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tiptoe39Title: A Simple Twist of Fate
Chapter: 3 of ?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tiptoe39
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content.
Summary: What if Matt, not Janice, had picked up the phone when Mohinder called in Season 1? (Thanks as always toilsaluvsrick for beta-ing and for the fantastic soundtrack to this fic, and kleenexcow for the Tamil lesson of sorts.)
A knock and a gruff shout awaken us both in the morning. "Checkout time," comes the voice from the other side of the door. "Gitcher clothes on and pay up."
I scramble to my feet. Matt is rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and clutching his head with the other. He grimaces and puts his head back down onto the pillow.
"Matt. Matt, wake up." I hurry to the bed, shake his shoulders. He's warm with sleep, so much so it surprises me. For an instant all I can think of is tucking my head into one of those broad shoulders and shutting out the outside world. But the man outside the door is getting restless. "We're coming!" I shout, annoyed.
"You were s'posed to do that last night. Now you should be going!" he snaps back, and the double entendre hits me like a hammer on a gong. I resonate from the center outward, shaking a little more each moment as the realization of just how right he is goes through me and fades.
Matt's not the only one who gave into unthinking temptation last night. I look at my hand on his skin for a moment and remember. For the briefest moment, my eyes shut and I can feel the power of that fantasy again.
But then Matt bats at my hand, and I shake him once more. In a fit of sleepy pique, he pushes me over onto the bed. I tumble, end up tangled in his arms, his face very nearly touching mine. One of his hands is gripping my upper arm. It's hot and I am going to die. Right here, right now. I am dying of wanting him. His warmth. His lips. This man is so very attractive. My fingers are itching in their sockets to just reach out and touch him.
His eyes slowly widen as he realizes the precarious position we're in. Then, those eyes start to close, going half-lidded and dark. Two eclipses burning in the white sky. I see him swallow.
And then the door flies open. "Checkout means checkout, lovebirds," mutters the man without even looking. We both turn toward the door and watch him go on to the next room.
A half-hour later, and Matt is sipping coffee, sunglasses on and head propped up by an upturned palm. I'm looking at him over the menu. That was one hell of a way to wake up. My bones are still trembling.
Nothing has changed. I'm still feeling all the same things I was last night, and even more so. Excitement. Anticipation. Something that has no name. My hand is shaking as I reach for my mug of tea. I'm sure I'm about to spill it on myself.
I need to close my eyes and concentrate on my goals. We're driving most of the way today, through Utah and Idaho. At least, that was the plan. We've gotten a very late start.
The name on my notepad is Dale Smither. I called and reached an answering machine with a husky woman's voice on it. She apparently runs a garage up in Bozeman, Montana. Perhaps she'll be more cooperative than Mr. Hawkins was. He didn't even give me a DNA sample. Not that I can blame him. Living with that loose cannon must have taught him to be very wary.
Coffee perks Matt up considerably, and the waffles he orders do even more for his mood. He offers to drive the first leg, which is impressive for a man who was hung over not an hour ago. He must have considerable stamina. Oh, I should not be thinking such things.
Before we set out, he rummages in his overstuffed suitcase a while. "I thought I'd be listening to this all pissy in some hotel room," he says excitedly, holding up a small booklet of CDs. "But I'm actually going to get to enjoy it. Especially driving through Lower East Hicksville, Buttrump, U.S.A."
I have no idea what he's on about. "East what? Where? Who?"
He rolls his eyes and grins. "This," he says, holding the disc case in a flat palm with fingers curled around the end, "is my angry-at-the-world mix. Volumes One through Five. I started putting it together after I failed my detective's exam the second time, but it was also right after the election, so there's a lot of political stuff on there, too. It's guaranteed to shock the religious fundies in this area. Do you mind if I play it extra loud when we go through a town?"
I give him the most frightening frown I can muster. "Yes." He just shrugs.
When we set off and he pops the disc in, the first song that comes up he swears is the "angriest, sexiest, weirdest song ever written." He sings along, and I listen to his voice go hoarse and catch on the longer notes.
I know these blues are gonna rub me raw
Every single cure seems to be against the law
He tilts his head while singing some of the nonsense words that are sprinkled into the lyrics. I like his voice a lot better than that of the man on the recording. Some of the lyrics make me blush. As we leave the city behind and travel into what seems to be an infinity of red mountains, he shakes his finger on the steering wheel and sings,
I don't want your pity or your fifty-dollar words
I don't share your need to discuss the absurd
I feel, oddly enough, like he's singing to me. And I'm somewhat chastened. Have I been so condescending? It's possible. I suppose I was rather harsh with him last night. But the only other option I could see at the time was to take him up on his offer to "make out," as he so delicately phrased it. And while that might have made me happy in the short term, I fear what the morning after would have been like.
The morning after? That's what you're worried about? After what I heard you do last night? Jesus. That's it, this boy's getting an education.
Oh, this is gonna be delicious. Screw traumatizing Utah, this guy needs some serious traumatizing if we're going to spend the whole day in the car together.
Woke up this morning feeling like I'd just been crapped on. Everything I wanted, gone. Felt Janice's absence like a missing limb. God, if I had hacked off my own arm, it couldn't have hurt more. But then all of a sudden I had a faceful of this guy. Mohinder Suresh. What a name that is. And everything's been looking up ever since.
My eyes flicker over to his face. He is undoubtedly a beautiful man. Feel like I don't know him, though. Gonna have to loosen him up somehow. Bridge the gap. And nothing to get someone talking like the supreme tragedy of having to listen to music you're very not ready for. Hold on tight.
"Life'll Kill Ya" just wrapped up, and he looks kind of distressed. I don't blame him. That's too much Zevon for someone who's not used to him. It was a great couple of songs for a dead depressed cop from California, but maybe they do angst differently in India. Anyway, time to lighten things up. Track 4 it is.
The opening guitar scares the crap out of him. Watching him jump makes me laugh. And then, I'm singing (or, rather, shouting) along, and he's staring at me, horrified. His jaw is flapping aimlessly.
