"Ah." Again, the dirty laugh. They were back, at last, on familiar ground. He took another step toward her, weighed the s.p.a.ce between them for evil vibes. They had been dispersed. Hallelujah, amen. Nora stood before him, defiantly inviting, with her high b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tight belly, long legs and extravagant hips. The streetlight transformed her, made her pale flesh seem to glow, rendering her a hungry spirit in human form, come to claim and be claimed by him.

He pulled her close, felt her body press into his. She was cold fire; Syd, a moth to her flame.

And all, for the moment, was right with the world.

13.

The moment was perfection; one might even go so far as to use the word blessed. The kind of moment that you could spend a lifetime searching for, and once experienced, spend the rest of your life trying vainly to equal. It was wonderful, magical, absolutely unprecedented.

And, like all perfect moments, it was utterly doomed.

In Syd's case, it lasted long enough to get them from the kitchen to the bedroom. He paused just long enough to let her grab one of the bottles of Comfort, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her through the living room, his c.o.c.k bobbing like a divining rod.

The bed appeared before them like some mythical island paradise. Syd laid her down across its white expanse, slid his right hand between her thighs. She was incredibly, gratifyingly wet: his fingers dipped and figure-skated along her slippery length, teasing her to frenzy before burying themselves in her depths. Her reaction was overwhelming, his every tiny motion provoking an avalanche of response. He used his hands and mouth to send her over the brink and back a half-dozen times before they could stand it no longer.

But when Nora went to pull him up and astride her, Syd's brain suddenly kicked in.

"Hang on a sec," he mumbled, then reached over to the nightstand and began fumbling with the drawer. Just as he opened it Nora pulled his hand back, placed it on her breast, and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth. Syd lost himself in the onslaught; it was with great effort that he tore his hand away, resumed his search.

Nora squirmed in protest, grinding her hips into him. The resulting wave of ecstasy threatened to submerge him completely, and it was all he could do to speak, no less remain even marginally rational. With his last ounce of will he broke the spell.

"Wait," he said, as he reached into the drawer, extracted a little foil packet, started to tear it open. When she saw what he was doing she pulled back and looked at him like he was out of his mind.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think? I'm gonna use a condom."

"Not with me, you're not." She plucked the packet from his hand, tossed it across the room.

"Very funny," he said, and reached for another one. Nora leaned forward and nipped him on the arm. "Ow!" he yelped. "Cut it out!"

When he went for the drawer again, Nora grabbed his hand. Syd twisted out of her grasp. She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Nora, stop it," Syd said, trying like h.e.l.l to outmaneuver her. "C'mon, baby, I'm serious . . ."

"So am I," she replied, a fiercely wicked grin on her face. She squeezed her thighs together, locking him in a fleshy Vice-Grip: Syd squirmed, surprised both at her strength and the relentless quality of her resistance. As he struggled the horseplay burgeoned into an impromptu erotic wrestling match.

They whipped back and forth on the mattress, a manic tangle of limbs: her legs squeezing his midsection, his hands scrabbling to pin down her arms. As she reached for him again Syd grabbed her left hand, pinned it to her right. Leaning into her with all his weight, he twisted toward the nightstand, managed to s.n.a.t.c.h another rubber from the drawer . . .

. . . and that's when it began to turn: the thrashing becoming less like loveplay and more like a genuine battle of wills. Nora's left hand broke free, made a grab for the packet a split second after Syd closed his fist around it.

"Gimme that," she demanded.

"No way. It's the last one."

"Good," she replied. She tried to peel his fingers open, couldn't; as he resisted he felt her movements become frenetic, almost ugly in their intensity.

"s.h.i.t, Nora . . ." She continued to struggle, started wrenching his fingers painfully apart. A sudden wave of anger roiled up inside him.

"G.o.ddammit, I said cut it out!"

He yanked his hand back and away, fist raised up and out of her reach. For a moment it hovered there, looking almost as if he were ready to slug her. Nora's eyes flashed, brightly expectant; as he lowered his hand the light faded, and she pushed him away.

Syd slid off of her and to the side, where they lay panting and staring at the ceiling, as the heat of the encounter ebbed away, left a frigid vacuum in its wake. Syd was monumentally p.i.s.sed, and more than a little confused. He lay in stilted silence, listening to the sound of their breathing and wondering if she was actually going to say anything, explain the sudden lunge into irrationality. Apparently not. The air s.p.a.ce between them remained charged, awkward, tense.

Finally, he could take it no longer. "So," he said, as gently as he could manage, "you wanna tell me what this is all about?"

"Nothing," she said flatly. There was a cryptic pause, then more softly: "I hate those f.u.c.king things."

"Well, I'm not wild about 'em myself," Syd offered, trying to ameliorate the weirdness. "But they are kind of a necessary evil."

