Title: Epilogue
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Please don't kill me. I'd love to hear what you have to say about my sad, sad tale.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Rating: M
Pairing: Tristan/Rory
Summary: A sad Trory tale of falling in love all over again.
Spoilers: Post - 'Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out'
Distribution: My sites, otherwise just ask.
Warning: Sap, sadness, terror, rape, character death, the whole schibang. This fic is utterly brutal. Please heed my warning. This fic is not for the faint of heart.
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"You know you are in love when you see the world in her eyes, and her eyes everywhere in the world." -- David Levesque
It had been the most amazing day.
He found her on a warm autumn day. The trees were rainbows, raining down leaves and petals of color, soft and gentle, tenderly floating to the ground. They lined the streets and the sidewalks, the wind sending them skittering from here to there. She loves beautiful days like these, when she can read a book in some random park, beneath a tree, and its litter of petal rain. The fall has blessedly extended into November this year, adding color where otherwise there might be nothing but white. Snow and sludge ugly; falling leaves no contest.
Sometimes she's optimistic, and states that whatever season the world is in is her favorite. But the truth of it is, fall is her favorite time. When school starts, everyone excited about new classmates and new erasers. But those school days are gone for her now, over, as if in the blink of an eye. She has the memories, especially those in the fall, when whispy bits of her hair would gently sway across her face from the light wind of the season.
Autumn is definitely her time.
But Tristan was not thinking about the beauty of the season, about the amazement of weather patterns. All he was thinking was that he'd just seen a mighty fine piece of ass saunter by him on her way to somewhere, when what she should be doing was falling into his arms. It was her that he'd spotted, and as he followed her, walking a good ten feet behind, step for step, for nine blocks, he started to see the resemblances of a girl he once knew. A girl he never got to kiss goodbye.
Finally, he realized that it was her. That it was Rory Gilmore, the fire of his sixteen year-old loins. He tried to move past her. Really, he did. But it was a fruitless effort, for she is amazing, and beautiful does not even begin to describe her attributes. He knows this, and what makes it really great is that she doesn't. She is totally unaware of how her innocence and spunk can seduce a man to his knees. She floats through life, riding the roller coaster of one failed relationship after another. Dean, Jess, Logan... It's all wrong, because none of them is him.
He is absolutely certain he is the one for her, that he has always been, and will always be. He reached the end of the nine blocks, continuing to stalk her and trying to stay invisible, should she turn around.
She did turn around, and he ducked behind a bus stop bench. She looked around, stepping in a very slow circle, as if admiring all the wonders around her for the first time. Maybe every time for her is like that. Bambi-like. He envies that about her. Being so sweet, so innocent, it makes things fresh and exciting. Being over-experienced and jaded makes the world all look the same.
All girls look the same. At least they do to him. All of his conquests blur together, making a swirl like liquid sprinkles. Their laughs, their flirtation techniques , their moans in the bedroom... all are essentially the same, because none of them is the one. The one that got away.
Now that she was finished turning in her slow circle, she headed into the large public library. When she glanced back on her way up the entrance steps, perhaps feeling someone staring her way, he immediately ducked further and tied and untied his shoelaces, repeatedly. Nervous habit. Always has been. It's saved him more than once, however. ("Nope, didn't see a thing. I was tying my shoe.") He made the rabbit ears that come together and cross over one another to create the secure knot, and suddenly he was five years old again, so unsure of himself, but pleased to be able to tie a damn good shoelace bow.
The Hartford Library was a place he would frequent these days. In his down time at Military School, he got bored a lot. He needed something that wasn't so mind-numbingly routine. How many shirts could you fold, how many times can you call someone "Sir", how many times can you practice a salute, how many chores around the school could there possibly be to do? The monotony of his days all swam together, and he was floundering, lost in the oblivion of it all. He struggled for the first year, depressed, in a slump. No skirts to chase, no random sex. No place to jerk off. He lost a hold of his fantasies, and became utterly numb.
The world he was living in prepared him for war. To be strong, to be smart, to be ready at the drop of a hat. Strictness and rules were God; laziness, softness was something not to be tolerated. He got so caught up in his world that there was nothing else: nothing fun, nothing rebellious, nothing different, ever. He needed an outlet, he needed to reclaim an identity.
"Sir, yes, Sir" here and there, salute to the officers, fold the corner of your sheet underneath the mattress just so, smooth out any wrinkles in your bed. Every single day. Everything was fixed, everything was routine. He wasn't learning much. He was just letting go.
One day, a buddy of his walked into his dorm and tossed a book onto Tristan's chest. "You've got to read this book, man," said his friend. "It fucking changed my life."
Not bothering to sit up in bed, where he had been lying and ruffling the paper thin comforter with his movements (breaking the rules -- ooh, what a rebel), Tristan grabbed the book off of his chest, and brought it before his face where he stared at the plain as day cover. 'The Five People You Meet in Heaven'. Intrigued, he began to flip through the pages.
"It's all yours, man," said his friend. "I've got another copy. Enjoy it. For real."
Tristan had never been one for books. Of any kind. But something happened that day. His boredom slowly began to soak up, as if through a sponge. This sponge, which had previously been bone dry, began to expand with something radically new. New people, a whole new world illustrated by words in pages, on paper. He had been so cut off from everything -- his friends, his family -- tucked neatly away where no one had to think of him anymore, and he had truly lost himself, lost his zest for life. In this book, he began to find himself again.
He began checking out the school library, tearing into it, checking out as many as ten books at a time. He became addicted. He kissed the poison of that school away as he drowned in other, better worlds day by day, worlds with color, interesting people, heart-stopping situations. Life, death, heaven, hell. It was all at his fingertips, and he couldn't believe he had never found a book this way before.
He would set up the books into an order. Least favorite to favorite, he would stack them -- guessing at which ones he would like best, based on the cover. Yes, he committed the cardinal sin, he judged a book by its cover. Many books by many covers. Until he delved inside and discovered that covers didn't matter.
Arranging the books in piles, he would read from the one he was least interested in to the one he was most interested in, chapter by chapter, reading all the books at once. His roommate thought he was crazy, but it kept it from becoming boring. Stepping into one world, getting a glimpse, and then finding himself immersed in another as soon as the chapter was over. It was his GameBoy. It was his TV. It was his connection to the outside world. It was where he found his spirit, his heart again.
His heart that had stopped pumping blood for a year was suddenly reawoken. He was wondering again about the life he left behind. With that wonder came memories. Some good, some bad. Most importantly, Rory.
He felt a common connection with her now, having come to understand her love of reading. He felt close to her, even if he was so far away. He replayed so many of their banter scenarios in his head, always giving himself the upper hand. It would get him hot and bothered, and then he'd hide beneath the sheets, stroking himself off at the thought of her face, of her hair, of her parted lips. He was miserable about the thought that he may never see her again, but a man could dream as long as there was nothing to stomp that dream down into the ground.
He got through his high school hell, and graduated from military school. He had read over a hundred books, and lived in over a hundred worlds. All of them sought the love of Rory.
