Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ROXY
I can't sleep.
My mind is racing with the conversation we had earlier. The plan. The portfolio. The understanding that we don't have to choose one life anymore, we can have both.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake, and I pad quietly down the hallway to the darkroom.
The red light clicks on and I'm surrounded by the photographs again. The crime scenes, the decay, the trucker's rig and cemeteries. All the hidden work I've been keeping secret even from myself.
But now it's not hidden anymore, it's the foundation.
I pull out the boxes I packed when we left the road, the ones I told myself I'd destroy but couldn't bring myself to touch. Inside are more photographs, more negatives and documentation of our journey.
The dead fox from Utah. The first thing that drew Dom to me.
Roadkill from Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico. The small town where we killed Carl. I didn't photograph the body as it was too dangerous, but I photographed the store afterward, the parking lot, the empty street where we escaped.
Environmental decay studies. Abandoned buildings, forgotten places, the residue of human presence slowly being reclaimed by nature. And then, at the bottom of the box, the photographs I took of Gary Hollis's truck.
Again, not the body or the crime scene itself. But the truck, parked in the lot where Dom found him. The cab where the violence happened. The steering wheel, the dashboard, the space where a man died.
I took these photos before we fled, it was a risk, but I couldn't help myself. Because this is what I do.
I spread the photographs across the counter, studying them in the red light. Some are good enough for the portfolio. Others need to be destroyed as they are too specific and identifiable. They are not worth the risk. But the impulse behind them is right.
This is the work I'm meant to create.
I pull out my sketchbook, the same one I was using on the Utah roadside when Dom first saw me. It's filled with drawings of sad people in public places, despair, any inspiration of the darkness I've been creating since being on the road.
I flip to a blank page and start drawing a scene from one of the pictures.
The pencil moves across the paper with a life of its own, of the drunk fuck in the bar.
Not a portrait, but an interpretation piece of how exposed his nasty soul was, the grunge vibe of the bar behind him.
Making him demonic, half man, half pure evil.
I draw for an hour, lost in the work, feeling the hunger build with every move of the pencil. This is what I need and what's been missing. Not the commercial photography, or the engagement photos and landscape shots, or any of the fake work I've been doing to maintain the cover.
This, the raw truth.
When I finish the drawing, I pin it to the wall and step back.
It's perfect.
This is what the portfolio needs. Not just photographs, but drawings too. Mixed media. A complete vision of darkness rendered through multiple techniques.
I pull out another sheet of paper and start drawing again.
This time it's the trucker's cab. The steering wheel, the dashboard, the space where Gary Hollis died. I don't draw the body as that would be dumb, but I draw the residue of what Dom left behind. The emptiness and the understanding that death happened here.
The lead from the pencil smudges under my fingers, creating shadows and depth. I work quickly, urgently, driven by the desire that's been building since we arrived in San Diego.
I'm so focused on the work that I don't hear Dom enter the darkroom.
"Roxy."
I jump, spinning around, holding my chest at the split second of shock. He's standing in the doorway, shirtless, wearing only his jeans which are unzipped. His hair that is starting to grow is messy from sleep, but his eyes are sharp and alert.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"I couldn't sleep. I needed to work."
He crosses to me and looks at the drawings pinned to the wall. The drunk. The trucker's cab. The beginning of the portfolio.
"These are good," he says quietly.
"Thanks."
He's quiet for a moment, studying the work. Then his hand slides around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
"How many pieces do you have so far?" he asks, pushing his face into my hair and I have to stop myself from moaning.
"Maybe ten that are portfolio quality. The photographs from the road, these two drawings. I need at least fifteen more. Maybe twenty."
"What kind of subjects?"
"Crime scenes, human suffering like people in diners, bars, public spaces. The sad faces. The broken moments, everything that they try to hide."
His hand tightens on my waist. "We can get you that material tomorrow."
"I can’t wait."
He turns me around to face him, his hands settling on my ass. In the red light, he looks dangerous and beautiful and exactly like the man I chose on that Utah roadside. He kisses me, slow and deep, and I can taste the approval on his tongue.
Then he lifts me onto the counter, pushing between my legs. The photographs and drawings surround us, our history laid bare.
"Tell me what you need," he says against my mouth.
"This, you, that’s all I need."
"You'll have it. All of it."
His hands slide under my shirt, stroking my skin, leaving goosebumps in its place. I'm not wearing anything underneath, just his t-shirt and nothing else and he groans when he realizes.
"Fuck, Roxy."
"Well, do something about it, Dom. You don’t want to leave me unsatisfied, do you?"
"Be careful what you wish for," he says as he pulls my shirt off and tosses it aside, leaving me naked on the counter. His large hands map my body with precision, first my tits, then he moves down to my waist, hips, thighs. Claiming every single inch, like it isn’t already all his.
