Falling Under (23 page)

She’s rolling on me now, riding me in a hard, fast rhythm, leaning back and balancing, riding, grinding, taking everything she wants from me and giving me what I need so badly in doing so. It’s all of us, an us that’s fused, two beings merged and made one. I’ve heard the lines about how sex is a man and woman becoming one, and I never got it, scoffed, made fun of it, but
god,
do I get it now. This is so, so intense, almost frightening how intense. How much I feel every particle of her soul within me, how I know she’s consuming all that I am and that I have absolutely no wish to take myself back. I’ve never belonged, never fit, never been a part of anything. Now I do, now I’m part of an “us” with Kylie, and I’m totally abandoned to it.

I watch her come. It’s honestly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t quite scream, but the sounds she makes are loud and breathy and desperate, and her hips are rolling violently on mine, grinding with my cock deep inside her, and she’s clawing at her own body, as if there is a fountain of fire inside her and she’s got to get it out any way she can. Her hands lift her own tits, crush them as she whimpers and moans, riding me wildly, and I can only match her thrust for thrust, and I feel my own release pouring through me. I grip her hips and jerk her down onto me, drive up into her, and the groans coming from me are her name, chanted the way she did mine last time.

Her eyes are open and watching me, and I can’t take my gaze from her, even though as I come my instinct is to close my eyes. I keep them open and let her see into me as I release. Our hips meet in slow clashing stuttering grinding, and then we go still and she collapses on top of me, panting. Her weight on me is nothing at all, and I hold her, smoothing her hair back and scratching her back and caressing her ass.

“That was even better than the first time,” she mumbles. “I can’t wait to see how good it is next time.”

“Me, neither.”
 

“Can I just sleep here?” She burrows into me, and I hold her tight.

“Yeah, babe.” I feel myself slipping out of her, and grimace. “Let me just get rid of this.” I pull out, and she shifts forward so I can pull the condom off, tie a messy, clumsy, but effective knot it in and stuff in the crack between the bed and the wall to throw away later.
 

“I don’t wanna ever move. I wanna stay here forever, just like this,” she murmurs into my ear.
 

“Me, too.”

Silence stretches between us, comfortable and easy. I feel her slipping into sleep, and I know I have to stay awake to make sure she’s home on time. It’s hard, though. She’s a warm, comforting weight on me, her hair tickling me, her breath on my neck, her hands affectionate and tender in my hair, curled by my face. Nothing has ever been this perfect. Nothing.

I pull the flat sheet up to partially cover us, and feel myself getting drowsy. I try to stay awake, but it’s futile.
 

I’m woken by the front door opening and closing, the sounds of Mom coming home early, setting her things down, lighting a cigarette. I glance at the clock: 1:39. Shit, Kylie has to go.
 

I hear my door open, and Mom squeaks in surprise when she sees the naked girl asleep on top of me. “Close the door, Mom.” I say it calmly, although I’m anything but.

Kylie jerks awake at the sound of my voice, twists to look, and I feel her go tense. “Shit.”
 

She rolls off me and tugs the sheet over herself. “Mrs. Hyde—” But Mom is closing the door, and we’re alone again. “Oh, my god, Oz. She saw us. I’m so embarrassed!”

“It’s okay, babe. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.” I brush a lock of hair away from her eyes. “It was good timing. though. It’s getting late.”

Kylie glances at the clock. “Dammit, I do have to go.”

I groan. “Yeah. I don’t want you to, though.”

“Me, neither.”
 

I stand up and hold my hands out to her, help her stand. We both dress, and then we leave the sanctuary of my room.
 

Mom is sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer, the TV tuned to some reality show rerun, a bunch of rich bitches yelling at each other. She glances at us as we emerge, and the air in the room gets very, very awkward. “Hi. Um. Oz. Who’s—who’s this?”
 

“Mom, this is my girlfriend, Kylie Calloway.”
 

“Hi. Um. How’s it going?” Kylie clearly doesn’t know what to say, how to act, whether we should address what just happened.

I decide to tackle it head on. “Look, Mom, about just now—”

Mom holds up her hand to stop me. “Oz, you’re an adult. We don’t need to talk about it. I’ll knock from now on, and you keep your door closed.”

