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“Thought that was obvious, Katie.”
“And you want me to… come with you. You’re taking me back with you?”
“I won’t leave without you.”
A tear slides down her cheek and I pull her into my chest and kiss it away. “Come back with me. That was the last time. The last time I’ll ever leave. I promise. Never again.”
She nods and her lips are against mine again and I make good on my promise. I take off that gleaming diamond ring from her finger and I fuck her in her pretty white dress. I fuck her exactly how she likes, and I don’t bother quieting her moans because we’re somewhere public. I don’t bother trying to hide mine. I fuck her hard and rough and like there’s no one else here. And there isn’t. When I’m with Katie, no one else matters.
“Say my name when you come Katie.” And she does. It’s a symphony, a chant, a prayer. James. James, James, James.
When I pull out, I let my cum drip down from her pussy onto the white of her perfect, clean dress. Staining it, marking it. Another mark we’ve made together on something white.
“I love you Katie.”
“Again,” she says.
“I love you Katie. I love you. I fucking love you.”
It’s midnight and we’re on a plane.
Epilogue
Kate
Two years later
It’s4amandhe’s wasted.
We both are. We’d opened our first bottle of wine just after midnight and I can’t remember how many we’ve gone through. Too many, I think. It’ll be a bitch getting up tomorrow. Today. It’ll be a bitch getting up today. Because it’s 4 am. Dammit.
“This is serious,” I say, and I pretend to be annoyed but he only smiles.
“It’s not that serious, Katie.”
“It is! I’m missing a piece for the gallery opening tonight. And I’m getting drunk with you instead of finishing it like I should be.”
It’s a female focused showing. All female artists, an ode to what it means to be a woman. Sexuality, love, empowerment. And the darker stuff—oppression, sexual assault, infertility, abortion. It’s an art showing I could get behind, a showing that made it easy to want to display my own work. For once.
James is laying on his back in the middle of our apartment, naked, of course, because James and I can barely keep our hands off each other on a normal night, let alone one where we’ve consumed so much alcohol.
“You’ll think of something,” he says, and his eyes are raking down my body that’s only covered by one of his black t-shirts. “Take that thing off.”
I arch an eyebrow. “No. I have to focus. Stay away from me.”
He narrows his eyes but says nothing, and instead watches me as I take a roll of unstretched canvas and unfurl it across the floor. I stare down at it, unsure of where to start, fully aware I should just sleep but too anxious to let that happen.
James sighs and pushes off the floor, before circling his arms around my waist. “I got an idea.”
I don’t look up at him, because that canvas—all the white—it’s haunting me. Kate Mitchell can’t figure out what the hell to say. About being a woman. And last time I checked I’ve been one of those for twenty-eight goddamn years.
That’s when I feel the wet brush slide up my leg. Looking down, my very naked James is kneeling beside me, painting up my legs.
“James,” I warn.
He inclines his head and smiles before adding more paint. Black and blue and purples. I did my other two pieces for the showing dark. I’d started with colour, but slowly they’d turned into something a little more me, a little more real, the dark I’ve only ever let James see. They hang on the wall, ready to be transported, one a flower that James says looks like a vagina, and I’d told him that obviously that was the point, and the other a mostly naked woman, torn in half and seemingly being pulled in too many directions. Commentary on the modern woman in a world still run by men.
But the third. It’s evaded me. And for the last week I’ve tried absolutely every method of unblocking my mind. And still nothing.
