Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (31 page)

“And?” The word is sharp.

“So I love you,” I say. “No matter how impossible.” I fight him again, arching my back and pressing my chest harder into his. “Now fuck me or get off,” I say, because I know he'll like it. It'll make him fight harder. He sucks in a breath between his teeth and then pushes off of me, which surprises me. I try to hold him place with my legs, but he easily evades me. My pussy clenches, wanting him back inside. He rolls over onto his side and then comes for me again, trying to shove me over onto my back. I dodge him but he grabs me again, his fingers digging into the soft skin of my upper arms. His cock bobs up toward his stomach, stiff and calling for me as we fight. Our scuffle ends with bedsheets being ripped off the ends of the mattress and blankets pushed to the floor and me flat on my stomach and him on top of me, holding me down. He runs his mouth down my spine and smacks my ass until I cry out from the perfect, sharp pain.

“I don't think you're taking me seriously,” he says as he pinches the magical spot on the back of my left thigh, right beneath the swell of ass. Then he spanks me again with his open palm and I press my fist to my mouth to muffle my pathetic moans. I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but I can't. I don't really want to either, even though what he's doing to me is exquisite torture. “I think you like fucking with me.” Another blow rains down and the lasting sting makes my thighs clench. I feel a trickle of saliva drip out of the corner of my mouth and I know I'm about to lose it.

“I am,” I admit, out of breath and barely able to speak. My heart is beating so fast that it's hard get the words out.

“Why?” he asks, the word curling in my ear and making goosebumps rise on my skin even though it's so hot. “Because you love to torture me, don't you?” Another smack, harder this time. My body jerks at the pain and I see red as my eyeballs roll back into my head. I'm losing it. Completely losing it. When he reaches a hand around and tweaks my nipple, I almost come. If he'd had mercy on me and put his cock in me, I would've. It's frustrating, so frustrating. My stomach is in knots. I'm in pain and I'm covered in sweat.

I haven't felt this alive in so long.

“I...” I start, but I can't finish. I lift my hips as much as I can, begging for more. He pinches my nipple again, roughly enough to bruise and then he finally gives in. He must've been just as turned on as I am, because he doesn't waste any more time. He lifts off of me and grabs my hips. He pulls me up on all fours and then shoves my thighs open. I can hear how wet I am and maybe I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. I'm way past caring about things like that. I only want the pleasure. I only want him.

He shoves inside of me, not resisting the urge to slap my ass once more as he breaches me. I shudder and push back against him, forcing him balls deep. It hurts. Oh God, it hurts. I love how much it hurts. I shiver from head to toe as he wraps his hand in my hair. He pulls my head back as he rears his hips away. I know what's coming next and I can't fucking wait.

“This is what you want, isn't it?” he asks and I make a noise half-way between a moan and a resounding 'yes'. My brain is too overheated to speak anymore. “This is what you love.” He shallowly thrusts, teasing me. He leans forward and cups my tits with his scarred hand, one after the other, his thumb running over the sensitive nipples. Then he runs it down my stomach, claiming every inch of skin that he touches. When his thumb brushes my clit, I cease thinking. My brain shuts down and I become a creature of lust. He finally gives me what I want, yanking my hair roughly as he rubs my clit.

Then he starts to fuck me again, thrusting long and hard, pulling out almost every inch and then slamming back in again. Then he rears back and swirls his hard cock around my wet slit as he continues circling my clit with his thumb. “This is where we belong,” I think I hear him say, but I can't be sure. “This is home.” I open my eyes but my vision's blurry. I realize the words he's saying, if he's saying them at all, are true. I have nothing else in life – a gun, a few items of clothing, a cheap wedding band – but I'm home. I once had everything I could've wanted in life, except for the one thing that I've been programmed to need the most. Elliot's trained me so well. It's sick and disgusting and perverted, this relationship I've found myself in.

But it's home.

When I come a few seconds later, it's the best orgasm I've ever had in my life. It goes on and on, wave after wave, and he fucks me through it, pinching my thighs until I cry and collapse limply in a heap beneath him. Then he fills me with his come, thrusting into me until his thick seed slowly drips down my thighs. It's messy and it's disgusting and it's perfect. It's both of us, mixed together until there's no separation. Our bodies are tangled together and even our DNA is combined. Our history is just as tangled up and complicated and it'll never make sense but it's us. And that's all I need.

*****

It's dark outside the windows but I can't sleep.

Elliot sleeps beside me, his chin on my shoulder and his heavy arm locked around my ribs. He's not a deep sleeper so I'm careful not to make any quick movements. The lightest nudge will cause him to sit up sharply and be ready for violence. He's spent too much time in prison. He doesn't like being surprised.

