Lyrics to I'll Never Let You Go by Steelheart (1990)
The time had come at last: Liby read the text and looked out her bedroom window, her eyes instantly finding the black SUV parked at the curb. She swallowed a rush of anxiety and glanced over her shoulder at Lacy, who on the bed, her back against the headboard and her knees drawn up. She wore jeans and a red long sleeved shirt with a white 2 across the front; her chocolate milk hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were pointed at the screen of her phone.
"He's here," Liby said, and Lacy looked up. A shadow seemed to ripple across her face, then it was gone and she was getting up. Liby texted back then shoved the phone into her pants pocket. Lacy grabbed her bag and hefted it over her shoulder with a strained grunt.
They had been waiting here for nearly two hours, both wracked with nerves and rarely speaking. When they did, it was about nothing of import, nothing pertaining to what they were about to do or where they were about to go. Liby passed most of the time writing in a black and white marble composition notebook that she reserved for Mystery Girl, LTD use only. In it were supply lists, financial equations, and now, at the very end, a page headed LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. She had just over 150,000 dollars in an offshore bank account that she never touched; in the event that she didn't make it back, she wanted it split evenly, to the cent, among her surviving relatives. She also wanted the business liquidated. She'd already taken steps in that direction, but as of right now, it was still official, and still taxable.
She wrote this coolly, dispassionately. She had come to terms with the possibility of her own death as much as one can. Her worry was primarily for Lacy. When she was done, she closed the book and left it on the desk. Presently, she opened it, ripped out a sheet of paper, and scrawled a note, which she left on the middle of the bed. Lacy stood by the door, watching. Liby grabbed her back, slung it over her shoulder, and forced a smile. "Ready?"
Lacy nodded. "Yep." Her dark eyes and wan face said otherwise, and Liby's heart broke. She put her hand on the younger girl's shoulder and squeezed.
"It's gonna be okay," she said, "we got this." She leaned in and kissed Lacy's cheek, her lips lingering on her warm skin.
Lacy ran her fingers through Liby's hair and kissed her cheek in return. "I know," she said, "you're the best there is."
That made Liby smile. I hope so...I really do.
She pulled away, caressed Lacy's cheek with the back of her hand, then started into the hall. "Come on."
It was early afternoon, and everyone was engaged in their characteristic Saturday activities: Lupa drawing and chain smoking, Lyra tuning her guitar, Lizy playing with her toy dinosaur, Leia scheming to make money, and Lemy and Gwen behind closed doors, do God only knows what. A lump welled in Liby's throat as she descended the stairs. This could very well be the last time she would ever see her family, and the prospect made her feel like she was going to puke. She swallowed thickly and her step faltered ever so slightly. The desire to go to each one of them, hug them, and kiss their cheek overcame her, but she didn't think she could, for if she did, she would lose her nerve and stay.
At the bottom she brushed a tear from her cheek and went to the door. Loan was playing one of her games and Liena was picking toys up from the floor. The coffee table was covered in empty chip bags, cans of Mountain Dew, and candy wrappers, and standing to her full height, Liena glared at it. "You should really be more clean," she said, "you're, like, a pig and I'm totes sick of it."
"I'm sick of you thinking you're my boss," Loan grumbled, "I'm older than you."
Liena put her hands on her hips. "You, like, don't act like it."
A sad smile ran across Liby's lips. Loan and Liena were always going at it. Liena was two years younger, but the more responsible of the two, and it had always fallen to her to mind the others, a fact that Loan resented even though she herself admitted that she was in no condition 'to play everyone's goddamn mother.'
They were both so absorbed in their bickering that neither noticed Lacy and Liby slipping out the front door.
On the porch, a cold gust of wind washed over them, and Lacy shuddered. The day started bright but now the sky was the color of dirty dishwater and the smell of coming rain seasoned the chilly air. A group of kids in costumes and carrying bags passed on the sidewalk, watched over by a woman in a pair of yoga pants, fur-lined Uggs, and a puffy blue jacket. Her eyes went to the SUV, waiting like a hearse, exhaust rising from the back like smoke from a crematorium. Liby paused at the head of the steps, icy fingers of dread clawing at the edges of her heart. A pang of dread rippled through her stomach, and she turned to Lacy, her resolve crumbling like archaic masonry. "Stay here," she said.
