I walked up the stairs in a trance. He was directly behind me, close enough that I could smell his cologne and feel his eyes on the back of my Strokes T-shirt.
One part of me felt removed from the entire situation, like I was standing somewhere else and watching Davie Jones lead James Farrell up to her apartment. Another part of me was back in Mississippi.
I was walking up to the Farrell Manor porch again. And I saw him there, talking with Corey. Had he known? Had he helped his sisters plan it?
High School Davie didn’t believe her James could ever do something like that, but Real Davie knew better. She had seen some things, done some things, and now she was struggling to remember if he had pointed and laughed along with the other kids when she fell in the mud.
But I pushed those thoughts away. That night at Farrell Manor was done and gone. And this one was happening right now in real time.
I pulled my keys out of my satchel and tried to unlock my door, but it was hard to do with trembling hands; I couldn’t get the key into the lock.
After four unsuccessful tries, James took the keys from me and unlocked the door himself. Then he pushed it open for me.
“Thank you,” I said, walking in past him.
“You’re welcome.” He followed me in and closed the door behind us. There was a soft click. And then he suddenly wrapped me up in his arms from behind. His hands were everywhere. On my back, my breasts. Unfastening my jeans.
And then one hand went further. Inside my yellow cotton panties.
I came embarrassingly fast. There was no build-up, just three strokes from him and an “Oh God!” from me before the orgasm overtook me, causing me to bend forward, so that my butt was now against his hard-on.
That was it. I heard a foil package being ripped open. And I barely had time to kick off my jeans before he stood me up, turned me around, pressed me against my front door and was inside me.
I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he whispered, “Please! Please! Please!” between increasingly ragged breaths.
I wrapped one of my legs around his waist and just held on to him. I didn’t know what else to do, and I could feel, against all odds, another orgasm coming.
I came again right before he did.
We collapsed to the floor. Me in my bra and T-shirt. Him with his checkered pants around his ankles.
I could hear him beside me still breathing hard, but I was too exhausted to turn and look at him. Plus I was afraid I would say, “I love you. I always have and I always will.” Or something equally inappropriate.
But I didn’t have to worry about that. My body was jelly and my mind was gone. I couldn’t have formed words at that moment, even if I wanted to.
I closed my eyes, trying to figure out what to do next.
And when I opened them again, he was still there. But now he was breathing steadily with his mouth closed and the most peaceful look on his face. He was sleeping.
James Farrell was sleeping on my apartment floor.
This was a complete nightmare. I got up and turned off the lights. Then I crawled into my bed, praying that when I woke up in the morning James Farrell would not be there.
. . .
When I woke up in the morning, James Farrell was no longer on my apartment floor.
He was lying in bed behind me with his hand resting on my thigh.
“Seriously, what does a girl have to do get rid of this guy? Am I going to have to call Ghostbusters?” I whispered to Mama Jane on the phone a few minutes later. I was sitting on the cold bathroom floor, leaning against the wall, but I still felt hot all over just thinking about what had happened with James last night.
“I thought you said the sex was good,” Mama Jane said.
“It was good. One-night good. So why is he still here?”
“Why don’t you just tell him to get out? I’ve had some women do that to me the morning after.” Mama Jane sounded a little bitter when she said that.
“Saying go doesn’t work with him. It just makes him think I’m playing hard to get. And he seems to like hard to get. A lot. I mean like way more than I ever would’ve figured.”