II

And I feel your fists
And I know it's out of love
And I feel the whip
And I know it's out of love
And I feel your burning eyes burning holes
Straight through my heart
It's out of love
It's out of love

I accept and I collect upon my body
The memories of your devotion
- Antony & The Johnsons "Fistful of Love"

……………………………………………………………………………….

If he hadn't known it before, he knew it now. The reason he never drank alone, Ryan berated himself a couple of hours later, was because he really wasn't very good company. It's hard to have a conversation with yourself when you're not much of a talker to begin with. Just another reason why he'd found it so hard to fit in around here.

Blearily, he eyed the half-empty bottle. His thoughts ran like unraveled string, tangling, knotting in his brain, choking any coherency.

The whisky hadn't helped. She'd been right, of course. She. Kirsten. He shook his head to clear that image. Think of something else, he thought. Anything. He took another swig from the bottle and glanced at the phone. Seth. Seth, his friend, his wannabe-brother who had fled his wrath and was now with Luke who had fucked his ex-girlfriend's mother … a little like Ryan wanted to do with Kirsten. Oops. Wrong turn. Start again. He pictured Marissa, sprawled on this very bed, suffering – was that the right word? Yes, he thought it was – his touch. He pictured her above him, her soft mouth on his and then … then … the bloody door had opened and Kirsten had walked in. Shit. Nope. Start again. Lindsay. Beautiful Lindsay, the only one with whom he'd really felt any connection, a connection that had been severed - and afterwards never really healed - by … guess who? Yep. Kirsten. He laughed and the sound chilled him.

All roads led to Kirsten, even the detours and the back alleys. Like some hideous maze where every twisted path wound its way to the centre. But who was the monster and who the trapped and desperate wanderer? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

All week he'd marveled that his intense need for this woman had exploded from nothing. But had it? He thought back to his rescue from prison, when he'd tried to protect her from that punk in the visiting room. Had that simply been a desire to shield her from harm, or had it been something else? Had her interference with Theresa been born of a desire to help, or spawned from some darker intention? Had her dismay at his involvement with Lindsay been merely a by-product of her shock at discovering Lindsay was, in fact, her half-sister, or had latent jealousy played a part? Had Ryan's own rage at Luke's betrayal with Julie been a manifestation of his own desire for the unattainable? Ryan rubbed his eyes and sighed. What the hell did it matter? Tomorrow he'd be gone. Tomorrow he could kiss all this goodbye. Tomorrow … except there was still tonight to get through.

He balled his fists, straining the healing flesh. They ached, but not as much. Perhaps the whisky had some merit. Perhaps he was just an unfeeling shit. He mashed another butt into the coffee cup masquerading as an ash tray and crawled off the bed. Pulling his sweater over his head, he shrugged his shoulders, loosening tense muscles. Slowly he circled the punching bag that beckoned from the corner of the room, its brown hide covered in dark smudges, remnants of earlier pain he hadn't bothered to wipe clean. There was one way to kill time.

Giving himself no chance to think, he pushed hard against the bag. It swung away heavily and as it arced back, he met it with his right fist. Pain shot through his hand and he gasped. This was stupid. But he did it again, this time with his left, doubling over in agony. Ecstasy followed seconds later. Again, and again, right, left, right, jab, jab, thump. After a few minutes he felt nothing as he circled and punched, circled and punched. A couple of times his hands slid slickly off the bloodied bag sending it spiraling sideways and he was fairly sure he'd cracked another finger, but he didn't care. Nothing really mattered except the exorcising of demons. Every now and then he would pause to gulp from the bottle, but the effect was superfluous now. He was getting high on something baser.

'Why are you doing this?' Kirsten cried from the doorway. Punch. Circle. Ignore her. She'll leave.

'Please, Ryan, stop!' Punch. Sidestep. Not hard enough. Again. Break the fucker.

He concentrated, blinking away the perspiration that filmed his eyes. 'Go.' Smash. 'Away.' Thump.

'No! Your hands! Stop. Stop!'

Kirsten was screaming now, pulling on his arms, but his skin was oiled with sweat rendering her clutches ineffectual. He shrugged her off easily and danced away. This was good. Jab. He felt great. Jab. In control. He drew his left back for another slug, seeing her stricken face beside the bag. God it would be so easy to miss and smash those haunted features. He wanted her to feel his pain ... but grunted as his fist beat the leather again. The impact jarred him and droplets of sweat and blood flew out, spraying her pale skin, marring the peach silk of her gown. She gasped, her fingers flying to her face.

