Page 104 of Make Them Bleed
I kiss her like I’ve been holding my breath, like this is the first real oxygen I’ve had all day. Her hands slide under my shirt, greedy and sweet, and I let her take it off me, let the cool air find the heat on my skin. I map her with my mouth—temple, cheekbone, the soft corner of her smile—memorizing the places that make her pulse jump against my lips.
“Arrow,” she says, and it’s not a question, it’s a claim.
My palms span her waist. “Yeah.”
“More,” she breathes.
I listen. I go slow because she deserves slow, because every inch feels like a secret she’s letting me keep. Fabric gives under my fingers, whispering away one piece at a time, every reveal met with my mouth, my hands, my patience. She arches, trusting, and I steady her with a palm at the small of her back, thumb drawing mindless circles that make her shiver. I swear I can feel her heartbeat in my own veins.
We find a rhythm that’s only ours—her nails skimming my shoulders, her name caught against my tongue, the bed dipping as I come down to meet her. I hold her face when I kiss her, like the world might tilt if I don’t. The room narrows to soft sounds and shared breath.
When the rush crests and breaks, I stay right there: forehead to hers, breaths syncing, my hand cupping her jaw like I’ve found something I’m never going to misplace again.
“Stay,” she whispers.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, and mean it. The night holds its breath around us, and for a long, quiet moment, it’s just the two of us in the silver glow.
35
Juno
Arrow’s left early to update Maddox on all the things, and I’m locking my door when the elevator dings and disgorges my mother’s perfume before it delivers my mother. She floats down the hall in a camel coat and smile, and right behind her—oh god—is Bob, carrying a reusable shopping bag like a peace treaty.
“Baby!” Mom sing-songs, arms wide. “We were just in the neighborhood.”
On this side of town. On a Friday morning. With a bag. My face does the thing where it tries to be both daughter and detective. I choose daughter and hug her back, breathing in the powdery floral that has announced every good report card and bad breakup of my life.
Bob lingers, then steps in for a careful squeeze that lands more on my shoulders than my ribs. “Kiddo.” His voice has that smooth office warmth, the kind that could sell staplers to monks. “Got time for some shopping? We thought—” He hoists the bag. “—podcast upgrade. Microphones, doodads. On us.”
A normal daughter would melt. A normal daughter didn’t watch her stepfather at Club Greed last night with a woman who wasn’t her mother. Etta. I paste on a bright, adjustable smile. “Wow. You two on my side of town? Did Riverside get a Whole Foods since yesterday?”
Mom laughs. “We met Bob’s friend, Paul, for breakfast near the conservatory.” She pats my cheek, assessing. “You look pale. Eating? Sleeping?”
“Coloring,” I say, and she snorts because she knows that meansbarely.
They met with Paul. I quickly text Arrow as nonchalantly as possible.
Bob’s eyes do a quick inventory of my doorframe, the plant dying loyally on the entry table, the way I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. He is good at this—being present without appearing to be taking notes. He looks rested.
“Gear shopping sounds perfect,” I lie. “I need a new boom arm. My old one squeaks on consonants.”
“See?” Bob says to my mom, relieved because now he has his purpose. “I told you. Consonants.”
We head downstairs. The air smells like wet pavement and coffee grounds. Arrow has already texted mebreathe / bagels? / laterand I thumb backshopping with ‘rents / will report backwith three emojis that meando not panic / okay panic lightly. He replies with a pepper and a key. I pocket my phone like a secret.
Bob drives. His sedan is too clean, the kind of clean that belongs to people who keep a lint roller in the glove compartment. Momputs the seat warmer on high and starts in on gentle mothering—have I paid my water bill, am I drinking water that isn’t coffee, am I wearing sunscreen in September? I let her monologue because it means I can watch Bob in the rearview.
He checks mirrors, signals twice just to be safe, looks like a public service announcement for Good Decisions; the picture of a man who would never,could never, Not Bob. I remember the way he touched Etta’s wrist last, familiar and proprietorial, and the part of my brain that saves tropes labels the moment:Men who keep receipts in their wallet and secrets in their calendar.
We park in front of Peak Audio, the boutique shop where things are out of my price range. Inside, everything is matte black and brushed steel, cables coiled like tame snakes. The wall of microphones looks like a sci-fi choir: dynamic, condenser, ribbon; big names and bigger price tags.
A clerk with a soft cardigan and sleeve tattoos materializes. “Welcome. Looking for podcast or music?”
“Podcast,” Mom says, proud, like she just announced I got into Yale. “My daughter does a show about—tell him?—”
“Scary movies,” I say. The clerk brightens in thatI know exactly three horror films but want to be supportiveway. He leads us to a display of dynamic mics. I reach for one on instinct.
“SM7B,” Bob reads off the little placard, like a man reciting wine notes. “Good for… plosives?”