We lay on top of the sheets, naked and covered in our own sweat and come and maybe even some blood and I feel disgusting but too tired to even consider getting up to take a shower. I stare up at the dusty ceiling fan above us as it rotates in its lazy circle, trying to force my brain to shut off. Tomorrow, we have to figure out where the hell we're going to go and what the hell we're going to do and I know need sleep in order to deal with that. But knowing that I need to sleep doesn't help my anxiety. A gunshot rings out on the street below us and I jump in surprise. Elliot sucks in a sharp breath and jerks against me. His eyes pop open, but his pupils are dilated and I don't think he's completely awake. He sits up, his hands immediately searching for something, probably my gun.

“Who?” he asks, his voice thick.

“It's outside,” I murmur. “Go back to sleep.” He blinks and looks at me, like he needs reassurance. Then he nods and closes his eyes, laying beside me again. He tightens his arms around me even more, pulling me against his slick chest. I don't bother fighting him. For the last few years, I've been used to a big bed and falling asleep alone on some nights. A quick kiss on the lips and then roll over as I drift off to sleep on most nights. It's strange now to sleep with someone so closely, so intimately, after so long. But it's also familiar. I'll get used to it again.

“Joanie,” he mumbles against my neck and a small but sharp pain hits me in the center of my chest like a pinprick. “It's okay?” he asks. I bite my lip to keep myself from snorting out a small, disbelieving laugh. After the way he just ravaged me, he has no right to sound so little and in need of reassurance. But the laughter would just be a way to hide the way he's making me feel, warm and soft over him even though he doesn't deserve it.

“Mmhmm,” I hum lightly. “It's fine.” He sighs heavily and his muscles relax again and I'm sure then that he's gone back to sleep. My eyes drift over to our clothes, tossed around the room. My makeshift wedding dress is in a wrinkled heap beside the TV stand. I remember my first wedding dress – it was so expensive and one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was perfectly tailored and fit me like a glove. I looked like a queen in it for a day and took pictures for austerity. Then for the next two years, I kept it in a bag at the back of my closet, like a relic. It's gone now, along with everything else. I'm not going to keep this second wedding dress, I decide. I'm going to throw it away before we leave Tijuana. I don't want to carry it around with us on our journey. It feels like bad luck, like an omen, even if that doesn't make sense. I've been engaged three times and married twice now, but the planning and the weddings are only memories and that's how they should stay. The weddings aren't what's important, after all. It's what happens after that's important.

Eventually the sun will rise and I know Elliot will be looking to me to guide him in the right way. I know that I have to make the right choice for us because if I don't, it could disastrous. Who am I kidding? It'll probably be disastrous either way. There's no way that this will end up happily for us. We don't deserve it. But I'm still going to fight for it. I'm going to fight for us for as long as I can. Next to me, Elliot moans and flexes his arm. His hand shakes and then goes still. I stare at his hand, wondering what the pain feels like. He says it hurts all the time and it looks bad. The scars are purple and red and pink against his skin. I haven't gotten used to his disfigured fingers. But I will. I'll suck them and lick the scars, I decided. Tomorrow or the day after. When he's looking at me with heavy eyes and dirty intentions. Then I'll surprise him.

And then out of nowhere it comes to me. A name.

A place to go. A possibility. I mull it over in my head. I've never been to Central America before but it seems like as good of a place as any.
Belize
, I whisper. I don't know why, but it feels good. Out of all the countries we could go, it just seems to stand out above the rest. I wonder why, but suddenly I'm tired and the rhythm of his breathing and the hum of the city outside is lulling me to sleep. I don't know where we'll live or what we'll do when we get there, but we have a possible destination. A goal. Something to move towards. That sounds so good right about now.

So I close my eyes. It doesn't take long for me to drift off, away from this dingy room in a scary place. Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself. Tomorrow, we'll be on our way toward the future.

I go to sleep.

Epilogue

S
ome mornings, he'll let me sleep in, even though there's tons of work to do. Too much for both of us to handle ourselves. I can hear the crack of the hammers echoing in the thick morning air and the drone of the concrete-pourer, and I know he's already gone into town without me. He usually takes the truck and brings back a few men to help. I can hear them out there, yelling over the noise of the construction. It's hot already, a thick all-encompassing heat that many would find oppressive. But I've gotten used to it, all over again. Having sweat running down my back feels normal. Heat feels like home and even though this isn't home yet, soon it will be. Someday we won't have to work as hard. Someday we'll be able to lay out on our porch in a hammock all day and drink rum and Cokes like royalty.

Lily and John Prior could be royalty. Shit, they could be anything.

