And then time sped up.
I settled into an easy routine. It was way too simple to turn my brain off and coast through work and what passed for my social life. Pretty quickly more than a year went by. The tedium of my job became comfortable instead of oppressive. When I thought I would be looking for a new job I instead found myself coming up with reasons why it was better to stay: I didn't want to start all over again, I still hadn't gained any new skills for a different career, my boss was fairly generous and I'd already gotten two raises. The first was a general merit raise everybody got, the second was because he liked me as an employee and I think he knew I would rabbit otherwise. Making more money, especially since it was more than I'd made at the bank, would make it incredibly stupid to leave.
And I still had nowhere to go. It wasn't like I was going to quit my job and pursue my dream of writing the great American novel or painting a masterpiece. I would leave and find another corporate job and essentially be doing the same thing.
So I decided to stay and reap the benefits. And there were great benefits. Not only was I paid well, I also had medical, dental, and even life insurance. At the bank I only ever had the most basic of health insurance. The first time I used it, for fear of how much it would end up costing me, was when I got shot.
I even managed to make some friends. Eventually. They weren't deep friendships, since I still remained very guarded about my life and why it lead me to working there. I still hung out with Blood Shadow and Dana when I could, but they kept such odd schedules that I didn't see them regularly. My work friends were already closer to me than anyone I knew from the bank. Much less catty, overall very friendly. Which was somewhat of a problem.
It was how I ended up in the bad situation I found myself in. It wasn't terrible from the outside, no one else would call it that. But it was bad for me.
The woman whose bed I was in was named Kylie. She worked in accounting. We were in the doggy-style position; her thighs spread wide, with her ample butt slapping against me. I had my hands grabbing her waist. I resisted the urge to slap her ass. I tried that once, last time. Sex immediately stopped and I got a lecture about how disrespectful I was and that spanking hurt. I always thought that was kind of the point: it stung, but in a good way. It wasn't like I was hitting hard enough to leave marks. I didn't even think it was something I picked up from Beth. If I remembered right, all the girls I'd been with enjoyed a bit of spanking.
So I left her ass alone. It had taken me this long to get Kylie used to doggy-style. Her preference was for straight missionary and nothing else. For the first few times that's all she would do. That got boring quick. I needed some variety and this position was my preference for friction. Also, I didn't have to look at her face. Don't get me wrong, she was attractive, a bit of baby fat around her features, I just didn't want to see her face when I came.
It was taking much longer than normal because of how drunk I was. That was why I insisted on doggy-style: so I could have enough friction to finish. If we did things her way then I would just pump away until I got too tired and quit. I didn't even care about blue balls by that point.
This was how it always was between us. We never had sex when I was sober. What would happen is that I'd go out for a drink with co-workers on Friday to keep up my mask of normalcy. I always intended to have one or two drinks before leaving to play videogames with Wade. Instead what happened is that when I planned to leave I got cat-calls of "It's too early" and "What do you have to do?" By then the alcohol weakened my resolve and made it seem like a good idea to stay.
Then I got absorbed in the conversation. And they were right, I didn't really have a good reason to leave. Kylie always found a way to sit next to me. She worked subtly, laughing a bit too hard at my jokes, light touches on my leg while she talked to me. Before I knew it I was drunker than I wanted to be and she would mention going back to her place to watch a movie, which always sounded good. And she was looking good. So she'd drive us back to her place, watch five minutes of a random move, then start making out. Kissing led to awkward, sweaty, drunk sex.
When it first happened I thought it would be a one-and-done thing. Except it kept happening. Same routine, same regular basis. We weren't going out, we didn't set dates, we only met in groups then did our thing. We were polite at work, but not too friendly and definitely not flirtatious. For my part I sort-of compartmentalized it. Everyone at the office knew what was going on unless they were stupid. Still, I kind of pretended that it wasn't happening, even though it kept happening. Nobody asked me what was really going on.
Finally I felt myself finishing. The moment I stopped shivering I pulled out of her. I padded off to the kitchen, pulled the condom off and threw it in the trash. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped myself off with them. While I was washing my hands I heard the shower running. That was her ritual after sex. As soon as she could, she bolted to wash off, like the touch of me was some acid which would melt her if she let it sit too long. It kind of annoyed me. I mean, yes, I was doing some minor cleaning, being polite so that I wouldn't stain her sheets. Her dashing off to the shower meant there was no chance of there being a second round. Not that there was a real chance of me being able to push out a second round, but it would be nice to have a partner willing to try. If I did sober up and want to go again she would brush me off with a "I already showered" excuse not to.