"Dare I ask what we are listening to?" he asks tremulously, and he flinches when I throw up my hands along with the music. In answer, I just turn to him and sing at the top of my lungs:
I wanna take you to a gay bar, gay bar, gay bar...
I haven't had this much fun in ages. I haven't felt this free in ages. Maybe this is all I needed. Some company, an open road, gorgeous scenery, wild music. Being myself. I really feel like I'm being myself now, even though a day ago I'd thought I didn't even know who that was. It's so easy to see now. Is that Mohinder's fault? I haven't felt like I've been pretending with him, at all. I haven't needed to. Maybe I'm hamming it up a little bit now, but that's just because his shocked expression is so amusing.
Except now he's stopped being shocked and is breaking into a smile. A grin. And now he's giggling madly. And all of a sudden my tongue is a lump of lead. I can barely breathe when he smiles. Is it just because I know he's attracted to me? Am I imagining that I feel the same way? Is it something about this sprawling landscape-- the angular, ancient mountains-- that just makes everything primal and intense?
Did I say I felt free? What I meant to say was out of control. I feel totally out of control.
But I love it. Holy hell, do I ever love it.
"Las Vegas."
"Somalia."
"All right, if you're going to go global on me, Antarctica."
"Can you do that?"
"Why not?"
"Because we could end up on A forever."
"Why's that bad?"
"Oh, I don't know. Africa, then."
"Asia."
"America."
"See? It's all A names!"
"Fine, fine, Amarillo."
"O... Osaka."
"Now it's your fault we're back to A."
As games go, this one passes the time well. Even if he doesn't seem to care for variety. We've crossed into Idaho a while back, and it's midafternoon, sliding toward sunset. We're surrounded by mountains and wilderness. I'm driving now, having switched with Matt a little after Salt Lake City. And as he says, it's my fault we're back to A.
"Albuquerque," he grumbles.
"England."
"Denmark."
"K..." It slips out. "Kanyakumari."
"Wait, what? Where? What letter does that end with?"
"Um... I. It's in India." My brain is suddenly dead. Maybe it's the dryness of the scenery, but I find myself missing those crystalline waters. Even though it is a place of grief.
"India, then. Now we're back to A." He glances at me. "Are you all right?"
I shake my head, trying to get the nostalgia out. "Yes, fine. I'm sorry."
"What kind of a place is it?"
"Where?"
"That place you mentioned. Kenya whatever."
"Kanyakumari." The word makes me sad to say.
"Right, that. You got all quiet there for a minute. Do you have good memories of it or something?"
I think my eyes are wet. Perhaps it's just because the sun is bright.
"It's a burial ground," I say slowly. The half-formed words on his lips die there without a sound. He's silent, listening. "When my father was murdered, I returned there to scatter his ashes."
"You must have cared a lot for him, to go halfway across the world to do that," he says weakly, as though he's struggling to find something more meaningful to say.
"Sometimes I worry it was selfishness on my part," I say, and the smile on my face feels bitter and tastes salty. "I couldn't persuade him to come home in life, so selfishly I drag him back there in death."
"At least you had the chance to do that," he says. His voice is lower than I've heard it today, and there's almost a snarl around the words. All of a sudden he is a jealous beast guarding a treasure. "My dad might already be dead, or he could die tomorrow, and I'd never know. The last time I saw him, I was thirteen. I probably wouldn't recognize him on the street."
I'm surprised. He didn't strike me as the kind of man to have problems with his father. But now that I think of it, doesn't that explain what happened in California? Is he running away? Does he think he can't escape the cycle and is leaving now, before his child gets the chance to know him?
"No, it's not like that!" he bursts out, and the words hit me between the eyes. That's right. He can hear thoughts. I really, really need to work on my alphabet chanting. "I just... I don't know if I miss him or if I'm glad he walked out or what. My dad was kind of a scumbag even when he was around," he admits. "There wasn't a lot of role model there. Just about everything he told me ended up being just... illusion."
I'm speaking before I even know what I'm doing. "My father spent his whole life chasing illusions. Or so I thought. That's what I believed them to be, just images of what he wanted to find. I never knew the truth, the real truth of it, until it was too late. All the things he kept from me. The things he'd seen and experienced. If I'd listened, if I'd been more understanding or more open-minded, could I have kept him from leaving? Could I have kept him safe?"
Outside my window, red cliffs and sagebrush fill the landscape. The whole vista is red and scratchy beneath a blue-red sky, like a huge eye that's raw and red from crying. It's almost hard to look at.
Matt chuckles. "We really have led parallel lives," he says, and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he says with some of that oxygen, and the rest of it leaves his lungs with a cleansing whoosh.
"For what?" I glance at him, puzzled.
"For listening. I haven't talked about my dad in a long time." A smile quirks into existence on the side of his mouth and disappears again. "It's not so easy, usually. But you kind of made it easy. So thanks."
He touches my arm gently as he says the last word, and the entirety of my pulse seems to gather right into that area. I swallow. He looks at his own hand on my elbow and seems to ponder it. Then his fingers move, smooth and slow like molasses, down my forearm to lightly cover my hand on the gear shift. His hand is so warm that it's nearly suffocating. Oh, no. Where was I? Somewhere around ce. Ce, cē, cai, co, cō, cau.
He looks at me a second. Can he read what he's doing to me? Then he (thankfully!) lifts his hand and claps his palms together. "All right. Enough deep thoughts. Time for some more fun," he says, grinning. I have a momentary suspicion that he's got an ulterior motive. But he's just picking another track on his CD and swaying with the music. Honestly, what else could he possibly play? More offensive, profanity-laden music? I think I've been immunized by the past four or five hours of it.
It only takes until the first chorus for me to realize I'm sorely mistaken.
I make a dirty little religion out of lovin'
I'll make a dirty little convert out of you
He growls the words, throaty and low. A little off-key, but that hardly matters. My mouth goes dry at the images that voice sends through my head.
