Fear of Heights Page 9

I relax my body for an instant and he lays his mouth on mine. I respond all too eagerly to his kiss. I take his tongue and thrust mine just as deeply into his hungry mouth. I hate him and I want him and I hate myself for wanting him. I will destroy his body with mine.

  I angrily tear away my own clothing, frantically wanting him inside me. I long to feel something—anything. I want him to fuck away the pain. Perhaps I can find some sad solace in the pure physical functioning of my own stupid body. I guide him inside me senselessly with one hand, but push him away with the other. His chest feels solid and comforting under the palm of my hand. What a contradiction—that it’s his heart that comforts me.

  He’s big and deep, and he wastes no time in crushing my hips into an anxious rhythm. I keep my hand positioned firmly on his strong chest, as if the gesture could equate to some symbolic distance between us. An inch of space that represents a great emotional divide. I squeeze my eyes shut and allow this need to become my sole, minute point of focus in my universe, so saturated with loss. I’ll just allow myself to feel his body connected with my body and nothing else.

  “You got a thing for Dominican guys?” he asks breathlessly, breaking my concentration and my momentary escape.

  “Don’t talk!” I scream, banging my fists into his face, his neck, his shoulders, any spot I can reach. I try to wriggle my hips away from his, but his weight is crushing. Grounding.

  He answers by yanking my arms above my head and kissing me fervently. I wish I didn’t want his kiss but it magically stops my thoughts from racing—the endless barrage of rumination, the regret, the pain, the philosophical bleed. I kiss him back with passion, because I know intuitively that some aspect of sex is purifying, renewing. And this is all that I seek in the contact of his flesh.

  His hipbones slam into mine; he is fit and hard, offering not much in the way of padding. His mouth too smashes against mine in a violent union. His stubble tears into the tender skin on my face. All my soft flesh is ravaged by this man, my mouth, my breasts, and most of all, my sex.

  “Did you want me that day?” he asks.

  And again he removes me from my meditation, demanding consciousness and communication—neither of which have I any use for. I yearn only to be devoured, to be fucked into submission and silence, and possibly all the way to redemption.

  “You wanted me in your mouth. You wanted to fuck us both, didn’t you?”

  I answer him by rearing back and pulling away. I shove him down by the shoulders so that he lies on his back, and then I take him in my mouth, tasting my own desire that has completely saturated him. There’s the evidence. Proof of my weakness, my imperfection, my undeniable greed.

  I suck him with abandon in an attempt to satisfy his wish for it to have been him coming in my mouth that day. In this contact I search for an answer to my own demise.

  If it’s so bad, then why do we all want it? And what, if anything, do we receive from restraint?

  “Come in my mouth,” I whisper around his swollen cock. He surprises me by pushing me away and quickly flipping me over. I oblige because I’ll do anything. Whatever he wants, he can take from me. I surrender completely, my body, my spirit, all of what’s left of me.

  “I want to come in your pussy,” he says, grabbing my hips and slamming mercilessly into me from behind.

  And I’ll let him come inside me.

  Why?

  Because I’m empty. I’m actively inviting ruin. I am taking this to the very extreme.

  After he’s done he tosses a towel to me before searching for another to use on himself. Then he goes above and beyond by bringing me a baby wipe from the bathroom. This is five-star service compared to my first encounter with Jaylee. I look down between my legs and see the milky white semen leaking out of me onto his bed. I stare at it in silence. I’ve been in this mind-state before.

  “¿Tú te siente’ mejor?”

  Like he’s a doctor providing services. He wants to know if his brand of painkiller worked.

  “Sí,” I nod and look up at him, wondering about the reach of what I’ve just done. It’s not the cheating on Robert—that scenario has already played out. It’s not the cheating on Jaylee—this was sex, not love. I’m a cheater, an adulteress, whatever, it’s all been said before. What scares me now is the limitlessness of my desire to do anything to be connected to Jaylee. That I just attempted to fuck the Jaylee out of a perfect stranger. That I will forever be chasing that high. I no longer recognize a breaking point, no morals, no bounds.