And so he was upon her now, years later, in Hartford, of all places. He'd come home and settled with the folks again, hating it, but not knowing what else to do. It was hard to get integrated back into the society that he had so briskly been rushed out of. The thought of living with any of his old buddies just didn't sit well with him. The thought of living on his own scared him, for he had felt so very alone at military school, and was terrified of reaching again that same state of numb. Living with his parents was frustrating, it was hell in a house, but at least it made him feel alive. His heart was beating again.
Rory had entered the fancy Hartford Public Library, breezing past the glass doors, into the realm of her biggest fantasy: books, books, and more books. Tristan's heart lurched in his throat, nearly to the point of gagging. Here she was, his wildest dream, right before him, and he was too much of a pussy to make his presence known. What if she rejected him? What if she didn't? What if she didn't remember him? What if she did? What if he walked away right now, forever to blame for leaving that tantalizing beauty to some other schmuck just because he was afraid? He'd never been afraid before, of anything, really, until that last day at Chilton when he said goodbye to her. He left her, afraid that they would never meet again.
Tristan hardened his chiseled jaw. He was going in.
"Hello, Tristan," said Mrs. "Call me Becky" as he passed the checkout counter. He nodded to her and smirked like sex in a smile. She grinned in admiration. He had to throw her a bone now and again. Middle aged and married. Two strikes. The poor thing. His once a week visits seemed to keep her entertained. He would be such a ham sometimes, browsing a shelf of books straight across from the checkout counter, leaning his weight on arms stretched onto the counter, sticking his tight little butt out towards her. Oh yeah. He was one moan away from getting a dollar in a g-strap.
And two shelves over was a selection of children's books. Somehow the story now lacked its luster, and he was disturbed. He looked at those books as he passed by, though, intrigued, wondering how old Rory was when she learned how to read a book like this. One, two months? Yeah.
He picked up a book that instructed you to match a picture to a color. It was divided into two slots that you could turn separately, to match them up like on a slot machine. He flipped through it, somehow interested. He couldn't say why he chose to look so closely at that book on that day, except that maybe it was fate.
"Eric Carle," came the silky smooth voice from behind him. "My favorite childhood author." Tristan turned his head and lo and behold, there stood one Miss Rory Gilmore.
She had bangs now.
"This is the stuff you're reading now? Gotta say, it's a step up from the fitness magazines."
She had bangs now.
His head couldn't keep up with his eyes. I mean, he knew he had followed her in here, but hadn't thought of the possibility that she would actually see him, come up to him, talk to him. Recognize him. Look at him like she's looking now, her cheeks flushed pleasantly and her mouth curved up in a soft smile; hair wavy, as if from some convertible commercial, driving along in the desert, steaming and sexy.
"Do you need me to help you sound out the words?" she asked, stepping forward to grab another book by the same author.
Tristan couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was so quickly leaking out his cool in the form of sweat bands along his forehead. How much heat could a library take?
"Rory Gilmore," he voiced finally when she was beginning to look at him a bit strange. The words did not hold the confidence and suave passion that he had meant for them. He was disappointed in himself. He cleared his throat, handing her the book, and got a hold of himself. "How long's it been?"
"Awhile," she said conversationally, shyly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. That ear. That lobe. He wanted it. In his mouth. "So, what have you been up to? Hanging around kids or something?"
Tristan frowned, confused. His eyebrows lifted. "Oh. The book. No. It just called to me."
"My mom's shampoo does that."
"Still as weird as ever, aren't you?" That's it you sly dog. Now his voice started to gain confidence, assuredness, a sly quality. Like a slithering snake: predator.
"Actually I don't think that's quite fair. Surely the shampoo has to be the weird one in this situation."
He gave her a very genuine smile. One he didn't even realize he'd let slip. "I remember how you are. I love that about you."
Rory seemed embarrassed. She turned to the book she held in her hands. "Are you a fan of Eric Carle? He does the writing and the illustrations. He's such a talented artist. He was my favorite author in kindergarten."
She was talking so quickly, just like old times. Tristan willed his brain to keep up.
"My favorite Eric Carle book, it's called 'The Very Quiet Cricket', and at the end of the book, it chirps. Literally, the book chirps. My teacher warned us to let that chirp sparingly because it would run out. Everyone else in the class had worn the sound out of their copy by the end of the year. But mine? It'll chirp to this day."
"Impressive, Mary."
"Ooh, with the name calling already? Speedo."
"Did you just call me a form of swim wear?" He loved this. The banter, coming back. All of his conversations with people lately had been dull snoozers, with no snap in the whip whatsoever. He had been blank, sterile, as if drugged. Interesting to no one.
"I'll have you know that that word stands for pterodactyl in a different language."
"What language?"
"Mine."
"You wrote a language?"
She nodded, excited. He loved being the reason for her excitement. It put blush into her cheeks, livened her up even more. Why was she being so nice to him? "I made one up after I read 'The Lord of the Rings'. Tolkien syndrome when I was eight. It didn't last long, though. My mother sucked at the translation, and when she wouldn't even speak it with me anymore, let alone the whole town, I decided it was a boring task and moved onto the next one, which I'm still working on."
"What's the next task?"
"To meet Wonder Woman."
Smiling so easily, Tristan felt the urge to bury her in a bear hug, but fought it. The simplest thoughts of the way they used to be made him refrain from getting too friendly and touching her. She quite literally loathed him in those high school halls, rolling those beautiful cerulean eyes every time his face popped up. He'd like to see her eyes rolling, but not from that kind of stimulation.
"What are you up to, Mary?"
"Whatever do you mean, Joseph? I'm here to find books."
"School books?"
"Um, n -- no, no. I don't need school books."
"Ever the prepared girl scout."
Rory smirked and set the book in her hand down on the nearest shelf. "I don't need school books because I'm not going to school."
"Today?"
"At all."
"What? Rory, what... what happened to you?"
Rory sobered up from her smiles, sighed. "That seems to be the million dollar question these days. And I... don't know. I lost myself somewhere last term. I seem to be stumbling in the dark."
Tristan had never known her to be anything but sure of herself, of her life, of her future. "Did you make it to Harvard?"
"Yale. I chose Yale. What about you?" she asked, wanting to thrust the spotlight away from her and her sad little life.
"Being a lazy ass. Not going to school, either. Haven't set foot inside a classroom since high school graduation. That school broke me, whipped me into something I didn't recognize. I guess I'm lost in the dark, too."
"What are you doing in Hartford?"
"Staying with the parental units."
"Oh."
Tristan could feel some sort of unresolved sexual tension crackling in the air between them. Perhaps she didn't hate him as much as she'd like; perhaps she understood him better, now that she had stepped off her pedestal shaped like a soapbox. Now that she was not so perfect, and now that it was years later, and because he didn't kiss her goodbye, perhaps her heart was singing the same song that existed in his. This song of finding a lost love that never got to blossom. She was smiling at him vaguely, seeming to enjoy his presence.
"You don't seem as annoyed as you always used to," he voiced with some reluctance.
"I'm not annoyed yet. I think you're setting a record here."
