CALISTA
It’s day three, and I’ve been trapped in the bathroom for the past three hours. I don’t know if I’ll survive this time. I don’t remember what the sun feels like on my face or what it feels like to breathe fresh air. Death is a privilege ungranted, condemning me to a weeklong trial run of my own personal hell.
I canceled every dance class I had this week because I’ve barely been able to make it out the door. I haven’t made contact with the outside world at all. I’m beginning to lose my sanity, and soon, I’ll lose all concept of time. The only thing keeping my mind intact is the life-altering sex I had with Gage at the Halloween party. My soul practically ascended over the way he rubbed his ribbed cock inside me, making sure I could feel each and every one of his piercings as he fucked me hard and slow. I’d never admit it to him, but that was the best sex I ever had. And now my body craves him every second of every day, throwing a tantrum whenever I can’t mount him like a bonobo monkey.
God, and if he wasn’t already irresistible enough, the way he was with Teague on Halloween made my heart soar. He acted like he was meant to be a role model…a father figure. It was like he was meant to be in our lives, if that even makes any sense. Am I making sense? I don’t know.
Everything hurts. This isn’t some painkiller-fix type of hurt, either. It’s the kind of hurt that has you sweating like a pig, on the verge of passing out every few minutes, praying to whatever higher power there is for relief, and making your body so feeble that you can barely unscrew the cap of a pill bottle.
I slump on the floor of my bathroom, resting my head against the cool porcelain of the toilet, waiting for the nausea to run its course. Teague’s knocked a few times to ask if he can help me with anything, but I’ve barely had the energy to answer him. My mother’s still recovering in the hospital, so in a sick turn of events, I guess Teague’s technically my caretaker now.
The fluorescents burn my eyes, but if I turn off the lights, it might put me in some weird pain-sleep coma. So my retinas suffer through the blinding laser treatment as my equilibrium attempts to right itself from the constant dizzy spells jumbling my brain.
Exhaustion pulls at my limbs like strings on a marionette, and my lower stomach cramps and twists, as if there’s barbed wire shredding my womb into bloodied ribbons. Not to mention that the overpowering stench of copper is everywhere, only worsening the headache in my skull.
Every single month it’s the same old torture—bleeding, cramps, sometimes puke, crying, and damning my female anatomy for having to shed my stupid uterine lining. Granted, the alternative is being pregnant, so it’s a lose-lose situation.
I’m so dehydrated that my eyes are beginning to droop shut, despite tap water being just out of reach. I’m too afraid to move in fear of passing out. Thankfully, that possibility doesn’t look like it’ll be happening any time soon. My pain receptors are working overtime, alerting me to the pins and needles in my legs, to the staccato beat of my heart, to the heat sprawling throughout my body like a gradual forest fire, and to the periodic contractions in my belly.
But I don’t get a second of peace before there’s an incessant knock on the door that seems forceful enough to bust the entire partition down.
“Teague, go away,” I groan, curling into a fetal position in the delusional hope that it’ll allow me some magical reprieve.
A low and growly baritone rumbles from the other side, far too mature to belong to Teague, and far too angry to successfully fit in my baby brother’s four-foot-seven body. “Calista, open the door.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s Gage. Why is Gage here? How did he get in? How did he know I was even here?
Conjuring the tiniest scrap of energy, I unfold from my pathetic position, scrambling and pressing my back against the thick stump of the toilet. I stare down at my bloated belly protruding over the jeans I failed to button, and I nearly fall victim to another snot-filled crying session. Gage can’t see me like this.
“Don’t come in here!” I scream, staring at the little piece of metal keeping me from feeling Gage’s full wrath. I need to make him leave. I need to think of the most disgusting excuse in the world so that he’ll never be turned on by me ever again.
“I have…uh…explosive diarrhea. Yeah. It’s terrible!”
“I don’t care if it’s coming out of both ends, open the fucking door, or I’ll force it open myself.”
I don’t doubt that Gage is more than capable, given his mountain of man muscles. He’ll rip that door right off its hinges or pull a Jack Torrance and axe it down.
I’m too weak to get up and barricade the door. I’m too weak to keep arguing with him. All I want to do is fall asleep on this cold bathroom floor—probably teeming with germs and the possibility of pink eye—and drift into a weeklong hibernation until The Crimson Wave has receded back into the depths of hell from which it came.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock-knock-knock-knock.
