A Flawed Heart (21 page)

Finally I reach him and grab his hand, using all of my
strength to force him away from the fire. His eyes are red and wet with tears.
Sadness and rage battle across his soot covered face.

“
Jason, please come with me. You don’t belong here
anymore. This isn’t you. We have to go. I can take you somewhere safe.”

I wake up with a start. I’m alone. I blink and pat the
sheets next to me, crinkling my eyes at the empty space with expectance, as if
it would hear and answer my unspoken question,
Where’s Jason?

A rush of panic floods through me as I look to the door, and
then the floor. His clothing litters the carpet. My eyes adjust to the sunshine
that streams through the window. I stand up and
stretch,
and my muscles remind me of what Jason did to my body last night. Then, I hear
the steady rhythm of water running.

The door to the bathroom is unlocked, and I open it. Warm,
moist air puffs out, and I hear Jason humming to himself. I push the door open
further, and reach my hand out toward the white curtain. It snaps open, and I
gasp.

I’ve seen Jason wet and I’ve seen him naked, but Jason in
the shower, covered in soap and glistening, takes my breath away. He smiles
brightly and winks at me.

“Take your clothes off and get in here.”

I acquiesce, and slip my top and shorts off. My desire to
get a better view of his body overrides any self-consciousness. The hot water
rolls down my skin, and the pleasurable feeling it brings invites me further
into the shower. Jason draws me into him—the magnetic pull between us ever
present. I fit against him and enjoy the feel of his skin, as he embraces me
underneath the stream of water.

We stand together is silence, flesh pressed to flesh. I feel
him getting hard against me, and I smile knowing that just my mere presence
makes him feel that way. I pull my head back to look up at him, and find him
gazing at me. His eyes are soft with what I can now say is love, and I can’t
look away from the calm that rests where there was once chaos. The fire in his
eyes is not diminished, but different—the blaze now smolders with warmth rather
than devouring the vessel that holds it.

His fingertips leave my sides and touch my face. He studies
me as I do him, as if we were seeing each other for the first time—new but
familiar, like old friends meeting again in another lifetime. I push up onto my
tiptoes and strain to meet his lips. He meets me halfway, and the kiss we share
begins slowly, with a pace that exists between two people who have chosen each
other and know that their choice is right. His hands run through my wet hair
and down my back.

“Everything feels so different now,” he whispers to me, but
it feels as if he’s speaking to himself.

He turns me around so I’m directly beneath the stream of
water with my back to him. His hands slide over my slick breasts and down
between my thighs. His hardness presses into my back as his fingers caress my
wet lips. I turn my head and he touches his mouth to mine, kissing me over my
shoulder, his tongue sliding against mine, first with tenderness and then
hunger. He grips my hair and holds my head still as he deepens the kiss even
further, and then slides his hard length inside me. I cry out and place my
hands on the tile to steady myself. Jason’s pace is unhurried. Each slow,
gentle thrust almost lifts me off the ground. His cock presses against my ever-present
ache. My physical need for him is never satisfied—I always crave more. I always
want to feel him deeper inside of me.

“You’re so sexy. You’re body—so fucking beautiful, so
perfect.” His hands skim my flesh, and stop above my pounding heartbeat. “But
your heart…your mind…
this
is what I
love about you. Your beauty is secondary to what’s in your soul—the way you see
me, it makes me feel hope. I want to be good for you, Claire.” His hot lips
press into my shoulder. “I can’t lose you.”

He thrusts deeper, and his pace becomes quick and hard. A
moan escapes me and reverberates throughout the room. “You’re mine. Do you hear
me? You’re mine. I love you. You’re mine.”

His body crashes against me as I try to steady myself, the
pleasure he’s making me feel renders me speechless and, I can barely respond to
his declarations of ownership.

“Yes, I’m yours. I’m yours.
Always.”
I should feel overwhelmed by the weight of the words we’re uttering, but I’m
not—they’re true and my heart sings knowing that we both feel the enormity, and
the permanence of this.

