Ricochet (4 page)

“No.
Really. I’m good. I was super into it. I begged for it,” I muttered.

I
kissed him deeply and sank my head into his shoulder. He nuzzled into my hair
and held me as he stroked my arm.

“Can
I have some water?” I asked meekly.

“Of
course,” he said as he stood. I slipped under the covers, taking in his smell
on the sheets. I was out before he returned. The last thing I remember was the
light flicking on in the hall. I sunk sweetly into sleep, surrounded by musty
sex and stale cologne. I didn’t dream. I slipped into inky blackness without a
second thought or a single objection.

You know how in movies the morning
after a wild romp the female lead wakes up sweetly and gently with perfect hair
and make up that not only survived the wild sex but also a full nights sleep?
The main characters smile coyly at each other, kiss, maybe have more sex, and
then go about their day? That’s not what’s happening here. Daylight is piercing
in through the blinds unwelcome. My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. I’m
nauseated. My hair is matted and tangled and my scalp is tender where my hair
was pulled. I can’t see my face, but I’m certain that mascara and eyeliner are
caked around my eyes. Maybe I could sneak out of bed, back to my place and
shower and sneak back into bed without him waking up. I gently lifted Cash’s
arm and sat up. No such luck.

“Hey.
Good morning,” he beamed.

“If
you say so,” I replied, bitterly. I sighed as I remembered that my clothing was
scattered through the apartment.

“Do
you have to work today?” he asked.

“Yeah.
I have to work every day. But I think I’m going to take a sick day and go home
and nurse this hangover. I owe you a bottle of whiskey,” I groaned.

“You
get sick days at the Gap?” he teased.

“I
don’t actually work at the Gap, asshole. I’m an activities coordinator for a
residential care facility. And yes, I get like, eight, sick days every year,
that I never use,” I was being kind of bitchy, but it’s hard to be flirty and
sweet when you feel like you’re going to vomit. I stood up and looked around
for my shirt, trying to cover myself. This felt kind of ridiculous, to be
self-conscious about him seeing me nude. Things feel different in the light of
day.

“I
think I’ve got some sick days saved up too, let’s play hooky. Why don’t you
call your work and come back to bed?” he asked.

“I
need to take a shower and change my clothes. And sleep for like seven more
hours, or seven days, I’ll decide which when I wake up again, ” I responded, “I
just want to sleep in my bed. I’m really sorry. I just feel like a truck hit me
and need to do my thing. Put your number in my phone, I’ll get ahold of you
later, maybe we can hang out.”

“No,
yeah I totally get that. Go, recover,” he said, slightly disappointed. Sorry,
bro. Not only do I actually need to replenish my electrolytes, get this make up
off my face before I break out, and sleep for ten years, I need to process the
events of last night. I don’t want to play house yet.
 

“Before
you go, about last night, we didn’t use any…” he trailed off.

“What?
Are you telling me I need to go get tested? Because I literally
just
had to do that because of shitty ex
I was telling you about. If I have to make an appointment and get my blood
drawn again, I swear…”

“No,
no. Not anything like that. Jesus. I just wanted to make sure you were aware.
In case we needed to make a trip to the pharmacy or something,” he said.

“Oh.
For like, Plan B? No. That’s absolutely not necessary. I’m up to date on my
birth control. But thanks, I guess?” I grimaced.

“Jeeez,”
he sighed, “Could this be any more awkward?”

He
approached me and pulled my face to his chest, wrapping his arms around me, and
kissed my forehead.

“Try
to have a good day, I’ll help you find the rest of your clothes,” he offered. I
followed him to the living room. I snatched my jeans off the floor and pulled
them on. He located my bra, strung across the back of the couch, and handed it
to me. I shoved it in my bag.

“Well,
I’ll see you later,” I said as I headed towards the door. I didn’t wait for his
response. I bolted into my apartment. This was probably the most painfully
awkward morning after I had ever experienced. Two out of ten would not
recommend.

