Page 18

18

Dead on Arrival

Dodi

I surface by degrees.

Scratchy fabric on my cheek. Light against my face. The stirrings of something warm and living beside me.

Timeless, placeless, a little bubble between sleep and wakefulness, and for a moment I don’t know who is lying next to me, or which timeline I’m in.

Jake.

The bubble pops silently.

I’m in a Las Vegas hotel room.

I’m in a Las Vegas hotel room, lying crosswise on a bed in yesterday’s clothes, the next afternoon’s sunlight shining through my eyelids.

I’m in a Las Vegas hotel room in bed with Jake.

Jake, who brought me here. Jake, who put up with my shit all day yesterday. Jake, who is patient, who understands. It’s been a long time since I’ve had understanding.

I creep up onto one elbow and blink the sleep from my eyes. He lies beside me with his hands clasped over his chest like a corpse in a coffin, his face pale, peaceful, dreamless.

I touch his cheek, rough with stubble, and I lean close and hover there, a hair’s breadth from his lips.

He’s not breathing.

My stomach drops out for one second before an almost imperceptible tremor flickers across his closed eyelids, then settles. He’s awake. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet and he’s already playing games.

“Are you dead? I know a trick for that.” I give him a slow, deliberate kiss, a kiss to wake Snow White, a kiss to put the pink back into his corpse-pale skin. His eyelids flutter open, and he stares at me from close range. He looks different without his glasses. His face is strangely exposed, his eyes larger. He’s stupidly handsome. I want to fillet his face off and wear it myself. Watching a man mince around with cheekbones like that is like watching a toddler play with a steak knife. He has no idea how much damage he can inflict.

“Your eyes are green,” I whisper.

“Hazel,” he whispers back sleepily. “Like my dad’s.”

“No,” I say. “Green.”

He shakes his head. I trail my hand down his face, neck, chest, stomach…I slip my hand into his pants…

He tenses. “What are you doing?”

I pull out his wallet. “Grave robbing.” I slide out his driver’s license and inspect it. “Green,” I say. “Case settled.” I learn his birthdate, finally. The age gap isn’t too weird, I suppose. I toss his wallet onto the bed.

He just lies there, watching me.

“You’re a real pillow princess, aren’t you?” I spread my hand across his throat, and squeeze.