Lacy's brow furrowed.
"I don't want you coming," Liby said, "I can do this on my own."
Lacy's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Really, I don't need you, stay here."
A breeze ruffled Lacy's hair as she took a deep breath. "I'm not letting you do this alone," she said at length, "so don't even try."
Children ran laughingly down the sidewalk, their merriment mocking, grotesque. Liby stared into her sister's determined eyes, and therein she saw that no matter what she did, Lacy was going to come with her. She would do the same.
"Please?" Liby asked, a beseeching note in her voice that normally would have shamed her. Now it didn't. "I-I don't want you getting hurt." Stinging tears welled in her eyes. "I can do it. I really can." The last word came out in a breathless whisper. Lacy's face was a wet blur seen through water, and Liby bit down on her bottom lip to keep from breaking down completely.
Lacy took her in her arms and pulled her into a tight, loving embrace. "We're in this together," she said, "I'm not leaving you, Liby. I love you."
Liby buried her face in the crook of Lacy's neck, her warm, comforting scent filling her nose and soothing her like the sweetest catharsis. She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around her lover's hips. "I love you too," she croaked. "I love you so much."
For a moment, neither spoke, neither moved, they simply held each other, then Lacy pulled back. "Let's go," she said. "The sooner we get this over with the sooner we can come back and get on with our lives." She smiled tightly, and Liby nodded; a loose strand of hair fell across her forehead and she tucked it behind her ear. Lacy was right. She needed to get ahold of herself.
"Alright," she said.
She went down the stairs and Lacy followed, their footfalls echoing hollowly on the concrete. At the SUV, Liby opened the back door and threw her bag in, then took Lacy's and did the same. She stepped up onto the running board and cast one last, longing look at the house - 1216 Franklin Avenue. It wasn't pretty….the porch roof sagged, the siding was coated with grime, and loose shingles peeled back from the roof like dead skin...but it was home, and she loved it so fiercely in that moment that she silently vowed to never leave if she survived the assault on Montoya's mansion.
Sighing, she climbed in and scooted across the leather bench seat. Lacy followed and pulled the door closed behind her. The driver turned and regarded them with a neutral expression. His face was crisscrossed with scars, his nose was crooked from one too many blows, and his eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of sunglasses. The SUV was a large vehicle, but he still managed to look cramped: He was seven feet tall and broad shouldered, his muscular arms straining against the fabric of his black suit coat.
His name was Ivan, codename Emma. He was Russian and was the kind of guy you called when you wanted to see Rambo acted out in real life. Some would call him a double agent, but that wasn't exactly right: He sold his services to the highest bidder...the CIA, MI5, Mossad, ISIS. Liby met him when she was charged with liberating him from a prison camp in Pakistan. She arrived just as he strode through the main gate, backlit by a giant explosion. "Guess you didn't need me," she remarked.
"No," he said in that thick accent of his, "I didn't."
They became fairly close on the week long trek through the desert to the extraction point in Afghanistan, which is why he agreed to drive her to Deadham Field, a covert and technically illegal CIA airfield near Detroit. Usually, he didn't shift unless someone needed a minimum of three heads cracked.
Presently, he nodded, and Liby nodded back, then glanced at Lacy. Lacy smiled and took her hand, their fingers weaving together. She turned to Ivan, who watched them with a nothing expression. "We're ready," she said.
Gwen got home shortly before five that afternoon; she left Lemy (reluctantly) at two-thirty because she had something to do...something involving her costume.
A perm...she had to get a perm. Her hair, normally straight, was a stiff, teased-out mess, and as she walked away from the beauty parlor, she was so self-conscious she couldn't bring herself to look at anything but her own feet.
