Shane is eventually moved to a rehab unit. Sometimes when I come to visit I see her in the work room at the end of the hall, wearing sweats and wifebeaters, working on her exercises with Marlie, her physical therapist.
One night after work I sneak into her room and just as I step inside I hear a loud crash, glass shattering. *****! she yells. Im going on several hours sleep. The fact that she is firmly out of the woods hasnt fully sunk in to my manic brain which is racing night and day with what-ifs and whys.
Hey, I say. You okay?
Shes in bed. Shes shaking her good hand and wincing. *****, she hisses again, under her breath. I see water, broken glass, and pink lilies on the floor.
I step carefully over the glass. Lemme see. I take her hand, inspect the bones. Turn it over, skim my fingers over her wrist. Her bones are intact, but she winces when I brush by the outer ***** of her wrist. What did the lilies do to you?
Wrong place at the wrong time. She sinks back into her pillows with a sigh. Im sick of this ***** hospital and ***** sick of PT. And if Steve Jaffee were here Id put his balls into a squeeze so hard hed wish he was dead too.
Wow. I never heard Shane yell that way at anyone, even if they deserved it. I slowly lift her hand to my mouth. She stares at me with her heavy gaze as I press my lips to the bone of her outer wrist. She turns her hand over, runs her fingertips over my face, and I ignite inside. Then she clenches her fist in my hair, and pulls me close.
Off balance, I fall toward her. She kisses me hard, hungrily, wetly. Fervor in her mouth, and I can feel her frustration, her desperation. And I know that while there may be many ways to comfort her, one is the common denominator that works best.
I pull away, dizzy from the feel of her lips. She sits up with some effort and looks at me, so solemn and serious that she is like a different person. Her burning eyes.
I pull her to me, sink my fingers into her hair. We kiss rough, like fighting animals. I want her. Beyond the haze of our kisses Im aware that shes lifting her shirt off and I moan at the feeling of her exposed skin.
Shane. You cant do that. If we get caught Ill get fired.
Its cool. If anyone comes in Ill just cover up with the sheets.
And what if they want to take your blood pressure? Theyll know somethings up if youre naked.
They only do that at the top of the hour, and weve got a good twenty minutes.
Its not her words that convince me, its her naked *****, small and perfect, nipples standing, begging for my touch. I swallow and press my hand there, gently moving my open palm in a slow circle over her nipple. I can feel it harden in my hand. Then its twin. Theres infinite friction in that small bit of flesh, on my palm. Her eyes close.
I splay my hand on her soft back, pull her close to me, kiss the skin under her left breast, then rise to lick her nipple. Its very quiet. I can hear the whir of the filtered air conditioning, and, faintly, the wind outside. She doesnt make a sound, but for the raw catch of her breath as I drag my teeth over her nipple.
You like that?
Please.
I do it again, to the other, and this one, and the other one again. She digs her fingers into my hair, and it makes me shiver.
Something violent surges through me and I kiss her hard. Love you. She meets me every bit of the way, tilting her head passionately into the kiss, nipping my bottom lip. I moan, and pull back.
I walk to the other side of the bed and draw the privacy curtain. It will buy us a few seconds to look decent, should anyone come in. I can feel her eyes on me like a physical weight as I move. She sits there, lips reddened and breath harsh and eyes demanding, as I walk around to the far side of her bed.
She reaches for me, and it has a quality of desperation that Ive never seen on her. The effect of almost dying? Or of not having ***** in days. I pinch her nipple hard, so satisfied with the moan that spills into my mouth. I gently graze my nails down her side, her sweet little body.
I reach under her sheets, warm and smooth. Feel the hem of her boy-cut underwear. I move my hand over top of them, hovering, teasing. Cup her and feel the warm buried moisture. Her chest rises and falls, harshly. So beautiful.
I feather my fingers gently over her. Then I slip my hand under the elastic, moving inside. Stickiness, warm wet heaven. I palm her *****, dipping my fingers down below, and her ***** protrudes, hard and insistent, against my hand. I pull away.
