DIGEST: Devil In The Waters, Chapter 3, Blank Slate

Once he was dressed in a soft comfortable sweatshirt and sweatpants, he shuffled out into the hall and was instantly blessed with the smell of delicious food. His stomach tightened, and his throat gurgled. He smiled though, coming to Kimmy’s open doorway. She was in her Katt Basket room, in her glory really, laptop open playing some Korean soap opera, hair tied up on the top of her head, sitting on her stool and weaving. She knew she was being watched, swiveled her stool a quarter turn to look over her shoulder at him.

“I heard you in the shower,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Her honest smile warmed him, instantly spritzing him like a garden hose and washing away all those nasty thoughts of her falling for Devin Stone’s bullshit. His knees dipped with happiness, and he smiled. “Feeling so much better.”

“You hungry?”

“What the hell are you cooking? Is it bao?”

“I figured you’d be hungry, sleeping all day.”

“I’m so starving, Kimmy,” he said, laying a hand over his stomach.

“I waited for you, you’re lucky you got up because I was about at my end—I’m hungry too, you know. I might’ve eaten yours while you slept.”

He waited for as she shut her studio down, and they walked to the kitchen together. From the warming oven, she withdrew a covered baking tray. He fell against the counter island that separated the living area from the kitchen, admiring her as she pulled back the tinfoil sheet. In the pan were four Gua Bao, or what Kimmy called Tiger Bites Pig because the steamed bread that wrapped the stewed beef looked like a mouth chomping down. Her grandma made them with pork, but he preferred his with stewed beef and so did Kimmy.

Two plates were served, and he popped the top on a plastic litre bottle of fizzy Coca-Cola for the sake of his hangover, and they ate together in front of the TV. When they were done, he collected their plates, washed them in the sink, wrapped up the remains and refrigerated them. It was 8:30 now, and he rejoined her on the couch, settling in next to her, hooking a leg behind her so she could rest her back against his stomach and chest. She fell against him and moaned. He said in her ear, “You’re the best.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Did I embarrass you last night?”

“No. You were fine,” she said, stroking his hand. “Nobody could understand what you were saying, so you’re okay.”

“Good, my horrid racism is still a secret.”

“You keep fooling them, who would ever guess?”

“Score one for the bad guys,” he said.

She laughed and wriggled her body against his.

“Sorry, though, you know, that I got so drunk.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you have a problem.”

“It’s that frigging bourbon.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“Who else?”

“Adam, and his brother . . . what’s his name—”

“Cody.”

“Yeah, the two of them drank a lot, too. They went skinny dipping in the water, like two in the morning.”

“Really? They didn’t have a heart attack?”

“Jacob was there, he’s a paramedic.”

“Nobody tried to stop them?”

“Everybody told them it wasn’t a good idea . . .”

“You watch them run into the water?” He wondered if they were naked and Kimmy saw.

“No, didn’t want to be party to their deaths.”

“That’s a good plan. Less days in court.”

Kimmy put up a hand for a high five and he gently palmed against her.

She asked, “What do you want to watch next?”

“Whatever you want,” he said, then: “Hey, Kimmy . . . ?”

“What?” she said, leaning forward to grab the remote.

“What was your fight with Devin about?”

She paused, peeked over her shoulder at him. Her head went heavy to one side. She picked up the remote. “What do you think?”

“Politics,” he said as she lay back against him again.

She said, “He is such a fucking asshole.”

“Once an asshole always an asshole.”

“It’s so true,” she muttered, flicking through the menu on screen.

“His dad was an asshole too.”

“Never met the man,” she said, “but I’m not surprised.”

“That’s all it was about?”

She said, “Yeah—what else?”

“I don’t know—it seemed pretty serious.”

She seemed to stiffen a little but then softened. Her head tilted to rest against his shoulder, her temple touching the back side of the leather couch. She was quiet and serious when she spoke, saying, “It got heated. Wasn’t just that we were disagreeing, we didn’t handle it well. Things were said . . .”

“What did you say?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Oh. You telling me you’re racist now too?”

“Shut up,” she said and elbowed him. She began flicking through channels.

“So that’s all it was?” he asked.

“Yeah. Look, I don’t know what to tell you . . .”

“Well, tell me the truth.”

She breathed against him, taking her time. “People are going to say crazy things, you know . . .”