I pulled my underwear back on, nearly falling over when I was bent over. My head swam from all the rum and cokes I drank. I was trapped at her apartment. Again. Like I knew I would be. I was too drunk to drive and she wasn't going to drive me home. She was done for the night. It would've been nice to sleep in my own bed so I would feel better tomorrow. I got into hers and listened to the shower, hoping to fall asleep before she was done. I wish I'd gotten some water when I was in the kitchen. Tomorrow was going to be rough. Not bad. I wasn't going to be so hungover that I'd be throwing up. All that would happen was that I would have a headache and feel fuzzy all day. The day would be wasted. At least I'd feel good on Sunday so the entire weekend wasn't ruined.
The shower shut off which was bad news because I was still awake. The room spun slightly. I needed to find a better drink if I was going to keep doing this. Something without caffeine which wouldn't keep me awake. Kylie came back from the bathroom. She wore her bulky pajamas and had her make-up scrubbed off. She crawled into bed next to me and wrapped my right arm around her, using my bicep as a pillow. Later I would have to carefully snake that away from her after she'd fallen asleep so that I could sleep comfortably. Nothing was worse than waking up in the middle of the night with a numb hand and a painful cramp in your shoulder.
Kylie was a cuddler, which I didn't think was inherently a bad thing. I liked cuddling with Beth. That was the problem: it seemed more intimate than sex. I had sex Kylie because I was depressed and needed release and had no other outlet. She fucked me because she wanted some human contact. For her, sex was a way to get what she really wanted. It was something she put up with so she could cuddle with someone later. I didn't think she actually enjoyed sex. It had taken me forever to try a different position, she absolutely despised oral sex. The first time I attempted to go down on her she almost threw up on me.
I was tempted, sometimes, to suggest anal to see if she would go into a coma from shock.
She purred contentedly next to me. Her right hand rubbed lightly across my chest, playing in the sparse hair there. Her fingertip caught along the edge of my bullet wound. I tensed as she circled it. I hated when she played with it. The first time she ever did I actually grabbed her by the wrist to stop her. Now I acted like it was nothing while waiting for her to stop. She knew I hated it, but still did it after every time we had sex. It fascinated her. I knew she didn't believe me that it was from a childhood injury when I fell out of a tree.
So far she hadn't found the one on my neck. That was because it was covered under a beard. The spot where it was had a tuft of white instead of my normal black hair. I kept the beard so that I wouldn't have to see the gnarled, hardened flesh where a bullet punched its way into my skin every time I looked in the mirror. A weird discoloration of beard color I could handle. Kylie never commented on that spot. It was good that she didn't seem to like the beard. If she'd had a penchant for playing with my neck scar I would've screamed.
Since we weren't officially dating she couldn't tell me to shave off the beard outright. She hinted, she suggested, but as long as my razor stayed safely in its holder there was nothing she could do. She could threaten to withhold sex, but that was no big deal. I would actually prefer if she did. Some part of me couldn't seem to say no to her. It was a weird mix of emotions. I wanted sex, but I wanted to be with Beth. Sex with Kylie felt like I was cheating on Beth. Except I didn't know if we were really still together. The last I saw of her was that day in the parking lot. Other than the allowance, which I'd long since stopped, there was no connection between us other than the longing I felt.
I wrote Beth letters; a lot of them. They were pages long, expressing my emotions in my clumsy way. What I really felt for her didn't translate well to the page. I also had to be careful to be vague enough that nobody could concretely connect them to me. That made it tricky. I wasn't the best at being both earnest and secretive. When I read them back they didn't come off as romantic and heartfelt, they came off as whining and pitiful.
They embarrassed me. I saw all I wrote and it came down to missing her. A valid complaint, I guessed, but one reserved for the girlfriend who left you and were trying to get back. Beth would be in my arms if she could. Instead I was whining about my life while she was in prison. Boy, I sure was a fuck-up. I wished I could figure out why I kept falling into the patterns I had over the past year, why I kept sleeping with Kylie. I didn't even like her.
She sighed and snuggled up closer to me. My skin crawled. I didn't want to be touched. It made me actually start to be sick.
I don't think I wanted to be happy.
I think that if I were feeling happy then it would be like abandoning Beth to her fate. She sure as hell wasn't having fun. So any time I started to feel the pressure lift and the sadness fade I came over to Kylie's and fucked her. That way a new wave of guilt crashed over me. Conveniently, it refreshed me for a week or so.
Almost all those letters I wrote to Beth I ended up deleting, pretty much immediately after finishing them. Some of them I didn't even proofread, just closed the window and went on a walk. I did work up the courage to send two. I mailed one myself and the other I gave to Dana to give to Beth's lawyer. Both of them went unanswered. There were probably good reasons why I got no response. Except I could never quite get myself to believe any of them. I found it easier to believe she was mad at me and tore up the letters without reading them.
