Chasing Magic (30 page)

He spun her around again, practically throwing her down onto the couch and landing half on top of her, taking her mouth with as much violence as before. “You … so guilty … Shows up all the fuckin time and you letting him, keeping you place—an how many pills, Chessie, how many you took, hidin em from me, shit—just … fuckin … can’t, I can’t—”

“It won’t happen again,” she managed. Her voice broke. That made sense, didn’t it, because everything was broken,
she
was broken, he’d crushed her beneath his heel so all the empty places showed, and she knew he saw them. And she needed him to fill them again. Needed him to fill them because he was the only one who could, the only one who ever had. She clutched at him as if he were a raft in a stormy sea, twisting the fabric of his shirts between her fingers so he couldn’t suddenly slip away. “I’m sorry, so fucking sorry, it—”

“Not sharin no more. An not— No more fuckin hiding. No more lockin out.”

His weight lifted from her. His hands gripped her thighs. What was— Oh. Oh no, he wasn’t, he couldn’t, not—

She didn’t finish the thought. It came too late, anyway, because that was exactly what he was doing, something that scared her, that felt too much like yanking out her soul and handing it to him. Something too intimate to share with the nameless one-nighters who filled her past, something she hadn’t been able to share with him despite his attempts.

Her bare skin scraped the rough fabric of the sofa as he shifted her, muscling her thighs onto his shoulders. She grabbed his hair and tried to pull his head away; he twisted her wrist, hard, and smacked it against the back of the couch. This time she felt the pain shooting up
her arm, felt above it all the thrill of panic and fear and something else, something dark and greedy that blossomed when his mouth started moving against her, so slowly, so gently, so … careful.

He paused. Paused just long enough that she understood what it was, what it meant. One last chance. He’d let her say no if she really wanted to.

It might mean losing him, but he’d let her.

But somehow knowing that—having that chance, that pause—made something else rise in her chest, over the frantic need, the love and the anger and the panic and fear and shame and everything else. It gave her strength. It reminded her of trust. Yes, she was scared. But no, she didn’t have to be. She never had to be, not when he was there. So she could let him keep going, she could. She could do that for him. For herself.

So she did.

Oh … 
fuck
. She’d been right to be uncomfortable, to think it was too intimate. Right to have her only memories of that—her only knowledge of it—be of violations and humiliation, of vulnerability and shame. It
was
intimate. It
was
vulnerable. It was as if he was looking all the way into her, all the way down where the hidden things were, so he could see them all, could see
her
.

But … it was also as if that didn’t matter to him. Because he kept going, his breath hot on her sensitive skin, his fingers curling into her thighs and sliding up her rib cage under her T-shirt to caress her breasts, and he found her hand fisted at her side and forced his into it, forced her to entwine her fingers with his and squeezed, and suddenly it didn’t feel scary anymore. It felt right.

It felt like he loved her.

It didn’t stop feeling that way when he shifted her again so her hips had room to move and her head fell back over the arm of the couch. The dizzy grayish ceiling above them shook as she shook, looked farther and farther
away with every second as her vision blurred when he kept going, teasing her, caressing her, delving into all of her hidden places until she could hardly breathe.

Panic roared back into her chest, into her head, panic and pressure and heat. Panic
from
the pressure and heat, and her hips were moving on their own, and the high walls around her twisted and turned when she tried to focus on them.

She was going to scream. She was going to scream, she was going to cry, white heat spread through her body and she couldn’t control it, couldn’t control either of them. This was too much, it was too much and she was too scared, she couldn’t do this.

Then he tightened his grip on her hand, stroked her rib cage as he sped up his movements just a little, and something crashed inside her.
She
crashed. She broke open above him, broke apart, and the world around her broke, too, so only Terrible was left. Terrible, who she trusted. Terrible, who she loved, who loved her.

Who kept doing it, pushing her over the edge again, and then again, until finally he changed his grip and straightened up, still holding her thighs so he could drive himself back into her with a force that sent a scream flying from her mouth. “Gimme it again,” he said, leaning over as he knelt on the floor in front of her, his eyes so close to hers they blocked everything else. “No more with him. No more. Not ever.”

The words wouldn’t form. Not because she didn’t want them to but because she couldn’t breathe. For a second she stared at him, her mouth moving without sound, before her voice finally came to her rescue. “No. No more.”

His mouth on her neck, his arms under her thighs almost folding her in half while his hands gripped her rib cage to hold her in place, and he started moving again, still angry, still rough. Her eyes had adjusted enough for
her to see his face, the way the light from under the door caught his jaw and chin when his head fell back, the way it caught the muscles in his bare arms as he squeezed her tighter, grabbed her shoulders to pull her down to meet his thrusts. It showed her his expression when he looked down at her, his emotions naked on his face, in his eyes.

Her heart couldn’t take it. Her oversensitive flesh couldn’t take it; it exploded, and somewhere in the distance she felt his head on her chest as he shuddered above her, his breath coming in hot, loud gasps until they both stopped shaking.

He eased himself away from her, his head down. For a few seconds, silence reigned, broken only by the sounds of his zipper and belt buckle. She had no idea what to say as she rearranged her skirt—where the hell had her panties gone, anyway? She’d have to find them—and apparently neither did he, because he kept his face turned away while he lit cigarettes for them both and handed her one.

A few drags later, he finally spoke. “Ain’t gonna give you a sorry.”

Great. That was an opening. Except it totally wasn’t. “I— You don’t have to. I do. I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I’m sorry.”

