The Song of David

“Damn it, Millie!” I groaned into her hair. “Why do you have to be so damn sweet?” My lips were on her forehead, on her cheeks, nuzzling her neck before I found her mouth and forgot to be gentle.

She matched my fervor, biting at my lower lip before I licked into her mouth and felt a tremor run down her body. I wanted to feel her naked skin on mine, to pull her to the floor and shove our clothes aside, but I braced my hands above her head instead, gripping the door so I wouldn’t touch her, so I wouldn’t start something I had no business finishing. And I would finish if I started. If I saw her laying beneath me again, her hair spread around her, her hands pulling me to her, I would finish. And I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because regardless of what Millie said, insult or not, Amelie Anderson—beautiful, brave, and freaking BLIND—wasn’t the kind of girl you played. She wasn’t the kind of girl you played around with. I’d flirted. I had. But I hadn’t harmed. She said she didn’t need guarantees, but she sure as hell did. She sure as hell deserved them. And I wasn’t there yet. My body was. My body had been there and back multiple times. My body was running circles around my heart, raging at me, mocking me, begging me to get with the program.

But as ridiculously, gratefully, tearfully glad as I was that she was okay, I wasn’t there yet.

I wrenched my mouth away and buried my face in her hair.

“Are you a virgin, Millie?” I asked, my voice hoarse, my hands still braced above her head.

She froze, the hands that were curled against my chest, suddenly falling to her sides.

“Are you?” she asked primly.

I half-laughed, half-groaned at her sass and kissed the top of her head. The laughter burst the ball of tension in my gut, and I exhaled the residue in a long sigh.

“No, Millie. I’m not. Not by a long shot. Are you?” I repeated the question.

“No.”

“You’re lying. You have a little groove between your eyebrows and you’re biting your lip. Those are your tells.”

“My tells?”

“Yep. Don’t ever play poker, sweetheart.” I stepped back, my arms falling to my sides, mimicking her posture. I pulled Millie forward so I could open the bathroom door she still leaned against. “It’s got to be close to two a.m. I need to go before I get careless. I’ll say goodnight to Henry and be on my way.”

Millie’s back stiffened and her chin lifted slightly, another tell, but she followed me out without a word. I’d embarrassed her, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, so I held my tongue and kept my hands to myself. I stuck my head into Henry’s room, only to discover him asleep, sprawled across his narrow bed, the highlight reel flickering across his face from the TV on the opposite wall.

“The San Francisco Giants have won the 2012 World Series! The Giants have taken it all!” the announcer crowed, and I realized he’d been watching a replay. Baseball season was long over. I wondered if Henry hoped to catch a glimpse of his dad, Giants alumni, one of baseball’s brightest lights. Too bad he was an asshole. Too bad Henry still cared.

I closed the door softly and made my way down the stairs, suddenly weary, my muscles achy, my neck stiff, my mind troubled. “He’s never called, never contacted you? Not even since your mom passed away?”

Millie knew who I was referring to, though I had asked the question without clarifying. She shrugged as if it meant very little to her. “No. His lawyer called once, verifying that Henry and I were still here. Verifying that I was Henry’s guardian. After that, the money doubled. He just sends money. Month after month, we get a check. I’m sure it makes him feel better about himself. Some people can’t handle it, you know. The disappointment, the baggage, the responsibility that comes with having children with disabilities. He couldn’t.” Millie’s voice was cool and her posture was straight as a board.

“Huh.” I leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Millie.” I let myself out, and was halfway down the street before I realized Millie probably thought I was one of those people—the people who couldn’t handle it.





Moses




I NEVER KNEW my dad. I never knew my mom, for that matter. I knew who she was though. I knew her name, her life, her family, her weaknesses. Her name was Jennifer Wright, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, white girl with a crack habit. She had me, she left me, and she died. We had a three day relationship that didn’t include exchanging important information, and she was the only one who knew who my dad was. He was dark-skinned—I’d inherited that much—and that was all I had to go on.