The sex is bad.
Not that she would know. She was a virgin.
They had an exciting time getting her dress off, but the actual act borders on betrayal. His accent tastes better than this. It's not that it doesn't feel good—it does—it just doesn't feel fantastic. Whether describing it as a magical adventure, an hunger, a thirst, or a fun pasttime, all parties seem to agree on one thing—sex is supposed to be fantastic.
But what if they're all wrong?
Or worse. Exaggerating. After all, they want it to sell, don't they? Who would buy something good when they could have something fantastic? Therein the true crime lies. Hyperbole kills both reality and creativity, leaving nothing but expectation. For all she knows, and what she is starting to believe, the sex isn't bad at all. In fact, maybe it's quite great.
And the more she thinks it's fantastic, the more fantastic it becomes.
Then thinking becomes too difficult for her altogether, and all she can do is feel. They're a slow-motion accident. They grip the bedsheets and gasp for air. His lips are a split-second away from hers, and she feels him gasp her name. Prick of pain, a rush of blood, and rain pounds against her windowpane.
She thinks she's in shock. She thinks they both are.
Steve leans over, kisses her cheek. She hears a rustle of sheets, hears him slip out of bed, pad out of the room. A minute later, she hears the shower running. She lies in bed, covers pulled up over her breasts, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing pattern readjust.
Slowly, she slides out of bed. Standing is more difficult than she could've imagined, but instead of retreating back to the sanctuary of her bed and cowering in surrender beneath the covers, she walks defiantly to the bureau and throws open a drawer. Pain was never an object. One perk of being an underwear model is free lingerie. She keeps it all in a drawer, useless to her. She digs through this drawer now. For once, she's glad she never threw it all out like she was meaning to. She has no clue what she has. A treasure trove of the last season's lingerie, she discovers.
She finds something fluffy and cream-colored. She pulls it out for a closer look. Apparently, it's a bra. The sheer amount of frills is so revolting, it's almost impressive. There's a cream-colored bow over each nipple. It's absurd. It hurts her soul. It's perfect. She figures, What the Hell.
She slams the drawer shut. To the closet now. She throws it open and searches frantically. Her closet reads like some unwritten book called An Illustrated Guide to the Tragically Hip, and, somehow, none of it seems right. She pushes the clothes aside, pulls out a hefty cardboard box. The box is ancient, hidden in a closet's back corner for years. She digs through the box. A floral pink sundress, a smashed china tea set, a stuffed panda, an old school uniform. A good-sized collection of track pants and sports bras that are fashion abhorrent. Years of bitterness and repressed memories. Yellow ribbons, white puffballs, a mass assortment of chunky bracelets. Everything is pink. Everything that is not pink has a cute animal on it. Every hood has a pair of ears sewn to it.
She finds a pair of jeans. The seams are pulled apart about a foot on each leg. The hem is shredded. She undergrew most things in this box, but not these. She insisted on wearing them despite the fact that they were too small. They're pockmarked with grass stains, holes, and shredded denim, and they look like a thousand days of playing out-of-doors—or maybe in a warzone. She closes her eyes. Instantly, she can remember carnivals and kisses and walks in the forest at midnight and tearstains and disappointments and a thousand sunny days she enjoyed and another thousand she didn't.
She bundles the jeans tight against her chest and kicks the box back into the closet. Any moment, her legs will collapse from the effort of movement.
The clothes fit. Well, in fact. She looks at herself in the mirror. She wishes she had accepted that offer to get her hair bronzed, but, other than that, she looks alright. She arranges an elegant bump of hair at the forefront of her head and pins it somewhere in the back. Her hair is straight almost to a fault, even in the morning or as it is now. She pulls it into some sort of messy bun.
To the make-up drawer now. A clatter sounds as the forgotten tubes and bottles roll around. She picks a tube of creamy cream-colored liquid eyeliner from the assortment of drugstore brands and stares at it as if she can't remember how to operate such a complicated piece of equipment. It's been a long time since she's had to do her own make-up. She lines her eyes in black and paints her lashes with mascara. She thoroughly coats her lips in some ambiguous, shimmery-colored lip gloss.
She stares at her reflection. Fox Xiaoyu. She likes the way that sounds. She turns it over in her head.
She places her hand over the place where he kissed her cheek. Not too long ago, she remembers, that cheek was smeared with blood.
She marches into the bathroom. The shower is still running. Steve? she calls. He pokes his head out from behind the shower curtain. A reply sits on the tip of his tongue, behind his lips, but then he sees her. His eyes widen, but not comically so, and his mouth hangs slightly ajar, but not wide enough for the reply to roll out of his mouth and onto the floor.
And he falls.
