Thrust Into His Arms

CALIX

The Christmas holiday has never been a special thing. To me it is just like every other day. Completely normal.

I did not see the importance of that normalcy until now that it has been taken away by endless guilt and wondering if someone miles away is having hers right—normal.

Does she smile like she used to, even at all?

Is anyone giving her a hard time like I did?

For the first time, I am getting that normal is a luxury that I never knew I had.

Chelsea piers. The courthouse is empty because no sane person plays outside on a day like this. I’m out here because I need the cold.

High 25. Low 13. The forecast says "trace precipitation"— which is a fancy way of saying that the sky is the color of old, wet Newspaper and it’s too cold to snow.

The blacktop is worse.

Its not snow. It’s what’s left of it. The storm on the 14th dumped eight inches on the city. By the 25th, the city has plowed it, salted it, driven over it. What’s left on the edges of this court is that filthy, grey-black slush that never melts. Frozen solid in the corners. Slick in the middle where the sun hit it for two hours.

I chose this court on purpose. Rather than play at the one in the manor that serves as a mini-base for some of the fratellos where eyes would be on me. Wherever my uncle and those top dogs are, total privacy is almost impossible as they all tend to make me their focus. I needed some alone time.

To think.

To feel. To not be the youngest member, and blood-soaked heir to the cursed dealings for once.

Sam blows into his hands. "It’s fucking freezing, Cal. Can we go back now?"

Not yet.

I don’t answer. I continue to dribble. The ball is dead. The cold leather is not bouncing right. It hits a patch of invisible ice near the free-throw line and skids. _Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

The sound is too loud in the empty park.

Sam is closely watching me. The same way he has been doing since he came here from the dorms at Trinity yesterday. He would much rather be at there to avoid my uncle. He is only here because I had pleadingly asked that he came.

And then I realized that I’m being selfish. Again. I should not have asked him to come here.

His presence is not deemed mandatory. Only mine is, and right now I can’t go through that without him. I don’t trust myself. otherwise I just might hold a gun in my uncle’s face for asking me here when I don’t want to be. When I’m not in the right frame of mind.

"You’ve fouled me six times." Sam says, breathing hard. His tone carrying more annoyance than concern. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing." I answer flatly.

Everything.

I keep dribbling, pretending that I am fine. That this is just another Christmas that would soon be over in a couple hours.

That I am just letting off steam before returning to where I currently do not want to be. I go for a shoot, and I miss short. Again.

Sam catches the rebound. "You used to make seven in a row. Now you can’t even make one." I take it back from him, too hard. My shoulder checks him and he stumbles.

He shoves me lightly. "Okay, what the hell? Say it."

I could say it.

That I tormented a girl because she did not see me as a fucking king. How I had taken pleasure in treating her like dirt.

And then destroying her because I fell for her and I handled it the wrongest, cruelest way ever. Not meaning for her to leave, and yet pushing her beyond limits. Doing things that I knew were impossible to correct and take back, but I did them anyway.

How I was too much of a coward to own up to it and utter not even a single damn word of apology to her. Even in this moment.

And now I am wondering how her Christmas is most probably not a normal one right now because of me. And how it is making me currently feel like I’m constantly ripping off a band-aid every second.

I don’t say any of that. I can’t. Because I can’t have him adding more judgement than the one I’m already giving to myself.

I drive for the basket—or try to. But my hand slips on the cold rim, and I land hard on my back on the wet concrete. My tee immediately starts soaking through. Slush cracking under my head and back.

I just lie there, not trying to get up just yet. Sam stands over me. Looking at me like I am crazy. "Calix."

"I’m fine." I say, almost believing it. He squats next to me. His expression telling that he does not buy it. "Like hell you are.

You are being really weird. You don’t game, you don’t eat. Is this perharps about that girl’s photo in that manila envelope I caught you staring at in your room yesterday?"

He caught on. Sam is way too perceptive for his own good. I can’t think of anything to dispell that. He grins cheekily. "I’m right aren’t I? Geez. You broke so many girls hearts. Now you feel like dying because one broke yours?" He laughs out loud like it’s a comedy show.

"Wipe it off. You seem like the biggest loser."

I am the biggest loser. He shoots. Swish of course.

I get up and pick up the ball again. Shooting again and again. Missing some on purpose. Because every miss seems like a little punishment.

Thinking that if I punish myself enough on this freezing, ugly, leftover-snow Christmas, maybe I won’t feel like a monster anymore. It nearly works. Sam stays, watching me miss ten in a row. I keep shooting, the ball keeps clanking. "Since you don’t want to talk, it is safe to assume that you can fix it, whatever it is." He remarks quietly.

