Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (28 page)

“Why?” I ask, because I've got my wits back around me. Sort of. It's so hard to breathe in the motel room. It's hard to breathe around him as well. It feels like my chest is crushing in on itself. He huffs out an annoyed breath and tugs at the hem of my shirt. He forces it up and I don't fight him too much. I'm too weak to fight anyway. Eventually he gets it over my head and tosses it on the bed. My tits are bare but I don't move to cover them. He doesn't even look at them. He grabs the dress off the bed and puts it on me, his hands rough and gentle at the same time as he pulls the bodice down over my chest. I just stand there and let him do it.

It fits. It's a bit snug in the chest, but it fits.

The fabric slides down over my hips, getting caught for a second on the waistband of my pants. I push my pants down off my hips and let them slide down my legs. I kick them off, even though the dress clings around my thighs. The room is so humid. The fabric doesn't breathe and immediately I feel a drop of sweat snaking its way down my neck to my collarbone. He steps behind me and his fingers graze my shoulders. Then he softly ties the dress at my neck, knotting it below my hair line.

I can't help but laugh when I see myself in the little cracked mirror in the bathroom. My face is dewy with sweat and reddened with the heat, my hair is wild and the dress is bright white against my tanned skin. I can't believe how strange I look. I barely recognize myself. Behind me, he pulls off his shirt and tosses it on the floor. Then he slips his arms around my waist and presses his chin to my shoulder. His muscles ripple menacingly as he pulls me close.

“Marry me,” he says. He's not asking. And he's certainly not joking.

“We don't have time,” I say, trying to talk some sense into him. We can't get married in Mexico. We have to get the hell out of here. We have to keep moving or they're going to find us.

“One more night,” he says, completely ignoring my concern. He presses a kiss to the spot right beneath my ear. “We'll go in the morning.”

“I want to go now,” I say, my body starting to shake again. “I have a bad feeling.”

“This is what's in the cards for us, Joanie,” he whispers in my ear. “This is what we should've done at the start.”

“Do I have a choice in it?” I ask. He loosens his arms and pulls away from me. I steel myself for his anger, for his violence, something.

“You already made your choice,” he says, fumbling with his pants. He shoves them down and kicks them off. “You're here with me. That's your choice.”

“Only because you decided to come back.” I turn my eyes back to the mirror, not wanting to look at his body. “Two hours ago I was about to leave without you.”

“Why didn't you?” His voice dips low and I suppress the shiver that tried to force its way down my spine.

“You know why.” I tug at the dress, trying to adjust my tits.

“Same reason I came back,” he says, pushing open the shower curtain and turning on the water. The pipes squeal and clank as a stream of water forces its way out. “We're no good without each other.” I watch him in the mirror, even though I don't want to look at him. His words are true, but I don't want to admit it, especially when he treated me like shit and then decided to put a cherry on top. He steps into the shower and pulls the curtain closed behind him, but I can still see him. My eyes run the length of him, without my permission, as he drops his head under the weak spray of water. He's right; without him I'm not half as strong as I am with him. I need him.

But he needs me, too.

I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. Then I run my wet fingers through my hair, forcing it back. There's nothing to do but to pull it back into a low ponytail and get it off my face. I tie it back with band and then I take a step back and study myself, not that it matters. My hair is back and my face is bare. The dress fits me awkwardly. I don't have proper shoes, just flip-flops. I don't have jewelry or perfume or flowers or anything to make this feel more real. There's no photographer or crowds of guests. There's nothing and no one but us.

It's not real anyway, I tell myself. So it doesn't matter.

*****

He takes my hand and leads me through the colorful, loud crowded streets. He doesn't seem to care about being noticed, but it's hard not to dip my head every time I feel someone's eyes on me. We're still too close to Texas for my comfort. I feel like any second, someone could recognize us. Someone could know who we are. It's an afternoon on a weekday and the city is buzzing with activity. Deliveries and street cafes and children leaving school. Everyone is busy with their own lives. No one cares about us. At least that's what I tell myself.

