The Delivery (8 page)

I press my body as far as I can into the freezing cold wall.

“If you come anywhere near me. You’re sleeping on the floor!”

“I promise I won’t touch you. Just sleep. I don’t even snore.”

“If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

“I would hope so. I’m more of a moaner, myself.”

I ignore the joke.

I’m using the temperature of the wall to cool down the need that’s swirling through my limbs with the thought of having him pressed up against me. I’m wet just thinking about lying next to his body.

“Thanks, Lana,” he murmurs as he snuggles under the covers. I’m immediately assaulted by the distinctly manly smell of Mozey. It’s cedar and turpentine, musk and spray paint, and it’s become a reluctant opiate to my olfactory preference. I breathe him in like oxygen and delight in his smell. I want to hold him and make out with him until my lips hurt. I want to press my body into his, to feel all of this pent up desire returned. I place both of my hands palm flat against the cold wall.

Social work. Damaged child. Obligation. Respect. Distance
. I conjure up words, hoping to trigger a bucket of cold water to pour over my perverse attraction to
a client
who happens to be sleeping in my bed.

“Lana?”

“What?”

“Are you asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Can I hold you?”

I don’t answer him, and the seconds tick by like celestial slugs as big solar systems. Seconds that are everywhere but go nowhere and suffocate me with their infinite presence. Seconds where I can’t fathom an answer to that question because holding him might just be the one thing I want more than anything else in the world. But holding him might mean the downfall of everything I know—everything I’ve worked for and struggled to become. Trash it all away forever in a single embrace.

Embrace him I would, but what would it lead to? Sex. I can’t control myself around him. And then? The unraveling of all of my carefully assembled existence.

“Lana?” he whispers.

I exhale hard and raspy like I’m releasing a snore.

“I followed you here because I think I’m in love with you.”

I force myself to breathe and not react with my body. The seconds are looming again like dark storm clouds and the tension is unbearable. How can I not answer that? How can I pretend to sleep through this monumental moment? No one has ever told me they were in love with me. Not one person. Ever.

I reach out behind me and my hand bumps his hard stomach. I want to turn and face him, to discover what our love is. But instead I grab his hand, and I pull his arm around my shoulder. He takes the signal and moves his body across the small space that divides us. A few inches that represent the complete rearranging of my world. He presses his body to my back, and we fit together perfectly, seamlessly. Just like I knew we would.

The seconds soften and melt into symbiosis with time. We are two hidden lovers, embraced against the world, warm and perfect under the covers. We hold each other with stillness and a universe of promise. We hold one another against the unknown and declare silently together, I am his protector, and he, is my protector.

Chapter 12

W
hen I wake up in the morning, Mozey is not in my bed, but it’s still warm where his body lay, and I bury my face into the sheets to retrieve every molecule of him. I run my hands over the warmth he’s left and imagine what it would be like to wake up next to him every single morning.

I let myself indulge in the fantasy of being in his arms for a full five minutes. Then I drag my body out of bed and force my feet to meet the cold floor. Today is going to be hell. Today is D-Day. They day we’ve been dreading and waiting for.

Alexei takes my parents over to my uncle’s early. My mom got up when it was still dark to prepare a poppy seed cake for them because no way in hell she’s going over there empty handed. Lex told me she wept the whole time she baked the last morning in her own kitchen. She’ll bring them a sad poppy seed cake baked full of tears, only to have them toss it when she’s not looking because they eat toaster waffles, not cakes from the old world. They’ll reluctantly invite her into her new home which, undoubtedly to her, will smell like a home that doesn’t want any visitors.

That leaves Mozey and I alone in the house together. My plan is to pretend nothing happened last night. There is nothing illegal about sharing a bed for warmth. I’m on edge, I’m emotional, and I don’t want his stupid help. He’s already moving everything with a red piece of tape on it outside to the dumpster we rented. A red tag means garbage, and blue means to keep. My dad red taped so many things last night while my mom followed behind him trying to replace every single one with blue.

After five or six trips, Mozey comes in and leans over, hands on his knees, his breathing is accelerated, and I watch him cautiously.

“Are you okay? Is it your asthma? There is a lot of dust.”

He nods and stands up straight, his hands moving to his hips. He goes to his backpack, which is sitting on the couch we’re about to throw out, and he unzips it and removes an inhaler, breathing in a deep pump.

I’ve spent the last ten minutes in front of our non-working fire place drawing squiggles in the dust on the mantel full of rectangle ghosts left behind from now packed up, framed family photos.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, wheezing, and I feel suddenly concerned for him.

“Are you okay? Sit down! Can I do anything?”

“For one, you could stop ignoring me. Sit with me,” he says, patting the couch next to him.