Dirty little one
Learn the fundamentals of desire
I want that voice in my ear as he lies on top of me, whispering heated blasphemy into my shoulder. I want those strong arms holding me down, taut and tight. I want to taste every feature on that wide face, his stubble grazing beneath my tongue. Oh, God, I want so much I can barely see straight.
It's a dirty little religion, hallelujah
His lips pucker around the "lu" like a kiss. That's it. I turn off at the next exit. It's either that or drive us straight off a cliff.
Sunset, and we've stopped at a scenic overlook where cliffs are hanging over faraway plains that seem to ripple like an auburn sea. Mohinder has one of those battery-powered water heaters, and after he empties a few water bottles into it, we get busy slurping ramen noodles. I feel like I'm twenty again. Two guys on the open road, eating complete crap and finding ourselves. Except for it's not really us we're finding. He's here finding me, and others like me, and I'm finding--
Well, maybe I'm finding myself a bit. Better late than never, right?
I wish I had a guitar so I could play it and sing. I don't even know how to play the guitar. It's just that this scenery needs to have "Blowin' in the Wind" playing in the background. Before I know it, I'm humming.
How many roads must a man walk down, after all? I don't know, but I guess this is one of 'em.
He's looking at me with a slightly amused glint in his eyes. "What?" I pretend I'm horribly outraged that he dares to stare. His smile widens to a grin. "What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Honestly?" he says. "I'm thinking how glad I am to have met you."
My heart makes a funny noise and leaps in my chest. I worry it's going to bruise itself against my ribs at this point. "Well. Thanks, I think."
He's embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...It's just that you're probably the most..." He waves his hand in the air as though fishing for invisible words. "The most sincere person I've met in a long time."
The first thing that comes to mind is, "I don't know, you've met that Petrelli guy. He sort of corners the market on sincerity."
"Or madness. One of the two." His smile is sardonic. "Peter is... naive. He wants to save the world."
"Yeah, he mentioned." I scratch my head, coming to sit beside him on the dusty ground. "Weird guy."
"I hope he does." Now he looks sort of sad.
I don't know why I ask. "Do you want to save the world?"
He turns to me, his mouth a round ring of surprise. He draws in a breath, then exhales. "Perhaps not," he says. "Perhaps I don't know what I want to do, exactly." Tilting his head up to catch the light, he half-smiles. "What do you want to do?"
"Nothing special," I shrug. "Maybe just catch the bad guys. Have a decent life with a decent family. Maybe... Maybe I want to find a place where I can really be myself."
And then, despite myself, I add, "A place like this."
His hair is edged in red against the sun.
"Are you being yourself now?" His voice is barely a whisper, and his thoughts are even softer. With me?
I stare at him. "Yeah," I say, my voice mild. "I think I am."
The sunset on his face makes him look like he's dipped in gold.
He's very good-looking. Seriously.
And then, I've kissed him. I don't even remember it happening. I remember leaning in toward him, but I thought it was to get a better view. I had no idea, really. But now we've kissed. How bizarre.
He looks at me with blank eyes.
"I'm sorry," I hear myself say. "You're just so pretty." (God, how hopeless am I?)
"I'm what?" His voice is a ghost of itself. His lips barely move. They should move more. Really. They look as though they're trembling with the desire to move.
I fumble. "You're..." It barely escapes my throat, which is awfully dry all of a sudden. He's staring at me and kind of tilting his head, and it's like the first step in a dance. I know exactly how to follow-- tilt my own head. And then he leans in a little bit, and then I lean in a little bit and we stare. I try to find reality again. "You're--"
And then he kisses my lips and I feel it in the base of my cock. I'm not kidding. If I completely forgot our first kiss, I'll never forget our second. It burns itself permanently into my body like a brand. I've never had a kiss this sexual before. He's doing things with his tongue-- God, his tongue is in my mouth-- that are orgasmic. I've never been good at French kissing but he makes it an art.
His hands are on my shoulders and he's standing me up and walking me backwards and my back is slamming against the side of the car. I'm being leaned against the side of the car, by an absolutely gorgeous man with dark skin and hair who is kissing me half to death and not thinking anything verbal. Maybe not thinking anything at all.
So I know exactly what we're doing. But when he stops, looks at me, and gasps, "What are we doing?" I forget.
"I don't know," I breathe. My lips miss his. They're itching, yearning for him already. My hands are around his waist. His wrists are flexed, the heels of his hands against my shoulders. Pinning me to the car.
He looks me up and down. He's got to be able to see how turned on I am. I should be embarrassed.
But then he's kissing me again for a blisteringly hot second, and I close my eyes and make a small noise. Where did that noise come from? I don't even know.
He pulls back again and I'm left gasping. His stare is so intense I can barely look. But I can't look away. It's like staring into sunlight.
"I don't want to stop," he says.
From somewhere deep inside I roar up with strength and flip him so he's the one pinned against the car, and I weave my fingers and his together and pull his arms out and up over his head. He moans in a voice like whipped butter or maple syrup or something creamy and sweet and irresistible. I thrust my thigh between his legs. Now I can feel how turned on he is. Hot shit. Mohinder. I've got waves of heat and cold going through me like I'm feverish. I didn't even know I wanted him this badly until just now. But oh God, do I ever want him. I've got to have him. Here. Now. Tonight.
He's wriggling free of my grip and clinging to me and pushing his body up against mine. He's threading fingers through my hair. He's pulling me down along the car's body to the dirt. We're kneeling and still kissing and whatever that sound was, I think it just came from one of us, but I don't know who or what kind of sound it was. I'm so far gone I don't even feel the dust around us or notice he's taking off my shirt until I taste cotton. I forget to be self-conscious. I'm supposed to be self-conscious because I'm not so skinny, but this man is writhing and moving against my bare chest and I just can't take the time out, not when there's so much of him that needs to be naked and needs to be touched right now.
Then all at once without warning, reality sets in. We're dirty and dusty. We're on the ground at a scenic overlook thankfully removed considerably from the highway. We're so about to have sex. I cannot fucking wait. I feel like my whole life has been building to this point. Like something in me is dying to be completed. By him, with him, for him. Until yesterday, my whole life has been a dream. Now I'm awake. But that means reality, and reality means...
