Yazmin
I sit in Sunnyside Park, watching as the girls dance around the sandpit, flinging sand at each other and giggling. Their moms are sitting on the bench opposite, a couple of them watching, a couple more checking their phones. Overhead, a flock of birds calls into the clear blue sky. A man beside me is reading the newspaper, the front page declaring, Fire Caused By Faulty Oven, Inspectors Report. I’ve already read the article five or six times now, reading how the infamous Scorpions biker gang were out on a ride when their clubhouse caught fire, and then how they fled Sunnyside and made for New York (the reporter doesn’t explain how he knows this), and how everybody can agree Sunnyside will be a better place now. A week has passed, and yet I don’t know how to deal with these feelings which dance around inside of me.
One little girl in pink dungarees hands another little girl, this one with big frizzy black hair, a flower. The mother goes aww and smiles at the girl. I watch them sadly, wondering if I’ll ever have that with my child. I’m not upset about my father’s death, but it has left me feeling strange. Even if I hated him, really hated him, even if I wanted him to die, he was still my father, which means now that he’s dead I’m an orphan. Maybe being an orphan shouldn’t feel different to having parents, not at my age, but it does.
I stand up and walk away from the park, heading down Main Street, the storefronts bright and sunny and decorated, the world with a smile on its face, the universe beaming. Everybody is happy and I feel numb, or unsure of how to feel. I’m staying with Spike but we’re sleeping in separate rooms. He killed my father with those hands . . . that’s the thought which comes to me every time he tries to touch me. It annoys me, because I don’t want to feel that way. I have nightmares where I can never get over that notion, where the next year and decade is tinged by the ugly idea that since he killed my father I can never be close to him. It terrifies me.
I end up at the town hall steps. I sit down, watching the town. A group of school kids skips past, giggling about something I can’t hear. I’ve been sitting for a few minutes when a shadow falls over me.
His face is tight as he smiles. I can tell he’s strained by all this as well. Perhaps he’d like it if I just smiled and acted nice and was pretty and did all the things he wanted me to do. Perhaps he’d prefer it if I hid how I feel, but I can’t. He sits down beside me on the steps, leaving a distance of about six inches between us. Six inches, but it may as well be six miles. After all we’ve been through . . . I want to reach out and touch his hand, to give it a squeeze, to feel the reassuring pressure of flesh on flesh.
“Yazmin,” he says, after several minutes of personal silence.
“Yes?” I turn my face to him, trying a smile.
Everything has felt phony this past week, like we’re acting every time we’re together. When we sit down for a meal, I feel like I’m sitting on a stage. Part of me is beginning to be scared that we’re not really in love, that all of this was pointless. Part of me is beginning to be scared that we’ll have to part ways soon.
“I’ve never been good with words, but I reckon I understand you well enough to try.” He smiles, a small smile, a hesitant smile, but a smile all the same. “You know this is hard for me.”
“I know.” And now I should reach across to him, but something stops me.
He sighs, and then speaks. “I think what’s going on here is that you’re scared of gettin’ close to me ’cause your mom and dad are dead. I’ve been thinking on this for a week and at first that made no sense to me, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. You don’t wanna get close to me because you’re an orphan now, and if you get close to me I could be taken away, and then what’d you be? A woman without her man, too. Maybe—I don’t know, I ain’t a psychiatrist—but maybe that’s why you flinch when I touch you.”
We sit in silence for a time. I think about his words, turning them over in my head. “That’s part of it,” I say, stunned by how accurately he was able to tell me what I was feeling. “But I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Okay, what?”
And my heart almost breaks then, because he’s really trying. I know a man like Spike doesn’t usually try like this. He’s wearing a checkered red shirt and jeans and boots and his beard is growing a little long and he’s recently had his hair clipped short. He looks handsome and devastating. He looks like a man eager for his woman to be in his arms.
“I think part of it is that I need to be on my own. That’s the contradiction which is driving me crazy. I think what you said is true—it explains a lot—but that’s not all of it. I used to think being on my own meant running away. But maybe it doesn’t have to be as literal as that. I need to be a person, Spike, a person apart from who I am in relation to other people. I can’t just be your girl and a mother. I know that’s enough for some women and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. For me, though, I just . . . I need something, you know, something that proves I’m really here.”
“What is it?” Spike asks. “Whatever it is, I’ll break this world in half to get it for you.”