“Just ain’t can fuckin stand it no more. Gave it the try, true thing, but—can’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She let her fingers brush his arm, a quick touch she wasn’t brave enough to extend. “But it’s not— It wasn’t because I don’t think you can beat him. I know you can. I know it. He just pissed me off so much, I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

His head dipped, his profile outlined in pale gold. A quick nod, one that to anyone else might have looked
like not much at all, but she knew better. The nod was the end of it. Relief washed over her, so strong and sharp she was certain that she’d have fallen if she’d been standing.

Relief and a fresh flood of shame, exactly the way she’d felt at Elder Griffin’s house. She’d gotten away with it.

It made her sick.

But to tell him wouldn’t mean she felt better; it would only hurt him all over again, destroy everything he’d tried to do, ruin the real Truth she’d given him. So she swallowed it, and—what the hell—grabbed the packet of speed from her pillbox and did a couple of quick bumps to make sure it stayed down where it belonged.

Down where his comments about Lex bringing her drugs, about the OD, down where the fact that he’d started to say something about her not giving up her apartment, would go, too, at least until she knew a good time to bring them up—if there ever was one. The OD, yeah, she’d been expecting that one, understood that one. But she hadn’t thought— Well, why would he care about Lex bringing her drugs? It wasn’t as if he wanted to do it or she wanted him to. And, yeah, it would be great if they didn’t each have stuff scattered all over both apartments, but they still spent just about every night together, they still saw each other just about every day, so what difference did it make?

And she’d told him why she couldn’t; she’d told him it was against the rules. Did he think she’d lied about that, or …

Or did he think if she really wanted to she would have done it no matter what.

She hoped to fuck he was wrong about that.

Somehow she suspected he wasn’t, not entirely. But what was— Everything was changing so fast, and how could she keep up with it? What else would have to
change, if Lex wasn’t supplying her anymore, if she was never alone, watched all the time … Fuck.

She cleared her numbed-out throat, grabbed her water bottle from her bag, and took a drink. More important things to think about, to discuss, than her emotional weirdness and panic. She’d think about all of that later. “So … were there more tonight? Any—”

The words ended up buried in his chest; he’d grabbed her and yanked her to him, his arms hard around her shoulders, his hand on the back of her head holding her tight and his breath stirring her hair. “Sorry. Sorry, Chessie, aye? Shit, ain’t meant to— Sorry.”

“I love you.” Her throat felt too tight as she spoke. Destroying him, destroying them both … please let her be able to stop doing it. “I do, fuck, I love you so much, Terrible.”

Another minute, maybe, and he pulled away from her, looking around behind them to the closed door with his hand braced on the back of his neck.

When he turned back to her, his voice was steady. “Aye. More of em this night. More’n ten I had sight of, an heard on more, all of them got locked up another house of Bump’s. Hearin on more dead, too, more ripped-up bodies. Ain’t good, aye.”

“Fuck. No, that isn’t—”

Screams cut into her sentence, sliced it neatly apart so the rest of it stayed caught in her throat. That didn’t sound— Shit, was that coming from outside? There were so many of them, what was— Fuck. “Edsel.”

Terrible’s brows drew together. “Edsel?”

“Shit, he wanted to talk to you, he said he had knowledge for you. He seemed really nervous. I told him I’d bring you to him when I saw you.”

Terrible started running. The screaming hadn’t stopped. Fuck fuck fuck. That wasn’t good, wasn’t the sort of scream that became part of the general street
noise in Downside: fights, cackles, screams just for the hell of it, which rang out at all hours of the day and night so she didn’t even notice them if she wasn’t paying attention.

Please let it not be Edsel. They burst out of the front door of Bump’s place and into the Market, where the screams were louder. And more numerous. Her feet hit the ground in a rhythm, running after Terrible, every slap of sole against cement a jarring reminder of her own forgetfulness. Please, please, because if something had happened to Edsel it was her fault; she was supposed to bring Terrible to him, that would have kept him safe, what the fuck was wrong with her? She’d even wondered at his booth if he’d been asking around and been overheard. Someone could have overheard him telling her he knew something.

But she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten because she’d been so busy thinking of her own fucking feelings. As if she fucking mattered.

People scattered as Terrible plowed down the aisle of the Market and pushed through the crowd gathered around Edsel’s booth. It was Edsel’s booth. Oh no, oh fuck no—

Terrible emerged from the shadows a second later, his gaze scanning the crowd for a second until it fell on her, pausing before moving on. His lips moved—she had some vague idea of what was being said, that he’d found some people to pack up Edsel’s stuff. She could barely hear it over the loud tinny ringing noise in her ears that had replaced the screams.

What she couldn’t do was look down, look below Terrible’s face. She couldn’t. Couldn’t see what he carried, didn’t want to see that fall of white-blond hair over his arm, that pale motionless face turned to the sky beneath its mask of horrible blood.

Terrible met her eyes again. Right. Follow him. He
rushed toward the Chevelle—so she assumed, she hadn’t seen where he parked—and she sped after him, trying to stay close enough that his nearness would comfort her but not so close that she had to see Edsel’s silent body in his arms.

“Still breathin, Chessie,” Terrible said, as soon as they’d pulled away from the crowd far enough for her to hear him. “Ain’t dead, aye? Still breathin.”

She really, really wanted that to make her feel better, but it didn’t. Not when it was clear in his voice and his eyes, clear from the way Edsel didn’t regain consciousness, that the “ain’t dead” part could change any second.

She didn’t find her voice until they were in the Chevelle, racing onto the highway toward the nearest hospital, in Cross Town.
If
it was her voice; it sounded like someone else, someone panicked and sick and guilty, so fucking guilty. “This is my fault. It’s my fault, I told him I’d send you to— Fuck!”

“What?”

More speed, that was what. She’d taken … shit, she’d taken four Cepts before she went to Lex’s, right, then two more before she got to the Market? The last two had barely been an hour ago. Damn it, she couldn’t have any more. Shouldn’t have any more.