Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (6 page)

CHAPTER 6

Trees sway and swish. Sunlight
dapples through all the branches and leaves, casting wispy shadows on a
concrete dais. All around chirp birds, crickets digging into the soil. An
occasional cat pokes its head out from the brush. 

Bishop strokes the hair on my nape.
Every stroke produces a gentle wave, the rising and falling of appeased
follicles and uplifted goose bumps. I kiss his cheek, drawing warmth into my
throat and stomach. He blushes.

"What are you thinking
about?" he asks.

"You."

"I'm glad you came.¨

"Were you scared I wasn't?"

Bishop
inches a finger down my cheek, tapping my lips. "Never," he says.

           
"You're really...special. I hope that's not weird to say so early."

           
"Keep going," Bishop smirks. I grip his biceps, and my fingers can't
even contain the mass. I pat his shoulder and smile.

           
"You're probably the most normal person I know."

           
Bishop glances at me. "I don't think you know how exciting I can really
be."

           
"Why don't you show me now?"

           
With one push, Bishop tilts me, hooking his leg around mine. He dips me, and my
cheeks flush with blood and blush. I gasp and grab his shirt collar, pulling
him close, breathing in his warm breath. He lets go of my leg. 

           
I stand on my tiptoes and appraise him, eye to eye. The gentle slope of his
nose touches my own. 

           
Our lips touch, face to face,
sending a shudder throughout my body. My knees spasm. 

           
" I won't lie," I
say. "You're so nice to me. You don't even seem to want....you know."

           
"Sex?"

           
"I didn't want to bring up
anything like that. But you've probably had your...thoughts too."

           
"I have. But I never
wanted to make you uncomfortable. I wanted everything to be on your time when
you were ready."

           
I gasp and press my lips to
his.
My spine contorts in a vain attempt to stay upright, but the shock
of his touch startles.
I grab
his neck and move my hands across to his shoulders. Each mound of muscle is
like a bounty, a treasure to be enjoyed. Gold upon gold. 

           
"Are you ready?" I
ask.

           
"After our quiet
walk," he says, touching my nose. 

           
"The calm before the
raunchy storm?"

           
Bishop tugs me along. I skip
after him, kicking gravel aside and rubbing his shoulder. 

           
My father hated to be touched.
He could touch me all he wanted but I could never show affection him. Whenever
I did, he would shirk me off like old clothes and scowl as if I'd castrated him
or something. My mother was no different. She offered love conditionally, with
strings. Don't make your father angry. Don't make me angry. You're so
ungrateful for what he does.

           
But with Bishop, I can touch
him. I can feel the roundness of his shoulders, the hard work he's put into
working out. The hours upon hours of gym time, refining him into a beautiful
physique. And he doesn't push for sex. He lets things fall naturally. He lets
the progression of our relationship act as a tide, an expression of us,
rippling at first, then slowly growing stronger, and stronger.  

           
It's completely crazy and zany,
and this is probably why I don't fault Piranha for her weirdness or Caddy for
his snark. 

           
We all have our quirks. To be
loved, to have companionship, that is what I've longed for. 

           
"I'm glad I met you,"
I whisper. "You happy to have met me?"

           
And he reveals the first red
flag I've ever noticed. He jerks his head just slightly enough to evince
hesitation.

           
"I am," he says.
"I just. You're beautiful and witty."

           
"Thank you."

           
He blinks and doesn't look at
me. 

           
"What is it?" I say.

           
"I'll tell you
later."

           
I tug on his shirt and smile.
"I can be a patient girl. Just don't keep me waiting forever."

           
We round the corner down a rose
pathway, swinging our clasped hands back and forth. Even though I smile and
hold on tight, I wonder about our relationship loosening. If I pry, I'd be
nosy. 

           
It's likely we both have our
struggles, our baggage, each weighing us down, anchoring our hearts in
place. 

           
I'd tell him to open up
completely. That we could mend our troubles. But this type of thinking is like
dreaming of wedding bells. Too soon, too soon.

           
"The best part about
parks," Bishop says, flexing his hand, "is sharing the outdoors with
someone."

           
"I usually share it with
dog walkers who don't pick after their dogs."

           
"No one wants to pick up
after their shit. Oh," he says, cupping his mouth. "Sorry about the
language."

           
"You're such a good
boy," I say, pinching his cheek. "That's cute. I only know sailor
mouths."

           
"I used to have one. Until
I met you." 

           
"So cheesy," I say,
running my hands through his hair. "Cheesy, sweet, and cute. My type of
guy."

           
"At least your
honest," he says, winking. "A lot of girls would never admit
that."