*****! D! She falls back to the bed, frustrated. Messy hair falling to the pillow. Very dark in contrast to her fair forehead.
I kiss her with a smile. You want something, Hottie?
She wriggles, unsatisfied. Lie still, I whisper, and she does. A thrill of dominance rushes through me. Spread, I tell her, not because I need room, but because I want to feel that rush again. She spreads. I moan softly.
I press my finger to the wet groove of her *****, and she closes her eyes. There is nothing for long minutes but the pressure there, the small radius of motion that Ive often traveled, circling her sweetest spot. I know her so well, its so easy to get her off. And there is a slow, cold burn inside me as I watch her.
She reaches over with her left hand, her damaged arm, and pushes her hand into my scrub pants. I loosen them a bit and lean in awkwardly to help her. I look into her eyes as she begins to shake and spasm. You are so ***** hot, Shane. So ***** hot.
And she knows me too, because she presses her fingers on me just the way I like it. I feel wobbly and dizzy and I reach for the nightstand for balance, but I dont dare close my eyes, because her legs are bending and I dont need to see under the sheets to know her toes are curling and shes biting her lip to stay quiet. Her fingers move on my *****, then slow as she gasps, shakes, and comes, hard. Inside me I feel the trickle that comes down, soaking into my underwear.
She breathes harshly for a few seconds, letting herself recuperate, then she moves even harder on my *****. I toss my head back, waver there at her bedside, as a med cart clatters outside. Oh, please dont come in here now. So close. Hump my hips forward. I feel like Im begging, like Im standing on my tippy toes. I listen for footsteps, and can only hear my heart pounding in my ears. Her fingers move, and move, and move.
Sensation blooms outward from my *****. I come there at her bedside, shuddering and wobbly. Shane grins like a stud and pulls her hand away. She licks her fingers slowly, clearly sniffing them.
I grin and fall back into the chair. I dont think that was what Marlie had in mind when she told you to use that arm.
You never know, she shrugs. Love that studly grin. Love her.
I feel my body coming down, melting into the contours of the chair. My hand falls limply from the arm of the chair, and I feel floppy and molten like a Dali watch. All the tension of the past few weeks, the terror of seeing her bleed, the worry, the concern, it melts. Maybe I needed this more than she did.
Thank you, she murmurs.
Thank you. Youre very welcome. You look so hot when you come.
Hmm, she smiles and closes her eyes. I linger there for a few minutes, breathing returning to normal. Its late and Ill be in trouble if Im caught here.
We breathe like that for a few moments, coming down.
I should go, I say.
Stay a little while, she whispers. I wont be able to sleep anyway til I get my midnight painkiller.
Okay, I say, closing my eyes. So what had you so pissed off?
PT was frustrating today. It totally hit me, just how this has fucked with my life.
You should sue his balls off.
My attorney is coming tomorrow.
No *****, really?
Yep.
Good for you.
Yippee.
I lay back and breathe. The clock says eleven forty. Ill stay for a few more minutes. Whats McClaren? I ask.
Shes silent for a second. Why?
When you were delirious, you said you were afraid theyd take you back to McClaren.
Long silence. Dammit, I hate this, feeling like I cant ask a simple ***** question without overstepping some boundary. But she answers. McClaren is this big orphanage in Sonoma.
Oh. I guess I could see why you wouldnt want to go there.
What did I say?
Do you really wanna talk about this?
Yeah, what did I say?
You said that the nurses and doctors were going to rape you and take you back to McClaren.
No way.
Yep, thats what you said. You were really paranoid.
*****.
Im feeling sleepy now after my *****, and my breath comes steadily in, out. My thoughts are slowing. I should be thanking her.
D?
Hmm?
Whats the worst thing that ever happened to you?
Hmm? I say.
Whats the worst thing that ever happened to you?