Figuratively and literally because then he trips and falls in the shower like an elderly person. A wordless laugh bubbles in the back of her throat. Why aren't I going over to help him? she thinks. Before she can worry too hard, she sees his shadow climb to its feet. He turns off the shower. Are you okay? she asks because she feels obligated to.
"Don't worry about it," he says, reaching out his scarred arm and grabbing a towel from her towel rack. "I should've known you'd come in here looking like bloody Helen of Troy when she launched all those ships." He wraps the towel around his waist and steps out of the shower. "What were you going to ask me?" His bare chest glistens. She looks at him as if it's impossible for her to take him seriously.
Get dressed, you whore. I can't think when you look like that. He grins.
"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," he tells her, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
It's one of the only things I've ever said to you, she thinks as he exits the room.
The mirror is fogged. She wipes away some of the condensation with the back of her hand. Her reflected self looks like it's disgusted with her. Like maybe a smile has lodged itself in the back of her throat, but she's too stubborn to cough it up. Her heart was turning to stone, but now she can just float.
It suddenly occurs to her that she was hungry, once upon a time. Rapaciously so, actually. This is what happens when a girl is forbidden from eating the juicy red props she is then forced to work with all day because it will make her fat/ruin her teeth/make-up/life. She can hear vaguely Steve-like noises coming from her bedroom. She decides to go in search of sustenance.
She turns the kitchen light on. Steve emerges wearing those same jeans and that same brick red T-shirt. He sits at her kitchen table as if he belongs there and glances curiously at the pile of unopened letters. The pile has begun to spill over onto the floor. He stretches out in his chair, laces his fingers behind his head, and watches her frantically run around opening and shutting cupboard doors. Amusement curls at the corners of his mouth. He's looking at her as if he could look at her all day.
Her cupboards are bare. She opens the fridge. It is also bare, save a few cartons of Chinese take-out. Her left eye twitches in frustration. She slams the refrigerator door shut, then opens it right back up again. She glares at the inside of her refrigerator as if to scold it for not magically growing food in her absence. Why don't I have any food? she wonders to herself. Angrily, she seizes the first two take-out containers she can get her hands on and slams the fridge shut with even more force than the first time. She rips open her silverware drawer, retrieves a pair of forks, and slams it shut again with a rattle.
She slams a carton of Chinese take-out down onto the table in front of him. The pair of forks clatters to the table. She slams down the other carton as well. The room is oddly still as she drops without looking into an available chair. She slumps down in her seat, folds her arms across her chest, and pouts a bit. Why do you look less surprised than I am that this is all I have to eat in my apartment? she asks. Steve dines and says nothing. She's famished, but the thought of actually eating is somehow repulsive to her at the moment.
. . . However. Watching in silence as Steve eats reminds her of how good the stuff tastes when it's warm. She inspects the label on her carton. Szechwan noodles. Her carton is greasy. She opens it. It would appear that her noodles have disintegrated into rice.
"So is this how you models stay so skinny?" Steve asks between bites. "Refrigerated take-out?" She glowers at him as if to say, Me and my Chinese take-out are none of your business, and shoves a forkful of noodles/rice into her mouth. She forces herself to swallow. The noodles/rice seem to stick in her throat. She takes another bite and makes a face.
I'm eating this on the basis that I need to eat something, she tells him. Despite her words, she is simply unable to choke down another bite and sets the carton back down on the table. She looks honestly baffled by her own actions. She watches Steve in what could be fascination. This man confuses her, and she's not quite sure what to do about it.
He finishes off whatever was in his carton. She clears her throat. It's not in her nature to disturb the status quo—even if the status quo is recurring tension and constant unhappiness. It's not in her nature to dig beneath the surface. What if she likes the surface? Peace, even a superficial peace, is preferable to confrontation, and, if everyone else is going to pretend that nothing is wrong, well, so will she. If she cares about someone, loves someone, she will forgive them over and over and over again, no matter how angry she is.
She always wants to be the cool girl, the girl who never asks questions and takes whatever she's given. But even if she never asks questions and takes whatever she's given, eventually the cool girl will get bored. Bored with the same type of misery over and over again. Bored and sick.
Steve? He looks up from what was a rather pensive expression. Help me. Explain to me what happened tonight.
"Which part?" he asks dryly.
Let's start at the beginning, she says, and maybe we'll . . . continue from there. And please don't try to tell me this has nothing to do with you. She simpers. You are a Tekken fighter, after all.
He says, "The Mafia is after me," and sounds very bored.
This she does not expect. And she knows she should tell him, Leave. Get out of my apartment before you get me killed or I beat you to death with a scented candle. But she picks up the twin Chinese take-out cartons—his empty, hers full—and walks to the sink without saying a word. She throws the pair of forks into the sink. They clink against the stainless steel basin. One falls half into the garbage disposal. She throws both cartons—empty and full—into the trash. Her arm starts bleeding. She could swear she's imagining it. She runs her finger over the scratch and gapes at the blood. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together. She thinks she's cut herself on silence. The blood feels like oil between her fingers.
