17. The Risk is Drowning So I’ll Dive Right In #3
I launched up on my toes as a wave crashed against us, a hard slap that drove us stumbling sideways, salt splashing up into my mouth when I kissed him.
The vast majority of my body was numb, but I felt the pressure of his hands gripping my waist, digging into the small of my back.
I thought of all the horrible things that could be done to a body, the many fragile ways to be overtaken by pain.
I clung to him each time the waves collided with us, cold and unfeeling.
He kissed me back until my lips were raw and sore.
“You’re going to freeze to death.” He was taking short, halting gasps like he was having trouble breathing.
“The monster won’t let you die.” I couldn’t even feel the words as they passed through my lips.
“That’s why I said you’re going to freeze to death.”
I kissed him again and he dragged me out of the water, depositing me against a shoulder of rocks that blocked the wind.
“Come on. Dry off.” He picked his T-shirt up off the sand, using it to scrub my arms hard.
“This was your idea,” I reminded him through chattering teeth, or tried to.
“Yeah, well, I like it.”
“What?”
“This feeling.”
“What, punishment?” The words fumbled out.
He looked at me.
“Anya.” He slid my hair back from my face and said nothing else. I didn’t feel the silence.
Then: “Stay here.” He pulled on his jeans and ran back to the car. I was still too wet to dress, so I kept his shirt wrapped around me for a blanket, or what was suitably close to one.
“Here.” After a few minutes he’d jogged back and handed me a bottle of something that looked impossibly old. “Found it in the glove compartment.”
“Jesus, what is this, Prohibition moonshine?” Whatever. I took a swig. “Fuck—” It went down like Everclear, or gasoline.
He laughed. I thought, again, distinctly: It’s too late. I’ve already said yes.
“Jude.” I reached for my jeans, moving to pull them on. “Jude, I—”
He was watching me, and I stopped. Not just stopped talking.
I stopped pulling on the jeans.
I just … stopped.
Jude looked at me for a long time. I realized I wasn’t sure how long he hadn’t been the monster anymore, or if he ever was.
I took a step back then, inviting him with a glance. He hesitated.
But only for a second. Then he followed, the warmth of him so frustratingly near I almost cried.
His hand wandered down, brushing the heat between my legs as he slid his fingers up my thighs.
I leaned back into the rocks until I found a stable angle; his other hand pressed low on my hip to hold it still.
He shifted one of my arms above my head—the one that wasn’t holding the bottle.
I took a swig with the bravado of a sailor, or a pirate, only to lose my cool the moment his fingers drifted to my clit.
I wasn’t breathing when he slid two fingers into me.
I couldn’t tell you how many times this had happened to me and yet, somehow, I was sure it never had before.
He kept his thumb on my clit, his fingers moving slowly in and out.
The beat of my heart was percussive, unignorable.
Without thinking I’d started to rock into him, grinding my teeth harder as he led me closer to the brink.
His eyes never left mine. Each time I came too near to the edge, he stopped with an almost clinical curiosity, like he was trying to see how desperate I could get before I broke.
I came like a cartoon character, blinking stars. I was still choking when Jude rose to his feet and kissed my forehead, holding my cheeks tightly in both hands.
“Remember this,” he said. “Everything you’re doing is very dumb.”
I took another swig from the bottle, if only for something to do with my hands. “Jude, please. Give me some credit. I already know.” I managed another infernal swallow, thankful for the burn and its temporary heat. “Want some?” I asked, holding the lip of the bottle out to him.
“Fuck no. Be careful with that.” He leaned forward and caught me by the mouth. He kissed me messily, like he was discovering the shape of my mouth by taste, and then wrenched himself away.
He walked, at first. Ambled, I would say.
Then he accelerated to a light jog, and then he ran.
At that point I realized things were taking a turn. “Jude.” I shifted unsteadily to my feet, fumbling for my jeans. “Wait, Jude!”
I heard the sound of the car starting and swore. I was too cold to move with any speed or finesse, and besides, what was the point? I only saw his taillights as he left. I started to laugh hysterically, choking on my own saliva. I doubled over and then sat down hard in the sand.
I don’t know how long I sat there drinking poison. Long enough, I think, to wait for the smiting I deserved, for the evil I’d chosen to align with, the morality I’d compromised for the sake of any number of deadly sins. But later I learned it was barely half an hour.
The EMTs showed up first, followed by a rescue truck. They’d been called by a concerned citizen, they said, which I didn’t bother to question, because by then I was drunk and morose.
The next morning, Sofia Perez was found with her heart cut out of her ribcage and placed in her palm, saltwater spilling from her crudely painted smile.
And just like that, the Santa Ana winds were back.