Punk and Zen (7 page)

Candace leaned toward me. “Watch out, love,” she
whispered into my ear. “That one has fangs.” She kissed my cheek briefly but
warmly, and I returned the kiss as we gave each other a quick embrace. I
admired the lines of her legs as she climbed down the steps to the door.

“Lovely meeting you,” she told Trace politely, her
hand on the latch. “Nina?” her voice lifted and she smiled at me.

“Yes?” I couldn’t help but smile back at her in
inquiry. I really liked the sound of her voice.

“You’re simply lovely. I’ll see you soon,” and with
that, she was out the door, closing it behind her.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

I downed what little remained of the “not juice” I’d
already started, then tossed the empty cup into the waste pail. Grabbing the
one Andra had fortuitously left for me, I sipped it as I ignored Trace, who
simply stood there glaring at me with her arms folded, and went back to my
board. I’d lost all feeling for the night. No flood, no rush, no buzz—just an
emptiness that was heavier under my skin than the restlessness from before. But
it didn’t matter if I’d lost the feeling; I still had a job to do. Plenty of
people were still out there counting on me to provide their good time, and ABC
I was going to do that.

Donning my headphones, I checked the meter and set my
fades, timing for the next cue, sliding it into the mix. Scratch what I said
before. I wasn’t numb, I was drained. I could never figure her out—Trace, I
mean. She was ready to fuckin’ chew me a new asshole, and I didn’t even really
know why. She’d sent Candace to the booth in the first place; what in the world
was she so mad about? I finished my drink and looked back up and over the dance
floor. I spotted Andra, and, when she finally saw me, I signaled for another
round. She nodded and disappeared.

Funny, I mused as I pushed the headset off my ears and
around my neck, then sorted blindly through the discs I’d pulled earlier to lay
them out in their upcoming order, once you passed the second or third sip, you
really didn’t taste the alcohol anymore.

A gentle hand touched the bare skin of my back, and I
stiffened slightly. “I’m sorry, Nina,” Trace whispered into my hair, and kissed
the soft skin behind my ear. I worked on in silence as she etched light
patterns onto my skin. That was just typical Trace. In like a flash flood, out
like a gentle spring rain. Okay, more like a hormonal spring flood. But me,
well, she just left me confused at best.

If I was angry, I couldn’t stay that way, and if I was
happy, I couldn’t stay that way. No matter what I did, it wasn’t the right
thing to do, and whatever I was, it apparently wasn’t the right thing to be.
And now she was sorry. What an ugly joke—I should have just kicked her out of
the booth—but her apology softened my anger, and she began massaging my neck
and shoulders, adding light, sensual kisses to the back of my neck between
pressure points.

This proved one thing, I thought. I was a complete
idiot. As I added the finishing touches to the mix, affection for Trace rose
and blended with the frustration and the sensual stirring that Trace created
wherever she went.

I let myself lean back into her a moment, then caught
myself and stopped. Trace wrapped an arm across my shoulders and one around my
waist, anchoring a hand on my hip.

“Come on, Nina, you know how I am,” she cajoled
softly, following up with little kisses.

“Yeah,” I answered shortly. Andra had already come
back and dropped off another beverage without a word. I grabbed the new one and
downed it. Trace was driving me crazy, and she knew it. She was manipulating
me, and I knew it. I didn’t respect myself for responding, even if I didn’t let
on how effective she was. In fact, I was angry—with Trace for trying to play
me, and with myself for being so damn easy to play. I found more knobs on the
board to adjust. Trace pulled me tightly into her arms.

“Nina, you know how I feel about you,” she persuaded
in her honeyed-whiskey tones, and she let the very tip of her tongue play
across that sensitive spot right behind and under my ear.

I set my mix and, with a shrug of the shoulder, we
were face-to-face, and I caught her eyes with mine. What the hell was that
supposed to mean? What the fuck was she trying to say? Why ABC didn’t
anyone ever just come right out and say what they meant? Also, what had she
done to Van? Was he sitting, brain melted and blood drained, in a corner
somewhere? She done with him, too? My skin felt like it was on fire, and my
throat burned. The constant sexual tension and half-toned seduction, the
all-too-confusing words—I couldn’t, I just couldn’t anymore. My chest felt like
it would explode with pressure.