"You didn't need one last night."

"Yeah, well, I was blasted out of my skull last night."

"But you still didn't use one."

"Yeah, I guess," he said warily, again wishing he could remember more than shreds and fragments.

"So what do you suddenly need one for?" she asked, her tone interrogatory, bristling. Syd looked at her as if she were joking, saw only deadly earnest intent.

"Oh, gee, I don't know, lemme see . . ." he replied, rolling his eyes, ". . . there's accidental pregnancies, incurable diseases . . ."

"So you think I'm diseased?"

"No! Jesus, Nora, I'm just-"

"I don't have time for this s.h.i.t," she spat, sitting up and sliding to the edge of the bed. Syd groaned; this was getting way out of hand. Nora began rooting through the clothing on the floor, found her T-shirt, pulled it on.

"Nora, c'mon," Syd said, trying to end-run the escalating weirdness. "Don't be like that . . ." He reached out to her; as he touched her back Nora whirled and slapped his hand away.

"Get the f.u.c.k away from me," she growled. She glared at him, furious . . .

. . . and for the second time in as many days, Syd got a whiff of genuine threat off of her. As if things could tip at any moment, veer clear from uncomfortable into downright dangerous. He flashed back to last night, the incident with the bottle, Jules's low-key backdoor interrogation. Are you sure you know what you're doing? If you haven't figured out that there's an element of risk here . . .

"Whoa," he said. His hand froze in s.p.a.ce, backed off very, very slowly. Nora found her panties, angrily slipped into them. He closed his eyes and slumped back on the bed, horrified, the countdown to meltdown already ticking off in his head. Next would come the jeans, then the boots, one by one. Then an angry stalk across the room as she grabbed her jacket, perhaps punctuated by a choice last taunt or two. Then into the living room. Out the front door.

And out of his life.

Forever . . .

As visions went, it was incredibly clear, like fast-forwarding reality. The resulting depression blew through him like a pre-flash of impending disaster, setting off all his internal damage-control alarms. Syd was already bracing himself emotionally by the time the words even left his lips.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the ache in his voice heartfelt, genuine. "I just don't understand . . ."

His words trailed off. The room went still. Syd opened his eyes. Nora was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the shadows. Her hair obscured her profile; she shuddered, and in the dim light it looked as though she might be crying. She took a deep, halting breath.

"I can't get pregnant," she said bitterly, still staring straight ahead. "Okay? So you can relax. You don't have anything to worry about" Her voice was hoa.r.s.e, laced with the pain of confession. She brought one hand up to wipe away an unseen tear, then shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have said that . . ."

Syd, sat up, moved toward her. As he got close she held perfectly still, quite literally ready for anything. Syd went to take her in his arms and she started to pull away. But when he persisted, she suddenly gave in.

And that was when the walls came tumbling down.

Nora turned, embracing him with a quiet fury, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder and hugging him fiercely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as one hand came up to stroke her hair. He kissed the crown of her head and a little sound escaped her, the merest wisp of despair welling up from some desperately lonely place. She curled deeper into him, clinging to him like a rock in a raging current. The gesture struck a deeply protective chord in his soul, something beyond the simple understanding that he had found someone with damage greater even than his own.

He felt torn: one side of him saying run away, this woman has too many problems, she's emotionally unstable . . ., the other saying she's hurting, she needs you, she's the most pa.s.sionate, intense creature you've ever met in your life, and you're crazy if you let her walk out that door . . .

Syd held out a heartbeat longer, weighing his conflicting emotions. Then Nora spoke again: her voice achingly vulnerable, filled with longing.

"I just wanted to feel you inside me," she said. "I didn't want anything between us."

She took another halting breath, and Syd's heart started to glow like a roadside flare as the balance of his inner scales tipped at last. "I know," he whispered. "It's okay."

And it was true. He knew when it came right down to it, he wasn't really worried about catching something from her, and in the heat of the moment all the safe-s.e.x lectures in the world were completely overridden by the fact that he wanted to feel her, too: un.o.bstructed or unhindered in any way, and as intensely as possible. Maybe it was stupid: a foolish, even life-threatening risk. He didn't care.

All he cared about was her.

It was a revelation, a pure flash of emotion as yet unbound by the complications of relationship or the fact that she was still mostly a mystery, and it frankly surprised the h.e.l.l out of him. You can't fix her problems, a voice in his head warned. You can't even fix your own.

It was the voice of experience. It didn't matter. She was here in his arms, and she was in pain. He wanted to make the pain go away. She was here in his arms, and she felt alone. He wanted to show her that she wasn't. She was here in his arms, and she was afraid.

He wanted to make her feel safe.

And that was perhaps the most amazing thing: that simply by being this close to her, he felt like he could. She made him feel strong. She made him feel like he could do anything.

