at that exact moment when he entered her. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Olivia wanted so badly to scream, but found she could not do so.
In an instant, she feels the tremor and gives in to its power. Before she can scream, Olivia is brought back to reality by Miles inside her, two bodies leaning against each other as the hot spray rains down, one leg hiked around his hip as he fills her in one flourishing stroke.
And that is fine, because Olivia is still sensing the aftershocks.
She grips her husband as he beats against her, hot breath on her neck, locs swinging to a silent syncopation, a slow groove that loses its rhythm.
Miles moves against her with abandonment, eyes closed, head thrown back, palms pressed on either side of her, fingers splayed and flat against the tile.
Holding on…
Holding back…
Then, no longer giving a damn, he grunts, groans, and comes.
It takes a moment for them to collect themselves.
Such is the way after really good sex.
Later, they towel off in silence.
Olivia suddenly longs for the warmth of her bed, and her husband’s arms that shield her and hold her safe from harm’s way.
She is hoping tonight, in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he’ll share the intricacies of the conversation between husband and best friend…a gift, just for her…the details of which she longs to hear.
But it is not meant to be….
At least not on this night. For Miles is uncharacteristically silent tonight. And there is nothing Olivia can do to change that.
Not a damn thing…
Chapter 9
Ryan blinks.
He is sitting on a high stool, a thick, dark bar curving away from him in both directions. The shiny surface holds an untouched beer in a tall mug, which has been set directly in front of him. He is staring at the glass, attempting to focus on the details, seeing without truly seeing. He has no idea how it came to rest there. No idea at all how he came to be here.
The bile remains lodged in his throat. Ryan winces and reaches for the beer, hoping to erase the taste. Hoping to erase everything about the evening. But so far, that’s proved impossible.
How long? How long has he been sitting here?
Ryan does not know.
He glances around. A bar, for sure; name, unknown.
Low-lit, windowless, typical bar atmosphere almost to the point of clichéd: pool table towards the back, a few dartboards hanging on walls to his left, several patrons at the bar with heads down, lost in their thoughts or their sorrow. A few more at two-person tables. Mostly white folks; a few black people—none of them paying him any mind.
The bartender catches his eye and asks if she can get him anything.
Ryan takes a moment to consider her.
Brown skin, nice smile, hair done in afro puffs, slightly large—thick is the politically correct term these days—round ass in tight, low rider jeans. Pink Von-Dutch baseball tee showing off her D cups. A bottle opener stuck into the back pocket of her blue jeans. A short vertical stud bisects her right eyelid. Tiny diamond embedded in her left nostril. When she speaks, he observes a blue barbell in her tongue. When she turns and bends down, a hint of a tribal band tattoo peeks out, just above her café au lait butt.
Twenty-two, twenty-four years old—max.
Ryan’s been staring during the few moments it takes to consider her request. Now, he merely shakes his head, feeling nothing—not hunger, not thirst. Only the bile in his mouth is constant, and it won’t go away.
I received oral sex from a man…
The bartender nods and moves off. A second later, Ryan clears his throat and she stops in mid-stride, head turned his way. He waves her back over.
“Anything sweet,” he says barely above a whisper, then winces, swallowing hard. “Nasty taste in my mouth.” He starts to say something else, but shuts it down. Pushes the mug away.
She nods understandingly, and goes to work fixing him something else. A chilled martini glass is placed before him. She’s grabbing this liquor and that—a clear bottle followed by others he does not recognize. She is watching him, silent as she crafts his drink, giving him a smile when they make eye contact. He glances away.
She shakes the concoction in a cocktail shaker, does a show of twirling the gleaming metal in one hand in a quick flourish before pouring the frothy mix. She wipes her hand off on her jeans before she extends it to him.
“I’m Reese. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
Ryan takes her hand, offering a weak handshake in return. Her hand lingers a bit before dropping to her side. He doesn’t provide his name—and she doesn’t press him for it. Reese walks away a moment later to attend to other customers, and Ryan watches her go.
The interior of Miles’ car; the unspeakable things he said, and all it entailed; passenger door flung open; Ryan stumbling, running; leaves and branches stinging his face and cheek; guttural screaming—emanating from his throat. Ryan touches his face and winces in horror as he feels the welts on his cheek. Engine turning over, tires squealing, Ryan peeling away; cars, taxis, streetlamps, government building…all a rush of imagery as he passes them by, seeing without truly seeing.
How he got here, he does not know.
He remembers pulling over beside some trash-strewn, vacant liquor store in D.C., thick black bars on the doors and windows. His driver’s side door left open as he went to the curb and vomited, the grotesque foul-smelling chunks nearly missing his shoes as he retched. He remained doubled over for nearly a minute, the pain so deep and intense he thought he would pass out, then righting himself because he suddenly felt the chill associated with premonitions—hair on his forearms standing up straight as if his life would momentarily be snuffed out on some nameless, ghetto street. So he bolted—reached the car in three quick strides and careened away, almost hitting a parked car as he fought to control his vehicle.
Not feeling safe.
Pulse not recovering until he was miles away.
Ryan blinks.
Reese is standing in front of him, stealing a quick sip from a glass of water.
“Drink okay?” she asks.
Ryan hasn’t touched it. He does so now, takes a slow sip…testing the waters, so to speak. He nods. Reese nods in return, then hands him a bar napkin filled with ice chips.
“For your face,” she says, gesturing towards him. He cautiously takes hold and applies it to his cheek, eyes never leaving hers.
I received oral sex from a man…
Am I a faggot?
Ryan
