Falling Under (25 page)

“Oz…oh, god, Oz. What are you doing?” She pulls away enough to meet my eyes.

I start to move my hands. “I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t mean to—”

She sinks down, pinioning my hands between her ass and my thighs. “Wait…just—it just took me by surprise.” She lifts up, eyes on me. “Try it, Oz. Just—just a little.”

“Wait, what? You want me to…”

“Just touch me there. Just a little bit.” She’s breathless. I hesitate, and then wiggle my middle finger. Just a tiny, slight pressure. She tenses, shifts up, and then arches her back, and I feel her relax. I apply gentle pressure, and tight warmth pinches the tip of my finger. “Yeah—oh—oh, yeah. Oh,
fuck
, Oz. I—I like that. I like it, just like that.”
 

She lifts up, sinks down, and my hand stays flush against her ass cheek, and she moans, writhes on me. Her moans become shrieks, and her grinding on me becomes frantic. I can only move with her, keep us balanced, let her do the work. I can’t even breathe, can’t even believe she’s doing this, letting me touch her like this, and how much she likes it. She’s rolling hard and fast, wild, screaming. The quiet is sliced by her voice, by mine now grunting and growling and cursing and murmuring her name, and I feel the tight heat around my finger pinch, release, pinch, release, pulsating, and then she’s lifting and sinking with manic, rhythmless frenzy.
 

The stars themselves brighten above me, and the moon fills out, and the earth rumbles, and I come apart inside her as she screams with deafening volume, and the tip my finger is almost crushed by the way her body clenches around me, and we’re moving, moving…the sky shatters and the planets wobble in their orbits.

Kylie rests her mouth against my shoulder, gasping. “Oh, my fucking god, Oz. I came so hard it literally hurt. I can’t—it’s hard to breathe. I can’t move. Oh, god. You just killed me, baby.”
 

The starlight coats her pale skin silver, and I can only marvel, wonder, hold her and hope she never stops wanting me. Words tumble in my head. Emotions whirl, collide. A thought hammers in my head, demanding release. But the fear of what it means, of saying it, of meaning it, it’s almost too much.

“Say something, Oz.” Kylie sits back. “I feel you thinking.” Her blueblue eyes pierce me, demanding my truth.

I hesitate, suck in oxygen and wish it was courage. “I love you, Kylie.”
 

Holy shit, I said it.

She’s stunned silent. Her eyes fill, waver. A tear falls. She swallows hard. “You—you do?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I do. I have for a while, I think. I’m just now realizing how much.”

“And how much is that?” She’s unabashedly weeping, smiling, clinging to me.

I blink and swallow. “A fucking lot. Like, so much it scares me. Like…if you ever—if we didn’t—shit. Just…it’s scary. I’ve never needed anyone. But now I need you, and it’s makes me feel so—weak. Vulnerable. Like you own a piece of me, and you could just crush it, if you wanted.”

She clutches me, presses our bodies together, my softening cock starting to slip out of her. “I won’t, Oz. I swear to you, I promise you on my life, on my soul, on everything I am. I’ll never…never hurt you, never leave you.” She pulls away so I can see the truth in her eyes. “I love you, too, Oz. I’ll never want anything or anyone but you. Not ever. I never will.”

“Me, neither, sweetness.” I hold her tight. “Me, neither.”

After a moment, Kylie starts to wiggle, and she slides gingerly off the bike, wincing. “I’m…a little messy now.”

I lean back and dig a spare T-shirt out of the saddlebags. It’s old, and not in the best shape, but it’s clean. I hand it to her, and I watch her clean herself, folding the shirt and then handing it back to me. I stuff it back into the saddlebags, and watch her dress.
 

When we’re both dressed, we lie on the grass at the side of the road, staring up at the stars, talking. We talk about performing, about songs to cover, about possibly getting a record deal this quickly. We talk about all this, and everything is “we” and “us.” We’re planning a future together. Going on tour, possibly. All sorts of possibilities, and the future we plan is bright and perfect and hopeful.

Sometime past one in the morning, we decide to head back. We stop once for gas, and for a quick bite at McDonald’s. I’m a little tired, so I get a large Coke, and drink it all. We’re back on the road again, and I’m only now realizing how far we really went. We must have driven a good two, two and a half hours outside of Nashville. It’s a longer drive home than it felt on the way out, but it was all worth it. Kylie holds me tightly, rubbing my chest and stomach, nuzzling against me.
 