  “Ven, te acompaño a casa,” he says, placing a humid hand on my shoulder.

  Despite our sudden intimacy, it’s still the hand of a stranger.

  “No!” I bat it off and rise to my feet. I don’t need to be walked home as some pathetic compensation for sexual favors. He did me the favor. I wasn’t coerced into doing what I’ve done. I pull my clothes on over my naked body, leaving my now-tainted bra on his bed and my underwear on the floor.

  “It looks better if we leave together, Kate. Believe me, you don’t want to walk by those guys alone.”

  “What’s your real name?” I ask him, ignoring his attempt to defend my virtue.

  “Everybody call me Ideal.”

  Why do our paths keep intersecting? He must have known that it was me from the beginning when we were talking on the phone. I had no idea who he was. I wonder if I would have handled myself differently had I known.

  “Did—did you like that?” I ask him tentatively.

  He appears to be examining dry skin on his elbow, but what I think he’s actually aiming at is flexing his bicep for me.

  “What?” he asks absentmindedly. “My name—or fucking you just now?”

  I widen my eyes at him in response.

  “Yeah, I liked it.” He shrugs.

  “Want to do it again?’

  “What? Like right this second?” He’s startled at the idea that I might demand an immediate erection—another round so soon after the knockout.

  “No, not right now, but whenever you want to.”

  “I thought you were all hung up on Inoa and shit. But yeah, whatever, I’ll call you.”

  Booty-call me. “I don’t expect a relationship, Ideal. This is purely business. But I do need help finding my sister. Someone on the inside, who the cops don’t know. Someone who knows the neighborhood and what’s really going on.” And, if I’m being honest, I need help just surviving, and you’re an easy way for me to get out of my head.

  The way he crosses his arms and looks down at me makes me think he knows something. Then he sighs and lifts his two perfectly arched eyebrows at me. He reaches out his hands to me almost affectionately, and I take them. He pulls me up to standing, and keeping my left hand grasped in his right, he shakes it firmly.

  “You fucking crazy, you know that? For real. But yeah, you got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter 7

  Things are going from bad to worse with Robert. He’s not really talking to me at all, just occasionally patting my head and praising my recovery like I’m his patient. He doesn’t explain anything to me, and I’ve got no idea what’s going on with their search efforts. I don’t know if they’ve made contact or if they still don’t even know who took her.

  I’ve met twice with Ideal over coffee. I think it was a first for him—sitting in a café with cappuccinos, while I scribbled names and places in my Moleskine notebook. Ideal gives the impression he doesn’t stray much from the corner, but he’s so easygoing he could fit in anywhere, if it weren’t for his looks.

  He didn’t ask for sex in return, and I think in a strange way, we both enjoyed hanging out. He gave me a lot of useful information, like the names of who controls the business, the people who work under them and the territories of each.

  The second time, I picked him up in Robert’s BMW Z4 when the Rover was in the shop. When I got out, the corner boys whooped and hollered until I flipped them the bird. They quieted for a moment in surprise but started up again as soon as I turned my back to rin
g Ideal’s bell. I wonder what he tells them when they ask what’s going on.

  What is going on? I don’t even know. It feels like I’m doing something. Ideal knows things—this is progress. It’s what I keep telling myself. But maybe I’m really just lonely.

  Emily has been gone now the better part of a week. Meeting with him is better than what Robert said he’d do, hire some private dick who knows nothing about the Heights. Ideal is like a tour guide—these are his stomping grounds, and he’s a key player. He’s immediately recognizable, with his height and his always- immaculate braids. People seem to notice Ideal whenever he passes them.

  Unfortunately, this includes Janinie and her friend Oscar, or rather, Jaylee’s best friend, as they walk down Broadway as we are getting into the car for our second coffee date. It’s wrenching to watch Janine’s face brighten as she sees me, then darken instantly when she takes in Ideal. I see her say, “Kate—“ and then Oscar looks up.

  Then they both keep walking—no confrontation, no words. They dismiss me as fast as they recognized me. Loyalty is everything to them and I just ruined it. They’ve got nothing to say to me.