Last week, Lemy said he thought it would be hot if she dressed up like a chick from the eighties. She had no clue what women in the eighties looked like, so she did some research, and what she found was a brow-raising confusion of big hair, make-up, and mismatched clothing in bright, Dayglo colors. And that was just the men. The women wore the same, but with bows, skirts over jeans, lacy gloves, and big hoop earrings. She personally thought eighties women were tacky, but Lemy liked them, so tonight, she was, uh, going to totally be a rad Valley Girl type thing.
Gag me with a spoon.
She really didn't mind. As long as he thought she was pretty, she could wear a flour sack and tissue boxes on her feet.
When she reached the house, she found it dark and silent, but the tense atmosphere told her that mother was indeed there, ill-feelings radiating from her like cold from a block of ice. Gwen's light mood sank, and she dragged herself up the stairs on plodding feet, pausing at her door and cocking her head to listen: Mother's door stood open and the sounds of the television drifted forth. If mother knew she had returned, she made no sign.
She probably didn't even notice she left in the first place. But why would she? She didn't care about her.
Gwen's teeth clenched as rage rose in her chest like superheated steam. Her hand tightened on the knob, and for a moment she glared down the hall, then pushed the door open and went inside, closing it behind her. It didn't matter, she told herself as she crossed to the closet. She didn't need her mother, she didn't need her father, she didn't need anyone but Lemy, the only one whoever loved her, the only one who didn't treat her like she was either invisible or a piece of dirt. Only deep, deep down...it did matter. It did matter that her mother hated her, it did matter that the very woman who gave birth to her didn't care whether she came or went, lived or died.
After all...when you couldn't trust your own mother to love you, who could you trust?
She took the pieces of her costume from the closet and laid them out on the bed, tears welling in her eyes. Who can you trust? Lemy? She sighed and blinked. Yes, she decided, she could. Oh, there were misgivings, there always were and probably always would be thanks to her stupid mother, but she could see and feel his love for her, and...and she needed someone to trust. For better or worse. Human beings need love as surely as plants need the warm light of the sun; without it, their hearts wilt and die. For eleven years, Gwen's heart had been slowly starving to death. Now it wasn't. Once she was cold, now she wasn't. She never knew it was possible to feel like this, and she would do anything to hold onto it.
Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith even if it scares you. She was secretly terrified that one day Lemy would stop loving her, that she would do something wrong and screw it up. An evil little voice inside her head told her to pull away, to flee him before he could hurt her the way everyone else had. She wasn't going to listen, though; she knew he could hurt her, devastated her even, but she was taking that leap of faith like a woman jumping from a burning building and onto one of those inflatable pad things the fire department uses because if she didn't, her heart would wither and die. She would wither and die.
Putting her hands on her hips, she looked at the clothing before her. Black leggings, a short denim skirt she sliced here and there with a razor, then washed to give it that white-pieces-of-thread-poking-out look that was apparently really popular in the eighties, a sleeveless shirt with a pink and black pattern that she'd never seen before (it looked kind of like leopard print but with squares and triangles thrown in for diversity), a denim jacket, and a hair bow. She spent days sifting through the thrift shops and junk stores of Royal Woods, assembling her costume piecemeal, one garment here, another there, her phone in her hand and on Google Images: EIGHTIES WOMEN CLOTHES. Once she had it all together and tried it on for the first time, she laughed at her reflection in the mirror, partly because she thought she looked dumb, but also because Lemy was going to love this.
She hoped.
Presently, she got undressed and pulled the leggings on; the were tight on her thighs and pretty uncomfortable: She was used to the freedom and flexibility of a skirt. Next came the jean skirt. It, too, was tight; the bad thing about thrift stores is that sometimes, everything is either too big or too small, and you had to make do with what you had or go without. This was a lesson she learned long ago - she bought clothes with her own money since her mother wouldn't, and sometimes she went to the Goodwill or Salvation Army so she wouldn't have to spend everything she had. At first she was ashamed, but she quickly got over it when she realized that a lot of the clothes there were nice...a lot of it never worn, with the tags to prove it.
She left the jacket and took the bow into the bathroom, where she carefully applied make-up from a kit that she rarely used: Eyeliner, lipstick, and a touch of rouge to her cheeks. After a moment of debate, she used the eyeliner pen to make a little mole above the right corner of her mouth like that singer..what was her name? She couldn't remember, but she saw her picture online and thought she was cute. Not like that other singer. The one with the red hair. She did that song...Girls Have Fun or something. Gwen thought she was ugly.
