Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

the bathroom. We still have to work today. Somewhere in the haze of last night, she said she had errands. That's easy enough, if not a little mundane. Errands suck with a hangover, no matter how you look at it. And if the first time this happened is any indication, the day could be spent in awkward silence.

By the time I lean against the wall, any hint of erection is gone.

When I enter the dining room, I can see Maria at the stove in the kitchen. She's wearing the shorts and the Rancid shirt that she must have found on the floor whenever she woke up. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail, and her head is bobbing to music flowing softly from some portable speakers. The song is some strange mixture of bluegrass, punk, and Big Band, and somehow it suits her perfectly.

She doesn't notice me, or if she does she doesn't show it, so for a moment I just watch her. She's in her element, comfortable, flipping some vegetables in a sauté pan, lost in her music and the moment. This is what she used to be, before she had to build a bunch of walls and conform to a standard.

“Whatever you're doing smells awesome,” I say as I step into the kitchen.

She doesn't miss a beat, not with the song or the sauté. She doesn't look at me either. She makes a small smile, and says, “I didn't have much to work with, but of course it'll be awesome.”

That attitude, it used to drive me crazy. Lately, it grates on my nerves, but just now, it makes me want to pin her against the stove and fuck her until she says sorry. She's only a few feet away from my reach.

I pull a glass from the cabinet with lazy grace, like I've been in her cabinets a hundred times. I need water, now. I fill the glass from the tap and kill it, fill it again. I kill that, too.

My normal response to her more often than not is to be a dick, but that doesn't seem fitting, so I'm a little lost. I'm not sure if she's pretending this is normal, or if she really is at ease.

Right. Who could be tense after all that fucking? I fill the glass again, but don't drink it.

The clock on the stove says 10:45, so I say, “Thought you had errands at 9:30.”

Now there's a catch in her rhythm, and she looks at me. There's something heavy in her eyes, something that threatens the momentary Zen she has found for herself. I hate it that I said it. Then she looks away, grabbing a spice bottle from her rack.

She's quiet, not so mean, when she says, “They'll wait.”

Reality, suspended. That's what she wants, what she needs. What she's always needed. She was bred into a hard life, born with a gun and no room for fear. She could never tell me as much. Maybe she hasn't admitted it to herself, but I can damn sure tell she wasn't ready for me to be what she needs. How does she not know that I've always been ready?

Maybe she does.

“I guess they already are waiting,” I say, eyeing the contents of the pan.

White onions and red peppers, chopped garlic, and she's pouring in egg. She lets the dish linger, lets the mixture set up, as she grabs a big wooden spoon from a nearby canister. She has to feel me watching her. She always has, but whatever defenses she's developed allow her to ignore me, a foreign body in her inner sanctuary. Well, not exactly foreign.

Just now, I won't desecrate the holy of holies. Most of my days are filled with angst and denial, and some emotion that I sometimes believe is hatred. It's not. It's just denial. That's painfully obvious now, as she reminds me why I've always loved her.

She scrapes the flat-ended spoon around the pan in a broad circle, and her expression doesn't crack when she says, “Everyone waits for Sleeping Beauty.”

Again, I'm considering sacrificing the meal to grab her up and handle her. Most of the reason I don't is because I think that's what she wants me to do. In just a matter of hours, I'm wondering what the fuck just happened. Is it really that all I ever had to do to get what I want, was to take it?

I step up behind her, not quite touching, and I look down at the pan over her shoulder – like I haven't already seen it. Her steady stirring doesn't stop, but I know her attention is on me. That she's allowing me this close – it's almost a red flag. Like a flag would stop me.

I make sure my lips are next to her ear to say, “I have noticed.”

Then I step back, and walk back into the dining room. I would love to see her reaction, but it's not worth ruining the play. Her weed box is still on the table, and the blunt is still in the ashtray. I think a little wake-and-bake is in order.

Chapter 13 Atlas

Joshua

Turns out, Maria's day isn't all that busy, whether it's because she somehow cleared it, or she was bluffing last night. Though I don't know a lot of details about her personal life anymore, I know enough to recognize that a light day is a rare occurrence for her.

It's noon, and she's in the shower. As we ate, she admitted to me that she does actually need me today, but it's just for a quick meeting with receiving, to sign off on a delivery time. It's not even that official, but…it’s noon and she hasn't heard from Freddy. Someone has to go with her, and I'll be damned before I leave that responsibility to the lower ranks. She made mostly small talk after that.

I'm standing at the kitchen sink, and