 
I fished my phone out of my purse and
called my office. I sounded convincingly pathetic as I described my illness. I
feel bad lying, they don’t really have anyone to replace me when I call in
sick. They just kind of have to wing it, and I come back to a mess. I’ll deal
with it Monday. I scroll through my phone to find that Cash had stored his
number. I send him a text apologizing for being so bitchy and weird. I’m a
giant baby when it comes to hangovers, especially when they’re born from hard
liquor. I drag myself to the kitchen and down a sports drink. I scan the sad
contents of my fridge, and nothing looks appetizing. I’ll order take out later,
after I nap. I peel my clothes off and leave a trail behind me as I sluggishly
make my way to the bathroom.
 
I finally
catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I kind of pull off
the homeless crack head aesthetic.
I turn to examine the damage to my
rear. I was expecting big, fat, red hand prints, bruising, maybe a welt or two.
There was nothing there but a little redness, and it was barely tender. My
scalp hurt worse.

I
sit in the corner of the shower and let the scalding stream of water beat down
on me. This wasn’t as refreshing as I thought it would be. I can’t stop
thinking about last night. Hunter and I had played rough a couple of times. He
wasn’t very good at it. It usually involved a lot of me telling him what to do to
me. “Pull my hair, smack my ass.” What happened last night was completely
different.
I’ve never been fucked like that. Replaying it in
my head makes my groin ache. I finish my shower, brush my teeth, and comb my
hair. I slink into an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. I climb into bed and
pull the covers up to my chin, my hair still wet. I close my eyes and visions
of Cash with his hands on my body flash behind my eyelids. I slide my hand
between my legs; I’m damp from the shower and from my daydream. I touch myself
with urgency. I moan as I quickly climax. Embarrassment shoots through me as I
wonder if he can hear me through the wall.

What
time is it? There’s no way it’s three PM. I grab my phone. My notification
screen is cluttered with game requests and Facebook crap. And
a text back
from Cash. I’d almost forgotten that I’d texted
him this morning. I wonder if we had legitimate plans to hang out again this
evening or if that was just a nicety. He responded to my apology text sweetly,
that he understood and could tell that I didn’t feel well, and hoped that I got
some rest.
 
I responded.

Hey, I’m awake finally. I feel a lot
better.
Were you still wanting
to hang out later?

Ding.

Ahhh
, you’re alive.
lol
.
yeah
, I didn’t have any plans. I’d like to see you
again. Do you feel up to dinner?

Honestly, I didn’t. I didn’t even
really want to put pants on. But I do want to see him. I dreamt about him. I’ve
not had much time to think about how I feel about his little kink, aside from how
his skill and experience benefits me. All the ways it benefits me. Pangs of
need shoot through my pelvis.

This is probably super lame… but not
really. Maybe we could stay in and do take out? Again lol. I promise I am not
an agoraphobe or anything. I’m actually more of a claustrophobe if anything if
you remember

Wait. I’m rambling. Delete delete
delete delete. Let’s try this again.

           
I’m
not really feeling up to going out. I’m still nursing this hangover a little.
I’ll pay for takeout this time though if that’s not too lame.

That’s a little better. Ellipses pop up
on my screen as he types.

Anything to see you again, I haven’t
been able to stop thinking about you. I was a little worried I messed up or
something… this morning was a little weird lol. But I’ll stop by when I get
home from work and get changed. See you soon.

So he did end up going to work. I
thought maybe he was feeling like shit, too. He threw back as many beers as I
did Jack and Cokes. But I guess he was just going to stay home because I was
staying home. That’s oddly sweet, and makes me grin stupidly. I decide not to
get into a conversation about what happened this morning, or the fact that he’s
all I’ve been able to think about in my limited waking hours, or that I dreamt
of him. Instead I shoot back a simple “can’t wait,” and excitedly hop out of bed.

I
really need to do laundry. The units have a washer and dryer hookup and there
are laundry facilities in the building, so my excuses for only doing laundry
once in the two months I have lived here are pretty limited. I need to rent to
own a washer and dryer. I wonder if Cash has a washer? He’s had his face buried
in my snatch, surely he wouldn’t mind letting me wash some clothes. Or is that
a whole different level of intimacy? I’ll have to ask Regan next time we talk,
she’s hip to the current dating atmosphere. I decide I just want to be
comfortable, and pull some black leggings out of my drawer. I pair them with a
cami and an off the shoulder sweatshirt. I run a flat iron through my hair
strategically to tame my bedhead without making it look like I took the time to
flat iron my hair. I apply minimal make up, leaving my face bare and forgoing
the mascara in case we have a repeat of last night and I fall asleep without
washing my face. I need to prove I don’t always wake up looking like a troll.