Done with that, she took a pick in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other, and proceeded to tease her hair until it was as big as she could get it, turning left, right, front, and back to make sure it was even.
She certainly looked like she was from the eighties.
She really hoped Lemy liked it.
Putting the make-up away, she turned out the light and left the bathroom. In the time it took her to get ready, the sun had largely set and the only light in the hall was the blue TV glow spilling from her mother's room. She passed by with a rush of dread, but mother didn't stop her, didn't call out to her, didn't care. Usually Gwen was happy when her mother didn't notice her, but for some reason, now it really bothered her.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her shoes on.
Dead. Her mother might as well be dead.
Getting to her feet, she grabbed the jacket, slipped it on, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She left the room and started down the hall, but something stopped her.
It would only be right to tell her mother she was going.
Her heart clutched and her stomach rolled, but for some reason, she found herself walking to her mother's room, partly dragged, partly pushed. At the door she paused: Mother sat up in bed with the covers pooled in her lap, a bottle of Vodka on the nightstand and her arms crossed sternly over her chest. Her wrinkled face was set in a perpetual glare, and the light of the TV flickered in her eyes like cold fire. Gwen's heart started to race. What was she doing? She should just turn around and go. Mother didn't care if she went...or came back...and never had.
Yet deep down...she felt something stirring, something akin to hope.
"Mother?" she asked. The word felt strange on her lips as it always did. Not as strange as 'mom' though; she'd never been able to bring herself to use that one. It was too warm...too personal.
Mother glanced away from the TV, her thin brow angling down in a shallow-edged V. "What?" she asked sharply.
That one single word went through Gwen like poison and her stomach churned sickly. "I-I'm going out," she said.
"Good," Mother replied and turned away.
Good.
Go.
I don't want you here.
Tears welled in Gwen's eyes. "I-I might be late," she said, "really late."
She may not have known why she came to her mother at first, but she knew then; she wanted her to care. She wanted it so badly that, in this moment, she would gladly sacrifice the night with Lemy if mother would just care. No, stay here, we can play a game and order pizza...then we can snuggle on the couch and watch a movie. It was a pipe dream...but she longed for it so badly it hurt.
"Do whatever you want," Mother said. Her face was wan and sharp in the electric flicker, her thin lips pursed and shadows filling the crags of her features.
Tears fell down Gwen's cheeks.
She didn't care.
She never would.
She didn't want her. Gwen spent her entire life wanting a relationship with her, aching to touch her and hug her and do things with her...normal, simple things that every mother and daughter do...and it was a waste.
Her sadness turned to anger; her hands curled into fists and a tremble ran down the length of her spine. "I might not come back at all," she said tightly.
Mother looked away from the TV, the V tightening. "What?" she asked.
"I hate it here," Gwen said. She shaking, her skin flushed. "I hate it here and I hate you."
Mother's features darkened. "Excuse me?"
"I hate your guts," Gwen said through her teeth. "I hate this house, I hate your husband, and I hate being your daughter."
For a moment Mother simply looked at her, then she sneered. "Ungrateful little bitch. I gave up everything for you. I married that son of a bitch for you. If my parents had their way you would have been aborted."
Mother's face tightened.
"And I wish you were. I'd have my inheritance and I wouldn't have to live my life for you."
Her mother's words pierced her heart like the cold steel of a knife.
"Gwen this, Gwen that," Mother said, her lips puckering in disgust, "Gwen, Gwen, Gwen. I'm sick and tired of living for an unappreciative little twit like you." She leaned forward. "I hope you never come back. I'd have a party if you didn't."
A bomb blast of rage detonated in Gwen's chest. "I HOPE YOU DIE, YOU UGLY DRUNKEN BITCH!" she screamed. Her nails bit so deeply into the soft pads of her palms that they drew blood. Her lungs burst and her heart slammed. She was trembling, hot, sick, and her eyes were beginning to blur with tears. "I HATE YOU!"
