Bang Page 4

  “Jack—” Mari says again, warning this time, wanting to let him know how hard she’s going to lose it. “Oh my God, Jack, I’m—”

  “Shit,” Jack hisses, hips jerking, and she realizes a second too late that he’s trying to get away from her, pull out, but by then she’s already coming and coming, one leg wound around his and this feeling like there was a missed stitch in her someplace and he tugged it, like she’s unraveling everywhere. Jack groans low and helpless into the curve of her neck. Mari can feel the pulse of him as he loses it. Both of them at the exact same time, fuck, it’s the kind of thing they’d probably never be able to do if they were trying.

  Then again, she and Jack have always been in sync.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasps as soon as they’re through, ripping away from her. Once he’s out he keeps right on backing up, straight off the bed, as if that’s going to make a bit of difference now. “Oh shit, Mari.” He sounds younger than he is, like Mari’s prom date instead of her partner.

  Mari sits up too. She can feel it dripping out of her as soon as she shifts, thick and regrettable. “Well.”

  “Shit,” Jackson repeats, rubbing both hands across his bristly head. Thinner, definitely, Mari can see it in his hips and chest now that he’s standing, in the new taper of him. The scars are big and ugly on his chest. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” God, Mari is thirty-three fucking years old. “Listen, it’s fine. We’ll just have to go to a CVS.”

  “A CVS?” Jackson stands stock-still for a second. Then he turns away and pulls his pants up, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The cheap mattress dips under his weight. “Right. Okay, Mari.”

  Which—really? Mari yanks her bra back on, ignoring the sting in her nipples. “Yeah, okay,” she says pointedly. “Unless you have a better plan for fixing this.”

  That makes him look at her. “No.” He sinks into himself, back rounding. “I don’t.”

  “Okay.” Lord, where are her underwear? “Then let’s get our job done.”

  They get dressed in silence, just the crackle of her staticky sweater and the noisy zip of her jeans. Jackson still looks stunned so Mari volunteers to make the buy. She figures she’ll look the part now, at least, strung out on sex and fear. But by the time she goes downstairs and crosses the lot to the lobby, the greasy clerk is gone. Abruptly, Mari remembers Leo telling them he only works the morning shift.

  Dammit. She chokes down one useless sob as she heads out toward the sedan, knowing Jack can see her from the window of their room. The insides of her thighs sting when she walks. She shakes her head, a signal. Jack appears less than a minute later, long legs first as he climbs down the outdoor staircase.

  “We fucked up,” he says. Mari nods.

  They take the world’s most convoluted route back, stopping off at a drugstore clear across the other side of town. Mari goes in alone. She buys the pills and a pack of M&Ms for Sonya, the peanut kind that are her daughter’s very favorite. The checkout guy won’t meet her eyes.

  They tell Leo the clerk left while they were discussing their next move. He’s not impressed.

  “Christ, officers, that bust was handed to you.” He shakes his head. “You gone rusty over there, Ford?”

  Mari’s stomach drops through her shoes.

  “Like your dick,” Jack says, slouching in his chair. Sarge laughs and parks them on desk duty, paperwork and answering phones.

  Mari and Jack don’t speak for the whole rest of their shift.

  At home there’s chicken and rice and the poem about autumn Sonya learned today at preschool. “How was your day?” she asks Mari politely, parroting at her grandmother’s urging. Since Patricia started babysitting more, Sone has started asking store clerks how do you do.

  “It was fine,” Mari promises, reaching out and smoothing Sonya’s hair back over her pretty brown forehead. She has dark eyes, same as Mari and Andre. Jack’s eyes are gray as storms.

  After dinner Sonya spreads her M&Ms out on the coffee table and eats them one by one, a methodical exercise that saves the brown ones for last. Mari looks at her watch. She took her first pill nine hours ago in the drugstore parking lot, washed down with cold coffee. Three more hours until it’s time for the second.

  She sits down with a calendar and calls Andre to work out how they’re going to split this month’s weekends. He’s been nicer on the phone lately, less sharp. He asks about Patricia and Mari’s job. He moved into an apartment near Lee after the divorce, a two-bedroom with a balcony and stainless steel appliances. Mari is glad he stayed close. It makes the transition easier for Sonya.

