8
David
My hand around her throat, Elisa moans. She rides me roughly. She cranes her neck and her head hangs back. Her hair tumbles past her shoulders as her ponytail falls loose. I tighten my grip, and her moans are silenced. Her body tenses. She always comes when I choke her. She looks down at me with doe eyes. It’s my turn.
I playfully throw her off of me and push her down onto the bed. Her belly is against the mattress. I force her hips up, keeping her legs together. I slap the soft skin of her ass. She whimpers. Her skin turns red as my hand pulls back to place another well-aimed smack. She tries to pull away, but I grab her hands and hold them behind her back.
I'm inside her. My body presses against hers, sandwiching her between my weight and the mattress. I brush her hair back enough to see her tear-stained cheeks.
“Hurry up and come,” she says.
Her demand shrivels my cock and sucks the blood from me. I groan in frustration and lie down beside her. She sits up, pulling the blanket to her chest in an insecure move that isn’t like her.
“What's wrong?” I say with unintentional annoyance in my voice.
Her cheeks are tear stained with trails of black makeup.
“I can't keep doing this,” she whispers, as if she’s unable to convince herself as well.
“Doing what?”
“This. All of this. It makes me feel like shit!”
“Since when? It seems like I make you feel pretty damn good,” I say, knowing it’s true.
Her body tells me all I need to know about how I make her feel when she trembles before erupting into an orgasm.
“You do. But afterwards, you leave, and then I don't hear from you for days. You only fuck me when it's convenient for you.”
There it is, the confidence that draws me to Elisa in the first place.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? It's not like we're dating or anything.”
“Exactly. That's the problem,” she whispers. I can barely hear her.
That was the last I heard from Elisa. She ignores my texts. I see she has a new person in her life now. An actual boyfriend. I’m jealous that he gets to experience what I got to experience with her. She deserves him, though. At least he's willing to love her.
* * *
Emily
I snuggle up to David with my face against his shoulder. I kiss his skin. He stirs awake. He turns onto his back, and I lie on my back beside him. I sigh. I might as well be saying, “Okay, you’re awake! Pay attention to me now.”
I pull myself up onto my elbows and touch his shoulder where I kissed it.
“David?”
He turns and looks up at me. His eyes motion to me, encouraging me to speak.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“What kind of question is that at two in the morning?”
“We never talk about your childhood at all. I'd like to pry a bit.”
“Well, if you insist. I wanted to be an astronaut. Or the president, of course.” He smiles up at me and pulls himself onto his elbows to match my gaze.
“David, I'm being serious. Can't you be for like, five minutes?”
He puts his hand to his chin, grazing it, as if in thought.
“Well, like most Tennessee children, I wanted to be a singer. A singer, but not a songwriter. I couldn't write worth a lick. I pretty much just hoped my good looks would shadow my sub-par singing voice.” He looks away for a moment, as if still longing for that dream. But only for a moment. He laughs as he pulls my head onto his chest.
“What about you, Miss Nosy?”
The question takes me aback. David isn’t really the type to ask questions. In his eyes, the less you know, the better. I nuzzle into his chest.
“Before Dad got sick, I wanted to work with animals. A vet or something.”
He gasps dramatically, as if surprised. I smack his chest.
“Once Dad died, I gave up on my dream of college. It’s hard to think about the future when you are so trapped in the past.” I envision my dad’s illness and his ultimate passing. David touches my arm and tugs me back into the moment. “Well, now you know why I didn't follow my dreams. Why didn't you follow yours?” I ask, though I’m unsure if he’ll play along. David still closes his shell tightly around the pearl that is his childhood.
He thinks long and hard before speaking. He brushes my hair back and his hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
“Not much here in New York for a country singer with sub par vocals, even if he is devilishly handsome.”
He kisses my forehead, and I can feel him smiling against my skin. He always adds humor to things that bother him.
“You know, it's funny, I don’t think I've ever heard you sing.”
We both sit up. His fingers graze my cheek.
“That's because I only sing when I'm off my face at parties.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.
“...and those are parties I won’t subject you to. Trust me.”
I feel as though his intent is to compliment me—as if he's keeping me safe—but it still pisses me off.
“Why not? I guess I wouldn't fit in with your crowd, huh?”
He picks up on my hostility and reacts. “My crowd aren't good people. They aren't like you. Not even close.”
I flounder for a moment. It’s another compliment shadowed by something that just ends up offending me further.
“Emily.” He buries his face into my neck and breathes me in. “You’re such an incredible person. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
Kind? Kind? That’s how you define the friend you value, but not for her physical appearance.
“But I'm not pretty enough to come to those parties, obviously.”
He takes my face in his hands. They are strong and warm.
“Em, seriously, if I could give you anything in this world, it would be the confidence to see yourself how I see you. You have to stop this self-pity bullshit.”
He kisses me. A soft, closed-mouthed kiss. A “friend” kiss. He pulls away in time to see tears welling in my eyes. I look at the ceiling and blink, begging them away.
“I love you, brat,” he teases.
“I love you, too.”