He stopped, panting. Good enough. He stared as she smeared his blood from her cheek, restoring her perfect complexion. She stumbled back and inwardly he cursed her, and himself. The bag swung between them, inanimate, blameless.

'Kirsten …' Ryan mumbled. He stepped around and reached out a bloody paw, as though to undo his handiwork. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and she shook her head.

She might have slapped him, her rejection was so obvious. Fuck! Horror became despair and he lurched against the bag, hugging it like a lover, pressing his face against it to stifle the sobs that wracked his body.

'Oh Ryan,' Kirsten whimpered. 'What have we done to you?'

It was a moot question. His body heaved. Shit, he was going to vomit. Not here. Not in front of her. He swallowed hard, fighting for air. Tears stung his eyes and he swayed, groaning. Was this the culmination of conditioning, to paint over each crack with the thinnest of veneers until one resembled an ancient masterpiece awaiting the restorer's brush? Dorian Gray had nothing on him. Ryan choked and his knees buckled.

He would have fallen, had Kirsten not reached for him, clumsily guiding him to her. Even then he could not support his own weight and, sinking to the floor before her, he burrowed his face into her belly. Blood sullied silk as his arms circled her thighs and he cried at last, three years of tightly-leashed misery spilling viscerally against her, soaking her. He could feel her fingers against his hair, could hear her soft voice soothing his terror, feminine, loving.

And so they remained, a queen and her knave, locked in an ageless embrace. The picture they painted, of succour and supplication, might have adorned any ancient edifice, graced any cathedral window, but as Ryan's tide of grief ebbed he realized there was nothing holy about what he was feeling. His mood was black, his intentions dark. Someone had to pay, and Ryan was spent.

He felt her hands flutter above his shoulders, wary butterflies seeking a safe place to land. He raised his arms and pulled her gently down to kneel before him. She made no protest but her eyes avoided his. Instead she let her fingers trace the scars that notched his young life; a deep gash across his left shoulder, courtesy of Trey, had healed to a pale puckering; four white pocks on his neck would forever remind him of his incarceration. Countless others marked his hide; stains of his struggle against change. She cradled his hands and her tears fell on his wounds, stinging them. Raising one hand to her mouth she kissed each knuckle, as a mother might kiss away the hurts of a child. In a saner moment, the image might have been his salvation. Now it just sickened him.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered sadly. 'So sorry …'

'Shhh,' he soothed her now, not because he felt she deserved it, but because he didn't want to listen to any more apologies. He was done with rhetoric.

Raising a hand to her face, he brushed his knuckles across one cheek, then the other, removing her tears and replacing them with a trail of his blood. War paint. She looked magnificent, a woman for whom he would sacrifice anything. Except himself.

'I can't do this anymore, Kirsten,' he muttered and tilted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. His intent couldn't have been clearer and she swallowed nervously. The movement caught his eye and suddenly he wanted to bend and kiss her neck. She opened her mouth to protest, to fight his desire. But he, who could no longer fight it himself, would win this battle. He had known it all along.

'I love my husband,' Kirsten slowly intoned a long-rehearsed line that had no place here.

'This is not about love,' Ryan replied. He almost laughed. Love? Fuck love. We all walk that fine line, he thought. It's only a matter of time before you fall and it doesn't much matter to which side. He slipped his arms around her, binding her to him.

He felt her struggle then, pressing her hands to his chest to push against him. But he had strength, aided by an aching need, on his side.

'Please, Ryan,' she whispered. 'I … don't want you to do this.'

Some part of his fogged brain registered that she was lying, but no sooner had she spoken them than her words dissolved, became wraiths, taunting him. He growled with frustration. Any tenderness he might have felt deserted Ryan now. The primeval urge to conquer and mate had overwhelmed all other sensibilities.

His right hand slid up her back, following the curve of her spine, burrowing into her nape. He yanked savagely on the clip that bound her hair and she gasped as her neck arched with the force. He leant forward then and pressed his mouth hotly against the pulse that beat under her jaw. Tangling his hand in her tresses, he pinned her head back, while his left hand pressed against her buttocks, forcing her hips to his. She felt his need and bucked away, moaning.