He moves faster now and digs his hands into the soft flesh near
my hipbones. He pulls me into him as he thrusts and I feel faint and dizzy as
my orgasm rips through me. Jason pulls out and I feel him stroking himself
quickly until he releases onto my back. He groans with pleasure and turns me to
face him. His mouth consumes mine with a passionate and furious kiss.

After the
best
shower of my life, I retreat to Lydia’s
room to dress. I grab some jeans and a t-shirt from her closet and look down at
me feet. My red toe polish is all chipped. I rummage in Lydia’s bathroom and
find polish remover and a shade that closely matches what I have on, and sit on
her bed to repair the job.

“I could help you with that.”

Jason is spying on me from the doorway to Lydia’s room. He
leans against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. His hair is tangled
on his head, and his muscular upper body is sheathed in dark blue cotton. His
mouth curls up in a smile as he ogles my feet.

The idea of Jason painting my toes strikes me as oddly
erotic. I hold the bottle out to him, gesturing with my eyes for him to go
ahead. I slide back on Lydia’s bed as Jason stalks toward me. My breath leaves
me as he crawls across the comforter and reaches toward me. My skin anticipates
his touch but is disappointed when his hand extends past where I’m seated and
touches the stereo beside Lydia’s bed. He pushes a button and Van Morrison
softly fills the room. He places a quick kiss on my forehead and retreats to
the bottom of the bed, sitting cross-legged as he takes my foot in his hands.
He slides his thumb from my heel to the ball of my foot as he kneads the skin.
His touch makes me tingle everywhere, and my breath gets quicker as I watch him
massage me.

“Have I ever told you that you have lovely feet?”

“No, but I’ve noticed you looking at them.”

“Like everything else on your body, Claire, they are
stunning.”

He brings my foot up toward his mouth and his sweet lips
gently kiss each toe, one at a time. His gaze stays on mine as I watch his pink
lips brushing against my stark, white skin. He places my foot down and picks up
the other, repeating the motion of rubbing, and softly kissing. He removes my
old polish with a cotton ball and the ice cold of the liquid on my sensitive
skin makes me shiver. He slips small pieces of the soft white cotton between
each toe and laughs as I squirm from how ticklish it feels. He opens the polish
and begins to paint my nails as if he’s done it a thousand times before. I’m
trying to hold still in spite of the fact that the sight of Jason at my feet is
indescribably hot.

I smile as his brow furrows in concentration—my pedicure is
now Jason’s masterpiece. I look around Lydia’s room and see a picture of Daniel
and Eileen.

“So, when is Daniel coming home from work?”

Jason doesn’t flinch or look up at me.
“Probably
not until this afternoon.
He’s coming to Brooklyn for Lydia’s art show
in a couple weeks.”

“That will be nice. Are you excited to see him?”

“Excited? No. Our relationship is strained, Claire. I think
I’ve explained that to you.”

This may not be the best topic of conversation, and I don’t
want to upset him right now, but helping Jason to heal his relationship with
his father is important to me.

“Your daddy loves you, you know. I can see it…his love.
Sometimes, it’s hard to see things that are too close to you.”

He stops painting and looks up at me. Anger flashes through
his eyes, but it quiets and he sighs. “I suppose that’s true. I could make more
of an effort to…forgive him.”

He closes up the polish and begins to blow across my feet,
drying my freshly painted toes with his sweet breath. The sensation is heaven.

“I think you may need to forgive yourself first,” I say.

His eyes bore into mine and the anger returns. His grip on
my foot tightens and for a moment I fear I’ve said too much.

“I wish that it were that easy.”

“I know how you feel, but carrying this around—the anger and
guilt—it doesn’t change anything. What’s passed is past. They’re not coming
back. All we can do is move forward.”

I choke a little on these words as the wound that’s buried
in my own heart makes its presence known. He returns to his task, and we sit
together in silence while the polish dries. I think I’ve said enough on the
subject…for now.

“So, we should be heading back to Brooklyn soon, huh?” I
ask, changing the subject.

“No. I have something else planned for you.”

