23
His kiss was angry, accusatory. It demanded: Where the fuck have you been? And though he’d technically left me, I accepted full responsibility for our separation and rebuked myself. I would do anything to win him back. Starve for him, slave for him, kill—anything to keep him kissing me.
His lips were plusher than I remembered.
I ghosted mine against his, enjoying the sensation elicited when they brushed unhurriedly.
It was a tender game recalled from my teens.
Before our kissing felt like a mortal sin.
He pressed past my feathery overtures and brought our mouths together more firmly, demanding my tongue.
Flicking it with deep, visceral strokes until we lost our breath.
All that baffled me the first time we kissed surfaced again.
His boyish persistence. The dull jab of his erection.
The taste of male, peculiar and alarming.
I knew I was surrendering to the sort of deviance prohibited in Scripture.
I knew it was a gateway to transgressions far more pernicious.
Been there, done that. I’m told my soul will bear the toll.
Still, there was no pulling back once we got going. It’d always been that away.
Already it was beginning to destroy my life, unleashing a landslide of repression that now threatened to pummel me. I nearly tossed my arms up over my head to ward off the onslaught, losing touch as soundbites from the last five years filled the silence around us.
Fuck’s sake, he was still going. My stomach was in knots.
The blood in my legs grew syrupy and slow.
Rome oozed his way inside at a measured trickle.
Lethal injection. He would not be satisfied until he had consumed my life again.
I supposed if that happened, it’d be a greater commentary on the fiber of my character than his.
Was I so stupid I intended to let him have his way? After everything?
I smelled the dirt and leaves around us, and hints of Mila's perfume. It didn’t occur to me he’d kissed her only moments before.
In the rose-tinted haze of my mind, his lips had never touched another.
It wasn't for me to taste her, it was for her to taste me.
I'd been there first and would be there long after, or so his touch assured me.
Now he kissed me like I had never not belonged to him.
“Rome…” I marveled, warm all over and fatigued.
Peppering his lips. Relishing the intense intimacy and abandon.
Oh God, he was kissing me. Even with Mila so close at hand.
In fact, because of it. It was an apology for subjecting me to her unannounced visit.
Neither of us had anticipated her showing up.
Neither of us had anticipated betraying her either.
Two years of estrangement undone by one decisive act.
I wasn't fooled though. I knew his touch, however relentless, imparted lies. It was always so. It told me no one had usurped me, despite her being mere yards away. It told me he’d never gone, although I’d spent so many nights alone, aching and clinically depressed.
On the mend. I was in no position to pretend 2016 hadn't happened, no matter how much he willed me to.
We took a breath and I struggled to stand upright; knees atremble.
All I could hear was the rustling of our clothes and the evening wind.
He slammed my hips into his. His tongue slowly reclaimed my mouth.
I parted my lips, allowing him to indulge like it was the first hit of a drug he’d rehabbed from.
When I broke the kiss and tossed my head back for air, he sucked my throat like a madman.
Teeth raking and breaking the flesh until I brought my mouth to his again.
His groans made my guts flip with the anticipation of being undressed.
“Rome…”
He rubbed the back of his knuckles down my hardening bulge, before relinquishing all pretense and grabbing it full-on. My breath hitched. I sank further into his palm, grinding with a whorish abandon.
“Mm, baby…” he sighed, clutching me until it hurt.
Close to losing it, I grasped every part of him I could get my hands on—neck, biceps, waist—nearly lifting him off his feet with two fistfuls of his ass. Finally, he grabbed either side of my face and gaped, rather deliriously.
"Don't..." was all I could mutter. "Rome?"
He didn’t answer.
"Rome...c’mon…don’t stop...please..."
He slammed his forehead to mine. After lying against me in indecision, he kissed me more savagely. I stumbled back into the slope, allowing him to take control, although his attention had become punishing.
“Hey…?” I whimpered.
He grabbed me by the scalp and bit my lip with such violence I cried out.
I was so dizzy I could hardly see straight.
My wail seemed to jar him back to reality.
As we returned from the darkness of the last few moments, his grip eased.
He brushed our noses together and whispered Rafe repeatedly, toying with the sound in a tempered elation.
Like he was breaking a hundred-year vow of silence.
I was hesitant still. As always with him, the euphoria faded.
I was beginning to feel picked over and confused.
In a flash, he snatched me up by the collar. Two fistfuls of my shirt clenched between his hands. They were atremble with rage. The eyes had become slits.
