Ambush Two

It took a little longer for Turner to get hard; the thing with the cop had unnerved him a little, and his mind was racing around. Jessica didn't take his cock out right away, but stroked inside his trousers, touching him through his shorts. Turner felt her body, moving his palms on the undersides of her breasts. She murmured, a wordless murmur, and pushed against him, rubbing him.

Turner knew that at that point he didn't really want the hand job any more: he wanted to get inside her. He leaned into Jessica, close to her ear, and said, "Let's get going."

She looked up and smiled, barely visible in the shadow, but didn't say anything. He repeated it. "I mean it, let's go."

After a while, she reluctantly said, "Okay." She stepped away from him onto the sidewalk, into the orange glow.

Turner watched her amble and twirl out into the street, smiling, daring him to come after her. He stepped out too, and something changed a little, and he felt a kind of nervous energy he wasn't familiar with. He had a short snap of alarm, and he realized it was a sense of fear. He was afraid something might happen to Jessica. It was new.

"That's weird," he thought.

He walked into the street after Jessica, and something smacked into the brick or stone wall behind him, a few feet away, a sharp rap, louder than a nut falling. There was another sharp little rap higher up on the building. Turner closed his eyes for second, not wanting to but remembering, or trying to remember, what that sound was. It was something he knew. It was familiar.

"Shooters," he said suddenly, and crouched down without thinking. Then he heard a series of short little popping noises, not close, maybe a block away, maybe more. He looked up at Jennifer, twirling in the street, and knew she hadn't heard him and had no idea what was happening. He leaned down and rushed for Jennifer, and, incredibly, she turned and ran away from him down the street. He wanted to yell at her to get off the street, but thought he'd better just catch her and take her to a doorway or some cover.

Something, a small object, skittered down the street, sparking and accompanied by a short, high pitched whine. It missed them by a few feet. There were a couple more, and from a distance there was a burst of louder pops, then a roaring car, then more cars squealing tires. There was a loud crash, probably on the main street they'd just left, a car wrecking. Then some shouting, more pops, and another car blasting. He looked at the end of the block and a small vehicle sped past, with another, larger dark car directly behind it.

Then it was quiet again, and he was chasing down Jennifer, who still didn't know what had happened or what was happening. She could run faster than he anticipated, and she was running down the street, playing an inappropriate game of tag in the middle of a random inner city gunfight. Then he caught her and hustled her to the curb, covering her as best he could while she play wrestled with him, laughing.

Turner felt a shock of anger, and didn't know why. He was angry at Jessica, for putting herself into something she didn't understand.

"Hey-" he started to say, but she wrenched away and twirled away again. Turner froze unexpectedly, surprised, and didn't move for a little while, trying to think. She danced back into the street. He looked around, but it was quiet again. Silent, actually. It was weird and confusing. He went after her, and she rushed forward and hit him, playfully, and twirled around him.

Then, crazily, they were running and skipping, turning and dancing around each other, like something out of a movie. Turner moved away from Jessica, clearing his head, shaking it off, and stopping momentarily to enjoy the feeling of standing in the middle of an empty street in a major city, so oddly deserted. He couldn't believe it was real, this moment, this some kind of shared experience.

He thought about 'The Graduate', and bullshit about love he'd seen on TV and in movies. He'd never thought he'd be on a sidewalk, on a street, dancing in the dark with a girl. It didn't seem like him at all. Jessica ran out to him and grabbed his arm. She put her weight on him, and he laughed out loud with honest bafflement, his anger gone, holding her up as they stumbled and playfully pinwheeled down the street. He didn't look behind him.

She broke away from him again and half ran, half skipped towards the next intersection and streetlight. As she did he caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of her face in profile, outlined in the mercury glow of the light, and just that fast she became something different.

The kerchief on her head shined white, and her face suddenly wasn't girlish and narrow, but beautiful and unique. Turner had to stop cold in the street and just stare, stunned. He felt something new and frightening, a feeling he couldn't control at all, and he tried to fight it off and couldn't.

She had him. He wanted her; horribly, uncontrollably. He wanted to take her home, yeah, but this time he wanted her so badly it pained him, and he had to run to her, scared she'd vanish somehow.

She laughed when he got to her and she took his hand, swinging her whole arm wildly. They were almost to the end of the street, within a block of his apartment. He had to say it, he couldn't help it, and the blast made him almost mad, but not like that, an unreal feeling he'd never in his life had before. It hit him just that fast.

"You snuck up on me," he said, and he meant it. He said it again, despite her confused expression: "You snuck up on me."

He grabbed her hand, but she pulled away, smiling at him while she did it. He reached out for her, but she skipped away, and he felt a sudden, desperate fear in him that he couldn't control.

Then they were at the intersection, back on the sidewalk and going around an old storefront. It was the kind with a corner door and a little alcove, the store part long since turned into another living space, and Jessica was going to hop through the alcove. She leaped up onto the rusted cast-iron step, then jumped wildly and shrieked. A hand had darted out and grasped her leg.