I follow him blindly, not trying to figure out the way we're going. I've already lost track. We've woven through alleys and skinny side streets, but he knows the way. He's nothing if not determined. I have no idea how he's even found someone willing to perform such a ceremony, especially on such short notice. Weddings in Mexico are huge affairs, like everywhere. But there's also a waiting period, there has to be. Just like in the States. There's no way he's gotten the paperwork together, unless he's bribed someone. I have so many questions, but I don't bother asking. I don't think he would answer me anyway.

He's having too much fun. He's too excited.

We turn down a windy side-street lined with colorful buildings and as soon as I see the small, stucco church at the end of the street, I know that's our final destination. It's white washed and the sun shines down on it, making it practically glow with light. As we get closer, I can see that it's crumbling in places. The paint is peeling and the stone stairs that lead to the arched doorway are sloping. The handmade clay tiles in the floor are cracked and broken in places. But it's cool and dark and quiet inside, the feeling of reverence thick in the air as soon as we walk in the door. You could've heard a pin drop, despite the fact that we were just out in the loud city.

There's one big main room, with high, beamed, cathedral ceilings. Rough wood benches sit in for pews and crudely cut stained glass windows line the walls. The church is ancient and it feels like it. It was here way before us and it'll be here a long time after we leave.

“There's no one here,” I whisper and he squeezes my hand. At that exact moment, a tiny woman in all white steps out of the shadows. Her hair is covered and her face is sagging with age. She has a heavy-looking wood cross hanging from her neck. She stands there silently and stares at us, her dark eyes taking us in.

“El padre,” Elliot says, simply. She blinks and then nods slightly. She turns and walks under a sloped doorway. Elliot follows her and pulls me along with him, ducking as we go through the small doorway. The air is still and calm and our footsteps echo as we file behind her down the narrow hallway. She shuffles slowly in front of us and I try to force my heart to slow its beating as well. I don't know why I'm nervous. I tell myself it isn't real, even though it feels real. My first wedding was real and this is just make-believe. We're not even real people anymore. Our names don't even exist, not in this new life. The nun knocks lightly on a thick wood door and then she opens it. Then she nods her head toward the door.

I glance at her as I pass and she stares calmly back. The lines in her face seem to deepen in the low light of the hallway. I don't know why, but her demeanor makes me relax a bit. She seems like she's seen a lot of shit and been through a lot. Maybe she could understand what I've been through. Or maybe not. We step into a smaller room, one that's not as big and airy as the main portion of the church. The walls are stained white and there's similar stained glass windows along the walls that cast jagged reflected color all over the room. There's nothing much in the room but a few wooden chairs, an altar, and a man in black. The priest stands from the wooden chair at the back wall and closes the bible he was reading with a thump. He swipes a white cloth across the back of his neck and looks from me to Elliot.

“A lovely bride,” he says, his voice heavily accented and gravelly, like he smokes a pack a day. It reminds me of my late-grandfather's voice.

“She is,” Elliot responds, glancing down at me. The priest holds up his hand and motions for the nun. She closes the door behind us and I clench my hand around Elliot's. It suddenly feels very real as the priest flips to the middle of this thick bible.

“I make it fast,” he says with a smile. The nun is suddenly right beside me, pressing a white lily into my hand. I stare at her as she lightly nudges me until I'm facing Elliot. I obey and don't fight her, because the whole thing is so strange. I have no idea what to expect. The priest smiles down at me, showing his teeth. The nun pats my arm silently. Elliot pulls me closer to him and then nods at the priest. I run my tongue across my lips because my mouth has gone dry.

This is it.

The priest begins to speak in Spanish and I can only make out bits and pieces, some phrases and some words. Eventually I give up trying to understand what he's saying. I stare down at the lily in my hand. It's a bit wilted, but I can still smell the strong scent of the pollen. I can smell the smoke that lingers on the priest's clothes and thick scent of incense. I can smell the dust and the clay of the tile floor. I can smell the soap and the tangy hint of tequila that still clings to Elliot's skin. I feel tears stinging in my eyes and I don't bother stopping the one that rolls down my cheek. For the first time in a long time, everything seems alive around me.

“No,” Elliot says, stopping the priest suddenly. All three of us look at him in confusion, but he only has eyes for me. I don't look away as he stares into my eyes. I can't. “Not until death. I'll love her even after death.
Despues de muerto
.”

“
Despues de muerto
,” the priest repeats after a moment, his voice somber.

