My hands pull her into me at the same time my hips push me into her. It's slow and exaggerated and she gasps when I fill her, a rush of air and uninhibited satisfaction. Her need being sated.
I feel her legs tense and her body meets my every move. Her eyes are closed and her face looks slack with pleasure and pursed with concentration. This is not the Scout I've known for the past few months. This is Scout from the dream I overheard months ago. This is Scout letting go and giving in to everything her body's craving. Giving in to everything it's getting from me. Giving in to everything it's giving to me. She's so fucking into this. And so am I.
So.
Am.
I.
Fuck.
My eyes drop back to our connection. Me gliding out of her and gliding back in. Over and over. Everything's building. I can feel it in her, too.
I switch positions without breaking our connection, so that I'm lying on top of her. Skin, all of it, touching again. Her arms and legs are wrapped around me. My mouth on hers. The movement of her hips is turning my world upside down in the best way possible. She's so fucking tight, and she's pulsing around me.
"That's it sweetheart, let it go," I pant.
She does. God, does she ever. It's moans, and unintelligible sexy sounds, and words distorted by release.
That's it. I'm done for. It's coming. Coming. Coming. "Oh, fuck. Fuck," I call out.
She's still writhing around me and the last thing I hear come from her mouth is, "Kiss me, Gus."
I do.
Again.
And again.
Monday, January 1
(Gus)
I know before I open my eyes that she's not in bed with me anymore. She fell asleep with her arm around me, her head lying on my pillow, her long legs tangled with mine. I couldn't sleep. Or more accurately didn't sleep but only for a few hours this morning.
I lay there with her.
And with myself.
And I was at peace.
It's been so damn long since I was at peace, that I didn't want to give it up to sleep for fear it wouldn't be there when I woke up.
I was right.
It's not here.
She's not here.
And I know she's not far away. She's probably just out for a run, or maybe she's eating breakfast. But she's not here. Her nearness brings me peace.
And now that I've felt it, I crave it. Like my fucking cigarettes, I crave it.
I'm roused from thought by the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand. "Jesus Christ, who's calling at the crack of—" I was going to say dawn, but when I look at my clock it reads almost twelve o'clock, so I chill out and finish with, "—noon?" It's MFDM. I clear my throat and answer, "Happy New Year, kemosabe."
"Happy New Year to you, Gustov."
"What's going on in your world this morning?" I ask while crawling out of bed and searching for some underwear, or at the very least some shorts.
"Word on the street is you played a local bar last night?"
"Damn, news travels fast. Word is correct."
"Good news travels fast. I also hear you've got some songs ready."
I pick up my shorts from where I shed them last night and slip them on. "Shit, that's a lot of intel. Who're you paying to watch me these days?"
He knows I'm kidding. MFDM and I get along well, and have since the first day we met. "No one. I talked to Franco this morning."
"Ah. Good call, going straight to the source."
"That's how I roll," he answers. He's a fairly serious guy, so when he tries to sound hip it always cracks me up and just ends up being funny instead. Which is probably better. I do funny pretty well.
I'm laughing. "Right? Cut to chase, dude. Where's this conversation headed?"
"Studio in L.A. tomorrow morning. It's booked for the month. So is an apartment, same complex as last time. I need you guys there by ten o'clock."
My stomach clenches and I literally see the remnants of last night's peace fly out the goddamn window. Recording the last album was stressful. I don't want stressful right now, not when I'd finally released it. But I say what I need to say. "We'll be there. And dude?"
"Yeah, Gustov?"
"New year and all, can you just call me Gus? I need to do this album and tour as Gus, not Gustov."
"Sure, Gus." When he says it, there's something in his voice I can't put my finger on. It sounds like approval. Like when you're little and you do something that tickles the shit out of your parent and they tell you good job. That's what it sounds like.
I make calls to Franco, Jamie, and Robbie. They're hyped. They're ready.
I wish I was. I mean, I am, but at the same time I'm not.
I don't know what else to do with myself, so I pull my duffle bag out of my closet and I start throwing clothes in. Each movement feels robotic. I'm getting used to packing up my life. But right now the only thing I'm thinking about taking with me, is the one thing I can't.
Her.
(Scout)
I got out of bed early this morning and went for a long run. The adrenaline from last night carried over and had me pushing my normal pace and distance. I felt different this morning. I felt accepted. Confident. I ran in a short-sleeved T-shirt. I haven't bared my arms since before the accident. And I didn't care when people looked at me, because I knew that the one person who matters thinks I'm beautiful.
I ate and I've showered. And I'm standing at his bedroom door in shorts and a short-sleeved Rook T-shirt I stole from Paxton. Just as I'm about to knock, my stomach knots. And I start doubting myself again. What do I say? How do I act? Everything's different now.