“No, Trace, I don’t,” the words tore from my lips,
harsh and jagged, “you’ve never told me.” I stared into her eyes as they
flashed silver even in this dim light. “You,” I started softly as I reached for
her face, “play games.” Before I fully realized what I was about to do, I
kissed her, hard and full, on those baby-soft lips that answered mine with a
surprisingly slick sensuality. A moment, then another. Putting my hands on her
shoulders I pushed her away, breaking the contact. Trace stared at me, her
expression indefinable.

“You kiss me, you pet me, then you go fuck whoever,
and when they lie, when they hurt you, I’m the one.” I placed my hand over my
chest, heat running so high within me I could feel my ears burn. “Me, I’m the
one to heal you and hold you through it, until you feel better, until it’s time
for the next one.”

Trace waved a hand in confusion and reached for my
shoulder. “Nina, I—”

“No, Trace.” I brushed her hand away in impatient
frustration. “You tell me we’re friends, that what we are together is
beautiful.” I raised my fingertips to her cheek and touched it lightly, brushed
my thumb gently against her lips. “Oh, Trace,” I sighed as she kissed my thumb
softly. “I’d fuckin’ die for you if it would make you happy, but I think you’d
just laugh.” I watched her face for a reaction, any reaction, as I tried to
control the short, hard bursts that forced themselves through my throat and
passed for breath.

A part of my mind—probably the part that had called me
a moron—marveled inwardly. I’d never spoken to anyone, especially not Trace,
like this before. I was always the understanding friend, the supportive,
comforting presence. In the past, I’d been hurt, I’d been confused, but never
before had I been furious and let it show. I might not have understood it, but
I was definitely just going with it. Well, hell, I’d already been doing that
all night.

With surprising speed, Trace grabbed my wrists and
held them to my side, then, using the height she had on me to her advantage,
she backed me into the board, pinning me with her hips. My back thudded against
the ledge, though I barely felt the pain. This time the sound did skip. My
headphones slid off my neck and back behind me onto the board.

“Nina, that’s not true, you know how I feel”—she
leaned her forehead against mine—“about you.” I swore I could hear the
beginning of a laugh bubbling in the back of her voice.

Alarmed, I tried to free myself from her grip to at
least rescue my headphones, but I could barely move my arms. Man, what the hell
was wrong with me? I couldn’t move and, believe me, I tried. My muscles just
wouldn’t obey the commands my brain was sending.

God, I was drunker than I thought, and I was scared,
scared because I ABC couldn’t move, and really scared for the first time
of Trace—the intensity of her words and the raw power of her body against mine.
I’d forgotten, or maybe just ignored, how for all her delicate looks, Trace was
also incredibly strong. And it had never occurred to me, for even a moment,
that things would go in this kind of physical direction.

“What do you want from me?” she hissed into my ear,
then scraped it with her teeth. With a quick twist of her hips, Trace pressed
between my thighs, and, with a strong sweep, she spread my legs so wide I would
have fallen over if she hadn’t had me pinned to the board. How the hell did she
do that? Her arms pressed mine even more firmly than before, locked down by my
hips, and yet she was still able to reach all the way around and grab my ass,
the very tips of her fingers on my inner thighs, up against the sides of my
pussy.

Whatever this was, wherever this was going, I didn’t
like it, and I wanted it to end. “Trace, stop!” I ordered with as much strength
as I could muster. I didn’t want this between us.

Heartbreakingly beautiful, Trace was a striking
combination of slender lines and strength, a vulnerable fortress. How many
nights since I’d moved into the building that we shared had we spent together,
in her apartment or mine, my arms around her while she cried because of old
wounds that still ached, new ones that still bled, or just because there were
things in the world that simply touched her that deeply? How many mornings had
she woken me with kisses and caresses, made me breakfast, and made sure I took
my vitamins? And then there was time we spent together, just cuddled up,
talking of nothing, everything, listening to music, just wrapped up against
each other, listening to one another breathe.