“Forever,” Elliot says, the manic fire flickering in his eyes. I know he's telling the truth. It's both of our truth now. There's no other possibility for us. I'll live and die with this man. We've been linked for so long he's become another part of me, the part that I hate and love in equal measure. When I thought he was dead, I was dead, too, on the inside. I still feel like I'm walking amongst the dead but maybe it won't always be like that. As I stare into his eyes, I feel like maybe there might be a future after all, somehow. So when the priest stops speaking and looks at me expectantly, I know it's time to accept my fate once and for all. It's like I'm on the edge of the cliff again in Alaska, staring down at the jagged rocks and violent sea below. Except there's no going back this time. There's no warm home and safety and security somewhere else. There's only here and now. There's only one way this ends. So I give in.

I jump.

Chapter Twenty

A
clap of thunder is the only warning we get.

A block away from the church, the heavens open up and the rain begins to fall. It only takes seconds before we're both drenched. Elliot runs for shelter, dragging me behind him. I drop the lily from my hand, but I don't stop him. I leave it behind. We dodge other unfortunate souls on the street, looking for a place duck under. I see an abandoned store stall set back from the street and I point to it. He slides his arm around my waist and lifts me up onto the landing and I step back into the half-crumbling stall, under the tin roof. He pushes me me against the concrete block wall behind us, shielding me with his body.

The rain pounds on the tin above our heads and slaps and splashes on the ground. It doesn't take long before streams of water run down the road and puddles push onto the concrete floor at our feet. I stare out at the people running for cover, balling up my hands in the heavy wet fabric of my skirt. I can't look at him, even though he's right in front of me. It's easier to look at other people. Thunder rumbles overhead ominously and a car alarm goes off close-by, making me jump. A drop of water rolls down my neck and makes me shiver.

“Joanie,” he says, his voice low and close to my ear. But I just watch as the sheets of rain beat down on the street relentlessly. I know the rain won't be able to keep up like this for long. It's only a matter of time before it passes. And then we can go back to the hotel room and pack our shit and get the fuck out of Mexico. But he's not content on waiting in silence. “Don't fucking ignore me,” he says through gritted teeth. I scowl at him, finally looking at him for the first time since he slid a ring on my finger during our wedding. His white shirt is plastered to his chest and his face is tight. I don't know what he wants from me, but I don't have anything left to give. “You're my wife now.” He towers over me and his face is in shadow, so I can't read his eyes.

“How much did you pay him?” I ask, ignoring the thrill that runs up my spine as his body presses against mine. “How much did you pay him to do that? It's not legal. There was no paperwork. Nothing legally binding. We didn't even use our real names.”

“It is real, Joanie,” he hisses, slapping his palm against the wall beside my face. “Goddammit, it was us and we said 'I do'. You vowed to be my wife and I vowed to be your husband.”

“I didn't have a choice,” I say, even though that's not the whole truth. It would be a lie to pretend I didn't feel anything when he said he would love me even after death. As the words came out of his mouth, I had never felt more sure about anything. I know for a fact he will love me for the rest of my life. The only problem is I can't figure out for the life of me what to do with all that love. It's so intense and unwieldy and violent and wholly unconditional. His love is terrifying. I can't offer him the same love in return. Not now. Maybe not ever. All I can offer is myself.

“You're fucking lying,” he says, pressing his forehead against my temple and dropping his hands to my hips. “You think I don't know when you're lying?”

“How much did you pay him?” I ask, my knees already starting to shake. The rain isn't letting up and it's drumming so hard on the thin metal roof above us that every other sound but our voices seems to fade away.

“I didn't pay him,” he said. “I told him you were pregnant and didn't want the baby to be born out of wedlock.” I stare at him, trying to figure out if he's telling the truth or not. “I met him in the bar and I bought him a bottle of tequila and a pack of cigarettes.”

“You met a priest in a bar? Are you serious?”

