The Dirty Ones

Rough. Urgent. With the sense that this is the last time I’ll ever see this girl who turned into a woman while I was looking elsewhere.

There is no talk about contraceptive. No safety on our minds.

It’s just heat. It’s just sex. It’s just…

I come inside her, not giving any fucks. And she spasms at the same time, moaning as she wraps her long legs around my middle and squeezes my cock with her slick, wet pussy.

She’s wrong, of course. The part about forever. Things don’t wait until you’re ready for them. That hidden light behind the clouds will turn into the brightness of tomorrow quick enough and then nothing will ever wait again.

It’s just another illusion.

Because reality trumps mystery and illusion every time.

I wake to the sound of banging and for one delusional second I imagine it’s her. Kiera. In the kitchen making breakfast. I feel like I had that dream a lot over the years, I just never remembered it.

Except that’s not what’s happening.

Someone is legit banging on the door to the cottage.

We both sit up in bed in the same moment and look at each other. “Stay here,” I say, sternly, pointing my finger in her face. She slaps it away, but doesn’t move. Just pulls the covers up to her breasts and huddles back into the pillows while I find my boxer briefs, pull them on, and then grab a blanket on the floor and wrap it around my body because it’s fucking freezing in this place.

The banging continues through all this preparation, and when I pull the front door open, the icy wind cuts through my body and erases all memory of the night before. His fist is poised to bang again.

“Ay up,” the tall, gruff man says. He’s wearing those thick Carhart overalls and a matching jacket, only halfway zipped. His head is covered in an ear-flap cap, and his thick, gloved hand is holding a black envelope. He nods over his shoulder. “It was a bad bastard, wasn’t it?”

“What?” I manage, stuck on his thick Vermont accent for a second.

“The storm,” he says. “She kicked ya asses bad, fer sure. But I got ya done first. And I wouldn’t of bothered ya, but I was told to drop this off at the door when I was done.”

He shakes the envelope, trying to hand it off.

I adjust the blanket, already shivering from the death-like cold, and take it from him. “What is this?”

“Got a call last night,” he says, leaning back on the heels of his work boots. “Told me to get you out first thing the mornin’. Wasn’t sure I’d make it, but the bastard quit early so here I am.”

For a second I’m not sure who this bastard is, but then I shake myself awake and realize he’s talking about the storm. The storm is the bastard.

“So yer good,” he says, then does a fake hat tip to me, and turns to his waiting truck, snowplow on the front, and disappears in a steamy mist of exhaust.

I close the door and turn to find Kiera behind me, also covered up with a blanket. “Who was that?”

“Snowplow?” I say, unsure, even though that’s the only clear part about what just happened. “He left this.”

“What’s it say?” she says, looking at the envelope.

“I guess we’re gonna find out,” I reply, lifting up the flap and taking out the matching black card inside. It’s not a folded card, more like a thick postcard. And there’s only one sentence written in metallic gold marker.

Be there soon.

CHAPTER EIGHT – KIERA

“Weird,” Connor says, looking confused. But it’s pretty clear I’m not confused, nor am I interested in discussing this new development. So he amends. “Unless this is normal.”

I turn and walk back down the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to bed,” I call back. I flop down on the mattress still huddled in my blanket and watch Connor’s silhouette fill the doorway.

“You’re coming to New York with me, Kiera. There’s no way around it. Last night was nice, but we have a real problem happening here and we need to deal with it.”

Last night was nice.

“It’s still dark out, Connor. I’m not getting up yet. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

He shakes the card still in his hand. “What’s this all about?”

I shrug and lie back on the bed. Turn my back to him and snuggle into the thick down comforter, trying to get warm again. “Just a friend who looks out for me. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Con says, like this is a surprise.

I kinda smile at that. Because he can’t help it. He can’t help who he is or the perspective of the world he’s cultivated. I live outside his sphere, and when you live in a sphere like the one he does, that pretty much means anyone outside of it doesn’t exist.