Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
Logic wasn't present in the hotel room, not for the girl standing at the window in shades of cold white. She heard his movements behind them, and she paid attention to them as markers. Where was he? How was he moving. She knew his anger was bursts and things shattered, but she wasn't scared of that, yeah? Maybe she should be scared of shit today, but she wasn't. Like staying at that dive with the roaches, and crawling up on that stained mattress for a second, boxers and wifebeater and nothing beneath, and some guy peering in the boot-open door and asking if she wanted company. She hadn't known if he was real, and she hadn't answered, but she hadn't been afraid the guy would come in and shove up that wifebeater and fasten his mouth on her tit. She should have been afraid, but the lines of water white in her blood, they were a different kind of clear, and they eclipsed that sheer terror she could feel at times. So, yeah, she listened for him, but there wasn't any fear in the line of her shoulders, not even when she was absolutely fucking sure he was building hate for her in his gut.
His arms wound around her waist, warm and still holding water-cold, and she thought that was fitting, yeah? She'd dragged him into her watery grave or whatever. She leaned back against him, a greedy shove of her ass and shoulders against him, because she wanted to be held, and she wanted it in the kind of all-in way that she usually approached sex. He showed his hand, and she looked down and touched white over knuckles, and she knew this hand to happen since she'd left his place hours earlier. Between then and now, and she undid the tape when he flipped his hand, and she let the white slip, so she could see what else she'd done. Her, it was her, yeah? Had to be her, and all the reasons she shouldn't pile her shit on him, they paraded through her mind like little soldiers with one red boot. Tiny stomp and fucking tiny stomp.
His fingers climbed her throat, starred there in layers of dark over pallid, and she wasn't going to argue with him about that tip of head back against his shoulder, yeah? She wasn't going to, though she flinched when he echoed Meredith's words, and she wanted that year away back. The fucking simplicity of it, yeah? Water and art and nothing bad. Lonely, ok, she'd missed everyone, but it was better than where this all was headed. "I didn't get through to her. She wanted me to hit her. She wanted me to look bad, so she looks good." She said it with a dreamy certainty, strong as fucking turpentine in the little closed-in boathouse. "I was standing there, trash in underwear, and she wanted me to wail on her. She pushed my buttons, and I was so fucking stupid. This is going to just make shit worse."
It was, and she hadn't wanted that. She didn't want that.
His fingers slid along the boxers that clung damp to hips gone so sick-pale that the colors nearly matched, related shades, and she let him peel that onion skin off like she wasn't even standing there, clothes coming off. "I know you like me." A tremor. "I like you too, but I can't keep doing this to you. I can't keep doing this to everybody." She shook her head, drying-blonde frizzy and clinging to any part of him it could touch. She closed her eyes for that tap, that kiss to her forehead.