I had to stop fucking Kylie. I had no idea what Beth would do when I told her about it. My stomach twisted into a knot whenever I thought about it. What if that's what sent Beth packing? What if I waited all this time for her to be free and I told her about Kylie and that's what caused her to walk away from me? That would kill me. It would be my fault and I would have no one but myself to blame for thinking with my dick.
This was going to be the last time, I swore it. I wouldn't come back. Couldn't come back. I would start making excuses as to why I wasn't going out drinking with my co-workers anymore. Kylie was going to be a different problem. We weren't dating so we couldn't really break up. There was no tactful way to tell her that having sex with her made me feel so guilty I thought about killing myself. I definitely wasn't going to let her know I would rather have snakes and scorpions crawl all over me than feel her touch again.
No, that was too harsh. This wasn't her fault. It was completely mine. I could've politely declined her advances. No one forced me to sleep with her. I did it all of my free will. It was all for terrible reasons, but still, my choice.
I was afraid of the repercussions of blowing off Kylie. I didn't know how she actually felt about me. We never had that deep of conversations. I didn't know if she considered this a fling or the start of something more. For all I knew I could tell her I didn't want to see her anymore and she would say "fine" and be done with it. The next week she could be sleeping with Damon in legal.
Or she thought this was serious. That could be bad. I couldn't imagine what she would do to try and get us back together. Or what kind of hell she could make my life at work with a sexual harassment claim. That was negative again, selfish, conceited. She wouldn't do that. I only hoped that she would do it so as to make my life miserable. I could handle that. Guilt and anguish, but not sex to possibly cock up things with Beth.
God, I hadn't thought about life would actually be like if/when Beth came back. I just expected life to be better. I could imagine our first meeting after being apart. Clearly. I would hold her and not let go. At least not until she peeled my hands off me and then peeled her clothes off. All that was a given. I hoped.
No, what I hadn't given much thought to, probably because it was annoying and too real, was how we would live together. She wasn't going to get out of prison legally. There was absolutely no way to exonerate her. She killed Jeff; it was all on camera. So I would be dating a fugitive.
I would have to marry her.
Fear struck me cold. Marriage. Something which hadn't crossed my mind. Or had it? If I chose to stick with her then that would basically foist marriage upon me. Christ, that sounded lousy to describe it that way. It was something I hadn't considered. I couldn't keep my old life and her. Even with a new superficial identity I wouldn't be able to hide her and her cowboy lifestyle. Nobody around me was that stupid.
Eventually I would have to make a very difficult choice. One with serious ramifications for my life. Being with her meant a giant change and possibly giving up everything.
Probably giving up everything.
The good thing was that there wasn't much holding me to Paradiso. Even though it was my hometown I didn't feel super-attached to it. While a lot of people built their identities to where they were born that wasn't me. Wherever I went I felt I could install myself there.
Since everyone was online and connected it wasn't like distance was a big deal. All I had to do was buy a headset and I could play videogames with Wade from anywhere in the world.
But, really, would people want to stay in contact with me? If I kept Beth a secret from them it was possible I could live a double life.
But if I couldn't keep it a secret then my parents would never speak to me again. My dad might, given time, but my mom would disown me. The thing she hated the most was a liar. Getting back with Beth would prove to them that everything I'd said for the past year was a lie.
So...throw it all away for love? Or throw away a deep love, possibly true love, for security?
Given the way I felt since we'd been separated I was inclined to say "fuck it all" and go away with Beth. I could say that now because the question was still hypothetical since She still wasn't free. Whatever plans I had for us in the future was still ethereal.
I wasn't falling asleep and I wasn't going to be able to. Not with the caffeine coursing through my system, not withthese thoughts in my brain and not with the girl passed out on my arm. Slowly I eased myself from under her head. She moaned sadly from my absence, but didn't wake up. By the time I had my clothes in hand she'd already settled into a new sleeping position, face mashed into her pillow.
She was going to be mad in the morning. Maybe more confused. I would definitely get a call when she woke up. How would I fare? Would I be able to answer her? The situation might be worse if I didn't. Though it could also be my best chance if I didn't. I could break it off. Nobody would want to admit to getting fucked then abandoned. The only way I could make it worse would be to leave money on her dresser.
How far would I have to take this? Would I be able to work up the courage to go into the office on Monday knowing she would be there? She would talk. It was the nature of office gossip. The reality was that I couldn't just not show up. I would have to deal with the fallout. The good thing was how squeamish she was about sex so it was unlikely she would make a scene. More likely she would try to get me to talk once or twice, then leave me alone. If I made myself scarce then it would all eventually fade.
If this actually meant anything to her then there would be a crying period. Her friends, so some of my co-workers, would get her side of the story and decide I was an asshole. If that was the price I had to pay then I would pay it gladly. Getting that reputation would be beneficial. It would scare away other women who might be interested in me. Leave me more time to myself to pine over the incarcerated love of my life.