Tracing his tongue across her throat, he drew a wet trail up her neck and bit savagely on her ear lobe. She beat her fists against his chest and he snarled an answer to her earlier question.

'This is what you've done to me, Kirsten! Now let's see what I've done to you.'

He pushed her back onto the floor, pinning her beneath his large body and thrust his hand beneath her gown. He had known she was naked beneath, had seen the dark shadow of her pubic hair where his tears had soaked her gown. Two fingers touched the soft folds between her thighs and thrust into her. She stiffened and he sighed with relief as he felt her wetness. He hadn't been wrong. He watched her eyes widen with shock, and something else, and he pushed again.

'Don't fight me, Kirsten. Don't deny me. Not now,' he pleaded, twisting his hand into her, burrowing deeper. Her hips writhed instinctively, but she shook her head, eyes defiant.

'I hate you,' she whimpered. 'I hate you.'

He pulled out of her then and brought his fingers to her mouth, sliding them over her lips and against her tongue. She tried to turn her face away, but his other hand held her fast.

'Taste your hate, Kirsten. It's sweet.' His cruelty shocked him, but he couldn't stop. He wanted to punish her, because he could. He wanted to hurt her, because he must, because to do anything less would be denying his needs, again.

'I don't want to make love to you, Kirsten,' he whispered and, with sudden urgency, he pushed his sweatpants down. Ah! He saw her fear then, naked, tangible, but alas too late. The time for turning back had long past, repentance would come in the morning.

'I want to fuck you,' he said matter-of-factly, and leaned down to kiss her mouth for the first time, without gentleness and the soft caress of tongues. Stifling her denials, he bit her lower lip, forcing her to open her mouth in protest and then thrust his tongue inside, plundering its moist interior. She bit him back and her nails raked his chest. He grunted when she drew blood. He slid a hand between her thighs again, pushing her legs apart, testing. Christ, she was so wet, so ready for him.

He thought briefly of moving her, carrying her to the bed where he could pay due homage to her frail beauty. But his need dictated otherwise and without ceremony he rolled her over, lifting her hips with one arm. Blinking away the sea of familiar faces that danced before his eyes – a jury that would forever condemn him – he spread her thighs and plunged into her. Ryan cried out as he felt her warm flesh expand to accommodate him and he paused, gathering himself. He didn't care that he was taking her on the floor like a dog. It seemed fitting, somehow, to bring her down to his level. From stray puppy to mangy cur, he thought, making his first slow thrust inside her.

Kirsten moaned and sank her head upon her arms on the cold floor, raising her ass higher in the air. Her weight was supported by his arm, but she was so light she might have been the stuff of fantasy. She wasn't fighting him anymore. She had surrendered, to become the spoils of his hollow victory. He thrust again, slowly now and she matched him, her buttocks slapping hard against his belly. He pushed her gown down her back, exposing her lithe body. Her bottom begged to be caressed and when his thumb traced the crack between her buttocks, she whimpered and wriggled against him.

But it still wasn't enough. He needed to hear her voice her own longing, to beg for his touch. He needed her acquiescence; otherwise he was no better than Trey, was he? He withdrew suddenly and she twisted her head with surprise.

'Ask me to fuck you,' he panted, his breath hot against her skin.

'I …I …' she gasped, but then shook her head.

'Please!' he snarled, and sank into her again, then withdrew, teasing her with his power. Sweat filmed his brow. He did it again, almost losing control. She stifled a frustrated scream.

'Yes.' No mere whisper, but a plea. Her voice hardened. 'Fuck me, Ryan. Now!'

With a guttural cry he lunged into her. Both hands now gripped her thighs, holding her tight to him as he ground against her. She was little more than a rag doll as he shifted her body first one way, then another, to assuage his need. He leaned forward and grabbed her hair, raising her upper body, pulling her tightly to him and riding her hard. His knees hurt, but pain was relative. He had a deeper ache to ease.

He thought he heard Kirsten scream her release, proving in the end no match for him. Ryan felt her spasm against him long before he was ready to come. He paused for a moment, allowing her to enjoy the sensation, then slammed into her again letting her know that any fucking would be done on his terms. There were some lessons you were never too old to learn.

tbc