18. ADRIAN
ADRIAN
"Where are we?" Sienna asks, looking around with unsureness in her eyes.
"My house."
She looks at the garage door as it descends behind us, then back at me. Trying to read whether that was the right call.
"I thought you'd want somewhere quiet," I say. "Hot shower. Something to eat." I let a beat pass. "And we need to talk about what happened tonight."
Her eyes widen slightly. Not scared. Surprised. Like she was not expecting me to say something like that.
I need to get out of this car, before I do something stupid. Like kissing her.
The drive from her apartment to here has been forty minutes of torture. Controlling myself not to touch her.
She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, a tired expression on her face, trying not to show how scared she'd been, managing it barely well enough that nobody else would have noticed.
I noticed. I've been noticing everything about her since I walked into that police station and found her standing against the wall in dirty clothes.
I get out and come around to her side. She's already reaching for the handle when I open it from the outside and she looks up at me. I offer my hand. She takes it.
Her fingers are cold.
I hold on half a second longer than I need to, then let go.
Inside I find the lights still on, Miles Davis still playing… and the cat asleep on the sofa. I left in a hurry. Didn't think to turn anything off. I just needed to get to her.
Sienna has stopped in the corridor where it opens into the kitchen and living room. Arms still crossed, hugging herself.
"Do you want to eat first or shower?" I ask.
She flinches. Drops her eyes to herself, noticing the dried dirt on her forearms, the state of her shoes. I see the misunderstanding happen in real time.
I cross the room to her.
My hand goes to her hair picking the strand that's come loose and tuck it back. My fingers catch something small and dry. I work it free and hold it up between us.
A leaf. She looks at it for a second. Then she laughs. Just once, startled and genuine and something loosens in the room.
"I think you might need a long nice hot shower to relax, don't you?" I suggest.
She nods. Quiet.
I take her hand and lead her down the corridor.
My intention at the start is to take her to the spare room. Sensible choice. Private bathroom, a place all to her own. I know this clearly at the beginning of the corridor. Halfway down I pass the spare room without slowing and take her to mine instead.
I open the bathroom door and turn on the light. "Fresh towels in that cabinet. I'll leave some clothes on the bed."
She's already looking past me at the shower and I add, "Take as long as you need."
I stand there awkwardly, looking at her in my space, until I force myself to turn around and leave before I make a fool of myself.
When I’m back in the kitchen the first thing I do is reach into my pants and adjust myself. I’m hard just knowing that she is naked in my bathroom. I shake my head trying to dislodge these thoughts. I need something else to focus on.
I open the fridge.
Still nothing. I close it. Ordering in it is.
I pick up my phone and dial the number of the pizzeria down the block that has staved my hunger many times this late at night.
I don’t really know what Sienna likes, so I’m indecisive but the woman at the pizza place is patient with me. We work through a pizza, two toppings, and another vegetarian option just in case.
Something brushes my ankle. The cat is figure-eighting around my legs, meowing with a conviction that suggests he hasn't eaten in several days, which I know for a fact is not true.
"Can your kitchen do anything for a cat? Prosciutto maybe, or something with cheese. I know he likes brie". There is a pause and then she says she'll check. I thank her and hang up.
The cat hops onto the kitchen stool and settles there with the composure of a king surveying his domain.
"Thirty minutes," I tell him. "Go sit somewhere else."
He blinks. Stays on the stool.
I keep moving, preparing everything. I turn the fire pit outside on. The throw blanket from the sofa goes on one of the chairs. Plates, napkins, two glasses. I find a Barolo I've been saving and decide tonight is as good a reason as any. Miles Davis keeps going.
I'm almost done when I hear the soft sound of someone at the threshold.
She's standing at the edge where inside becomes outside.
My sweatpants low on her hips, several times folded at the bottom, my t-shirt hanging off one shoulder and down past mid-thigh.
Her hair is loose and still damp, falling past her chest, dark against the white fabric.
I didn't know it was this long, I've only ever seen it up.
Seeing her like this, in my space, with my clothes on, makes me groan on the back of my throat. Just when I thought I had my dick under control.
I pick up the nearest throw pillow and strategically fluff it in front of me.
She stays in the doorway, unsure.
I beckon her near with my hand. "Feeling better?"
"Much." A tired smile. Genuine. "Thank you. For everything."
I take her hand and bring her to the chairs by the fire. We sit close. Our knees almost touch. She's watching the flames. I'm watching her.
The doorbell sounds. I get up. I use the thirty seconds it takes me to get to the door and back to remind myself that tonight is about her recovering from a hard experience, needing somewhere and someone safe. That's all.
The restaurant sent a small ramekin of prosciutto and torn cheese with a handwritten note: for the cat.
I stand in the kitchen holding it for a moment, trying to decide whether this is ridiculous or not. I don’t arrive at any conclusion so I just put it on the floor. The cat sniffs it first, looks up at me and he must consider that is worthy of his attention and starts to eat.
I take the pizza outside.
"I always want something greasy after a long night," I say, setting the box between us.
"Pizza is one of my favorites," she says, and takes a slice.
I pour the wine. She eats about half of a slice, then puts the plate down, picks up her glass and turns it in her hands. I watch her not eat for another minute.