I dressed quickly, but quietly, in her kitchen. Now I wasn't so drunk that I was stumbling and crashing over things. I was very aware of how much noise I made. Was her house always been this loud and I just never noticed? Each time I set my foot down the floor groaned under the weight. When the refrigerator kicked on I shot it a death glare. It was like the entire house was an alarm designed to wake her if someone tried to leave. I was surprised the door didn't start blaring klaxons the moment I touched the knob.
Outside I took huge breaths of relief like the escaping prisoner I was. Only after I cleared my head did I realize how long of walk I actually had in front of me. I didn't look forward being that long in my head the whole walk. I'd think of Beth or Kylie or my fucked up life which consisted of Beth and Kylie. I could always try to find a bus. I thought they might still be running. All that would do, along with calling a taxi, was ensure that I'd be laying in my bed, thinking the same thoughts, much, much sooner. At least with a walk I could tire myself out and, hopefully, crash when I got back to my apartment.
It was warm on the street, surprisingly humid. Immediately I started sweating. Because I hadn't rinsed off after sex I felt grimy. Maybe Kylie had the right idea. I felt like I was sticking to my own skin and it put me in a worse mood. I knew that when I got back home I still wouldn't be able to go back to sleep immediately, despite how much I wished for it. I'd have to take a shower because otherwise the sheets would stick to me and I'd be too uncomfortable to sleep.
I started walking in the general direction of my apartment. There was no easy, direct route so whichever road I took would get me there just as fast. At least there weren't any bad neighborhoods I'd have to walk through to get to my own.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out. There was a text message from a number I didn't recognize. Not terribly uncommon with the people I associated with, but this message was much more ominous than anything Blood Shadow ever sent me.
-What are you doing out, little boy?
I spun around to see if maybe Kylie was following me with this idea of a joke. Nobody was behind me Or around me. It couldn't be her. I hadn't gotten a chance to delete her number yet and her name would've shown up. This was someone else, someone I didn't know. As much as I wanted it to be Beth I knew it wasn't. This wasn't the way she would let me know she was free. Someone was fucking with me. I just didn't know who.
Or maybe I did.
Hanging around super-villains had made me paranoid. Not everyone was a killer, they weren't all out to get me. I texted the number back, just to be polite.
-Sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Wanted to let you know. Somehow, no matter how drunk I got, I always typed correctly.
I put the phone back in my pocket and continued my walk home. I made it half a block before my phone buzzed again. Probably the sender texting me an apology.
-It wasn't a mistake, Luke.
I looked around again. Still nobody around; there weren't even any cars driving by. The neighborhood was asleep.
-Who is this? I texted.
I didn't stand there. I kept walking, this time faster. I was already sweaty so it didn't matter. I made it to the street corner before my phone buzzed again. I wanted to throw it away. Instead I clutched it in my hand so hard I heard the case grinding against itself.
-A friend, maybe. Definitely not someone you want as an enemy. The text read.
-Who are you? I sent again.
The phone didn't buzz again for a while. It kept still until I was most of the way back to my apartment. It wasn't as shocking this time since I'd been waiting for it to go off. Even though it was pretty late in the evening, more very early in the morning, there were more people in my neighborhood mostly college kids coming home from parties. It wasn’t like the empty suburban neighborhood Kylie lived in. I was still distressed by the mystery person texting me though now it was lessened. More people around made me feel safer. There was less likely a chance of something bad happening. Except that was bullshit. The worst moment of my life took place out in the sunshine, surrounded by people. In the dark it was only drunk people returning home in groups of two or three. No protection there.
-How was sex with that little bitch?
-Who are you?
-Do you still stink of her? What will Beth think of that?
-Leave me alone!
A few minutes of silence, then:
-I'm watching you.
I looked around again to see if anyone was watching me. If they were then they were too well hidden for me to see. I checked the face of everyone who walked past me. None of them looked familiar. I couldn't believe that nobody was on their phone. In this generation they should've all been jammed into their screens.
I had some hesitancy about entering my apartment. If the person knew my phone number, then it was also possible they knew my address. Not the most logical thinking, but I was also dead tired and only a little drunk. So I closed my door. Then moved my recliner in front of it. That eased my worried mind of an intruder.
Still...while I was showering I was rattled by each and every sound the place made while settling for the night. I got out of the shower and made another round about my apartment. It was surprising how many potential hiding spots there were for psychopaths in my apartment at that hour of night. That was even discounting the idea of invisible or shape-shifting killers hiding in plain sight because they were in the form of a lamp.
I crawled into bed.
My phone buzzed again, crawling across my end table.
I ignored whatever message there was and turned the phone off.
