Jeremiah Quick (23 page)

Super Therapist had her 'concern' face on.
"Everything okay?"

I nodded, slumped into my chair.

"It's okay to need a few minutes," she said.
"From now on just let me know beforehand."

"I'm fine."

I was not fine. I snuck a look at Bree, but
there was no way in hell I could look at Jamie.

"We're going to have a pre-test," Bright
Therapist said brightly. "I need some help pulling gym mats out of
the closet."

We all helped, in silence. I was wondering
how many kinds of horrible this would lead to, and I'm sure Bree
and Jamie were wondering the same. I continued to not look at Jamie
until we were arranging the mats on the floor and he hip-checked me
so hard I fell down.

For a second I saw black, humiliated rage
filling my brain, my eyesight, but then I heard him snort and
giggle. The snort was so ridiculously cute that it cleared my head,
and I snarled back. "Brat."

"Yep," he answered, and everything was okay
for a moment.

But only for a moment.

The next game was called Trust, and the
rules were… close your eyes, fall backward, and let the rest of the
group catch you.

Oh, no.

"Pre-test," Therapist Comfort repeated in
her soft voice. "Which means it's okay if you can't trust the group
yet. It's normal. Bree first. Stand on the edge of the mat, facing
the wall. Close your eyes. When I say 'go' let yourself fall
backward."

Bree's eyes were huge. "Do I have to go
first?"

"Yes. You're the lightest. I'll show Jamie
and Jeremiah a couple different ways to catch you. And I'll fall
next, promise."

She was learning us, now volunteering to
take her turn. I was pleased with myself for this.

When Bree was in position, we grouped behind
her. Therapist Do Good Stuff mimed a two-person catch, with mine
and Jamie's hands linked, feet braced into the mat.

With his fingers twined between mine I was
sure we could catch the heavy-weight champion of the world. We
could catch a plane like an aircraft carrier. We could save the
whole fucking world.

Just his hands in mine made me feel
invincible.

Bree was a trusting soul. She fell. We
caught her. She laughed and said thanks.

Therapist Trust Me went next, and I guided
Jamie and Bree into position, even though letting go of Jamie's
hand felt like tearing my own fingers off.

I wasn't used to feeling like this, at
all.

When it was Jamie's turn, I waved the ladies
away. I would catch him all by myself, always. I vowed to never let
him fall.

He flailed, his arms wind-milling just as he
lost his balance, a sudden last minute fear. I stepped forward and
wrapped my arms around his chest from behind, squeezing him tight
as he regained his balance. He was almost a head shorter than
me.

Somehow the vow made its way past my lips
into his ear, as quiet as an exhale. "Never, never let you fall.
Not ever."

Then I released him and stepped away.

I looked at the group and shook my head. "I
can't."

"Try?" Bree pleaded. "We'll catch you, I
promise."

So I stood with my back to them, inhaling,
exhaling, closing my eyes, opening them.

"Go," Jamie murmured softly.

I tried. I did.

Unlike Jamie, though, I didn't wind-mill.
The moment I felt my balance going, my knees buckled and I crashed
onto the mat, leaning forward and catching myself with my
hands.

I shook my head.

"Not today."

Chapter 22

J
eremiah talked for
what seemed like forever, pausing his drawing endeavor for such
long periods of time it seemed like he was far away, in a different
place, being a different, not-angry Jeremiah. A softer, sweeter,
safer
Jeremiah.

A Jeremiah almost willing to have round
edges, who didn't have to fight everything and everyone. Like for a
while there was a possibility….

In the end, he said, "I lost him, do you
see? I got my own clothing back, kept wearing the makeup, wore the
sunglasses as much as allowed, and I whispered into that boy’s ear
the things I wanted to do to him…

"And he squirmed and moaned and smiled that
naughty little smile at me….

"And then we got sent back to the world.