If only that were true. It is never going to go away. Just like the grey slushes sitting around refusing to melt.

***********************

I’m panting, sweat coating my skin, hitting her stroke after stroke. I was finally starting to feel the buildup of climax for the first time in a while. I let out an unrestrained growl, increasing the pace of my thrusts, the pleasure intensifying. The call girl was moaning loud in skips under the onslaught.

Her large tits swaying and almost hitting her in the face. She raised her hips up to meet with me halfway. The sound of our skin coming together in a heavy smack filling the small space. I was almost there.

But then I notice that her moans starts to change. I look at her face, and what I saw immediately caused me to stop and pull out of her. Scared out of my wits. The spark of pleasure and desire extinguishing as I step away, putting feets distance between us.

"What, why—why did you stop?" She asks in burgeoning frustration. Her face and voice looking very much like hers now when they had been entirely different a second ago. Of course it’s in all my fucking head. Seeing and hearing her as Gweneth as though it was her under me.

A product of false vision and messed up imagination. I drag my hand down my face, feeling frustrated at myself.

"Are you going to leave me hanging? Let’s finish up." She urges. I want to do that too, but how can I when my dick has gone limp and cold? The tiny spark of desire that managed to ignite is now completely doused thanks to my guilty, erratic imagination. She gets up fully naked, coming towards me, perhaps attempting to get me back up again. I stop her, and start hurriedly putting on my clothes instead.

"Did I do something wrong?" She asks, confusion mixed with frustration etching itself on her face. Showing that she is not used to this kind of thing. Of course, she isn’t.

She is Honey, the most popular sex goddess in all of New York—so I heard. Truly, she is great. She got me into it.

No same man would leave a woman like her hanging. They would bang her to their deaths. And I’m not one of the sane ones.

"You didn’t do anything wrong." I say to her, opening my wallet and taking out some cash, putting it on the bed before leaving without looking back. It was outside the brothel club that I realized that I had already paid the pimp manager before booking her and I wasn’t supposed to pay again.

Oh well, she should consider it a "Breaching Fee" I enter my motorcycle and drive out of the red light district. I park at the Brooklyn bridge. Staying on the legde, looking into the dark ocean far below. My mind going to what it would be like to jump over, and crash into the water. It must be freezing.

Glad that Gweneth chose a rooftop to jump down from rather than a bridge. There is no way she could have been saved. What would I have done if it had happened?

Sam sends a text asking where I was, and that the lousy old man is flipping—because I missed the concierge meeting. Where lovely discussions would be discussed on where and who to start next year’s killing slew with. There would never an end to it. As there are always enemies.

He has not been so proud of me lately. And I frankly don’t give a shit. The thought comes in strong to call K and ask if he could somehow check on Gweneth. That is if he is in Florida.

I have been pushing it aside since. But now it feels as though I’m being compelled by the thought. I dial his number, the seconds he took to pick up felt like an hour.

"What took you so long?" I ask, irritatedly. "Are you still in Florida?"

"Yeah, why?" He is in a very noisy background that I can barely hear him.

"Could you help me check on her?" I raise my voice so I would not have to repeat.

"Who?"

"That girl."

"What girl?" Now I’m getting mad. If only it was possible to smack someone through a call.

"Are you drunk right now or you’re just messing with me?"

"Both."

"Well you better stop it."

"You wanted me to check on her?"

"It’s Christmas, and I need some recent photos to know if she is doing okay."

"She wouldn’t be. Don’t bother. Would you be if it was you? If you really want to know then fly over and come meet her yourself, and apologize while you’re at it. Bye-bye.

I have thought about that. A letter to the school board addressing the fact that it was me who did that and taking down the video is not enough. I know it isn’t.

Compensation for the physical and mental abuse I had put her through, and the tremendous loss.

But how can I do that when I can’t even bring myself face her? I won’t be able to look her in the eye even if she is right in front of me.

"It’s not that easy." I confessed. Telling myself that I want to, and actually doing so are two different things.

"If you can’t, then live with it. Bye-bye." He hangs up.

I knew that it would not be a good idea.

When an apology is too late, living with it is the only option. And I’m already doing that. Knowing about her now would only mess with it.

I should move on from it and hope that she does too. Hope that she never meets someone like me again in her life. That we never cross parts in the future.

I will be burning all those photos of her when I get home. And my twisted obsession along with it.

A thought hits as I grab my helmet, about to get on the motorcycle. Compensation? Maybe there is a way I can without having to see her.