"SHIT!" she shouted, then for whatever reason giggled.

There was a person in the dark corner of the sealed-up entrance, crumpled up in a heap that looked like a pile of dirty clothes.

Turner moved forward in a protective move, thinking, "Drunk." There was steaming liquid oozing on the step, turning the surface rust black under the mercury vapor lights. "The asshole pissed himself," Turner thought, and went around the step to stand next to Jessica, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet, smiling.

The heap said, "Madre," and reached an arm out. Turner was about to tell the guy to fuck himself, and take Jessica's hand to walk on, when something clicked in his brain, and he realized the liquid wasn't piss. It was blood.

He momentarily stopped, then caught himself and leaned in closer to the guy, but safely out of arm's reach. It was a kid, a teenager, and olive-skinned; there were gang tattoos on the outstretched arm. He was looking at Jessica.

He repeated his word again, "Madre," and struggled a hand into the air towards Jessica. Turner looked at her. She'd frozen solid, like a statue in a park, and was staring with wide eyes at the kid. The kid had one hand clenched on the inside of his thigh, and a growing puddle of dark liquid pumped out, soaking through his hand and running all over the step. The alcove smelled salty and organic, a primal, frightening aroma.

The kid said, pleading, "Madre."

Jessica opened her mouth, then shut it, and just stared, hypnotized. Turner swiveled his head, looking around for cops, or bangers, or anybody at all, but the street was completely deserted. He heard a weird sort of rattling choke from the kid, and turned back, almost stunned. He was confused, and wasn't really sure what to do.

The kid kept staring at Jessica. He tried to say something, but only rattled again, and then his eyes glazed over.

The three of them stayed where they were, stunned and locked in position, compositions on a dark city street. Finally, Jessica very quietly said, "Is he dead?"

Turner looked the kid over, into the now-blank eyes, and said, "Yeah. I think so." He reflected for a second, then gave a firmer answer: "Yes. He's dead."

He broke his position and walked to Jessica. He took her by the upper arm and said, "Come on, let's go." He didn't want to be around when the kid's set came looking for him. He pulled on Jessica's arm. She didn't move at first, but after a few seconds she shook her head and let him take her.

"My place is like half a block away. Come on," Turner said, and led her down the sidewalk, stumbling. She followed, tripping over her feet. They made it to his front door in a matter of minutes, or he thought so, but as soon as he put the key in the door he couldn't remember walking home. The distance and time between watching the kid die and inserting his key was gone. He pushed Jessica inside and locked the door behind them. The sirens started up, far away, then getting closer and closer until they stopped, maybe a block away from his place.

He went to the kitchen area, to the old enamel basin, and turned on the cold tap, splashing water on his hands and wiping his face. He started shaking violently and had to grasp the edge of the sink. He hunched over, controlling himself. It took longer than he thought it would, and even when he felt a little more together he was still shaking. He turned and looked at Jessica.

She was standing still in the center of the living room, staring at nothing. Turner wanted to go to her, but felt too weak to move for the moment. Jessica broke her pose and raised an arm, then lowered it, as if testing her body for function. She lowered her head, looking straight down at her shoes. She shuddered a little, and Turner noticed for the first time a bloody hand print on her pant leg.

When she raised her head she was crying.

Her skin was almost completely white, and her clear, pale skin looked translucent, like a porcelain sculpture. Two symmetrical lines of tears marked exact plumb lines down her face. Turner stared at her, fixated. She looked perfect, somehow, immaculate, and the paleness of her face was accented terribly by the white of the kerchief over her hair. She looked like something, or someone, and he had to straighten out his head and think, and then he remembered, and when he saw exactly what the dying kid had seen he couldn't look away.

The girl standing in his apartment looked like the Virgin Mary.

Turner couldn't do anything but stand still and just look at Jessica, watching her silently cry. The two stayed motionless for a long time, until Jessica blinked a few times and spoke.

"He was looking right at me."

She locked eyes with Turner and said it again: "He was looking right at me." Then her face contorted, and Turner watched in fascinated horror as a lifetime of emotions crossed her face. Fear, and love, and confusion, and peace, and hate, all rolling one after another through her.

Then she shook her head and blinked several times. She reached down, untied her hipster-chick tennis shoes and kicked them off. She stepped on the toe of one sock and slipped out of it, and repeated the motion for the other foot. She shook the old blue coat off her shoulders and flung it behind her onto the floor. She unzipped her jeans and dropped them, then stepped out of them, pulling her T-shirt over her head at the same time, carefully leaving the white cover on her hair. She hooked her fingers in her underwear and slipped those down and off.

Jessica stood, stark and still, naked and silent in Turner's front room.

She walked towards his bedroom, leaving the words, "Come on," behind her.

He flicked the light, took off his coat and followed her into the dark room.

