Pull (Push #2) (24 page)

Chapter 38

David—Present Day

I walk into Emma’s apartment at 7:25. She’s sitting at the table eating ribs, looking completely relaxed and content. For the first time today, I smile. Except for this exact moment, today’s been anything but happy.

“Ribs?” I say to Emma, walking over to kiss the top of her head. “Where did those come from?”

“Some place called Chatty Tate’s. Matt gave me a ride home, and we stopped for takeout on the way.” She looks up at me with a saucy mouth and puppy eyes. “I saved some for you, if you’re hungry,” she adds. “They’re really good.”

“Thanks.” I sit down in the chair across from her and wipe my hands across my face and up through my hair. The movement is automatic, and apparently, it’s also telling.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asks immediately, her words proving that she knows me better than anyone else ever has. Her eyes narrow as I lean back in the chair and drop my palms to the top of my thighs. “Don’t be upset that you couldn’t pick me up today,” she adds. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t expect you to be able to give me a ride every day. You have work to do. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m not upset that I couldn’t pick you up. It was just a shitty day, that’s all,” I reply. She exhales and relaxes a little, leaning forward to grab another rib out of the Styrofoam container.

“I know how those go, remember?” she says, moving the rib to her mouth. “So what happened? Anything you want to share?”

“Well…first, I did a bunch of shit jobs for Carl. Then I did a bunch more shit jobs for Carl. Then I came home.”

“Got ya,” she says with an understanding nod. “Well, at least the day’s over now.”

“Thank fucking God.”

Her smile is soft and understanding. It has a way of making me feel better. Instantly. “Eat. Please. They’re really good,” she adds.

I pick up a rib and take a bite. She’s right. They are really good. I finish it in a heartbeat.

“You know,” I say as I pick up my second rib, “while I was disconnecting the wires on the Bachmans’ doorbell this afternoon, I thought of the perfect superhero sidekick name.”

“Is that so?” She leans back in her chair and smiles sweetly.

“Yep. Earlier in the day, I came up with a different one, but I thought maybe that one wasn’t quite good enough.” I’m teasing her, and I know she likes it. Because now she’s smiling one of her big-ass, crackpot smiles.

“And what was that one? The one that wasn’t quite good enough?”

“The Rock Knocker.”

A rapid burst of laughter shoots from her mouth. Her eyes sparkle, and her skin flushes. She leans forward in her seat again and snort-laughs. It’s deep and joyous. It makes my heart pop.

“It’s perfect!” she chortles. “I love it! There’s no other possible sidekick name on this planet that could be as good as that one!”

“Well, then maybe I should let you choose between the two.” I say, trying to stay as serious as she is light. “Because I think the other one is better. In my experience, anything that comes to a person while they’re disconnecting a doorbell is definitely the best stuff.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Her laughter quiets, but the sparkle still shines through her eyes. “What is it?”

“The Raven.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Emma’s head tips to the side. Her mouth silently closes and her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She’s regarding me carefully, as if she’s searching through those two words. As if she’s searching through me. Looking for a meaning. A definition. For something that’s been missing for a long time. But she’s already found it. She must know it. She must know that the grown-up me, the one I’ve been looking for all these years, is not in those two words. He’s here. Sitting right in front of her, relieved to finally be seen.

“Well, the first one would definitely have a better costume,” she says after a long pause. “But, you’re right. The second one
is
better.” She inhales a deep breath and tilts her head forward, toward mine, until our eyes are in line. “But it belongs to the superhero, not the sidekick,” she adds thoughtfully.

“You think?” I feel my brow furrow and my nerves waken as she lifts her hand and settles it on my cheek.

“Yep,” she says, keeping her hand against my face. “It’s official. I’m anointing us the Raven and the Rock Knocker, guardians of the fucked up and protectors of sexy time.”

“If I’m the Raven, can I still use the Batcuffs?” I question, my voice lighter now, but still serious. “’Cause they fit so nicely in my new tool belt.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead she stands up, leans her whole body across the table, and puts her mouth on mine.