“Yeah, no, I know . . . crazy how?”

“We fought a little.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“No, I mean fought. Like with our hands . . .”

“Did you punch him?” he said, incredulous.

“No. But we were . . . we were really mad,” she said.

“Wait a second, did he put his hands on you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“That fucking . . . we should call the cops . . .”

“Not like that, come on, don’t . . . I just want this to be in the past already.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, he was . . . look, I don’t know,” she said, “we both got physical, grabbing each other. I wanted to . . . I wanted to scratch his eyes out, you know? I wanted to punch him. I wanted to—I’ve never been so mad.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I know. That’s why I just want to forget about it.”

“That’s all that happened?” he said, and he gripped the space between her shoulder and neck and gently massaged his thumb into her muscle. She tilted her head toward him, lay back against him.

“Can we just forget about it, Josh, please?”

“Yes, my pleasure,” he said. “So people saw you fight?”

“I said can we forget about it . . .”

“Sorry,” he said, “yes, we can forget about it . . .”

* * *

Despite sleeping all day, he managed to drift off while they watched television. When he woke, his neck had a kink in it and Kimmy was standing, stretching, pointing the remote at the TV and turning it off. She dropped it to the table, turned to face him. He blinked, rubbed his neck, sat up straighter. She watched him, a look of concern on her face, worrying a tooth over the corner of her bottom lip. The light from the kitchen gently bathed on her front side, the family room dark now. She was a slim and innocent figure, cotton shrouded, and she belonged to him. She rubbed one hand up and down the opposite forearm, then held it out for him. She said, “Can you come to bed with me?”

He nodded, took her hand. They passed through the kitchen, making it dark, made their way down the hall to the bedroom. 

With her hands on his chest, she guided him back toward the bed and made him sit. She stood above him, the dark and cloudy night beyond the windows, full dark, just her silhouette traced by the streetlights’s pale amber glow. The room was deathly still, the soft sounds of her body moving against his loud in his ears. She put a knee on his thigh and cupped his neck, lowered her lips to his. He kissed her, closed his eyes and breathed her in. She was warm and loving. He held her waist and she got both knees now on either side of his thighs and sat in his lap. He stroked her body, going from her waist, up her back, and over her shoulders while they made out, moving slow, breathing deep. He sucked her tongue, bit her lip, let their kiss break apart so he could look in her eyes. He said, “You’re so eager tonight.”

She said nothing, but nodded. She kissed him again, and he held her, Kimmy beginning to sway her hips in his lap. He grew to full hardness, a frightening thought lurking in the dark, teasing him. Why’s she so horny? Sure, she didn’t cheat, she would never do that . . . But what got her so turned on? The way her husband got drunk and abandoned her at the party, embarrassed her, went unconscious in their tent? Did that get a girl super wet? No. Was it the way she had to drive home and he slept. Then he stumbled and lurched into bed and continued another eight hour do-nothing marathon? Was that Kimmy’s turn on? Was that the secret? . . . 

That was not the secret.

Now he pushed his hardness against her, squeezing his ass muscles and hugging her, pushing down with his hands on her neck and shoulders to hold her in place so he could hump himself against her panties.

It was hard right now to ignore the story of Kimmy and Devin at the party—the way she hated Devin, and the way she fought with him . . . Hate wasn’t the opposite of love. Hate was akin. Hate was passion like love was passion. Kimmy hated Devin. Their fight had riled her. Their fight had been a surrogate for fucking. His wife had her engines fired up all day waiting for the only man she was allowed to sleep with to be available, rested and healed. Well, he could do that. He wanted to do that.

Fuck, though, what if there was truth to what Devin had told him . . . What if he’d said something like that to Devin when he was drunk? No, Devin was using it against him. Using it to hurt him. He had to stop letting that doubt creep inside him.

Kimmy went up higher on her knees, changing the lever of her fulcrum, her body weight resting against his and sending them both back onto the bed, mouths locked. She was over him, on top of him on knees and elbows kissing his mouth and kissing his neck while he caressed her body. He whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you so much, Josh,” she said in return, then kissed his lips again. Her hand went down, grabbed his hardness over his sweatpants. He presented it to her, proud to show her affect on him. She made a satisfied exhale, shifted her weight, began to push down his pants. His hands joined in, helping her, and they shimmied them down as she backed off the bed.

