Collide

“She’s not a regular,” Jen continued, affronted. “Jesus, at least he could go with a regular!”

I didn’t feel like laughing but I couldn’t help it—her logic was so very flawed. “Why don’t you go over there and challenge her to a dance-off or something.”

Jen shook her head and looked at me seriously. “I don’t think so.”

I opened my mouth to protest that I was kidding, but the way Jen looked again back at Johnny and the woman, then at me, stopped me. She wasn’t smiling. I felt studied. A different kind of heat crept up my throat and cheeks, somehow guilty this time.

“No,” she added. “I don’t think so.”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. “It’s my mom.”

“Go ahead and take it. I’m going to grab some coffee and a piece of cake or something. You want a muffin and a bottomless cup, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I dug in my purse for a ten-dollar bill she waved away, and I couldn’t argue with her because I was already thumbing my phone’s screen to take the call. “Mom. Hi.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong—why do you always think something’s wrong?” I should’ve felt more annoyed by her question, but the truth was, it was good to hear the concern in my mom’s voice. It was good to be so loved.

“You called me before noon on a Sunday morning, that’s why I think something’s wrong, Emmaline. You can’t lie to your mother.”

“Oh, Mom.” Sometimes she sounded so much older than she was. More like a grandma than a mother, and yet I knew from photos and stories that she’d been a true child of the sixties. More so even than my dad, who wasn’t above getting a little tipsy at Christmastime and who’d confessed to me once that he thought pot should be legal. “So. Tell me?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her. My eye caught Johnny again, but he wasn’t looking this way. He was in intense conversation with that woman, both of them leaning in toward each other in a way that could only mean intimacy. I tore my gaze from them and focused on my call. “I just thought I’d see what you’re up to.”

“Oh.” My mom sounded nonplussed. “Well, your dad and I went out to breakfast at the Old Country Buffet.”

“You … went to breakfast?”

At the counter, Jen was only a few feet away from Johnny, but she didn’t even look like she was trying to take a peek, much less not-so-casually overhear their conversation. It was still going full-force, based on his expression and the set of his companion’s shoulders. I couldn’t see her face, but her body language told me everything I needed to know.

“Sure. Why, aren’t we allowed?” My mom sounded a little strange, a little shorter in her response than I was used to.

“Of course you are. Mom, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said.

And there it was, the subject that would never go away. It wasn’t fair to call it an elephant in the room. You were supposed to be able to ignore those.

For one long instant I thought about telling her. Not the bits about the sex on the train and being some sort of 1970s Italian movie queen. I was sure my mom didn’t want to hear about that. But the small blank moments, the scent of oranges. I didn’t, though. Not only because I didn’t want to worry her, but because I didn’t want to prove her right.

“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” My throat closed on the lie, and my eyes smarted. I was glad we had the distance of satellites between us. I’d never have been able to get away with it face-to-face.

“Where are you? I hear a lot of noise.” “Oh. The coffee shop.”

My mom laughed. “Again? You’re going to turn into a cup of coffee soon.”

“Better that than a pumpkin,” I told her as Jen wove her way back to our table balancing two plates and two empty mugs. “People who love coffee say they can’t live without it. Pumpkins just get made into pie.”

“Oh, you crazy girl,” my mom said fondly. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure, Mom. Bye.” We disconnected just as Jen sat down, pushing my plate and mug toward me.

“Your mom must be pretty cool,” she said.

“She can be. Oh, God. Chocolate fudge chip with fudge icing? This isn’t a muffin. This is a new pair of jeans in a bigger size.”

Jen licked a fingertip. “It’s what he likes.” I didn’t have to ask her who “he” was. I wondered if I’d ever have to ask again. “Yeah?”

She grinned. “Some stalker you are.”

Our conversation turned from the tantalizing topic of Johnny Dellasandro, maybe because he was actually there and could’ve overheard us, or because he was with a woman, therefore making any fantasies about him sort of lame and pointless. Or maybe because we had other things to talk about, me and Jen, like our favorite television shows and books, about the cute guy who delivered pizzas in our neighborhood. About all the things good friends talk about over sweets and caffeine.

