The Pool
Karia
In Hotel Number Seven, the version of it that Juliet Rule did not die in—we are in town to gather my things for my move—we swim.
Or rather, I swim, and Sullen watches me in my pink bikini with black bows along the edges.
It’s custom. Versace. A Halloween present from my husband, just like the gold and pink scalpel necklace floating along my throat.
My own poison is inside. For self-defense, he told me.
I pray I never need that again, when everyone learns of my husband’s reputation and how much he’d kill for his wife.
I pop up above the surface of the water and only wince a little when the bite mark on my shoulder blade hits the cool air. Sullen uses his teeth, and he does not miss.
My eyes find his immediately. He is sitting on the concrete, no towel, a hoodie, and black pants. But no bandana. No gloves. And he smiles at me.
“Are you having fun?” he asks softly, his voice still hoarse but clearer, more concise. Some nights lately, he has not shut up. He tells me he loves me. He tells me he loves our life. He tells me he wants to fuck me, and I always, always let him.
I splash over to the ledge, my fingers gripping the wet cement as water rolls down my back and I lift my chin, staring up at my husband.
We married in secret, but Writhe knows. That is all that matters to me.
A fuck you to fuck them, despite the fact we are now on cordial terms. Just barely, still icy, but Von and Isadora have done much work on our behalf.
Cosmo is in New York doing what Cosmo does: performing. It feels as if he is running, but I am no longer an anchor to keep him around.
“So much,” I tell Sullen, and I mean it.
He grins and it is real. Dimples, cheekbones lifting, teeth flashing. He is the most handsome man alive. But as we stare at one another, there is a thud outside the pool room door.
I turn to look over my shoulder. A delivery man, dropping cardboard boxes, no doubt full of supplies for the hotel.
There is a sign on the entrance to this room that declares it closed. It is the only way Sullen feels comfortable with me wearing so little. I baby him. I want to.
But when I turn back, a shadow has crossed his face.
It’s the noise. He startles easily, and sometimes he falls down into a lab. A chair. A darkness.
I reach for him, knowing he won’t mind my wet hand on his knee. “Sully,” I whisper.
He puts his fingers over top my own, as if I am his lifeline. His wide, dark eyes find mine.
“You are okay.” I don’t ask. I tell him. Because he is. He will be, forever, with me.
“Are you?” He gasps it, but he always asks me this. As if he wants to deflect his trauma and ensure I have healed from mine.
I tilt my head. Then I lunge from my place in the pool, water splashing, everything wet, and knock him backward, flat on his back—no longer pierced—with the force of my love as I straddle him.
My palms caress his face. His hands dig into my hips.
My nose is to his, both of us drenched, and he does not care.
He does not care about anything, except for me.
“With you, I’m inside the sun,” I tell him, and I mean it.