"Aha!" It's the closest thing to a word I've said in a long time. I jump up and open the car. Rummage around in the back seat and walk around to the trunk. He stares at me as I go and I can hear him thinking, What? Wait. No. Don't stop now. Come back. What are you doing?
"Trust me, I'm hurrying," I say. "Here." I toss a towel at him. No use in us getting completely dusty. I'm impressed that I'm still even able to think. I'm throbbing like crazy. "And..."
I run back to him, crouch in the dirt, put an arm around his waist and kiss him hard and wet. "Souvenirs from our last motel," I breathe, holding up the packet of condoms and small bottle.
His eyes go round, like big black pennies. "Were you planning..."
"No. Not that smart. Just instinct." I laugh and kiss his neck. He moans low in his throat and I feel the vibration against my lips. He melts against me. "God, you feel so good," I whisper into his ear. "I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for this." Where are these insane words coming from?
Who the hell cares? They're true. I am feeling something so deep and so primal I think it's been here as long as the mountains have. And it's making me smile. Since when do smiles come with sex? That doesn't make any sense at all. But I'm happy. I'm insane with desire for him and I'm happy.
And how he's got his hands in my pants and he's touching me and kissing me so deeply that I forget everything I've ever learned. I can barely talk. I've just been born.
I've never seen so much beautiful brown skin in my life. When he kicks off his pants and they fall dusty to the curb I think I'm drowning in chocolate silk and I've got to touch it. I grab his legs, run my hands over the calves and the fine, dark hair below his knees and kiss his kneecaps one by one. He buckles under my touch, falls to his knees. I'm leaning up against the side of the car with my pants undone and my shirt somewhere far away and his knees fall to either side of my thighs and his eyes look into mine and I know it's time.
"I'm sure," I say. "Are you sure?"
He nods and kisses my lips briefly. The last ray of sunlight winks out.
It's dark. He's still gorgeous. He smells like tea and foreign lands. My fingers are warm and slick inside him and he's moaning and shifting into my hand and unrolling the condom onto me and I've never seen anything so sexy in my whole life. I'm about to make love to this man. If I win the lottery tomorrow I will never feel the kind of euphoria I'm feeling right now in this moment of anticipation. He puts my hand on his cock and looks at me pleadingly. Well, if you insist.
I start pumping. He lowers himself down onto me. The world goes white.
No, brown, it's all brown, his skin and his eyes and the taste of his kisses. He's licking up the sweat from my shoulder and straining, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched in concentration. My hands are tight on his waist, guiding him up and down on me. The wind is touching both of us with icy fingertips. I touch, then pinch one of his nipples gingerly. He howls like a wolf at the moon.
I'm watching him stroke himself. Now I'm helping. I'm shuddering. The dust is thick in my throat. I can see stars on the horizon. He's here. I'm here. We're together. The world turns. The stars dance. The moon is white. The skies are dark. I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard, biting his lower lip to strangle my moan as I rocket up into the night sky and shatter into a million glittering gold pieces. He keens above me as his body seizes up and I feel wetness on my thighs. I lean back, breathing small, shallow gulps of night air. He collapses against me.
For a small, brief, bliss-addled moment, before I know any better, I think I'm in love with him.
OK, now I know better. But it's so great to think it for just a moment. Maybe someday it'll be true. But for now, I'm OK with things as they are. And that in itself is something new and wonderful.
"Oh, God," he whines, "I ache. My legs won't move."
I stare at my pants in the dirt. They are unwearable now. I'll need another pair. I help him to his feet, and he really does wobble a little. "That's a good thing, though. Right?" I ask.
He touches his lips to mine briefly. "Yes. A very good thing."
I'm still warm all over, even though it's cold now. Even though I'm still not wearing a stitch. I lean against him, let his warmth overwhelm me. Now it's my turn to whine. "I don't want to put my clothes back on."
He laughs. "Stay naked, then," he says. "Let's drive to Montana naked. Give this Dale woman a thrill."
I picture that scenario. Poor mechanic coming out from underneath a car to discover two naked men standing in her garage. I think they make movies about that occasionally. They don't play in first-run theatres. "I don't think so," I say, raking my fingers through his disheveled hair. "I'm not eager to share this view with anyone. It's my privilege to see you like this."
I want to elaborate, to tell him how beautiful his skin is pale in the moonlight and how I love the line of his arms and shoulders and the flush of his face, a warm pink in contrast to the cold brick red of the stones. But when I step back to look at him, my breath catches in my throat and I can't speak.
He looks puzzled. "You know, anyone else says something like that and I'd roll my eyes. But you... you make me believe it."
His brow is furrowed as though he can't understand how that could possibly be. It's the expression of a man who's never before felt sure of himself, who's understanding himself for the first time. I get to be part of that. It makes me shudder and almost tear up. "God. Matt, I..."
I'm crazy about you, I think desperately.
I don't know if he hears it, because he just smiles.
I drive us another half-hour until Mohinder points out a motel and we stop for the night. It's too dark for the fellow at the front to see how dusty we are. I suppose that's good.
We get a single room. Of course.
I shower first. When he goes in the shower, I lie on the bed and all of my insecurities come flooding back. My mind's full of a million questions. What have I done? What have I left behind? What have I jumped into?
He's a wonderful man, true, but am I ready for this? How do I know this connection isn't completely superficial? I lived a decade and a half with someone without ever realizing just how much she didn't get me. Will he get me? Will we be able to move beyond the games and the idiocy and just be together? Or will it all end in broken trust and betrayals and jealousy and running away like it always has before?
I'm shivering a little with the possibility when he comes out of the shower. But when he turns out the light and curls up behind me, something inside me is mollified. I sigh into the pillow.
He whispers in the dark. "I don't regret this. I want you to know that."
I close my eyes and fight back the sudden tears. "I hope you never will."
