Travis's chest swelled and deflated withalargebreath and then he said, "You know what, I think I will."He turnedon his heeland walked away.
ThenI heardhimmutterthe words, “Fuck it.” In a flash, Travis spun around, crossed the distance between us in a few strides, grabbed the back of my head, and crashed his lipsagainstmine.
When he came at me,I’dhalf been preparingfor a fight, so when his mouth met mine,his intensity and heat hit me likea lightningstrike.I didn’t know where I was for a few seconds.My mouth instantly molded against his demanding lipsand opened when his tongueforced his waypast my teeth.His taste, coupled with the fury I’d been in,exploded intoscorching, rollingflamesthroughout my entire being.My mind was fuzzy as his mouthcontinued to demand, dominate, and take from me.He took everything fromme,and I let him.
My body pressed into his, and his hard lengthpressedagainst my thigh.Goddamn I wanted him. I wanted to make him mine so he would be ruined for anyone else.Visions of ripping off his clothes and riding himright there in the parking lottumbled over me in an erotic jumble.
When the need to breathebecame necessary, I began to pull away. Travis jerked mebackto himpossessivelywith an animal growl, continuing to coax my mouth with his tongue.His handsqueezedmyleftbreast and instantly my nipples turned to hard points begging for more.
Somewhere in the back of mind, I knew this was wrong. I should be the one calling the shots. Maybe it was the lack of blood to my head, but I found myself unable to break free from the onslaught. His passioncrashed over me in a torrent.Something had broken in him, either when hekilledthat beast with his bare hands, orbecause of what I said. No matter what the cause was,Travishad snapped.
When he finally broke the kiss, Travis stepped back, my bodyinstantly yearned forthe heat of his.I waswoozy, and were my kneesactually weak? The only contact between us was Travis holding my shoulders to keep me from stumbling.
Electricitystillcrackled in those green eyes and his jaw hadhardened, drawing in his cheeks.He was a completely new force,yet the old Travis at the same time,and I couldn’treconcilewhat Iwaslooking at.
His words came out cold and flat. “If you had one ounce of trust in someone else, maybe you wouldn’t be so goddamnmiserable.”
The warmth of his handsdisappeared,and he turned and stalked back overto the driver side of thevan, jumped in,anddrove off without even looking at meagain.
Despite wanting to slam the door shut when I got home, I resisted. Sophie and Noahshould beasleep.I took my time peeling my boots off. The puncture in my thighstill stung but compared towhat I felt inside, it was nothing.
I wanted to shout back at Travis that I wasn’t miserable. Had the clinic been open at that late hour, I would have gonestraightaway to get rid of thisinconvenientfetus.Wouldn’t the uber driver have loved thatpitstop? As it was, the man was wise enough to not start conversation with mein my bloody, snarling shape.
No, thisisgreat, I toldmyself. A new beginning for me.No Travisand soon there would be no fetus. I didn’t need anyone. Too bad he didn’t have the decency to thank me for pushing him away. If he only knew what I was truly capable of, he’d see things were better this way.
Dropping the second boot on the ground with a clunk, I wiggled and scrunched my toes tightly before releasing them.I would probably have to cut the fishnets off tonight.They were melded into the crusted blood on my legs.
Thehouse wascompletelydarkexcept for the kitchenlights which spilled into the hallway.Gran was probably up. It was harder forherto sleep the older she got.
Halfway down the hall,a scent hit my nose thatinstantlychilled me.Dirty pennies.There was blood in the house.I ranthe rest of the waythough I was only a few steps away from the kitchen.I careenedin, sliding on the freshly cleaned tile. It still smelled of disinfectant and aged pages from the yellowed cookbooks stacked on the island. One lay open, but the middle pages floated back and forth, not quite sure which side to land on.
I’d been in the kitchen a million timesbefore butentering it this time,the space felt wrong, sterile and alien compared to the warmth it usually provided.I absorbedeverydetailwith an agonizing clarity.The sound of my breath coming in short pants was too loudtomy own ears.The overheadfluorescentswerecoldand bright, casting a chilling hue over the bloodless face of my gran.
The light glinted off the kitchen knife sticking out of her chest, her knottedfingerstill loosely curled around the handle. Ariver of dark blood draining from her wound, drenchedherMumu,thenfed into a pool of blood by her body.
I hit the floor, kneecaps cracking into the tile sending a spasm up pain up mybody,but I barely noticed it.The scream that had worked its way up my throat from the moment I smelled the blood,exploded from me so violentlyevery demon in the Stygian would hear it.
13
The front door was already open when Iran up to the purple house. Two paramedics were wheeling a gurneyout. The sob chokedmeso suddenly I had to bend over. Oh god,it was true. A police officer had called. He said Mrs.Ritswas dead, and ifI could come over to sit with my friend,Krystan, that would be helpful.
Before I picked up the phone, I had been driving toward Nevada, ready to leave Colorado and find myself some nice shack on the California coast where I could forget where I came fromand all the bullshit of my life.New yearof my life,new Travis.
After the call,I must havebrokenevery traffic law on my way to Mrs.Ritshouse, my brain insistedit wasn’t true. Mrs.Ritscouldn’tbe dead.It wasn’t possible.She was the toughest lady I’d ever known, and she couldn’t be gone.
Just when I thought I’d gotten a hold of myself, my eyes fastened onto theblackbodybag, my stomach heaved. The two paramedics paused.
Theparamedic wearingthin glasses,herhair pulled back in a ponytailsaid, “You okaythere?”
Unable torespond,I simply raised a hand indicating I was fine. They continued transporting the gurney, the clacks of the metal wheels hitting the pavement rung in my ears. Stumbling up the few steps, I ran into the house searching forKrystan. I didn’t have to go far. She was in the living room, on the floral couch, wrapped in one of the knit blankets. Her fishnets were gone but they’d left crisscross indents on her legs. Someone had bandaged her thigh and hands.
Abalding,middle-agedpolice officer had pulled up an upholstered chairnextto her.The notepad in his hand was flipped open and several notes were already jotted down.He leaned forward, attentive, listening, and recording. His face was arranged in a practiced expression. He'd seen this too many times, but never got used to it.
Krystan’sface was sunken, her eyes bigger and darker than I’d ever seen.Clutched in herbandagedhands was a steaming mug of cocoa.She seemed to not even realize it was there.Themug had a drawing of a man holding out his handinastopping motionunder blocky letters that read, “Hey trainwreck, this isn’t your station.”
I still remembered the chuckle of delight and glint inMrs.Rits’seyes as shepointedlysipped fromthe new mugafterKrystanenteredthe kitchenin a particularly foul mood.Mrs.Ritssometimes reminded me of a cunning elf.Between the frizzing, cotton candythinhair,shrunken dark eyes,andsaggingwrinkled skin, her grins looked downrightimpish.Ididn’t even know you could drinkcoffeeatanother person with all the subtly of a sledgehammer.Krystanhad given her the evil eye but slunk awaywith a package ofOreosto take care of her bad mood on her ownthat day.
Except Mrs.Ritswouldn’t be drinking out of that mug again. She wouldn’t conspiratorially pat me on the knee and cryptically say how things were going to work out, I just had to wait and see.Shewouldn’tcome back from a naughty poker night to show off any wildsex toys she’d wonorshareoutrageous stories about the emcee whowas a fabulous drag queen witha fondness for dad puns.I’d gladly readaloud toher,a thousand, smutty romance books if she would justcome back and ask me to read to her.