“I wouldn't lie about that,” he says. I shake my head, frustrated at him for a reason I can't put into words. For many reasons. But we're stuck together now. He grabs my hand lightly with his, holding it up to see my ring. It's completely different from the ring that used to be in its place. It's plain and cheap and there's nothing particularly special about it. “The only thing that matters is this,” he says but I don't hear him say the words. I hear it in my mind. His voice is back in the center of my brain, where it used to be. It used to torture me when he was gone, but now a tremor of relief passes through me. It's a good sign, I think. I hate him, but it's comforting to have him inside of me again. I miss the way we used to be connected, like our bodies and brains were on the same wavelength. I haven't felt him in that way in a long time.

He slides his fingers into the bodice of my dress and cups my right tit and I tilt my hips toward him without thinking. My nipples are hard and the wet white fabric isn't leaving anything to the imagination. I know I should to tell him to stop but I don't. When he shoves the fabric aside and sucks the tight bud into his mouth, I dig my nails into his shoulders but I don't push him away. He moans against my skin; I can feel the vibration through to my soul. He sucks hard on my nipple and flicks it with his hot tongue and I feel the arousal unfurling like petals inside me. I don't fight it but I don't welcome it either. He doesn't give a shit either way. He's already grabbing my skirt in his hands, bunching it up and pulling it up to expose my legs. I drop my head back to the wall behind me, not able to fight even if I wanted to.

He drops to his knees in front of me, not caring about the wet concrete or the rain dripping around us from the rusted out holes in the roof. He pushes my legs open and nudges his chin against the soft skin of my inner thighs, the roughness of his scruff sending a shiver through me. The hair on his head is too short to grab, so I tighten my fingers in the collar of his shirt, trying to steel myself against what he's going to do to me. But nothing can prepare me for the first time he thrusts his hot tongue between my lips and drags it over my clit, fast and mean. He's playing dirty and it's not fair, but I still gasp and bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from screaming. It's not fair, but it still feels fucking incredible.

And he knows it.

He slides his hands around to grip my ass, holding me in place for him as he buries his face in my pussy, his tongue thrusting and insistent. The bunched up fabric of my skirt hides his face from me, but I know he's probably smiling. I bet he's smiling as he tortures me, because it's what he lives for. He runs his teeth across my clit and my knees almost buckle. I lean back against the wall for support and he takes advantage, hooking my left knee over his shoulder and steadying me against his body. Then he sucks my clit back into his mouth, the new angle giving him more access to me. And it also gives him access to the back of my thigh. He massages and then pinches the spot beneath my ass as he flicks his tongue against me and I yank hard at his shirt to keep from screaming. I want to slap him, to hurt him, to push him away, but I can't. I still want answers but I feel like I'm never going to get them. It's not fucking fair that he knows my body so well. He has too many advantages over me and I crumble each and every time.

He slides two fingers easily into me. My thighs are wet with my arousal and his saliva and he knows what he's doing to me. He's making me want more of him. He's making me want his tongue and his cock and his hands and his lips. He's making me want all that he has to offer, all over again. And I do. I roll my hips into his hand as he thrusts hard against me. I can feel how ready I am and he can, too. I know he's thinking about fucking me, just as much as I'm thinking about it. It's the middle of the day and we're in the middle of the city, hidden from onlookers by only a crumbling wall and driving rain and yet I still want him to throw my skirt over my head and choke me and fuck me like a whore. I'm his whore, after all. He wants to dress up and pretend that I'm his wife, but it's all the same. We still ended up down in the dirt like the animals that we are.

He teases my clit with his thumb as he runs his tongue up my inner thigh, over the sensitive spot where he bit me the night before. It stings and I squeeze my eyes shut as he sucks at the wound. Then he presses his mouth back to my pussy again and I tilt my hips to meet his demanding tongue. My orgasm is close and I couldn't stop it even if it wanted to. I deserve this; after everything that's happened I deserve to feel something. I've been too numb for too long. It doesn't mean anything but I want it. I open my eyes and the light is too bright. I blink slowly, waiting for my eyes to adjust, my whole body is focused in on his tongue. He is moaning into me, thrusting his fingers and sucking like he knows that I'm close.

That's when I see her.

She's a tall girl with long black hair that hangs down her back. She steps into my field of vision as she hops over the river of water that's overspilling the gutter so her white Keds don't get soaked. She's wearing a short blue dress and carrying a cheap yellow umbrella. She's laughing to herself, despite the fact that the weather isn't cooperating with her day. Her lips are pink and her eyes are innocent. She steps under the cafe awning a few hundred feet away and glances up at the sky, watching the rain which is stubbornly showing no signs of slowing down.

