Chapter 6

6

Jonathan

There is a neon sign inside my skull telling me not to have sex, but the neon sign is not the one whose permission I need.

She said I can keep my jacket on. She will never see the wound. And the bullet has settled, found a quiet place inside me to sleep and dream.

Her hand slips between my legs, and all my blood rushes down, so my head feels mercilessly light. Then I have one last burst of sense: It is probably not a good idea to have sex with a bullet in my chest.

As her fingers cup my balls, as my chest throbs, my voice says, "We probably shouldn't."

"Oh." Her hand is gone so fast, it is like it was never there. "Okay."

She steps back. I step forward.

"Who am I fucking kidding?" I say in my head and out loud. Then I kiss her. It catches us both by surprise.

First kisses are always the best kisses. The ones you remember. The ones you can never re-create, although you will try.

I am a horrible person but I can feel love. Maybe that is what makes me horrible.

She kisses me, mouth to mouth but I feel it everywhere. I am treacherously hollow, verging on soulless. When she kisses me, that single drop of lust in an empty shell is everything at once.

I am echoing with desire, bright and swollen, and I kiss her back harder, so hard it is like I am digging down inside her, excavating the tenderness, taking it all for myself. My vacant body. My sunken thoughts. Her bright fireworks of lust, exploding on the blankest canvas.

"Easy, tiger." She presses her hand, all five fingers, like a star, into my chest and pushes me backward, gently. I feel a muted ache in my chest, reminding me that just because I cannot feel the pain does not mean it is not there. I do not want to die—not yet.

I should probably stop, but I find I cannot. And it is not just the drugs, or the train, or the night. It is her.

She kisses me too hard. The way I like it. So hard, I feel a burst of pain crest the ocean of drugs. Fuck. I am going to die, and it is going to feel so fucking good.

She pulls back, looks up at me through hazy eyes.

"Where do you want me?" I ask. I feel this immense gratitude toward her. I will do this however she wants.

"Um…" She studies the scene. Stacks of suitcase racks. There is one open shelf, high in the corner, where there is room enough for both of us. "Up there."

"Do you want to be—"

"On top."

"Of course."

The train clatters. I feel it all through me, like it is clattering just for us.