BUT I CAN’T. Because Gage is determined to play a goddamn drum solo on the door until I let him in.
“Gage, please go away,” I whimper, feeling the beginnings of a fever start to work its way through me like a slow-acting poison. And now the rhythm of Gage’s knocking has somehow bolstered my run-of-the-mill headache into a fully powered migraine.
I expect another curse to fall on my ears, but to my surprise, Gage’s shadow moves from under the door and his footfalls shallow down the hallway.
Did he just listen to me? I can’t tell if this is a good or bad thing. For any regular person, when someone does what you say, it’s a good thing. But for me, when Gage does what I say (usually stubbornly), it means that hell’s waiting to break loose. Is he going to the store to get a battering ram? I don’t think stores sell battering rams. Where does one even acquire a battering ram?
With this newfound silence, I try to focus on the cold of the ceramic tile as it scares away the heat nesting deep inside me, reverting it to nothing but an infant flame.
And when peace is just a grab away, levitating outside of my arm’s reach, a strange, tinny noise sideswipes my attention. It’s like this grating, scratchy sound, as if someone’s trying to insert something into a hole.
This bitch.
My eyes cut toward the commotion to confirm my suspicions, and of course, the doorknob is jiggling all over the place. Gage is picking the lock.
I probably have approximately fifteen seconds before he gets the door open, so I’m pretty much helpless at this point. Fifteen seconds is nowhere near enough time to make myself look presentable. This is it. He’s going to see me in a sweaty puddle on the floor, get disgusted by me, then probably never want to speak to me again. I mean, I’m bleeding out of my pussy. My pussy! That’s the furthest thing from sexy.
When the lock makes this little plink sound, I hear the doorknob turn, and then I come to a staring impasse with Gage, who’s huffing and panting and looking a tad bit homicidal.
“Why”—wheeze—“didn’t”—wheeze—“you”—wheeze—“open”—wheeze—“the door?”
“Um, maybe because I didn’t want you to come in here!” I snip, doing my best to cover the bulge of my belly with my arms. Embarrassment paints my face in shades of pink, and all I want to do is sink into the floor, have it absorb my pathetic body, and die a peaceful death underneath the crawl space of my apartment.
It takes me a few seconds to register the heaping pile of plastic bags next to Gage’s feet.
“Gage, what are—”
“Do you know how worried I was, Cali? I was fucking sick to my stomach after not hearing from you for three days. I had to ask Aeris if she knew what was going on with you, and when she told me you hadn’t been in class, I lost my goddamn mind.”
I worry my bottom lip, swallowing around the thickness in my throat. I feel like an even bigger bitch for not telling him I was sick. I just didn’t want him to, well, do what he’s doing right now. I didn’t want him to drop everything to come take care of me. And hearing myself say that in my head reminds me of how good of a guy Gage is. How he’s been there for me like no one else has in my life. How he’ll always be there.
“I’m sorry,” I blubber, face-planting into my palms. “I should’ve told you. I’m not sick, Gage. I’m…”
He’s somehow materialized right next to me, crouching down to my level and brushing snarled strands of hair out of my face. “I just want to take care of you, Spitfire. I need to know I’m taking care of you,” he says softly.
“I’m on my…meriod.” I whisper the last part under my breath, retracting my hands from my face so I can stare at the off-white bottoms of Gage’s shoes.
“What?”
“My…shmeriod.”
A growl sits precariously in the pit of his chest, rumbling outwards though his body. “Cali…”
“I’m on my period!” I exclaim a little too loudly, still evading his eyes as a drop of shame rolls down the bumps of my spine.
The concern on Gage’s face seems to retreat, sated by the news of me not contracting a fatal disease, and it’s replaced with a snort of laughter. “That’s all?”
“What do you mean ‘that’s all?’”
Gage gently rests his hand on my arm, and my pulse flutters like that of a bird trapped between the maws of a hungry predator. “It’s a period, Cali.”
“It’s disgusting! I look disgusting.”
“Stop,” he snarls. “You do not look disgusting. You’ve never looked disgusting a day in your life. You’re the most beautiful girl in this entire world, and I’ll keep telling you until you get tired of hearing it.”
Normally, I’d have a barb perched on the tip of my tongue for him, but right now, the only response I have for him is…a fountain of tears.
They begin to pour out of me with the complementary hiccups here and there, and sobs break through the seal of my throat, bursting to the scene with enough volume to probably reach the neighboring apartments. Everything intermingles on my face—tears, snot, sweat—and they form a sticky resin that’ll need a good wiping afterwards.