I still slip and call him Elliot sometimes. But he never calls me Joanie unless we're alone in bed at night. To anyone else who asks, we're Lily and John. Two perfectly boring and ordinary names for two people who don't want to stand out at all. We're doing a good job of blending in, so far, if I do say so myself.

I get out of bed and dress quickly in a pair of his old jeans and a tight, bright pink tank top that I got the last time I went to town. I pull his thick leather belt tight around my waist, clasping the big Texas-sized buckle. I run my fingers across the faded, worn engraving in the metal. It used to be a bronco, but these days it's looking a bit more like a calf. I like the heavy feel of it around my waist. It's like his arms are around me, holding me tight, even when he's not there.

I braid my hair quickly and toss the heavy plait over my shoulder when I'm done. My hair has gotten long again, and it's tangled and unruly since I have no choice but to let it air-dry after my nightly shower. We'll have electricity all the time in the new house. For now, we have to deal with the generator. A hair dryer isn't high on the list of priorities, unfortunately. Cooking dinner is more important. And sometimes, if we cock the antennae just right, we can get a real, American football game on the radio.

It's the little things that matter most, these days.

I see the white paper cup on the table on my way out the door and I stop and stare at it. He's already been to town and he's brought me back my morning coffee. It's a warm caramel color and I know he's put just enough milk in it. Not almond milk, but it's good fresh milk and it tastes better than anything else I was used to before. I slide my fingers around the cup and bring it up to my face. I take a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful scent. It smells like love. I take a sip. It tastes like love, too.

I step out of the little tin shack we're currently calling home and plop down on the steps that he hastily fashioned out of loose pine the first week we were on the property. I set down my cup and pull my black rubber boots on. I let my eyes wander over to the far side of our land, where we broke ground on the new house almost three months ago. It's been slow going, just like everything else. But I can see it now. When he first showed me his hastily scribbled drawings, I couldn't envision it at first. Now, the foundation's been laid and the framing is going up and I can finally see it. It's exciting. This is our house and we're building it from the ground up. We're building it with our own hands.

It's special.

When we first came to Belize, I'll admit I was impatient. I was tired of running, of moving from one town to the next. From one country to the next. I wanted to buy a casita and fix it up but we didn't have the money. He was the one who insisted on this scrubby little plot of land with only an ancient shack attached to it. I wanted the house and the property to be easy. I didn't want to get my hands dirty. But I should've put more faith in him.

I watch him work, carrying stacks of lumber from the back of the truck to the woodpile. It's still early, but his T-shirt is already soaked in sweat and clings to every defined muscle of his back and shoulders. His hair has gotten long too, so long that he has to tie it back into a little ponytail at the nape of his neck with one of my rubber bands. He's gotten back to his former splendor. He's not gaunt and haunted looking anymore. He's healthy and broad and his skin has darkened under the unwavering sun. I'm proud of him, I realize, as I watch him work. Ever since we've settled here, he's done everything he could to make it work. He's worked from sunup to sundown on his dream. On our dream. And even when he falls into bed at night, half-dead with exhaustion, he still fucks me like he can't sleep without it. He's a good husband, better than I could've ever imagined. Probably better than I deserve.

He catches me watching him as I finish pulling on my second boot. His expression softens a bit but he doesn't smile. I stand and grab my wide straw hat off of the hook by the door. Then I grab my coffee and hop down off the step and blow him a kiss. He lifts his chin in response. I know what that means. He'll kiss me later, when we take our nightly shower in the makeshift stall beside the house. When everyone's gone and it's just us again, that's when we can touch. During the day, he has his job and I have mine. If we kissed now, we wouldn't get any work done. We would devolve into our dirty, violent little games. Someday we'll be able to do that, to be complete slaves to our kinks all day, everyday. But today is not that day.

The dog trots up beside me as I stroll to toward the perimeter of our lot. It's a stray that wandered onto our property a month or so after we arrived. I haven't named him yet, because I don't want to get too attached. He's a speckled black and brown and white thing, with legs slightly too long for his body. The mutt's put on a little bit of weight since I started feeding him, but his ribs still show under his dusty coat. He sleeps under the house most nights and I don't mind having him there. Someday he'll probably run out in front of a car or something, I think to myself, as I stare down into his black beady eyes. But he's been smart enough to stick around this long. So maybe he's not a total dummy.

“Toffee, maybe,” I murmur. “Or Cappuccino.” Neither of those names seem right though. Those are names from another time, a time when I used to pay five dollars for designer coffee and wore white pants and stilettos and jewelry that cost more than our used truck. “Shoo,” I say, waving my hand. The dog yips but stays at my side, not getting the hint. I shake my head but I can't resist a smile. It's an ugly little thing, but it seems to like me, so I can't help but like it in return.

