They stay at the hospital for three nights.
Pearl comes in and out, bringing clothes, bringing food. I try to help where I can.
Nothing from Donovan. I’ve called, texted, but he’s a ghost in the wind.
I don’t get anything from him but a voicemail informing me to trust him and a reminder to water the house plant.
I try not to let it get to me, but it’s hard. It’s like breaking the inside of your lip and trying to ignore the bump.
I’ve got to be strong. Kenzi needs me. Otto needs me.
She puts on a smile for Otto and keeps her voice light and jolly, but a light has gone out behind her eyes.
She’s spent. And I can’t blame her.
I keep myself busy. The day of Otto’s release, I do a clean appendectomy. The surgery is flawless, the stitches tight, and it feels healing, somehow. Like in removing the bad organ in another human, I’m cleaning out something rotten within myself, too.
Sometimes, it’s better to get rid of something toxic than try to hold on to it.
I finish my shift and knock lightly on the door to their room. Kenzi opens up. She’s wearing a thick gray sweater that swallows her. She looks glassy-eyed and tired. “Hey. Otto’s napping.”
I see the kid in bed behind her. It breaks my heart every time to see him looped up to machines.
“I talked to Dr. Esmeralda,” I tell her.
“And?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is, he’s not getting any better.”
Kenzi hugs herself tighter. “The good news?”
“He’s stable enough to go home.”
“That is good,” she says, her voice sounding hollow. “He misses his own bed.”
I take her arm in my hand and give it a small squeeze. “I’m finishing up here. Want me to come over? Keep an eye on him.”
She nods, and a little hair tumbles out of her messy bun. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We pick up bar food at the Anchor and drive to Kenzi’s place.
Missus P sets the table, a meal of bar burgers and fries, but no one seems very hungry. Eventually, Kenzi takes Otto upstairs to give him a bath and put him to bed.
Kenzi’s mom is clearing the table, putting the dishes in the sink. I roll up my sleeves and button them above the elbow.
“Can I lend a hand, Missus P?”
“You do one better and lend both of your hands, Jason. That wine won’t open itself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I find the corkscrew and take the bottle of red from the counter, uncorking it. Then I pluck a glass from the cabinet and pour her one. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and then takes the glass with a “thank you” before stepping out of the way so I can pick up where she left off.
I load dishes while she sips. “That boy is her whole world, you know.”
“I know. Otto is a great kid.”
“God forbid, if something were to happen to him…”
“Nothing will happen to Otto on my watch. I’ll make sure of it.”
She sighs, then says, “I’m just…saying. Worst-case scenario being what it is. Kenzi will…need someone.”
“I’m not leaving her side for a second. I promise.”
She examines me. “Someone raised you right. Which is strange, because I’ve met your father.”
I load the last of the dishes and wipe my hands. “Yeah, well, Kenzi and I have something in common.”
“Which is?”
“We both have pretty cool moms.”
She lets out a laugh at that. Then she taps the side of her glass. “I’m taking this into the bath with me. You be good to my daughter.”
“Good night, Missus P.”
She gives my arm a pat as she drifts past me and heads upstairs.
She’s a class act. It occurs to me, out of nowhere, that I’m more comfortable in Kenzi’s kitchen, with Kenzi’s family, than I am with my own.
I break my own rules and pour myself a half glass of wine.
“Can I get one of those?”
I glance up. Kenzi descends the stairs and collapses into one of the flimsy chairs around the kitchen table. She’s changed out of her hospital clothes and into equally cozy non-hospital clothes: gray sweatpants and an oversized blue sweater with snowflakes knitted into the collar. Her thick hair has gone frizzy, and her eyes are half-lidded. She looks exhausted. But—and, I swear, I’m not trying to fetishize this kind of soul-weary fatigue—there is something beautiful about her right now. She’s vulnerable. Too tired to keep up those ten thousand walls she usually has around her. She’s soft and tender, like a bruise, and I try to be gentle with her.
I pour her a glass and slide it across the table. She wraps her fingers around the stem and takes a small sip, but it’s mechanical. Her eyes stare into an empty chair across from her, so I fill the spot.
“How’re you holding up?” I ask.
“Not great,” she says. “I’m a bad mom. A bad friend. A bad…everything.”
“You’re not bad,” I reason.
Those green eyes narrow. “My son’s kidney is failing. Donovan is who-knows-where. And I’m…barely holding it together.”
Her voice is hollow, feigning apathy, but her eyes are brimming with tears.
