Pull (Push #2) (19 page)

She’s bowed up, her back arched, her head tilted back, and her hands indulging in a fit of self-gratification. She’s breathing heavily, harshly, as her fingers slip over her body. I’m seriously inspired, but I keep my hands off myself and just watch. Jesus fucking Christ.

Her eyes open and meet mine just as one of her hands moves to her mouth. She sinks the first two fingers inside, sucking them, making them wet. Then she lowers them and slides them inside her own body. She pushes them into herself over and over as the fingers of her other hand continue to move. She’s still looking at me, staring at me with a look of purpose and power and self-assurance. It’s sexy as fuck.

I watch her rise. I watch her hips lift up off the floor and her fingers curl into her pelvis again and again until she is shouting with her own pleasure. Her body tenses and her eyes roll back away from mine. When she is still, her eyes open again and look up at me. I’m shaking my head from side to side as I lift my arm and run my fingers through my hair. My hand stops on the back of my neck. I’m frozen. Stuck in wonder.

“For fuck’s sake.” It’s all I can say.

I drop to the floor. I’m kneeling next to her, a sense of worship washing over me the moment my knees hit the ground. She is everything that is worth worshiping. Everything.

Emma pulls herself up onto her knees and lunges at me, wrapping her arms around me, pressing her chest into mine, and knocking me backward until I fall onto the floor, my upper body splayed out into the hallway. I bring my legs out from beneath me and lie on my back, over the threshold of her bedroom. She climbs on top of me and straddles my hips, her hand resting on my chest. I feel the warm, slick wetness dripping from her body, and it arouses the hell out of me. I’m both elated and relieved when she raises herself up and puts me inside her. I take a deep breath to collect myself and put my hands on her ass, lifting her up and dropping her back down. She’s bent over me now, looking at my face. I look up at her, soaking her in for a few minutes before my eyes are drawn downward. I want to watch our bodies meet. I want to see myself slide in and out of her. I want to watch her body fuck mine.

Her palms are hot against my chest. I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding through my skin. I think she’s going to come again, but before she does, she brings her legs forward and puts her feet down on either side of my waist. She’s squatting over me now, holding onto the doorframe, and dropping herself down onto me faster and faster.

“Don’t stop,” she says breathlessly.

I couldn’t if I wanted to.

I grip her hips and dig my fingers into her, pounding into her as I lift my hips up to meet her body every time she drops back down. I wish I could go deeper. All the way to her soul. She’s groaning now, and the sound is ringing in my ears. I can’t stop myself, and a minute later, I come with a sharp push and a bottomless, lust-fueled sigh. Obsession and covetousness surge through me. I want to keep her here, chained up and always mine.

I listen to her stuttered breaths and watch her eyes close as she comes only seconds after I do. I hold her tight against my body and then she’s still. She straightens her legs and lies down on top of my chest. Her breath is heavy, and I can hear her heart in her chest. I wrap the birds around her back, fastening her to me. Keeping her safe and close.

“How was that for rock knocking?” she says after a few minutes of silence pass. I reluctantly break the hug and run my fingers up and down her spine, feeling where the skin is still slightly raised from her tattoo.

“Pretty fucking awesome.” My breath is lighter now. “I just hope no rocks were injured in the melee.” She rolls herself off of me and looks down at my crotch.

“They look unscathed to me, but I’m no expert.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I add as her eyes move away from their target, and she sinks her face into my neck, snuggling in close.

“So what do you want to do tomorrow?” Her words brush into the hair on my chest.

“I don’t know. But more rock knocking would be nice.”

“Yes, it would. But maybe between bouts of rock knocking we can step outside and do something fun.”

“You got it,” I say, thinking for a few seconds before I step out on a limb and add, “I hear there’s a sale down at Jackson’s Hardware.”

“Is that so?” I can feel her face twist into a smile against my neck.

“Yeah. And I hear the owners could use some help with it.”

“Well, then, Jackson’s it is,” she says, a calm happiness filling her voice. “And then we should probably get you a new phone, right?”

“Sounds like the perfect day.” I mean it, too.

“And then let’s round it all out with an ice cream sundae.”

“Like I said, sounds like the perfect day.” I squeeze her tight against me and smell her sweet, feminine smell.