Tristan smiled. How he loved to smile for her. "You seem to feel like me, dear Mary. Like you're headed nowhere."
"They'll be debating that on Oprah at four. Or was it Dr. Phil? Which would make you feel less like you want to hang yourself?"
Tristan felt an unfamiliar wave of compassion, and boldly stepped forward to draw Rory into his embrace. He circled his arms around her neck and hugged her close, gently, intimately, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, her deoderant, her skin. Her lovely, pale, porcellain skin that shimmered with life and beauty. She was the very picture of beautiful to him, even now, years later, after confessing to calling out for her in his dreams: Rory... Rory! Hugging her close, he gave her a kiss on the top of her head affectionately. He noted with some joy that she seemed to relax in his grip, and didn't pull away.
"I've missed you, Mary," he confessed, thinking of so much empty folding, robotic respectful "Sir's", triangle shaped folds beneath a mattress. That place gave him the much sought-after skills of a motel cleaning position. Surely now he was set for life.
Rory was surprised at his so obvious show of affection, and a bit perturbed, but she accepted his affections and the smooth slide of his arms around her prim neck. He seemed different now, changed. What had military school done to him?
"Mary... I've got to say, I'm happy to see you."
"Well of course you are. I tend to leave quite an impression."
"Like tire marks in the snow, Mary."
Rory inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, recognizing it from sometime long ago. She pulled away from the hug gently, and looked into Tristan's face that had grown older. A thin white wifebeater clung to his chest, jeans snugly wrapped around his bottom half. He wore a necklace that appeared to hold dog tags, like those of pilots in the navy. His hair was as she remembered it, a bit more wild, perhaps, less gelled down. He seemed different. Changed. She felt like she could actually like him now, or at least think more of him, not detest him so.
"You seem different," Rory voiced openly, her brow furrowing in trying to identify just what kind of change she meant.
"I am different. You're different, too. We've grown."
"Not apart, I don't think."
"Really?" Tristan grinned, that cocky, snide smile of his. The way she was looking at him, he felt like sex on legs. "You think we've grown closer together?"
Rory nearly snorted. "How could we have grown closer? We haven't even been around each other."
Tristan nodded, still smiling, as if in a daze. He couldn't believe his Mary was standing right in front of him. "What are you up to today?" he asked, his eyes that were drinking her in full of wonder.
"Checking out some books, ignoring my cell phone, throwing darts at a picture of my boyfriend..."
"You have a boyfriend?" He couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice. He didn't want to.
"I don't know. I don't know anymore." She looked so sad. He felt like hugging her again. He refrained, not wanting to freak her out with his 'I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby' vibe.
"How about we spend the day together?" he offered, preparing to be declined.
"Well, I don't know," Rory said playfully, "I do have all these books to finish, and God knows I must finish them all today." Giggling self consciously from his stare, she set her small stack of books on the shelf in front of her, leaving it to the library staff to get them back where they belong. "And that dart thing, that activity is pretty important. I plan to have spectators, and they'll be wanting to see some blood."
Tristan nodded. "Vampires?"
"Yes, my friends are vampires."
"Kickass. My friends are stoners."
Rory laughed, seemingly enjoying herself. She hugged her body, loving the way he was appreciating it, caressing it with his eyes. It brought her back to her Chilton days, although today she didn't feel it was so raunchy to be desired. It was flattering, the way he was looking her up and down, admiring her curves, the flow of her shining hair. She swept her bangs to the side in a distracted way, her eyes locked with Tristan's. This felt good, making nice with an old enemy, turning him into more of a friend. He radiated sexuality, as always, but he seemed to be more reserved now, as if he'd learned some lessons in all his time away from girls. As if he'd learned how to treat a lady.
"Come on," urged Tristan, tapping her shoulder with his hand. "Spend the day with me."
"But what about the vampires?"
"We'll go chisel a stake."
"Mean!"
Tristan laughed, giddy, and clasped her hand in his, dragging her quickly out of the library that had become a second home to them both. Becky waved goodbye to both of them from behind the checkout counter, concerned that neither of the two most familiar faces were taking anything worth reading along with them. They were only reading each other, through facial expressions and simple touches that lingered, seeming to sizzle like water on a hot iron. She pouted in jealousy and got back to work as the glass door behind them closed.
"We are going to have the most incredible day," Tristan assured Rory as he continued to pull her along the sidewalk. Blood colored leaves trickled slowly to their feet, and were unmercifully stepped on as they traveled forward. Rory noted the subtle beauty of the world around them, as well as the beauty of the man holding onto her hand. She had so hated him at Chilton, but something was nagging her in the back of her mind, a memory of her lips upon his at a party. His lips were smooth and supple, and he hadn't even attempted to slip in any tongue before she had pulled away, and run off crying. The memory of their lips fused together, for those few brief seconds, was starting to heat up Rory's body temperature. She thought of Logan, and scowled, then rushed to catch up with Tristan's long strides. She didn't want to think of Logan. She had another blonde hottie to occupy her thoughts today.
Blocks sped by as Rory's hand in Tristan's began to get sweaty. The air was chill, but not cold. Goosebumps barely ghosted over her bare arms, any exposed skin. "Where are we going?" she asked after about ten blocks.
"Almost there," Tristan told her. Another block later, they stopped in front of a club. "Here we are," he announced.
"A club? It's like mid-morning," Rory complained, confused.
"The party lasts a full twenty-four hours here," Tristan assured her. "I think it's time we relaxed a bit, stopped being so prim and proper with each other. Get down and dirty."
"Are you trying to seduce me?" Rory teased.
"You know me so well." Tristan tugged on her hand and together, they entered what looked like a night club, called The Rum Jungle. Rory remembered rum, the poisonous taste of it, and the dizzying pain of the hangover the next morning. Rum punch? Never again.
They entered the club, and suddenly it was midnight, dark and dangerous, the harsh beat of the deafening music calling to something in Rory that was ready to rebel. All this time, this wasted year, full of DAR parties and sex with Logan and dealing with her grandparents, picking trash up on the side of the road while wearing the least flattering color ever, the color of traffic cones you hit in driver's ed. Except Rory never hit those cones. She was always a good driver, had that sort of natural ability. Until that day she got hit by a deer. A drunk Bambi stumbling into a vehicle was the only red mark on her driving record, although technically she would forever argue that it wasn't her fault. She blames Chilton, and that pesky back road.
It was so crowded in the small cramped space of that building, even though it was just nearing lunch time. The air smelled of alcohol and sweat, dead cigarette butts. Bodies gyrated to a live band that played at the front of the room, though she could barely see any of the band members above all of the moving bodies out on the dance floor. Couples called to one another from their core, bumping groins together and getting down and nasty. In public. What a scene. Rory was sickened, almost horrified, and yet fascinated... drawn to it as if by a spell that Tristan had waved over her head upon entering this scene. Something about him, something about today. She wasn't chaste little Rory Gilmore. She felt older, more powerful, with more edge, and more pure want. She wasn't sure just what she was wanting for, but as she looked at Tristan while he dragged her to the bar, she licked her lips.