Then it happens so fast. So fucking fast. I’m on the freeway, passing beneath an overpass, approaching an on-ramp. A semi rumbles beside me, blocking my path to the left. He’s seen me, I know that much, but it’s not him I’m suddenly worried about. It’s the sleek red Corvette roaring onto the freeway from the on-ramp. He
doesn’t
see me. My heart is hammering suddenly. I brake hard, but it’s not enough. He’s in my space, I’m caught in his blind spot, he’s not even looking. I can see him texting with one hand, the detail burning into my panicked brain. I can see the glow of the screen on his face, a hint of red and black leather seat, a profile of a face, the instrument panel, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone, not paying attention, not seeing me. Not seeing us. Kylie’s gripping me with clawed fingers, and I know she’s starting to realize the danger now. The semi doesn’t move, not realizing the problem.
 

Seconds split and fracture, splintering into moments, into individual pumps of my heart. Breathe—breathe—breathe.
What do I do?
Gun it? Try to squeeze past them both? Not enough room. I’m trying not to panic, but I am. I hit the brakes, praying with all my non-believing heart that I can hold it steady. The semi roars past, and the Corvette slips ahead of me. I’m in the clear, I think. I sigh in relief. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

Only, another semi is behind me, loud and huge, horn blaring, tires squealing, groaning as it tries to slip to the left of me, but there’s a car there and he can’t, and I’m already braking, close to losing it. I have no choice but to swerve away, onto the shoulder. My heart is about to vomit out of my throat, adrenaline crashing like thunder, fear slamming like tribal drums.

Kylie is screaming. My back tire is skipping, sliding, bouncing. I’m losing it. I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna put it down. Thank god I’d brought the bike down to less than forty, but it’s going to be bad. I remember the training from the class: go limp. Don’t tense. But Kylie. Kylie. Shitfuckgoddammit, no, Kylie…

I feel the back tire going out from beneath us. The bike is sliding sideways. I let it drop, let it go, let it slide away sideways. No time for anything else, no choice, nothing but this happening in slow tragic awful motion, entirely too fast to stop.
 

fuckohfuckohfuck

Moments shred, and then time stops.

I feel the ground hit, force myself to stay limp, loose. I’m on my ass, sliding, and the bike is skidding away, and I feel Kylie, hear her screaming. Momentum starts to roll me. As I twist, I see Kylie. Instinct rather than choice causes me to grab her. Crush her to my chest as hard as I can. Cradle my arms around her body, tense them like bars around her fragile form.

I’m rolling. Pain. Fracturing time. Tumbling rolling spinning sliding. A bounce, and my grip on Kylie is broken. I watch her flip and twist away from me, and then my own sight is ground-sky-ground-sky and agony is lancing through me, and finally I stop, on my face.
 

I can’t breathe, can’t move, but I have to get to her.
 

Someone is screaming: “KYLIE!
KYLIE
!” It’s me—I’m screaming. Hoarse, raw, desperate.
 

“Oz…” I hear her, barely audible, breathless. But I hear her.
 

I crawl. I can’t get my legs to work, and my arms won’t cooperate, either. All is pain. Something hot and sharp is slicing at my elbow, my upper arm. My knees. But I have to get to her. I crawl anyway and refuse to look at my body, refuse to acknowledge the damage. Grit is bitter in my mouth. I spit, taste blood, salty and tangy and slippery and warm. I’m gasping, and sand and dirt spray away from my mouth and nose, settle on my tongue and in my nostrils. Scrabble on the asphalt, feel fingernails ripping, tearing, toes pushing and knees sliding. A foot. Two. Four.
 

There she is. Thank god I made her put on her leather jacket. It’s a thin thing, expensive, soft leather, but it protected her skin. Her jeans are shredded and red, but she’s writhing, and I don’t think her legs are broken. “Kylie…Kylie. I’m—I’m here.” I reach her, blink, blink against the sweat. Or maybe it’s blood in my eyes. I don’t know. She’s gasping, dragging in shuddering breaths. “Kylie. Breathe. Please, breathe.”
 

She’s got the helmet on still, a full-coverage cheap black helmet. I fumble at it, and she helps me tug it off. Her hands are bleeding, knuckles red and scraped and raw. “Oz?” The helmet rolls away, crunching in the road grit on the shoulder. Sweat pastes her hair to her face. Her eyes frantic, searching, seize on mine. “Oz?”

