Page 64 of The Delivery

I smile at Tommy’s voice despite the current predicament. I wonder what those two are like when they’re clean and in San Diego. I need to see them both again.

“It IS her. Or at least we think. We just found out. And she need’s Mo’s kidney.”

The bubbles on the text are moving but nothing comes through. It’s like Tommy is writing and erasing, unable to decide what he should say. I write back first because I don’t want to stress them.

“He’s dealing with it—we are. We’ll figure it out.”

“Cher, it’s Rocco. Up here you always have a place to stay. We don’t need any kidneys. Be careful. Sounds kind of sticky.”

“Thanks, guys.” I smile through my tears. My eyes already feel swollen to the brink from crying.

“Mozey is upset and it would be impossible to contact her without creating a media storm. But she’s his baby sister. He loves her and he’s always felt like he failed to protect her. I don’t even know how we’d begin to go about trying to reach her.”

“You’re kidding right, Lanabanana? Didn’t you learn anything from us?” I can tell it’s Tommy who wrote it from the change in terms of endearment.

“Yes, how to do drugs and slut it up at gay foam clubs.” I sass back to them, but as soon as the text sends, I clutch my cell phone in my hand and bang it against my own head.

“That’s probably what he’s out doing now. I’m sorry I’m so thick when it comes to this stuff. I blame my parents and cultural differences. I never was and never will be one of the cool kids,” I type back.

“You’re cool to us, Cher. Stay in touch. Don’t do anything dumb.”

I put down the phone and smile at the interaction. I love those two, and I love knowing that they’re still there for me if I need them. If things don’t work out with Mozey, it’s down to Janey, Alexei or Tommy and Rocco’s doorsteps I’ll arrive on dragging my one bag of possessions.

After checking Mozey’s Instagram account as well as the news for any illegal paintings popping up, I decide to order room service and just wait up for him. I scan through the channels and come across some footage of Ana María Miramontes in her hospital bed. She looks to be explaining the grueling nature of dialysis while in full hair and makeup, a push-up bra creating sexy cleavage through her pale pink hospital gown. She’s still a kid for Christ’s sake, there’s no need to make it sexy.

I wonder if I would feel sorry for her if she didn’t look so much like Mozey. I feel like she’s on the other side, the one opposite from us. Did she think about them at all or try to find them before she needed something? Even more so because she wants him to open his body up and share it with her without even knowing how much he’s already suffered.

But her tears pull at my heartstrings especially on the huge, wide screen TV, a giant head in a feminine near replica of the man I can’t get enough of. I can’t win. If he wants to chop himself up for her, then I’ll have to support him. Because that’s what love takes, right? Loving the weird shit too and holding each other’s hands through the thick of it. I mean, Mozey loved Alexei, and that’s not an easy task. So I will love Ana María Miramontes or Brisa Robles or whatever the fuck her name is. Even if she is a constant reminder of his painful past and she asks for his body parts on national TV without ever meeting him or knowing he lives with a black hole of guilt for believing that she died and he lived—only by stealing her milk.

I’m awakened by Mozey’s hand on my shoulder, and I sit up with a start. My muscles are all cramped and tight, staging a protest against me for falling asleep in the chair. I prickle all over at his touch, and he brushes his fingers down the nape of my neck, gently feathering my collarbone. I can smell the paint on his hands, and I know that he’s released some of the emotion already by painting it out.

“Are you okay? Did you send her a public message?” I ask as I reach for my glasses.

“Shhhh.” Is all he says as he strokes from my collarbone, along my shoulder and slips his hand into my shirt. There’s the sharp bite of paint mixed with sweat on his skin. He smells like night and adrenaline, but with no hint of fear. It’s the lack of fear that scares me. Mozey isn’t indestructible and he’s no longer a teenager, but you wouldn’t know that from his actions. Mozey walks through life with one foot slung casually into the grave, smiling and laughing and giving the finger to danger.

I tense with his touch, wondering if he only wants to be physical to scare away the emotions, if he’s just looking for another outlet to blow of some steam. What I want is to be physical to connect with him, but it can’t always be about me. If Mozey needs to use my body to help block the pain, then I’ll concede to his desires. I’ll be a body for taking even though I want to be a body for loving.

His hand finds my breast, and now, I’m really awake. He pinches my nipple, sending shockwaves traveling down throughout my entire body. He’s standing behind me, so I can’t see his face. But I have all of him memorized from so many years of wanting. Wanting without touching, observing with space. I know by heart the intense look on his face, how his nostrils flare ever so slightly when he kisses me. How he smiles warmly when he thinks I’m endearing. I’ve never been teased with so much love; it’s a talent that is quintessentially Mozey. I hear his exhale run coarsely out of his throat, and he torments my nipples, coaxing them into pain and pleasure receptors until I’m properly soaked. I tip my head over the back of the chair and look up into his face. His eyes are closed. He licks his lips and swallows.

“Kiss me,” I say, letting my hair cascade over the edge of the furniture. Mozey’s eyes fly open, and he looks upon me with a softness that I wasn’t expecting. He kisses my face upside-down and continues the delicious torture of my nipples until I moan into his mouth and reach my arms up to clasp his face. He runs his fingertips down the length of my arms and ever so softly brushes his fingertips over my armpits.

“Move forward on the chair,” he says, his voice gone husky and gravely with staying up all night.

He comes around to the front of the chair and gets down on his knees, sliding his hands under my ass and jerking me toward him. Then he bites. And not just a love bite, but a full-on wolf-bite with his teeth, on my crotch —right through my clothes. I shriek in surprise, and he looks up at me with eyes full of tenderness and lust.

“Take your clothes off, Lana. I’m done fucking around.”

I shimmy out of my pajama pants and yank off my top, placing my hands between my legs and trying to cover up how wet I am through my thin cotton panties.

“Funny, Moisés, ‘cause I could swear that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He places his fists at my hips and makes short work of my underwear. Now I’m naked in front of him. My body is alight with chills, and at the same time, my flesh is burning.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I whisper, covering my breasts.

“I’ve never been surer.”

He loops one hand under my thigh and pulling my leg up brings my sex to his mouth. I close my eyes and let my head fall back again, over the arm of the chair.

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