Walking Heartbreak (23 page)

The lightness imploded in my chest at the realization we wouldn’t even be living in sin anymore. Jude… was about to become my husband!

We exchanged unsure glances when Beauty from that Disney film strode into the church room with ballerina elegance. Then the Beast also appeared and lumbered up to her.

Jude shook their outstretched hands, formalities and paperwork taken care of as if our hosts were in their day-to-day work clothes. And they were.

Minutes later, the Beast looked solemn and regal at the front of the tiny church. He lifted a goblet and garbled something in a deep, rumbly voice. Also in character, Beauty stage-danced up to him with tiny steps and kissed his cheek chastely before turning to us.

I reassured myself by fixing my eyes on the cross behind them. It
was
a cross. A real church. Right? Jude followed my gaze and nodded once.
Yes
, he mouthed.
We’re before God.

Our priest opened his mighty fist—the Beast was a giant—raising it to the man on the cross as he rumbled on behind his animal mask. I was not always sure what he said. I answered questions, nodded my consent, but my heart was not with the Beast, with the Beauty, or with the cross behind them. Big, red, and swollen, my heart thumped for the boy at my side. The one who looked at me so intently.

Jude turned his body to me and took my hand. When he began to speak, he spoke our history and our love in bible verses used wrong, so wrong, and I loved him more than ever—his humor, his quirky charm, his ever-presence in the darkest moments of my life as well as this highest peak.

“And I will betroth thee unto me for ever; yea, I will betroth thee unto me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in loving kindness, and in mercies.”

“A quote for marrying Jesus?” Inside me, orthodoxy fought the gut feeling that God had a sense of humor.

Jude snickered. Took my hands and squeezed them. “Naw. Today, it’s from me to you. Especially the loving kindness and mercies part.” My pompous, word-wringing boy.

“I will even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness: and thou shalt know Jude, your husband!”

I laughed too. “No—thou shalt know
the Lord
.”

He shook his head, disagreeing and lunging into, “Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honor to him: for the marriage of Jude Bancroft is come, and his woman, Nadia, hath made herself ready.”

For five years, our love had remained a secret, and Jude’s subtle allusion to the matrimonial bed made me blush. I told myself the only ones listening were two fairytale characters, but—the costumes contained humans.

“‘A man of knowledge uses words with restraint,’” I quoted and continued, “‘Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.’”

Jude let out an amused snort. My ears burned with embarrassment, but Beauty held a ring out to Jude, and he took it, mirth receding from his eyes as they met mine again.

Pretension and messy proverbs vanished. Jude raised the wedding band and blurted: “Will you marry me now?”

“Yes!” I said louder than I should. The Beast harrumph-chuckled, causing my ears to simmer hotter. “I do, very much.”

Awkwardly, Jude screwed the ring on me like it were a bottle top, and it was okay, it was us—and we were getting married!

“Do you want to marry me too?” I asked, knowing better words waited on a post-it note in my bag on the pews.

Beauty took my cue. Held out Jude’s brand-new ring with dainty cartoon fingers.

“Hell yes!” he exclaimed in reply, and I hushed him because it was not, not a good way to start our new life.

For a second, he humored me, saying, “Yes, ma’am, I do,” but then he grabbed my waist and dipped me to the floor as he kissed me, a blatant, public display of love. I was weak with happiness and mortification, the wildest mixture that made me feel alive; Jude challenged me, my upbringing, my core values, and I had hung on for the ride since day one.

“‘Therefore, behold, I will allure her and bring her into the wilderness and speak comfortably to her,’” he whispered, only for my ears.

“Very comfortably?” I surprised myself by saying.

He nodded against my mouth. “Yes, for my wife, I will do
everything
comfortably.”

I don’t tell Bo about our wedding night. The big hotel room. The smoothest sheets I had ever lain in. The inexplicable sensation of not being in danger of Mother discovering us. How Jude wanted the light on to see me the entire time. How we compromised by draping his boxers over the night lamp, and even with my eyes closed, his look seared me in awed perusal.

I tell Bo about Jude returning his dad’s call. The screaming on the phone, the incredulity, the curse words. How they cut off Jude’s funds, placing his savings in a trust fund “where it belonged until he got his shit together.”

I tell Bo about the pet store we visited the morning after. That we did it for fun, that I don’t remember the last time I’d been in one. The hamsters, the cats. The puppies. Then the tiny monkey someone brought in on a leash and allowed to select his own toys.

“Quite the wedding,” Bo says. His eyes don’t glitter like Jude’s. They simmer like a dirty glacier under the sun, the way packed snow looks on documentaries from the South Pole. And even now, fresh from the memory of the loveliest day of my life, I can’t stop staring.

BO

Her moods flow in gentle waves.
The coffee of her irises swims with sadness then lifts into whiskey gold with the twang of my guitar. Left to ourselves in the back lounge, our silence is sinuous, laced with stories from my hometown, Skala, and Nadia’s anecdotes from growing up in a cult. But when we’re quiet, my fingers itch and find my guitar. Toy with strings and enunciate emotions she tries to conceal.

