Epilogue

The Prick Next Door

I lift my head off the pillow and rub my eyes. It's an important morning. A year ago today, I met her for the first time. Seven months ago today, she came to the city to see me.

It's September. It's early, on my day off. The girl tucked into my chest is still sleeping. She rests on her side, the blanket pulled low and barely covering the blooming curve of her ass. Her back is gloriously exposed, with a curtain of dark waves falling over it. I never get tired of this sight.

My finger trails down her spine, my ring lightly scraping her skin. She sighs unconsciously. I press a kiss to her shoulder, get out of bed, and force myself into my clothes. Although night is usually the best time to do my art, today is different. Still, it's tough to be motivated when it requires leaving the warmth of my girlfriend's body.

Carrying my supplies, I head downstairs. It's good that this old building's got brick walls. It's Saturday, which means it's Dylan's job to open the café. He should be here in an hour.

It's chilly outside. I round the corner, halt at the side of the Gunner building, and survey the mural I'd begun a few days ago...well, it's actually taken longer than that to work on. The face has been in my head for two years, but I've only now gotten the courage to immortalize it.

I rattle the spray can. For the next forty minutes, there's nothing but the arc of my arm and the whiz of the paint hitting the brick surface. When I'm done, I release a breath that's been jammed in my chest for way too many seasons.

I step back and tilt my head. It looks done. It looks right.

"It's perfect." Her voice is cracked with sleep and affection.

I grin and wheel around slowly. She's standing there, her hair falling over her dark green t-shirt, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. I want to tell her that nothing's perfect, but that's just not true. The way her hips fill out the denim is perfect. The material disappears into a pair of brown lace-up boots that we'd discovered in a thrift store.

Annabelle likes thrift stores. She also like boots.

Her cheeks are flushed from sleep. I open my arms to her, and she rushes forward. As I lift her up, she wraps her legs around my torso and kisses me.

Annabelle likes to kiss. A lot.

We twist our gazes toward the mural, our temples pressed together as we stare at the wall. At my father's crooked nose and wide ears and easy grin. At the blue eyes I inherited from him. The face that has taken so long for me to paint.

Next to him is Mr. Chaste. His strong gaze and long beard.

Annabelle toys with my hair. "You brought them back together."

I guess in this small way I have. I've brought them back to the place where they met—where Annabelle and I live now. We get to see them every day. We get to miss them. But we also get to let go.

It was the magazine I found a month ago that jump-started my need to do this mural. My brothers and I had finally gone through Dad's stuff and found the old periodical. A specific page had been marked.

Ten years ago, a photographer had been allowed a rare visit to a Unity community to document the lifestyle. While there, the photographer had taken a snapshot of an eight-year old Annabelle Chaste while she'd been crafting her first toy bow. The caption had mentioned her name.

In the backdrop, Mr. Chaste had been watching her. The picture was published in a magazine, and my father must have found it on a newsstand in the city.

Annabelle didn't remember the photo, but when I saw it, I realized that I did. My father had shown me the picture when I was a kid.

"That's my friend's daughter," he'd said.

Her gorgeous frown had enchanted me. So had that small bow she held.

The night I got arrested, when I conjured up her face, it hadn't been a freak accident. It was an image that had eventually faded only to return subconsciously, but with grown-up features—at the time when I needed it most.

Right after Annabelle got here, I'd wanted to show her the mural I did of her beneath the bridge. But the neighborhood clean-up crew had already painted over it.

That's fine. I have the real thing now.

Still propped up in my arms, Annabelle yawns. She must be overly tired, having worked a double shift yesterday at our local sports center, where she teaches archery. It turns out, she's a virtuoso with the bow. It didn't take her long to perfect her skills. It made my fucking jaw drop when I finally saw just how good she was.

When neither of us are working, or when she needs a break from the city noise, we ride my bike into the countryside. She takes her arrow pack and goes scampering into the woods for hours while I sketch or listen to music.

