Page 35 of Grave Love
Back at the mortuary, the first part of the shift passes in a whirlwind. There aren’t any bodies lined up for cremation, which helps when you’re running late. So when Denise gets a hospital call, she sends me to do the pickup. I speed to the city. Pick up the corpse. Sling it into the refrigeration unit. A headache lingers on the bridge of my nose, but at least my vision is steady now. I walk briskly to the break room. Ineedcoffee. With cream. Lots of sugar. And—
“It smells like piss in here,” a male client grumbles from the showroom, his voice carrying down the hallway. I pause, glancing in his direction. An older gentleman pinches his nostrils, his sweater clinging to his bulky chest. A white-haired woman holds his elbow, her dainty fingers wrapped around his upper arm.
My skin heats. He’s standing right where Blaze and I had sex last night, where he choked me while I came.
Where I squirted all over him.
Is female ejaculation urine?
My cheeks flush. It’s mortifying; it must be obvious that it’s me. But for some reason, even with the embarrassment, I can’t shove away these feelings. My body races, reaching for those memories. Wanting more.Needingit. I wish I could say I blacked out, but my clit throbs, and I can’t deny it. Gushing that liquid. The uncontrollable urge to give in to his pleasure. How he took complete control of me.
Is it wrong that I liked it?
“Shh,” the older woman says. “This is a funeral home. It’s going to smell bad. They can’t—”
“It reeks like a gym locker. Like the owner of this building thought an air freshener could hide the stench of a bunch of sweaty—”
I scurry into the break room, out of sight. The coffee pot is cold, still full of this morning’s burnt brew. I exhale carefully and concentrate on the task in front of me. Irritation bubbles under my skin, and my neck tingles. Why do I need coffee so badly? It’s not like it’s going to change what I did.
Or that I liked it.
I breathe as slowly as possible. It’s just coffee; I don’t have to makethatthe thing that sends me spiraling into a hole of shame. I can do this.
I dump the pot, then start another brew. I scan the refrigerator for cream to make Denise’s go-to beans more palatable, but there aren’t any cartons. An empty jug lies in the trash can, and I cross my arms over my chest.
It’s my luck, isn’t it?
I brace myself, holding my breath. This is it. The last straw. The thing Idon’tneed right now. The tipping point where I start crying, and then I wonder why I’m even alive anymore if I’m going to cry over not having creamer for my coffee.
That tension never forms. Instead, something else lurks in the background, swimming around my neck, dragging me into its current. I turn to the parking lot window and glaze over the asphalt, trying to figure out what that feeling is. It’s not unpleasant; it’s warm. Almost like a small creature is burrowing inside of me, urging me to keep searching.
I focus on a black sedan in the farthest parking spot: Blaze’s car. He must be on shift right now.
A jolt of electricity runs through me.
He’s here. On property.
The hopelessness isn’t boiling over. No, it’s curiosity. A frenzied seed growing, sprouting from the earth, anxious to see the sun again, to seehim—
A fist knocks into the doorframe. I startle, a hand on my chest.
“Hey,” Denise says. She rests a hand on her hip. There’s tightness around her eyes, like she’s struggling to be nice when she knows she’s too annoyed to be sympathetic.
“Are you doing okay this morning?” she asks.
I bite my lip and nod. How much can I say? Did she see or hear me this morning? What does she know, exactly?
Do I even care if she knows what we did and fires me for it?
“Mrs. Vee is in the refrigeration unit,” I say. “I’ll get her queued up for this afternoon.”
“Good,” Denise says, scanning the room. “Have you seen any rats?”
“Rats?” I ask, trying hard to act normal. This is anormalconversation. She’s asking about rats. That’s all. It’s not about me, or how she’s going to fire me for sleeping at work or for screwing Blaze in a coffin.
Even now, even with the anxiety churning in my stomach, I wouldn’t take it back. I liked the way he fucked me too much.
Why did I like it so much?