It’s
5:30 when I hear a knock on my door. Cash and I must miss each other by minutes
in the afternoon. I open the door and smile. He’s carrying paper sacks from an
amazing burger joint and a giant bottle of wine.

“Hey,
come in,” I say, beaming.

“I
know you wanted to order take out, but you said you still weren’t feeling
great, so I hope this is okay,” he said as he made his way to the seating area.

“Yeah,
it’s perfect. But what about ‘I’m miserably hung-over’ makes you think wine is
a good idea?”
 
I quipped.

“It’s
my tried and true hangover cure. Greasy food and hair of the dog,” he replied.

“Supermarket
Riesling isn’t the dog that bit me, I don’t know how well that will work,” I
said, smiling.

“Alcohol
is alcohol,” he shrugged. True. I grab two glasses and meet him on the couch.
Unlike his sprawling leather sectional, my sofa came out of a box, so it forced
us to sit with our legs touching. Not that it was a problem.

“Thanks
for bringing me food. That was really sweet.”
 
We sat hunched over the coffee table. I
don’t think either of us said anything after that. If he did talk to me, I
tuned it out, as I was having a religious experience with this burger. It was
delicious. I downed my glass of wine. He was right. The combination of the food
and warmth in my belly from the wine made me feel better instantly.

 
“Seriously, thanks. I feel a million
times better,” I said, sincerely.

“You’re
welcome. I’m glad I could help. So did I freak you out last night?” he asked.

I
choked on a French fry.

“Sorry.
No, you didn’t freak me out. I was a little… uh… surprised. But I’m intrigued,
to be honest. I want to learn more. Last night was very, um, satisfying. It
might be anti-feminist of me, but it was kind of liberating to not be in
complete control. To just be fucked with no mercy,” I said, enunciating
“fucked,” in a way that I thought was incredibly sultry. It must have come
across that way to Cash as well; his eyes grew wider and he shifted in his
seat.

“So
you like being spanked and fucked hard. Weren’t a big fan of orgasm denial, but
not a lot of people really…
like
it.
Like, genuinely enjoy it. Did you do any of your
research you said you were going to do?
 
Figure out what kinds of stuff piques
your interest?” he asked, eagerly.

“No,
not yet. I was in bed all day. But I thought you said you didn’t want to do
this stuff with me, now you seem excited at the prospect. Sorry if I’m a little
bit confused,” I queried, genuinely puzzled. I mean, I’m all for it if he wants
to get freaky. Last night’s preview has me hooked. I’d never been truly
dominated before. I’m kind of controlling as a person, and it was such a
release to be able to let go.

“I
just don’t want to use the playroom. I don’t want to do scenes with you.
There’s a difference between incorporating BDSM in the bedroom and what I do in
that
bedroom in a scene. It’s not me;
it’s this character I’ve created. I don’t have a problem exploring different
acts with you. I just don’t want us to have a dom/sub relationship with you,”
he explained.

“Well
then maybe you shouldn’t have fucked me like that on our first date,” I joked,
taking a sip of wine.

“Well,
there’s a major difference. I don’t spend time with my subs outside of scenes.
I don’t want lines to get blurred or anyone to catch feelings. It’s not very
romantic, I promise,” he cautioned.

“So
you wouldn’t ever want to have both? What kind of future do you see for
yourself then?
One where you never settle down, or one where
you do but keep doing this on the side?
Sounds really lonely and unfulfilling,”
I challenged.

“No,
it’s not some deep rooted need. You’ve been watching too many shitty movies.
Think of it more like a hobby. Some guys play video games. I dominate women.
It’s something I’m good at and that I enjoy, but if I had to stop doing it, it
wouldn’t turn my life upside down. I’m not an unfaithful person, that’s kind of
shitty to assume,” he charged.

“I’m
sorry. I don’t… I don’t know. I have limited exposure to this kind of shit. I
didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, I’m just genuinely curious about how it
works. I don’t want to get further involved with you if it’s going to end up
being painful for me in one way or another,” I admitted.