Mother's response was cold, even. "I hate you too. You ruined my life. I should have strangled your in the cradle."
"FUCK YOU, CUNT!" Gwen screamed, her body bending forward. She was openly crying now. "I'M NEVER COMING BACK!"
"Good."
Sobbing, Gwen turned away and rushed from the room, her hands pressing to her face. She was three blocks away before she realized something: She was serious.
She would never set foot in that house again.
And she never wanted to see...that woman...again.
She didn't know what she would do or where she would go...but it would be a whole lot better than where she came from.
Even death would be better.
Lemy dug hair metal, man, he really did, and when he saw videos of Poison and shit, he was like Ooooh, those dudes look cool. Nevertheless, as he sat at his desk and sifted through the guts of Lisa's radio, he felt like the biggest dumbass/loser/queer/idiot in the world.
It was pushing six and the sun was setting. Gwen was coming over and he was in his costume - pink spandex pants, sleeveless leopard print blouse he borrowed from Liena, denim jacket, pink scarf (that one came from Leia), and a red bandana. His hair was permed and it bothered the fuck out of him - it was really stiff and if he moved his head too quickly he'd spill over like The Shockmaster.
He glanced over at the clock (moving slowly, of course). Gwen should be here any minute. He'd go downstairs and wait but for one, he wanted to get Lisa's radio back to her ASAP. I could fix it myself, but I've already allotted enough time to trivial matters recently. I would appreciate the utmost speed, as I prefer to work whilst listening to music. Oh, he knew: Every time he went up to the third floor it was a fucking boogie wonderland. He bought a DISCO SUCKS T-shirt from Hot Topic once and wore it just to irritate her. (I know, Hot Topic's gay, shut up). She didn't take the bait, though, which kind of irritated him. It got to the point where whenever he was wearing it he'd seek her out for a little small talk, and pick at the shirt the whole time. Look at this, Lise. I hate your music. I'm being so obnoxious as to wear a shirt proclaiming my disdain for your genre while talking to to you directly. Say something. Acknowledge me.
Hm. Thinking back, that was kind of childish...and attention seekingish. Not surprising, he guessed, since he always felt ignored and shunned, but he never thought that he went out of his way to get his family to notice him. God, what else did he do?
Nevermind. Focus. The second reason he wasn't waiting in the living room was Loan - she roasted him so hard for his costume that he almost punched her. To be fair, that was before her medication kicked in. Now she'd just look at him and roll her eyes instead of lighting him up like Christmas morning.
He really didn't get her. Sure, she was a ball of anxiety and disorders or something, but the mean shit when she was nervous and not drugged up...man. Dad wasn't lying by the way, she really does do that if she isn't on the dope. Once, for someone's birthday (was it one of his?) they went to a bowling alley and dragged Loan along. She spent the whole time sitting at a table and whipping her head around like she was afraid someone was going to come up on her. When a waitress came over to see if she wanted anything, Loan called her a trailer park tramp. Then, after that, she started going hard on Leia for 'being a total bitch to everyone." When she got like that, man, it was like feeding logs into a fire, an endless cycle of calling people names, getting embarrassed and even more nervous, and calling people meaner names.
What a fucking weirdo, right? She kind of reminded him of that kid from South Park. Twitch? Is that what his name was? He was really anxious or something and his eye twitched. Loan's did the same thing.
Anyway, he sat back and looked at the radio before him, a confusion of wires and moving parts to anyone else but a carefully crafted machine to him. A carefully crafted machine that was malfunctioning for seemingly no reason.
Huh. Maybe it got tired of playing disco and decided to off itself. Couldn't sat he blamed it. I mean...I can behind some of it, but as an essential food group the way Lisa used it? Pfft. I'd wrap this goddamn banana around my neck and pull a David Carradine. Remember him? He looped a belt around his throat, tied it to the coat hanger rack thing in a Bangkok hotel room, and jacked himself right into the grave. He wouldn't do the jacking part, but he'd do everything else.
Man, that's gotta be the most humiliating way to go. DIED WHILE MASTURBATING. Imagine that splashed over every fucking newspaper cover in the country above your picture.