There's a pick-your-own farm nearby. Annabelle is already on a first-name basis with the owners. It's not the same as the harvest, but we plan on going there a lot this fall. It works out well. It's a balance.

"You should go back to sleep," I tell her. "We have all day."

"No. I like it right here."

I smirk. Annabelle likes to be held. She likes museums and all-you-can-eat buffets. She likes dishwashers. She likes parks. She likes cheese buns. She likes flower stands. She likes indie folk clubs.

She likes the church a few blocks away. It's bigger than what she's used to, but from the first visit, she instantly fell in love with the high ceilings, stonewalls, and stained glass. She met a new friend there named Rue. They usually hang out together after Sunday service.

Annabelle doesn't make me go with her, but her smiles widen whenever I do. I'm not crazy about religion. Sometimes we get into debates. Sometimes we lose our patience with each other. Sometimes we get testy.

She'll walk away. I'll find and tickle her.

Or I'll walk away. She'll find me and brush her lips over my jaw.

And then I'll take her in my lap. And then we'll talk. We're learning, figuring it out, and growing together.

Annabelle still likes planting things. She turned the café's roof into an urban farm. It looks crazy green, with mini fruit trees and planters full of herbs and vegetables.

In the summer, we spent a lot of time up there. Those evenings routinely ended with me draped across the lounge chair, completely at the mercy of her body, arching beneath her and hollering to the sky as she rode me.

The first morning after this happened, I'd left her a note on the fridge before I went down to the café. I'm going to fuck you on the roof again tonight.

She likes my sexy notes. Unfortunately, Dylan found it before Annabelle did when he stopped by to drop off a record he'd borrowed. She hadn't been able to look him in the eyes for a week.

My brothers like her. She likes them. Dylan has no clue how I won her over, which I guess is a compliment.

Bailey is a different story. He adores her, enjoys teasing her, even takes her to places he knows she'll appreciate. But in the beginning, it was awkward between him and me. I was more acutely aware of the hurt he concealed. It took him a while, but now he's hanging out with Annie a lot. He talks about her nonstop. I think it's going somewhere.

The sky shifts from grey to orange. Across the street, the smell of French roast wafts from a coffee house. Dylan should be on his way to open the café by now.

Annabelle's stomach grumbles against mine. "Hungry?" I ask.

"No," she lies, her voice muffled into my shoulder, hinting that she's got something on her mind.

"What's up?" I ask.

She raises her head. I tip mine back to stare up at her. We let our hands roam over each other. The desire to touch is constant.

"I did not see you coming, Cassius Gunner," she reflects.

My nose rubs against hers. "Well, you won't see me going either."

"I love you."

"I love you more," I say. "I won't ever forget what you gave up for me."

"I would do it again."

Out of nowhere, I chuckle, and her brow furrows. "What?" she asks.

"It's just, I think you became more of a bad one than me."

Annabelle grins. She likes this idea.

We leave the mural and head upstairs. I decide to take a shower to warm up from the cold. I'm craning my head backward into the stream when the glass door swings open, and there's stands Annabelle, a ravenous expression on her face. She's wearing nothing but her bra and panties.

"Hey you." I watch her eyes travel up and down my body. "You look like you're getting ideas."

The last of her clothing falls to the floor. She steps inside, rests her back against my chest, and the contact of her bare form causes a riot inside me. Threads of hot water pelt our heads and trickle from my shoulders to hers, flowing over the olive skin and dripping off the peaks of her breasts. I want to catch those droplets with my tongue.

I've got ideas, too. She has no clue what she's gotten herself into sneaking into this tight, humid, soaked space with me.

"I used to think about doing this with you," she admits. "Back at the farm, whenever you used our shower."

"Did you like what you saw when you walked in on me?"

She tenses. I grin at the pink tint floating across her cheeks. My fingers wind into her hair and gently tug until I have full access to her neck, where I place soft bites over the pulse point.

"I liked it very much," she whispers.

"I'd hoped you would join me back then."

"You did no such thing."