"Corrie kept her promises, got me a job in
addition to my job of delivering newspapers, so I could feed
myself, or go to the laundromat if I had to. I was allowed to go
back home.

"Somebody else answered the phone number
Jamie gave me and said he didn’t live there anymore.

"And I decided the best way to fight the
world was to stop fighting the world.

"I didn't call myself a victim.

"I called myself a pacifist.

"And somewhere not too long after that, you
came in."

Chapter 23

"T
his part is
done," Jeremiah announced, and tossed the pen into the air, sending
it spinning toward the rafters, and catching it just before it
struck his chest upon its return.

Pretty was inexplicably seized with
anxiety.

She was used to him drawing on her. There
was a routine, prediction. A semblance of safety, of nothing bad
happening.
Already?
She found herself thinking.
Are you
sure?

"Shower?" She asked, feeling hopeful for
some reason that the ink could now be washed off.

But Jeremiah shook his head. "No. I'll help
you clean up, though, and then we'll celebrate."

He held her right hand, and slid his left
arm around the small of her back, supporting her by holding her
close.

She liked it. She was well used to him
now.

He stood her in front of the mirror and
said, "Look! Just look at you."

The sight of herself was shocking. Her skin
was more black than white, the complicated lines forming symbols
from her head to her toes – hundreds of symbols. Some might have
been Zodiac signs, but most of them were meaningless. Or at least,
meaningless to Pretty. She'd lost some of the clinging twenty
pounds she'd been annoyed about for the past several years.

"Beautiful, yes?" Jeremiah asked, his face
as close to gleeful as Pretty had ever seen.

Was it? In the sense of art, yes, she kind
of thought it was. In the sense of what happened to the body that
belonged to her, it was horrifying.

When he decided she'd looked long enough, he
tied her hands behind her back, gently, with a silky smooth white
rope and an odd sort of pressure in his touch.

"I want to take care of you," he said,
running the water and holding a washcloth under the stream. It was
almost an explanation, almost an apology. Pretty accepted it as
both, and stood still under his hands, hardly even blushing as his
fingers pressed soapy foam into her intimate places, then chased it
away with the washcloth.

Her body accepted his hands, his
ministrations with grace and willingness.

He'd always been good at making her feel his
world.

"We're going to walk to the house," he told
her, and led her toward the door. She hadn't been through that door
since he brought her here.

"How long?" she asked. Meaning... how long
until this was done, whatever that means. How much longer would
they have together? How much time was left?

He seemed to understand the question all its
forms. His hand tightened around her upper arm. "I don't know. As
long as we want. Not long enough for the ink to fade. I need that –
it's the only path that matters."

Pretty shook her head. She knew better than
to ask about the lines. He wasn't going to tell her until he was
good and ready. "And how long since the day we got here?"

"Long enough," he said. "We're on
track."

She didn't even know what that meant. On
track for what? Somehow she knew that was as taboo a topic as the
ink. And oddly enough, ever since the days of silence she found it
easier not to bother him with questions.

The house was... well.

It was Dark.

Surprise, right? Black leather couch. Blood
red carpet. A huge black tapestry with a white anarchy symbol on
top of a pink triangle filled the living room wall.

He sat her on the couch, and she perched on
the edge, hands still tied behind her with the silken ties that
held but didn't hurt.

There were symbols painted on the walls,
many of which she thought might be similar to those on her skin. He
patted her cheeks and forehead, then disappeared into another room,
briefly, and returned with a small plate. He fed her bits of cheese
and summer sausage from his fingers, alternating with bits for
himself. It was the first thing he'd fed her aside from warm cereal
in… god knew how many days. A week? Two? There was no sense of
time, here.

The food made her smile. The room did, too,
the way it suited him.

In fact, she couldn't stop smiling, almost
laughed, because despite everything, or because of everything,
there was sheer happiness in this moment.

His hand lifted toward her mouth, paused,
and it seemed like he almost shivered, and then he said, "You light
up the whole room."

