Page 29 of Liquids

“What is it?”

He holds up a school photograph of me: I have pigtails and crooked teeth.

“Oh, so yours are so much better?”

“Don’t know, babe. I never saw any.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I’m the youngest of three. My eldest brother is a bully and an asshole. The second one isn’t any better. My ma never did anything to constrain them, and they spent their time fighting each other and when they got bored with that, they picked on me. That’s kinda how I learned to fight. Nothing like having bigger people whale on you to make you motivated. They move around the country now, avoiding the law. Setting up dubious illegal businesses and ripping people off.” He shrugs. “Like I said, assholes. Anyway, I think Ma forgot I existed most of the time. Don’t think she took any pictures.”

He examines the photo again, grinning. “He a decent man, your dad?” he says.

I don’t trust myself to speak. What makes a good person? “Sometimes. Proud as punch of everything I achieved, no matter what it was. Art, music, you name it. But he lost his temper a lot, blamed me for things he shouldn’t have blamed me for … my mom and my brother, too. Drank too much and killed himself in a car crash. Nobody’s perfect, right?”

I stare down at the picture I’m working on; it’s already beautiful. I’ve switched to colored pencils now, and the blues and greens dance on the page. I can’t stand the beauty of it, the beauty of him. I pick up the paper and screw it into a ball in my hand then get up from my seat and put it in the trash.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say.

Rig appears in the doorway as I step under the spray, stripping his T-shirt over his head. Muscles ripple across his shoulders and his chest as he unbuttons his jeans, bending to push them down and take his socks off. He’s such a huge guy, legs like tree trunks, and I could watch his naked body move all day, every day. He slides his hand into his boxers and pushes them over his ass. That’s nice, too. I’ve dug my fingernails into it a few times.

“Have I marked your ass?”

“What?”

“With my nails?”

He laughs and turns around, and, sure enough, there’s a whole array of little crescent moon marks across the bottom of his cheeks.

“Oh, God.”

He chuckles and steps into the stall. Broad flat feet slapping into the swirl of water. “Don’t stop doing it … I like it when you dig your nails in.” He bends down and takes hold of my chin, brushing his lips over mine. “You do it when you’re close to coming. The desperation kicks in and the tiger comes out. I can take a lot more than a few fingernails.”

I smile up at him, watching the droplets cling to the wild curls of his hair, his eyes smiling at me. He places a condom in the little ledge built into the wall and turns around.

“Wash my back, babe?”

I grab the soap from the alcove—a bar, of course, because I can buy three for one for fifty cents from the dime store—and I lather it up in my hands, spreading it all over his enormous shoulders as the heat of the shower beats down on my back.

“This is a very good hotel,” he says, and I laugh.

His tight ass shifts, and my mouth waters. I have this in my bed. I run my hand down over one cheek, grabbing the soap again with the other hand to wash the other cheek as I slide my fingers in his crease. He lets out a low groan and widens his stance, which allows me to slip my hand between his legs, soaping him there, too, playing with the sensitive skin. His head tips backward, wetter now, and I step into him and press into his back. He turns and takes the bar from me.

“This bathroom was such a mess the first time you stayed here …”

He silences me with another kiss.

“Babe, I don’t give a fuck about how your shower looked. Put your hand on my dick.”

“Bossy.”

“When I want something, yeah, I am. And I want that, right fucking now.”

I wrap my hand around his cock where it’s poking into my belly, and he makes a rough sound low in his throat.

“I swear you have magical fingers. Must be the painting, or maybe the nursing. Like you’re not just talented with a paintbrush; you can …”

He trails off as I stroke him gently, watching my hand on him. Then he lathers the bar up in his hands. Starting at my shoulders, he digs his fingers in, moving down over my breasts and my ribs as the white lines of foam stream down my body and onto the floor. His rough palms slide all over my skin with the soap, down my stomach and over my folds.