I feel awkward about saying it aloud, even to Spike. Maybe that’s the way it always is with newfound dreams. I’m scared that he’ll laugh at me, or quietly tell me why that isn’t possible, or explain to me that he won’t have his woman entering into a profession when she’s got a baby to take care of. All of this and more flits through my head as I sit there trying to summon the courage to share a piece of my soul with this man. Around us the town breathes, people walking to and fro, people laughing, people living, but sitting here we’re in a world all our own.
“Yazmin?” he says.
“I want to go to nursing school,” I say, turning away from him and staring at Main Street. “I keep thinking of my mom coming home, tired but with a smile on her face. She didn’t talk about her work much except to teach me a few simple things. When she did talk to me about it, though, I always thought it sounded terrible, just awful. People bleeding and screaming and dying. But the more I think of it now, the more I feel drawn to it. Maybe I’m being silly.”
“No,” Spike says at once, voice firm. “You’re not being silly. Not at all. If this is what you want then you’ll have it.” He stands up, offering me his hand. “Come with me, Yazmin. I want to show you something. I want to show you why you don’t have to choose. You can be on your own and have a family at the same time. Hell, what d’you think I’ve been doing all these years? I’ve been lonely as hell and I’ve still had the club as my family.”
I look at his hand for around half a minute. It’s a manly hand, calloused and hard, the hand of a man who’s held rifles and ridden bikes his whole life, the hands of a man who’s killed and will kill again. The more I stare at it, the more I realize that he was right. It’s not that I care he killed Dad. It’s that the idea of an orphan girl giving herself to a man is frightening, because sooner or later the orphan girl may be alone again. I swallow that feeling down, forcing it to the pit of my stomach. I take his hand.
He pulls me to my feet and together we walk through the town to his jeep.
“Where’s your car?” I ask.
He grins. “I knew I’d be bringing you home this afternoon, so I brought the car.”
I climb into the passenger seat beside him. “How did you know I’d come with you? Maybe I’d want to take the bus home.” For the past week, I’ve been doing exactly that.
“Because I knew I’d hit on something real with all this thinking about feelings shit.” He laughs as he starts the car. “I swear, Yazmin, you’re the only damn woman in the world who could make me think on feelings for this long.”
“I consider myself blessed.” I giggle, and as the car winds down the road, the giggle turns into a full-fledged laugh. I realize it’s the first time I’ve laughed since that morning outside the clubhouse.
Spike laughs along with me. “You better,” he says.
Spike’s house is a three-bedroom detached nestled in the middle of the woods, the road which leads to it partially hidden by the trees. When I first saw it I thought it looked like something from a storybook. The paneling is painted a light red, so that when the sun is setting it’s difficult to tell the difference between the glow of the sky and the color of the house. We park outside and walk up the gravel driveway to the big colonial front door. Spike told me a few days ago that he bought it just after becoming president. He said, “Sonny always said a president needed a presidential place to live.”
Inside it’s like an old cabin in the woods, the floor and walls wooden paneled, with beams rising to the ceiling.
“Follow me,” Spike says, heading up the staircase.
I follow him, smiling and feeling pretty good about it. Why shouldn’t I smile? When I’ve got a man like Spike, when the future seems more open than it did yesterday, surely I’m allowed a smile. He leads me past his bedroom and then my bedroom—sleeping separately seems silly now—and finally to the empty room at the end of the hall. I peeked in it once, curious, and saw that it was full of boxes of bric-a-brac.
He has transformed it.
The walls are painted a pale blue with pictures of birds and clouds. In the corner there is a box of toys with a child lock on them as well as a play mat. The cot sits in the corner, the moon-and-star mobile spinning above it. There’s a tiny chair so small it makes me want to weep and another child-proof box with books inside it.
“I didn’t know if you childproof kids’ books,” he says, grinning tightly. I can tell he’s nervous about whether or not I’ll like it. “So I just thought better safe than sorry—Yazmin? Yazmin?”
I’m on my knees, tears sliding down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Spike. I want to be with you. You’re my family. I love you. I love you.” I leap up and grab his face with my hands, bringing my lips to his, kissing him firmly, hungrily, kissing him like I should’ve kissed him the first night he brought me here. Breaking it off for a moment, I tell him I love him again.
“I love you, too,” he whispers, wrapping his hands around me. “I love you so damn much.”
