Sloth by Ella James
The guy before me doesn’t look a thing like the Kellan Walsh I met in the student center. He’s wearing that same charcoal t-shirt from last night and what I think are black jeans. His soft blond hair is sticking up, like he’s been running his hands through it. His handsome face, so kind at times, so open in quiet moments, has its doors closed.
I feel a sharp ache in my chest when I think of his arm around me at Olive’s grave. The way he looked holding the mug of spiked hot chocolate... was that yesterday? God, I feel as if we’re in some kind of time warp. Again, the sensation that I’ve known him for a long time. That I know him well. And now, the bitter truth that I need him.
I need something...
The sound of my exhale is louder than the rushing river, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t want to look at me. I may not be a Kellan expert yet, but I can feel his withdrawal—his isolation.
It makes me desperate. I want to grab onto his shoulders and just... bite him. I could bite him hard enough to taste his blood. I want to throw him down and ride his cock. I want to sob into his chest.
I fold my wants away and level him with an impassive look. “I thought you didn’t smoke,” I say softly.
“I don’t.”
I wait a moment for his gaze to brush my face. I need the softness of his gaze, the touch of his interest. But his attention is mired in the river.
“Well you do,” I say. I chew my lip.
“Sometimes...”
I want to grab his thick forearm and pull him close in that proprietary manner he uses with me. But the thought of it burns—because I don’t feel like I can. Kellan calls the shots with us, and that’s a shame, because he’s stormy. Changeable. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting close, and then he flits away. Like now.
“When you go to sleep that night, be sure you’ve had some alcohol or even Xanax. If that’s not your scene, fall asleep... I don’t know. Reading. Or doing something else.”
Kellan leans his head against the tree’s trunk and slowly brings the blunt up to his lips. I watch the cherry flare as his chest expands; he holds the smoke in his lungs. A second later, his shoulders slacken, and a thick cloud pours out his mouth.
He takes another drag, then turns quickly to me.
He doesn’t cup my mouth or take my shoulders in his hands. He wraps an arm around me, pressing my breasts against the hardness of his chest—and then his lips close over mine.
For a second I forget what I’m supposed to do. His mouth is closed so tightly over mine, I inhale instinctively, to ward off the sensation of being suffocated.
Stinging smoke fills my lungs, and Kellan’s mouth lifts off mine. I gulp fresh, damp air. I brace myself for the removal of his arms, but instead, he holds me tight. He wraps an arm under my backside, so my feet come off the ground. He’s holding me to his chest.
He leans his back against the tree. I feel a tremor flicker through him. Then he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
I tell myself it’s just his high making him needy, but his grip on me is firm. His breath beneath my ear is warm and real. I can feel his heart pound.
He sets me down a moment later, and he doesn’t look down at me.
Just when disappointment spreads through me, he shifts his night-gray eyes to mine. His lips curve up: a little smile; sad little smile.
“Let’s go inside... so I can hold you for a while.”
“That sounds good.” I blink back tears.
Kellan takes my hand and shuts his eyes before we start to walk. I wonder why he seems so sad—if he can sense my loss. I worry that his uncle took a turn, or that the girl called him, but that doesn’t seem likely—because his hand is threaded through mine. His fingers stroke mine, easing something taut inside me.
“Your hand is warm,” I whisper as a lightning bug drifts over us. Beyond the blinking yellow light, I find the crouching lion, Leo.
“Your hand feels good.” His voice is low and rough.
I run my eyes over Kellan’s messy hair, his tired face... and this time he looks back at me. One corner of his mouth tucks up.
“You’re good to me,” he murmurs, heavy-lidded.
“You’re good,” I say back. Oh, please be good...
I want to throw my arms around his neck and cry. He seems to sense my building grief. His big hand squeezes mine at the moment my heart races, spurred by pain. It’s perfection. I feel weak and warm. Strangely satiated, despite the darkness that hangs over us. I don’t notice Kellan’s stopped walking until I feel the tug of his hand. I look back and find his mouth stretched open.
I know what I’ll see before I turn back toward the house. It’s in the ether: hurt. Kellan’s sweetness hid it from me, but it was always on its way.
“Why are you sad? I’m afraid I know the answer, and that brings me to my instructions.”
It’s her—the girl from the garage. Standing next to her on Kellan’s back porch is his healthy-looking Uncle Pace.
I see the color drain from Kellan’s cheeks even in the dark. In the faint moonlight, his skin looks alabaster.
His voice is static. “Go inside, Cleo.”
My throat closes. I push against the pressure. “Why?”
“Trust me. I’ll explain this later. I just need a few minutes.”
“What?” I look from our joined hands to the duo on the porch. They look solemn. Maybe even angry. “You’ll explain what later? Who’s that girl?”
“She’s no one.” He shakes his head.
“No she isn’t. She knocked on the car window. In Atlanta.” I drop his hand as my pulse quickens. “Who is she? Just tell me now.”
His eyes widen, and I know. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I know enough to see that he’s deceived me. His uncle isn’t hurt. Why did we go to Atlanta in the middle of the night? To meet this girl? Who is she to him?
“Why are you lying to me?”
“Cleo—please.” His tone sounds desperate. “You have to go inside. I need to talk to Pace alone.” He actually pushes on my shoulder as the two of them descend the stairs, their eyes on Kellan.
The girl rushes forward to greet him, and I dart past his uncle, feeling sick. My heart is beating so hard, I can’t even make it upstairs once I get inside. I stand at his sink, filled with those stupid shake-stained glasses, holding my stomach and looking at the dark window in front of it.
Through the glass panes, I hear low voices.
I wait to get my breath again. For the pressure on my chest to lessen. When I realize it’s not going to, I run up the stairs and down the long hall to the windowed room, where I start frantically gathering my things. I hug my canvases to my chest, strap my bags on my shoulders, and step back into the hall.