"What'll you have?" asked the scruffy bar tender, looking mostly at Rory's face and ignoring that Tristan was attached to her.
"What do you want, Mary?"
"Um... a club soda?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mary. It's time to let loose, have some fun. Do something disastrous for once in your life."
Disastrous. Suddenly it was the only word Rory could see. The disaster of stealing that boat with a boy who didn't challenge her the way she needed; the disappointment of getting turned down by that boy's father, her life careening down a steep cliff, her body flailing and preparing to collide with the hard, unforgiving ground. It was like she had died a small death, become a shell of her former self, foresaking her best friend in the world who waited every day for the reconciling call that never came. Disastrous was all her life had been for so long now, and she hadn't even fully realized it until now.
"Just let loose," advised Tristan, eyeing her face carefully, trying to read her emotions, but he could not. "Have some fun."
It was time to be disastrous on her terms, to take a leap of faith with this boy she barely knew anymore. Have some fun.
Nodding at Tristan, she told him she'd have what he was having.
"Two rum and Cokes," Tristan said to the bartender, finally releasing Rory's hand. Her palm was sweaty, and she wasn't quite sure why, whether it was from too much contact with another body's hot, radiating skin, or from the slight anxiety it gave her to be near him, the way sexuality crawled from his skin into hers. She felt lost, dizzy, not herself. She liked that, for she no longer recognized who she had become.
Life is about change, a television character once said. Sometimes it's painful, sometimes it's beautiful; but most of the time it's both.
They were handed their drinks and Rory tried her best to keep from spilling as she stared at Tristan's back, following him through the massive crowd of people partying like the world would end that afternoon.
Tristan found them a small circular table, and Rory took a seat on one of the two stools, shifting around uncomfortably. Her little butt was so small that it fit within the round barriers of the seat, but it was very unwelcoming beneath her. She took a humongous gulp of her drink, knowing she hated the taste of rum, but wanting to finish the drink just to prove to Tristan that she could, that she wasn't such a square. That she wasn't the same girl who he left all those years ago. She had changed, and he seemed to have changed, too. Whether it was for the better was yet to be decided.
He noticed her wincing every time she gulped down more of her drink. "Not much of a drinker, are you, Mary?" he asked, gulping his down as well.
"I just don't like the taste of most alcohol, that's all," she informed him, staring into the remaining liquid of her plastic cup, swirling it around some. "I like the feeling it gives you, but I hate the journey to getting there."
"Well finish that, and we'll try something else," Tristan said, wanting her to enjoy this outing with him today. He wanted to walk away from her after having a fantastic day, and be on her mind when she woke up the next morning. He wanted to exchange numbers and keep in touch. He wanted to feel her beneath his fingers, the warmth of her skin. He wanted her to relax and enjoy this day for what it was, a deviation from the reality neither of them cared to know.
Rory let go of her reservations and started sipping her drink as if she enjoyed it. The taste of it suddenly wasn't so bitter on her tongue, just as her nickname no longer seemed so foul. Mary, Mary, quite contrary...
After their drinks were finished, they had a sampling of all there was at the bar. Gin, tequila, scotch, wine, beer... The further they got down the list, the better the drinks started to taste. The better everything around them started to look. All at once, Rory rose to a stand on her swaying feet. "I want to dance," she declared boldly.
"Go ahead," said Tristan, sipping at the foam of his beer in its ice chilled mug.
"Not alone. Come on! Dance with me!" Her inhibitions were so lowered, and she was wanting to be pressed close to Tristan's body, the first time she had consciously made that decision. Her body had wanted that before, but her mind always betrayed that urge and kept her stiffly away.
Seeing the way she was really getting hammered, Tristan started to regret getting her so liquored up. He had just meant for her to relax, not to come onto him. The way she was smiling and petting his wild blonde hair showcased her state of drunkenness. It was official. They'd had five too many drinks already.
Still, he was beginning to feel a little drunk himself, and as he finished off his beer, setting the glass down on the table with a large 'clunk', he rose to a stand beside this girl who he'd thought of on so many solitary nights at school, when he was so alone, and so denied of sexual privileges. He thought a million times of how he wished he could have kissed her goodbye, and possibly coaxed her into staying in contact with him. He had so badly missed the banter, the fire, and her untamed beauty. Her innocence. Her earlobes that so fascinated him, her eyes.
"So pretty," Rory said, stroking his hair. "Like the sun."
As he stood up to his full height, she lowered her hand and smiled at him as he smiled back. Drunken smiles, giddy with lack of reason. Rory was starting to feel really good. The burn of the alcohol had numbed her throat, and she couldn't really feel if her teeth were still there or not. But somehow she didn't care. Tristan stood before her, and all she wanted in the world was to dance with him, to press her aching body against another aching soul.
Tristan couldn't deny her any more than he could when he was sober. He took her tiny hand and led her onto the dance floor. In between so many moving bodies, they started to sway their hips to the beat. The frantic beat matched the beat of Rory's heart as she jutted her hips out one way, then another, in her tight, clingy jeans. Tristan could clearly see cleavage in her wine red shirt that was beginning to dip lower among her breasts from all of the upper body movement. She was tantalizing, and he wanted to taste her, that wine that spread all over her chest and flat stomach.
The beat went on, bass booming in their eardrums. Rory encircled her arms around Tristan's neck, and brought her lips up to meet his. The kiss was sloppy, full of haste and want, digging at him, looking for his soul. She gnashed her teeth against his, and fought to press her tongue through his pearly whites, into the depths of his hot, alcohol stained mouth. The kiss felt so good, and he felt a pull at his groin, and oh, how he wanted to fuck her senseless, up against the wall.
But he stopped, and pulled away from those lips that were so searing upon his. "Rory, I -- no," he said, regaining a bit of his composure. It was so hard, but he continued to pull away when she kept grabbing at him and trying to force her mouth upon his once again. "Rory, this isn't what I wanted. This isn't how I want this to happen."
"Who cares?" asked Rory with a laugh. "Why can't I drag you down with me as I come undone?" Like shoelaces being untied, like the curling skin of a peeled apple, all cut in one long spiralling stroke.
"You are so... so drunk," Tristan said, and he couldn't help but to laugh about it. About seeing this girl of his dreams, throwing herself at him. It was a ridiculous scene, one that he had enjoyed in his head that sent his cock shivering so many nights when there was nothing for entertainment but a roommate who just read and read in silence, shushing Tristan whenever he would try to get him talking. This is the best part, he would always say. Every part was the best part.
This, right now, Rory whining and pleading with him to let her kiss him again, this was the best part of his life.
"I feel..." He had words that he wanted to say, that he needed to get out. Where were they? Oh, they were disappearing, running from him, not wanting to be said. They were being lost in the depths of his mind. Where were they?... Oh, there they were. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."
"I'm taking advantage of you, so what? It doesn't seem to bother me right now." Rory was drunk on life, on the idea of falling, falling, because she was so badly failing in every endeavor she used to conquer. She had been ignoring that fact and going on as if there was a reason to wake up every day, and an accomplishment when she laid down every night. Looking at it now, seeing it so clearly, there was nothing... she had nothing. She was nothing.