  “Here’s the baby,” she says after they’ve figured out the rest of September and October. “Ask her what she learned today.” Sonya plops down in the kitchen chair with her legs straight out in front of her and dutifully recites the autumn poem again. Leaves are falling on my head, leaves are falling orange and red.

  Patricia watches Mari with concern as they do the dishes together. “¿Cómo te sientes?” she asks, handing over a plate.

  Mari sighs. At dinner, she only picked at her rice. The instructions on the pill box say nausea is normal. “I feel fine, Mom,” she promises. “Just tired.”

  Patricia hums skeptically. “Okay. Si tú lo dices.”

  Mari scratches at a piece of caked-on sauce with her fingernail. “I do,” she says firmly. Her head aches. “I say so.”

  Chapter Three

  Jack sits with himself in his empty apartment for half the evening before he’s ashamed enough to pick up a phone. His swipes at the 3 key, Mari’s speed-dial number for four generations of Apple products now, never pressing down long enough to trigger a call. Finally he grabs his car keys off the end table, heading outside into the chilly September night.

  Mari’s block is a modest one. A crisp horseshoe full of alternatively matching two-story houses like the one she and Andre moved into after they got married, it has kids Sone’s age, aboveground pools filling up the backyards. But Jackson preferred her old apartment, the strange, sprawling yellow Victorian where she rented the top floor back when they were rookies. He loved the sloping floors and the built-ins crammed full of all Mari’s books, her novels and poetry and the fat theory textbooks she used in college. She got rid of a lot of them, Jack knows. He helped her, when she was packing.

  He gave her away at her wedding too.

  Now he parks in her driveway and tells himself to nut the hell up and stop being such a pansy about it. He knocks on her front door before he can chicken out.

  Of course, it’s Patty who answers.

  “You!” she cries in her thick accent, her strong arms opening up to enfold him. “Where you been, huh? You’re bad, you don’t come see me, let me make sure you’re still alive.”

  Jackson kisses her cheek. “I’m bad,” he agrees, hugging back. He’s known Patty almost as long she he’s known Mari—she was the one de la Espada woman who did come visit him in the hospital, actually, bringing a tin of caramel bars for him and another for the nurses. Neither one of them mentioned her daughter. “How you doing?”

  Patty laughs. “Me? No no no, it’s you, I didn’t get shot.”

  Jack grins like, fair enough, and starts to move past her into the house, but Patty stops him with two hands on his face.

  Mari does that, Jackson realizes with a jolt. Mari does that when she’s kissing him.

  Patty narrows her eyes. “You look skinny, kiddo,” she says, peering at him. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Jack promises, breaking her hold gently and stepping into the foyer. “Been watching my girlish figure, is all.”

  He hasn’t been to visit this house a ton, a few dinners and barbecues here and there, a trip to see Mari right after the baby was born. It always felt like it emphatically was not his place to intrude. Now that Andre’s moved out, the house feels emptier, less imposing.

 
“Jack.” That’s Mari herself, appearing at the top of the stairs with a towel in her hand. “Hey.”

  It must be Sonya’s bathtime. “Hi,” Jack says. So much for being less of an imposition. Christ, this was a terrible fucking idea. He just had to see her, is what he kept thinking on the way over here. He had to make sure she was okay. He feels about eleven years old. “If this is a bad time, I can—”

  “No, no,” Mari says, sounding just as false and robotic. She’s still wearing the sweater from this afternoon. Patty is watching them carefully, her sharp eyes flicking back and forth. “It’s fine, I was just putting the baby in—”

  “¿Mama, quién es?” That’s the lady herself, standing by the second-floor banister with wet hair and footie pajamas. Even from here Jackson can tell she’s bigger, longer legs and arms. The last time he saw her, she was three.

  “Hi, kiddo,” he says with an awkward wave. More than anything, her round tiny face makes him feel ashamed of himself. “How you doing, huh?”