Her lips are warm and soft and satisfying. They send an electric pulse straight to my core, prying open my heart and inviting her in. I stand and lean over the table, holding my weight on one arm. The other arm hooks her around the neck and pulls her closer. I taste her tongue, mold my mouth to hers. I walk around to her side of the table because I need more. I need her. All of her. I want to rip open my chest and let her in.

She pulls away just long enough to take the Styrofoam package off the table and put it down on a chair. I lift her up onto the table. As my mouth meets hers again, she wraps her legs around my hips and digs her fingers into my hair. My scalp prickles with energy and want as her fingers dance against my skin. I reach down and unbutton her blouse, dropping it off her shoulders and to the floor. My hands move across her back, feeling it tighten at the coolness of my touch. She’s on fire, blazing with her own desire. She lifts off my shirt and unzips my jeans, sliding them down to the floor as I reach behind her to unclasp her bra.

I rub my hands across her breasts, feeling the heart beating beneath them, as she wraps a palm around me. Her grip is tight and hot, and I turn to stone in her hand. Her skirt rides up as I force her legs open, and I reach underneath it and pull her panties off. My veins fill with adrenaline and purpose and power.

Emma lies back on the table and begs me to fill her, to put myself inside of her. She’s rubbing her torso, pushing her breasts together and looking at me with desperation and desire. So much desire. She lifts her knees, spreading herself open, tempting me with a beautiful, perfect view of the very place I want to lose myself in. It glistens with wetness, enticing and inviting me. Silently begging me to fuck her like I never have before. I drop to my knees next to the table and stroke her softness with a finger. Gently at first, like she is a delicate thing that needs to be handled with care. I caress her in long, vertical strokes, my finger as light as a feather. She squirms beneath my touch, her hips moving ever so slightly with every stroke. I gently sink my first two fingers into her, gliding them inside, into the sweet darkness. I move them in and out, swiping them through her until they are slick and wet. She sighs with pleasure, making the ends of my lips curl up into a small, private smile.

I go faster then, teasing her with my fingers until she’s shaking with pleasure, groaning like I’ve never heard her groan before. The sound rouses me even more. I need to be inside her right now. I can’t wait.

I pull away and stand up.

“Fuck,” she says roughly. “Why did you stop?” A smirk twists into my face, and I look into her open eyes.

“Because I want you now. I want to fuck you until you beg me to stop.”

“Then do it.” She raises her arms up above her head and clasps her hands together. “Do it.”

I watch my body open her up, and it sends a coarse shiver of covetousness through me. She is mine and I am hers. I push into her, holding her legs open, gripping her inner thighs. I pull all the way out and then pound into her over and over. Her skin bounces with each connection, but still, I want to be deeper. I want her to
feel
how close I am to her heart.

I let go of her legs and latch on to the waistband of her skirt with both my hands. I dig my fingers beneath the top edge and wrap my thumbs around the bottom, until I’ve got a firm hold on the ring of fabric. I pull her body down to meet mine, hard. Her mouth is open, words begging me to go faster, push harder, fuck deeper. And then she comes. Like a goddamn burst of gunpowder, she is screaming my name, her back arching up off the table, face contorting with pleasure.

I can’t stop myself, and before I know it, I pull out and drag her down off the table by the ring of skirt fabric. I turn her around and push her torso down onto the table. She’s ass up, her body tinged with pink. I kick her feet apart and spread her arms out on the table, up over her head. I lift her by the hips so she’s up on her toes, and then I enter her again. She gasps a little and turns her head, pressing the side of her face into the table. There is pleasure in her expression. Happiness.

I taunt her body until she comes again. Until she shouts out my name with a breathy stutter. When I hear it, I can’t help myself. I thrust myself into her until I come with the force of a hundred suns. My knees go weak, and I have to lean over and lie down on top of her to keep from dropping to the floor.

