Friday, May 5
Just after midnight
We keep dancing. The crowd grows, then thins. I sweat through my shirt while Marco spins me around then pulls me back into his chest, over and over. We dance until Ernie himself kicks us out. Then we wander out into the chilly, humid night and I insist we race down to the beach.
“What, you afraid of losing to a lady in overalls?” I tease until Marco finally rolls his eyes in exasperation and unlaces his shoes. I kick off my sandals and we line up next to each other in the middle of the wide, empty street, bare feet on the still-hot asphalt.
“I’m fucking fast,” I warn him again. Present tense.
“Yeah, right, kid.” Marco swings his hat around backward, lowering his back knee to a lunge. “Prepare to get smoked.”
I flip him the bird. “Count us in, then. Stop dillydallying.”
He’s laughing. I make him laugh a lot. “Then stop distracting me! Alright. Okay. Three, two—”
“One!” I scream and I take off, full speed, toward the abrupt, sandy end of the road. The beach is over the dunes and behind a line of reeds. I can almost taste the ocean. I’m flying, my feet picking up and grinding in sand and rocks and gravel with each thundering step.
I haven’t run in months.
The night feels like silk, briny and sweet and featherlight around my body. I lift my arms and throw back my head. I don’t even hear the jangle of Marco’s keys behind me anymore. I’m winning.
My feet hit the sand and I double over, breathless and drunk and dizzy. I’m also laughing; I hadn’t noticed I was laughing. Inertia carries me, head over feet, straight into the reeds. I let out a little yelp, then make an OOFT! sound when my shoulder connects with the sand.
“Nadia!”
“I’m ’kay!” I shout, rolling over to face the sky.
“Nadia!” This time his voice is above me.
“I’m oh-kay!”
Marco’s head pops into my line of sight. He’s standing over me—one foot on either side of my hips—eyebrows knit in concern, chest heaving with the effort of running.
“Nadia, holy shit.”
I’m still trying to catch my own breath. I point up at him, closing only my left eye to keep his head from bobbing and weaving in front of me.
“What is it? Are you okay?” He steps around me and brings a knee down to the sand, a hand to my forehead, the pads of his fingers sweeping down my cheek. His touch is warm, maybe a little clammy.
“I—”
“You’re hurt.”
I shake my head. “I won,” I croak.
His shoulders sag with instant relief. “Jesus Christ, Nadia. Yeah, you won.”
Marco insists there’s a scratch on my forehead that must be disinfected, and no, spit is not good enough. He yanks me to my feet and keeps a steadying hand on my lower back as we walk the block and a half to his uncle’s place, zigzagging and bumping into each other.
“What about my car?” I whine, tossing a pouty look over my shoulder.
“You”—Marco loops his arms around my waist, securing me to his side. He smells like sweet sweat and ocean air—“aren’t driving anywhere tonight.”
While we walk, he keeps his arm around my hips. I push my fingers through the party part of his mullet. He leans his head back into my hand, eyes fluttering shut when my fingernails meet his scalp.
His uncle’s house is an uber-modern, split-level behemoth made of glass and concrete. Marco lets us in through the garage.
“I didn’t even know they had houses like this in Evergreen,” I whisper.
“Rich assholes are an invasive species.”
He leads me to the bathroom in the garage—a bathroom in the garage! I bite my lip to keep from revealing just how gauche I really am while Marco digs around in the cabinet underneath the sink, hunting for antiseptic and a Band-Aid.
“Seriously, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m not even drunk anymore.”
Marco pops up out of a squat, eyebrow cocked. “I’m not sending you home with blood on your forehead.”
I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, face turned up toward him. I close my eyes and let the room swim around me, grounded by the pressure of Marco’s fingertips against my jaw. His shoes squeak on the tiled floor as he adjusts his position. When he speaks, his voice is closer.
“I’m a bad influence on you, kid.”
The alcohol-soaked towelette makes contact with a tender patch between my eyebrows and I recoil at the cold. “Of course you want all the credit for tonight.”
“Stop squirming.”
“We’re in this together. We’re both misbehaving—ow!” I throw my eyes open.
Marco is looking down his nose at me, his thumb pressed into the slight dimple at the center of my chin. A bemused smile flickering on his lips. Slowly, he lowers his mouth until I feel the steady pulse of his breath. My breathing, on the other hand, is quick and ragged.
Then, he turns, the tender skin of his lips grazing my ear. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers.
I swallow. “Okay. Kiss me.”
His fingers flex their hold on me as he turns my mouth to his. The first time our lips meet, it’s so light, I wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the electric pulse between my thighs. The second time, I’m inching forward, dislodging my hands from underneath my legs, reaching for his belt loops. The third time, I’m almost panting.
His fingers migrate; they find the nape of my neck; they burrow into my hairline. He presses his forehead into mine. “Nadia,” he whispers my name, and I know it’s part of a longer thought. I can tell by the way he hangs on to the vowels.
“What?” I drag my hands up over his arms, feeling his muscles tense and relax. “Just say it.”
He makes no move to pull away from me; instead, his lips travel over my cheeks, across my jaw, down my neck, all while he says, “I’m . . . not good at following up. I have a way of taking good people and good situations a-and using them up. Just sucking the fucking life out of them. A-and you’re great. I think you’re fucking gorgeous and funny and smart, but I’m a fucking vampire. I-I just don’t want you to take it personally.”
“What makes you think,” I say, my voice heavy and slow. I don’t pull away. I can’t look at him. “I’m ever going to speak to you again?”
His fingers tighten in my hair.
Our mouths connect; this time, we’re desperate. Messy. Our teeth bump together and the toilet seat groans cacophonously when I pull Marco against me, maybe with a little too much force. My head hits the wall with a dull thud and we both gasp and laugh, and while I curse, Marco’s tongue slides down the side of my neck and then, my overalls are on the floor. His hands are everywhere. Under my shirt, down my thighs. Heavy breathing and sweaty T-shirts and my feet leave filthy footprints across the tile. My body throbs. It’s a new throb. Tomorrow, I’ll be ruined. Broken and battered. But right now, I want it to hurt.
“You can use me,” I tell him. But he’s so very gentle.