The beat of the drummer slammed out with a final burst of sound, and the harsh beat of the song ended. The silence then melted into a slow song, a romantic song, and Rory so badly wanted to be a romantic again. She wanted to believe in things again, in happiness and her mother and school, and connecting with a guy who could love her, too. Logan would never love her. She would forever say that to him, as she had that one time, and all he would have to say back is, 'Wow.' She told him it was okay if he didn't feel the same, but it wasn't, it wasn't.
She couldn't help but notice the way Tristan was looking at her just now, the pain in his eyes that were longing so emotionally, looking into her deep pools of blue as if they were the north star, the way home. She had so lost herself when she lost her home, her center, her mom. She had lunged into a life of uncertainty where the only thing she was certain of was that she didn't want to think about it, for it would cause her too much pain. It was all so messed up, she had ruined everything she had always worked for and enjoyed, and she was empty now, enjoying nothing. Losing herself in sex with a boy who woud never love her, and now, as she couldn't tear her eyes away from Tristan's, she could see that he did love her, that perhaps he had always loved her, for no reason other than that was just the way it was, and would always be.
The slow song called to hear heart, and Rory laced her fingers together behind Tristan's sweaty neck, grazing the fine hairs there with her fingertips, lovingly cupping him with the palms of her hands. She began to sway, shimmying her hips in a slow, tantalizing dance of seduction on the wings of white wine, her eyes begging for Tristan to sway with her, to move to the beat of their joined hearts. As he gave in and began softly crushing her to his muscled body, she sighed happily and thought to herself that she could love him. She thought to herself that for the first time she might want to.
Rory rested her head on Tristan's chest, tilted to the side so that her ear was pressed to his wifebeater that barely concealed a chiseled chest and a six pack to die for. Military school had bulked him up, all those sit-ups, all those push-ups, all of that free time with nothing better to do. His chest blocked her hearing from her right ear, so it was only from her left that any sound came in, and it seemed muffled, as if in a dream. She felt like she was floating in a dream, her feet not touching the ground, her wings aiding her into the silky sky.
The alcohol swirled with her vision, and she hugged Tristan tightly to her to secure her balance. When the soft lyrics began, Rory raised her head to look at the singer, and she smiled faintly before turning to Tristan and bringing his lips to hers once again. Though she feared he would pull away, she willed him not to, and the strength of her will seemed to be growing, for he did nothing but kiss her back. When her insistent tongue drove into his mouth, he gasped along with her, and then brought his tongue to meet hers. He massaged her tongue gently, licking at her mouth as if it were a great delicacy, enjoying her as though she was filled with whipped cream.
Somewhere off in the distance, a rugged looking man in his thirties looked on at the dancing couple, admiring the girl's ass, her small tits, her fluffy hair. He sneered, wanting to feel that smooth skin against his rough exterior, wanting to violate her completely. Looking up slightly from digging his nose into Rory's hair, Tristan spotted the man leaning against the far wall. The look he got from the man sent a stab of fear creeping up his back. He was looking at Rory as though he possessed her, or wanted to, anyway. Tristan clung to her tighter, and closed his eyes, turning them around so that he wasn't facing that man anymore.
Tristan couldn't help it. He had to touch her. His hands trailed down along her back, the bit of it that was exposed shivering under his touch. He reached down and cupped her bottom gently, digging his fingers in to squeeze her closer to his body. The friction over his groin made him moan into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound willingly, smiling slightly, enjoying this, for perhaps he was coming undone, too. They were taking this journey together.
Dancing together, so close to one another, they rode out the ballad, enjoying the song to its fullest extent, and when it was over, Rory pulled away to look into Tristan's face, adoring him as she had never adored before. She unclasped her hands from around his neck and tugged on his hand, pulling him towards the door. "I have an idea!" she said excitedly.
Blasting out of the doors, they were confronted with the sun once again. It glared into their eyes, making Tristan shield his with one hand, and making Rory squeak in an unpleasant manner. The sun was high in the noon sky, no clouds in sight, just heavenly blue. It took the couple a few minutes to adjust to the sun that pierced their eyes and the chill of the autumn air. But soon enough, Rory was tugging Tristan along by his hand, forcing him to follow her to some mapped out destination.
"I know this place a few blocks over," she gushed excitedly. "I've never had the urge to do this before, but I think we should do it now."
"Do what?" asked Tristan warily. He was so, so drunk. He just wanted to sit down or take a piss or something.
"You'll see." Rory led him for a few blocks up, and then a couple blocks over. They stopped in front of a tattoo parlor.
Tristan's eyes bugged out of his head. "You want to get a tattoo? Of what? Where?"
Rory smiled deliciously. "I want us to get tattoos that go together. So I can look at it and go, 'Oh! There's Tristan on my arm. I'd better call him and tell him to sit somewhere else.'" She giggled and giggled, and started into the parlor. Tristan grabbed onto the door and followed her in. It smelled musty and old. "This place has been here forever," Rory said, as if sensing his thoughts. "My mom and I used to say that we were going to get matching tattoos from this place, but the second I realized they used needles, that idea was shot into the can."
"You do realize they still use needles, don't you?" Tristan asked playfully, not sure if he really wanted to go along with this.
"Right now, I don't care. Come on, you wanted to have fun, so let's have fun! Let's go wild! Let's go crazy!"
"Why, Mary, I do believe you've finally grown a spine."
Ignoring him, Rory walked up to a counter where a cash register sat and behind it sat a man, one of those men with tattoos decorating his entire upper body that showed through his white t-shirt that was very nearly see-through. He eyed the two kids who stood before him, sensing their dunkenness. He was used to that kind of crowd. Knew he'd give them something they'd regret tomorrow. Didn't care. Needed the business.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Rory confidently, "we'd like to get tattoos. Both of us."
"All right, but you'll have to take turns, as I'm the only artist in here today. Do you have a plan as to what you want tattooed yet?"
Rory and Tristan stepped aside for a couple of minutes to come up with their drunken ideas, their forays into permanent stains on their skin. The man heard lots of giggling from both parties, until eventually they came back to the counter.
"We're ready," said the attractive little girl pleasantly. "Me first."
As the tattoo artist painted on the ridiculous design of Rory's tattoo, she squirmed, making him snap that she needed to be still or else have a permanent regret pierced into her skin. But she couldn't help it. The alcohol had made her uncommonly sensitized. The sensations of pain she was feeling were unreal. She squinted, and tears fell from her eyes. She held a firm, steady grip on Tristan's arm the entire time, not wanting to go through this alone. He tried to calm her and soothe her, to get her through this. He did his best. It was so hard to see her in such pain that he would have taken from her in an instant. Hell, he would feel it himself in less than an hour, anyway.
When finally the design was done, and the tattoo artist was through wiping off all of the dark blood, Rory's shoulders slumped as she relaxed. "Now that was hell on earth," she voiced, though cheerfully, for it was over now. It had been a lot less thrilling than making permanent marks with markers that smelled like different kinds of fruit. This permanent mark she had earned through pain, this brand on her skin had been etched with a blade. She was quite proud of herself for getting through it. She'd never been fond of needles. Maybe after getting through this, she wouldn't have to worry about the simple pinprick of a single needle, again.