When Turner got into the room his eyes didn't adjust right away, and he couldn't see at first. He took his clothes off except for his boxers and he stood in the dark until he felt stupid, then dropped those off too. When his eyes adjusted Jessica wasn't in sight; he looked around in a sort of panic, then saw the top of her white kerchief poking out from the covers. She'd dug herself into the bed clothes.

He got in the bed with her, waiting for a bit, away from her, trying to figure out what she might need. He finally threw it off and moved over to her, putting an arm over her body and kind of spooning her, feeling her body and warmth.

She wasn't crying, just laying, breathing quietly with her eyes closed.

Turner didn't know what to do. It confused and scared him, and he tried to reflect on the night; what had it been? Not even a fucking hour after walking out of the theater; not even an hour.

He wasn't sure how long they laid like that, him pressing against her from behind, trying to comfort her, or do something, he wasn't sure what. He thought she may have fallen asleep.

Then Jessica raised an arm, thrashed in the sheet a little, and reached back and clutched his side just above his hip. She pulled him closer, pushing back against his body, and turned her head slightly up. She opened her eyes for a second, looking at him, and he moved his head closer to hers, thinking she might want to say something, and when he did she craned her neck and kissed his mouth.

He tentatively kissed her back, unsure about what she might want, and she pressed her lips against his, almost roughly, then opened her lips and pushed her tongue into his; he gave it back, and they were making out in his bed, Jessica pushing her thin body against his, her ass and back rubbing against his chest and pelvis.

Turner felt very, very weird, thinking she'd somehow gotten off on the kid dying, like weirdos who went fucking on graves in cemeteries. He had a flash of fear at having been wrong, mistaken, when he fell in love with her on the street. He pulled back, away from her mouth, and she grabbed his hair and tried to pull him back; he lifted up, straining, and when he looked into her eyes he knew his feeling, the suspicion, was unjustified and wrong. He was wrong in even thinking it. He felt suddenly ashamed.

She raised her face and kissed him, and he knew what she wanted, what she needed, and kissed her, flowing into her body and herself, pressing as close as he could and placing his hands on her sides, belly, breasts. He reached down and twirled her lower hair, swirling and combing with his fingers.

Jessica's breathing got ragged and she turned her head away from him, opening her legs slightly. She reached between them and felt for his cock. When she found it, swelled hard, she placed him between her thighs and slowly rocked against the shaft, getting herself slippery and wet.

Turner waited.

When she was wet enough she lifted up slightly, shoving, bent forward a little, and slipped him inside her. She trembled slightly and arched her back, bringing her shoulders closer to his chest, and reached over her head to grasp his hair and pull his face to hers.

Turner got nervous for a second; they weren't using anything. He thought about it. Then he had a strange, unusual thought, and didn't care anymore.

She kissed him, at the same time sliding him inside her, moving ever so slightly. She had him right where she needed him, barely inside her and rubbing against the very front inside of her, that spot, and the hand not on his head was saved for herself.

Turner knew what he had to do, what she wanted or needed, and placed his mind elsewhere, lasting for Jessica, and he knew this time it was really tremendously important. They weren't fucking. This was something totally different. He cleared his head, focused on other things, and despite his desire he knew the desire wasn't the physical fun-time he'd had previously, or anything he'd ever experienced before.

It was all he could do to hold himself in. It was very, very difficult to keep it in, and doubly hard to hold himself away from her body, to keep from flipping her over and doing his best to mold them together. For what seemed like forever he did his absolute best and some past that, keeping an unspoken promise.

She came, quietly, a little shiver, and with a small rocking moan. Then she had another one.

Between the position and her own efforts she had a rocking, physical orgasm that forced her away from him, then slammed her back against his chest. Immediately after, she moved the hand she'd been saving for herself over her side to grip into the muscles on his ribcage, and released his head to grasp his near buttock. Then she spoke, finally, and said one thing, whispering:

"Come on, baby."

Turner had a flash of some term, maybe French or Greek or something, of what people used to call orgasms: 'The Little Death', and understood what she'd been trying to understand in a primal, primitive and unexplainable way.

Then he came inside her.

Some hours later he woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. He looked over at the woman next to him. She was asleep, facing him and breathing regularly. Her eyes were closed, lashes fluttering. He could see her eyeballs moving under the lids. She was beautiful. He'd learned that tonight anyway, but he had to just lay and look at her face. Then he got up.

Standing naked in the front room, bathed in the orange mercury vapor glow, he dug out his phone and called into work on a recorded line. There was no way he was going in. He'd explain later. He thought about what he needed to do, what he wanted to do, and hoped Jessica would be okay with it. He walked over to the single, creaky and rusty metal upper cabinet in the kitchen, and fished out a tattered phone book. He put it on the counter and flipped through it, mentally planning out an itinerary. He muttered it, then said it, officially, very quietly, but in a certain audible way, in the primitive feeling that until a word was spoken out loud it didn't exist.

He said, "I guess I better go shopping for a ring."