Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“You haven’t seen me like this,” she whispers, her bottom lip trembling. “You don’t want to see me like this.”

“Or you don’t want me to see you like this?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yeah, because one implies that I don’t want you unconditionally, and the other implies you don’t trust me to.”

My words linger in the silent bathroom, echoing off the walls. Neither of us looks away from the other, but for once I’m not sure what I’m seeing. She has frosted the glass, and I have no idea how to read her, how to reach her like this.

“Ya know,” she says, sitting forward so her breasts push through the suds, “if this is the set-up for a pity fuck, I’ll pass. Is this the part where you pat yourself on the back for sticking around? Where you tell yourself how noble you are for not leaving? Because you can go.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask, tilting my head and peering past her anger and bravado to what I suspect is beneath. “If I left so you could do this on your own and I wouldn’t have to see you any way but perfect?”

“I’ve never been perfect.”

“You are for me, and it has nothing to do with how smooth your skin is.” I gesture to her headscarf. “Or if you lose hair or need a kidney or whatever the hell this disease has in store.”

“Lemme guess,” she barks a sardonic laugh. “Because you’re in it for the long haul, right?”

“Is this some kick-him-out-before-he-has-the-chance-to-leave shit? Because if so, try something else. I will not be disposed of. You hear me?”

She stands so abruptly the water sloshes over the side and splashes my clothes.

“Then have a look.” She throws her arms out at her sides. The rash, scalier now, before contained to just a few patches on her forearms, has spread to her biceps, and sprinkled across her belly, the tops of her thighs, and a few patches on her calves. She turns so I can see it all over her back and along her nape.

“And while we’re at it,” she says, her voice breaking, “you may as well see this.”

She snatches off the headscarf, and though her hair is neatly braided, there are large areas where chunks of it are missing. I see it. I see the discolored patches on her arms, legs, stomach. I see the spots where there is no hair. I note the rash on her face that the makeup hid. I know what she thinks I see, but all I really see is light. The same light that shone blindingly bright that first night on a Broadway stage, it’s still there. If anything, this fight she’s in, what it requires of her, is the filament to make her shine even brighter.

“Why do you think I’m here?” I ask harshly, standing, stepping so close my shirt turns wet against her bare breasts.

She drops her head, shaking it, closing her eyes. Shutting me out.

I lift her chin, force her to meet my gaze. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t want you to stay out of obligation, or because it’s the noble thing to do, or because you can’t figure out how to walk away from the sick girl without looking like an asshole.”

I rear back, shocked that she would be that misguided. Here I am, literally about to come in my pants at the sight of her naked, and she thinks I don’t want her? That I’m here out of misplaced guilt? That I’m making a fool of myself to get a glimpse of a leg, a breast, anything to be noble?

I grab her hand and press it to my cock, rigid and swollen behind my zipper.

“Is that noble?” I snarl, pressing my nose to hers. “Does that feel like guilt to you?”

She squeezes and I flinch, it feels so good, lowering my head until our temples kiss. I reach blindly between us, finding the juncture of her thighs and sliding two fingers over her seam between the lips, caressing her slick clit in a rubbing rhythm, holding my breath so it’s quiet enough for me to hear how wet she sounds—to hear her breath hitch.

“Oh,” I whisper into her hair, sliding two fingers inside the hot, tight channel that clenches and contracts. “I see you’re feeling guilty, too.”

Her breasts heave, lids lowering over the smoky passion in her eyes. I pull back far enough to catch and hold her gaze.

“Do you want me?” I ask, searching her face for the truth.

She grinds her hips against my hand and nods, her eyes drifting closed.

“And did you ask Dr. Okafor if we can?” I press.

She licks her lips and doesn’t respond.

“You did, didn’t you? Because I can feel how bad you want this dick so I know you asked. And what did she say?”