But in all that time and all that closeness, even with
all the flirting and sleeping skin to skin, we had never, and I mean never,
gone to that next step. Slept together, yes, but it was sleep, and not sex.
Hell, this was the first time we’d ever really kissed—I mean, without an
audience, that is. I’d never wanted to push for anything. I’d just wanted to
let things between us go the way they naturally would, whatever that was.

But maybe Trace was tired of waiting, because she
ignored my request. “You want me to tell you how I love you, that I want you.”
Her lips slid along the sensitive column of my neck. Teeth replaced her lips
with such strength that I knew she’d drawn blood. But then, when didn’t she,
one way or another?

“You want me to tell you that when you hold me I feel
peaceful, and my dreams are filled with you, holding me, loving you,” and she
slid a fingertip along the slight depression that marked my lips, “that if I
let you, your love makes me feel whole.” She pressed harder, massaging me with
her fingertips through my stockings.

“Trace, you don’t want to do this,” I said as steadily
as I could. My heart pounded, my head swam, and though I couldn’t explain then
how I felt, I can say it now. I loved her. I pitied her. I wanted her. She
scared the shit out of me.

I was caught between horror and desire. Yes, I wanted
her, but I wanted something between us to be real, not real scary. This just
felt so wrong, so very wrong.
Man, I hope I wake up soon. Real soon.

“But I do,” she answered, ripping at my lower lip with
her teeth. I could feel her fumbling for the seam, and I felt her fingers gain
purchase and pull, her hands hard against me. “You want me to…” she whispered
into my ear. Jesus Christ, she wasn’t going to stop.

Her mouth continued working on my neck, weaving
exquisite patterns on my throat while her fingertips continued to trace my
outlines. I could feel the groan that she uttered as her lips nipped a
particularly sensitive spot, and as I arched my neck and offered her my throat,
I began to think, okay, maybe this was what she needed to be able to let go and
just be, be real. If I surrendered completely maybe, possibly, so could she.

The part of my mind that wasn’t drunk surged forward.
What was I, fucking crazy? More likely, she’d suck my soul dry.

Summoning strength from I don’t know where, maybe it
was just that Trace’s grip slipped, or that my brain and spine had decided to
communicate with each other again, all together my brain, spine, and I
remembered an old move from the judo I had been forced to study in high school.
My legs set as they were, I couldn’t move up, so I managed to bend my knees a
bit and slid down. Rotating my arms outward and applying pressure from my
elbows to hers, I was able to break her hold and bring my arms up, while
removing Trace’s hands from my body. Emphasis on
my
.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d been aroused earlier, and this
situation wasn’t doing anything to lessen that, but it was my body that
responded, not my mind, not my heart. I didn’t want this, not this way, and I
discovered something: there was a limit to just how much I could give.
Nightmare over. I was wide awake now.

“God damn it, Trace,” I spat out as I wiggled free,
“fuckin’ enough. Just stop.” I pushed up against her chest, and she fell back a
step. But still, her words were spinning through my head, confusing me,
twisting me. I managed to bring my legs together and stand somewhat upright. My
chest felt like it had two jackhammers playing off-rhythm to one another, and
my head was starting to feel like someone had sped the merry-go-round up a bit
too fast, but still, through the hammering and the dizziness, all I could think
was that maybe she was right. Maybe that was what I wanted. Everything.

My eyes burned as I went back to my board. Where were
my fucking headphones? Oh, there. I grabbed them and set them firmly around my
neck. I ignored Trace completely as I reoriented myself to the board and my
world, and a drop of water fell onto the soundboard. What the fuck? Oh, it was
me. I hate tears, especially mine. What the fuck was I crying for, anyway? The
leak stopped.

I could feel Trace as she approached my back. Her hand
was gentle again as she touched my shoulder. I reached for the microphone.