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He’d kissed her like shewasthe pitcher of water.
For all her acrimonious feelings for the man, she’d never bothered to lie to herself that he wasn’t hot as hell and an earth-shaking fuck. It had been a minute since she’d had a fuck of any kind. Maybe that was it. He was hot, he was there, he kissed her, she needed to get off.
Yeah, no. No point lying to herself now, either. It was Eight she’d wanted last night, not just his excellent fat cock.
But now he was gone. That was for the best, certainly. But what if … what if what they’d done last night—this morning, whatever—pushed him out of the picture entirely? Had she fucked this up for Ajax?
Levering herself up to sit at the side of the bed, Marcella put her face in her hands and tried to wake up enough to really think things through. Okay. She’d simply call the man and confront him. Last night didn’t need to be a big deal. It wasn’t like they hadn’t fucked before, obviously, and they’d never been in a real relationship. It didn’t have to mean anything. Itdidn’tmean anything.
She needed to pee, and she needed coffee.
Finished in the bathroom, she walked naked out of her bedroom, toward the kitchen, and stopped dead in the living room. Her robe and headscarf were on the floor.
So were Eight’s boots. And socks. And shirt. And boxers.
He was still here.
Standing in the living room, Marcella turned in a circle, confused. Where was he? It wasn’t a big apartment. From where she stood, she could see everything but the bedrooms and bathrooms, and he wasn’t in her bedroom or bathroom.
Across the room, Ajax’s door was mostly closed, resting against the jamb. She left it open when he wasn’t home, so she could peek in easily to check on Spot.
That motherfucker was in her son’s room.
Snatching her robe off the floor and jerking it on, she stomped across the room and gave the ajar door a push. It swung open, revealing Eight, in only his jeans, sitting at Ajax’s desk. Was he going through Ajax’s private things? Motherfucker!
All set to give him every piece of her mind, Marcella was rendered speechless when he looked over at her and there waspain—naked, obviouspain—in his eyes.
“Eight?”
“I fucked up so bad, Marce.”
Not sure what he meant, she stepped further into the room. “What did you do?”
He shook his head, then flung an arm out, gesturing at the room. But he didn’t speak.
Marcella tried a different tack. “What are you doing in here?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I came out here looking for another bathroom. When I was done, I thought I’d leave. I meant to leave. But his room was here, the door open, and I looked in. Then I was in here, looking around.” He turned and stared at the large collage frame on the wall above Ajax’s desk. Photos of him and his family throughout his life so far.
In this room, Ajax lived. Even when he was away, he was present. On the walls, the shelves, the bed, everywhere. All his interests, his talents, his momentary whims. Posters of sports stars, music icons, superheroes, and his own drawings pinned up among them. Two big bulletin boards of programs, ticket stubs, schoolwork, snapshots. Trophies and ribbons and medals, books and games, electronics. His Avengers bedding set. And Spot, sitting on the rock under his little sun lamp.
Starting to understand, Marcella came closer and sat on the end of the bed. “Eight. Talk to me.”
He didn’t at first. For a few minutes they simply sat in the quiet, while Eight studied that collage and Marcella studied him. His ink, his muscle, his scars. The fresh bruise and open teeth marks on his shoulder, where she’d bitten him. That dark, cratered cluster she was sure was a cruel accumulation of cigar burns, or three times as many cigarette burns, sat just above his waistband, shifting with his heavy breaths.
“I never had a dad,” he finally said.
“I know. You told me your aunt and uncle raised you.”
“Yeah. My mom was … I guess she was a hooker. They called her a whore, and maybe that’s not what they meant, maybe she just liked sex and didn’t have a husband, but when they called her a whore, I always thought of her like a hooker on a TV cop show, walking a block. I don’t remember her, except for flashes. I was five when she died.”
“How’d she die?”
“I don’t know. Of being a whore, I guess. And then I went to her sister.”
“Eight.” Without thinking, she reached out for him.
Still focused on the collage, he sensed her movement and flinched, rocking out of her reach. She let her hand fall to her lap.