“Is it the dust or the exertion?” I ask.

“Both,” he answers, and I realize that now he always directly answers my questions. “I have an idea to make you feel better. You said they’re just going to demolish the house, right? As soon as it’s reclaimed by the bank?”

“Yes. But I don’t like your ideas.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is,” he says as he takes another puff and holds it in his lungs with his broad chest inflated.

He rummages in his backpack and pulls out a can of spray paint. He shakes it vigorously, pops the cap off and then hands it to me.

“What’s this for?” I ask, my heart picking up a gentle thrumming, a light skipping beat. Mozey is always full of surprises, and it thrills me like a kid.

“Tell them how you feel. Get it out. Because I can tell that you’re hurting.”

I look at him, and my heart soars. I like him so much I want to kiss him. And I’m so turned on by the way he’s looking at my mouth I really want to kiss—kiss him. I stand and walk awkwardly to the wall. I shake the can again and write a giant “FUCK YOU!” right above the mantelpiece where a mirror used to hang.

Mozey nods his head at me and takes off his shirt. He’s still smiling and giving me a thumbs up as he wads up the shirt and wipes the sweat and dirt off of his muscular body.

I’m dumbstruck, staring at his chest. He’s ripped. He’s perfect. No, he’s better than perfect. He’s exactly what a man should be. I want to lick every single little square inch of him. I want the rest of his clothes off. I want to roll around with him naked. In the dust, in the dirt, stick a red tag on us: I don’t care. I’ll roll with him anywhere.

“What else?” he asks, and I rip my eyes away from the breathtaking body in front of me. I turn to the adjacent wall.

I’m turned on. I’m hot. I’m furiously angry and sexually frustrated. There is something I want to write, but it makes me feel selfish and stupid. But I still want to write it, and this is my chance as far as last chances go.

“I support my parents, and I’m only twenty-five!” I write the numbers huge. I feel an enormous emotional release. I’ve actually never said that out loud, but it’s what I think and feel all the time. I never say it because I don’t want to shame them.

“Here. Can I show you something?” Mozey asks and approaches me from behind. He puts one hand on my shoulder and lines himself up behind me, wrapping his large hand around my small one. He presses down on top of my finger and a stream of black paint rushes at the wall. He moves us forward toward the wall taking gentle steps behind me.

“Are you part of that portrait project? The one against the narco-traficantes?”

His body tenses slightly. He releases the nozzle. Now it’s his turn to ignore me.

He begins again moving us closer to the wall. The stream of paint gets more opaque and wetter and the line goes from blurred to making a perfect circle as he guides me. Then he pulls our arms back and moves the can fast, zigzagging back and fourth. The paint becomes faint spatters making a color graduation as he passes back to the original lines. It almost looks like a gray sunset. It’s striking but so simple.

“So there is a technique to it I guess, huh?”

I’m talking, but it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Because everything at this point is feeling. Only feeling. We’re touching. Mozey and I are so close and everything is touching.

His naked chest against my back. His exhale on my neck so very close to my ear. The length of his arm against my arm, his hand wrapped around mine, holding my finger on the tiny nozzle of the can. I can smell his sweat with its distinct undertone of cedar. And his breath, slightly chemically from his tokes on the inhaler. His heart beats so close to mine, and I want nothing more than his arms to wrap around me, his warmth to shield me and at the same time seep all the way into me.

I stand rigid and hold my breath, praying he’ll walk away and in the same heartbeat praying he’ll never leave me. Then I feel his rock hard erection press into my butt cheek. He’s big. He’s hot. I want to touch his cock. This is
so
not okay. My mind snaps to my job and my professional duties.

I jerk away from him and grab the can and throw it in the empty fireplace. I turn to him to scold him for pushing the boundaries. But his back is already turned to me, and he’s rummaging like a madman though his backpack. He looks at me ripping the cap off a red can then he shakes it so hard, I can see his arm muscles ripple. He shakes the hell out of the can all the while staring at me, then he charges toward the wall brushing me back with his arm.

“Stand back,” he says and takes his can to paint.

His arm whizzes fast enough to blur and his lines are superb. He’s got that easily recognizable cholo street style that adorns so many bridges and storm drains all across LA. It’s beautiful what he does, and he’s only writing words with a single color. I already know the man can work small miracles with a canvas.

He takes a step back, surveying his work, his arms crossed in front of him, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes burning.

It’s difficult for me to decipher as it’s highly stylized, but I squint and see my name and then make out “This is Lana’s home she grew up hear!”

My eyes swell with tears that spill over the rim. I’m crying again in front of him, and I want to tell him that I never cry. That I’m the strongest girl he could ever, ever meet. In junior high school, I fell during a track meet and dislocated my knee. I broke two of my fingers when I tried to break the fall. How many tears did I cry that day? Not one. Not one single person witnessed a teardrop fall from my face. I held it all in like a champion. For fifteen proud minutes, I was the school hero, the star of the track meet.