Now he watched her in the dim light, her cottony top off and away. She was beautiful, her lean but soft body undulating against the streetlights glow. She pushed her pants down, stepped out of them, climbed on top of him again and he lay back with her. They kissed, but Kimmy was still eager for sex. And now it was all he could focus on. No foreplay tonight. She didn’t want him to use her mouth, didn’t want his fingers . . . She wanted cock. They usually played around a little, but tonight, he worried, it was another man who had her hungry for sexual penetration. She fumbled with his dick, angled it, lowered herself, swiping his tip against her hot, luscious seams, finding her opening and easing backward. His eyes rolled up and back as he felt himself sink into her oily velvet interior. She made no sound. No moan, no gasp. Now he wondered what a woman said when a man with what Devin had went inside her. His pulse thundered at the thought, stomach going watery at the notion that Kimmy had perhaps seen Devin’s bulge, or heard the rumors. Of course she’d heard the rumors though—everyone knew he was hung. So, she got in a fight with a guy she hated, they grabbed at each other, she knew he was well endowed . . . She gets home . . . She wants it . . . Her husband doesn’t have it . . . 

She pushed her hips toward his feet and got his erection fully inside her. “Oh Kimmy,” he sighed, rubbed the small of her back, then cupped her ass. But when all his forefront mind could think about was what Devin had revealed to him in the tent, the wonderment of Kimmy taking something like that had worry wringing out his ecstasy. His brow grew troubled, and the more he hoped to maintain hardness, the more it escaped him. She worked up and down, and he tightened his ass muscles hoping that would flex his diminishing arousal. But it was too late now. Kimmy was reaching behind—and he imagined she was checking to see if he was in. If she fucked Devin, she would know he was in. But why would he even think that or consider it? She hadn’t been with Devin. Kimmy was never that kind of girl . . . “Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” she said, starting to hump him again but now hardness had escaped him.

“Give me a second,” he said as she rose, put a hip down next to him and sat at his side. He went to pleasure himself but she beat him to it, her hand taking him in three fingers and a thumb, his thing wriggling around in her grip, slick from her excitement. Excitement he couldn’t measure up to. Shit, what the fuck?—now that was making them hard. He grew again, grew in her hand.

“There we are,” she said, “it’s okay, see . . .”

“I’m still recovering,” he told her, hoping that was it. Worrying it wasn’t.

“It’s okay,” she said, “take your time . . .”

“You want me on top?”

“What do you want?” he asked, and then tried to picture Devin asking what Kimmy wanted. He squinted, grimaced.

“You okay?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he said, then: “I want to be on top.”

Kimmy whispered that was good and scooted up past him to put her head in the pillows, laying on her back in their bed. He got on his knees, still stroking himself. Kimmy lay on the bed, naked, perfect. Her knees together, she slunk her legs then lowered them and opened them. In the dim, he could see the black thatch of her love nest, that hot woman part of her, and tried to picture her this way, so beautiful and pure, through Devin’s eyes. Devin the predator, Kimmy the prey. Laying back naked, reluctant . . . 

He got over his wife, kissed her again, put a hand between them and guided his hardness inside her. Again no sound from Kimmy, just breathing through her nose as their tongues wound together. Her forearms crossed the back of his neck, and he pushed himself in and out of her. “Love you so much,” he gasped around their kissing. She hummed an affirmative sound in her throat, but, again, now all he could think of was how a man like Devin would drive Kimmy wild. The sounds she would make if Devin was over top of her, going into her . . . 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, and that was when he realized the hardness of his arousal had dwindled again. Not raging hard and not halfway, somewhere in between. If Devin were at the three-quarters erect, Kimmy would know he was in, Kimmy would have something still to work with . . . Now what had dwindled, decreased further.

“It’s all right, Josh,” she said, guided him out of her, gripped the back of his neck and pumped her fist on his flopping penis until he was fully hard again.

“I’m ready,” he told her, but she whispered it was okay and kept her hand pumping up and down on him, stroking his neck, scratching her nails in the back of his hair and kissing him.

“It’s okay,” she said again then gave him her tongue.

Hot pleasure burned in the center of his mind, right at the forefront behind his third eye, all focus on the intense pleasure of her rapidly moving hand. They kissed and he listened to the slick patter of her jerking grip. “Josh,” she whispered, “I want you to come . . .”

