Page 65 of Dirty Ink

Mason

Now…

Clothes had been the last thing on earth I’d cared about while Rachel was here. In fact, the general rule of thumb had been the fewer clothes, the better. The naked-er, the merrier.

But then, in the one moment when clothes should have mattered the absolute least, when it was actually necessary to forego the time it took to find a pair of boxers or pants on the floor and yank them hastily on, when it was better to run out the bedroom door with dick waggling free, then, then was when I decided I needed to clothe myself.

Rachel and I had fucked like we’d never been apart.

We’d made love like we’d never be apart.

Then Miss Last Night had come. And Rachel tore herself away from me with this look of horror and pain that struck straight at my heart. There had been a second’s pause. Only a second. Not enough time to catch my breath. Not enough time to realise what was happening. What had happened. Not even enough fucking time to reach for her. To gasp out a panicked, “Wait.” To make some noise, any noise, any form of protest. There had been a second’s pause and then she had been gone.

Blouse left on the floor. Jeans left cast over the side of the bed where I’d thrown them uncaringly. Bra God knows where.

Clutching her exposed breasts and doubled over as if she’d been sucker punched in the gut, Rachel ran from the room. Instead of running after her I sat on the edge of the bed and swivelled my head back and forth, looking for something to cover myself up with.

I could hear her footsteps down the hall. I could hear the finality of them. The hurry in them. I knew that something had snapped. Something was broken. Something I wasn’t sure could be fixed. I could hear the closet doors get slung open. Could hear them rattle against the walls. I could hear the screech of hangers. Metal against metal. I could feel it, that noise. In my body. In my bones. In my blood. I could hear the screech of hangers and the stuffing of clothes and the wrenching of zippers and I knew what was happening.

There I was, frozen, immobile, looking over the floors for clothes.

It wasn’t just a numbness that made me certain that I couldn’t face Rachel again naked. It wasn’t a form of shock that kept me from running after her right that instant. I think it was something more like shame. Embarrassment. A part of me wanted to hide from Rachel. A part of me feared being seen by her. Exposed in front of her. A part of me knew it hadn’t been fair. What had just happened. The reason something was now broken.

I hadn’t meant for things to go so far. But when does anyone ever, in a game of chicken? You keep saying just a little further, just a little further. You keep thinking they can’t go on like this, no, they can’t go on like this. You feel alive and scared out of your fucking mind and you convince yourself nothing will go wrong if you push on that accelerator just a little more, just a little bit more. You don’t expect how it could end. With shards of glass in the moonlight. Steam rising in the steady rain. Shattered headlights cast across a bloodied body. Unmoving. Broken beyond repair.

Rachel’s body had been a drug. A trip. A memory I got to relive in vibrant colour, with searing heat, in real time. I’d been vaguely aware that I was crossing a line. That the game was losing its rules. That winning and losing were beginning to mean very different things. That the very game itself was no longer a game.

I should have pulled away. Should have stopped us. When I was still at least a little conscious. When I could still remember which bed I was in. Which year. When I still had some presence of mind that Miss Last Night was there. Getting off on us. Getting off on our train wreck. Our car crash on that one-lane road.

But it was Rachel. It was her. Her taste. Her body. Her moans.

And I couldn’t stop. I wanted us to crash. I wanted us to collide. The goal was now to not let her turn away, to not let her swerve off at the last second, to hear her screams once more.

Maybe that’s why I only hurried down the hallway once I’d yanked on the first pair of boxers I’d found. Because I couldn’t be naked in front of her. I couldn’t let her see all of me. All my desire for her. All my yearning for her. All the pain she’d caused me when she left. All the wounds she’d torn open again by coming back. All the pain I wanted to inflict on her. All the pleasure. All the lifetimes of fucking pleasure.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I stood at the doorway to Rachel’s room.

She hadn’t taken the time to put clothes on. She was still naked as she tore like a hurricane through the room. The eye of the storm was the suitcase in the centre of the bed. Opened. Overflowing with clothes. All her clothes. Rachel was a torrent of fury as she darted between the dresser and the bed. Panties getting flung onto the stack. Panties falling onto the floor. It was chaos and Rachel was at the heart of it all.

Fuck, even as a hurricane she was beautiful. Honey curls wild as stalks of wheat in a summer storm. Breasts shaking in anger. Lips drawn tight. Eyes flashing like lightning. Her heaving breaths like thunder. Beautiful and violent like a passing storm. There then gone. Leaving a mess in her wake.

I hated her. Hated myself for loving her. God. God. I still fucking loved her.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snarled.

She looked like she was doing CPR on her suitcase. Tits flying. Hips thrusting. Hair wild. It certainly wasn’t us that she was trying to save. Of that I was goddamn sure.

“Come on,” I said, leaning against the door frame, trying for casual to cover up my inner panic. “We were just having a little fun.”

Rachel’s eyes stabbed straight through me. She said nothing. Just stared. Just ripped me apart and left me bleeding. She turned away like it wasn’t her problem at all.

“You used to like a little fun,” I tried. The words sounded lame even to my own ears.

“Um, are you guys coming back?” Miss Last Night called from my bedroom just down the hallway.

“Rachel doesn’t think it’s fun anymore,” I called back to her, trying to keep my voice casual, easy.

I didn’t think it was fun anymore either. Except I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know how to be anyone but the horny asshole who just wanted his “wife” to come back to bed and continue the threesome.

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