The head-shaking shame your family would feel.
The endless jokes at your expense:
What is David Carradine's favorite game? Hangman.
What is David Carradine's favorite Chinese food dish? Egg foo hung myself.
How is the Thailand government honoring David Carradine? By changing the capital city name to Hangkok.
No thank you. Living a lame life is one thing, but dying a lame death is another. I wanna go out with explosions and bullets and shit, like in a police standoff.
Oooo, ooo, ooo! Like those dudes in North Hollywood! Now that was a shootout! They had the fucking ski masks and the body armor and the fucking machine guns, and all the cops were hunkering behind stuff too scared to do shit. Then the one dude was walking down the sidewalk, ran out of ammo, and shoved his pistol under his chin. BOOM! That's how a fucking man dies.
He glanced at the clock.
Any minute and Gwen would be here.
He hoped Loan didn't get fucking stupid again. That shit she said at the table really hurt Gwen's feelings: When they first got up here, you know, before cuddling (and eventually having sex because, really, cuddling's a turn on), she had tears in her eyes. You know how that made him feel? To see her crying? It felt like someone roasted a fuckng knife blade over an open fire and jammed it into his heart. It...it made him want to cry.
"Really, ignore her, she didn't mean it," he said later as he held her. His face was buried in her soft hair and his lips brushed across the nape of his neck. "She's all screwed up." He then proceeded to spout a laundry list of Loan's problems - the ones he could remember, at least.
It took a loooong fucking time.
"I'm okay," Gwen said, "but...yeah, it did kind of...kind of hurt."
"I'm sorry," he said, misery washing through him. He kind of got the vibe that Gwen was down on herself, and being attacked by Loan was probably the worst fucking thing that could happen to her. He'd tried several times over the past week to get her to open up about her feelings and stuff, but she always blew him off. He could respect her not wanting to talk about something painful, you know, but he wanted to be there for her. She was his everything and when your everything's secretly hurting, and her eyes look so sad sometimes, you do something about it.
Only Gwen wouldn't let him in.
That sounds like some dumb namby-pamby therapist shit, but it was true, kind of. He wanted into her emotions and stuff.
Presently, he leaned forward and sifted through the guts of Lisa's radio. What the hell was wrong with this POS anyway? He checked everything. Why wasn't it working? He was starting to get frustrated, which didn't usually happen when he was working on something mechanical; this was his happy place, and the worst hour he ever spent balls deep in a machine was still pretty damn good. Maybe it was the…
That thought trailed off when someone knocked on the door. Where is my disco, male nibling? I require it to continue playing mad scientist…
"Yeah?"
The door opened and he glanced over his shoulder, freezing when he saw Gwen.
A week ago, he told her it would be hot if she dressed up like a chick from the eighties and she said she would. When she said her costume was a surprise, he figured it was the totally tubular 80s girl thing (come on, give my brain some credit), but...goddamn! She wore black leggings that hugged her shapely legs like a second skin, a torn and tattered denim skirt, a jean jacket over a pink and black shirt with a funky pattern, and a large bow in her teased hair. Lemy's eyes went from her feet to her head, his jaw dropping and his dick threatening to tear though his pants like they were a wall and it was The Shockmaster.
She smiled tightly. "Hey, Freak. You like?"
Lemy didn't reply...man, he couldn't reply.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said. She came in, shut the door, and crossed to the bed, where she sat, her hands going to her lap. He opened his mouth to say something (dayum, gurl, maybe), but before he could, Gwen face screwed up in an expression of misery and she started to cry, her hand flying to her face and her head bowing. Lemy blinked in confusion, then his heart clutched.
"What's wrong?" he asked worriedly and leaned forward. He reached out and laid his hand on her knee; she trembled under his touch, and the worst feeling Lemy had ever experienced in his life went through him. It was like acid mixed with broken glass
"Was it Loan?" he asked, and anger started to well in his chest. "I'll knock that skuzzy bitch's head off."
Gwen shook her head. "No," she hitched. She lifted her face; her cheeks were red and tears shimmered in her wounded eyes. "It's my mother."