We stay like that, stacked on top of her table, until our hearts settle. I push her hair to the side and kiss her neck. Her skin is salty with sweat and prickled with heat. I put my mouth against her ear and tell her that I love her. I tell her that I love her more than any man has ever loved any woman in the history of forever. I swear it.

She’s inside my heart now, sitting there like she owns the place, fully in charge of its every act, its every beat. And I’m more than fine with it. In fact, it’s a relief.

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

Three hours later Emma is fast asleep, and I’m stuck inside my own brain. I stare up at the ceiling and listen to her breathe, thoughts running around in my brain, organizing themselves into half-coherent ideas.

Emma moves, turning onto her side and tossing her left arm up over my chest. Though the light is dim, I see her mother’s bracelet surrounding her wrist. The diamonds reflect the light from her digital clock. Tiny pinpoints of red stare back at me. They remind me of that day. The day I went back to Michael’s house—to
Ricky’s
house—to get the bracelet. The day I found the cardboard box with her name on it. It was sitting right there, in the dining room, with a bunch of other stuff. Two- or three-dozen pieces of jewelry, each in their own small velvet box, several pairs of sunglasses, and a few designer purses were scattered on the dining room table. Four fur coats were draped over one of the chairs. There were shoes and belts there, too. Cufflinks. Wristwatches. Tie bars. Leather bifolds and money clips. All of them shiny and expensive. Ricky was sorting through his mother and stepfather’s leftovers. Pulling out items he could pawn and discarding the rest. There were a few boxes and garbage bags on the floor. Some full, some empty.

I looked through the jewelry, trying to find the bracelet I’d seen on the kitchen counter a few days before. When I found it, I slipped the bracelet, box and all, into the waistband of my jeans, pulling my shirttails down over it. That bracelet was all I was going to take, but on my way back out the door, I saw the box. The one that made me want to blow that entire house to smithereens. I almost missed it. I would’ve walked right past it and out the door had I not seen Emma’s name scrawled on the top of the box in black marker. In sharp, masculine handwriting. I lifted the box and cleared a spot for it on the dining room table, putting it down gently. It wasn’t heavy, just big enough to hold a small microwave. I pulled the Leatherman from my pocket and unfolded the blade, slicing through the packing tape carefully and quickly. When I saw what was inside, my stomach rolled. Bile rose to my throat. Anger and sadness ripped through my veins. In that moment, if Michael had still been alive, standing there in front of me, I would have crushed his skull with my own bare hands. But he’s dead. He already paid for what he did. He already suffered. But, in that moment, I wished he had suffered more. A lot more.

I couldn’t leave it there. I couldn’t leave that box in Ricky’s hands because who knows what the fuck he would’ve done with it. Had he already opened it? Did he know what was inside? The answers didn’t matter, of course, because regardless of whether Ricky knew of their existence, there was no way in hell the contents of that box were staying in that house. My brain kicked in, calculating and telling my body what to do. I went to the hall closet, shuffling through it to find some sort of bag. Something to put everything in. I found Michael’s monogrammed backpack. I took it into the dining room and transferred some of the box’s contents into it. I didn’t take everything, because not everything mattered.

Once I was sure I had what I needed, I opened one of the trash bags and pulled out a few light items, tossing them into the box until I thought it weighed the same as it had before. Then I taped the box flaps back together with packing tape I found in a kitchen drawer. I put the box back on the floor, just as I had found it. I resituated the items on the table and got the hell out of there. The whole thing took me no more than ten minutes. But they were the most heartbreakingly significant ten minutes of my life.

I lie in Emma’s bed, her body draped over mine, and make a decision. A decision to get rid of everything that’s left in that backpack. Yes, she deserves to know about it, but the reality is that knowing it exists is only going to splinter her. Humiliate her. Even now. Even all these years later. If my life is now about protecting her, getting rid of that backpack is the right thing to do. Getting rid of it
is
protecting her. I’m going to burn it into a pile of ashes.