“Thanks, Mom.”
 

“You are being…safe…right?” Mom says through a cloud of smoke.

“Yes, Mom. Promise. Now we’re not talking about this anymore.” I put my hand to Kylie’s back, nudging her toward the door.

“’Bye, Mrs. Hyde,” Kylie says.

“Call me Kate. See ya later, sweetie.”
 

I walk Kylie to her car, make sure she gets in, and lean through the open window. “Lock your doors, and go through the red lights if there’s anyone nearby.”
 

“Oz.” She runs her hand through my hair. “I wish I could stay. I wish we could just…never have to do this. Never have to say goodbye.”

“I know. Me, too.”
 

She makes a face, scrunching her eyebrows and pursing her lips. “Your mom took that better than I expected.”

“Well, we’re basically just roommates at this point. I only moved here with her and live with her to help her out with rent and bills. I live my life, and she lives hers.”

“So she’s really just…your friend?” Kylie asks.

I don’t answer for a long time. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

Kylie shrugs. “No. I’m just curious.”

“I guess you could say we’re friends. But there’s a lot she’s always refused to tell me. I know absolutely zip about my father, and she won’t ever tell me shit. I know I’ve mentioned this. I don’t know much about her, either. And I sure as shit don’t tell her about my life. So…friends? To me, friends share things. Tell each other shit, whatever. Mom and I don’t do that. So are we friends? I don’t know. I’ve never really had any friends, so I’m not sure I’m the best judge of what a friend really is. She’s my mother, and my only family. She’s the only constant I’ve ever had in my life. In her own way, she’s reliable. She’s kept a roof over my head, food in my belly, clothes on my back. She didn’t, like, abuse me, and there was never a constant train of boyfriends. I don’t know if she’s ever had a boyfriend, actually. If she has, I haven’t known about it.” I realize this as I’m saying it, and I’m not sure what to think or feel about it all. “So she always…fulfilled her responsibilities as my mother. She made sure I went to school, packed my lunches, kissed me if I got hurt as a little kid. But…are we
close
? I don’t think I could say we are. Not like you are with your folks. I think Mom and I are…just two people thrown together by fate.”

Kylie shakes her head. “That’s kind of sad, Oz.”
 

I shrug, going for a nonchalance I don’t entirely feel. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. It is what it is.”

Kylie frowns. “I hate that phrase. It’s an excuse to accept something that isn’t always acceptable.”

“What am I supposed to do about it, Ky? I can’t change Mom. I can’t change the past. Sometimes you really do just have to accept the unacceptable.” The bitterness in my own voice, the jaded apathy…it disgusts even me.

She tugs on my hair, which is still loose around my shoulders. “I wasn’t—I was just talking about that phrase. Not about you or your life, Oz.”

I sigh. “I know. Talking about Mom makes me a little crazy sometimes.” I lean in through the window, and she tilts her chin up to meet my lips. “Go. Be safe.”

“I’ll text you when I’m home.”
 

I nod and step back, watch her twist in her seat to look behind her as she backs out, then go back inside to my room, marveling at my life, what it’s become. For the first time, I’m starting to see something like potential. Like life isn’t something to just
get through
, but something that could be…enjoyable.
 

The hope germinating in my chest scares me, because it’s such a fragile little shoot, tender and green and new, and the slightest breeze could kill it. And the many bones in my darkened closet ache from the impending storm.

TEN: Tension in Your Gut

Colt

Sometimes, your gut is tense. For months, or weeks, it’ll be just this ache, this emptiness, this sense of something
coming
. I hate that feeling. It’s like knowing you’ve forgotten something, but not knowing what. Like that moment, that split second when you look in your rearview mirror and you see the car behind you coming way too fast, and you’re stopped at a light and you know there ain’t dick you can do to stop the crash.
 

It’s not Nell. Nell is fine. She’s herself, doing what she does. It’s not us. We’re great. We’re in love. We fuck each other senseless several times every week, and we never get tired of it. It’s not me, I’m just…me. I tinker with my Triumph, which is almost done. I work with The Harris Mountain Boys, getting their album cut so we can really get this tour going.
 

So then…what is it?
 