Next: An unexpected face
Chapter: 3 of ?
Author:
tiptoe39Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content.
Summary: What if Matt, not Janice, had picked up the phone when Mohinder called in Season 1? (Thanks as always to
ilsaluvsrick for beta-ing and for the fantastic soundtrack to this fic, and kleenexcow for the Tamil lesson of sorts.)A knock and a gruff shout awaken us both in the morning. "Checkout time," comes the voice from the other side of the door. "Gitcher clothes on and pay up."
I scramble to my feet. Matt is rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and clutching his head with the other. He grimaces and puts his head back down onto the pillow.
"Matt. Matt, wake up." I hurry to the bed, shake his shoulders. He's warm with sleep, so much so it surprises me. For an instant all I can think of is tucking my head into one of those broad shoulders and shutting out the outside world. But the man outside the door is getting restless. "We're coming!" I shout, annoyed.
"You were s'posed to do that last night. Now you should be going!" he snaps back, and the double entendre hits me like a hammer on a gong. I resonate from the center outward, shaking a little more each moment as the realization of just how right he is goes through me and fades.
Matt's not the only one who gave into unthinking temptation last night. I look at my hand on his skin for a moment and remember. For the briefest moment, my eyes shut and I can feel the power of that fantasy again.
But then Matt bats at my hand, and I shake him once more. In a fit of sleepy pique, he pushes me over onto the bed. I tumble, end up tangled in his arms, his face very nearly touching mine. One of his hands is gripping my upper arm. It's hot and I am going to die. Right here, right now. I am dying of wanting him. His warmth. His lips. This man is so very attractive. My fingers are itching in their sockets to just reach out and touch him.
His eyes slowly widen as he realizes the precarious position we're in. Then, those eyes start to close, going half-lidded and dark. Two eclipses burning in the white sky. I see him swallow.
And then the door flies open. "Checkout means checkout, lovebirds," mutters the man without even looking. We both turn toward the door and watch him go on to the next room.
A half-hour later, and Matt is sipping coffee, sunglasses on and head propped up by an upturned palm. I'm looking at him over the menu. That was one hell of a way to wake up. My bones are still trembling.
Nothing has changed. I'm still feeling all the same things I was last night, and even more so. Excitement. Anticipation. Something that has no name. My hand is shaking as I reach for my mug of tea. I'm sure I'm about to spill it on myself.
I need to close my eyes and concentrate on my goals. We're driving most of the way today, through Utah and Idaho. At least, that was the plan. We've gotten a very late start.
The name on my notepad is Dale Smither. I called and reached an answering machine with a husky woman's voice on it. She apparently runs a garage up in Bozeman, Montana. Perhaps she'll be more cooperative than Mr. Hawkins was. He didn't even give me a DNA sample. Not that I can blame him. Living with that loose cannon must have taught him to be very wary.
Coffee perks Matt up considerably, and the waffles he orders do even more for his mood. He offers to drive the first leg, which is impressive for a man who was hung over not an hour ago. He must have considerable stamina. Oh, I should not be thinking such things.
Before we set out, he rummages in his overstuffed suitcase a while. "I thought I'd be listening to this all pissy in some hotel room," he says excitedly, holding up a small booklet of CDs. "But I'm actually going to get to enjoy it. Especially driving through Lower East Hicksville, Buttrump, U.S.A."
I have no idea what he's on about. "East what? Where? Who?"
He rolls his eyes and grins. "This," he says, holding the disc case in a flat palm with fingers curled around the end, "is my angry-at-the-world mix. Volumes One through Five. I started putting it together after I failed my detective's exam the second time, but it was also right after the election, so there's a lot of political stuff on there, too. It's guaranteed to shock the religious fundies in this area. Do you mind if I play it extra loud when we go through a town?"
I give him the most frightening frown I can muster. "Yes." He just shrugs.
When we set off and he pops the disc in, the first song that comes up he swears is the "angriest, sexiest, weirdest song ever written." He sings along, and I listen to his voice go hoarse and catch on the longer notes.
I know these blues are gonna rub me raw
Every single cure seems to be against the law
He tilts his head while singing some of the nonsense words that are sprinkled into the lyrics. I like his voice a lot better than that of the man on the recording. Some of the lyrics make me blush. As we leave the city behind and travel into what seems to be an infinity of red mountains, he shakes his finger on the steering wheel and sings,
I don't want your pity or your fifty-dollar words
I don't share your need to discuss the absurd
I feel, oddly enough, like he's singing to me. And I'm somewhat chastened. Have I been so condescending? It's possible. I suppose I was rather harsh with him last night. But the only other option I could see at the time was to take him up on his offer to "make out," as he so delicately phrased it. And while that might have made me happy in the short term, I fear what the morning after would have been like.
The morning after? That's what you're worried about? After what I heard you do last night? Jesus. That's it, this boy's getting an education.
Oh, this is gonna be delicious. Screw traumatizing Utah, this guy needs some serious traumatizing if we're going to spend the whole day in the car together.
Woke up this morning feeling like I'd just been crapped on. Everything I wanted, gone. Felt Janice's absence like a missing limb. God, if I had hacked off my own arm, it couldn't have hurt more. But then all of a sudden I had a faceful of this guy. Mohinder Suresh. What a name that is. And everything's been looking up ever since.
My eyes flicker over to his face. He is undoubtedly a beautiful man. Feel like I don't know him, though. Gonna have to loosen him up somehow. Bridge the gap. And nothing to get someone talking like the supreme tragedy of having to listen to music you're very not ready for. Hold on tight.
"Life'll Kill Ya" just wrapped up, and he looks kind of distressed. I don't blame him. That's too much Zevon for someone who's not used to him. It was a great couple of songs for a dead depressed cop from California, but maybe they do angst differently in India. Anyway, time to lighten things up. Track 4 it is.
The opening guitar scares the crap out of him. Watching him jump makes me laugh. And then, I'm singing (or, rather, shouting) along, and he's staring at me, horrified. His jaw is flapping aimlessly.