I reach out, brush at her hair, lying on my stomach, one elbow braced beneath me. My fingers, as they touch her face, are dripping blood, the nails ripped off. “Where are you hurt, Kylie? Talk to me, talk to me, baby.”
 

“You—you’re bleeding.”
 

“I don’t care. I’m fine.” I rake my eyes over her body, hunting for breaks, blood. “Are you okay? Are you injured?”

“I can’t—can’t catch my—my breath.” She’s opening her mouth, sucking in short, desperate breaths. “Chest, hurts. Ribs.”

“Don’t move, okay? Just try to breathe, little breaths.” I flop onto my back, groaning as the impact sends spears of agony through me. I dig in my hip pocket for my phone. It comes out in pieces, smashed. “You—you have your phone?”

“Jack—jacket…ins—inside pocket.” She’s shaking, blinking, fighting for breath, and I don’t fucking know what to do.
 

I unzip her coat, gingerly. Find the phone in the inside pocket, intact. Lift her shirt, see bruises already forming on her ribs, something looking out of place. Broken, maybe.
Jesus fuck. Don’t let her lungs be punctured. Please. Please. Let her be okay.
I don’t even know who I’m pleading with, but the thoughts ramble through my head, unstoppable. It all falls apart into
pleasepleaseplease
.
 

I dial 911.
 

“Nine-one-one what’s your emergency?” A calm male voice, neutral.
 

“Motorcycle accident. On I-40.” I peer behind me, and I can just barely make out the exit number. I tell her.
 

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Yeah. My girlfriend. I think—I think she broke her ribs. I don’t know. She’s having trouble breathing.”

“And you, sir? Are you okay?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t fucking care. Just get someone here. Help her. Please. Help us.”

“Units are en route to your location, sir. Can you tell me your name?”

“Oz. My name is Oz.”

“Oz what?”

“Oz Hyde.”

I glance at Kylie, who is still taking short gasps for breath, her eyes hunting for me. I drop the phone, reach for her hand, squeeze. I hear a tinny voice calling my name. I fumble the phone back to my ear.
 

“Sir? Sir, are you there? Oz?”

“I’m—I’m here.”

The man asks me a series of questions, and I answer them all, but I’m only really paying attention to Kylie, to watching her face, her blue-tinged lips, her chest shifting shallowly with each tiny panting breath. Our eyes never leave each other, and her hand squeezes mine, weakly.

“Kylie? Keep squeezing my hand. I’m here. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” I blink, and this time the salty wetness sliding down my face is tears, not blood. I don’t care. I have no thoughts but that Kylie makes it through this okay.

I hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. Lights flash, tires skid and crunch, doors open, voices speak in calm tones, I see blue uniform-clad bodies crouching beside Kylie, shining a flashlight in her eyes, probing at her ribs, fitting an oxygen mask to her face. A young, clean-shaven, acne-scarred face fills my vision, calm brown eyes. “Sir? You’re Oz?”

I nod. “Yeah. Kylie…is she—is she okay? Will she be okay?”

He shines a light in my eyes. “Yes, sir. She’ll be okay, I promise.”
 

I twist to watch them load Kylie onto a stretcher, lift her into the ambulance. Now, finally, I can feel my own pain. And suddenly, whiteness and heat and pain shoot through me, as if it was waiting in the wings, waiting until I knew Kylie was okay, taken care of. And now it’s blazing through me, and I’m dizzy, can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t move, blinking, gasping, see stars, and they’re replaced by a roof, lights, walls, the interior of an ambulance. Something hard touches my nose, around my mouth, and I feel cool oxygen filling me, and I can almost see, almost breathe. Hands do things to me. Touch me, cut away my pants. My shirt. I’ve still got Kylie’s phone clutched in my hand.
 

There is a sense of motion. I need Kylie. Need to see her. Need to talk to her, need to know she’s okay. I need to call her parents, tell them I almost got her killed, that I got her hurt, that I couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe.
 

I replay what happened in my head. I can see each individual second of the accident, remember what I did, and think about what I could have done differently. Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. I couldn’t have done anything differently. But…if she hadn’t been on that bike with me, this wouldn’t have happened.

Guilt and fear and pain all twist together, form a shredding ball of barbed wire in my chest, and I’m barely cognizant as the ambulance interior is replaced briefly by the entrance of a hospital, and then the white walls of a hallway. I don’t know what’s happening, or what’s wrong with me, and I don’t care. All I know is Kylie is hurt, and I have to find her.