“No,” he said, “I’m good, I can go . . .”

“I just want you to come,” she said again.

“Kimmy . . .”

“Tell me when you’re ready . . . promise . . .”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, the pleasure high and intense enough his brain began making deals: it’s okay, come and then you can go down on her . . . 

As the pressure built, he grunted more urgently: “Yeah, yeah, mm, I’m, mm, gonna . . .”

“Okay, inside, inside me,” she said, hushed and rushed and urgently whispering.

“What?—inside . . .”

“Put it inside,” she said, bucking her hips toward him.

He thumbed his erection downward, pushed inside Kimmy’s slick interior; he humped, fast and hard, mattress squeaking, but in ten seconds he was boiling over, pulsing a weak but pleasurable load inside her. He’d already gone once today, jerking off in bed when he woke, and his body had better things to do today than replace dumb sexual fluids—it was just trying to survive a wicked hangover.

He grunted and snorted, hooked arms behind her, grabbed her shoulders and bit the pillow, thrust deep and ejaculated inside his wife.

“That’s it,” she said calmly, “okay, I love you,” and stroked his back, teasing him, running her nails on his shoulder blades which he loved.

When he was done, left panting, he withdrew, eased himself off of her, lay at her side searching for her hand. But Kimmy drew her knees up, grabbed her own shins, shoved a pillow under her butt. He knew the pose, they’d done this a lot last year when they were trying to conceive.

He stared at her and she watched him blankly, him waiting for her to explain herself. When she quiet too long, he said, “We’re trying again?”

She cupped a palm to his cheek, saying, “I think I’m ready . . .”

* * *

In the morning light, Kimmy packed Josh’s lunch—two turkey sandwiches on white, extra pickle, an apple and a granola bar—while Josh got dressed for work in the bedroom. Everything into Josh’s lunch bag, she zipped it closed and set it on the pass-through’s counter so Josh could grab it as he walked to the front door.

A year ago, she thought as she washed her hands, it was both of them competing for mirror space in the small en suite bathroom, two young married people in a hurry to get to work. Once she was pregnant, though, she was quick to fall into the role of homemaker—almost immediately getting into the routine of prepping her husband’s lunch, kissing him goodbye at the door and then starting into the vacuuming and laundry. Somewhere along the way, she’d got bored and launched Katt Basket, but she’d have to get back to work soon if she wasn’t pregnant; her skills had a shelf life, and if she let them sit unused too long, she’d end up useless

“Hey, hey, hey, gotta rush, gotta a rush,” Josh said coming down the hall fast, pant legs swishing. She met him at the pass-through, leaning over next to his lunch bag, lips pouted for a kiss.

Josh came in for the kiss, paused and regarded her with her lips pooched out, and the momentary pause got her laughing imagining what her face looked like to him. Josh took her lapels and brought her close. She re-formed the kissing shape and they brought their mouths together.

“Mm-wah,” she pronounced as their kiss came apart, but Josh still held the front of her robe. Their eyes connected and she saw he was troubled and for two terrible heartbeats she imagined someone from Tiffany’s party had posted a rumor on Facebook . . . But Josh smiled, his cute mouth tucking to one side. The smile, reluctant and sheepish—boyish still even though he was reaching thirty—relaxed her, and a warm soothing feeling traveled up her back.

Very serious in tone now he said, “Tonight I’ll do better.”

She had a feeling on his meaning but asked him to clarify, eyes narrowed and expression also serious.

That Josh smile went to one side again then he said, “You know what I mean—I’ll show you I can do better.”

Now she put her hands on his lapels, straightened his tie and pretended to tighten the knot. She bit her lip to look sexy saying, “I’m looking forward to it—see if you can keep off the bourbon at work today . . .”

There was a sting displayed in his eyes and she regretted what she said—just trying to be funny, and all. Josh rolled with it, going unusually sexual saying in a husky voice: “Might want to have a nap today, rest up.”

“Well, well, well,” she whispered, surprised by his sexual forwardness. Their eyes remained connected a long moment, both of them looking puzzled as they studied each other.

At last Josh said, “I’m going to be late . . .”

“You better get going,” she said smoothing her hands on his lapels, the shine of her wedding ring catching her attention.