Kylie, Oz, and Ben. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I know Kylie and Ben had that shitty argument in my garage, and I haven’t spoken to Ben since. He goes to classes, football conditioning, works out. But he’s just drifting, I think. I see him on the front porch, and I get the sense that he’s fuming, stewing. Brewing and brooding. And I know better than anyone that brooding doesn’t do shit.
 

Kylie is giddy. She comes back from seeing Oz and she’s glowing. She really likes that guy, and he seems to be doing good things for her. So…good for him. Good for them. I like seeing my daughter happy.

She’s in the basement every spare moment, practicing like mad for their gig, bringing Oz over for jam sessions that last into the night. Then she goes home with him and doesn’t return till late. I’m not an idiot, of course, but what’s a guy to do? She’s graduating in a few months. She’ll be off to college somewhere soon, and that’ll the be the end of me having any kind of day-to-day influence on her. At least right now I know when she comes and goes and who she’s with, and I can sniff her clothes when she passes me, smell her breath and watch her eyes and listen for the slur in her speech. And, so far, no warning signs.
 

Just her, happy with Oz.
 

And Ben, brooding.

And the feeling like something is coming. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know when it will happen.

But, worst of all…I don’t think there’ll be anything I can do about it.

ELEVEN: Falling Under

Oz

It’s Thursday, seven fifty-eight. The bar is buzzing, humming. Busy. Not insane, but a lot of people in varying stages of intoxication. All of them, it seems, are eyeing Kylie and me with idle curiosity. Nell and Colt are sitting at a little round table a dozen paces from the low stage, sipping on draft beer and chatting quietly as they wait for Kylie and me to start.

We’ve plugged in, tuned up, arranged sheets of music, gone over our set list, checked that our mics work and all that necessary pre-show bullshit. Now it’s time to start performing. This isn’t an open mic night. They’re just strangers with no vested interest in Kylie or me or our music. We’re about to play for money like real professional musicians.
 

Shit, I’m gonna puke.

Except I can’t. I take a deep breath, flip my pick between my fingers, and lean in to my mic. “Hey, everybody. How are ya’ll doing?” I look out at the crowd and a few people glance our way, there’s a couple random claps, and a whole hell of a lot people just ignoring me. “Okay, cool. So I’m Oz, and this is Kylie. But you don’t really give a shit, do you? Not yet, at least. So let’s just jam, huh?”
 

I tap my index and middle fingers against the guitar just beneath the bridge in a quick three count, glancing at Kylie sitting at the piano adjacent to me, turned partially toward me and partially toward the crowd. She grins at me, and on three we’re into a cover of “Down” by Jason Walker. The crowd digs it, digs the groove we give it. By the time we finish the song, the audience is starting to pay attention, realizing we don’t suck horribly. We do a few current country songs, stripped down and rearranged a bit for our style. They’re really into us then, shouting out suggestions, whistling, heads bobbing. Kylie and I are both pumped, grinning crazily at each other. This is fun, exciting, exhilarating. I feel alive, as if electricity is running through my veins, as if my entire being is humming, as if I’m sucking the life and the energy and the excitement rising from the crowd into my soul. There are no nerves, no fear, no inhibitions, only confidence. We dive without pausing into one of our original songs, the first piece we played at the talent show. The crowd isn’t quite sure what to make of it at first, but by the end they’re howling wildly.

We let the notes fade, and I shift on the stool, clear my throat, and lean into the mic. “Yeah, so that last song we just did was one we wrote ourselves. We hope you liked it. We’ve got a couple other originals we’re gonna do for you. First, though, this next one is a really cool song by a band called Snow Patrol. This is ‘Set Fire to the Third Bar.’”

There are a bunch of whistles and scattered applause as I name the band and the song. I let Kylie splurge on a set of effects pedals for me, and I’ve been spending the last week playing with those, finally discovering how to get the perfect distortion effect for this song.
 

We shift from that into a few more stock country songs, boring but the kind of thing the crowd can really get into, songs they know and can sing along to, slosh their beers to. Finally, it’s time for a break, and Kylie and I slip out into the alley behind the kitchen. As soon as the door closes behind us, Kylie is jumping up and down, squealing and clapping.