| The Scent Of You You’re shaking. Entire shakes that rack your body. Your stomach is doing this crazy flipping thing and your dick is rock hard. At seventeen its only a blink away ... ... but still. Her hands slide over your thighs from behind and you study her fingernails. They’re painted a deep shade of burgundy and you watch in detached wonder as they scrape over your jeans. They graze over the inseam and travel upward until you want to cry. But not in that sobbing whining way. You want to reach down and grab those fingers and put them over your dick and make her rub you until you come. Only it’s ‘her’ and ‘she’s’ got some plan in her head. To take your virginity. Hours ago she explained it so calmly--so matter of fact--and it made all the sense in the world. Now your body is aching, shoving any sense you might have away. “Lance?” she whispers in your ear. Nothing can squeak out of your throat, it’s constricted with too many emotions. You glance at the door and know when you walk out of it later on, you’ll be a man. No longer a boy. She ignores your silence and slides her finger over the zipper of your jeans. You whimper because you’re afraid to groan--you bite it back and tremble some more. Her fingers dance over your erection, the tips of her nails digging in slightly--and the groan comes on its own. Her mouth is pressed against the nape of your neck and you can feel her lips curl into a smile. Her other hand drags your tee shirt up, and you shiver when she scrapes her nails over your stomach. Next door you hear Justin’s music thumping through the thin walls of the hotel and you laugh. You’re not sure why, but it can’t be stopped. Her body pulls back and you raise your arms so she can slide the shirt off you. You hear it plop to the floor and almost stop to pick it up, but she grabs you and turns you around to face her. You blink into her eyes--into a face you know so well--and forget how to swallow. She kisses the corner of your mouth and reaches for your hands. In seconds, they’re on her, touching her breasts, and you throb all over. She holds your hands there while her tongue licks over your bottom lip, then your top lip. Your hips rock involuntarily, begging for something to rub against. It’s not long before her tongue is in your mouth and she slides one of your hands down her body, yanking her skirt up and shoving your palm between her legs. The moan falls from the back of her throat into your mouth and you want to come right in your pants. “Um...” your voice is a mere whisper, a low rumbling shadow, a warning you hope. She pulls back and looks into your eyes--then smiles. Her hands drop yours and she nudges you to the bed. “Sit,” she commands softly--so you do. And you watch her with wide green eyes as she strips her clothes off. Piece by piece they fall from her body, dropping to the carpet slowly. You shift on the bed and rub your sweaty palms across your thighs. The lips she just kissed feel dry and chapped so you lick at them nervously. Her eyes glimmer knowingly and when she’s naked, she comes for you. “Lie back,” she says softly, pushing your shoulders gently. You fall back on your elbows, then finally flat on your back. You swear you can see your heart jumping out of your chest and you just know you’re gonna come in three seconds and feel like an immature baby. Her skin is soft when she falls over you, her breasts press against your chest and her hips grind against your crotch. You moan and she captures your mouth with hers. It’s a mind melt and you grasp onto the comforter beneath you for safety--for control--for something. Her tongue slides in and out of your mouth slowly, snaking against your tongue, scraping along your teeth. Your dick jumps and strains and begs for mercy, so you try to push at her hips, stop the pressure. She backs off a little and slithers off your body smoothly, dragging those nails down over your nipple and ribs, over your stomach to the waistband of your pants. The breath in your lungs just stops when she unzips your jeans--and your eyes snap shut. You can feel her hands work you from your jeans, the way the denim feels sliding over your cock and hips, down your thighs and calves then finally off. Vulnerability pokes at you because you know those boxers you put on in the morning are hiding nothing. You restrain the urge to cover yourself with your hand because it’s gone too far now. The soft plop of your jeans folding to the floor echoes in your ears, then you feel her thumbs hook under your boxers--her thumbnail scratches your hip and you hiss--then they too are gone and you’re naked. You’re afraid to open your eyes so you squeeze them tight--so tight you see stars exploding under the blackness of your eyelids. Her hands tease their way back up your legs and you shake, biting through the flesh of your bottom lip. You can taste blood but it doesn’t matter because her body is straddling yours and then you choke out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard. She lowers herself onto your dick without words or