I give her a moment, letting her roll around in her own misery. Sometimes, it helps to hold space for self-pity. Then, after some thought, I say, “I had this patient come in one time…he was a street performer, who dressed up and did these juggling acts. Well, his act went awry, and he had a chainsaw lodged between his shoulder and his clavicle. I extracted the blade, sewed him up, and recommend he stop juggling chainsaws. He said the chainsaws weren’t the problem. Chainsaws, knives, you name it, he can juggle it. The culprit was just a plain, normal hacky sack that he’d decided to throw into the mix just to give people a little perspective. It threw his whole game off, and the whole thing came tumbling down.”
Kenzi smiles, just a little, and tucks her chin into her palm. “So what’s the moral of the story, Guru Jason?”
“The moral of the story is…you’re juggling a lot. And I see it. Frankly…you’re doing the job of twenty people right now. Mother. Daughter. Nurse.” I reach across the table and lace my fingers in hers. I give her hand a squeeze. “I think it’s okay to cut yourself a little slack.”
She rubs her thumb over the back of my hand, and I see those tears well up again. She lets go of my hand to brush them away. “God, this must be terrible for you. Spending your off-duty time coaxing me out of my depression.”
“Kenzi. I want you to really hear this. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I want to be here. I promise. Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”
She stares at me for a second, and then she crosses the table to stand beside me. Before I know it, she’s climbing in my lap, straddling me.
I let out a muffled noise as she crushes her lips against mine, hard. “Ah—this isn’t…you don’t have to thank me for being here…”
“You asked me what I need,” she said. “I need this. I need you.”
“I need you, too…”
My need for her is a blood rush, pulsing hot. Kenzi is a hit of straight dopamine, and when she curls her tongue inside my mouth, I feel a lick of pleasure that runs down the center of me, knotting in my lap. I’ve tasted Kenzi’s hunger before, but this is different; the way she’s kissing me is desperate and uncontrolled, like she’s trying to climb completely inside of me. She grips the back of my neck, her nails grazing in that way that makes me groan in her mouth. Her body is warm and slots perfectly against mine, and when I cup her ass to pull her closer, she wiggles against me in a way that suggests she needs this as bad as I do.
My lips feel swollen when we break for air. “Should we move this upstairs?” I suggest. After all, Otto doesn’t need to walk in on me mauling his mom in the kitchen.
Kenzi grins. Her palm slips underneath my shirt, fingertips playing on my abdomen. “What, are you afraid you can’t keep quiet?”
“No. Afraid you can’t.”
I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, drawing it between my teeth before releasing, and as if to prove my point, she gasps.
“Yeah,” she purrs, lust-drunk. “Upstairs is good.”
I cradle her in my arms, and when I stand, she winds her legs around my hips. She hooks her arms around my shoulders and presses small, needy kisses under my jaw, down my throat, as I carry her upstairs. We pass Otto’s room and Missus P’s, and I carry Kenzi to her own room—the last one on the hall. I close the door behind us, flick the lock, and lower her onto the bed.
We’re ravenous here. It occurs to me that we’re unbalanced—we’ve gotten so used to the three of us in bed, now we’re passionate enough for three people, not two. She rips the buttons of my shirt, I throw her sweater across the room, and to my delight there’s nothing underneath—just the round swell of her breasts, pink nipples hard for me. We tear at each other’s clothes and roll around in bed, kissing, pawing, sloppy, until we roll right off the bed. My back hits the ground hard, Kenzi on top of me. Kenzi quickly covers my mouth with her hand, and I vibrate with silent laughter as she stares hard at the door, listening for any sounds of life.
“Don’t make a sound,” she whispers and then kisses the back of her hand where my mouth should be. There’s a brief pressure on my face as she pushes up to her feet, and my body misses her warmth. But, obediently, I lie there, quietly, as Kenzi gets up and puts on her sweater once more so she can crack open the door and glance down the hall. She stays there for a couple of seconds, then closes the door again and goes into her bathroom instead.
“Coast clear?” I ask when she returns.
“Thankfully.” She has a condom between her fingers, and she tosses her sweater back on the floor. She climbs down with me, and I watch her undo my pants and then lift my hips to help so she can yank them down my legs, along with my briefs. My pants are at my ankles now, awkwardly trapping my legs, and my stiff cock, now freed, springs back against my navel.
“I want to put it on,” she explains as she rips the packaging.
“Hot,” I say as I lift onto my elbows, and it comes out sarcastic, but I mean it. I genuinely find it hot when, instead of inconveniently fumbling with the wrapper between kisses and touches, the condom becomes part of the sex act itself.
Kenzi takes me in her hand and, slowly, massages me from base to tip. I bite back a groan and try to focus on breathing to keep my noises to a minimum, but it’s hard. Her touches coax out an ache buried inside of me, and I grant myself permission to savor this. She strokes me until I’m fully swollen, bow-taut, and only then does she roll the condom over me. She gives me a couple more pumps like this, and I can feel less of her, but the sight is no less erotic, her touch no less exciting, and when her eyes meet mine, those emeralds burn.