I slap a hand to my mouth to suppress another moan, not that she'd be able to hear me from across the street. But I don't want her to look over and see me like this, with my tits out and my skirt shoved up and panting with pleasure. I don't know why I care, but I do. Maybe I don't want her to be as debased as I am. Who knows the things the girl has seen, but I doubt she's anywhere near my level. I'd probably get on me knees in the street if Elliot asked me to. I'd crawl around in the mud on all fours if it meant that he would make me feel like this. If it meant he would fuck me and treat me like I was the only one on Earth who he wanted. At that moment, I would do anything.

The orgasm catches up with me then, unfurling like a fist in the middle of my body. My knees go weak and I lean against the wall. It feels as if his hands are all over me, touching me everywhere and in the best ways. But his tongue never leaves my clit and I feel my come dripping down my thighs. I roll my head against the concrete, moaning into my hand as the orgasm takes over. I haven't come like this in a long time. I've been used to soft and safe and easy. Making love in that big house in Seattle was never hard. It was never uncomfortable or painful or dangerous. It wasn't like this. It wasn't Elliot, it wasn't his rough fingers or his dirty mouth or his sadistic proclivities. Last night he fucked me like he was trying to conquer me and make me surrender. Today, he fucks me like he wants to make me weak for him and it's working.

The girl across the street still hasn't seen us. She's not paying us any attention; she's wringing out her hair and checking her dress to see how its fared in the rain. I drop my hand to the top of Elliot's head and drag it across the bristly strands. I miss his longer hair. I miss having something to hold onto. In response, he slaps my ass and then grabs it, his fingers digging into my soft flesh painfully. He's not giving in yet, even though my orgasm is ebbing. He still licks and swirls his tongue against me, drawing out the pleasure as long as possible. I roll my head to rest it on my shoulder and I sigh and hold myself as tight as I can, not quite ready to let my climax end. It's only then, that my guard is down and I feel like an open book full of obscenities, that she turns her face and her eyes meet mine.

At first she doesn't react and I know she hasn't fully figured out what she's looking at. But then she does. Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open a bit. I want to look away but I can't. It's humiliating but I don't bother trying to cover up or pretend that we're doing anything other than what we're doing. At that moment, I'm too caught up in the things he's doing to me and the way he's making me feel. It seems like a long time before the girl looks away and then flips open her umbrella and hops off the step and back into the rain. I stare at the place where she was standing as the orgasm ebbs and flows and finally pulls away like a wave on the shore.

Elliot pushes back on his haunches and swipes his arm across his face. Then he stands and pulls me close, cradling my skull with one hand and circling my waist with the other. He hovers his mouth over mine and I can smell me on his skin. “You like when I eat your pussy,” he says and he's not asking. There's no question about it, anyway. I do like it; more than that, I love it. Even when I hate him the most, I still want him to fuck me. I want him to want to fuck me. I want him to want to make me come. “I'm the only one that can make you come like that,” he says and I can hear the unevenness in his voice. He's going off the rails and I can't stop him.

He's already kissing me before I can say anything. He's shoving his devilish tongue in between my teeth and forcing my mouth open wider to accommodate him. He moans into me and presses me back against the wall. The concrete is damp and soaked with rain and it's cool against my overheated skin. The steam is rising between us, from underneath our soaked clothes. I fumble with his shirt, trying to get it open. I want to touch him. When I finally get it unbuttoned, I slide my hands under the white cotton, pressing my palms to the skin of his chest. He moans into me and tightens his hold on me.

It's getting easier to let go. Easier to let him do whatever he wants and to take it. Last night was hard and today was hard, but maybe tomorrow will be a little easier. And then the day after that and the day after that. For the first time, it feels like it won't always be this way between us. Someday, maybe it'll actually be real again. Maybe someday I'll really be his wife and he'll really be my husband. I don't know if the afterglow of the orgasm is shading my perception, but I know that I can't go on like this forever. The anger will have to go somewhere. The grief will fade as well. For the first time since I saw Elliot at the top of the stairs and covered in my husband's blood, it feels different.