Page 45 of Truth Be Told
We fit together perfectly. The energy of his release sends shockwaves through my flesh, the heat of his body passing into mine and me, overcome with pleasure. My body tightens around him. He holds on to me, as if he’s desperate to not let me go.
When I open my eyes, it’s black. I tip my head to the right; Cohen is there on the pillow next to me, apparently in a deep sleep, which is where my body feels like it wants to be again right now. The memories of a few hours earlier come back all at once, and I smile to myself as I clutch the sheets over my bare breasts as though covering myself somehow matters.
I slide out from under the covers, paying special attention to not moving the mattress too much. I don’t want to wake him. He needs his sleep after today. Successfully, Cohen doesn’t stir from his silent position. He stays in place on his side, his athletic ribs rising and falling with deep, quiet breaths.
Just as swiftly, I disappear into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I turn on the light and then take a moment to gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I’m in desperate need of a shower, especially after all that. I smile to myself, thinking back. My hair falls in pieces around my face, verging on the greasy string look. I play with one before tucking it behind my ear in an attempt to make myself look more presentable to… myself. Okay. So I’m being a little vain. But it’s hard to be any other way when you’re standing naked in front of a mirror. It’s not every day that you regard yourself in such an exposed way – at least it isn’t for me. I could stand to gain some weight. My hip bones stick out slightly from my skin, echoing the appearance of my boney shoulders and collar bones.
Who would have thought this is me? Hi, I’m Stella. I just made love to a billionaire for the second time. And yet, I’m not any different. Never would I have imaginedthiswould be my life – me, sheltered by the protection and love of a man who’s actually capable of protecting and loving me. Cohen is so different from all the others, and I’m not just talking about the fact that he’s loaded and successful.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden sound of a moan. Now, I know that sound. It’s Cohen. I pause, unmoving so that I can hear better, but the sound of his nightmares are no longer unfamiliar to me, so I have a pretty good idea of what’s happening. At least, I think I do. Last time, when it almost became violent, should have been my warning to leave him be and let it run its course.
I grab my robe off the back of the bathroom door and pull it around me. Once I’ve tied it around my waist, I open the door, leaving the light on to get some kind of illumination into the room. It cascades over my bed, onto where Cohen sleeps. Sure enough, he’s in the throes of another dream. He’s torn the covers off, so he’s now exposed, wearing only his boxers. His muscles ripple as they randomly tense and release in response to whatever chaos is going on inside his head. This isn’t the normal twitching response to a dream, the innocent kind like the kind you’d see in a dog. It’s movement that has the potential to be violent, movement that’s obviously fueled by something deeper, dangerous.
I sit next to him on the edge of the bed.
The last time, when I gently shook him away, he told me not to do that again. But I feel bad for him, and it’s uncomfortable seeing him like this. Besides, what if he hurts himself? I want to help him.
“Cohen,” I say. I won’t shake him; this time, I’ll just touch his shoulder.
He doesn’t wake, or even stir. His brain is stubborn – he must get into such a deep sleep when this happens.
I lean closer. I know the move is foolish, but I feel like this time around I’m prepared for whatever might happen. And when you have that knowledge close at hand, you can react quicker. At least, I hope that’s the case.
“Cohen, wake up.” He still doesn’t stop the movements, and his brow doesn’t unfurrow. I release him and stand up. “Cohen!” I finally yell.
At that, he snaps awake, his head shooting toward me, where he heard the sound of his name come from. I sit back down.
“Shit,” he says under his breath between heavy sighs. Slowly, he pushes himself up against the backboard.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You were having another dream.”
“Might as well call them what they are.” He looks around and then leans, clicking on my bedside lamp. “A fucking nightmare.”
“Well, don’t worry. You didn’t almost hurt me this time.” I bite my tongue, immediately regretting what just came out of my mouth. That was stupid. I was trying to lighten the mood, but it was a super lame attempted at a joke, and in pretty bad taste.
He brushes my slip up off and instead focuses on calming his breaths.
I try hard to convey my longing to understand. To understand him, and all of this. I reach over and swipe my fingers through his short, tussled hair. “Are you ready to tell me now?”
COHEN
It was the worst one I’ve ever had.
This time, it’s not night. It’s midday and the afternoon clouds have just begun to roll in. I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, suddenly standing in the middle of a gray pebbled road, only a few feet from a parked black limousine. Confused, I turn toward it, debating whether or not I should try to open it. Is that where I came from? Is thismylimo? If so, I’d much rather get back inside. There’s a vague sense of unease out here, like a thick fog that hangs in the air. If I can just crawl back in, maybe it’ll go away.
“Cohen,” calls a voice in the distance. Judging by the sound of it, it came from far away, but it drifted down to my ears on the tail of the wind.
The voice stops me right before I’m about to try to open the door. I turn and see a woman standing on top of a small hill, looking down at me. She’s dressed almost entirely in black, and she’s gesturing to me with a wave, urging me to come to where she is for some unknown reason. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns her back to me and walks away. My attention falls to what it is that’s directly next to her, and what it is that’s around me and the stagnant limo.
I shudder. Gravestones, one right after the other, until I can only assume there are dozen. They’re all old and decrepit, and they’ve started to become overgrown with various shades of mosses and grime. I step closer to one of the stones nearest to me, bending down to my ankles to get a better look. The wording is elaborate but faded. I outstretch a finger to try to clear some of the crud away from the letters, thinking to myself that it’s a shame it’s been allowed to get this way, when the woman in black is suddenly in front of me, right behind the stone. My head shoots up at her swift appearance. Now that she’s closer, I can see her more clearly. Her hair is as black as her clothing, and it’s done up in a loose bun at the top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing, dark brown, perfectly framed by stern eyebrows, and they bore straight through me as though she knows my secrets. I have no idea who this woman is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.
“Cohen,” she says again. This time her voice is calm, steady. “Come.”
Her tone reassures me, so I follow. My feet crunch against the burned summery grass that’s trying to grow between the stones, and occasionally the tail of the woman’s long dress blows against my legs.
She stops in her tracks when we reach the top of the hill. Here, there are several other people. They’re all gathered around a grave, but it’s not a grave like all the rest. This one is fresh. Just dug. Still open, ready for a body to be lowered in.
Things start to register, and this is too close for comfort. All at once, I don’t want to be here. That foggy unease? The one that made me want to dive back inside that limo, if that’s even where I came from in the first place? It’s grown. Now it’s so strong that it overpowers me like a sick stench. I want to cover my nose to get away from it, to buckle over, to vomit. My body is telling me to do anything else,goanywhere else but here.
