answer, because he’s right—Emil ignites me like no one else.

  “My easy girl,” he teases, the rip of a foil pack telling me we’re at the next level. A hot stab in my lower abdomen makes me whimper with need.

  “I can make you happy for a little bit, at least. How about this?” He bends my knees back against my shoulders, spreading them wide for deep, effortless access. With a jerk, he shows me that he wants my nightgown gone, so I help him roll it over my breasts. He fills his hands with them, groaning too loudly for this small room full of people. I should shush him, but I’m too blissed out over being here with him.

  Emil’s mouth finds mine, kissing and licking his way inside, sucking on my tongue, panting out, “I’m going to take you now, if that’s okay?”

  I bob my head hard, frantically. He pushes my knees back again, making sure I’m positioned how he wants me. Then the bulb of his cock probes me, making my channel give and stretch as he enters.

  “Ah fuck,” he curses like he’s hurting. I rise off the mattress to meet him, but his weight pushes me down, staying deep and rocking on top of me, applying friction and massage to my darkest, most intimate tissue.

  My insides shiver with ecstasy. Every cell in my body is a receptor, alive and absorbent—it’s the love fire—right now, right here, I feel amazing.

  “Damn, Aishe. Don’t contract like that. Are you coming again? Oh dirty girl.” His heated talk causes me to spasm around him. “Delicious. How can I have any type of stamina with you?” His dick grows fat inside of me. Then he stills, waiting out his need to climax, and it’s so hot to me my pulse is racing.

  Shallow pants shiver at my ear as he holds back. “Christ…”

  “Trying to keep it together?” I tease, running my hands over his back, widening my knees to allow him even deeper.

  “Shit. Yes.”

  Emil manages. Slick with sweat, muscles taut with pent-up need, he takes me through another orgasm. During my fourth, when Emil has me facedown with legs tight together so his penetration feels even bigger, I faintly register Troy getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom. Ashamed yet too far gone to let it sink in that he’s heard us, I can’t hold back my own moan when Emil finally comes, all blubbering ecstasy and filthy words.

  The bunk is narrow and the dark hours long, but he doesn’t ask me to leave afterward. I’m delighted, because on the nights he came to me, he would leave as soon as I started to doze off, blaming the uncomfortable sleeping quarters. He spoons me now, our bodies drying together, and when I fall asleep, it’s with his nose nestled beneath my ear.

  AISHE

  The night is impenetrable until a quiet lament interrupts the silence. The air conditioner blends with the bus’ motor, a soothing dissonance we’re accustomed to, but the lament grows, competing with it.

  The sound comes from beyond, from Nadia and Bo’s quarters. It propels my imagination into the woods, to she-wolves in mourning.

  “No! No, baby, you’re okay.” I barely catch Bo’s words, muffled through the door of the back lounge, but then he shouts, “Fuck! Fuck. No. Troll!” And Nadia’s howl is so loud she pierces my ears and my heart and makes Emil shoot up straight in our bunk.

  I sit up too, and Emil rummages for his clothes from the bottom of his bed. Nadia says something, but through her screams I can’t decode the words. It’s not hard to decipher what she feels—pain in its purest form, grief at its rawest. Oh I have heard that sound before. Please God, let me curl into a ball and hide.

  The door slams open, Bo appears, a single lamp illuminating him from behind. “Troll!”

  “I’m here. What can I do?” Troll instantly replies, awake, ready. Our bosses, Bo and Troll, our two leaders, they stand between our bunk beds like half-dressed revolver men without guns. They’re on the same side yet facing off. “Tell me.”

  “Get us to the hospital. Now!”

  Troll doesn’t waste time asking for specifics. He strides out of the bunk area and barks orders at the bus driver, the light of his cell phone gleaming a faded blue square as he types in what he needs.

  I’m confused at the same time as I know. Emil jumps to the floor, dips under my bed, and heaves my overnight bag into my lap. I dress. Curtain half-open, I’m unable to take my eyes off the scene in the back lounge. It should be a romantic setup, the sectional turned into a king-sized bed. Comforter and sheets, fluffy pillows—duvets with heart prints on them, courtesy of Nadia—but the surface is too white, so white it allows red stains to spread wide.