  I could have sworn that the two of them were holding hands, but maybe I’m projecting happy endings.

  When we sit down for our coffee I decide to be forthright and ask. Ideal seems open and honest, like he won’t play games. I admire his profile as he stares out the window of the brightly lit café.

  “Ideal?”

  His head jerks to me and he raises an eyebrow.

  “How do you know Jaylee Inoa?”

  “Long story, Kate. Better save it for another day. Tell you this, though—we don’t play for the same team. That’s why Janinie didn’t take to seeing you with me.”

  What’s that mean? I study his face. Is he saying he doesn’t want Jaylee out of jail? Then it dawns on me about the turf stuff. I’m totally ignorant of the nuances of this way of life. They are in different gangs, on different sides—of the drug trade? Of the territory? They are both Dominican and from the same neighborhood, but there are serious divisions that I know I can’t see.

  “Are you rivals?”

  “We ain’t friends. I’ll say that. We got a history, though.”

  “Over gang stuff?” I whisper feeling strange even saying the word out loud.

  “Naw, Kate. Over women,” he says, nonchalant, and stands. “Im’a go smoke. Maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow if anything turns up.”

  “Okay,” I say, my blood running fast to pump my nervous heart.

  “Listen, Kate. Want my advice? About Jaylee? Go and see him. I been there before. It ain’t easy.” As he tells me this, he pulls a flannel shirt on over his wife-beater, covering his muscular and haphazardly tattooed arms.

  “Robert would kill me.”

  “That your husband? He know you see me?”

  I shake my head no, vehemently.

  “¿No ves?” Ideal smiles and shrugs. Then he walks off but not before messing up my hair.

  Why not go see Jaylee? Because I’m in love with him. Seeing him would stoke the fire. It might burn me alive.

  Later, that same evening, as I braid Pearl’s damp hair before bed, I realize that I owe it to him, to at least tell him what happened. I may be staying away in order to protect him, but we lost a baby and I can’t deny him that connection. I decide to go see him, no matter what Robert says. Jaylee needs me. He needs to know that I haven’t forgotten him, that I will never forget him.

  The trip to Rikers Island is a long one. It should be plenty of time to think. But I find I can only sit paralyzed in fear.

  If he refuses to see me, is that freedom, or is it condemnation of another sort? I long for Jaylee’s love, and simultaneously, I wish to be free.

  But Jaylee doesn’t refuse my visit. My nerves start to pull and hum like plucked strings on an instrument. Here we are, meeting once more, but under such different circumstances. I have no idea what to expect. How strong is Jaylee? Is he the kind of man who can hold up under pressure? It’s time to find out. He might hate me; he might wish he’d never laid eyes on me.

  When he walks through the door across the room, he looks sullen and stern, but his eyes immediately flick to mine. That connection, the heat and intensity—it’s all still there. My heartbeat speeds like the silent drumming of hummingbird wings.

  He knows. I can see and feel that he knows. Easy as that.

  It feels somehow symbolic that I cannot run to him to alleviate any of the tension. I must stand still and control my instinct, like it’s a disobedient and unruly dog. Sit. Stay. I have to wait for him to come to me.

  His hair is shaved short. His eyes are blazing. Handcuffs, by their nature, are meant to emasculate, but somehow they make Jaylee look even stronger. A man who could tear through steel to get what he needs. Jaylee narrows the gap. Don’t move, dog, I say to myself. Don’t run. I owe him that, at least.

  Through the fog, something still lightens behind his eyes as he moves closer to me. I did that to him. That’s what hope looks like. He can see it in me. At ease, dumb dog. I relax ever so slightly.

  We can’t stop reacting to each other, no matter how bleak our circumstances become. Yesterday, Robert told me that they’d put Jaylee’s father in protective custody at Sing Sing, the big penitentiary upstate. When I asked my lawyer Randolph about it, he told me that protective custody these days means solitary confinement. Indefinitely. How bleak. And a direct result of my actions. Who knew that gang wars erupt over sexual infidelities?