Josh pecked her lips again, snatched his lunch bag off the island counter and headed for the hall. “Thanks for making lunch, Kimmy,” he said, leaning on the closet doors so he could slip sock feet into leather shoes.

She came to stand and watch from the kitchen, warm coffee mug held in both hands at her chest. “Don’t get too excited; celery, mustard, and mushrooms on a whole wheat pita.”

“Mm-mm-mm,” Josh hummed and looked up. “All my favorites.”

“See you tonight,” she said chuckling and then there was this awkward moment where Josh looked like he might come in and kiss her again, and she stood funny and flat-footed ready to receive him then he appeared to change his mind and gave her a lopsided smile, standing there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. It was like they were in high school, two nervous teenagers unsure of how the other felt about them.

“See ya,” Josh said and slung his lunch bag over a shoulder, grabbed his keys and briefcase and opened their apartment door.

“Bye, Josh,” she said, coming into the hall as he slipped out backward, smiling still and being weird.

It made her chuckle—it was clear he was on the verge of chuckling, too, recognizing their strangeness—and she stood by the door for half a minute making sure he wasn’t going to return before she turned over the deadbolt.

There was another long quiet moment as she stood in the center of the living room considering the damage she’d done, the hurt she’d caused to a man who didn’t deserve it. Josh was kind, he was caring, and his life centered around her. If he discovered what happened at the party he would be devastated and she could never forgive herself. The urge to come clean was strong. If she was honest with Josh, she could escape the whirlwind of bad thoughts. She exhaled huge, let it all out, waited till that exhaled air had cleared and then breathed again.

She walked to the windows and watched down at the parking lot as her husband crossed the macadam making his way to the Nissan. Back door opened, he loaded in his things then got in the driver’s. The car started, and still she watched. Josh was innocent, unsuspecting. Maybe not that unsuspecting though, asking all those questions last night about the nature of her interaction with Devin Stone.

“Devin Stone,” she whispered now, then shivered hearing his name out loud.

Maybe in time she would tell Josh. It might even be survivable. But that was selfish because that was considering their relationship. It was Josh’s feelings that she wanted spared. It was noble in its owl illicit way. She’d prefer to suffer in the knowledge of what she’d done than to have it delivered to Josh’s ears. It wasn’t an affair—what had happened between her and Devin had nothing to do with feelings. Her love for Josh was unblemished and pure despite the awfulness of her actions. She could lie, say she was drunk too. But what was the point in trying to come clean in a muddy spray of lies?—she would be no better off. For now, she would keep this to herself and suffer in silence. If she was lucky—no, if Josh was lucky—everyone else could keep their mouths shut. If she could make it past this first week she figured Josh might be okay. People forget, people have new things to gossip about. Just one week . . .

* * *

After breakfast she cleaned the kitchen, swept, vacuumed and took a load of laundry down the hall and got it washing. Then she had a hot shower, got in a soft T-shirt and some old jeans that had worn till they felt like velvet, and got herself in the studio, and fired up a Chinese-dubbed episode 13 of The Heirs.

One basket today. One-a-day and she could keep on top of the orders, and the extra income was nice until it was time to go back to work for real. Or get pregnant, Kimmy.

Or get pregnant. You could do that too.

Her phone text-chimed as she unloaded supplies from the huge shelving unit Josh bought her at the Pickering Market, a perfectly usable purchase that left her wondering how on earth her husband would know her workflow. The thing came from an old public school, she imagined; a heavy duty set of wooden shelves that had seen some use, all the edges worn smooth, dinged and marked by nicks, spotted and striped by the occasional small graffito (AJ hearts DR) or marker smudge. Josh had taken it apart in Steve’s garage and he and Steve loaded it into Steve’s pickup truck one Saturday and the two of them hustled it up to her studio and re-assembled it while she was out grocery shopping.

With the wealthy students of Jeguk High living out love and drama in the background, a steaming cup of tea on the worktable, knuckles cracked, she was ready to get lost in a meditative 36x18 tight-octagon-weave triangle-rush basket for some lady’s cat all the way in Oregon. She flipped over her phone . . .  Then wished she hadn’t.

Underneath a text from Amy that had arrived while she was in the shower, she saw the name Devin Stone. He’d sent her a message.

Devin Stone: I think we need to talk