  “Fuck, we need water! Oh shit.” I’ve never seen Bo lose his composure before. He’s on the threshold between Nadia and us, the bathroom beyond, the possibility of water and a washcloth. I’m not sure what he’s thinking.

  Nadia is a writhing ball on their bed. With a hand covering her mouth, she draws her knees up to her stomach. Her howls turn to whimpers, choking with each stab of pain.

  “I— Damn, I don’t know what to do,” Elias mumbles. Even paler than usual in the dim lighting, he voices everyone’s impotence. The men linger, just off the brink to Nadia’s hell, wanting to help yet unable to step into such a private, feminine sphere.

  Bo leaps in, washcloth in hand, the barrier sucking him right back in, because he belongs there too. The lump in my throat grows too big, and in a rush, I think of my mother, of the brother who was never born. My father’s helpless hands in the air. Me on the other side of that threshold, the barrier, a part of my parents’ sadness and yet just not.

  “Today would have been your baby brother’s fifteenth birthday, Aishe. He’d have looked like your father.”

  He would have. Beautiful and fierce and passionate like him. The last time I was there to hear my mother announce my brother’s birthday was five years ago. Minus twenty-nine days.

  He would have looked like Shandor.

  Bo’s got Nadia in his arms. He doesn’t mind the blood seeping into his pajamas pants. We shouldn’t be watching, but their agony is too big, too real, too much to look away from when the doors remain open.

  “Ah! Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby. They’ll help us. He won’t leave. Okay? I promise. I won’t let him leave so soon.” Bo’s words are meant to comfort. How can they though, when they play with reality?

  “But I’m bleeding. He’s bleeding out of me, Bo! He is leaving. Don’t. You…” She’s mad. Her anger dissipates as he folds her into himself, blood on his cheek and on his hands.

  “Goddamn.” Elias trots out of the bunk area and into the front of the bus, starting on coffee. The grinder jumps on the countertop.

  Emil is the first to breach the barrier between us. Two steps into the back lounge, hands meeting the ceiling above, he asks, “Was it planned?”

>   Bo’s head jerks toward him, eyes blazing anger and grief. “What does it matter if he was planned? Of course he wasn’t. It happened, and in the eighteen days we’ve known, we’ve never fucking been happier!”

  Nadia’s sob slices into my bone marrow.

  “Ah shit, Emil. You don’t understand.”

  “Bo, it’s me. You know me. I just ask, okay? T’was only that. I don’t know anything about this shit, and I’m so fucking sorry. I want to be the crazy uncle.”

  The bus does sharp turns, sharper than it usually does.

  There’s speeding, definite speeding.

  Bo holds Nadia. Her sobs are weaker now. No one seems to catch on to how the velvet red of the sheets is too big.

  She’s too far gone for practical thoughts. Everyone’s in the front lounge, everyone but Emil in the doorway and Bo on the bed, holding her and hopelessly cradling her belly like he can prevent their loss.

  “Bo?” My voice sounds unused. I don’t usually take charge, but when we get to that hospital, we better be ready. The frost of his irises flickers from the pillows to me, meeting my stare.

  “Grab your clothes. Take a shower. You’re all…” I stop myself, worried that I’ll upset Nadia more. Her eyes are closed, a deep frown showing her misery. I point at Bo. Point to myself so he knows where to look on his own arms, hands, thighs. There’s so much blood! Bo’s flinch is tempered when he registers the coat of red drying on him.

  Oh my heart bleeds too. Maybe it’s not too late? It would be cruel if there were no hope. Those sheets though, the way Nadia slackens in Bo’s arms turns my hope into an undependable wish.

  “I’ll take care of her. You brought a washcloth right?” I ask, and his nod confirms it.

  “Emil?” I turn to him. He doesn’t leave like the others. He’s here, waiting with us, daunted yet undaunted and wanting to be present for his friends. It makes my fire for him roar taller.

  “Yeah.” His voice is husky. He clears it, blue eyes meeting mine.

  “I need a bucket of nice, warm water with a spoonful of soap in it that’s not too strong. Get me something mild without perfume.”

  He’s already frowning, my demand too specific.