“Oh, baby,” Gage sympathizes, doing his best to wrangle some of my tears with the soft pads of his fingers.
“I’m s-sorry I’m s-so emotional,” I wail, desperately trying to maintain some picture of calm while my hair looks like it’s been electrocuted, and my face is a teary, acne-ridden mess. My chest racks from the turbulent sobs, and my vision has been indefinitely fogged by my stupid hormones, reducing Gage to a shapeless blob in front of me.
He caresses my cheek. “It’s oka—”
“I’m breaking out, I smell terrible, and I’m on the toilet for hours!”
“Okay, I didn’t need that much informat—”
My lungs empty a breath, only so I can launch into another tangent. “And my stomach! Oh my God, I look like I’m pregnant,” I whine, grabbing the dome of my rock-hard belly. “I don’t want to look pregnant.”
“Calista,” Gage commands in that hauntingly low voice of his, picking my attention up by the goddamn scruff and forcing it to behave. His eyes are a slate-colored tone, every chiseled line on his face making an appearance, and I’ve never seen him look so serious before—so darkened by the frivolity of my self-deprecating comments.
Calista. My full name. I never liked it growing up as a kid—because a lot of people didn’t know how to pronounce it—but when Gage says it, it’s a sweet-sounding melody designed just for me.
“I don’t care what you look like. I’ve seen you at your lowest when you were bawling your eyes out, I’ve seen you at your highest when you were nonstop smiling. I’ve seen you in a stained hoodie, I’ve seen you in that black romper that drives me crazy, I’ve seen you in my goddamn jersey. The bottom line is—each time, you were nothing less than stunning. And that doesn’t change now,” he tells me, soaking up the rest of my tears with the built-in tissue he calls his hand.
A sigh exits me, and I blink the last of the moisture from my bleary eyes, now feeling the full extent of the burning taking place there. My whole body feels drained—not that it was bursting with energy to begin with. The only good thing to come out of my therapeutic crying fit is my precursory humiliation dwindling to a much more manageable size.
A warm smile favors the right corner of Gage’s lips, summoning some of that lopsided charm he has flying out the wazoo. “Plus, you’d look sexy as hell if you were pregnant.”
I glare at him. “Do not get any ideas.”
“Trust me, I want you all to myself before I have to share you with a little demon spawn.”
He rises to a stance, reaching out to help me off the floor. I swipe the snot from under my nose with my forearm before accepting his outstretched hand, and he lifts me effortlessly to my feet.
I forgot how amazing his hand feels in mine. The warmth from his palm, the callouses over still-tanned skin from however he spent his summer, the protective cradle of his fingers.
“Thanks,” I murmur, nearly forgetting that we’re still holding each other’s hands.
But I think Gage remembers.
That smile of his has evolved into a full beam, the crepuscule shadows in his eyes lifting to reveal the first glimmer of sun encroaching on the horizon. He’s staring at me like I’ve bewitched him.
“I’m always going to be here for you, Cali. Even when you don’t want me to be.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “How did you even get in the house?”
“Teague let me in, and I didn’t even have to threaten him. He’s such a nice kid. I have no idea how you two are related,” Gage ribs, a chuckle of amusement building at the base of his throat.
I honestly don’t, either.
I prepare my elbow for a Gage-directed jab, but then a stabbing pain flares up in my stomach, forcing me to keel over at my midsection and clutch the source of the unabating cramping. I hiss through my teeth as another tidal wave of heat crashes over me, and I mentally plead for this to be a normal cramp and not one calling for the assistance of the porcelain throne right in front of me.
“Shit, Cali. Is it cramps?” Gage’s disembodied voice asks from somewhere beside me.
“It hurts,” I whimper pitifully, apparently not having said farewell to my tears because they’re rallying in my bloodshot eyes.
“I know, baby. We’re gonna get you in bed and get you some painkillers. I’m gonna be right here. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
With a weak nod on my part, Gage scoops me up in his arms and carries me bridal-style to my room, choosing me over his injured hip. I close my eyes to placate the blistering sting in my corneas, and the unevenness of his gait bumps me against the hard planes of his chest. I loop my arms around his neck, burrowing my face into the clean linen of his shirt as I simultaneously breathe in his unadulterated musk. I don’t know when we make it to my bed, but I never let go of him.
