Stacia Kane - Wrong Ways Down

They ended up watching an old detective movie he had, and chattering on it while they watched. She took off her shoes and curled up there on the couch, and when the movie ended he realized she were asleep.

Shit. Should he—should he wake her up, take her home? He probably ought, aye. She wouldn’t wanna spend the night there. Probably had work to get sheself to in the morning, too.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. Just touching her … they never did that. He made sure not to. Her skin was warm through her shirt; the edges of her bones were sharp through her skin. Touching her made him heat up inside. “Chess. Hey, Chess.”

She didn’t move.

He tried again. “Chessie. Oughta get you home, aye? C’mon, oughta—”

Her eyelids fluttered. She sorta looked at him, through dazed, sleepy eyes. Then she leaned over and flopped onto the couch, curled up with her head on his thigh.

Her head was on his thigh. Her head rested on it, and her hand wrapped around it so her fingers were on the inside of his leg.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think, neither, causen all the blood he had left his head and rushed down. Thought he were gonna burst right through the buttons on his jeans. Chess’s head was in his lap, on his thigh, her breath soft and even.

And it weren’t just where it was. It were … she’d fell asleep, and she’d fell asleep on him. Like she trusted him that much she could just sleep, she were that comfortable. She weren’t freaking out touching him or blushing or looking all embarrassed or rushing to get away, though he knew she might when she woke up. But for that moment she were just sleeping there, next to him. Like she was his.

He still oughta take her home. Oughta at least carry her to his bed; she ain’t weighed shit, and she’d be more comfortable there.

But it seemed like … like presuming something, putting her in his bed. And he ain’t changed his sheets yet since the last night Amy slept over. If he put her in his bed, too, she might wake up on the morn thinking something happened, and he ain’t wanted that.

Most of all, iffen he put her in his bed she wouldn’t be there next to him no more, wouldn’t be touching him. Because no fucking way could he put her in his bed and get in beside her, no way. Even if she ain’t minded, he couldn’t do it. Hard enough being this close to her upright, on the couch.

He managed to keep himself under control when she was with him. He managed to keep from grabbing her, from just … just fucking taking her, possessing her, making her his the only way he knew how. He managed to stop himself doing it by keeping, always, right up front in his head the memory of her walking away from him that night at Trickster’s, the memory of her face the next morning as she lied to him. He managed to stop himself doing it by not getting real close to her, not touching her, trying not to meet her eyes for too long when he looked at her. By not letting his body take over, fighting with it.

He just … shit, he just wanted her so fucking bad. Wanted her naked under him. Wanted to bury his head between her legs until she begged him for mercy, wanted to fuck her until she screamed and then do it again, and again. It was all he could think about sometimes; seemed like every time he were alone his thoughts went back there, to picturing what she’d look like without clothes on, to imagining her body arched under him, throbbing around him.

The way his was throbbing now, fuck.

This was bullshit. No matter how much he wanted to pretend it weren’t so, no matter how he half-wished it ain’t happened, he oughta quit fucking lying to himself and admit he was in love with Chess. That’s what it was. He’d never felt it real before but he sure as fuck did now. Weren’t just that he liked her, weren’t just that he wanted her in his bed. Shit, he’d gotten a text a few hours past asking if he wanted to head over and have some fun with Sela, and he ain’t even thought for a second on leaving Chess, because he was in love with her so hard he couldn’t even breathe.

A lock of her hair—her lighter blondish roots had started showing, and he wondered, like he had before, if all her hair was that color—had fallen over her jaw; he thought about brushing it back but decided not to. It might wake her. He wanted to rest his hand on her, but that might wake her. He wanted to touch her but couldn’t, and he couldn’t move, and there they were.

He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Shit, he was in trouble.

HIS PHONE WOKE him up. Took him a second to catch where he were and what happened, why he neck were so stiff. Then he remembered. Were causen he’d finally fell asleep on the couch himself.

Chess was gone. Where—oh. Water running in the bathroom. So she’d got up afore he did. Would she find—shit. Phone. Right.

Berta calling. His blood froze. Oh, fuck, no. Not another.

Aye, another. And he needed to get over to hers fast, and that were it. Nobody’d called saying Archie were back, but he were finished fucking playing. He’d head to Berta’s, then break into Archie’s, and he wasn’t going to bed that night until this shit were done.

He stood up—his muscles ached from sleeping on a sit like that, but it were totally worth it—and headed back toward the bathroom door, but before he got there it opened.

Her hair were pulled back in a ponytail, her face all clean and fresh. She carried a travel toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste, a plastic bag with soap and lotions and whatany other shit dames used in it. Aye, made sense; she ain’t always slept at home, and he could just see her packing a little bag like that to keep on her, being prepared like that. So fucking cute.

“Hey,” she said. Her cheeks flushed; embarrassed, he guessed, seeing as how she wouldn’t quite look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’m sure you didn’t invite me here so I could pass out and flop all over you.”

Funny, having her flop all over him were pretty much his idea of a perfect night. Especially if she weren’t wearing anything.

Of course he ain’t said that. In fact, given how nervous she looked, he thought of something else to say, something might make her feel better. “Ain’t so certain you were sleeping afore me, aye? Oughta be me giving you the sorry.”

She ain’t looked like she believed it. But she looked like she thought maybe he believed it, and that were what mattered. She relaxed. “Well, thanks, anyway, for letting me crash here. I appreciate it.”

He nodded. Now the hard part. He had to go. He had to get over to Berta’s, and he ain’t could think of a way to say it without making her feel like he didn’t want her there, like he wanted her to leave.

He’d fallen asleep with her. She’d spent the night at his place; they’d slept together. Not the way he wanted, no, but still. She’d spent the whole night there, with him.

And he was so fucking gone on her that he were trying to make that mean something. “Guessing my couch ain’t so comfortable for sleeping, though.”

“Actually, I slept really well.” Her gaze cut to the couch, back to him. That color on her cheeks deepened.

He didn’t know how to reply to that. Didn’t know what to say, but he had to say something. “Hey … I gotta get moving. Been—”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” She almost jumped past him, sat down to start putting her shoes on. “I’m sorry, you’ve probably got—I can just walk home—”

“Naw, naw.” Shit. “Been another robbery, dig, I gotta head over. But you can stay here, aye? Ain’t needing to leave iffen you ain’t wanting, no worryin on it.”

“I’ve got to get to Church anyway. Thanks, though.”