He gave her a rea.s.suring squeeze. She nuzzled him in response, her head resting on his breast. Her lips found his left nipple, began to kiss it. As her tongue grazed its surface-a completely sensual yet strangely nons.e.xual gesture, more the way a child suckles for comfort-it awakened within Syd a powerful, almost maternal impulse.

Then her teeth came into play, and his arousal returned a thousandfold. And this time, the lovemaking was slow and sweet and tender, an act more of profound healing than animal abandon. As he slipped naked inside her, Syd's last rational thought was that he had never felt this close to another living being.

Nora began to move, setting the rhythm of their union. Syd responded in kind. He felt their flesh merge, as they fed each other's need.

And he was not afraid.

14.

Afterward they napped, awoke ravenous. When Nora decided to make food, Syd was happy to let her. He was amazed at her energy reserves, that she seemed to be unstoppable, immune from fatigue; if anything, she was even more vibrant than before.

It was more than he could say for himself. Syd was spent; it was all he could do to load a CD into the player and then drag himself to the table. Robert Johnson's "Come Into My Kitchen" seemed only too appropriate. Music filled the air, mingling with the cooking smells.

Syd watched her work, fascinated. Nora prepared food with a fluid, offhand grace: a chaotic culinary whirlwind creating an incredible mess, from which emerged a truly splendid meal. She had gone out of her way to get the freshest possible cuts of meat: and though she cooked them far rarer than Syd was accustomed to, he had to admit that she was a phenomenal chef.

The steaks were heavily marinated; the greens strangely spiced, slightly bitter. When Syd wrinkled his nose she insisted that it wouldn't kill him, playfully promised him gross bodily injury if he didn't eat. Syd shrugged and drowned the salad in dressing, ultimately wolfing his portion down with a vigor that belied his misgivings.

They dined by candlelight, huddled around the tiny kitchen table. As they ate, they drank. Nora had already started the first bottle of burgundy while she was cooking, cracked the second before they were halfway done. Syd opted for beer, pulling a cold can from his dwindling stock in the fridge.

And as they ate and drank, they talked. Or more, he talked. Nora, it turned out, was a lot more interested in knowing about him than in revealing much of her own intimate history.

Her listening skills, on the other hand, were extraordinary: her attention rapt, her questions thoughtful and penetrating. She had that rare talent to make him feel that he was genuinely fascinating, the most interesting person she'd ever met. She could hang on every word without seeming to fawn, laugh without appearing facile. By the end of the meal she had inspired him to disgorge great hunks of the story of his life: his childhood and the lost years of his youth, the symbolic significance of his upcoming birthday, his feelings of frustration at how life never seemed to work out the way it should.

The death of his marriage fascinated her; the sordid saga of Vaughn Restal, in particular. Indeed, Nora resisted his every impulse to short-form the events, pressing him to recount every gory blow-by-blow, in near-forensic detail. It felt odd, at first; it had been a while since Syd had felt comfortable talking with others about his past, even longer since he'd found a sympathetic ear not already deafened by repeated exposure.

But as he finally reached the end of the meal and the story, replete with the obligatory shrug and sigh and lighting of cigarette, her eyes were brightly attentive: taking in every nuance of feeling, searching his every expression for hidden meaning.

"So why didn't you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Kill him," she replied.

Syd looked at her, surprised. She said it as if it were the most natural thought in the world, as if questioning it were crazy. It was a first. "Well . . ." he began, then stopped.

She looked at him; he took a drag off his cigarette, shrugged. "I don't know. It wasn't worth ruining my life over, I guess."

"But your life was already ruined."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But he was just an a.s.shole, and if she was dumb enough to go with him, then f.u.c.k her, too." He said the last part with as much conviction as he could muster, hoped like h.e.l.l it would fly.

One glance at her told him it didn't. Nora's gaze went right through him, pinning his soul like a searchlight on an escaping convict. "That's bulls.h.i.t," she said, "and it's not the point."

"Yeah? Well, exactly what is the point? I mean, he wasn't the problem," Syd argued. "He was a symptom-"

"He was an intruder," she interrupted. "He snuck in and stole something that was yours, and you let him get away with it."

"Karen wasn't mine," he objected. "Christ, you talk about her like she was my property or something."

"Not property," Nora corrected, "but yours, nonetheless. Just like you were hers. You made a deal, you gave yourselves to each other . . ." She paused, added softly, ". . . it was a covenant."

"And she broke it . . ."

"Yeah, she did. And what did you do?"

Syd opened his mouth, stopped short again. Nora's eyes were bright and searching. "I don't think . . ."

"Don't think. Feel. I wanna know how you felt that night," she said. "I wanna know what you wanted to do about it."