As the artist moved on to Tristan and began his tattoo, he lectured both kids on what to do to take care of the newly imprinted pictures on their skin. He knew that they were likely to forget as fast as they took the information in, but it was mandatory that he at least try to get these drunken junkies to take proper care of their new art. All he could do was show them the way. Wasn't his fault if they didn't follow the right path.
Tristan took the needle much better than Rory, simply flexing one of his hands and clenching it alternatively the whole time. Rory sat in a chair by Tristan and just watched him, his brave stoic face, as he was branded. She felt so proud of him for being so strong. He didn't seem bothered by the extreme pain at all.
Eventually, Rory got bored. "Tristan, I'm going to go back to the club and dance this pain off, while you finish up here, okay?"
"Rory, no, I'll come with you in like half an hour. Just wait here. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"It's pure daylight outside. What could possibly happen to me?" Rory was seeing double now, two Tristans who were frowning at her, wanting so much to stay by her side. "I'm boooored, I don't want to sit near this needle anymore."
Tristan sighed. "Okay. I'll pay for these as soon as I'm done, and then I'll meet you there."
"Yay!" Rory uncharacteristically plunged into a deep hug with Tristan, causing a faint ripple in the lovely scar taking shape on his skin. "See you in half an hour." She pranced out of the door, leaving behind the jingle of the adjoined little bell.
Rory walked along the edge of the sidewalk, using the four inches as a balance beam, trying to stay on the small area while the world was spinning something awful. It was wonderful fun, the way she kept falling, sometimes on her face, and getting back up to walk the beam again. Miss Patty would be so proud of her dancer grace. She grinned and guffawed at the thought, ignoring the stares of passers-by. What did they matter? She was happy, she was free. She was a gymnast.
When she ducked back inside the doors of The Rum Jungle, Rory made a beeline for the dance floor. She would dance alone this time. It wouldn't hold the same thrill, but loverboy would be back soon enough for more kisses and groping. She suddenly felt that all her life before she had been a prude, and she was only just coming to terms with sexuality in general. Sex was okay. Long, deep kisses in public? No big deal.
She was enjoying herself, swaying to the beat of a new band, when she was approached by a scruffy looking guy in his thirties. He stared hard at her, seeming to enjoy the shimmery movement of her body. Everything looked to her as though she was under water. Liquid, fluid, moving in circles. She smiled at the guy, though when she saw the intensity of the way he was looking at her, her smile dissipated.
He stuck his hand out to her. "My name's Buddy."
"Everybody needs a buddy," she chimed, continuing to dance, noticing how odd and even stupid Buddy looked as he was the only one on the dance floor not moving. It didn't seem to bother him.
"And what's your name?" he asked gruffly.
"I don't think you've earned that yet," said Rory, sassy and alive through the music.
Buddy snickered. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Whatever," Rory said, as if it didn't matter, turning away from him to face another direction. She wondered how much longer it would be before Tristan arrived and warded off these skanky older men. Buddy was unkempt and unshaven, and he smelled of garbage. His eyes were bleak black orbs, looking at everything and yet seeing nothing at all. Nothing but Rory, anyway. He was like a dog on a hunt, drawn to the scent of his prey and nothing else. He made Rory uneasy.
Shimmying her hips adorably, Rory moved all around the dance floor, her arms waving above her spaghetti strap top, graceful as a swan. She felt the beat to her core, and danced, danced, danced. She was lost in her own drunken world, and loving it. There was no pain, there was no sorrow. She was a floating butterfly with a startling tattoo.
Minutes passed, and just when she was sure it was safe to migrate back to her previous dancing corner, Buddy arrived again, with a cup in his hand. "Care for a drink?" he offered.
Normally, Rory would be filled to the brim with worries of what could be laced inside of that rum, bubbling up with the Coke, but she had no barriers, nothing to ward her away from danger, and she accepted the cup gratefully, for she was very thirsty. Buddy licked his lips as she downed the cup in three large gulps, grimacing at the end and making a disgusted sound by sticking her tongue out of her opened mouth. "Blughahh," she complained, crushing the plastic cup within her hands and giving the piece of trash back to Buddy.
"Thanks," she said in an off-hand way, returning to her dancing frenzy. He stepped back into the shadows to watch her carefully, like a hawk ready to sink his talons into her flesh and carry her away.
Rory was feeling pretty good up until a few moments later, when suddenly the spinning world went into the heavy duty cycle, the colors of the world blending together and swirling around her as if she was a drink being mixed in a glass, tossed in a blender with a broken rainbow. She stopped her graceful dancing movements, stopped being the prancing fairy, and just fought to keep her balance, staggering a few steps forward, a few steps back. Soon enough, she lost her balance completely, and was just barely caught by a young man who looked into her eyes with concern.
"Are you all right?" the young man asked.
Rory couldn't answer. Her tongue felt so heavy, so thick. She couldn't talk.
Buddy pushed his way through the crowd and took Rory from the young man's arms. "She's with me," he said roughly, yanking her body away. "I'll take care of her." The young man stared after them as Buddy escorted Rory to the bathrooms.
"Th... t... this... this is the men's room," Rory gasped out eventually, as Buddy lifted her off her feet and pushed open the swinging door. It swung shut behind them, leaving them alone in what was an empty club bathroom. There were no feet sticking out under the three stalls, no toilets flushing; nobody was washing their hands. They were there, together, and Rory felt so alone.
As Buddy laid Rory down on the cold, dirty tile floor, her survival instinct kicked in, and she swung an ineffectual arm in his direction, missing him by a mile. "Stop," she ordered weakly. "Don't..."
"Shut up," he growled, undoing his pants and shoving them down his hips. His cock popped out, waiting and ready, huge and dangerous, ready to tear through her tender flesh like a cannibal's teeth. Rory wanted to cry out, but she was so weak, so tired... so out of it, and out of options. Her eyelids were so heavy, and they kept closing when she didn't want them to. Somewhere in her mind, in a vague corner of it, she could sense that her jeans were being peeled from her body, and when her eyes popped open a couple of times, she saw the cloth being tossed away.
"Nooo..." she complained weakly, trying to hit her attacker again. This was wrong. This was so wrong. What had she gotten herself into? Where was everyone? Where was Tristan?
Buddy hooked his fingers inside of her panties, and drew them down her legs, exposing her most intimate parts to his greedy black eyes. Black as his hollowed-out soul, sinking into his head as if he were a skull. His head looked like a skull to Rory right now, and she couldn't look away. She was mesmerized by the ugly truth that stood before her, the smear on mankind that was fingering her between her folds.
She found a voice, and yelled out, "Help! Please..." Her voice was swallowed up by the noise outside of the bathroom, by the music that pounded slightly muffled through the walls.