"Dare I ask what we are listening to?" he asks tremulously, and he flinches when I throw up my hands along with the music. In answer, I just turn to him and sing at the top of my lungs:
I wanna take you to a gay bar, gay bar, gay bar...
I haven't had this much fun in ages. I haven't felt this free in ages. Maybe this is all I needed. Some company, an open road, gorgeous scenery, wild music. Being myself. I really feel like I'm being myself now, even though a day ago I'd thought I didn't even know who that was. It's so easy to see now. Is that Mohinder's fault? I haven't felt like I've been pretending with him, at all. I haven't needed to. Maybe I'm hamming it up a little bit now, but that's just because his shocked expression is so amusing.
Except now he's stopped being shocked and is breaking into a smile. A grin. And now he's giggling madly. And all of a sudden my tongue is a lump of lead. I can barely breathe when he smiles. Is it just because I know he's attracted to me? Am I imagining that I feel the same way? Is it something about this sprawling landscape-- the angular, ancient mountains-- that just makes everything primal and intense?
Did I say I felt free? What I meant to say was out of control. I feel totally out of control.
But I love it. Holy hell, do I ever love it.
"Las Vegas."
"Somalia."
"All right, if you're going to go global on me, Antarctica."
"Can you do that?"
"Why not?"
"Because we could end up on A forever."
"Why's that bad?"
"Oh, I don't know. Africa, then."
"Asia."
"America."
"See? It's all A names!"
"Fine, fine, Amarillo."
"O... Osaka."
"Now it's your fault we're back to A."
As games go, this one passes the time well. Even if he doesn't seem to care for variety. We've crossed into Idaho a while back, and it's midafternoon, sliding toward sunset. We're surrounded by mountains and wilderness. I'm driving now, having switched with Matt a little after Salt Lake City. And as he says, it's my fault we're back to A.
"Albuquerque," he grumbles.
"England."
"Denmark."
"K..." It slips out. "Kanyakumari."
"Wait, what? Where? What letter does that end with?"
"Um... I. It's in India." My brain is suddenly dead. Maybe it's the dryness of the scenery, but I find myself missing those crystalline waters. Even though it is a place of grief.
"India, then. Now we're back to A." He glances at me. "Are you all right?"
I shake my head, trying to get the nostalgia out. "Yes, fine. I'm sorry."
"What kind of a place is it?"
"Where?"
"That place you mentioned. Kenya whatever."
"Kanyakumari." The word makes me sad to say.
"Right, that. You got all quiet there for a minute. Do you have good memories of it or something?"
I think my eyes are wet. Perhaps it's just because the sun is bright.
"It's a burial ground," I say slowly. The half-formed words on his lips die there without a sound. He's silent, listening. "When my father was murdered, I returned there to scatter his ashes."
"You must have cared a lot for him, to go halfway across the world to do that," he says weakly, as though he's struggling to find something more meaningful to say.
"Sometimes I worry it was selfishness on my part," I say, and the smile on my face feels bitter and tastes salty. "I couldn't persuade him to come home in life, so selfishly I drag him back there in death."
"At least you had the chance to do that," he says. His voice is lower than I've heard it today, and there's almost a snarl around the words. All of a sudden he is a jealous beast guarding a treasure. "My dad might already be dead, or he could die tomorrow, and I'd never know. The last time I saw him, I was thirteen. I probably wouldn't recognize him on the street."
I'm surprised. He didn't strike me as the kind of man to have problems with his father. But now that I think of it, doesn't that explain what happened in California? Is he running away? Does he think he can't escape the cycle and is leaving now, before his child gets the chance to know him?
"No, it's not like that!" he bursts out, and the words hit me between the eyes. That's right. He can hear thoughts. I really, really need to work on my alphabet chanting. "I just... I don't know if I miss him or if I'm glad he walked out or what. My dad was kind of a scumbag even when he was around," he admits. "There wasn't a lot of role model there. Just about everything he told me ended up being just... illusion."
I'm speaking before I even know what I'm doing. "My father spent his whole life chasing illusions. Or so I thought. That's what I believed them to be, just images of what he wanted to find. I never knew the truth, the real truth of it, until it was too late. All the things he kept from me. The things he'd seen and experienced. If I'd listened, if I'd been more understanding or more open-minded, could I have kept him from leaving? Could I have kept him safe?"
Outside my window, red cliffs and sagebrush fill the landscape. The whole vista is red and scratchy beneath a blue-red sky, like a huge eye that's raw and red from crying. It's almost hard to look at.
Matt chuckles. "We really have led parallel lives," he says, and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he says with some of that oxygen, and the rest of it leaves his lungs with a cleansing whoosh.
"For what?" I glance at him, puzzled.
"For listening. I haven't talked about my dad in a long time." A smile quirks into existence on the side of his mouth and disappears again. "It's not so easy, usually. But you kind of made it easy. So thanks."
He touches my arm gently as he says the last word, and the entirety of my pulse seems to gather right into that area. I swallow. He looks at his own hand on my elbow and seems to ponder it. Then his fingers move, smooth and slow like molasses, down my forearm to lightly cover my hand on the gear shift. His hand is so warm that it's nearly suffocating. Oh, no. Where was I? Somewhere around ce. Ce, cē, cai, co, cō, cau.
He looks at me a second. Can he read what he's doing to me? Then he (thankfully!) lifts his hand and claps his palms together. "All right. Enough deep thoughts. Time for some more fun," he says, grinning. I have a momentary suspicion that he's got an ulterior motive. But he's just picking another track on his CD and swaying with the music. Honestly, what else could he possibly play? More offensive, profanity-laden music? I think I've been immunized by the past four or five hours of it.
It only takes until the first chorus for me to realize I'm sorely mistaken.
I make a dirty little religion out of lovin'
I'll make a dirty little convert out of you
He growls the words, throaty and low. A little off-key, but that hardly matters. My mouth goes dry at the images that voice sends through my head.