Sometimes, my riffs turn to ballads while lyrics splash out in patches of color in my head. Sometimes, when Nadia curves a hip to get comfortable, my gaze swims to her waist and shifts to her chest. The game of my chords turns loaded, adding a steady, slow beat, the way I do to make her climb when we’re together.

Without words, she still hears my hunger. Watches my fingers work metal strings with a need that becomes X-rated. And she sits up. Joins her legs and lowers her chin to her knees, demure, secretive, hiding behind her hair in shyness and not understanding that she’s sexier than ever.

All these females. So many women and vixens with a past, a present, and a future—a full life I never wanted to be a part of. But now, I crave to bury deep under the skin of a single girl who is not single.

It’s been a while since I spoke last, so my voice rasps deep when I say, “You kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you. Do you know the
person
you are? How talented you are? You deserve so much, Bo, you don’t even know, and the last thing you need is dead weight like me.”

Dead. Weight.

I drop the guitar and lunge for her. Form my fingers around her face and dig in so she’s still against the backrest of the sectional. “You. I don’t know where you get these ideas. You are not dead weight. Whoever thinks you weigh them down should leave you the hell alone because—”

I kiss her to cut myself off. What I’m about to say is ridiculous, can’t be true, not how I work. My brain is playing a trick on me.

The last thing I want is to hurt another innocent. With Ingela, I promised to be her boyfriend, which includes acting like a boyfriend and feeling like one. I failed.

I lick Nadia’s mouth and suck a lip into my own. Why is it plumper, softer, firmer—
more—
than any other lip I’ve indulged in?

I’m twenty-five. I’ve done it all. The chance of all of me being on some weird chemistry trip that’ll wear off in a minute is still huge compared to the alternative.

I thread my fingers into her hair. Tilt her head back for more, and she stutters a breath that turns my dick to granite.

“Don’t,” I murmur, though what I want is for her to be exactly who she is and do exactly what she’s doing.

Duplicity. Lies. Such a female thing, but it’s not her today—it’s my mind and my nerve endings lying to the both of us. I need to keep my tongue while I wait for it to end.

Nadia tangles into my licks with the same heat, same feeling, that thumps steadily beneath my sternum.

“Beautiful girl,” I manage. “I’ll get us a hotel room in whatever the next town is,” I promise.

“Don’t squander your money,” she whispers, and when the night comes and we’ve played our show, I crawl into her shallow bunk in the bus after everyone is asleep, clip the curtains closed, and I hold her tight.

She’s reluctant, sweet, tempting, and her hesitancy makes my fire roar, makes me want to growl out loud. We can’t sleep like this. She doesn’t want me to leave. It’s quiet hitches of her breath with each gentle touch, with the slip of two fingers into her night shorts, and the shift of my body so I have her on top of me.

I help her. Burrow her mouth in the nape of my neck while I knead her ass. The slight shake of her head says her brain is alert and wanting to decide, but her hips move into my hand and her legs slide apart, welcoming the way I spread moisture through her cleft.

Nadia doesn’t pant. She’s silent, so silent no one hears her when my fingers slip inside of her and enjoy her quivering climax. “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, stunned with who she is and pressing my cock against her belly, rubbing, wanting, but not taking what she’s not comfortable with giving.

She feels me hard beneath her, my abdomen taut where I can’t relax enough to be yielding. “Sweetie,” she whispers so close to my ear, and then those boy shorts slither off her hips.

The alarm goes off in my brain, too weak with the overload of femininity above me, smooth skin and silky stomach sliding over my edges. She’s high. She’s low— everywhere around me, a small hand forming around me and leading me astray.

“Baby,” I whisper, strangled, but it’s so good—I haven’t done this since Ingela. Why is she giving me this? We’re not prepared. We weren’t going to…

Slick warmth hugs me tight, squeezing me and making me groan. She stills then, that small hand lifting from where it is and pressing over my mouth.

“Shhh,” she whispers, a cagey vixen, slaying me, rescinding me, eating me so beautifully from the inside out.

My hips rock up high, hitting a depth I’ve craved for twenty-four hours. That’s how long it’s been since I was last here, only this time, this time— Ah.

“Why?” My single syllable is a voiceless song at her ear. I feel it in my bones the same way I do my raging orgasm as I explode, deep, deep inside of her—

With no protection whatsoever.

I can’t stop kissing her afterward. I don’t want to move, just remain like this with her, shrinking within her channel and bathing in the balm made by the two of us. At home. Finally I’m at—

Enough.

BO

It takes us two days to reach New York.
Two quiet days full of whispered words, music, and touches. For the most part, even Emil leaves us alone, not commenting and only expecting my presence and decisions right before a concert.

Nadia’s eyes have a gleam in them that’s new. I’m egocentric, deciding it’s about me though it might stem from touring with a rock band. Sitting on a golf cart on the way to a festival stage while the crowd went bananas over a glimpse of us made her grin last night.

Those deep eyes shine as we pull into New York, our driver bustling us through midtown. I watch the city with her as skyscrapers slowly rock by. Cabs lay on their horns for reasons only they understand. It’s old for me and new for Nadia.

