29. Harvey

29

HARVEY

The words come out, but I'm not confident in them. I'm nervous, self-conscious, and all I can do is wait for the bad to surpass the good. I brace for her to rush to me, for her to try take control or try to be the one who fucks me, just like they always do. I'm clenching my jaw tight while I wait for it, while I anticipate eyes that burn with judgment.

My heart races and my thoughts spiral, but when I come back to myself, she's not looking at my hands or down there at all. Her eyes are on mine, on my face. She's barely moved, just a few steps away from the door, enough to close it behind her and kneel.

The smile on both of our faces is proof we've gone too far.

Because I've never allowed myself to be with anyone else this intimately before.

Not intentionally.

Not willingly.

Her stare is everything right now. I rub my fingers through the slickness, shocked by how wet I find myself. I'm desperate to get off, and her here, watching me, is now somehow making every nerve in my body a hundred times more sensitive. I bite my cheeks to fight any moans, but she can see what she's doing to me.

Every stroke of my fingers, her smile sets deeper, and I get closer.

"Can I taste you?" she asks.

I nod. "If you crawl to me."

Nia obeys and drops to her hands, her eyes narrowing as her gaze evolves into something so seductive, I nearly implode from watching her. She's purposefully moving slowly, her hips swaying side to side as she prowls toward me.

And then she stops at the base of the chair and sits back on her heels, mouth slightly parted, waiting. I'm on the edge of my climax, but I pull my fingers free and extend my hand, shoving two fingers between her lips. She sucks them into her mouth, swirling her tongue, the jolt buzzing through my core like a lightning strike.

When she lets go, I'm so close, I could come from just looking at her. She has one hand between her legs, and I realize that it isn't a show or an act to try to make me feel better. She's just as into this.

The need to shut my eyes is nonexistent, even though it feels unnatural when I'm on the verge of climaxing. I've never stared into someone else's soul during my own undoing. I can't look away from her, can't break free from this, and when I let go, clenching the arm of the chair with one hand, a rogue grunt escapes my throat despite my efforts.

"I think I love you, Cat." She's breathing heavy, like maybe she came too.

"Come up here," I tell her, and she's standing by the next heartbeat.

But it's not love in her eyes I see.

It's the drugs.

I try not to let the disappointment show, try not to let it ruin this moment, because it doesn't take away from what it means to me.

And it means everything.

My guards go back up. Despite how much I want to give this girl more pieces of me, I'm afraid of what she'll do with them. Discard them once I'm no longer of use? Sell them for her next fix?

She warned me herself, and if anything, I'm the stupid one here.

The one person I loved enough to stop for is dead.

The words remind me that while I've had almost two months to process Lonnie's death, it's still a relatively fresh wound for Nia. She refuses to let it scab, to let it heal. Instead, she's picking at the edges, stretching the cut open and prying her fingers inside.

She wants the new pain to take away the old.

It only works to a certain extent. The new pain distracts, but once the novelty wears off, they coexist together and hold hands to ruin.

And Nia is rubble at my feet.

"I wish you would have come to me first," I cup her face in my hands as I lead her to my lap.

She swallows hard. I think she wants to lie, but she's not prepared. "How can you tell?"

"You asked me what I know about addiction, princess. My dad died when I was little, only four. I don't really remember it. But my brother was almost fourteen, and it really fucked him up. Eventually, my mom remarried, and my stepdad kicked him out of the house because of the drugs. When I turned eighteen, my step dad changed the locks on me too." This all feels like way too much to be sharing when we're both so vulnerable from an orgasm.

But I can't stop, and she doesn't look at me like she wants me to.

"That's not a parent," is what she says instead.

"No, but I didn't need him to be my parent. I needed my mother, and she let both of us down. I came to Devil Town to skate, but I came here for my brother, hoping that if we were at least together, we could make it." The words turn bitter in my mouth, and I'm not sure if I want to keep going, but she nudges me with a look. "My brother was too far gone." I say the words with a wave of my hand, as if they come out easily.

They don't. Every syllable makes my tongue bleed with regret.

"Is he dead?" she asks, the soft look on her face like her own personal apology.

"He's dead to me," I explain, her grip on me softening. "Some people don't want to be saved, and that's fine, but he wanted to take me down with him too. I couldn't watch my brother dig both of our graves. I haven't spoken to him in years."

Her tears fall freely, and I'm not sure if it's what I've said or if it's the drugs. "What?"

She shakes her head, but she finally clarifies, "What makes me any different?"

"That's the thing about it." Love, but I don't clarify the it for her, because I can only give her so much, and right now, I'm not sure how much I have left. "There's nothing that makes it different. I want you, and that's enough to make a difference for me." I don't tell her that it's the best and the worst part about love.

We have no choice.

She drags in a long inhale, so stuttered that I'm not sure her lungs can take in any more oxygen, but she does it anyway. The tears never dry. "I won't stop." She shakes her head.

"I can help you," I promise her for the hundredth time.

"Don't let me do this to you. I'm not worth it." Her seams are unraveling, and she pulls each thread like it won't make her smaller.

She's ceasing to exist, and I'm starting to wonder if that's the plan.

"Says who?" The way I shake her isn't violent, but it's enough to rattle her, and her eyes jar open a little.

"I'm not supposed to be here anymore." Her body shakes with each painful word.

"What does that mean, Nia?" Maybe with enough clarity, I can get her through this.

"I just want to go home," she sobs. She's too high, and I'm not sure she's fully aware of the words she's saying.

"Where's home, baby?" I ask anyway, remembering every time I had to talk my brother down when his high would turn dark.

Her face is pressed to my shirt, my fingers running through her hair in an attempt to soothe.