I turn and look at her. She shifts and pulls the sheets up higher under her neck. All that white seems as if it will encroach on her, swallow her up. She seems comfortable, though the look in her eyes is strange and complicated, giving me many ideas but no actual clue as to where she is going with the question.
I suppose I should be happy that she is asking such an intimate question of me.
Hmm. Worst thing that ever happened to me. The problem is, theres not one real clear-cut answer. Lots of bad things.
Nothing really bad has ever happened?
Nothing that jumps off the page, like no major trauma. Seeing you wheeled into my ER is probably up there, but…Ive never been raped, or molested, or anything like that. And its true. The closest my life gets to trauma is the way my mother fled with me in her belly. Ive always been an almost-victim with a dramatic back story, scarred by proxy.
But Im thinking back to high school, to the wonderful and terrible winter of Amy Withers.
She breezed into my regimented cliquey new york city prep school wearing studded collars and bracelets with the uniform, safety pins in her ears. She was darkly gorgeous, not unlike Shane, her naturally red hair dyed black, but unlike Shane, the extent of her depth was her attitude and beauty.
Id known I was *****, but despite the adolescent stirrings, the knowledge was always somewhat theoretical, not real, not something Id ever acted on. This was probably heightened by my mothers wholehearted acceptance of my gayness, but in school, I was in the closet.
Shane is looking at me, waiting. I finally speak.
I think, one of the hardest things, not the worst, because some good eventually came out of it – but one of the hardest things that ever happened to me was this girl who came to my school when I was thirteen.
She chuckles, looking at me, eager to hear the rest of the story.
So I told her about how Amy came on the scene, upsetting the fabric of the school in so many ways, but most of all unsettling me. I tell her about my first time, the way Amy took my virginity with her tongue and three fingers in a cloakroom in the school auditorium.
What I cant think of a way to explain to her is how Amy sailed on the next day as if nothing had happened, while my world had tumbled from its axis in a way so profound that nothing real seemed real any longer.
You were in love with her, Shane says.
No. I wasnt in love with her, because the girl had no depth…I never knew her, really. But until then… things were like a still pond, and she was like… a ***** wrecking ball or something. She opened this Pandoras box and all these things came out of me that were just so ***** intense. She was so ***** hot.
So it was about your own coming out.
Not exactly, because it wasnt about being out to other people. It just brought my own ***** stuff to the forefront, I guess. I went from being a relatively unsexual person to masturbating five times a day. I guess, just the abruptness of it…
Shane grins. She mustve been hot.
Oh, god… I remember being rendered stupid by a mere look from Amy, but the funny thing is that now I cant remember what her face looked like. So hot, I say, looking at Shane.
Later, when she is quiet, eyes closed, and she may or may not be sleeping, I gently ask so what was the worst thing that ever happened to you? I ask it now, so she can pretend to sleep if she doesnt want to answer. I see her chest rising with slow breath, watch her face that is calm like a still lake.
She opens her eyes, seeks mine out.
Her name was Charlotte. The ***** has made her sleepy, and her voice is soft at the edges. But she says it without hesitation.
Yeah? I ask delicately.
Ill tell you about her someday.
.
“Did you send a psychiatrist in here?” she demands one day.
“What? Hello to you too.”
“Did you?”
“No!” I would never do that to her. “Why? They sent someone for a consult?”
“Yes! And it pisses me off.”
“Don’t yell at me. I have nothing to do with it.”
“I’m not ***** crazy!” I want to touch her forehead, make sure she isn’t febrile again. I must be giving her a weird look, because she suddenly looks sheepish. “Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“They sent some woman in here to ask me how I’m handling the trauma and stuff.”
“That doesn’t sound so unusual to me. Being shot at is a big trauma. You almost died.”
“I don’t need someone coming in here and stirring the ***** up, allright!”
“Okay! I didn’t send her, don’t look at me. Some people find it helpful, calm down. No one’s gonna force you into therapy.”
“It just pisses me off.”
“Why?”
She just stares into space, and for a second I wonder if I’m still here, on her radar at all.
I want to ***** kill Steve Jaffee.