We’re both trembling as we move into the bedroom, our hands roaming each other. I slide my hand down his belly to the front of his jeans, rubbing his cock, feeling how hard it is, how hungry he is to be inside of me. When he picks me up and tosses me onto the bed, I’m reminded of the very first time we fucked, hard and wild and frantic, and as I lean back and look up at him, I want it again. I want to feel taken by him again. I want to feel ravished by him again. He stares down at me with that familiar animal look on his face, the look that tells me the time for love has passed. This is the time for lust.
“Take off your clothes.”
No three words have ever made me hornier. I kneel up and pull my shirt over my head, unclip my bra so quickly I fail at first, snapping it into my back like the annoying boys used to do at school. Then I lie back and wriggle out of my trousers, pussy so wet and hot I just want him inside of me, nothing else. No foreplay, no messing around. This is my man, and it’s been too long since we were together. I’ve been confused and unsure for too long. I’m not confused or unsure now. I’m as sure as I’ve ever been about anything. I want him and he wants me. There’s nothing to second-guess about that.
“Come here,” I whisper, opening my legs, lifting them, bending them at the knee, tempting him to my pussy.
He steps forward, naked. His cock is rock hard, a bead of pre-come at the tip, his abs tight with muscle, his chest taut, the skin pulled close across his massive pectoral muscles. Then he leans down, propping his hands beside my head, bringing his cock close to my pussy. I reach down and grab it, stroking it up and down, desperate to have it inside of me. This is the father of my child; this is my lover. This is the man I want to be with for as long as he’ll have me.
“Wait,” he says, when I’ve almost guided him to my pussy.
“What?” I’m panting, lust attacking my body. I don’t want to wait. I want to do.
He grins at me, that sexy, dark grin, the grin that captivated me in the first place. “Marry me, Yazmin.”
My answer is a kiss, a kiss that lasts a long time, a kiss that leads naturally to his cock sliding deep inside of me. “Yes, yes, yes,” I moan, both in answer to his proposal and the pleasure his cock brings.
He slides it all the way to my hot spot, the tip pressing hard into me, and then holds it there, gazing down at my breasts, his face warped in pleasure. Then he can’t hold it anymore. We fuck. We don’t fuck like two sweet lovers out of a fairytale. We don’t fuck like the princess and her Prince Charming. We fuck like people who’ve been told they’ll die if they don’t fuck hard. We fuck like fucking is our only way of survival. We fuck like this is the last chance we’ll ever get to fuck. I push down hard with my hips, sliding my pussy up and down his cock as he slams into me. We find the perfect rhythm, me sliding away as he pulls out, and then both of us meeting in the middle for a perfect instant of pleasure.
Over and over, we meet in the middle, until my body is screaming at me for release, until my pussy is going tight and my nipples are getting hard and the whole world could be a million miles away because none of it matters to us, not right now. I lean up and bite down on his shoulder, sinking my teeth in as my pussy gets tighter and tighter.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Come for your future fucking husband. Be a good wife and fucking come.”
I’ll never get used to how Spike’s words seem to be able to trigger the euphoria inside of me. I let my head fall back, releasing his shoulder as the pent-up pleasure in my pussy releases. The tightness loosens and I feel myself squirting on his cock, my body writhing, my fingernails clawing at the sheets. I bounce down, hard, finding his cock, bringing it deeper into my pussy, urging him into my sensitive spot. My body is alive with tingles, every inch of my skin buzzing, every inch of my brain fogged. I drive down over and over, bringing his rock-hard cock exactly where I need him. The orgasm hits me in waves, rolling over me with the power of the ocean, forcing me down into the blankets where I bounce and writhe and moan, lasting for what could be a minute or an hour. I squirt onto his cock until my entire body feels spent of energy, until just moving my head is an effort.
But I summon enough energy for one last effort, lifting myself up and riding with him until he’s squeezing my tits together and gasping, until he lets out a growling, moaning sound and thrusts into me one last time.
When we’re done, I lie in his arms, both of us staring up at the ceiling.
“I’m annoyed with myself,” I tell him after a while.
“Annoyed? Why?”
“I waited a whole week to do this with you. That was silly.”
“You had your own shit goin’ on.”
“Since when did you get so understanding?” I prod him playfully in the side.
He prods me in my breasts. “Since you told me I got a lifetime of these ahead of me.”
Then he has his face buried in them, making boat noises as I giggle and try to slap him away.