“I should get going,” I said with a sigh when I’d polished off that sinful muffin and finished my third mug of coffee. I patted my stomach. “I’m going to burst, plus I have laundry to do and some bills to pay.”

“Nice quiet Sunday afternoon.” Jen sighed happily. “The best kind. See you in the morning?”

“Oh, probably. I’m sure I’ll swing by here for a coffee to go. I know I should make my own at home, but … I can’t ever get the brew to taste right. And it seems like a waste to make a whole pot when I can only have one cup.”

Jen grinned and winked. “And the eye candy here is so much nicer.”

There was that, too.

She ducked out before I did, and not because I was lingering overlong trying to get a look at Johnny. I did take one last glance over my shoulder at him as I pushed the door and made the bell jingle. I was hoping he’d look up, but he was still locked deep in conversation with that woman, whoever she was.

It wasn’t until much later that night—bills paid and laundry washed, dried, sorted, folded and put away—that I thought to look for the necklace in my pocket. I searched them all, even the ones of my jeans, though I knew I hadn’t put it in there. No necklace. Somewhere, somehow, I’d lost it.

Like I’d said to Jen, it was no big deal. It wasn’t a piece I’d had any sentimental ties to, and I was sure it hadn’t been expensive. Still, the fact I’d lost it disturbed me. I’d lost things before. Put them down when I was having a fugue and didn’t remember it. I’d found things that way, too. Once, I’d walked out of a store clutching a fistful of lip balms I must’ve grabbed up from a bin. I’d been too embarrassed to tell my mom I stole them. Every once in a while I found one in a pocket of a coat or a purse. They’d lasted me for years.

I hadn’t lost the necklace in a fugue, I was almost certain of that. I’d walked home from the Mocha with the wind so cold in my nostrils it had frozen my nose hairs, making it possible but not likely I’d missed any scent of oranges. On the other hand, it was possible I’d had a fugue without that warning sign. Lots of people with seizure disorders never had any warning, or memory, of what had happened.

This thought sobered me faster than a high school kid pulled over by the sheriff on prom night.

Blinking fast to keep the tears suddenly burning my eyes from slipping out, I took a long, slow breath. Then another. By the time I’d focused on the third, in and out, I felt a little calmer. Not much, but enough to slow the frantic pounding of my heart and quell the surging boil in my guts.

I’d discovered alternative medicine a few years ago when traditional techniques could no longer diagnose whatever it was the fall had done to my brain. I was tired of being stuck with needles and taking medicine that often had side effects so much worse than the benefits they provided, it wasn’t worth taking them. Acupuncture couldn’t diagnose my problem any better than Western medicine could, but I found I’d rather use it than fill my body with potentially toxic chemicals day after day. Guided imagery and meditation didn’t get rid of my anxieties altogether, but the practice of them definitely kept me in a better mood. And since I’d discovered through lots of trial and error that I was more likely to experience a bad fugue when I was overtired, overstimulated, overstressed or overanything, I’d incorporated meditation into my daily routine as a preventative measure.

I thought it worked. It seemed to, anyway. I’d been fugue-free for the past two years, anyway, until just lately. And even these three had been so minor, so inconsequential …

“Ah, shit,” I said aloud, my voice harsh and strained.

My reflection in my bedroom mirror showed pale cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips gone thin from the effort of holding back a sob. The fugues had never been painful, yet having them hurt more than anything in my life.

I blew out another breath, concentrating while I changed quickly into a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a worn T-shirt with a picture of Bert and Ernie on it. I’d bought it at Sesame Place when I was in junior high and had only rediscovered it while packing to move here. It fit a little tighter than it had back then, but it was comfortable in more than the size. It was a piece of home.

Changed, I settled onto my bed with my legs crossed. I didn’t have a fancy mat or any sort of altar, and I didn’t light incense. Meditation wasn’t so much spiritual as it was physical for me. I’d studied a lot about biofeedback over the years, and while I doubted I’d ever be able to consciously control my heart rate or brain wave patterns the way some accomplished yogis did, I believed meditation did help. I could feel it.

I rested my hands on my knees, palms up, thumb to fingertips. I closed my eyes. I didn’t chant the traditional Om Mani Padme Om or even any of the other traditional phrases. I’d found something that worked better for me.