Right then, I decide that there is no way in hell I am ruining tomorrow by telling her about what’s in the backpack tonight, even though I promised myself that I would. I need more time to work things out. I need more time to come up with the right words. I need more time to plan.

Chapter 30

David—Age 12

Now that I’m twelve, my dad says I have to start helping him at work a few days a week over the summer. But I don’t want to. Because I don’t like him, and I don’t want to have to spend any more time with him than I already do. Which isn’t much, mind you, but still…even one more minute with him is too much. I don’t want to smell like sawdust and tar paper and metal shavings at the end of the day. I would rather spend my summer reading books and watching TV and playing video games. I don’t even want to have to look at him. I know he hates me for being born, and I can’t imagine why he would want me around. But, he’s making me do it. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

My dad and Ellie were together for over a year. They broke up early this spring when she decided that my dad liked booze better than he liked her. I don’t know why it took her so long to figure that one out. Clearly, she’s no genius. And, as far as I can tell, she likes booze just as much as he does. But, whatever. When they were together, he mostly ignored me. Which was actually pretty great. But now that she’s gone, he’s on some kind of mission to make my life a living hell. He’s acting like he wants to take me under his wing or something.

It’s June 7th. Yesterday was the last day of school, and today is my first day on the job. I ride to a jobsite in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, looking out the window and thinking about how I’m going to survive all this. I’m wearing jeans with a T-shirt and the new boots he got me. He said they had to be steel-toed. Whatever that means. We don’t say a word for the entire ride. When we get there, I see that my dad’s crew is building a house. I don’t know anything about it, but there’s a foundation with part of a wooden frame on top. My stomach rises into my throat when my dad gets out of the truck, puts a hardhat on my head, and tells me to follow him.

I spend the morning running around getting the guys whatever they need. I get more strips of nails out of the truck when the nail gun magazines run empty. I fetch their water when they ask for it. I grab someone’s layout square when it’s accidentally dropped from the top of a ladder. I run to the truck to grab a couple of clamps when someone needs them. Oddly enough, I kind of like it. The guys are pretty nice to me, patiently describing the tools they need when asking me to go get them. By lunchtime, I know the names of a bunch of tools I never even saw before. My dad ends up spending most of his time on the phone in his truck, apparently talking with customers and suppliers. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

I eat my lunch with all the guys, and they don’t even tease me for bringing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with my Gatorade. But when I see what they have, I decide to stop at the grocery store before I come back here again. I want to get some salami and pepperoni, and something called capicola. Next time, I want to bring a meat sandwich on a roll. Just like the kind they bring.

By the time four o’clock rolls around, I’m nearly as filthy and sweaty as the rest of the guys. I’ve learned how to set up a sawhorse and the basics of how to use a sliding T bevel. I bet my dad is going to be proud of me for learning so much stuff in one day.

As everyone is lighting a cigarette and saying their goodbyes, my dad comes over to the group and puts his hand on top of my hardhat. He briskly shakes my head from side to side. Then he opens his mouth.

“Hope the kid wasn’t too much trouble for you boys,” he says. “Thanks for babysitting.”

Embarrassment heats my skin. My ears start ringing, and I drop my eyes to the ground, looking straight down at my new steel-toed boots. I don’t need babysitting. No way. I want to shout the words at him, but I’m afraid that if I move, if I talk, he’s going to make it so much worse.

Stupid me to think he would be proud.

Everyone looks at my dad, but for a long minute, no one says a word.

“Kid’s a pretty quick learner,” says Danny. He’s an older guy with white scattered in the hair around his ears. “You should cut him some slack.”

“Is that so?” My dad is staring at Danny with a half-smile. I lift my head and look straight up at him, but he keeps his eyes on Danny.

“He’s a faster learner than McNulty over there,” Danny adds, nodding toward a guy named Sean who just graduated from high school last week.

“Real funny, Danny,” says Sean, tilting his head and drawing on his cigarette.

“Everyone’s a faster learner than McNulty,” says my father. I watch Sean’s head drop as he scuffs his foot into the ground. Suddenly I feel a bit bad for the guy, having to take the heat off of me like he did.