"Not hungry?"
"Not really." She sets the glass down. "I think we should just get to the talking part."
I push my plate aside. Wipe my hands. I turn my chair fully toward her and wait.
She takes a deep breath in. "It's true that I was trespassing."
I stay quiet.
"But it was with good intentions. I know that doesn't justify it. Good intentions, hell…and all that." She stops herself. Starts again. "Have you ever heard of Green Guerrilla?"
"No." I admit.
"Yeah, I don't know why you would…" She mutters while watching the fire. "It's a volunteer group. We build green spaces for the public. Mostly in areas that used to be green spaces, but for some reason aren’t anymore. Abandoned lots, public areas that get no attention..."
I can already see where this is going. "And do you have authorization for that?"
"No." She says it plainly, no apology in it. "That's the whole point. We go where nobody else will. Spaces that have been dead for years, nobody using them. "
I catch the word and ask. "We?"
She looks at me. "Yes. We." A pause. "I'm part of the group. In reality I organize most of it. Find the sites, recruit the volunteers, source the plants."
Silence. The fire pops once.
"And tonight?" I prompt.
"An abandoned mall lot on the east side. Private property. The building's been empty for two years, the lot's just cracked concrete sitting there, we were just setting up and then—"
"And then the police showed up." I finish the sentence for her
"The police showed up." she confirms.
I stand up.
I walk to the edge of the patio and back. I need to be on my feet to think. "The report mentioned weapons."
She's out of her chair before I've finished the sentence. "We didn't have weapons." Immediate and certain. "Shovels. Trowels…That's everything we brought." She meets my eyes. "I would never. You need to know that about me."
I cross to her. My hands find her shoulders. She's taut under my palms, waiting for a verdict.
"I believe you," I say.
She exhales, slow and full.
"The gravity of the charges don't match what you're describing. Whoever filed it either misread the situation or blew it up deliberately."
Sienna sinks into her chair. Reliving the night took something out of her. She's tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. She tucks her hands under her thighs and looks at the fire.
I watch her profile in the firelight. The set of her jaw. The way she's holding herself together on almost nothing.
And I can’t hold on any longer.
I go to her and take her hands, pulling her to her feet, and close to me. She comes without resistance, face against my chest, hands gripping the front of my shirt.
I put my mouth against her hair.
"We'll sort it," I say. "It's going to be all right."
She doesn't answer. She grips tighter.
We sway. Miles Davis and the low sound of the ocean past the edge of the balcony.
I know I need to step back. To put some distance between us. To give her time to recover from this. To give me some time to figure whatever this is.
I don't step back.
Her hands tighten in my shirt. She tilts her head up.
I look at her face and bring one hand to her jaw, my thumb against her cheekbone. Her eyes stay on mine.
I bend my head and kiss her.
Slowly, at first. She opens to me immediately and I take my time. Her hands slide up from my chest to my shoulders and hold on. I pull her closer, and she presses into me.
We pull apart. Both of us out of breath.
I move my hands to the backs of her thighs, lifting her and she wraps her legs around me. I sit back on the lounge chair with her straddling my lap, her weight settled against mine. I take one steadying breath through my nose.
I kiss her again, deeper. My mouth at her jaw, the soft place below her ear, down her throat. She tilts her head back, offering herself to me and I follow the angle pulling at the neckline of my t-shirt to get to more skin.
She solves the problem herself, grabbing the hem and pulling the whole thing over her head.
My mouth goes dry. She's not wearing a bra. I reach up and cup her breast in my palm and just look at her for a moment.
"Fuck," I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
She gives me the smallest smile.
I take her nipple into my mouth.
She grabs the back of my head with both hands and her breath breaks in a way that gets me somewhere urgent and low.
I switch nipples and with my free hand I pinch the breast my mouth just left.
She arches into me and makes a sound I'm going to be carrying around for a long time.
I look up at her. Head back, eyes closed, chest rising fast.
My other hand finds the waistband of the sweatpants and slides inside.
I find her hot and wet and I nearly lose the thread entirely.
I set my jaw, trying to slow down, because this is worth doing right.
I work her with my fingers and track every moan, every gasp, where she tightens, where she exhales, the way her hips roll forward asking for more.
Her breathing goes ragged. One hand still in my hair, the other gripping my forearm hard. I press my mouth to the curve of her shoulder and keep going, patient, paying attention, until she's rocking against my hand.
She moves her hand to the front of my pants. Presses her palm against me, slow and deliberate, feeling the shape of me through the fabric, and I exhale hard through my teeth.
"Take me out," I rasp.
She does.
Her hand wraps around my cock and everything sharpens down to a single point. I hold on. She finds her rhythm. Sure grip, unhurried pace, watching my face the same careful way I've been watching hers.
We move together.
She says against my throat, breathless: "Adrian… I’m going to—"
"I know." My thumb tight on her clit. "I’ve got you.."
She comes apart against my hand. Her whole body shudders, grip on me going tight and involuntary, and that finishes it. I follow her with my face in her neck, her name rough in my throat, my arm locked around her.
She collapses against my chest, shivering with small aftershocks while I run my palm down her spine.
I've got you, I think, my mouth in her hair.