"You're mine," he says, his thumb brushing over my nipple and I shiver at the contact. "This body and your mind. It all belongs to me.”
He starts to suck on my neck, before moving down to my tits, groping them with both hands before taking my nipple in his mouth, swirling it with his tongue before gently biting on the nub. My whole body is on fire, like it always is when he touches me.
“I fucking love these tits. I could feast on them all day, baby.”
“Suck them hard,” I beg, my clit throbbing with need. He fits as much of my breast in his mouth as he can, firmly holding it in his hand as he sucks and licks around my nipples. It sends shockwaves to my core.
"I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away," he says, his voice all deep and sexy.
His possessive words make me wet, my body responds by arching into his touch with a gasp.
Because I know he means it. He'd kill for me.
Kill to protect what we're building. Kill to keep me exactly as I am. His mouth moves down to my navel where he licks and bites the skin. I’m in fucking heaven right now.
"Tell me about the portfolio," he says, his hand sliding between my legs. "Tell me again what you're going to create."
"Twenty-five pieces," I gasp as his fingers find my clit. "Aftermath of pain, human suffering. The truth…oh shit," I pant uncontrollably, struggling to maintain a flow of conversation as he works over my clit as if he has a PhD in how to work it.
"And then?" he says, licking a line with his tongue up my neck. I really have to focus on what he’s saying.
"Then I submit to galleries. New York first. Maybe Miami. Berlin if I can get international interest."
"You will, baby. The work is too good not to."
His fingers slide inside me and I cry out, my hands gripping the edge of the counter.
"Keep talking," he demands. "Tell me the plan."
"Oh god, more, uh, a few weeks to build the portfolio. Then submissions. Then…then exhibitions. Fuck, I’m gonna cum soon, shit, err then sales, and and a career,” I struggle to finish the sentence on the long moan I let out. The sounds of my wetness on his fingers are crude but so fucking hot.
"And no one will know."
"No one will know what it really is. Who we really are."
"My dark angel at her best."
He fucks me with his fingers, his thumb circling my clit, and I'm so close. The combination of his touch and the conversation and the photographs surrounding us is overwhelming.
"I'm gonna cum," I gasp.
"Not yet. Tell me more."
"Dom, I can’t hold on."
"Tell me what you're going to draw. What subjects you need."
"Sad people. Broken people. The faces in diners and bars when they think no one's watching. The grief. The pain. The truth they're trying to hide, yes, right there," I whine, my hips now moving to chase the inevitable orgasm that’s on the precipice.
"And crime scenes?"
"Dom you gotta be kidding me, I can’t…”
“Yes you can, now talk or I'll stop.”
“You asshole…after the police clear and the bodies are gone. Just the leftover space….the the feeling that’s left behind…ohhh."
"Perfect."
His fingers move faster and I'm shaking, desperate, right on the edge.
"Please, harder," I beg.
"Cum for me. Cum while you tell me what you are."
"I'm yours. I'm a photographer. I'm an artist. I document death and life and make it sacred."
"Yeah, you do. My creative girl, so good but also so bad. I love it when you’re like this. A bad, dirty little slut for me, baby."
That’s it, I cum hard, crying out, my body clenching around his fingers. He works me through it, drawing out every wave of pleasure until I'm boneless and gasping.
Then he pulls his fingers out and brings them to my mouth.
"Taste yourself," he says.
I do, sucking his fingers clean, tasting my own arousal mixed with the chemical smell of the darkroom.
"Good girl," he murmurs. Then he's unbuttoning his jeans, freeing his cock, positioning himself between my legs.
"I need to be inside you," he says. "Need to fill you with me."
"Take what you need."
I’m like a limp noodle. A complete mess. I can feel my wetness on the inside of my thighs as he positions himself. He pushes easily inside in one thrust and I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
"Christ, you’re dripping, baby. My dark angel," he says, starting to move and building pace.
"I'm going to protect you. Going to kill anyone who threatens what we're building."
"I wanna watch if you do."
“I’ll fuck you in their blood.”
He starts to fuck me hard enough that I’m sure there will be an imprint of his cock in my pussy. The counter digs into my ass, the photographs sway on their clothes lines, and I'm surrounded by the evidence of who we really are.
"Say it," he demands. "Say what you are."
"I'm yours, Dom, and you’re fucking mine."
"Damn fucking right.”
His pace falters before he cums with a groan, flooding me while I hold him close as he shudders through his release. We both moan as he removes himself from my body, his cum drips out of me onto the counter. I’m literally a fountain right now.
He kisses my forehead, then lifts me back down. We clean up, and he helps me put the darkroom back in order, making sure nothing is visible if someone were to walk in.
But as we head back to bed, I feel lighter than I have in weeks, because we have a plan.
Tomorrow is hunting day and I cannot fucking wait.