           
The rise path stops short of a
gravel mound. Yellow bulldozers sit silently atop the mounds. The city's still
building its parks, trying to create green spaces for the inner city choked by
skyscrapers. 

           
We double back up the rose
path. Forking left of the path is a cobblestone road which we follow to a
purling fountain. Roses surround the fountain's base, and they sway with the
breeze, wavering collectively as one swatch of red. 

           
Bishop and I walk to the
fountain's edge, close enough that you can feel the spray of water against your
cheek. I hold Bishops hands and study him closely. He has stubble growing in,
prodding through his supple skin. His hair grows to the right, kept tightly
coiled with pomade. Fresh, everything smells fresh and new.

           
Bishop bends down, then plucks
a rose from the fountain's gardens. He hands me the rose, looking at my eyes
all the while. And as he slides the rose though my hair, a great excitement
fries my brain. I step closer to him. 

           
"You look absolutely
beautiful," he says. "Beautiful and witty. Nice."

           
"You're too much," I
whisper. "You're too kind to me."

           
"And you as well,"
Bishop bushes aside my hair. The heat from his hands makes my skin burn. 

           
"I want you," I grab
his shoulders. My lips to his ear and repeat my statement of lust, cuddled
close to his ear. "I want you so badly."

           
"You should."

           
I put my hands underneath his
chin, pulling at his skin. "So you've got a little bad boy in you?"

           
Bishop adjusts the rose. I bite
my lip harder and harder, unable to express my want in words. 

           
"We can go to my place,"
he says. "We can do anything together."

           
The park is a short ride from Bishop's place. He keeps putting his hand on mine
while he drives, and I reciprocate every stroke with a kiss on his cheek. 

           
Neighborhoods zip past in a flurry of boards and windows. Cars accelerate and
decelerate, but I only wish for them to all part, letting us through. I look at
Bishop and guess what he might be without all those clothes keeping us apart.

           
But then.

           
But then, within me, grows a reluctance. Am I reverting to old ways? Relying on
sex to validate my existence as a person? As a spiting tactic against my
parents? 

           
I look at Bishop again. This is our third date. Most people would have sex on
the first or second. Third is the equivalent to ages in today's era. 

           
We slow down on a dead-end. Before, when I came here, it was night. But in the
daylight his house shines. Oak trees flank the sides. Empty garbage cans
rattle. Squirrels dart across the back asphalt, orange bolts of fur chattering
amongst themselves. 

           
Bishop pulls into a red brick driveway. The eaves of his house are crusty and
dry, and the gutters collect mold. But in spite of the mold and crust is a two
story garden home with a projecting sunroom. Sprouting in his lawn, an oak
tree, tall and like a paint brush entrenched in the soil. 

           
We get out of the car and I trail behind him, connected by his strong hand. At
the door, he reverses our positions, letting me in first, making sure my steps
are planted firm and guided. 

           
"You're a gentleman," I say.

           
The rooms are all the same. There's the couch, the kitchen. The fireplace and
mantle with their pictures surrounding them all. There's the enviable rug and
carpet that stretches between rooms, and the marble floor in the bathroom. I
freshen up, taking care to rinse my cheeks in cold, running water. Being asleep
or having Dead Fish Syndrome in the bedroom is does not exactly make for
exhilarating sex.

I come out of the bathroom, face
supple and drying, ready to face Bishop.

           
CHAPTER 7

We
finish in a cacophony of gasps and pants. We grab at each other’s
extremities, anywhere and everywhere—it doesn’t matter where. And
when we’re done grabbing each other, fulfilling each other in the most
primal of sense, we cuddle. We cuddle and we talk about petty things, like how
our day was, or how someone held open a door for him. How the receptionist had
cabbage stuck in her teeth or how a rude driver cut him off on his way to work.

So
long. So long since I’ve cuddled another man after sex. It would always
be a wham-bam affair. Hurricanes of great speeds. The names were
inconsequential to the acts. The bodies were means to an end—I
didn’t care for the men and they never cared for me. They were business
and the product was myself.

Now,
in the arms of Bishop, an incredible satisfaction has taken residency.
It’s bought out a plot of land in my heart. Then there’s the
satisfaction in my head, plowing away the old habits, the anger from my
childhood and the faceless interactions with college guys. I let the
satisfactions grow and grow, nurturing them with Bishop’s good vibes.

“I
trust you,” I say. “You were so gentle with me.”

“I
couldn’t tell if you were going to be a rough girl or a gentle
one.”

“Trust
me. I’ve had too many rough experiences already.”

Bishop
props himself on one arm to face me. “Want to play another game?”
 