warning, and your entire body falls under this euphoric spell you can’t stop. You feel her breasts brush against your chest and stifle another moan because it’s too much--and you hope she doesn’t move because you’re ready to come in a ball of seventeen-year-old hormones. The bed rocks a little and you feel her hips raise. Again you bite your lip and twist your head, and you want to look at her, you do, but you’re afraid, so you look at the headboard sideways and study the bland patterns that run along. You think of the person that ordered these headboards in some attempt to stop yourself from coming but her thighs tighten and she does some fucked up thing with her muscles and you whimper into the air. She grabs your hands from their place digging into the comforter and places them on her hips. Her skin is like velvet and she smells like coconuts ... ...which reminds you of Justin. The shampoo he uses and you try not to laugh again because that would be really bad. So you force your fingers to hang on, to slide along her flesh, and she asks you to look at her. When you don’t, she cups your chin and urges it toward her. You blink up in a firestorm of emotions and she slides up the length of your cock slowly. “Fuck,” you whisper, then blink because you’re not supposed to be cussing. She smiles at you, though, and dismisses it with a lick at your lips. Her body moves over yours in a pattern that picks up pace quickly and you dig into her hips to hold on. Your toes curl and you legs stretch off the bed--your eyes roll because you can’t do it anymore and your pulse throbs. Her breath is soft against your ear and you try to choke something out to tell her that you have to come, that you can’t hold it anymore, that your body is shaking inside and ... ...she tells you it’s okay. She whispers in your ear that it’s alright and your body takes over. She’s warm and wet and your dick is doing it’s own thing. You can’t stop it so you let it go. Nothing but tiny grunts find their way out of your mouth, low deep half moans that tumble out, and you’re coming into her endlessly. Explosions burst in your ears and you think maybe you blacked out there for a second because when you manage to open your eyes, she’s still on top of you with her hand between her legs and her mouth parted. She’s writhing and her eyes are closed and her face is flush and you blink rapidly because she’s coming with your dick still in her. Your eyes shut because it’s wrong to like how it looks and you wait until her gentle cries are done, and she stops pulsating. She crawls off you and gathers you in her arms, dragging you under the covers. You didn’t mean to cry, it just happened, and she strokes your hair and kisses your forehead tenderly. “It’s okay baby,” she says smoothly. “It’s okay.” She rocks you and uses her thumbs to wipe your tears and smiles when you manage to look up at her. “You’re not a virgin anymore,” she says with a sincere face. “Baby, you’re all grown up now.” You end up falling asleep in her arms with the scent of coconut running through your senses. And when you wake hours later, she’s gone. ********************************* “It’s a rum drink,” Justin says, pushing the cracked coconut at you. “They mixed rum with coconut milk. Fucking good man.” You wrinkle your nose at him and wave it away because coconut always makes your stomach roll. The scent. The taste. All of it. The beach is nearly empty and security is tight, watching over the two of you as you lay in the sand and try to catch some rest. “You’re missing out,” he says playfully, standing over you, dripping water onto your stomach. “And you’re in my fucking sun man,” you say, closing your eyes. “So if you don’t mind?” You can hear him sigh and move back to his place beside you. Silently. Brooding maybe. After all these years, he still doesn’t get that the Timberlake pout has no effect on you. You’re twenty-two now. Not much has an effect on you. He wanted you to fuck him so you did. And he wanted it to be more, but you couldn’t. He doesn’t understand, you know, and that’s okay because there’s no way in fuck you’re going to let him understand. You have your secret and that’s the way it stays. The sun beats down on your body and you shift thinking about the way you took him the night before. Like an animal. He barely had time to breath before you’re mouth was on his, kissing him roughly, and when he whispered “Lance, I want you,” it wasn’t even a count of ten before you rolled him onto his stomach and fucked him. Maybe too hard because he was walking a little odd. But he never said stop, and he never complained, so you pretended the water in his eyes was something other than tears. Tears would mean he cares and you can’t handle that. Not now. Possibly not ever. “You gonna be around for dinner?” he asks quietly. “I thought maybe we could go to the bar and...” “Nah,” you sigh. “I feel like hitting the casinos. Come with if you feel like it.” “Oh,” he says in that wounded voice and you hear him stand up and move away. When you squint your eyes, you