  “Good.” Sonya bounds down the stairs to stand with Mari. Her pajamas are fleece, sunshine yellow with penguins.

  Mari kisses her head. “Fancy Pants, you remember Jackson? He’s a police officer with me.” Jackson can feel them all sticking to English for him.

  “I remember,” Sonya says, with deep, little-kid gravity. “We rode the tire swing.”

  That was last April, a barbecue at Gordy Punch’s. Jackson’s surprised she remembers. “We did,” he confirms.

  “Okay, Abuela’s gonna put you to bed, Miss Sonya,” Patty announces firmly. Jack can’t tell whether she’s read the mood between Mari and him or what. “Kiss your Mami, here we go.”

  Sonya nods obediently and lifts her face up to Mari’s, getting her magic circle of bedtime kisses, forehead, cheeks and mouth. Jack’s seen Mari administer it before.

  “Say goodnight to Jack,” Mari instructs, smoothing her daughter’s hair. Mari is big on manners. Jack knows more about her parenting style—her brand of deodorant, her coffee order, her favorite pizza toppings—than he’s known about all his past girlfriends put together.

  “Night,” Sonya mumbles. She flashes a smile before dashing off up the stairs, on all fours like a round yellow fox. Patty follows at a more measured pace, and then, all at once, Jack and Mari are alone.

  “She grew,” Jackson says awkwardly as the bedroom door clicks shut. “Sone.”

  Mari nods. She and Sonya look so goddamn alike, brown skin and hair and eyes, short dark eyelashes and wide mouths. Jack notices it every time he sees them together. “You want something to drink?” she asks, turning abruptly toward the kitchen. “There’s still a few coconut squares.”

  “Mari. Come on.” Jackson rubs at the back of his neck, marveling at his own stupidity. Over a decade, and it turns out a couple fucks are enough to make them strangers again. He follows her into the kitchen, all shiny tile and laminate cabinets, every surface designed so it’s easy to wipe clean. Her old apartment had a mold problem.

  “Come on what?” Marisol asks. Her face is deliberately blank as she reaches into the fridge, pulling out a glass baking dish and waggling it at him. It’s like her mother is still in the room. “Do you want this microed?”

  Jack shakes his head. “I want to make sure you’re okay,” he says lamely, cringing at how dumb and rehearsed it sounds. Mari is still fussing with the baking dish and avoiding his eyes. “Look, will you please just—”

  “I’m fine,” Mari interrupts. “Was sick to my stomach earlier, just a little, but I’m fine.” Suddenly her face crumples, all at once like the Berlin Wall coming down. “I’m fine,” she insists, voice breaking. Then, more quietly, “Damn it.”

  “Mari.” Fuck this. Jack takes a step forward and wraps his arm around her tight, hands in her hair like a reflex. This is bullshit, he wants—he just wants— “Mari, hey. Mari Mari Mari, listen, hey, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hey, please. We’ll fix it, okay?”

  Mari shakes her head against his shoulder, stubborn, but she doesn’t pull away. “How?”

  Jack doesn’t have an answer to that so he tips her face up and kisses her instead, a circle like she did to Sonya, forehead and both cheeks, landing on her mouth last before he has time to talk himself out of it.

  Mari makes a quiet sound. She tastes like salt and her fourth cup of coffee, the one she always has after dinner. A second later she puts her hands on his face and pulls away. “Shit,” she breathes, knocking their foreheads together. “Shit, Jack, this is fucked up.”

  And that—yeah, that’s a no if Jack ever heard one.

  Since it’s probably the last time he’ll be able to, Jack kisses her. Then, when that isn’t enough, he kisses her again and again, catching her bottom lip over and over. Mari lets him, her breathing gone shaky. God, they should have stopped after the first time in his apartment all those months ago, cold turkey, no take-backs. It’s going to take forever for Jack to work this out of his system.

  Finally Mari turns her head to the side with a gasp. “Okay,” she says. “Shit. Okay.” When she takes his hand and starts walking, Jackson is so surprised she hasn’t said stop he follows without another word.

