her. “Rose! Are you OK?”
“Ours,” she said, blinking.
“Whose?”
The clouds cleared from her eyes, passing as quickly as a summer shower. She grasped his sweatshirt, a smile breaking across her face. “Do you have beer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or cigarettes? I want to try them.”
“Uh, no,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Damn.” She bit her lip. “Damn. Shit. Fuck. I
like
swearing.”
Charlie examined her eyes. If she was concussed, one pupil would be larger than the other. “Are you OK?”
She stared into the middle distance, not seeing him. “I can do whatever I want! I’m disconnected.” She tapped her temple. “And malfunctioning. I’ll probably shut down automatically in a few moments.”
“Rose, you need to go to the hospital.” Charlie got to his feet. “You’re concussed.”
“That’s not what I want,” she said. Her eyes searched. “I only want to do what
I
want.”
“Uh-huh. . . .” Charlie backed toward the phone. “Just stay there. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Rose stood with purpose. She grabbed his belt.
“Have you ever done this?”
“W-what?”
She kissed him.
In a lifetime of kisses, some must be better than others, and the odds are low — for any of us — that the first will be the best. But few have had a better first kiss than Charlie Nuvola.
He sank into her lips, like an ocean of silk. The smell of her skin, the warmth of her breath, the damp strands of hair that tickled his brow. He felt her breasts beneath the towel, the arc of her hips, the smooth warm pressure of her leg between his knees. Charlie fell apart and dissolved inside her. They were a solution of hair and breath and skin and terry cloth. He floated and dipped and re-formed with every sweep of her tongue, and just as his body completed its transformation from water to fire to lightning to sound, she pulled away.
His lips refused to form words. They’d found a new purpose.
“No sparks,” she said.
Charlie shook his head, apology in his eyes.
She smiled. “No, no. That’s a good thing.”
She kissed him again, opening her mouth. Rose felt him shudder under her touch. She took her time, enjoying herself, experimenting. Her lips lingered on his as she pulled away again, her eyes closed happily. She hugged herself, lost in her own enjoyment.
Charlie shivered. He’d gone numb. “I . . . think I need to sit down.” He steadied himself against the bookcase, his thoughts clumping like dough in a bowl. “I thought . . . you . . . uh, I thought you and David were . . .”
The smile dropped from her lips. “David?”
Her eyes tightened, as if facing a too-bright light. Rose fell to the couch and began to sob. Charlie stared, dumbstruck.
That was how Thaddeus found them when he came home.
Rose perched on Charlie’s bed. He’d given her a sweatshirt and some of his old jeans to wear. The cuffs bunched around her feet. Her skin still prickled with cold, despite the hot shower, and her neck and shoulders ached. But all Rose noticed was the silence. No voice in her head.
The jump had, as she’d known it would, severed her link to Sakora. The break had wreaked havoc with her physiology. Her emotional center was destabilized. Joy one moment, despair the next, reeling in freedom, then crushed by loss. She was alone, cut off, no sense of what to do, what anything meant, or even who she was. Her body wasdesperate for touch, yet repelled. She was hot and cold, exhausted but restless.
In other words, heartbroken.
She looked around and saw objects she didn’t recognize. Pictures of strange places, a model skeleton of an unidentifiable creature. But when she sent her questions, no answers came back. No one told her to cover up after her shower. No one said she shouldn’t sit on a strange boy’s bed. Rose was free. But rather than relief, she felt alone. Until now she’d been connected to something, and for better or worse that connection was all she knew. Now she was on her
“Ours,” she said, blinking.
“Whose?”
The clouds cleared from her eyes, passing as quickly as a summer shower. She grasped his sweatshirt, a smile breaking across her face. “Do you have beer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or cigarettes? I want to try them.”
“Uh, no,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Damn.” She bit her lip. “Damn. Shit. Fuck. I
like
swearing.”
Charlie examined her eyes. If she was concussed, one pupil would be larger than the other. “Are you OK?”
She stared into the middle distance, not seeing him. “I can do whatever I want! I’m disconnected.” She tapped her temple. “And malfunctioning. I’ll probably shut down automatically in a few moments.”
“Rose, you need to go to the hospital.” Charlie got to his feet. “You’re concussed.”
“That’s not what I want,” she said. Her eyes searched. “I only want to do what
I
want.”
“Uh-huh. . . .” Charlie backed toward the phone. “Just stay there. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Rose stood with purpose. She grabbed his belt.
“Have you ever done this?”
“W-what?”
She kissed him.
In a lifetime of kisses, some must be better than others, and the odds are low — for any of us — that the first will be the best. But few have had a better first kiss than Charlie Nuvola.
He sank into her lips, like an ocean of silk. The smell of her skin, the warmth of her breath, the damp strands of hair that tickled his brow. He felt her breasts beneath the towel, the arc of her hips, the smooth warm pressure of her leg between his knees. Charlie fell apart and dissolved inside her. They were a solution of hair and breath and skin and terry cloth. He floated and dipped and re-formed with every sweep of her tongue, and just as his body completed its transformation from water to fire to lightning to sound, she pulled away.
His lips refused to form words. They’d found a new purpose.
“No sparks,” she said.
Charlie shook his head, apology in his eyes.
She smiled. “No, no. That’s a good thing.”
She kissed him again, opening her mouth. Rose felt him shudder under her touch. She took her time, enjoying herself, experimenting. Her lips lingered on his as she pulled away again, her eyes closed happily. She hugged herself, lost in her own enjoyment.
Charlie shivered. He’d gone numb. “I . . . think I need to sit down.” He steadied himself against the bookcase, his thoughts clumping like dough in a bowl. “I thought . . . you . . . uh, I thought you and David were . . .”
The smile dropped from her lips. “David?”
Her eyes tightened, as if facing a too-bright light. Rose fell to the couch and began to sob. Charlie stared, dumbstruck.
That was how Thaddeus found them when he came home.
Rose perched on Charlie’s bed. He’d given her a sweatshirt and some of his old jeans to wear. The cuffs bunched around her feet. Her skin still prickled with cold, despite the hot shower, and her neck and shoulders ached. But all Rose noticed was the silence. No voice in her head.
The jump had, as she’d known it would, severed her link to Sakora. The break had wreaked havoc with her physiology. Her emotional center was destabilized. Joy one moment, despair the next, reeling in freedom, then crushed by loss. She was alone, cut off, no sense of what to do, what anything meant, or even who she was. Her body wasdesperate for touch, yet repelled. She was hot and cold, exhausted but restless.
In other words, heartbroken.
She looked around and saw objects she didn’t recognize. Pictures of strange places, a model skeleton of an unidentifiable creature. But when she sent her questions, no answers came back. No one told her to cover up after her shower. No one said she shouldn’t sit on a strange boy’s bed. Rose was free. But rather than relief, she felt alone. Until now she’d been connected to something, and for better or worse that connection was all she knew. Now she was on her
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