"What?" Lemy asked, an edge in his voice. Oh, God, did her mom die or something?
Gwen's lips trembled. "She doesn't love me," she said, her voice cracking. She wept harder. "She doesn't love me."
Lemy moved from the chair to the bed, sitting next to her and slipping his arm around her shoulder. She melted into him and buried her face in his chest; wet tears soaked through the front of his shirt. "What do you mean she doesn't love you?" he asked softly and stroked her hair. She sniffed wetly and shook slightly. For a long time, he caressed her hair, and she slowly calmed enough to tell him everything - starting with the way her parents treated her and ending with her and her mother's fight that evening. As Lemy listened, he cycled through every emotion it was possible to feel - anger, hatred, regret, and sadness. By the time she was done, her voice was hollow, and he was fighting back tears of his own.
"I've never been good enough," she said, "nothing I do...nothing I say…I've always felt stupid and...and like a failure."
Lemy swallowed and pressed his lips to the top of her head. He wanted to speak, to say something, to utter a magic combination of words that would dispel the pain her heart, but his lips were quivering and if he tried he would break down.
He hadn't known her very long in the grand scheme of things, but in the time he had, he had come to love her with a ferocity that scared him - he would do anything for her, anything, and if she left him, he probably wouldn't make it. His heart would literally break and he would die. She was perfect in his eyes - smart, beautiful, caring, attentive, fun, and a thousand other things that he couldn't name. That she was made to feel like trash, like she wasn't good enough hurt worse than anything else - even the acid/broken glass thing.
And to think...in the beginning he didn't love her. He thought...man, he thought she was a nuisance. He treated her like garbage too.
That did it: He broke down and started to cry himself, his forehead falling limp against the top of her head and her nose nestling in her hair. She looked up and he pulled away. Her face was drawn in worry, and he fought to get a grip on himself. She needed him, and he was going to fucking be there for her...he was gonna be her rock...now and for-fucking-ever. He blinked away his tears and cupped her cheek in his palm; her brushed his thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone and gazed into her tearful eyes. She stared back, and the air between them crackled with electricity.
"You're not stupid," he said, "and you're not a failure. You're perfect."
Her eyes flicked away. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are, Gwen," he said firmly, and she turned her gaze to him once more. "You're...you're everything I could want, and I love you with all my heart. You're my everything."
She smiled weakly and touched his face. "You're my everything. You're the only good thing to ever happen to me."
Lemy pressed his forehead against hers. A raging tempest of emotions battered him like a stormy sea, and he gave into them. "I want to be with you forever," he said, "I want you to always be with me, Gwen. I love you."
A bright smile broke across her lips, and her face lit up, her eyes like the sun emerging from behind a bank of dark clouds. His heart swelled and he giggled like a little girl. She tilted forward, and he leaned into her, their noses brushing and their lips grazing, his air now her air, her spirit now his. Their eyes met and held, and in them Lemy saw the future...his future.
You have angel eyes
Such a smile that lights up my life
You're a dream come true
Now I'm holding you
And I'll never, never let you go
"I want to have your children," she said, her hand rubbing faintly across his chest. "I want our children."
Something stirred deep within him, and he smiled. "I want that too," he said, and he did; he didn't know that he did before, but now, staring into her eyes, he did...a child both his and hers, their love for one another made into flesh.
He kissed her and slipped his hand into her hair.
First time I laid my eyes upon you
All my dreams were answered
First time I kissed your tender lips
My love to you I surrendered
He gently laid her back on the bed and mounted her, her hand creeping into his and their fingers threading. Their tongues made desperate love to one another, their free hands tenderly touching each other's trembling bodies.
I'll never let you go
You're always on my mind
You're the only one for me
You're all I need
And I'll never, never let you go
He slipped out of his boxers, and she opened her legs for him. He shifted and brought his erection to her center. She reached out and touched his face. "I love you," she said.
"I love you," he said, and pushed into her, his body melding with hers. The first time he entered her, he felt something like a jolt, and now he felt it again. Her walls molded around him, as though she was made for him and him alone, and he for her. She moaned as he pushed to her limit and leaned over, their chests smooshing together. She looked into his eyes, and he into hers.