see him wandering down by the water and you see the way his hand moves to his eyes. Inside something twitches but you push it back because you don’t need this--you don’t need him--you don’t need anyone. ******************** The casino blares at you. Lonnie follows at a safe distance and you’re alone, baseball cap pulled over your hair. The chips burn a hole in your hand and you sit down on the stool at the blackjack table, one leg dangling off. A beautiful blonde is seated on your left, a wealthy business man on your right. You toss a thousand dollars down and wait for your hand. A waitress takes your drink order and you settle into the mindless energy it takes to gamble. If you win, you win. If you lose, you lose. Just like life. The blonde has her thigh pressed against you in a matter of moments and you take a second to run your hand up her leg before accepting your drink. You don’t look at her. She doesn’t get that. But you like the way your hand makes her shiver and you expect her to slip you her room card any second. The dealer looks at you and you glance at your cards again. “Hit me,” you say lowly and the blonde tucks the rectangular card in the waistband of your jeans. She runs her fingers over the zipper before saying goodnight to the table. You laugh at her motives and continue to play, ignoring the rub of the plastic against your stomach. “House stays,” the dealer says, and you feel the adrenaline jump when you win the round. “Well fuck,” you grin as people watch you rake in your winnings. Hand after hand and you feel on top of the world. Then his hand touches the small of your back. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him standing there. All these years he still uses that fucking coconut shit even though he has no hair. “Hey,” he says timidly. “It’s like after three.” You shrug and wave for another drink. “And you’re telling me this because?” He sits at the seat the blonde vacated nearly an hour before and sighs, nudging you with his knee. “Because I was worried is all. You said you were gonna play one hand and come back to catch the game with me on television.” You throw down some more chips and watch the dealer toss cards in front of you. “Fuck, Justin, it’s basketball man. I hate basketball.” You scratch your nose and ignore the look he’s giving you because it might make you care more than you can. “Fine,” he says tightly, standing. The stool he was on kicks over but he doesn’t stop to right it. He’s gone before you can blink and your cheeks blush. “Well,” the business man says with a chuckle. “Guess he really wanted you to see that game.” You scowl and grab your drink, scoop up your chips and head to tally your tab. Lonnie falls behind you and you yawn. Life tires you. **************** You slip into the hotel suite Justin insisted you share and strip naked in front of the bed. Slipping in beside him you can hear his soft sniffles. A sudden urge comes over you to hold him and that shakes you because you don’t hold anyone. Not intimately. Not in ‘that’ way. So instead you prop pillows behind your back and flip the television on he can see you in the bluish tint. He’s got his back to you in the California king bed and you stare at the nape of his neck. You draw your knees up a bit and let them fall open, then you start to touch yourself. And you’re not sure *why* you’re doing it, only that you feel this overwhelming urge to get Justin to turn around and look at you. When he doesn’t, you moan lowly, thrusting into your hand so that the bed shakes a little. “Feels so fucking good,” you growl, stroking yourself harder. You watch his body, the way his shoulder stop shaking and listen as his sniffles stop. Then he’s on his back, his head twisted to the side, his big blue eyes falling over you with wide eyed wonder. You tell yourself he wasn’t crying, that something got in his eyes to make them bloodshot, and you smirk at him. “Lance?” he whispers and you reply by grabbing your balls and squeezing them the way you need to. He’s watching and that’s what you wanted so you slide down a little and moan a little louder for him. Your hand travels over your cock quicker and you stare at his face, you watch the way his tongue snakes out against his lips and the way his eyes blink slowly. You get off on the way he inches closer and you can tell he wants to do more. So you play back, dragging yourself to the brink of orgasm before slowing your thrusts and tugging your balls down to stop yourself. You want him to touch you, or to try. You need him to. His hand slithers out from under the sheets on the third time you do this, and runs over your lower stomach. “I thought you were mad,” he says quietly, his nails scraping along your flesh. You grin at him and shake your head, convincing him with one twinkle of your eyes. “Not mad,” you say lowly. “Horny.” The words leave your lips in haste as usual and you wonder why you can’t tell Justin that you were mad he came looking for you. He crawls to you and soon his mouth is where your hand was, and you forget