--
Tristan stepped into The Rum Jungle for the second time that day, his arm aching from its tattooed torment. As soon as Rory had left the tattoo parlor, he had been in sort of a rush to get finished, so he could follow her. Something was playing on his mind, some worry that nagged him despite his drunken state. As he had wandered slowly along the sidewalk, trying to creep up on people like a panther, he had worried about Rory, and now, stepping through the doorway and scanning the crowd, he had the awful dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was happening to her, that something was wrong. Why had he let her come back by herself? Why hadn't he stopped her? She wasn't thinking clearly; he needed to protect her.
She wasn't at one of the tables, nor was she on the dancing floor. Tristan moved around, frantic, paranoid, seeking out every shadow, every hidden corner. The band on the stage blasted music into his ears, making them pop from the sheer volume of the high-pitched squeal of the instruments and the singer's voice. The words of the song all mixed together, not making any sense, just creating this great funnel of punishing sound. Swaying here and there, off balance, nearly falling more than once, Tristan kept seeking out his girl.
--
Buddy shoved his cock up inside of Rory's body, drowning in her cunt that was nearly bone dry. She cried silently, her tears spilling down her cheeks into her ears and hair. She wanted to brush them away, but she was too weak to move. She wanted to do so many things... she just couldn't. She was just lost in this big, dangerous world that was swallowing her whole.
Grunting with satisfaction, Buddy began rapidly moving in and out of Rory's cunt, riding her like a stallion, forcing his fat cock up inside of her delicate flesh so roughly that she tore and bled. She felt she was crying tears of blood that would stain her face the very color of the red wine that had contributed to her current drunken state. Her body felt like it was going to split in half from the intense pounding of Buddy into her delicate folds. She was like a helpless little leaf, quivering, being blown away by the harsh wind. Gust after gust blew on her, sending her further and further away from her home, into a hell where there was nothing familiar that existed. This man's touch was as rough as the stubble on his face that she itched to get away from. She cried, trying to summon some strength. She wanted to lash out and hit him, stop him, make him stop! She could do nothing. She was helpless. She was living every girl's worst fear.
Tristan, where are you? Mommy, save me.
"You should know better, girl," said Buddy as he continued to pound into Rory, and she held onto nothing for dear life. "Didn't your father ever tell you not to accept strange drinks from strange people? Stupid bitch, it gets your type every time."
"W..." Rory gasped from the amount of tears she had cried. They leaked into her mouth on their travel down to her chin, stopping up any voice she might summon, like water flowing into a drain. "W... Why?" she asked, in a voice that would break Tristan's heart. "Why... would you... do this?"
Buddy grabbed a fist of her hair and pulled so hard that she squeaked out in protest from the pain. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door swung inwards behind him, and in stepped Rory's salvation.
"Rory!" Tristan yelled dramatically, stunned in shock, revulsion and disbelief. It was one of the only times he had ever called her by her given name.
Buddy turned around, but too slowly, and Tristan's fist was waiting for him. It slammed into his jaw, knocking him senseless. Then Tristan was ready with more fists clenched as tightly as his jaw in anger. "Get off my girl!" he ordered the creepy stranger he had seen earlier. Oh, he should have thought... he should have known. He should have been better prepared. As Buddy withdrew his cock from Rory's bleeding cunt, he stood and turned on Tristan, sneering in an ugly contortion of his face that would forever be imprinted on Tristan's memory.
"You're drunk, kid," Buddy said confidently, rubbing his sore eye that would bruise before long. "You don't stand a chance against me."
Without pausing, Tristan yelled at the top of his lungs, "Help! Help us! HELP!"
Buddy's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in anger. He lunged toward Tristan, tackling him to the ground.
Feeling a pain like no other, Rory clamped her legs shut, and tried her best to roll over, in an attempt to push herself to a sitting position. After rolling over barely, her body heavy like a slug, like a beached whale, she had to stop, slumping again to the ground in that position. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the many tiny floor tiles, white gone grey and brown from dust and dirt and age. She focused in on those tiles as she heard the grunting of Buddy and the screaming of a very drunk Tristan. She feared for his safety now as much as she feared for her own.
"Ahhhhhh!" Tristan raged, being overtaken in a wrestling match by a man much bigger than him, much thicker in body mass. He kept screaming out for help, hoping to God the band would stop playing for even a second, so that somebody, anybody could hear him.
Finally, someone did.
The bathroom door swung open, revealing a group of concerned clubbers, all of whom gasped at the scene before them. The two men fighting one another, the older one without pants on, and the young girl on the floor, gasping through her tears, working so hard to focus on the figures in front of her.
A few burly guys interceded and pulled Buddy off of Tristan, who he was currently pummeling into the ground with his fists. Drunk off his mind, Tristan sat taking it, cowering in the corner by the trash can, his strength sapped, his ferocious will gone. It took three guys, and an awful lot of moving around to trap the insane Buddy in someone's grip so that he couldn't hurt what looked like two teenagers anymore. Before long, the club manager was in the bathroom, followed later on by the police.
--
Rory didn't remember much later. She just remembered looking at those floor tiles, all hope lost, everything a blur, and then suddenly she was in a bed, and it was afternoon, and the overzealous spinning was over. Sun spilled in on her from behind the see-through draperies hanging onto a large window. Beyond, she could see a well kept yard, complete with a swimming pool. Where was she?
She could feel pain, like scratches from a blade, between her legs. She moaned in agony, afraid to move her lower body for fear of sliding that blade along her skin. However, her curiosity was killing her, and she just had to figure out what was going on. She moved her upper body slowly, carefully, turning her head and her shoulders over to the other side of the pillow, facing the opposite direction.
There, before her eyes, laid Tristan. His eyes were closed in fretful sleep, his brow furrowing from time to time as he dreamed of something less than satisfying. A smile curved its way up Rory's lips. Her protector was still protecting her. His arm lay draped across her stomach, holding her close to him, snug to his chest. She blew lightly on his nose, causing him to scrunch up his facial features in an adorable way.
Rory's eyes trailed down his face, down his neck, past his shoulder, to his upper arm. There sat his tattoo, full of loud color. She giggled. Gullible Gilmore, it said, as an angel flew by. She looked to her own upper arm to find Dumbass DuGrey set amidst a passing devil. Their interchangeable ties to one another. Odd as it was, considering their history, she was glad now to be tied to him in some way. The boy who had saved her from a criminal. The boy who used to stare at her ears.
"Tristan..." she cooed. She brought a hand up to gently stroke his face.
Coaxed awake so sweetly, Tristan opened his eyes to see an angel lying next to him. Mary. He smiled, knowing he had never awoken to a more beautiful sight. Somehow, he sadly knew that he never would again. "Hi," he said plainly, unable to peel the smile from his face.
It was all right. She was smiling, too. "Afternoon, handsome," she said, her voice as soft as the finger that traced small circles along his exposed stomach. Sometime in the day, he had thrown his skimpy shirt aside, leaving the sight of gloriously golden skin for her vision to feast upon.
Tristan pulled back just slightly, his voice becoming playful. "Don't I know you?"
"Never seen you before in my life, stranger."
"Oh. Well, then." Tristan opened his mouth to say something else, and then stopped, unsure of himself. "...Can I kiss you?"
