Re: Brooklyn: Wren & Ryan
[So Wren, Wren remembered how to play 'em. Ry, she was too fucked up, pain like a sledgehammer pounding the bones in her hip to splinters, and too scared to do shit that looked like flirting. Wouldn't work or nothing, not when Marco expected eighteen and sleek, 'stead of twenty-three and incapable of fucking, let alone 'gainst the wall. She couldn't figure a way out that wasn't calling the cops and you didn't do that shit, where Ry came from. Cops were something to freak over, not invite in and Marco, Ryan figured he didn't want no poli in his place.
But Wren, she went soft. Sweet, like caramel, like leche trickling over the back of a spoon. And Marco, some of that bristle in his neck, in his spine it softened in all that sweet. Yeah, Marco thought he was gonna get laid and it would have been fucking funny if Ry hadn't tossed whatever was left of a time-warp night out on his carpet by the bed because her eyeballs felt like they were needles, che.
Nah, he turned down to the white girl like grey eyes did him in, and his arm went in her hands like he was putty, right.]
Solo para ti [He told her, like era romántico, like Wren was gonna climb on into dirty sheets if he carried out the chica still lying there from the night before. He reached, and Ry didn't have no fucking option, right. Nothing but this guy she remembered liking to leave marks behind. He didn't wanna touch her, she knew that. So it was careless, 'stead of mean, the way he heaved her up like she was garbage. Ry, she bit her bottom lip until blood welled because it hurt. It hurt like broken glass, ground into her joints, it hurt like nothing else.]
Phone. [Her throat rasped around it.] Dale el phon. [Still lying in the sheets, lost in all of that navy cotton. Gold-backed, initials engraved. Still open to the conversation on the journal page.]