Dirty little one
Learn the fundamentals of desire
I want that voice in my ear as he lies on top of me, whispering heated blasphemy into my shoulder. I want those strong arms holding me down, taut and tight. I want to taste every feature on that wide face, his stubble grazing beneath my tongue. Oh, God, I want so much I can barely see straight.
It's a dirty little religion, hallelujah
His lips pucker around the "lu" like a kiss. That's it. I turn off at the next exit. It's either that or drive us straight off a cliff.
Sunset, and we've stopped at a scenic overlook where cliffs are hanging over faraway plains that seem to ripple like an auburn sea. Mohinder has one of those battery-powered water heaters, and after he empties a few water bottles into it, we get busy slurping ramen noodles. I feel like I'm twenty again. Two guys on the open road, eating complete crap and finding ourselves. Except for it's not really us we're finding. He's here finding me, and others like me, and I'm finding--
Well, maybe I'm finding myself a bit. Better late than never, right?
I wish I had a guitar so I could play it and sing. I don't even know how to play the guitar. It's just that this scenery needs to have "Blowin' in the Wind" playing in the background. Before I know it, I'm humming.
How many roads must a man walk down, after all? I don't know, but I guess this is one of 'em.
He's looking at me with a slightly amused glint in his eyes. "What?" I pretend I'm horribly outraged that he dares to stare. His smile widens to a grin. "What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Honestly?" he says. "I'm thinking how glad I am to have met you."
My heart makes a funny noise and leaps in my chest. I worry it's going to bruise itself against my ribs at this point. "Well. Thanks, I think."
He's embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...It's just that you're probably the most..." He waves his hand in the air as though fishing for invisible words. "The most sincere person I've met in a long time."
The first thing that comes to mind is, "I don't know, you've met that Petrelli guy. He sort of corners the market on sincerity."
"Or madness. One of the two." His smile is sardonic. "Peter is... naive. He wants to save the world."
"Yeah, he mentioned." I scratch my head, coming to sit beside him on the dusty ground. "Weird guy."
"I hope he does." Now he looks sort of sad.
I don't know why I ask. "Do you want to save the world?"
He turns to me, his mouth a round ring of surprise. He draws in a breath, then exhales. "Perhaps not," he says. "Perhaps I don't know what I want to do, exactly." Tilting his head up to catch the light, he half-smiles. "What do you want to do?"
"Nothing special," I shrug. "Maybe just catch the bad guys. Have a decent life with a decent family. Maybe... Maybe I want to find a place where I can really be myself."
And then, despite myself, I add, "A place like this."
His hair is edged in red against the sun.
"Are you being yourself now?" His voice is barely a whisper, and his thoughts are even softer. With me?
I stare at him. "Yeah," I say, my voice mild. "I think I am."
The sunset on his face makes him look like he's dipped in gold.
He's very good-looking. Seriously.
And then, I've kissed him. I don't even remember it happening. I remember leaning in toward him, but I thought it was to get a better view. I had no idea, really. But now we've kissed. How bizarre.
He looks at me with blank eyes.
"I'm sorry," I hear myself say. "You're just so pretty." (God, how hopeless am I?)
"I'm what?" His voice is a ghost of itself. His lips barely move. They should move more. Really. They look as though they're trembling with the desire to move.
I fumble. "You're..." It barely escapes my throat, which is awfully dry all of a sudden. He's staring at me and kind of tilting his head, and it's like the first step in a dance. I know exactly how to follow-- tilt my own head. And then he leans in a little bit, and then I lean in a little bit and we stare. I try to find reality again. "You're--"
And then he kisses my lips and I feel it in the base of my cock. I'm not kidding. If I completely forgot our first kiss, I'll never forget our second. It burns itself permanently into my body like a brand. I've never had a kiss this sexual before. He's doing things with his tongue-- God, his tongue is in my mouth-- that are orgasmic. I've never been good at French kissing but he makes it an art.
His hands are on my shoulders and he's standing me up and walking me backwards and my back is slamming against the side of the car. I'm being leaned against the side of the car, by an absolutely gorgeous man with dark skin and hair who is kissing me half to death and not thinking anything verbal. Maybe not thinking anything at all.
So I know exactly what we're doing. But when he stops, looks at me, and gasps, "What are we doing?" I forget.
"I don't know," I breathe. My lips miss his. They're itching, yearning for him already. My hands are around his waist. His wrists are flexed, the heels of his hands against my shoulders. Pinning me to the car.
He looks me up and down. He's got to be able to see how turned on I am. I should be embarrassed.
But then he's kissing me again for a blisteringly hot second, and I close my eyes and make a small noise. Where did that noise come from? I don't even know.
He pulls back again and I'm left gasping. His stare is so intense I can barely look. But I can't look away. It's like staring into sunlight.
"I don't want to stop," he says.
From somewhere deep inside I roar up with strength and flip him so he's the one pinned against the car, and I weave my fingers and his together and pull his arms out and up over his head. He moans in a voice like whipped butter or maple syrup or something creamy and sweet and irresistible. I thrust my thigh between his legs. Now I can feel how turned on he is. Hot shit. Mohinder. I've got waves of heat and cold going through me like I'm feverish. I didn't even know I wanted him this badly until just now. But oh God, do I ever want him. I've got to have him. Here. Now. Tonight.
He's wriggling free of my grip and clinging to me and pushing his body up against mine. He's threading fingers through my hair. He's pulling me down along the car's body to the dirt. We're kneeling and still kissing and whatever that sound was, I think it just came from one of us, but I don't know who or what kind of sound it was. I'm so far gone I don't even feel the dust around us or notice he's taking off my shirt until I taste cotton. I forget to be self-conscious. I'm supposed to be self-conscious because I'm not so skinny, but this man is writhing and moving against my bare chest and I just can't take the time out, not when there's so much of him that needs to be naked and needs to be touched right now.
Then all at once without warning, reality sets in. We're dirty and dusty. We're on the ground at a scenic overlook thankfully removed considerably from the highway. We're so about to have sex. I cannot fucking wait. I feel like my whole life has been building to this point. Like something in me is dying to be completed. By him, with him, for him. Until yesterday, my whole life has been a dream. Now I'm awake. But that means reality, and reality means...