“Sausage and gravy on a biscuit, yum. Sausage and gravy on a biscuit, yummmmm.”

I let the words flow out of me on each exhalation. With each inhalation, I tried to stop myself from testing the air for the scent of oranges. It took me a lot longer than it usually did to put myself into a state of calm. At last my muscles relaxed. My heartbeat slowed to its normal rate.

I let myself fall back onto the pillows. All brand-new. The comforter was, too, as was the mattress and the bed. My new bed, one I’d never shared. I uncrossed my legs, stretching without opening my eyes. Cradled in the softness of the bed, loose and relaxed, it seemed natural for my hands to drift over my belly and thighs. My breasts.

I thought of Johnny. I’d memorized every detail of his face from seeing him at the Mocha, and every detail of the rest of him from the movies Jen and I had watched and the photos online. He had dimples at the base of his back and one dimple on his left cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. I’d like to lick those dimples.

My breath soughed out of me as my fingers slid across the skin of my belly, bare from where my shirt had pulled up. I didn’t usually need visual aids to bring myself pleasure. Porn was all right, I had no problem with it, but it all seemed sort of random and senseless to me. Even supposedly woman-oriented porn didn’t make much sense to me. I got more turned on reading sensually explicit novels or even listening to music than I ever did watching dirty movies or looking at pictures.

Now, though, I fixed on the image of Johnny’s face. His golden brows, arched over those yummy green-brown eyes. That mouth, a little thin but easily quirked into a smile. At least, in his movies, that was. I hadn’t yet seen him as much as quirk the corner of his lips in real life.

“Johnny,” I whispered, thinking I should be ashamed or embarrassed to be saying his name aloud to myself this way but not feeling anything but warmth.

Even his name was sexy. A boy’s name, a nickname, not a name for a grown man who was, I realized, probably my dad’s age. I groaned and clapped a hand over my eyes.

It didn’t stop me from thinking about him. He might be the same age as my parents, but I had no trouble imagining him as a lover. I’d never had a fetish for older dudes—if anything, I freely admitted to a certain amount of ogling of younger men on a daily basis. My office overlooked the campus of a local college, and my coworkers and I often enjoyed our lunches while watching the boys on their way to class. But Johnny’s age didn’t matter. Intellectually, I knew he was “too old” for me. My head knew it.

My body was another matter.

My hand stroked down my belly to cup between my legs, the heel of my palm pressing my clit. I sighed. I used a finger to idly stroke myself through the soft material of my pajamas, then slid my hand inside the elastic waistband. This was my pleasure, solo.

It was Johnny I thought of, obviously. Scenes from his movies knitted with still shots and the sound of his voice. I wondered how it would sound if he said my name. Would he groan it the way he did on film, fucking the actress with whom he’d had a child? Would he whisper it against my skin, his tongue working its way down my body to center on my clit the way my fingertip circled just now?

I wanted to undress him. Strip away the long black coat, the scarf. Use it to cover his eyes while he laughed and, patiently, allowed me to unfix the buttons of his shirt from their holes and slide his arms from the sleeves. To unzip and unbutton his pants and slide them down those long, muscled thighs. I wanted to kneel in front of him and nuzzle at the softness of his pubic hair, golden and darker than the hair on his head. I wanted to take that nice, thick cock in my mouth and suck until he got so hard I couldn’t fit him all the way in.

My hand was moving faster. My cunt wet. I slipped a finger down to get it slick, then up again, while my other hand cupped a breast and pinched at my nipple. I thought of Johnny while I made love to myself. His eyes, nose, ears, mouth. His delicious nipples. I wanted to lick and bite them. I wanted to hear him say my name, and beg me to fuck him.

“Yes,” I murmured.

My back arched, hips pushing upward against the sweet pressure of my hand. I wasn’t easing toward climax, more like hurtling toward it. I hadn’t done this in a long time. Since before the last time I’d had sex, as a matter of fact, and that had been about three months ago. I didn’t want to think about that now. I wanted to think about Johnny.

“Emm,” he said in my ear, and I didn’t startle. My eyes didn’t open. I breathed in the scent of oranges and gave myself over to his touch.