  The stress has taken a toll on him. It’s clearly visible in his face. He looks older, tired. Somehow he already knows all the crazy shit I’ve done. I suspected he would. More information moves in here than outside on the streets. Nothing is secret behind these not-so-impermeable walls. I can see the new pain that I’ve inflicted, and it’s almost too much to take.

  I stand frozen beside the table. When he reaches me and they uncuff him, he is the first to speak.

  “Sit,” he says roughly, and gestures toward the chair across from him.

  I wish this were a repeat of our reunion in the hospital so many months ago, full of hope and joy at seeing one another again. I sit like I am told, like a frightened child. Or a very bad dog.

  “Did you fuck Ideal?”

  Things start crashing inside my body, shelves of pots and pans falling in my brain. Jaylee and I are always unable to save the worst for last. But did it have to be the very first thing he said?

  My head comes down hard on the table. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to be this destructive person anymore. I don’t want to be me.

  “Look at me, Kate.”

  I look up at him and a small, tortured moan escapes from somewhere deep inside me. I’m a fucking animal. All I do is hurt the people I love.

  “You fucked him, huh? Did you like it? You with him now, Kate?”

  I shake my head slowly, through thick blankets of remorse. Jaylee’s the last person to whom I want to cause pain. I don’t want to bring him darkness; I want to be the reason behind every smile on his face.

  “Who am I?” he asks, jerking his chin at me sharply.

  My eyes shoot up to make contact with his. I don’t know what he’s asking.

  “Jaylee…?”

  “No, Kate. I know my own name. Who am I to you?” He is looking at me so deeply and earnestly that part of me shrivels and dies with his honesty. Jaylee is young. That’s why he’s bold enough to ask such things.

  “Eres mi amante,” I say, and I mean this in every single sense of the word. My lover, my everything, the secret sliver of truth in my hand.

  “Y eso es todo?”

  “No,” I whisper, “You’re my reason for waking up in the morning, the reason I’m still here, Jaylee.”

  “Sabes que eres para mí? Eres mi propio desastre. Mi perdición.”

  I am his own private disaster. His undoing.

  Fuck.

  I say nothing and push away my tears with my fingertips, wiping th
em on my jeans.

  “If you gotta sleep with someone, Kate, go fuck your own damn husband. Stay the hell away from dirt like Ideal. How do you know he’s clean, baby? You got no clue where he’s been.”

  I just sob into my hand. This must be the reason for his father’s confinement. I’m crossing gang lines by messing with Ideal. It’s misery on top of misery, but I want to know. I have to ask.

  “Did your father—is it because—Robert said—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say a fucking word about my pops in here. I thought Flash told you?”

  “I don’t think Oscar is speaking to me. Is it my fault?”

  “NO! Now stop. Talk about something else. Anything. Talk about him if you want to. Dime a ver, por qué Ideal?”

  I look down.

  “I’m not sure why. He helped Janinie and me over the phone, and then with Emily missing, I reached out to him again. I didn’t know who he was, but then of course I recognized him when I finally met him.”

  “Bet you did,” Jaylee says with a sneer.

  “I just thought, maybe because he was there with us that time, somehow he could—I think I was trying to make some connection to you.”

  A crying, toddling baby makes its way to our table. Jaylee reaches down, scoops the child onto his knee, and hushes it, as if comforting stray babies were as routine for him as getting cuffed. A young Mexican mother retrieves the baby from Jaylee and he half-smiles at her, nodding in her direction.

  A corrections officer walks toward us.

  “Hands on the table at all times,” he reminds us curtly.

  Every inch of me aches to see him pick up the child. Jaylee would have been an amazing father there’s no doubt in my mind.

  He ignores the corrections officer and keeps his eyes focused on me.

  “I fucking get it, Kate. I do. But here’s what I’m telling you. NOT on my block, NOT in my hood. It ain’t safe and it’s an easy way for them to get to me. They’ll use you. I don’t want pieces of shit like Ideal seeing you like I do. I don’t want their fucking hands on you.”