Simone
I wake up on the roof hugging close to Rocco. We slept completely intertwined together, our arms twisted as though tied into a knot and our legs overlapping. I disentangle myself and stand up, clicking my neck from side to side. My body aches from sleeping on the stone floor with only the blanket Rocco found downstairs for comfort. But the view makes up for it. There’s nothing so surreal as seeing the Strip in daylight.
“Let me take you home,” Rocco says in my ear, his breath causing tingles to move up and down my body.
“Okay,” I say, turning and kissing him quickly on the cheek. “That sounds good.”
I can’t look at him, I realize. It’s not like the shyness that stopped me from looking at him yesterday. It’s something else. Shame, perhaps. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again after tonight. It’s a cruel thought to be having right now, as I hug close to him in the creepy stairwell, but it’s a thought I can’t ignore. Just because we had sex again—incredible sex, pussy-aching sex—it doesn’t mean all of our problems miraculously disappear. He’s still the leader of a biker gang, I’m still who I am, and Cecilia’s grief is still a testament of what this life can lead to.
“You’re quiet,” Rocco says as the cab drives away from the Strip toward my apartment building.
“Just tired,” I say.
“Me too.” He leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Fun night, though.”
“Oh, yes. It was a great night.” I can’t deny that.
We climb from the cab. As Rocco is paying the driver, I notice his bike across the street, visible now in the alleyway with the sun slanting down at it. Rocco approaches me. I fall into his chest as we hug, closing my eyes and savoring this moment. I wish I could look at things simply now. We had sex sober, which means I like him. Clearly, I like him. And yet I can’t shake the idea that this is wrong.
Rocco must sense something off about me, because when he breaks off the hug he looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am. I feel my heart breaking a little, and then chastise myself for being melodramatic. I need to face reality, I need to get this in perspective . . . But knowing something and acting on it are radically different. He opens his mouth—“When will I see you next?”—and then closes it without saying anything. Turning away, he makes for his bike.
“Rocco!” I call.
He stops, half-turns.
“It was nice seeing you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “It was good seeing you, too.”
For a second, we both just stand there, remembering the rooftop sex, which was just as wild and frantic as the sex in the booth. We tore at each other, months of dreams unleashing on each other. My knees ache from where I knelt. Then Rocco crosses the street and climbs onto his bike.
I go into my apartment building, climbing the stairs with a heavy feeling in my chest. I’ve been thinking about him for months and this is how I behave? I want to dash downstairs and scream at him to stop, tell him I want him and only him, tell him I’m done with this confusion nonsense.
But I don’t do that. Instead I go into my apartment and drop onto the couch, glad for something comfy to lie on, and stare up at the ceiling. I wring my hands, squeezing them and then letting them go, trying to work this out. I try and list all the things I know about this man, but the list is short. I’ve only met with him a handful of times. I shouldn’t even care. I should be able to let it go just like that, and yet I can’t. And yet he haunts me. And yet even now, the memory of his cock is a hard rod of pleasure inside of me. I toy with my clit, thinking of how his calloused finger pressed into it last night. I want him again.
I fall asleep and wake at midday, annoyed with myself. I’ve been working freelance in the city on some accounts for MGM, using the contact I made when I interned. I shower quickly and then head into my office, a tiny room at the top of a building comprised mainly of rented office space.
As I drive, and ride the elevator, and walk through the too-bright office, I try not to think of Rocco. But my nipples ache. My head aches. Everything aches with the thought of him. He’s been at war. That phrase shouldn’t turn me on. I’m not that kind of girl. But it does turn me on. I’ve never met a man who’s lived dangerously before. I’ve met with sons of Mom and Dad’s friends who’ll talk for hours about their just-spectacular skydiving experience, who’ll bore me for hours on end with photographs and you-should’ve-been-theres, but never a man like Rocco, a man who makes me feel safe just by being close to him. If a bugler attacked, I’d rather have Rocco at my side over anybody else.
But that’s the contradiction, I reflect. I feel safe when I’m with Rocco because he’s dangerous, but I can’t be with him because I know he’s dangerous and anything could happen. I sit at my desk, massaging my temples, groaning. This whole thing is a giant mess. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to go out with him last night to begin with.
I try and push Rocco aside as I focus on my work. When I finally start to sink into the flow of it, I’m glad. It means I don’t have to think. I work straight through until around nine in the evening, stopping only to order some food. The office building is empty as I make for the elevator, stretching out my arms.
I think I’ve got Rocco out of my mind until I climb into my driver’s seat, but then he resurfaces. His sweating body, his writhing hips, his hands gripping me . . . I start the engine and join the light traffic.
That’s when I notice him, a man wearing a mask in the car behind me. I grip the steering wheel harder. My heart pounds frantically. I swallow, but my mouth is dry. I tell myself he’s going to a party. But he’s wearing a plain black mask. Nothing festive about it at all. I wave at him to pass me. He pulls forward, his bumper almost hitting my rear. Gasping, I drive without thinking where I’m going.
The man keeps following me, driving close. I go west, not wanting to go home for some reason. I can’t think. All I want is for this man to get away from me. “Call Rocco,” I tell my phone.
“Calling Rocco . . .”
The phone rings as the Rainbow Forest appears on the fringes of the road ahead of me. How long have I been driving? The man’s a few cars back, but I haven’t lost him. Horrible, terrifying thoughts go through my head as the phone rings, rings, rings. It goes to voicemail. “Rocco, I’m being followed. I’m at the . . .”
I tell him the name of the street, not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.
I round a corner and then say, “Dial 911.”
My phone’s dutiful robotic voice says, “Dialing 911.”
Then the man appears behind me. We’re the only two on the road.
“911, what’s your emergency—”
The man takes a gun from the glove box, aims it out of the window.
“Help! Help!” I scream.
The gun fires. My car jolts. And then I’m spinning over and over, metal crashing all around me.