"I got hard the minute I noticed you there." I feel goose-bumps pop across her arms. "If you'd stepped inside, I would have made love to you right then. Do you want me to now?"

She elicits a long, suffering moan. I take that as a yes and walk her forward until her chest hits the tiles. Lifting her hands above her head, I press her palms into the smooth surface, then inch her hips back toward me. We've never tried this position before.

"Don't let go of the wall," I order.

When she nods, I nudge her thighs apart. My palms cup her breasts at same time my cock pitches forward, under her body, and then surges up into her. Annabelle gasps, her fingers curling, her nails scraping the wall. Her narrow passage encases me and fogs my consciousness. I retreat and slide into her again, and again, and again. Our escalating moans ricochet off the tiles.

My palms leave her breasts to cover her flattened hands. As I lean into her, the wall gives me enough support to move harder, faster, my hips rolling in a circular motion. In mere seconds, we're both rocking against one another, my abs contracting, pleasure squeezing around my groin. My cries are getting more elevated.

"Not yet," she pants. "I need you closer. Please."

I need her closer, too. I need to see her face. Slipping from her, I flip Annabelle around, trapping her once more to the wall. I hook her left leg around my waist, skate her right leg far out to the side, and ram into her again. The force sends her jostling upward. As I master a steady pumping rhythm, her fingers clasp my wet ass, urging me deeper.

"Oh, baby," I whimper.

My lips find the beauty mark on the side of her breast and latch onto it. I relish what our bodies are doing to each other. With a flick of my hips and and a taste of her tongue, and the water hitting us, I come so loudly that I'm practically levitating off the floor.

"Yes, Cassius," she says. "Let me hear you."

We both go still as the tidal wave slams into us, then we dissolve into listlessness. Our mouths connect, bridging our sighs together. We keep our eyes open as we kiss, maintaining eye contact. And I'm thankful for this enclosed space, and for our open eyes, and for the constant brush of the water. I'm thankful that we don't yet know what we'll do today, but that it's our choice.

We grin like idiots as we dry each other off. I slip on loose pants and go shirtless for the morning—Annabelle enjoys seeing me this way—then head to the kitchen. At the counter, I slice a loaf of bread embedded with nuts.

When she's finished using the blow dryer, she emerges wearing one of my flannel shirts. She sets the table, padding around with her legs bare except for a pair of chunky socks. She's looks so cute like this.

As she gathers cups and spoons, her forehead pinches like it usually does whenever she starts thinking of the farm. Immediately, I know it's because of the mural.

She misses her family. Sometimes, I find her crying in the stairway to the café. Whenever this happens, I gather her to me and gently remind her of the promise she and her sister made before Annabelle officially left the community.

Elsie, the day after her sixteenth birthday, she'll just show up at our doorstep. She'll visit during the weekends.

The reminder always makes Annabelle suck up the rest of her tears. She knows Elsie and Mr. Chaste have each other. She knows they love her. She knows they think of her.

Aware that she's suddenly getting melancholy, I stop what I'm doing and leave the kitchen. I head over to the record player she gave me for my birthday, which Bailey helped her pick out. I flip through my records until I find The Lighters. It's an album she's never heard.

A guitar strums through the living room. A tambourine follows.

"Annabelle?" I call.

She pokes her head out of the kitchen, and I curl a finger at her. "Come here."

"But breakfast is—"

"Get over here, Duchess."

When she reaches me, I crush her to my chest and sweep her across the room. The beat picks up. I sway her from side-to-side, with an exaggerated flair, while lip-singing the song's chorus to her.

It works. Annabelle's face breaks into a smile. She plays along, spinning and knocking her hips against mine.

We dance. We circle around each other. I twirl her under my arm and then pull her to me. I dip her back and kiss her. She laughs against my mouth.

It's easy making her laugh. It's easy loving her. And if that's all I ever have to do for the rest of my life, then I've got a pretty great life ahead of me.

Not bad for The Prick Next door, huh?

The End