“Fuck me,” I plead. I need to stop thinking. I'm still thinking. Still wrestling. When he's in me, it'll stop, it always does.
He doesn't hesitate to burrow himself into me. I grip at the wall, then reach back for him as he pushes in and out. The thinking stops, then I can just feel. Smell. Touch. Taste. I just am. The world shrinks to him. To this very moment. Nothing else matters.
I let go. It feels so good to let go. He pounds against me. He is not gentle. He is not tentative. He's hard as stone inside of me. I know no one else does it for him like I do. I know while I've been with Carter, all this time, Sam's been with no one else.
So it doesn't last. No, he's pulsating inside of me, his groans brushing against my ear with little wisps of his breath. I stay plastered against the wall, my breasts touching the cool surface with each inhale.
Sam takes me by the hand, without a word, to the bathroom. He leads me into the shower. He soaps me up, running the slippery hands along my breasts and stomach, over the mounds of my ass, sliding his fingers between my thighs to clean me. He fucks me again, against the tile wall, and this time he lasts longer and I come and come. And it's like the last couple of months didn't even happen. I should be scared, but I'm not. There's no reason to be scared of Sam when he's getting what he wants.
I wake up, my head pulsing with indecision. It takes me a second to see as I rub my eyes, coaxing them open against the blinding light of the mid afternoon sun. My breathing stops for a moment when I see Sam at my side, facing away from me, his golden skin swathed by a crisp white blanket, slits of sun peeking through the blinds dashing across his skin. This is real. This wasn't a dream. The most restful sleep I've had since I rejoined civilization couldn't have been precipitated by letting go of that gun and taking his hand.
I watch Sam—quiet, still. His breath is too shallow to be heard over the humming of the fan pointed at us. The room is plain. Just a bed and white sheets. A small table by his side. A standing fan. He's new here. This place doesn't have the generations of history the ranch did.
But I can't let him keep doing what he's done. I have to stop him. And in his sleep, he can't look at me with those eyes. He can't take my hand, or kiss me. I can't see those marks on his face and feel for the boy who never knew what it felt like to be accepted by those who should have loved him the most.
I look away from him to the open bedroom door. Down the long hallway is the front door, where my bag and clothes still lay. They are in a heap, some of its contents spilling over: a couple of shirt sleeves, a piece of paper, the glinting hint of a gun. And hidden under all that is a box. A box I have to keep in the past. No more pictures, no more souvenirs.
I don't want to do this. But I didn't put him away and now it's my responsibility to stop him. I look over again at him, biting my lip to stifle my emotions. I want this to be us. This right here. Quiet in bed. Just the two of us. But there is a part of me that never died, and she can't let this madness go on. I lean close. To feel him. To make sure he's asleep. His chest rises and falls in the familiar way I have seen so many times in that shed he built for me.
I wince as I slide out of the bed. Pursing my eyes shut at each little creak, each time a plank of wood moans under my feet, until I am crouched in front of my mess. Until I have the cold gun in my hand. I walk back, this time my stride is more confident, making me lighter on my feet and suddenly all the little noises don't creep up. They don't scare me. This is the only time I can do this. The only time I can atone our sins.
I raise the gun up, showing me that the sudden spurt of confidence was false. It trembles, aimed five feet from the back of his head.
“If you're going to do it, Vesp, do it,” he says.
The cold shock of hearing him speak like this for the first time makes me go rigid. Hearing it purely. Without sex, without violence, without anger. It's raspy, but there's a softness to his tone.
“I—I know what you've done here. I can't let you…” My voice trails off. This shouldn't be so hard.
“You have a choice to make, Vesp. Because I won't—can't—stop unless you do something. You can pull that t-trigger and end it all right now. And you will be alone. You will have to go back to your mom and that pretty boyfriend of yours, and you will have to s-spend the rest of your life pretending. You couldn't even bear it for a couple of months, but you'll have to for the rest of your life.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head, sobbing. When I open them, he's still in his spot, unmoved, his back still facing me. Doing me the favor of making it easier.