  They’re at the bottom of the basement stairs before he realizes she isn’t bringing him down here to talk. It feels like the motel room all over again, the shock of another chance somewhere between panic and sickening hope.

  “This doesn’t solve anything,” Mari says, turning to face him. “Okay? This isn’t a solution.”

  Jackson puts his hands in her new, shorter hair. They were smokers when they met each other, Jack and Mari. They helped each other quit when the regs changed at the end of their rookie year and they couldn’t light up in uniform anymore. They got through it. “We’ll figure it out,” he promises. “We will.”

  “Okay,” Mari says, not quite looking at him. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever heard another person sound less convinced in his life. It makes him angry—it’s them, isn’t it? It’s them—but it also makes him feel like he wants to prove something, and he kisses her again to do it.

  “We will,” he insists, licking his way into her mouth and pushing his hips at hers until he feels her shudder. Jack growls low and quiet. “Sit,” he mutters, nudging her one step back and then another until she hits the base of the staircase and does what he tells her. “Good.”

  “Jack,” Mari gasps, but by then he’s already kneeling down in front of her, tugging at her thighs until she spreads them enough for him to get between. Her head thunks back against the steps.

  “Careful,” Jack says, rubbing his hands up the warm denim until he gets to the waistband of her jeans, fingers brushing the soft skin of her pretty stomach before she pushes him away, lifting her hips and working the button on her own. Then she freezes.

  “Is this what—?” she asks, sounding more unsure than he’s heard her since both of them were rookies. Her head pops up, eyes suspicious. “I mean—?”

  Jackson’s heart drops low and desperate. “Fuck, Mari,” he murmurs, pulling her jeans and underwear down at once. “Yeah.” He hasn’t with her yet, not really, just those few fast licks this afternoon and the taste of her hiding at the back of his mouth all day. He wants to like he wants to breathe.

  Mari whines, shifting on the steps. It’s dirty and dark down here, unfinished floors and the exposed furnace. Jack knows Mari plans to fix it up, make it into a playroom for Sonya, but so far there’s just the skeleton of a half-bath that went up when Sone was a baby and nothing else. Jackson hasn’t had sex in someone’s basement since he was sixteen years old.

  He nudges Mari’s hips until she lets him slide her folded jeans underneath, protecting her bare ass from the wood. “C’mere,” he murmurs. God, he just wants to look at her. It’s Mari and he knows everything about Mari, but he doesn’t know this, the other two times so quick and fumbling he got a look at h
er chest and basically nothing else. He wants to stand her up and turn her around, examine every single angle. When he spreads her open she’s a dark, dark pink, almost shocking against her yellow-pale thighs.

  “Hurry up,” Mari whines. She reaches for him, nails scrabbling against his buzzed scalp, just a hint of bossy pressure. Jackson’s dick jumps in his pants.

  “Uh-huh,” he manages. Shit, it’s Mari, it’s Mari and she’s almost but not quite shoving his face against her— “Yeah.”

  He licks her from bottom to top a few times to get started, tasting salt and sweat and something purple-dark, something just Mari. After the third pass she starts shifting impatiently, trying to ride his tongue a little, but Jackson doesn’t change up his rhythm, testing out a theory. Sure enough, a minute later Mari’s hand slips back down to cup his chin. Jackson thinks about everything he knows about her, her honesty and her stubbornness and her breakfast order, all the too-careful fights they’ve had over the years, and tries to fit this piece of knowledge in with all the rest, tries to reconcile that Mari with this one, who shoves him when he doesn’t lick hard enough. It’s not what Jackson would have expected from her at all.

  It’s also hot as fuck.

  She’s moving now too, hips rocking steady against his flattened tongue. All he wants in the breathing world is to get her to come like this.

  He’s pretty sure he’s going to get it, how she’s still got one hand on his face to show him, just like they’ve taught one another a million different things in the last ten years—to drive stick and cut an onion properly, the rules of poker and hockey and where to put the emphasis when you’re swearing in Spanish. When he ducks his head to nip at her fingers, Mari whines. “Please don’t stop,” she gasps. “Oh my God, I just. Please don’t stop.”