about everything except the steady rhythm of his tongue and the way your cock hits the back of his throat every other thrust. You forget why you’re in the hotel suite with him and you forget about your secret for a moment. Nothing matters except the way his mouth owns you and the way his hand grip your hips to keep them still. Only that fucking coconut smell haunts you. Every goddamned time. “Justin,” you gasp, reaching for the cologne on the nightstand. He hums around your dick and you almost fall off the bed because he feels so good. Your fingers curl around the bottle and you spray his skin with the new scent, drowning out the coconut smell. “Shit,” he says, lifting his head to stare at you. “What the hell?” You shrug and toss the bottle down, thrusting your hips up at him. Luckily he drops it and continues his magic until you come in a flurry of words that would make God blush. You pant and breathe and try to detach from him. He never asks for anything in return and you wonder why .... He kisses your mouth and you can taste yourself on his lips. You think he’s going to say something the way he looks at you, but he only smiles a tiny smile before climbing back to his side of the bed and curling up with his knees against his chest. He’s still looking at you with unblinking eyes--eyes that are slightly amused but hold something else you can’t find. Or maybe something you don’t want to find. Either way, you slide down on your side and rest your hand on your stomach. You slide into a gentle slumber and you wait for him to curl against you. He always does. He always waits until he thinks your asleep before he dares touch you like that. He needs it and it’s funny but you can’t fall asleep until you feel his body against yours. It pisses you the fuck off but you gave up trying to figure it out. Once his hand slides around your stomach and his crotch is snug against your ass, only then do you fall into the deep sleep you need to feel rested. ********************** You’ve seen her a million times since that night. A million places. You fight each time you have to look into her face and each time she brushes her lips against your cheek you cringe inside. You’re not sure why because you push it down each time. “Darling how is the space thing going?” she asks you this time. “Your mom called me and she’s just frantic.” Her laugh scrapes into you like her nails did all those years ago and you still feel like that kid when you see her. “Fine,” you mumble, trying to escape the hand she has on your bicep. “Justin just gabs about it all the time,” she continues, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from your forehead and you pull away. “Lance? Honey, what’s wrong?” You look around and feel trapped because you’re alone with her. When Justin asked you to drive him home from the airport, you didn't’ expect her to be there. You assumed she wasn’t going to be there. What kind of twenty-one year old lets his mom have free reign over his life anyway. The twenty-one year old you’re fucking after sleeping with his mother. “I’m fine, Lynn,” you say quietly, backing up. “Just tired. Stressed I guess.” She shakes her head and moves closer, wrapping her arms around you before you can get away. The coconut smell is still there after all these years and you feel the bile rise in your throat. “Sweetie, we’re all worried about you.” Her lips brush your neck and you feel closer to the edge--that edge where you jump and fall forever. Memories flood you suddenly. The shade of her nails. The feel of her skin. Justin’s music thumping through the wall. The headboard of the bed. The flush of her cheeks and the way she held you afterward. The shame and the pain. The very real fact you’re sleeping with her son. You vomit before you can stop and she reels backward. “Lance, my God!” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and try to say something when Justin walks in with a panicked expression. He bolts forward as does Lynn and you feel the world swallowing you whole. “Lance?” he says, taking his shirt off to wipe the sour liquid from your mouth and arms. “Lance, what happened?” You snatch the shirt from his hands and try to compose. Lynn rushes off and you think maybe you can escape, but Justin has you. He’s fussing and urging you to sit down, worry folded across his face. She returns with a washcloth and shoves Justin's hands away to replace them with her own. You feel the world spinning again and the scent of coconuts. “I don’t feel so good,” you croak out before the world goes black. ************* You wake in Justin’s bed and his eyes are the first thing you see--big and blue, watery and concerned. He gasps when you look at him and calls for his momma. Your stained shirt is gone and you feel more naked then you have in six years. You try to stand, struggle to get out, but he practically sits on you to keep you still. “Lance, you’re sick,” he says valiantly. “Stay put.” The walls close in rapidly and you shove him away. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” you sputter, stumbling from his bed. “Just don’t.” His face is blotchy from crying you think, and he grabs at you once again. “Lance, come on. You’re sick. Just sit.” You can tell he doesn't understand why you’re so angry and you don’t really either only that he’s trying to mother you and ... “Fuck you!” you scream suddenly just as Lynn walks through the door. She drops the phone from her hand as the words cross your lips, and her expression changes from one of shock disapproval. Not that you care much. There was a time she was your second mother. The time before she cornered you that night while you were sobbing because everyone was out with local girls and you were lonely. And awkward. And unsure. She wiped your tears and took your virginity. Explained it away like some problem that needed to be tended to. Told you that it would be better with someone who loved you--someone who you didn’t have to worry about. Someone who wouldn’t get knocked up. Her voice was so soft and it made so much sense so you allowed it. You even used it later on to jerk off to, the images and memory of her hands on your skin. But you always felt dirty and showered to scrub the picture away. When they call you Mr. Clean and laugh about it? You never laugh. The compulsion started that day. Trying to push it away. And then when Justin started to make his move, you welcomed it. You prayed it would erase his momma’s touch, her taste, her feel. The mere memory that could never reconcile in your mind. Justin is staring at you again, his mouth dropped open, his eyes a blistering reminder of what you are to him. And Lynn stares like she doesn’t or couldn’t possibly understand why the fuss. “I’m outta here,” you hiss, yanking a clean sweatshirt from Justin’s dresser. She fucked you up, you think as you storm to the door. She fucked you up and you’re fucking him up. Tears prick your eyes and you throw yourself out of the door and into your car. It smells like him and you pound the steering wheel. Years of pent up anger rage around you--the emotions you kept bottled up--the secret you’ve hidden from everyone. You let out a scream, one that hurts your throat and makes your ears hum. Then it’s gone. The scream but not the pain. The anger bubbles and you shove your car door open, slam it shut and storm the house. Justin is right there in the foyer with his keys, like he was ready to come find you maybe. He jumps when you fly through the doorway and the keys clink to the marble floor. “I ...” The words are there, on the tip of your tongue, and they tingle. You know they’re going to come out. You can feel the ache and distress grumbling inside your stomach. “You?” He lays a concerned hand on your arm and it feels like hell-fire, burning you so deeply you want to scream again. “Lance? You’re fucking scaring me man.” It’s there, like an orgasm that’s begun and headed past the threshold. “I ... I ... slept ...” Its coming you realize, like a freight train. You can see the confusion in Justin's face and your ears burn red. “I lost my virginity to your mother,” you whisper softly--and that confuses you because you’re filled with so much anguish. The words are out though and inside, your soul lifts unexpectedly. You never see the rage flash in Justin’s eyes, or Lynn trip into the room with your words, or the fist heading for your jaw. The pain blinds you and you reel backward into he screen door, crashing through. Concrete hits your back and your palms scrape up with the brutal force of the punch. “Get the fuck out of my sight!” Justin screams, diving for you again. Lynn grabs the back of his shirt and you hear the rip of the material as he struggles to get to you. She’s crying, you can see the tears dripping down her face and somewhere in the haze you hear her calling for her son to stop. But Justin is muscular and strong. The shirt slips from her grip and he’s got you by your neck. Lynn is there, you see her face, her cheeks blazoned red, her tears real. Somehow she yanks her son back and you scramble to your feet. “Fuck!” you growl, rubbing your jaw. He’s breaking things, hurling flower pots to the ground, kicking the screen door in, and violent--out of control. You wobble to your car and take off. The tears take you by surprise. ************** Your head hurts from drinking so much. No one bothers you much. You tell them you’re out of town and they don't question it. Joey tries once. But you hold him off with a few scripts and the promise you’ll call him if you need him. The solitude of the casino room is not what you need--simply what you think will work. You’re down over ten grand but it doesn’t matter. The girls strip for you and you fondle them blankly. The drinks are free but you don’t taste them. Hell, you can barely feel the buzz. It’s all numb inside like the time you used a vibrator to get off and you couldn’t feel your fingers for an hour. The bed is barely slept in despite offers from both attractive men and women. When you do try to climb in, you find yourself waiting for that hand at your stomach--Justin’s