When his fingertip brushed across her lips,
Pretty shivered, too.

The fact that she didn't have any desire to
be anywhere but right here, right now, chilled her, and a wave of
guilt came out of nowhere. Was she a bad person? There was a space
of seconds when he'd been in the other room, when she could have
run for the door, turned so she could fumble at the doorknob with
her tied hands, could have... distressed, upset, angered – HURT –
him. She didn't want to do any of those things. Especially that
last one.

And so she waited.

And she ate the food from his
fingertips.

Life's really good moments are few. She let
herself be happy and content in this one.

Chapter 24

S
he.

She's smiling, laughing.

I don't know how she can smile, why she
isn't wailing in dread for the next thing.

"You light up the room," I tell her, and
it's not a lie, isn't supposed to be a sappy compliment. The words
fall out without my thinking about them.

I tell her things I don't mean to. I'd done
it back then, too.

She's… bright shiny. She never hid that she
loved me beneath a sharp exterior, or sarcasm, or any other shell
of self-protection. She was all soft underbelly, all the time.

She still is.

Back then I'd told her about the three
people.

Now I've told her, in detail, about Corrie,
and even Jamie. I guess I can't tell about Corrie without telling
about Jamie.

But not what happened to him.

I can't tell her that. Not yet.

"Come on," I say, and pull her, gently, to
her feet. "We have to enjoy what we can before the next part,
because it's gonna be hard."

She.

She doesn't have any sense of time, and I'm
proud of myself for that.

"Can you tell me?" she wants to know.
"What's going to happen?"

I shake my head. The magick won't work if I
talk about it. If I warn her. The magick needs her naked, honest
response.

I'm no longer driving what happens, which is
strange, but tells me we really are making magick, that a force
larger than myself has taken over.

I had planned more rules, more punishment… a
lot more spanking and flogging and humiliation. I thought it would
take more to break her down than it did.

She…

Well. I don't have to break her, don't have
to force her to be receptive. She's become my co-conspirator
already.

I bring her into my bedroom now, and her
eyes are huge, looking at and probing into my most private space. I
try not to think about it, but I see her gaze pass over my alter,
see her recognize the glyphs on the wall that match some of the
lines on her skin.

She is… wide-eyed wonder.

Posters of the Sex Pistols and MM. Crow
feather. Several dried and painted beetles. Mardi-gras styled masks
and beads. Skulls and bones.

Flecks and patches of startling color amid
the shades of gray, the blacks on black.

Having her in this space renders me naked
somehow, and when her eyes click to mine, I hold hers and let go,
let her see how much the predator in me loves having her here. I
hadn't been this kind of predator when she'd known me, when she'd
first become important to me.

"Untie my hands," she says. "Please."

"Why?" I ask. "What are you going to
do?"

"I want to peel your clothes off you. I want
to touch you, guide my fingertips across your skin. I want to love
you. And I want you to let me in, the way you never could
before."

Somehow – the way she says it, maybe, reeks
of the scent of losing power. But does it matter just yet? Will it
hurt anything?

These were things I'd smelled on her when we
first met, things too foreign to understand. I would later decide
that somehow in that kiss in the woods we'd traded spit or blood
and this bond developed as a result.

Ridiculous, I know.

But something.

It didn't feel like an accident, then or
now.

Before making it a conscious decision, I
untie her wrists and rub her cold hands.

There is no plan. I don't know if we're
going to have sex, but I can't discount the possibility. It won't
be against her will, though. This I know for sure, because we have
no room now for bad magick.

She peels away my layers of clothing,
pressing her fingers against my collar bone, squeezing it, resting
her knuckles in the hollow there. She lets her fingers travel up my
throat, pause at my Adam's apple, tracing it gently, then sliding
up to outline my lips.

She puts her arms around me, one sliding
around my waist, the other stretched up and over my shoulder, her
hand resting on my back. I have to roll my shoulders forward and
make myself shorter to accommodate this.