"Lonnie."

It's muffled, but I can hear it. It takes everything not to break with her, to not fall apart as well. Instead, I hold her and let her cry for as long as she needs. And then, I decide to let my brain run its course, every possible plan unfolding simultaneously at the speed of sound. I can't catch up, can't listen to my own thoughts coherently.

I still try, because home is no longer an option for her, not if her idea of home is six feet under in whatever version of afterlife Lonnie is kicking around in.

Life is for the living.

The same words invade my brain again.

Death is a starting point.

Death is a door.

Death is a starting point.

And here we are, gates wide open, waiting for the flood to come through.

If I can't save her, she'll wreck us together and lock the door behind us.

"Help me," she finally begs, the words clear but still filled with her sorrow.

And that's all it takes to seal my fate.

It's almost sunrise when she falls asleep in my arms. I've already texted Freddy to call in for my opening shift at the bar today. I don't know what to do, but I know I can't leave her alone. I think about texting Stella, or Bae, or even Venice, but it doesn't seem like any of them have a clue.

Nia's leaving those closest to her in the dark, because it's not a cry for help. She's already decided on how this is going to end.

The thought makes me squeeze her tighter. I contemplate moving us to the bedroom, but I don't shift. I don't shift an inch, though I know she'd sleep through it. For the first time in three years, my brother passed through my mind tonight, and now, I can't get him out. I think about calling, about sending a text, but I remember every previous time I've felt this way, the way hope painted a rainbow bridge to the idea that once I reached out, he'd be there, waiting with arms open to be the hero I always needed. The hero I never had. The hero I was forced to become for myself.

It only takes twenty seconds into a phone call for that bridge to crack like fragile glass, for his words to turn into fissures that spread until nothing but puzzled fragments are left. A single step toward him shatters the entire thought. I don't dial the number. I don't text.

But in the back of my mind, I wonder if he's still alive. If he's still an addict.

If he thinks of me.

And then I remember the last time we saw each other, how I wasn't of value unless I was buying from him, using with him, or giving him money. His memory turns sour in my mind, and though I hope he isn't dead, I wonder if closure would feel better than this, this thing we've left unfinished.

It makes me wonder if I've numbed myself to this kind of pain, if I've survived the loss of Lonnie because I've already lost everyone before. I've already practiced the pain and rehearsed the feelings of mourning every person I've loved.

I had over a year to grieve Lonnie before they'd actually died. The diagnosis took too long, by the time we found out, all we could do was enjoy the time we had together. The treatments became too costly, and no matter how much we all wanted to help them through it, they refused.

Dying on their own terms was a respect I could grant them, one that caused a tectonic shift between the skaters who couldn't accept Lonnie's wishes. I never cried in front of them, never told them how much I'd miss them or how much I wanted them to keep fighting. StarScreamer once called me dead inside for it, but she didn't understand that my brain spent every day we had left already mourning. By the time it came, it hurt just a little less.

So dead inside was fine. Was I supposed to prove my love in some performative way that showed them all how sad I was? Was I supposed to scream how I would have worked until my bones were exposed if it meant paying for Lonnie to stick around in pain just a little longer? It wouldn't have mattered.

That wasn't Lonnie's way, and had they heard, they would have paid someone to kick my ass since they weren't strong enough to do it anymore.

Once I've nibbled at my soul like a well-pecked carcass, I finally gain the motivation to move her. Her heart rate feels okay, and her breathing isn't shallow. I turn her to her side just to be safe, and I stare just a little longer. Just another hour, maybe two, before I go back into my hobby room and decide to sit at the leatherworking desk again.

It's been at least a year since I've fucked with any of it. This shit, these meaningless little hobbies; I don't ever really lose the knowledge when I learn it, no matter how much time goes by, even if I only learn the basics, enough to satisfy the part of my brain that likes to check off the box that says "skill accomplished" before we move to the next one.

I find a piece of leather in my scrap pile. It's white and just the right width and length for what's floating in my brain. Sliding the drawer open, I pull out the satchel of tools, brushing the dust off and finding appreciation for the things that draw me back to creating.

Like her.

I remove the edgers and the marking awl, and then I get to work with a vision in my mind. One hole at a time, I set them in before stitching the edges of the top. There's extra leather to work with in the middle, so I cut the bottom into a downward angle. It's not drastic, but it's enough that it's not the standard. No, that would be too boring for Ant?nia. Instead, I let the leather shape slightly into a point. Measuring would have been ideal, but it's not exactly necessary. Room for error here is large; it would be hard to fuck this up when I'm already so aware of her body.

I'm confident that the length is perfect, so I choose a gold buckle set with a thick matching loop for the front and begin to set it in. I find just enough gold studs to add to the trim every few centimeters, lining both the top and the bottom edges all the way around. It's nothing like I've ever made.

But I've never made a collar before either.

It's nearly noon when I look at my phone again. I haven't slept, or eaten, or peed, or taken a goddamn sip of water since we got home. As always, the task at hand takes precedent.

Never my own needs.

I throw the work in progress into the drawer, not sure that it's actually complete, but then again, none of my projects are ever finished. If I could, I would revise each piece until my final day, continuously updating them as I grow so that no one can ever see what I once was at the start.

The finality of calling a piece done is far too great a burden to bear, far too heavy to accept. It means being satisfied with myself and what I can do, something I know nothing about.

A quick check on Nia before I shower shows me her breathing is a little more erratic and her body is now drenched in sweat. She's better off sleeping if she can. She'll be coming down again soon, if she's not already.

I'll catch her as many times as it takes, but she has to let me.

Help me.

Her soft little words permeate my brain as the water washes over me.