hand--so you can fall into rest. Only it’s not there. And you choke with unwanted emotion as you realize it’s not going to be there again. You fucked his mom. You fucked him. You fucked yourself. They deliver a new bottle of JD and you sit on the balcony of the suite and drink. More. Until you pass out somewhere along the line. The maid shakes your shoulder and your eyes cry when you try to look at her. “Fuck,” you grumble. “What time is it?” “Twelve,” she says, eyeing your appearance and the bottle that sits on its side near your feet. You blink, your eyes are dry--and rub the itch across your face. She’s still standing over you with a weird look on her face so you force a smile and fold your arms over your chest. “Yes?” She shakes her head and walks away and you laugh. But it happens with a lot of physical pain. Your jaw still aches a little and the pain behind your eyes is brutal--the laughing makes it worse. But it won’t stop. Your shoulders shake and your eyes wince shut. You hear the maid leave and you fall over onto the balcony floor, your knees pulled up against your chest, the laughter shaking your entire being. It turns to sobs in mere minutes, uncontrolled sobbing that hurts your chest and your heart. You miss Justin. It hits you in the gut and knocks the wind from your spirit. *************** The messages don’t stop. Eventually Joey hunts you down in Vegas and drags you home. He grills you with angry eyes and a tone that screams ‘let me help you’. Only you’re numb--to numb to care or to hear. You think about Justin and about Lynn and you pray that time will spin around and take you back to when you were seventeen so you could flee that room. And hang onto sanity. The plane ride is a blur. The ride home even more so. Joey hides you the best he can from the occasional fan. He takes you all the way to his house and tucks you into the guest bedroom. “Sleep it off, Lance,” he says quietly, covering you with the blankets. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” It’s the best you’ve slept since Justin punched you. You wake to tiny fingers tracing your nose and a scent that’s sweet like honeysuckle. You hear a baby’s screech in your mind and slowly crack your eyes open to see Brianna staring at you. With her other hand she rubs her pacifier across your chin and giggles. Her eyes are so bright they make you want to cry for lost innocence. The one she will eventually lose, you tell yourself, but in reality, you realize it’s just the mourning of your own. Seventeen was too young. She climbs unsteadily onto the bed and you snuggle her under the covers while she babbles with words you try to understand. Somehow just holding her makes you feel safe. ************* It’s a month later and you‘re attending AA meetings. Three months before you’re completely sober and in therapy. Joey insists. He’s brutish like that--protective and strong. You fought him at first--kicked and screamed and tried to hole up in your house. He refused to leave--refused to surrender to the beast. Finally you broke down and sobbed in his arms, told him more then you expected to until you had nothing left to tell. The next day you asked him to take you for help. You haven’t seen Justin or Lynn, only gotten strained clips of how he’s doing. He’s retreated into some fucked up shell no one can get him out of and isn’t speaking to his mother. It’s guilt that pulls at you everyday. One you’re trying to work out. It’s some group thing you have to attend that brings you to face him. Your hair is back to it’s natural shade and you’ve lost the tiny gut you had from drinking so much. The scruff on your face is tame and you’re eyes are the shade of green they were when you were a kid. They’re clear. They’re bright. They’re sad for Justin but content for you. He strolls in and takes your breath away. Through the haze and fog of pain you forgot how stunning he is--how blue his eyes are and how strong his shoulders are. You forgot how his nose looked and the shape of his arms. It’s so clear now. Only it’s too late. He ignores you completely. Joey sees the hurt that flashes in your eyes and you try to shrug it away. “Don’t matter,” you mumble. “I did it. I can deal with the aftermath.” Joey hugs you and you take the strength he sends silently. Two hours and he hasn’t so much as caught you looking at him. Chris, JC and Joey catch it. They stay silent and assist the outing along--pushing when they need to--backing off when possible. Finally he leaves the room to get a drink, or so he says. Joey kicks your foot and you stand to follow him. Your heart is slamming so hard you’re afraid it will break, shatter into a million pieces before you get to him. You wonder what you’ll say when you get him alone. Wonder if you can possibly apologize enough to make that look in his eyes go away. You trail him to the vending machine and watch him kick it when his dollar doesn’t work. “Fucking shit!” he growls, winding up to kick it again. “Here,” you say quietly, fishing a dollar out of your wallet. “It’s not as