"Fuck you..." he spat.
I swallowed thickly, unsure of how to respond. How long had he been holding that in? Who exactly had it been aimed at? Though he seemed on the verge of exploding, he never did. His fists slowly unclenched my shirt. He smoothed it absently back into place, before staggering away.
***
Later when I arrived home, I didn't bother calling. I was too freaked out. He was pissed at me for whatever reason, and I didn’t feel like deciphering it through the prevarications of polite discourse.
He’d simply pretend it never happened like he always did.
Worse, I could see him regretting our reuniting at all.
Already I could see the text flashing across my screen.
'Today was a mistake,' it would say. 'I can't do this. I can't see you anymore.'
For the next few hours, hysteria overtook me. I panicked anytime my phone rang, dreading the pending breakup. I feared becoming Piper 2.0, unable to ever see him again, simply cut off with a single cold text. Unlike her, I wouldn't survive it.
The only way I could sedate myself was to drink. So I got wasted and called him like it was 2013. He didn't answer and my panic deepened. I called several more times in a row, all to no avail.
I put on music to supplement the alcohol, and took several shaky breaths until the shivering stopped.
"Oh What A Night" by The Dells cast a spell. I lay back across the center of my bed in total darkness, the bottle of tequila at my hip. The trumpets transported me to the 50s. A dimly lit club in Harlem at closing. I could smell the ammonia cleaning solution. The lustrous wooden chairs were already atop the tables. I was seated at the bar, unwilling to part. I might’ve stayed all night if I could, despite the grim barkeep shooting me angry glances as he cleaned the glassware.
My phone rang and it was him. Thank fuck. The club disintegrated and I looked around to find that I was back in the Hills, lying in the unflinching shadow of my own room.
"Hey..." he said. I hadn't heard his voice through a phoneline in years. "I’m so sorry I couldn’t answer…Mila was still around."
I opened my mouth to reply, but shut it again. I hung up and got stupidly emotional. Within seconds I called back, no more prepared to speak than before, but I was anxious to have him on the other line again. The second I heard his voice, I wept.
"Hey..." he said softly. "I’m so sorry, sweetheart." I threw the bottle of tequila against the wall, and it was so solid it didn't shatter. Instead, it left a crater. Unable to get ahold of myself, I hung up.
Patsy Cline's "She Got You" ran its course and deepened my sorrow. Before I could dial him back, he texted me a smiling poop emoji. I hated him. I laughed and wiped my tears away. He answered my call again. It was 3AM, but he kept answering anyway.
"Rafe..." he said at last. "I know."
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes into my ears.
"You don’t have to say a word…" he whispered. Finally, he told me he wanted to see me again, and it was all I needed to hear.
***
The next afternoon, John came by unannounced since I'd missed four of his wake-up calls. He stood at the foot of my bed, blaring an ambulance alarm on his phone until I started awake. After panicking in vain, I threw a pillow at his head.
"Mornin', sunshine!" he shut it off with a ridiculous laugh and plopped down onto the foot of the bed.
"Mate, you're so annoying."
"Is there any other way to be?! It's a new day! The sun is shining!" he declared, snatching the covers off me. I scooted towards the head of the bed and curled into a ball—shivering in nothing but my briefs.
"Go away."
"Y'sure about that?" he chuckled. "I come bearing news."
"Don't want it."
"Sure you do."
"Nope, pretty sure I don't."
"Whelp, alright then. I'll just tell Spielberg you declined the miniseries. It's a shame though—"
I was up in an instant, groggy-headed; temples pounding. "What'd he say?!"
"Ah ha! Thought that'd get you..."
"Mate, c'mon!" I knelt in the center of the bed and watched him milk my suffering as long as possible. "Talk to me, Jonathan, give me some good news, mate..."
"It's yours. You got it."
"Ahhhhhhhhh!" I screamed, jumping up and down on the bed, not caring that I was intensifying my migraine. "Fuck yesssss! I knew it! I fooking knew it, mate!"
He made a show of applauding, then took his jacket off and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. "We've got work to do."
"Tell me about it," I agreed, sinking back onto my knees, nearly puking from the motion sickness.
I didn't have to say anything. John hopped into action.
He fetched me aspirin and a bottle of cold water which I drank straightaway.
Then I lay down while he cooked me breakfast and charged my phone.
Hands down, he was the best, most versatile manager on the planet, and he was pretty decent in the kitchen too.