Rory scooted forward with some effort to lightly touch his lips with her own in butterfly kisses that ghosted along his mouth. Soon, they turned more passionate, as her tongue dug into the depths of his mouth, skittering along his teeth that hadn't been brushed since that last glass of beer. She could taste the aftermath, and somehow it was good. Warm. After the kisses of that morning, it was familiar. It comforted her to find it.
"Mmm," Tristan moaned, the vibrations tingling Rory's plump lips. "I think it's time I sexed you up."
Rory pulled away, but could not get her facial features to form anything serious. "Are you having sex?" she teased.
"Right now? ...Kind of slow on the uptake, Mary."
Rory slapped his shoulder, right on the sore tattoo. "I mean with anyone else. Are you a walking STD?"
"Man, it would be bad if those were my initials."
"Ooh." Rory took a moment to commiserate. "No, you stop it!" she said finally, snapping back into action mode. "Stop avoiding answers!" She loved playing with him this way, because he knew that she was playing.
Tristan could play along. "I'm not avoiding anything," he taunted, trailing a finger up her bare thigh. If anyone else were doing that at this moment, Rory would gag and vomit from the memory of the previous night. But it was Tristan, the boy who was her saving grace. She sought out his eyes, lusty but hurt that he wouldn't look into hers.
Sighing, Tristan finally met Rory's gaze. He looked at her, really looked at her. He liked what he saw. "I hope you're on the pill," he said nonchalantly. "Unless this copulation is your way of manipulating me into starting a family."
"You know me so well," said Rory, reaching down to cup his hand that snaked up her thigh.
"And I'd yell for our triplets," Tristan mused, liking the feel of her hand on top of his. "Be like, 'Chad! Michael! Murray! Get your butts in the car! Mommy says, or she'll kick your asses!'"
"Such parenting skills," Rory marveled.
Tristan cocked his head, seeming to consider this. "I hear they get better with time."
Rory giggled. Her head was swimming. Not in the drunken way it was last night, but circling around a very clear-cut emotion that she was afraid to pounce on. Suddenly, she did. "I think I love you," she told the man by her side.
"Rory," he said, finally calling her by her real name, through with the teasing, through with the torments, "I think I've always loved you."
Rory fingered his hand that remained on her thigh, and swallowed his lips up in hers again. Her core that had been so raw minutes ago was suddenly aching with desire. Tristan could feel what she wanted with his hand that gently squeezed her trembling thigh. Wordlessly, she brought that hand up to the barrier of her white cotton panties, allowing him to cup her pussy that was now drizzling liquid heat.
"Rory?" asked Tristan, worriedly pulling away. "Are you sure...? Doesn't it hurt?"
Rory kissed him, again and again, loving the feel of his lips on her own, loving the taste of the remnants that existed on his beer-soaked tongue. She scooted into his embrace, running her fingers up along his toned arms. She felt warm; she felt loved; she felt safe. If it was going to hurt, it would be a good hurt.
Driven by her actions, Tristan put some snap into his kisses, passion bubbling up from his center to rest in the tattoo of his arm, spreading out to the tips of his fingers. He was touching her the way he had so badly wanted to touch her for years, ever since he first saw that innocent little wide-eyed face. He was claiming her in a way that was opposite the brutal show of earlier that day, softly, gently, lovingly.
Rory moved things along, hooking her fingers in her panties and scooting them down off her core, kicking them off of her legs, down to some random spot under the comforter. Now Tristan's fingers could dip into her, teasing her outer lips just so before taking the plunge into the depths of her wetness. They both moaned in unison, and Tristan glorified in being inside of her, a part of her. He began to move his pointer finger in and out of her cunt, soaking his finger with her juices. She continued to keep his mouth occupied, stopping the kisses only to gasp and to moan and to let out one long shaking, shivering breath.
Knowing his way around the block, Tristan inserted another finger into her depths and hugged that part of her body with the rest of his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he sought out her clit. When he found it, soaked as a swimmer, he began nudging it and rubbing it, bringing small mewls of pleasure from his girl. She called out his name vaguely as she trembled into an orgasm, shooting up into the stars, with fireworks on the insides of her eyelids like it was the fourth of July.
Stroking her to completion, Tristan slowly slid his hand out from within her, wiping it absently on his bare chest, watching her as she came down from her highest high, eyes closed, lips parted, whispering soft nothings into the air.
When finally the aftershocks finished blowing her mind, Rory stilled and opened her eyes to look upon Tristan's face. There was such awe in her eyes, such newfound strength that he had pumped into her. She felt so right in his arms, her small body curling up against his, and he was so happy in that moment, having saved her, and having claimed her. His cock insisted on going further, but he decided that she had had enough action for one day, that she must be sore despite being turned on.
Rory stared at him, wondering why it had taken her so long to latch onto this boy who had come as a nuisance at first, annoying her to no end, tormenting her with words and actions and erasers flipped at her long hair. If only she could have known all that time ago that this feeling was possible. That this was what was waiting for her...
They just stared at each other in silence and awe, for the longest time, warm fuzzies buzzing around in their lower stomachs, spreading like torn cotton to claim every inch of their blood. Tristan had finally found the perfect moment that he had been so searching for in every girl, every conquest, every janitor's closet make-out session. He looked and looked at the beautiful girl that matched the angel in his tattoo.
Finally, he smiled at her, kissing her softly. "I'm going to go out and get you some coffee. Wake you up a little. We've still got some time to kill before it's time to go to sleep."
"Where are we?" Rory finally got to ask, looking around now at her surroundings.
"My parents' pool house," Tristan informed her. "They never come in here. It's my domain. You just wait here for me, and I'll be right back."
"Okay," Rory said happily, hugging him close, tightly to her, his chest pushing into her breasts and flattening them like an iron. She wanted to dig deep inside of him, to become a part of him, attached, always.
When she finally pulled away, he got up from the warm, inviting bed and looked for his shirt, which he slipped on over his head to go along with his wrinkled jeans. "I'll be right back," he promised again.
Rory blew him a kiss, and then he was gone.
It had been the most amazing day.
Tristan exited the pool house by way of the glass doors, whistling to himself happily as he walked toward the street. The coffee shop was a few blocks up, past the intersection. He was in a daze, walking around like a puppet with no strings, not knowing quite where he was going. So giddy and full of the life that he had finally found for himself.
As he came to the intersection, Tristan kept whistling a favorite song. With a smile on his face, he stepped onto the black tar of the street, walking across the traffic. He was so caught up in thoughts of Rory and beauty, and everything angelic, and he didn't hear the tires squeal.
He didn't feel the bulk of the collision as a fast-moving car slammed into him. All he knew was that all of a sudden he was flat on his back in the middle of the street, in muscle searing pain. All he kept thinking was that he'd told Rory he'd be right back. He had to get to his feet, keep going, get her coffee, get back to her.
All his thoughts were of Rory as paramedics showed up, and there was nothing they could do. He thought of her face, her hair, her quivering thigh, the lobe of her ear. And as the life in him left him, the last thing he did was whisper her name.
- -
end