His mood changes from pensive to enthusiastic, and he leaves
his post at my feet to crawl up beside me.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s still your birthday weekend. I have another
surprise for you. Let’s get ready to go.”

I wait in the foyer with my eyes closed for what feels like
forever. My leg shakes with impatience. Jason rummages around in the kitchen,
and has forbidden me to peek at what he’s doing.

“Don’t fucking peek. I will be seriously pissed if you peek.”

“I said I’m not peeking, Jason. Jesus.”

Finally, I hear him approach and take my hand.

“Okay. Open.”

I open my eyes and find Jason standing next to me with a
large backpack slung over his shoulder, stuffed to the brim. He looks giddy
with excitement, and I smile at how adorable he is.

“Let’s go.”

I follow him out of the lobby, and into the beauty of the
day. Jason has his sunglasses on, and I’m not surprised to see several women on
the sidewalk undress him with their eyes.

We cross the street and enter Central Park. The leaves on
the trees are abandoning their green in exchange for yellow, orange and red.
There’s a solemn group of people gathered, staring down at the ground. I’m not
sure what’s happening and I look to Jason for an answer. His eyes are concealed
behind his aviator glasses, and his face gives nothing away. As we get closer,
I see candles scattered across the ground like dandelions in the grass. There’s
a mosaic embedded in the pavement of the walkway and I let go of Jason’s hand
to get a better look.

Imagine
is all it says.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“This is a memorial to John Lennon. He lived right there in
that building. He was killed right outside.” He points to a building in the
distance and takes my hand in his again and we continue into the park, turning
into an open field.

I see a sign declaring that this place is “Strawberry Fields”.
I doubt Jason realizes the poetry of taking me to this place so close to the
anniversary of my father’s death, but maybe he does. We cross the grassy area
where groups of people occupy blankets throughout the field. I trip over my own
feet as I maneuver through the uneven ground and Jason grabs my waist, laughing
at my clumsiness. He drops the backpack and pulls a knitted blanket out. I
watch as he battles the fabric, trying to spread it in spite of the blustery
fall wind. I laugh at his effort, and extend my hands to catch the edge of the
blanket and help him.

We
sit together, and he takes random items from the bag—a bottle of Vitamin Water,
a flask filled with God knows what, two peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and
some Oreos.

“I know this isn’t exactly gourmet, but it’s all I could
find in my dad’s kitchen.”

“It’s perfect,” I say, smiling at his effort.

We eat and lay back on the blanket, cuddled together and looking
up at the sky. Tiny, white clouds journey past us, the wind blows through the
trees, and the leaves rustle.

“It’s like a song,” he says.

“What?”

“The wind.
It’s like a song. I love
coming here, and just listening. Ambulance sirens, kids laughing—it’s all music
to me.”

“What was your favorite part of growing up in the city?” I
ask.

“I only realized it recently, but I think it’s the people. I
know that’s hard to believe, most people think New Yorkers are nasty bastards.
But everyone you meet here has a story to tell—a version of this place. This
city is different for everyone, but we are all bound together by it. New
Yorkers will defend this fucked-up island till their death, because of that
bond.”

He fumbles is his bag and pulls out his iPod. He gives me
one of his ear-buds and sweet music fills my ears.

“So did you have a happy birthday?” he asks.

“I had the
best
birthday. Thank you.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. I don’t
recognize the number, but answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Claire.
It’s Tony.”

“Oh…hey, Tony.
What’s up?”

“I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I went up to
your apartment to look for you, and Lydia said you were in the city for the
weekend.”

“Yeah, I’m with Jason.”

“Well, I just wanted to say happy birthday, and I’ll see you
when you get back.”

“Okay. Thanks, Tony.”

I hang up and turn to Jason, who is clearly enraged.

“What was that about?”

“He was just calling to say happy birthday. He’s my friend.”

I see Jason’s jealousy bubbling inside of him like lava, and
I’m waiting for the volcano to explode. He lets out a long breath. “I don’t
like that kid. I’ve told you before. But I know he’s your friend…or whatever.”