“It’s
fine. I’m sorry. Ugh. Moral of the story, is yeah, it would be awesome to be
able to incorporate elements of that lifestyle in the bedroom in a
relationship, no I don’t keep seeing multiple women when I’m in a relationship,
and I don’t feel comfortable putting women that I’m interested in into scenes.
If we were to continue seeing each other and got to a point where that was no
longer acceptable, well, it would no longer be acceptable. Hopefully that
clarifies a little. Can we talk about something else?
Literally
anything else.
Man, this weather we’ve been having…”

“Has
been mild and seasonally appropriate?” I interrupted, “I get it, it’s probably
weird to talk about. You don’t have to explain yourself. Thanks for being as
upfront as you have been. It’s refreshing.”

After
bouts of awkward silence while searching for something to watch, the conversation
finally picked pack up. I learned that he is not a sports fan, thank God, grew
up Methodist, and
has
never had a dog but has always
wanted one. I decided to show him some of my paintings. I hadn’t been back in
my spare bedroom since the nights I spent with my ear pressed against the wall.
I opened the door and blue light spilled out into the hall. The window let in
the moon, allowing the soft light to bathe the room. I fumbled for the light
switch. Cash grabbed my hand.

“Wait,”
he whispered, “you look really beautiful in this light.” He brushed his
fingertips across my cheekbone, and dragged them lightly across my lips. He
tilted my face up so that our eyes made contact, and leaned down to kiss me
softly. He pulled away smiling and flicked the light on. It was harsh in
contrast with the light of the moon.

           
“So,
what kinds of things do you paint?” he inquired. At this moment I realized that
I didn’t even have any paintings to show him. There were a couple wispy streaks
of silvery blue on the canvas from the night I first heard the screams. All of
my paintings were still at Regan’s.

“Lots
of fucking birds,” I sighed, “I forgot, my paintings haven’t made it here yet.
They’re not very good anyway. You’re not missing much.”

“I’m
sure they are wonderful,” he comforted. They really, really aren’t. I led us
out of the room, shutting the door behind us. Even though I had my answers,
that room still made me really uncomfortable.

           
“Hey,
can you do something for me?” he asked.

           
“Maybe?”
I taunted.

           
“Next
time we hang out, let me take you on a real date. Somewhere with dim lighting
and overpriced wine,” he pleaded.

           
“I
don’t think I can do that, actually,” I pouted.

           
“Why
not?” he snickered back.

“Because,”
I retorted, “I’m the absolute worst at making plans in advance, unless it’s on
the weekend. I’ll make the plans and then when the time comes to actually do
it, I’ll regret making them. I promise you that if we have plans to go out on a
weeknight, I will get home from work and not want to go. And I don’t want to
wait a whole week to hang out with you. And tomorrow is probably too soon to
want to see me again. I’m better in small doses.”

           
“I’ll
take you out tomorrow night. I’ll take as many doses as I can get. I’m sorry.
That was really corny. Instant regret,” he said as his cheeks flushed red. I
laughed and kissed him. He let my lips linger a moment, and then pulled back.
This was the second time tonight he’d let a kiss be just a kiss instead of
turning into more, and it was mildly concerning. I’m trying to catch some dick
over here.

“Is
everything ok?” I ask. Just being near him makes me wet and achy. I want him to
touch me. I want him back inside me.

           
“Yeah,”
he answered, “ I just had a really long day. And your couch is incredibly
uncomfortable. Can we go back to my place?”

           
“Only
if we can split the cab fare,” I joked. He rolled his eyes at me and stood up,
extending his hand to help me to my feet. We went back to his apartment, and spent
the night talking and laughing, intertwining our fingers as we told old stories
to new ears. We sipped just enough wine to feel weightless and warm. We made
love on the living room floor. It was as tender and delicate as it was powerful
and raw. He moved like he knew my body, like he had known it all his life. Like
I was an instrument and he a virtuoso. He masterfully tickled my chords, making
me sing out in satisfaction. We peaked together, gracefully and unencumbered.
 
We fell asleep there on the rug,
intertwined and basking in the afterglow.