“Still, the kid ain’t half bad,” Danny adds, nodding toward me. Then he looks at me and winks. I don’t know what it means, but it makes me feel a little more important than I felt a minute ago.

My father chuckles, and then adds, “You like little boys, do you, Danny? You wanna take him home with you then?”

“Jesus, Shep. I’m just tryin’ to say something nice about your kid, for Christ’s sake.” My eyes move between the two of them, trying to decipher exactly what they’re talking about.

“Anybody else got anything
nice
to say about my kid?” My father looks around at the group of men. “’Cause if you do, keep it to yourself. I don’t need to hear it, and neither does he. He’s got a lot to learn about this world, and the first thing is that there’s nothing
nice
about it.”

My father turns away from us and walks back to his truck, calling me to follow after him. As I start to walk away, I feel a hand pat the back of my shoulder, as if it was offering its condolences. As if it were saying
good luck
. I don’t turn around to see who it is. I just follow my dad and hop in the truck.

For the rest of the summer, I spend two or three days a week on the worksite, whenever my father sees it fit to take me with him. I have a meat sandwich on a roll packed and ready to go every day, just in case. I eat it by myself at the kitchen table if he decides not to take me. The guys are still nice to me, teaching me things about construction and women, and telling me dirty jokes whenever my father is sitting in his truck. But when he’s around, they clam up. I don’t blame them. Not one bit. I know what an asshole he can be.

Chapter 31

David—Present Day

Clive is in fine form today. Emma and I arrived about a half hour ago, and he put me to work immediately, asking me to shelve a couple of pallets of his heavier items. I laugh to myself when he sends me to the back of the store, knowing the only reason he did was so that he could have Emma to himself. Barbara is in the back, too, talking on the phone in the office. She waves at me when I walk in through the swinging doors. I spend a few hours loading boxes of leaf blowers, lighting fixtures, chainsaws, and three porcelain toilets onto a low cart and then moving them out onto the shelves. A few customers ask me questions as I work, and I’m happy when I have the right answers. Clive and Emma are at the front of the store waiting on customers. He rings them up at the register, and she bags the items and bats her eyelashes. They make quite the pair. Every now and then I catch her looking at me with a smile. She’s happy. And that makes me happy.

Between customers, the two of them chat it up. Clive is clearly enjoying Emma’s company as much as she is enjoying his. Most of the time they’re smiling and laughing, occasionally touching each other on the arm as they talk. But at one point in their long and animated conversation, their faces both grow somber, and I wonder what they’re talking about. He pats her on the back and then says something that brings a small smile back to her face, like he is comforting her about something. Their seriousness only lasts for a few minutes, but still, it disturbs me.

When early afternoon arrives, Clive calls me up to the front of the store and thanks Emma and me for lending a hand. He says he has help lined up for the afternoon so we should get out of here while we can. Tim, his sole employee, arrives just as we are saying our goodbyes. After a quick trip to the back office to give our regards to Barbara, I shake Clive’s hand and tell him to call me if he needs more help with anything. He thanks me for the offer and then turns to Emma.

“Young lady, you remember what I said now, you hear?” His mouth is a soft line, and his head is gently nodding as he talks.

“I sure will, Mr. Jackson. Every word.” She smiles a tight grin and dips her head in return.

“And you, David,” he says, turning to me, “you take good care of this girl. She’s a real keeper, you know.”

“I know.” I put my hand on the small of Emma’s back. “I’ll see you next week, Clive. In the meantime, try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“No guarantees on that, son.” He opens the front door and holds it as we walk out.

In the car, Emma and I laugh about Clive and his plotting ways. When I ask her what they were talking about all morning, she just smiles and says, “You.” I’m feeling very self-conscious about her answer when she decides to add more.

“He told me they really like having you around. They think you’re less devilish than you seem with all those tattoos. I told him you were only devilish when no one else was looking.” She’s staring over at me with a coy smile.

“I’ll bet he
loved
that,” I reply, hoping she’s only referencing our love life and not my life before I met her.

“He said it was more than he needed to know.”

“I’m sure it was TMI for an eighty-year-old,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the Verizon store. “What else did you guys talk about?”

“He asked me how we met. When I told him it was when you came to fix my kitchen, he laughed and said he was wondering why the hell you ordered all that fancy kitchen stuff. He said you wouldn’t tell him who it was for, but he knew it was for someone you were trying to impress.”

