“For fuck’s sake pull over.”
“As you wish, princess.”
I hated it when he called me that. It used to be a fond nickname for my long silky hair, my sulking fits. Lately it had lost its fondness and gained a condescending hardness. A cruel edge he kept away from the public, and from the girls who loved him.
But not from me.
The Buick came to a rusty stop about a half mile from the Strip. I stuck my head out the window; damn sky was still shitting snow. When I turned around, he was sucking languidly on a candy cane. The dark pink lips, almost obscene in their lushness, pulled steadily on the pink streaks to drain them from the white. Push and pull, push and pull. Working the cane like a pro. I pulled away from the steady rhythmic sucking and glared at the bright lights ahead.
“We’re lost, you know that.”
“No we ain’t. We’re exactly where we planned to be. Bottle’s in the back.” Referring to the Stolichnaya, of course.
“I mean we’ve lost it. I dunno where we’re going anymore. We can walk into that club now, be all friendly, and you know you’d be wanting to piss on me inside…. Hey.” I pushed my face into his. “Hey. Hey, look at me. LOOK AT ME, motherfucker.”
He tilted his head slightly in my direction. Although his eyes could have been closed for all I know. They hid as usual behind their veil of dense, tightly wound curls, his way of hiding from the world. A trail of candy sugar glistened at the corner of his mouth.
“You really want me to go?”
He stared at me for the longest time in response. Turned off the engine. In the silence of the heavy, musty interior, my question sunk in like an anchor.
Just a month earlier, I had slapped him with the same silence. But then I hadn’t been there to savour it. No, I had just…left. Stormed out of the room as the music died behind me. It hit me then that I was a difficult bitch. I should have held out.
Should have let him be the one to walk.
He started to reach for a smoke as usual – then stopped. His shoulders sagged. He looked tired, defeated. The hundreds of fights in the past four years suddenly came crashing down. But still he didn’t say a word; didn’t move from his sunken position. A minute passed.
“Fine. I’ll go then.” I got out. It was a bitter night, and I had no idea how to get back, but hell. There was no going back. This was it, then. This was how it ended. Not in fire and brimstone, but in icy silence.
I was pulling my denim jacket tighter when I heard it.
“Princess. Wait.”
The sudden rawness in his voice hit me like a hot knife. Where was the hardness, where was the cruel teasing edge? There was a different shape to the words. A quiet desperation. I heard it pouring from the softness of his mouth, and everything changed.
A stiff breeze scraped my sharp cheekbones, making me shiver. With a fierce urgency he reached out and pulled me inside. Rubbed the life back into my fingers. His hands came up to warm my frozen face, to smooth the frost from my straight fine hair. His hands were all over.
“I love you,” I spat through gritted teeth.
“I know.”
Then he was pinning me down and stroking me, stroking the colour into my stiff candy cane, kissing me. Was the door closed? Would they see us? Would they care?
I didn’t. My hands reached down: I felt the leather wrapping his legs and his hips, a gift to me; and then the leather came off and his thighs pushed into mine. His tobacco breath was hot against the steel that pierced my left nipple. His lips breathed warmth into my being as I hardened with love for him.
“Merry Christmas, you bastard,” I whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Axl.”
-