“Come here and kiss me,” I tell her, and she climbs over me and does. I slide my hands up the backs of her soft thighs, over her cotton panties, and squeeze as we kiss. I pull her against me and gently roll us over, so now she’s underneath me. We’re wedged on the carpeted ground between the bed and the window, but neither of us seem to care. All my thoughts dissolve at the tip of her tongue, which dances over mine in a way that turns my dick into a second heartbeat.
I roll her panties off her legs and plunge myself inside of her. Kenzi gasps, and I remind her to “be quiet, Trouble.” She’s soaking wet for me, and she whimpers softly into my mouth as I slide inside her easily. She hooks her thigh around me, her heel pressing into my rear, encouraging me deeper, and I fill her to my hilt.
She’s beautiful now—lips swollen and wet, face red, chest rising and falling rapidly as she pants in quick, shallow breaths. I rut against her, savoring her, but she hooks her hand at the back of my neck and begs, “Harder.”
So I give it to her. I stabilize myself with one palm flat on the floor, and I swing my hips into hers. She arches back and reaches up for one of the pillows, snatching it off the bed and bringing it to her face. Kenzi screams into the pillow as I fuck her so hard, I can hear our hips slap together.
I need to see her face, though, so I yank the pillow from her and catch her mouth in mine instead. She lets out a series of whimpers against my lips, and her fingers curl at my chest, at my back, nails digging in.
“Put your hand on my throat,” Kenzi says breathlessly, between thrusts.
Now here’s the thing: I don’t usually engage in physical play. I’m six foot five. Two hundred and ten pounds. I’m a walking brick house. I know how easy it is for me to seriously hurt or bruise someone—even if I don’t mean to.
But the look in her eyes tells me she wants this. My hands—like everything else about me—are big. I wrap one of them around her throat, and my fingers spread far.
Gently, I squeeze. I know the muscles here; I avoid her larynx and press my thumb and fingertips in at the sides of her throat instead. Her carotid arteries are here, but putting pressure on them for a short time is marginally less dangerous than crushing her larynx.
I watch her face intently for any signs of discomfort. “Is this okay?” I ask.
She nods—at least, as best as she can with her throat in the vise of my hand. She grips my arm and squeezes. “Harder,” she says, her voice raspy.
I increase the pressure. Her heels dig into the backs of my thighs, climbing me, and she arches against me as she struggles for breath.
I hold my own breath with her—I’m not going to make her hold hers any longer than I can. But the way she’s struggling makes me uneasy. Quickly, I release her completely from my grasp.
She looks up at me and blinks. “Why’d you stop?”
I press my lips together. “You looked like you were struggling.”
She takes my hand again, guiding it back to her throat. “It doesn’t matter. Keep going.”
“It matters.”
She shakes her head and insists, “I don’t care. Choke me.”
But there’s something wrong about this. I can be as kinky as the next guy—but the look in her eyes, it’s off. She’s not here with me. I deflate slightly, my arousal taking a nosedive, and shake my head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Having sex.”
“No. You’re not. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re using me to do it.”
Kenzi turns her head and looks away. Her face turns red, but she doesn’t speak, shame, maybe, or sadness trapped in her throat.
And maybe I’m the asshole here. Maybe someone else—maybe Donovan—would have choked her until she was black and blue, fucked her hard enough to make her bleed, and satisfied that masochistic itch inside of her.
Maybe these are my own demons—all the fights I got into as a kid, all the times I used my body to hurt people and then swore I wouldn’t do that again.
But the disconnect in her gaze unnerves me, and we’ve reached an impasse.
“I love you, Kenzi,” I tell her, my voice intense. “You know that, right?”
She still won’t look at me, but her bottom lip quivers at that.
I hover over her. Gently, I lean down and press a soft kiss to the side of her face, then another under her ear. “I love you,” I murmur. “All of you. Even the parts you don’t like.”
Suddenly, she grips the back of my neck. Tight. “I love you, too,” she whispers in my ear.
She says those words, and immediately, two things happen:
My heart swells twenty times larger in my chest.
I nearly cum, right then, just from hearing it.
“Say it again.”
“I love you…”
I moan and kiss her. She kisses me back—and this time, she feels solid, real. She feels like Kenzi. She’s not a ghost of herself, and she’s not desperately clawing at someone who isn’t there. She’s mine, and she’s here, present with me. I cup her face and stroke my thumb over her cheek and feel the wetness of her tears there. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, clinging to me, and we start again, making love now, as one.
We kiss and slide together, holding each other, tasting each other. I tell her I love her, again and again, and when she says it next, we crest together, and this hot, intense pleasure catapults from my soul into hers.
We ride it out, kissing, panting, and I’ve never felt closer to her.