"Aha!" It's the closest thing to a word I've said in a long time. I jump up and open the car. Rummage around in the back seat and walk around to the trunk. He stares at me as I go and I can hear him thinking, What? Wait. No. Don't stop now. Come back. What are you doing?
"Trust me, I'm hurrying," I say. "Here." I toss a towel at him. No use in us getting completely dusty. I'm impressed that I'm still even able to think. I'm throbbing like crazy. "And..."
I run back to him, crouch in the dirt, put an arm around his waist and kiss him hard and wet. "Souvenirs from our last motel," I breathe, holding up the packet of condoms and small bottle.
His eyes go round, like big black pennies. "Were you planning..."
"No. Not that smart. Just instinct." I laugh and kiss his neck. He moans low in his throat and I feel the vibration against my lips. He melts against me. "God, you feel so good," I whisper into his ear. "I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for this." Where are these insane words coming from?
Who the hell cares? They're true. I am feeling something so deep and so primal I think it's been here as long as the mountains have. And it's making me smile. Since when do smiles come with sex? That doesn't make any sense at all. But I'm happy. I'm insane with desire for him and I'm happy.
And how he's got his hands in my pants and he's touching me and kissing me so deeply that I forget everything I've ever learned. I can barely talk. I've just been born.
I've never seen so much beautiful brown skin in my life. When he kicks off his pants and they fall dusty to the curb I think I'm drowning in chocolate silk and I've got to touch it. I grab his legs, run my hands over the calves and the fine, dark hair below his knees and kiss his kneecaps one by one. He buckles under my touch, falls to his knees. I'm leaning up against the side of the car with my pants undone and my shirt somewhere far away and his knees fall to either side of my thighs and his eyes look into mine and I know it's time.
"I'm sure," I say. "Are you sure?"
He nods and kisses my lips briefly. The last ray of sunlight winks out.
It's dark. He's still gorgeous. He smells like tea and foreign lands. My fingers are warm and slick inside him and he's moaning and shifting into my hand and unrolling the condom onto me and I've never seen anything so sexy in my whole life. I'm about to make love to this man. If I win the lottery tomorrow I will never feel the kind of euphoria I'm feeling right now in this moment of anticipation. He puts my hand on his cock and looks at me pleadingly. Well, if you insist.
I start pumping. He lowers himself down onto me. The world goes white.
No, brown, it's all brown, his skin and his eyes and the taste of his kisses. He's licking up the sweat from my shoulder and straining, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched in concentration. My hands are tight on his waist, guiding him up and down on me. The wind is touching both of us with icy fingertips. I touch, then pinch one of his nipples gingerly. He howls like a wolf at the moon.
I'm watching him stroke himself. Now I'm helping. I'm shuddering. The dust is thick in my throat. I can see stars on the horizon. He's here. I'm here. We're together. The world turns. The stars dance. The moon is white. The skies are dark. I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard, biting his lower lip to strangle my moan as I rocket up into the night sky and shatter into a million glittering gold pieces. He keens above me as his body seizes up and I feel wetness on my thighs. I lean back, breathing small, shallow gulps of night air. He collapses against me.
For a small, brief, bliss-addled moment, before I know any better, I think I'm in love with him.
OK, now I know better. But it's so great to think it for just a moment. Maybe someday it'll be true. But for now, I'm OK with things as they are. And that in itself is something new and wonderful.
"Oh, God," he whines, "I ache. My legs won't move."
I stare at my pants in the dirt. They are unwearable now. I'll need another pair. I help him to his feet, and he really does wobble a little. "That's a good thing, though. Right?" I ask.
He touches his lips to mine briefly. "Yes. A very good thing."
I'm still warm all over, even though it's cold now. Even though I'm still not wearing a stitch. I lean against him, let his warmth overwhelm me. Now it's my turn to whine. "I don't want to put my clothes back on."
He laughs. "Stay naked, then," he says. "Let's drive to Montana naked. Give this Dale woman a thrill."
I picture that scenario. Poor mechanic coming out from underneath a car to discover two naked men standing in her garage. I think they make movies about that occasionally. They don't play in first-run theatres. "I don't think so," I say, raking my fingers through his disheveled hair. "I'm not eager to share this view with anyone. It's my privilege to see you like this."
I want to elaborate, to tell him how beautiful his skin is pale in the moonlight and how I love the line of his arms and shoulders and the flush of his face, a warm pink in contrast to the cold brick red of the stones. But when I step back to look at him, my breath catches in my throat and I can't speak.
He looks puzzled. "You know, anyone else says something like that and I'd roll my eyes. But you... you make me believe it."
His brow is furrowed as though he can't understand how that could possibly be. It's the expression of a man who's never before felt sure of himself, who's understanding himself for the first time. I get to be part of that. It makes me shudder and almost tear up. "God. Matt, I..."
I'm crazy about you, I think desperately.
I don't know if he hears it, because he just smiles.
I drive us another half-hour until Mohinder points out a motel and we stop for the night. It's too dark for the fellow at the front to see how dusty we are. I suppose that's good.
We get a single room. Of course.
I shower first. When he goes in the shower, I lie on the bed and all of my insecurities come flooding back. My mind's full of a million questions. What have I done? What have I left behind? What have I jumped into?
He's a wonderful man, true, but am I ready for this? How do I know this connection isn't completely superficial? I lived a decade and a half with someone without ever realizing just how much she didn't get me. Will he get me? Will we be able to move beyond the games and the idiocy and just be together? Or will it all end in broken trust and betrayals and jealousy and running away like it always has before?
I'm shivering a little with the possibility when he comes out of the shower. But when he turns out the light and curls up behind me, something inside me is mollified. I sigh into the pillow.
He whispers in the dark. "I don't regret this. I want you to know that."
I close my eyes and fight back the sudden tears. "I hope you never will."
Next: An unexpected face