I nod my head and sniffle, and he smiles at my reaction. His smile starts me laughing, and soon I’m doubled over, laughing so hard it’s giving me a side ache.

“What’s so funny?” Mozey asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it and concern washes over his momentary enjoyment of my initial reaction.

“I love it so much, Mozey. I love it—” but now I’m snorting and choking.

“What the fuck, Lana?”

“You spelled ‘here’ wrong,” I get out, and I can hardly stand up straight. It’s too much emotion, and I’m too vulnerable. I’m not used to so much feeling. “You spelled hear,” I say and cup my hand to my ear, but I’m choking on laughter and tears, and I can barely speak.

“Fuck!” Mozey laments and then steps to the wall in anger. “Well, English isn’t my first language,” he says, putting a hand on his hip and shaking the can really hard.

“It so is, you liar.” I’m still doubled over, roaring with laughter like I’ve completely lost my mind.

He squeezes in an “in” after the up and then adds a quick coma. He writes a “ya” in and the finished product reads,
“This is Lana’s home she grew up in, ya hear!”
He’s a quick study, I’ll at least give him that much.

I nod my head again and smile while tears slide down my face with so much emotion. This is quite possibly the sweetest and simplest gesture that’s ever been given to me. This beats the prickly pear and maybe even showing up in Michigan unannounced to help me and my parents. He’s giving a voice to my feelings, laying bare the personal injustice.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so understood or so completely accepted before. I look at him; eyes wide open with equal parts fear and devotion. I’m naked in front of him, I’ve NEVER shown anyone this much of myself.

He steps to me and grabs my waist and then plants his mouth quickly over mine. Mozey’s movement is so fluid and graceful, I didn’t see it coming. It’s an instant of perfection, of utter and complete bliss. His mouth is heaven and his kiss is filled with sweet longing and so many promises. My whole body is supercharged with desire for this man. I’ve ached for these warm lips since he stepped foot in my office, but it’s all so wrong and it hurts me to admit it. I shove him in the chest and step back from him with anger.

“Don’t kiss me!” I yell at him. “I’m supposed to protect you from people like me!”

He glares at me and then looks down at the floor. I’ve crushed his feeling and his ego, and now anger is quickly setting up store.

“Don’t kid yourself, Lana. Don’t pretend you don’t need me or want me! I can see right through your act. I can feel you. I want to know you. Just, please let me in.”

“I was doing fine on my own. In fact, I was doing much better before you showed up. Why don’t you just go back to LA?”

I put my hands on my hips and his find their way across his chest.

“How dare you put me in a position where I could lose my job. You know now more than
anyone
just how much is riding on this!”

“You want me to go?” he yells, stepping over toward me with so much energy I pray he’s not violent. Could he be capable of hurting me? Reason one why you should never, ever mess around with clients.

He lifts the can and at close range, releases a spray of red paint right to my chest. He creates a red circle with the steady stream of paint, then he quickly releases, and we both watch as the drips run down my white shirt. We’re overcome with emotion and both of us are breathing hard. Our two chests heaving in syncopation like fireplace bellows on a mission to entice the flames to lick high— and even higher.

“Lana,” he says with all seriousness, pointing to the spot. “Right there, Doc, that’s where your heart should go.”

I’m furious even though I know through the heated flash of my anger he’s right. I march to the fireplace and retrieve my spray can. Without a moment’s pause, I move in and go for his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt, but it doesn’t deter me. I brandish him with a black “X” across his entire chest.

“Yeah, well you’re off limits,” I say. “In fact, give me that!” I grab a red tag and stick it on his shoulder. “That’s the garbage tag, Mozey. Why don’t you take yourself out!”

Mozey slaughters me with his eye contact which is half-tortured kid searching for love and half-lusting adult wanting to fuck. His face only confirms to me I did the right thing. He is way too vulnerable. You can’t mess with shit like this. It’s more than dangerous. It’s toxic.

He strides to the couch and grabs his backpack and guitar. He throws them over his shoulder and storms out of the house. My eyes follow him to the door, and I see Alexei standing there, fast food bags in hand and a two-liter of Coke under his armpit. His mouth is open his eyes are wide. He blinks, taking in the room and my paint stained shirt.

“How long you been standing there, Lex?” I ask him, still panting from all of the emotional exertion.

He turns and looks out the now wide-open front door. We can barely make out Mozey as he charges away down the street. Lexi looks back at me and shakes his head in confusion.

“Holy shit, Lana. You didn’t tell me you were in love with him.”