Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Charliegh: As Long As We Both Shall Live

"They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered." ~  F. Scott Fitzgerald

***

(Charliegh)

It was dark. Really, really dark. The only source of illumination came from the stars, which moved and danced like figures at a masquerade ball, disappearing behind passing black clouds. Charliegh, sitting on the front pole of the bike, knew that it was a terrible choice. She was alone, with Nolan Endell, the town pothead. The One Who Went Crazy. And even know, as he was leaning forward, skinny arms trapping her in place, her heart was jumping. When he moved his head, breath sliding underneath the collar of her jacket and down her spine, she felt a rush of heat.

Lord, what am I doing? She tried to stop praying, tried to shut down her conscious, which was telling her to beg for forgiveness. Don’t shut me out, God seemed to be whispering, yet with every silent, dangerous whisper from Nolan, the thought faded slowly away.

They biked to a tattoo parlor, tucked behind the town funeral home. Graffiti decorated the shabby bricks walls, and Charliegh felt her pulse in her throat as she watched Nolan unlock the back door.  What am I doing What am I doing. He placed his palm lightly on the small of her back, setting her aside. “Lemme get the light first.”

The walls were covered in graffiti, too. Charliegh tried to calm the erratic fluttering in her stomach as she took in the words, pictures etched with smeared spray paint. Why was she so nervous? And why, of all people, did she suddenly feel this around Nolan?

Probably nerves. Probably tension. Nolan stood in front of her and smiled. He seemed amused by her disappointment, as though he knew she had been expecting something different.

“Welcome to my house.”

“You live here?” Charliegh stared at the wall, blushing at an image made of brightly scrawled expletives.

“Nah, not really.” Nolan stood behind her, generating electricity without even touching her. “I do a lot of work here. It’s a hobby.”

“It’s…” Charliegh wracked her brain, trying to think of something nice to say. She started to walk. If he stood behind her any longer, she was going to scream. “Lovely.” She finished, coming to a stop in front of a face. She leaned closer, heart thumping wildly. This time, it wasn’t because of Nolan. She knew that face, the feminine curves, the uneasy smile. “Is that Randall?”

“Randall Xavier? Yeah.”

She turned in disbelief. “Nolan, why would you paint a picture of a dead boy?”

His grin was crooked, not quite right. The easy, careless mannerism had faded from his voice and movements. “Because, beautiful. He wasn’t dead when I painted him.”

He kissed her quickly, but even the nauseating whirlpool in her stomach couldn’t erase all the Why and the How. Why would he paint a picture of a dead boy? And why of Randall…Charliegh tipped her head back when his lips moved to her throat, trying to quench the tears that threatened to surface again.

How had he known Randall? How had they been friends? She set her hands on his chest and pulled her mouth away. The fluttering in her stomach had been replaced by confusion, knocking around like wasps. “I don’t understand.”

His hands were around her waist now, fingers so long and thick that they nearly touched when they encircled her. He pressed her against the wall slowly. It felt strangely like déjà vu – almost akin to that moment not so long ago, when she had walked into the circle of Sylas’s arms and let her tears bleed with her body. “You shouldn’t.” Nolan whispered.