“Did he, now?”

“Yep. And then he asked me if you did a good job on my new kitchen.”

“And you said?”

“I said yes, of course. I told him I love it.” She pauses a few seconds before adding, “And then I told him that the only thing I love more than my new kitchen is you.”

For some ridiculous reason, I start to sweat. “I bet he enjoyed hearing that.”

“He said he just hopes you love me back.” Her hands are resting on her lap, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her fingers start to fidget. “I told him not to worry. You do.”

“And he said?”

“He said he suspected as much.”

“Thanks for making me look so good,” I say. She chuckles softly and quiets her fidgeting fingers.

“He also said you seem different lately, like you finally figured some stuff out. He said he thinks you may have found yourself the day you found me.”

I can’t help but shake my head and smile at Clive’s marksmanship. He’s more right than he’ll ever know. “I told you he was smooth,” I say. “But, he’s not just smooth…he’s totally right. I
am
different. It’s like I have a purpose now or something. Like I’m finally a grown-up.”

She is quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands.

“
I
know that you aren’t the same person you were the day we met, and it’s good to know that someone else sees it, too. But the thing that makes me the happiest, is hearing that you see it in yourself. ’Cause that’s the part that matters, you know? That’s the part that counts,” she says.

I lift my right hand and put it on her knee, rubbing my palm against her skin. Acknowledging the depth of her words. “It’s because, for the first time in my life, I have someone to think about besides myself. And there’s more value in that than I ever expected.”

“I know what you mean,” she says, turning to look at me with clouded eyes.

“Two of the same.”

We drive in silence for several blocks, and I can’t help but wonder what else she and Clive talked about. If the conversation went that deep, who knows what else they discussed.

“So, did you guys talk about anything else?” I ask as we stop at a light.

“Mostly just general stuff. And then after that, he asked me questions about myself. So I told him where I grew up and a little bit about my family.”

“You guys looked kind of serious for a while there.” I’m trying to pry without being so obvious.

“Yeah. I told him about my dad, and he thanked me for my dad’s service to the country. It was a little awkward. Then he asked me about my mom and so I told him about her accident. He looked at me like I was an injured kitten or something. But then I told him that I have you to take care of me now, and the pity kind of went away. He said I picked a good one for that.” I turn over to look at her for a second and her face looks sad. I gently squeeze the top of her knee just before she adds, “No pressure or anything.”

“Eh." I shrug. “All in a day’s work for a superhero.” She lets out a small laugh, and with it, the seriousness leaves the car like a fly out the window.

“So, do they even sell Batphones these days?” she asks, the cheerfulness returning to her face.

“Sure. I’m getting the model with the mini bolas
and
the camera. Makes it harder for you to get away and easier for me to take pictures.”

“I’m looking forward to it already.”

“Maybe we can give it a test run in front of the store clerk?”

“Whatever knocks your rocks,” she says as we pull into the store’s parking lot. I shake my head, jump out of the car, and walk around to open her door.

                                          -----------------------------------------------------

It’s midnight and Emma is finally asleep, wrapped around me like a blanket on a baby. I don’t want to get out of bed, but I can’t sleep. So, I peel her from my body and roll over in the bed, sitting up on the edge. She doesn’t even stir. She’s sleeping like a rock again. The room is fairly dark, but I can see the outline of her body, her skin glowing in the dim light from between the blind slats. I bend over and pick up a wisp of her hair, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s far softer than the little yellow folded-over Emma I still have in the pocket of my jeans. I move my hand up to the crown of her head and brush the bangs off her face. Then I trail my index finger lightly down the side of her cheek and neck. Again, she doesn’t even stir. She’s so still. And so fucking hot.