When I reach my destination, I sip my coffee and study my work from the day before. This is my first big project and I'll admit, I've kind of been winging it. I've never done anything like this before, but I think I'm doing okay so far. Elliot already set all the posts for the fence in concrete. They stick up out out of the flat scrubby grass like leafless trees. He's put them up around the whole perimeter, but I've only gotten about halfway through, filling the empty spaces between with mismatched boards. We've salvaged a lot of the wood, some painted and some raw stock, from the abandoned properties around town. He also tosses me the warped pieces they can't use for construction. He wanted me to agree to cinderblock, but I thought that would be too cold and ugly. Too much like a prison. But this place is supposed to be the opposite of a prison. It's supposed to be our sanctuary. So I want it to look warm and interesting. I don't care how long it takes, I will finish this fence.

I set my coffee down on a flat stone and grab my leather work gloves off the pile of scrap lumber and slide them on. Then I get to work, digging through the pile for the right pieces to fit together. It's like a puzzle that I have to work out, bit by bit. It's relaxing to work like this, I think. I can see why Elliot likes working with his hands. It keeps my mind and my body busy. I'm not sitting idly around. I have time to think, but I don't let my mind drift too much. Mostly I think about the future. I think about what the house will be like when it's done. I think about taking a shower inside in an actual bathroom and cooking on a real stove. I think about what kind of furniture we'll have and what colors I'll paint the walls.

I've already decided to dig up the flower bushes from around the yard and planting them along the fence when it's done. I think about how beautiful it will be when everything's overgrown and in bloom. My mother's yard always used to be so manicured and perfect and still. I want this yard to be alive and wild. But first, I have to finish the fence. Honestly, I can't wait until it's up, so I can take a true sigh of relief. When we're all walled in, then and only then will I truly be able to relax. It's not because I'm afraid of the outside. Quite the opposite. The fence isn't to protect us from the people out there.

It's to protect them from us.

I work until I hear the familiar sounds of the neighborhood kids getting off the school bus. I hear them screaming and laughing before I see them, but I know school's letting out. I guess that it's already around three in the afternoon. I don't bother with watches or clocks anymore. The normal routine and rhythm of the day is enough. I jam the handle of the hammer under my belt and lean against the nearest fencepost, deciding it's as good of a time for a break as any. I watch them walking up the road in their school uniforms. They're not paying me any mind. When we first bought the place, they would stare at me but now I'm too boring to pay attention to. I'm not new and foreign anymore, I'm just as boring as any of the other adults around.

They pass and I give them a wave, even though they're not paying me any mind. There's a kid near the back that catches my eye, a little boy with a big gap-toothed smile. He has a big red backpack on his back and blue uniform shorts on. He instantly reminds me of a boy I've seen before, a long time ago. For a second I let myself get transported back to that day, when I stood on the front lawn at Elliot's old house back in Austin. I thought Elliot was dead then and I thought I was going crazy. Now, that all seems like it happened to someone else. It seems like another life.

The dog bumps my leg with his nose, taking my attention off the kids. I scratch him behind the ears and turn back to the woodpile. I'm halfway down this section of fence and I want to get as much done as I can before dinner. But as I stand there staring at the pile of mismatched lumber, I can only think about how there's something else I'm avoiding, something else that's been nagging at me all day. But I have to keep it to myself until I know for sure. I let my eyes roam back to where Elliot and the other men are working. I watch him for longer than I intend, but I can't help it. He's so powerful like this. He's so strong. He's in his element and it's mesmerizing. That's the problem, really. I can't resist him. No matter what he's done or what he's done to me, I'm stuck in his trap. And now he might've given me the one thing I want the most, purely by accident.

My period is late.

It's only been a few days and I know it doesn't mean anything yet. But I can't help thinking about what life will be like if my belly swells with his child. Maybe our bond isn't as cursed as I thought it was. He's ruined me for everyone else, but maybe he's also blessed me in the one way that still matters. It's stupid to be hopeful. Even now, as we build our house, our one shelter, from the ground up, there's still broken glass under my feet. One wrong step and I'll cut myself to shreds. Since we've been here, we've both been so consumed with work that there's no time to talk about all the things that've been left unsaid between us. I know I shouldn't dare to think about it because I'll just jinx it but I can't help myself.

Across the yard, Elliot glances up and catches my eye again. I look away quickly because I know it will provoke him, but I also can't chance that he'll see something in my face that'll make him suspicious. This is a secret I have to keep to myself for now. I pull my hammer out of my belt and grab a piece of wood. I turn back to the fence and position the board between the posts. I lay it flush against the board directly beneath it and then reach into my pocket for the nails to secure it in place.

Smiling a smile that he can't see, I get back to work.