I lean back against the seat as the door slides open and Elias pokes his head in. “Guess what?” he asks, happy.

“Ah. I can’t take the suspense. Please don’t make me suffer,” I murmur in a monotonous voice that causes Nadia to giggle. I’ve put my guitar down so I can enjoy her body leaning against my chest. Her ear is over my heart, and when Elias entered, she was busy counting my heartbeats, getting a different number per minute every time. Lazily, my fingers make circles below the hem of her skirt, feeling soft skin covering bone and tendon and lean muscle.

Nadia would make a good tour girlfriend. The idolization, the unnatural attention before and after shows is easier to take with her around. With her silent approval of the music I wash out over the audience. With the smile she sends me in moments when she knows the audience’s attention means nothing and the struggle to make a living even less.

“Ebele’s coming to the arena tonight.”

“Who?”

“The awesome chick from Nigeria. Remember her, from L.A?”

“She lives in New York?” I ask.

Elias shrugs so high his shoulders brush his earlobe. “Dunno. But she’s coming. Troll’s setting her up with an all-access pass, and I’m following your lead, man, and getting a hotel room.” He winks conspiratorially. “If Ebele comes early enough, I’ll keep her onstage with Nadia. There’ll be two ladies waiting for us,” he says, proud. “When are you going home again, Nadia?”

And thanks for ripping into that, Elias. We’re in Brooklyn already, we have only hours to sound-check and eat before the Melville Center opens its doors to Luminessence’s—and now our—fans. The last thing I want is to think about Nadia’s departure.

“I’m leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow,” she says softly, sitting up and adding an all too proper space between us. It’s bullshit. I feel stubborn and childish, and the frustration over her going home
to
someone leaves a foul taste in my mouth.

“Right, just—why don’t you get ready, Elias? Are you gonna get off the bus in tighty-whities?”

His eyes enlarge, deer-style. “What? These are shorts.”

“Fucking
short
shorts. Boy-shorts for girls, dude. Jesus. Your package is showing.”

“Is not!” Elias rolls his eyes at me, and Nadia nudges me in the ribs with two fingers.

“Bo… let it go.”

I can’t help shooting out a last observation. “And since it’s the color of your skin, it’s hard to tell that you’re wearing anything at all.”

“Damn you’re pissy. S’not my fault that Nadia’s going home to her husband tomorrow,” the asshole says, and I shoot up from the couch, cross the small lounge in two seconds flat, and slam him against the wall.

“Shut. The fuck. Up. Or I swear I’ll rip your arms off and you’ll never play bass again.”

The room is a frozen frame on a film. I don’t hear Nadia behind me. Elias’ light eyes are transfixed with shock. He makes no move to get loose. For one crazy second, I recall another time like this, only I was the one crushed against the wall… by Cameron. He’d done it in a craze of jealousy and frustration, and I hadn’t been surprised. Ingela had driven him to the edge for a long time.

This is different because I’ve only just started seeing Nadia. No, scratch that. I’ve only just started sleeping with Nadia. Or hanging out with her. Yes, that’s a better expression. I have no claim to her, while someone else does.

“Whoa, whoa,” Troll says, prying my fingers off Elias. “Time to simmer down, here. Elias, keep your mouth shut,” he adds in case Elias didn’t get my message.

Elias plods out, throwing a side-glance over his shoulder. “Dude, he’s losing it. And over some chick? Seriously.”

“She’s
not
‘some chick,’” I yell, but Troll is between us, a blockage heaved up to stop me from ripping Elias’ arms off.

“Really? Because she looks like one to me.”

As we walk off the bus, the whole band is affected. Emil cocks an imaginary gun at my head and makes a fizzled
pang
with puckered lips, and it’s not annoying and stupid as shit at all. I tell him.

Troll wedges himself in between us again, and Nadia is small and quiet at my side, her hand engulfed in mine.

I know I need to let this go, get a grip and all that, but the reminder? I really did not need a reminder. She said she’s never been away from her husband this long before. What if the douchebag starts fucking her again?

I’ll follow her to the airport tomorrow morning, but before that, Clown Irruption is supposed to shake up the Melville Center, and afterward, the night Nadia and I are going to have at a four-star hotel downtown needs to be memorable as hell!

“I’m not doing the meet-n-greet tonight,” I clip as we enter the Melville Center through a side entrance.

“The hell you aren’t,” Troll says calmly. The annoying thing is that when one of the band members flips his lid, Troll remains collected, the total opposite of how he is while organizing show details with venues and stagehands. Screw that.

“Actually, I’m not. I’m taking Nadia straight to the Bel Age, and then I won’t be seeing any of you fuckers until after she has left on that fucking plane.”

“Bo, please,” she whispers, mortified, but I can’t even look at her. I stare straight into Troy’s back. He’s keeping a low profile, striding forward, and today I despise him for it. Until he stops, turns slowly, and says, “Okay, Bo. Listen up. We’re a band, but we’re your friends too. If you need to go—go. We’ll cover for you.”

I’d ditch the after-show anyway, right when I want to, but damn if it doesn’t feel good with an ounce of understanding.