My new phone is sitting on her nightstand, muted, and I lean over and pick it up. I enter the passcode and look down at the screen. It’s backlit by a photo I took of Emma at the Verizon store. I was teasing her about ejecting the mini bolas at her ankles when I casually lifted the phone and snapped the shot. She didn’t even know I was taking it. She’s radiant in the picture, her face clear and shining in a surprisingly beautiful way, even under the store’s fluorescent lights. She’s in profile, with her head kicked back and laughter in her eyes. Looking at her, even in frozen animation, makes me feel like one lucky bastard. I inhale and stand up, walking out of her bedroom and down the hallway, stopping only to pull my jeans on. Once I’m in the living room, I touch the text message icon. There are seventeen messages there. I saw the number when the Verizon guy loaded them into my new phone, but I didn’t want to read them in front of Emma or him. I didn’t want to deal with them then. I didn’t want them to distract me from her. But now, she’s asleep, and I need to handle whatever needs to be handled.

I open the folder to find a series of nine text messages from Emma, each more frantic than the one before, just as the voicemails had been. I hate every single one of them. They bring the metallic taste back to my tongue. They make my eyes hurt. There is only one text I don’t erase immediately after reading. The one in which she resorts to sexual bribery.

I will give u the best blowjob of your life if u just show the fuck up. Where r u?

It’s the only message that doesn’t make me want to rip my own heart out. Inside my head, I hear her voice repeating the words, but she isn’t pleading. Instead her voice is slow and dark and needy. Taken out of context, the message could instigate one hell of a “moment.” But, because of its genesis, I read it once more and then hit delete.

In addition to Emma’s messages, there is one from Matt—sent on Friday night—that simply says,

Hope u r ok. Brad took Emma to Cam’s. Call me later.

I don’t call him because he’s probably sleeping, and I don’t feel like talking. Instead I send him a text.

Hey. Just got your message. Phone was busted. New one now. All is well. Long story.

I don’t expect a reply until tomorrow, so I’m surprised when my phone vibrates almost immediately.

Which is?

Damn it.

Had an altercation with a crazy fuck. Couldn’t fight back. Ended up with a black eye, a bloody lip, and a broken phone.

What crazy fuck? The guy with the gold rabbit teeth?

No. Just an old crackhead who was trying to make a point.

Did he?

Yeah. It’s over though. We sorted it out.

Emma was completely insane about u not being there.

I know. She’s okay now, though. We spent the entire day together. All is well.

Yeah, she texted me Friday night to let me know she was okay.

She never said a word about texting Matt. I wonder when she sent the message.

Oh good. Glad to hear she touched base with u.

Me too. I was worried ’cause Brad was being an asshole. I thought he might make trouble.

He did, but that’s a whole different story. In the meantime, things are fine with Emma. Thx for giving her a ride home.

No problem. Guess I’ll c u Tuesday then. New place?

Yep.

Ok. Say hey to Emma.

Will do.

Later.

Later.

I close out Matt’s message folder, hoping that’s the last I hear from him about Friday night.

There are also four messages from Brad. Two are from late last night, and two are from early this afternoon. The first two don’t say much. They just want to know why the hell I cleaned his clock.
What did I do to deserve a fucking ass-riot?
one of them says. Whatever. The two from today ask me to get in touch with him. He wants me to call. I think he’s worried about my parting words. About the fact that I said that that was his last mistake. I hope he’s nervous. I hope he’s shitting a brick over the fact that I’m pissed at him. I’m going to let him sweat it out until Tuesday night. I’m going to let him think about it for a couple days. Jackass.

And the final three messages are from Xavier. The first one hit my inbox at 3:27 a.m. Saturday morning.

We found the motherfucker.

The next one came in at 4:04 a.m.

He won’t be a problem anymore.

And the final one arrived at 4:08 a.m.

Seems that Nikki’s left town. Not worth the effort. We’ll have other ladies available for Tuesday.

I reply with the following message:

Glad to hear it.

And I am.

Before I slide my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, I reach down into it and pull out my little yellow folded-over Emma. She’s been in there since Friday morning. As I roll her over my fingers, I think about what the real Emma must have been feeling when she opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand on Friday and discovered only emptiness. If she really thought Ricky was outside her door, how panicked was she when the gun wasn’t there? How much fear was written on her face? And Matt—did he see her fear? Did he see her vulnerability? If so, what did he do with it? Did he comfort her? Or did he turn away and pretend not to see? I exposed her, and there is nothing Emma hates more than being weak and vulnerable. Even if it’s just the perception of frailty. But this was real. This was a moment in which she was completely exposed and probably very afraid. And I wasn’t there.