“Name
it. Let’s do it.”

“How
about we play Truth or Dare. Except in this version, if the other person thinks
you’re lying, then you have to kiss them.”

“We’ll
just end up lying though,” I say, smirking.

“Exactly.
And if the other person doesn’t do the dare, then you have to kiss them
too.”

So
we start, ready to jump from the tips of our tongues. “Truth or
dare,” I say.

“Truth.
I like honesty.”

I
flinch. But it’s not like I’ve told any lies. He just doesn’t
know what I do, which is only tangentially related to lying. “Okay,
truth: Name your biggest deal breaker.”

“Smoking.
I hate smoke. The scent is gross and when you kiss it’s terrible. You can
taste the ash.”

“I
agree. My turn. I pick dare.”

“I
dare you to…” Bishop’s hazel eyes drift around. He looks to
the ceiling fan slowing rotating above us. Then he scans the coverlets, tossed
to the ground in the flurry of passion we created. “I dare you to jump
out the window.”

“That’s
a silly dare.”

“Guess
you’ll have to kiss me.”

I
roll unto my side and slip my lips between his. His lips have the texture of
petals, dewy and pliable.

“Truth
or dare,” I say, finally. 

“Truth.”

I
fall back unto the bed with a single question. “What exactly do you want
out of life?”

“To
be happy. Maybe start a family. Have a decent job. Live well and without many
regrets. That sounds really, really generic. But I’m a generic kind of
guy.”

“You’re
always playing yourself down like that. You’re way more impressive than
the majority of people our age.”

“No.
Not at all.” Bishop rolls the blankets over our waists. His bare naked
leg touches mine and I snuggle closer, clinging to his torso.

“You’re
definitely not a bad guy. You’re a fantastic guy.”

Bishop
scoffs. “Not according to the church at least.”

“You’re
religious?” I try to sound somewhat surprised. Had Caddy not told me, I
probably would have been.

“Not
super religious. I guess ‘spiritual’ is the new term our generation
likes to use. I’m spiritual.” Bishop thrusts his arm downwards to
the small of my back. He runs a finger around the knob of my spine, thinking.
“I don’t know. Everybody has their sob story. My parents did okay
with their farmland. They did okay with their house. Except the recession hit
and things changed a lot. They lost a lot. Not land necessarily, but
spirit.”

“You’re
being too cryptic. Spirit?”

“They
were such good people before. Then they turned all uber-religious and started
hating anything and everything to the extreme. I still love them though. Sort
of. You know when you have an attachment to someone or something. It’s
hard to let that attachment not chain you.”

“The
emotions. The feelings,” I say. “Love is a drug and whatnot.”

“Yeah.
It’s crazy right? The chemicals. You know the situation’s bad but
you can’t leave because your stupid heart won’t let you. You
can’t go forward because of those interactions between your cells. You
can’t make any headway because you’re so caught up in
feelings
.”

“I
know,” I say, “I know, totally, completely. Not trying to one-up
you or anything, but my mom and dad were abusive. I know what you mean by being
unable to let go and leave. It’s hard. When you’ve bonded so
closely. Or at least it seems like you’ve bonded.”

Bishop
props his chin on my head. He traces the outline of my earlobe, listening to my
words spill forth, listening to
me
.

“How
long did the abuse go on?”

“Too
long. Years. It wasn’t until I was around seventeen or eighteen that I
got my independence. The most evil thing, I think, is when parents use their
financial advantage to chain you. They’ll dangle incentives over your
head, threatening to cut you off, until you just decide to cut the cord
yourself. It’s easier like that, running free without their interference
now. But God, was leaving just—”

“Painful.”

“Painful,
painful, painful. Utterly spirit destroying. I had none after I’d left. I
had to work for everything myself. Ground up. Multiple jobs, lots of noodles,
sometimes no noodles at all and exams in the mornings.”

“We
have a lot in common,” Bishop whispers. He bites on my ear, and I squirm
from the shock of his teeth. “We have a ton in common,” he says,
his voice echoing throughout my head.

“I
agree. Everybody has something in common. But you and me…we probably
share more than we know or let on.”

“That’s
where the fun lies. Discovering what’s new about a person.”

“Surprises,”
I say. “They’re the best.”

He
slips down the bedside, resting his head on my shoulder now. I stroke his fine
beard stubble and run my hand across his lips, touching the supple skin there
and the indentation under his nostrils.

As
we mumble and drift off to sleep, I wonder about tomorrow and the next day. An
infinite array of days to pass with one another. New discoveries. Daylight and
moonbeams.

Bishop
and I.