"I love you, Gwen," he said.
Angel eyes
My heart relies
On the love you give to me
You never let me down
You're always by my side
And I'll never, never let you go
They moved in time, each giving love and each receiving it, both whispering soft and heartfelt declarations of love and devotion. Gwen wrapped her legs around his waist and held both of his hands, watching him through slitted eyes. She could feel his head poking the opening of her womb, and she she shifted her hips, opening herself to accept his seed...to bear him a son who was just as perfect as his father.
When my heart starts to crumble
And the tears start to fall
You hold me close with tender lovin'
And give me strength to carry on
The end came quickly, her body responding to his and his body to hers like two rocks scraping together and creating sparks. He held her hands over her head in a V and kissed her as he swelled against her walls. She threw her hips flush against his and spread her legs as far as they would go. He thrusted hard, getting as deep as he could, and released, wet fire shooting deep into her stomach, its heat filling her. He thrusted again, and more shot into her; she trembled as her own climax hit her, and for a moment, the world seemed to roll away, leaving only them and the burning sensation of their love made manifest.
I'll never let you go
You're always on my mind
You're the only one for me
You're all I need
And I'll never, never let you go
Sometime later - maybe seconds, maybe minutes - he pulled out, and she clamped her thighs closed to trap as much of him inside as she could. He stretched out beside her and took her in his arms; they were both trembling from exertion and from the power of their shared orgasm.
"You should stay," Lemy finally said into her ear, his breath warm and soothing against her skin. "You can live here. With me."
"I don't think your parents would like that," Gwen replied, "or your sisters."
She would, though; waking up next to him and falling asleep next to him, always having his love and tenderness. It would be heaven.
"I can talk to Dad," Lemy said, "and everyone else can go to hell"
Gwen laughed. "I don't know," she said, "I don't want to cause a problem."
"I'll talk to him," Lemy said, "but you're definitely staying the night."
"Oh, I am, am I?" she asked playfully.
"Yep."
"Hmmm...okay, if you insist."
Lincoln Loud put his hands on his hips and stared down at his eldest daughter: She was lost in a video game with graphics so good it looked like a movie. "Loan?" he asked.
She didn't reply.
"Loan?" he asked, sharper this time.
"Huh?" Her head twitched slightly in his direction, but her gaze never left the TV.
Lincoln sighed. "Have you seen Lacy and Liby?"
Loan shook her head. "No, not in a while. Like...yesterday or today or something."
Oh. Okay. That helped.
Leaving her to fight aliens or Nazis or whatever it was (alien Nazis?) he climbed the stairs, his hand trailing on the bannister. It was late, pushing seven, and he hadn't seen Lacy or Liby all day. That wasn't unusual, as they often spent time out and about doing God knows what, but they were always home by dinnertime. Tonight, they weren't.
At the top of the stairs, he met Leia, dressed in as Harley Quinn or some damn thing: Pigtails, one blue the other pink, and a bandit mask. And very, very short shorts. "Hi, Daddy," she chirped, "can we play before I go trick or treating?"
"In a minute," Lincoln said absently, his hand lifting like an Indian chief's (how). He didn't see her shoulder-slumping disappointment or hear her heavy sigh. He didn't show it, but he was really beginning to worry.
At their door he knocked and waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he opened it and went in. The lights were off and the bed were neatly made. He snapped the switch and warm, muted glow split through the shadows. He glanced around, saw nothing, and started to leave when he noticed the paper on the bed
A note?
He picked it up and read it.
Dear Dad;
Went to kill Ricardo Montoya. Be back soon. Love you.
- Liby and Lacy.
For a moment he simply stared at it..then chuckled. And here I thought they were in danger. He sat it back on the desk and left the room with a fond head-shake. Liby and that Montoya guy. If she wasn't with Lacy, he'd swear they had a crush on each other.
Poor man had no idea what was coming to him.
Lincoln actually felt sorry for him.
Because if Liby said she was going to kill you, brother, she was going to kill you.
Now...where was he?
Oh.
Right.
Leia wanted to play.