She digs the fork out of the garbage disposal, turns on the cold tap. You seem very calm about all of this, she says over the sound. She hand-washes the pair of forks in cold water, and ribbons of blood run from her fingers and into the drain.
Steve moves to stand at the counter. "Believe me, sweet, I'm not. I suppose I've just had time to get used to it." She turns off the tap. "I've been dodging them for . . . Blimey. For a long time." A towel hangs from the fridge door handle, and she dries the forks.
Must you persist in your use of inane British slang? she asks because she can't help it.
"Since before my first tournament."
What? she asks because she's lost the thread of their conversation.
"I said I've been dodging the Mob since before my first tournament," he calls. She drops both forks on her foot and yelps.
She stands and stares at him with wide eyes, the towel hanging limply from her right hand. This man is a god, she thinks.
Clearly, you're a god, she tells him. And she's thinking that falling for someone with the Mob after them is plain impractical and decides against it.
She kicks the forks and moves to stand at the counter. One skids beneath the refrigerator. She hears the other clank and go still. Now she stands opposite him, nothing but a counter between them, and she's wondering what the fuck's up with her hands and the way they won't stop shaking unless she fiddles sadistically with the soggy, tattered dish towel clenched in her fist.
But, baby, she whispers, wouldn't entering all those tournaments paint a big, bright bull'seye on your back? She narrows her left eye and aims an imaginary gun at his head. She fires this imaginary gun with a wink and a winning smile and blows on her loaded finger.
"Entering tournaments seems to be the only way to get them to take a holiday," he tells her. "I think they keep hoping I'll die." She coughs. "While we're on the subject of guns, where is yours?" She gives him a blank look and pulls a gun the size of a make-up jar out of her back pants pocket. Transferring the gun from one outfit to the next is so natural to her that she's not even aware she's done it most of the time. She feels more naked without her gun than she does wearing nothing but her panties on a billboard.
She replaces the gun in her pockets and says, Well, Fox, what shall we do with you—still alive after all these years?
"Surviving is what I do best," he tells her with a winning smile of his own. "Surviving the Mafia. Surviving tournaments. I'm a pro, sunshine. Besides, I should be asking you the same thing."
We seem to have that in common, you and I. Surviving tournaments, I mean. She stares at the dish towel she still holds crumpled in both hands.
"But you got out," he says, giving her a stare so cold and dark she thinks she may melt.
Yes, she answers, I got out, and feels like a selfish twit. And suddenly it's all she can do to not take her perfectly manicured nails and dig them into her wrists until it all stops hurting so damned much.
She buries her face in the dish towel. "Hey." Steve lifts her chin and gently removes the towel from her tremulous fingers. She has no choice but to face him, and she's relieved to see he has perfect teeth. She turns away from him because the concern in his eyes is slicing her open. Don't look at me like that, she begs. At the end of this, she still wants her selfish pride.
He kisses her, and she pulls away. Listen, Fox—
He grabs a handful of her hair and kisses her again. "Shut up, Ling."
The counter between them soon becomes a problem. Steve reaches across the expanse, wraps both hands around her waist, and neatly lifts her onto the countertop. She really is small, he realizes. Slender almost to the point of thinness and even shorter without those wild heels. She's on her knees, thighs spread across his hips, and pressing herself against every part of him she can. Why had she told him to get dressed again? Her hands find their way beneath the hem of his shirt. He's more lean than muscular, and she entertains herself with the abs she knows are gorgeous even if she isn't able to view them at the moment. He lifts her off the counter.
The only man she dated since coming here left their first date thoroughly convinced that she was made of ice or bronze or some equally cold, hard substance and never called her again.
Steve's hands are on her ass, pushing her rough against him. "Ling, you're exceptional." His voice is hot against her neck. She pauses.
I don't seem to you made of stone? she asks against his lips.
"No," he answers emphatically. "No, no, no." The words are a caress. "You're not made of stone. You're made of flesh and blood and bone and—" He kisses her again because he needs to. "You're soft and warm and . . . and beautiful . . ." Her skin intoxicates him, and he decides that talking is becoming too difficult for him.
Xiaoyu digs her nails into his shoulderblade. Keep talking, she breathes. His lips pinch against her jawline. She gasps. Oh, shut up, shut up, keep talking! There's an urgency in her voice he can't ignore. He talks between kisses, between the moments when he can't help but touch her, and he's wondering if all those ruffles will make it harder to unhook her bra.
Then her floor-to-ceiling picture window explodes, and gunfire roars into the room.