wrinkled.” You wait as he turns to face you--wait and hold your breath because this is it. “Fuck you,” he spits, grabbing the dollar anyway. “Fuck you and fuck you.” He feeds it into the machine and punches some numbers. You watch as a bottle of water falls with a ‘thunk’ and he retrieves it. “I’m sorry,” you say in a hushed tone, leaning against the wall. “Jesus, Justin, I’m sorry for not telling you. Sorry for ...” You watch him down the entire bottle with one long gulp then he throws the plastic at your chest. “Sorry you fucked my mother? Sorry you fucked me afterward? Sorry for what Lance? For taking my goddamn mind and messing with it?” The bottle topples to the floor and you kick it away. “If you want,” you say, keeping your tone even, “I’ll explain it to you. The best ... the best I can. I want to.” You strain to look at his face, into his eyes, to convey the truth to him. That you were messed up yourself--a kid dealing with emotions beyond your capacity. For a moment you think he’s going to hit you again, or bolt. But he doesn’t. He drops his hands to his sides and blinks slowly. “Tonight. Your house. Seven.” He rubs his fingers through his barely there curls and sighs. Another tiny cuss and he strolls back into the room. You’re shaken but don’t falter. Because this is important beyond words. ********************* You pace. Its something you never did before but do all the time now. To keep busy. To keep focused. The hands you beg to keep busy stuff into your pockets and your palms are sweaty. The clock chimes ten after seven and you continue to wear out the carpet. Figuratively speaking. Your face peers out the window and you finally sit on your hands, sinking down onto the couch to keep them still. Unstill hands lead to temptation and the liquor store delivers. Hell, they ran your tab for a year and a half--knew your address by heart. The delivery boy knew the name of your dog and what kind of cars you owned. He knew your life better then you did. Finally at eight the door rattles. It’s not a knock and it’s not a bell--it’s a rattle that makes you jump. Shakes you more then it should. You take a deep breath and wander to it, wishing for the first time in so long that you hadn’t given it up. That you could hide. It’s too late though because he rattles the door again and you force yourself to open it. He stands there and you blink because the rage isn’t as apparent. His eyes are soft and his lips are dry. He licks at them repeatedly and that tugs at your heart. There is so fucking much you missed about him, things you took for granted everyday. “Hey,” he says softly, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Hey,” you reply, stepping to the side. You really want to hug him, throw your arms around him and whisper some magic words to erase all the pain you caused him. Justin slides into your home by a few feet, his eyes dart around nervously, and you can feel the fear exuding from his body. “Looks nice,” he comments quietly. You’re confused at first, but follow his eyes. He’s speaking about your house, the way you cleaned it up after sobering. Where once an untamed monster resided, now a tranquil adult lives. Candles and art deco replaces empty bottles of booze and dirty clothes you couldn’t be bothered to pick up. “Thanks,” you say with a little laugh. Tension is there, you feel it, and your hands tremble just a bit. “Want a water? Soda? Anything?” Justin waves his hand but doesn’t look at you. Instead he moves into your living room and slumps down onto the couch. His fingers curl onto the seam of a throw pillow and he snatches it, hugging it to his chest. Defensive technique you think instantly. Walls that you hope you can start to crack. You glance around and decide to sit on the coffee table, just feet from Justin, facing him directly. Best chance at getting through. “I know this is hard,” you start, shoving some magazines out of the way. “But I want you to ask me whatever you want. Whatever you need to.” You lean forward on your knees and dangle your hands between your legs, eager to hear if he’ll say anything. He chews on his lip and stares at the pattern on the pillow, his eyes blink slowly, but no words come out. Ten minutes later and he hasn’t moved much. You clear your throat and struggle not to touch him because you long to. The words run around inside your mind, what to say to him, but when you open your mouth, they all run together. Another pause and you find strength from somewhere. You speak in soft tones, never looking away from him. You explain how it happened, how you were scared and lonely, how your own mother had left and Lynn was taking care of you. He looks at you a few times, angrily, but lets you continue. Gently you tell him that when it was done you hated yourself, and no matter how many times you tried to reconcile it in your mind, there was no out. Carefully you watch the way his fists curl and uncurl as you go on and you remember the sting of his anger on your face. It makes you flinch. “I never meant to drag you into the fray,” you say solidly. “I swear to fucking God, Justin. It wasn’t like I had some big plan to mess you up.” Your eyes almost water because you want him to get it so badly. He lifts his head and you see the tears drip down his cheeks. “So you’re saying you loved me in some kind of fucked up way?” he questions. When his lip trembles you want to kiss it, make it stop. You don’t have an answer for it, for love, for anything even close--so you strain for the right words. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” you answer honestly. “I know that I was wrong. That what I did to you was very wrong.” It’s everything you meant to say so many times only now it’s coming out. And now you feel sick with it all. You can’t tell him you loved him because it sounds so shallow in your mind, but your heart is fighting with you--pleading with you to tell him. “I don’t understand,” he says with a sniffle. His eyes are red to match his nose, and he licks his lips in a nervous habit you remember so well. “Lance I’ve been around and around on this.” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence and you wince, and long to reach out to him. “I just ...” He moves back like a wounded animal--like he knows you might touch him. “...don’t get why my fucking mother and why me and why...” You swallow hard and wait for him to continue but it’s obvious he can’t. He throws the pillow back to the couch and drops his head in his hands. You can’t stop your hand from landing on his shoulder, squeezing the muscle at the base of his neck. You can’t help leaning forward when he looks up at you--stares into your eyes for solace or explanation. Your arms are around him before you can think and for one moment in time it feels perfect. He jerks away suddenly and you expected it, only you didn’t know it would kill you so much inside. He pushes your arms away and stands up--he paces and clenches his fists. So much turmoil hanging around inside. “I would have done anything for you,” he finally says, spinning around to face you. He shrugs slightly and wipes his face. “Just thought you should know.” You gasp and stand, resist the urge to try and touch him again, push back the ache because *you* did this. It’s your responsibility. “Sometimes life isn’t fair,” you say, pushing your fingers through your hair. “And fuck, Justin, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” Old defenses slide back in like second nature and you feel the walls pushing up--denial and pain--the way your chest constricts and panic takes over your body. “I just wanted you to love me!” he screams and you reel from the truth in that comes across to you. “I wanted you to fucking love me. And not in that ‘oh so convenient’ way, Lance! Jesus! I wanted ... fuck!” You go to him and grab his arms, you shake him to you and feel like you‘ve lost your heart. “I always loved you!” you hiss. “I never knew it but I did. And I couldn’t sleep without you there, and I messed this up! But Justin!” His lips are on your before you can say another word, a frantic kiss, a tongue that slides into your mouth followed by a guttural moan. His hands claw at you, tearing at your shirt and slipping down your back. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, sniffling into your mouth with a panic you can’t quite understand. It’s so good you don’t want it to stop only you have to. It’s no good for him, no good for you. When he shoves you against the living room wall and falls to his knees you crash. His hands are yanking at your jeans and his mouth is over your crotch, he’s murmuring something softly against the rough denim and you want him so badly it stings. For a moment you touch his head and roll your head to the side and imagine this is the way it’s supposed to be--healthy and good--not fucked up and needy. His fingers are quick--you forgot just how fast he could manipulate pants--and your in his mouth. He’s still crying around you and you finally wake up from a fantasy you can’t live and pull his face back gently. He stares up at you with a tear stained face and licks his lips. “Not this way,” you say softly, falling to your knees to his level. “Justin, not this way.” He falls against you and shakes, mumbles something you still can’t understand. You hold him for half an hour, maybe more, before he rocks back on his heels and studies your face. His eyes are clearer, not so muddled with agony. “I just wanted you to love me,” he whispers, taking your hand in his. “That’s all I ever wanted.” “I want to now,” you say quietly. “If you can let me.” It’s the most honest you’ve been since you were seventeen and staring down the barrel of a pistol you didn’t know was loaded. His eyes tell you it’s not going to be easy and your eyes tell him you don’t want to give up. The next time you kiss, it’s right. And honest. And complete with everything it should have been all those years ago. The next time you kiss the scent of coconuts is gone. In it’s place resides an aroma you’ve never experienced before--the aroma of Justin--pure and simple. [ back ] |