My hands found the spindles of my headboard and I grabbed them. The wood creaked at the strength of my grip. It was slick under my palms, my fingers slid, but I held tight. The bed dipped beneath his weight.

He kissed me.

Openmouthed, slow and sweet and hot, just the way I’d imagined it. Johnny tasted like nothing and everything I’d ever loved or wanted. I breathed him in, sucking gently on his tongue. Our teeth bumped, sending sparks of sensation through me, and a giggle. My eyes fluttered, but he gave a warning noise.

“Don’t,” Johnny said, and I kept my eyes shut tight.

When wet heat centered over my clit, I let out a noise of my own. Low and urgent. I said his name. He laughed against me, and it was just the way I’d imagined it. His lips pressed me through the thin material of my pajama bottoms. He worked my clit with his lips, and the barrier of cotton only enhanced the pleasure.

I wanted to feel him on me. Skin on skin. I wanted him inside me, balls deep. I wanted him fucking me while I drew gouges in his back with my nails and urged him on.

None of that happened. Johnny used his mouth and fingers to stroke me toward orgasm, and that turned out to be pretty fucking good enough. Pleasure filled me. Overflowing. Electric. I jerked with it and let go of the headboard so my fingers could find that thick, beautiful hair and burrow into it.

I came from Johnny’s mouth and hands, and with his voice murmuring encouragement, but when my hand reached down I found nothing but my own body. Orgasm arced through me. My eyes opened. I cried out, wordless and yearning, and my voice slid into a moan.

I swallowed the taste of him.

I was alone.

Chapter 04

I looked like shit. Hair lank, shadows under my eyes, skin blotchy. I’d managed to leave the house with mismatched socks, too, a fact I was hoping nobody would notice unless I pulled up the legs of my trousers to show off the mistake. I’d slept terribly, my night filled with dreams that were nothing like fugues.

I sat at my desk, gripping a mug of cooling coffee and staring at my computer screen without doing much. I had an appointment with my acupuncturist after work and didn’t see much point in pretending to accomplish anything for the next hour. Fortunately, I had nothing too pressing waiting for me. I’d been expecting a lot more work when I took this job at the credit union, but compared to my days as a teller, then assistant bank manager, my new job was as easy as a two-dollar hooker who takes coupons.

I did rustle up enough energy to check my personal email. Among the forwards of stupid jokes and pictures of strange street signs my mom sent, there was a message from Jen. The subject read simply, “Read This.”

So, like Alice being offered a piece of the caterpillar’s mushroom, I did.

It was a link to a blog specializing in reviews of obscure horror movies. It had an entire section devoted to Johnny’s films, even the ones that weren’t horror. I was surprised to see he’d made only fifteen movies, total, as the wealth of information on the internet had made it seem like way more than that. Reading through the descriptions, I realized it was because so many of them had been recut or released under alternate names, or in foreign versions. There was a clickable list for each one, each link leading to a separate page with still pictures, video clips and information about the movie. Also, Buy links. Some of the movies were readily available, if you knew where to look, and at dollar-bin prices. Others …

“Whoa.” I said this with respect and awe.

One hundred and seventy-five dollars for a dubbed DVD of some obscure film I hadn’t ever heard of. Plus shipping. I slid my tongue over my teeth as I contemplated this, and then the triple-digit number (not including the decimals) currently in my checking account.

$175 for a J.D. movie. I texted to Jen.

Can u believe it? She answered almost instantly.

I believe it, bb. Which one?

Night of A Hundred Moons.

Holy shit! Grab that shit up, girl. Nobody ever has a Hundred Moons!

Then, a second later:

(I)

It took me a minute to figure out what that was, but when I did, it made me laugh. It was a moon of the bare butt variety, not the celestial. Nice.

Have u seen it?

I typed.

Never. Not even in bootleg clips.

Do u want to?

R u kidding? YES!!!

One hundred and seventy-five dollars could be a lot or a little bit of money, depending. It wasn’t much for a car repair, for example, though it wasn’t a little, either. It was just about right for a really tiny television set, a bit too much for a pair of shoes and a ridiculously reasonable amount for a week’s vacation at the beach.

It was way too fucking much for a DVD.

