A Stray Woman

Disturbed

It was more midday than morning, the sun slowly increasing in strength, blazing down merciless. Red plunged herself into the sweltering haze, riding the bike like she was pusued. That way, the pain in her throat was only lack of water, and the itching in her skin was only sweat breaking out and trickling down.

Sands heard the bike arrive at excessive speed, the wheels as – probably – Red made an abrupt stop. He relaxed more when the steps came closer, comforting him with their familiarity. The door opened, stirring the air when she slammed it shut again. A basket of groceries hit the floor, and the next thud was Red falling back against the door. "Oh fuck," she wheezed, breathing so heavy she could barely speak. Somehow she managed to continue with a strained chant, desperate and pleading, "Oh God, oh fuck, oh God, oh... fuck-fuck-fuck."

Her frantic chanting filled him with unease - Sands cut off the thought, but it didn't go away. Instead it spread through him like something rotten and foul, making his voice so dry his words came out as dust. "That explains a lot."

"Nothing to worry about," Red panted, "It's just a private freak-out." She grabbed the basket and heeaded to the kitchen, disturbing the house with her hyper-anxiety, banging and clattering and crashing everyting into its proper places. She gulped down water and splashed her face, then came back and wrestled off some clothes.

"You know," Red cast a rapid glance at Sands, sitting in the center of his bed, making a discordant picture; his slackness was like a coat, not able to disguise that he was wary- radiating restless energy. This meant trouble. Trouble, trapping, tangling, trashing toll- and she just couldn't concentrate. "I don't care about your mood," she announced, her tone shrill, and started to pace. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck those prissy fuckers! How can people be so cold in Mexico?" She walked round and round, striding, pacing, panicking.

"God! I need-"

Sands could almost feel his ears turning pointy, trying to read her movements, but the stupid teaser halted and her breathing steadied.

"You'll have to do."

"What?" His intense concentration shattered.

"I want some comfort. You're the only available source."

When Sands smirked, she carried on, "I can tell you're not ...happy. You can't stand me, can you?" The sounds she made didn't make sense. Was she climbing onto the the chest of drawers?

"Oh honey, don't beat yourself up about that. Your boobs aren't big enough, otherwise... You're just adorable."

"If it wasn't pointless, I would be flipping you the finger." There was almost warmth in her voice, but it turned feverish as she continued, "You know what I'm doing now? I'm getting your gun. I need to calm down and I don't give a fuck what you feel. Of course you don't like me, you're in my hands. And don't think for a second that I don't know how dangerous you are."

A force seethed in Sands, hot, dark, comforting. Red took a deep breath. It didn't satisfy her though; when she spoke, she still felt sore and empty. "I'm starved."

Something intense woke and rose, forcing its way out through her contracted throat."I need ...closeness." Then she stilled, letting everything subside into silence. When she finally spoke, she was hard and matter-of-fact.

"I want you to hold me, and I want to pretend I'm safe." The sound of the safety catch cracked the air. "Lay down on the bed."

Sands hesitated, immobile. Why couldn't the damned woman be consistent? The air started to quiver again, tension building, until Red snapped, "I'm coming to pieces here!"

Her frantic energy was back. Not good. Not good, not good, not good.

"Lay dow- not on you back! One your side. Face me!"

Sands was burning. Red was sweaty heat, plastered to him, face buried against his throat, and there was no way she was getting away with this. He mouthed it in her hair.

"No. Fucking. Way."

Her presence was a force, hard, bristling, accompanied by the pressure of a cold muzzle digging into the back of his head, while her other arm snaked under his armpit. Slowly she calmed, and started to soften - except for the hand holding the gun. Bad sign, but fuck – may God screw him if he didn't find a way to take advantage of this.

He listened to her breathing, counting to a hundred and one. Well, ending at a hundred and one... a teensy bit of cheating did him good. Then -

Slowly, slowly, fingers skating small circles.

Her skin was still clammy, and her hair was damp from sweat ...a sweet scent, mingled with dust. He nudged a bit, hips closer,tiny, tiny movements still not a reaction still those slow deep-

"I do have some issues." It was a soft tickle by his throat.

"No shit."

"Yeah," Sands' drawl made her smile, contradicting her next words, when she said, drowsy, but still serious, "You better slow down those hands, amigo."

"Oh yeah? Well, sweetheart…" A hand drifted lower. "I'm thinking this is rather nice."

Red propped herself up on one elbow (the other arm still pressed his own fucking gun against his own fucking head) and just looked at him. Her gaze felt heavy; it made his face itch and his body tense. She let out a soft sound of compassion, but it reached his ears as acid. It infuriated him, making him seethe with anger, before it turned to poison in his blood. That enabled him to give Red his sweetest smile (own standards, of course), while he let his hands intrude, roaming over her.

Red jolted fully awake, slamming Sands down onto his back, the gun now hard against his temple.
"Stop it!" she hissed, but Sands' smirk only widened, so she drove her knee into his groin, driving the breath out of him, shutting him down.

She slumped against him, breath ragged in his face. "Stop it," she repeated, her voice low, raw. "You..." her head bent forward, grazing his forehead. "Fuckass..."

There was no anger in her words, just desolation. She rolled away, putting a safe distance between them.

"I'm... can't-" She moved further away, flipping the safety back on. "I feel empathy. Get used to it."