I was already clicking on Add to Basket. My heart hung up when the website froze, the small scroll bar at the bottom stuck just an eyelash width from the end. I clicked, clicked again. Nothing happened.

It took me two or three frantic, sweaty moments before I realized I had to click the My Cart link to see that I had, indeed, managed to add the movie. I added the shipping, which was frankly outrageous, as well as some other random handling fee. I couldn’t even look at the total as I typed my credit card number into a definitely unsecured website, risking my entire identity just to get my hands on what would assuredly turn out to be a crappy copy of a bad movie.

I printed out the receipt and made sure a copy of the order had also appeared in my email before I dared to navigate away from the site. Then I sat back in my desk chair, heart still pounding, palms still sweating. I felt like I’d run a mile pursued by dogs. Or zombies. Or worse, zombie dogs. I felt wrung out and anxious and something else, too. Unreasonably excited. I texted Jen.

Bought it.

Get the fuck out!

Yes. Girls’ night when it comes?

It won’t be the only thing coming. Call me when you get it.

I said I would and slipped my phone into my purse so I could head out for my appointment. It took me only ten minutes to get from my office to the alternative medicine center, a trip that had taken me forty-five when I lived with my parents. In another five I was in the quiet room on my back, a soft pillow beneath my head.

I have eclectic musical tastes, but “spa” music usually didn’t do it for me. Yet I couldn’t deny it was relaxing, the soft chimes and woodwind instruments. That was the point, after all. To relax the patients. And I tried, I really did, but the harder I tried to put everything out of my mind, the more I thought.

I knew the treatment would help even if I couldn’t stop the hamster wheel of my brain from spinning. I just didn’t want to be there, stiff and aching, anxious. I wanted to melt into the table and let the needles do their work the way they’d done for the past couple of years … and then I was thinking again, worrying again, that this time the treatment would fail. That I’d be back to suffering through the insult of a brain that made me see, hear, smell and touch things that weren’t there. Or worse, that gave me blank spots in my memory, moments in which anything could’ve happened. I wasn’t sure which was worse, experiencing things that hadn’t happened, or not remembering things that had.

The music changed from the soft tinkle of water and a flute to something low, almost moaning. I’d never noticed vocals in any of the music the office played. Now I couldn’t ignore them.

A cello. A woman’s breathy voice. The plucking of strings.

And then, though I’d always specifically requested no aromatherapy treatments during my acupuncture … the inevitable scent of oranges.

“No,” I muttered, and clung to consciousness with every single brain cell I had.

When the fugues had first started, I hadn’t known how to determine one was on the verge. As the years had passed, I could predict the onset with enough time—sometimes only barely, but usually enough—to prepare for it. I had never yet mastered fending one off. In fact, I’d learned it was better not to try, because they seemed to last longer and be more intense, with a longer recovery time, if I fought them. I couldn’t help it now, though. It was the worst betrayal to go dark here, with the needles in my shin and collarbone, supposedly aligning my qi and keeping me centered in this world. My muscles strained, defeating the purpose of everything I’d come here to do.

There was nothing I could do. The scent of oranges swirled around me. I closed my eyes, tense, and waited for my world to shift and change or simply go black around me. I gripped the table and felt the needles in my side shift and pinch.

Nothing happened.

I pressed my eyes closed tighter, my senses heightened. I heard the squeak-squeak of wheels, the soft click of the door opening. I opened my eyes, turned my head toward the sound. It was Dr. Gupta, who greeted me with a smile and a pat to my shoulder.

“I apologize for being a little late to remove the needles, Emm,” she said. “We had a little accident out in the hallway. Someone came to clean it up, but there’s quite a mess. Be careful when you go out there.”

She plucked needles from my skin as she spoke, slipping them into the red sharps container marked with the biohazard symbol. Then she took hold of my arm and helped me sit. She handed me a paper cup of water.

“How do you feel?”

I didn’t want to tell her about the fugue I may or may not have fended off. I breathed in. The scent of oranges had faded, though not disappeared. My mouth squirted saliva, lips puckering at the memory of the citrus taste. I hadn’t eaten oranges in years, unable to stomach them, but this gustatory illusion was unusual. Mostly I just smelled the oranges, I didn’t taste them.