If he wants to tell me the truth, he can call me. I’m not sticking around to hear that Kellan fucked me over. That I’m the only one who’s fallen—into my emotions. I’m not sticking around to find out that girl is his ex or something. I can’t handle that tonight. I can’t.
That’s when I notice his bedroom door open. I’m not sure what drives me to go in at this moment: curiosity that’s been gnawing for too long and needs to be appeased, or some kind of masochistic urge to tempt his anger and up the ante of this shitty night. Either way, I step inside.
The room is just the same as last time I was in it. He’s got a big, mahogany bed; a dresser; a recliner; and a trunk. The walls are pale green, bare except two charcoal sailboat sketches, both framed in dark wood. And then there’s the wall to my right, covered mostly by his giant woven rug. I’ve never really looked at it before, except to note its dark colors, but now I spend a moment staring at it—this barrier between Kellan’s bedroom and his secret door. Woven in gray, navy, and deep green, is a bear. It’s on its hind legs. Behind it, at the top right corner of the rug, is a half-moon.
I walk slowly over to it and run my hands over the fabric. It’s soft, more like a blanket than a rug. I take the fabric in between my fingers and realize it is a blanket.
I try the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. I notice there’s a keyhole to the right of it. A little, old-fashioned keyhole.
Of course.
I know I’ll never find the key. I let the side of the blanket fall back down and step over to his bed. I lower my face to the duvet and inhale deeply.
I let out a long sigh. Tears brim in my eyes: for R. or Kellan? Why, I want to roar. Why do things always go so wrong? I can hear the R. voice in my head—a voice that sounds like Kellan, saying, “Get back to your life. Be glad you’ve got your thong, or your heart, or whatever.”
I want to scream because it doesn’t happen that way. I can get back to my life, but who’s to say whether I’ve got anything at all? There are no guarantees. There is no fate. No kind or sensible undercurrent dragging us to where we’re meant to be. Through the wall of windows, I hear voices, and I know—I can feel it in my bones—that something bad is going down.
Tears seep from my eyes. I blink, and there it is: a small gold key. It’s lying on the duvet right in front of me.
My blood begins to hum. My heart quickens. I think I must be meant to see inside his hidden room. Why else would it be so easy? I dash my tears away and look up at the ceiling.
Thank you, R.
I scoop up the key and walk back to the blanket. My hand shakes as I pull it aside. I step fully behind it this time. It melds to my bare shoulders and a shiver skitters through me.
The key fits flawlessly into the lock, just like I knew it would. I turn the knob and push gently against the cool wood. The door swings open like a portal in a fairy tale. I inhale, step inside, and—what?
I look around the room: all five square feet of it. I look up and down, and left and right, almost expecting to see a lone toilet. It reminds me of a half-bath... except it’s not. The wall to my right—no more than three feet wide—is a built-in bookshelf. Empty. The wall to my left—equally tiny—is dominated by cabinets and a sink, with a short swatch of black granite countertop.
I turn toward the cabinets and look them over, ceiling to floor. Clearly, they are the purpose of this small space.
My fingers flex. Which door do I open first? Should I open them at all?
I lean over the counter and close my hand around the knob on the right-side cabinet. I pull it open slowly, telling myself I’ll find nothing but a bunch of marijuana.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, my stomach hollows out.
Instead of seeds or marijuana baggies, I see bottles. Dozens and dozens of prescription bottles: orange, blue, green; tall, short. And scattered amongst them, glass vials; tinctures; gauze; gloves; tourniquets; syringes; filters. I grab a bottle. Oxycodone. Another one: Hydromorphone. I open the cabinet on my left and I feel sick as I behold more of the same.
This place is a miniature pharmacy, stocked with everything Kellan needs to numb himself to everything—including me.
I slip quietly out the back door while they talk on the front lawn. Kellan’s back is to his big, brick house, his hands up in the air. Everyone looks sad-faced.
It’s not hard to evade them. To stay behind the trees, inside the pool of shifting shadows on the lawn. I open my car’s door and dump my things into the backseat. No one knows I’m here until I slam it shut.
As I sink into the driver’s seat, I hear footfall. Voices lift in unison, tossed up toward the moon—and Leo. I don’t give a fuck. I can’t right now. I peel away so fast, I hit my head on the ceiling.
When I look in my rear view, I see Kellan’s shadow—shoulders slumped, head down.
Guilty.
I don’t let the first sob loose until I turn onto the highway.
WHEN LY AND I WERE little kids and Barrett was in junior high, our family lived in this cottage overlooking the cliffs near Malibu. My Mom would set her easel up on the porch, and Ly and I would ride our tricycles on the rough grass beside the house. We would dare each other to walk closer to the cliffs’ edge, and Ly would always make up some excuse not to. I was always sticking one foot off. It drove Mom crazy. I guess it probably scared her.
There was so much wind there—all the time. I loved that wind. I loved the salty smell of it. I thought if I ever fell, I might just spread my arms and fly. I used to dream of it, at night when we would leave our windows open for the warm, wet air: flying over the water like an albatross.
I don’t know why I remember that right now. Tonight. I guess because I’m standing at the front of Daniel Harmon’s father’s yacht, looking out over the choppy waters off the coast of Santa Monica.
Tonight was our last game of the season, so Daniel had almost the whole team here to celebrate. He’s our captain, and he’s generous as shit. I don’t think he asked any of the guys to help with food or liquor, not to mention gas for this big bitch.
I know most guys couldn’t shovel over the money. Lyon gave Dan a handful of Benjis yesterday, once Dan had gotten confirmation from his family’s captain.
The two of them are pretty friendly: Ly and Dan. I heard them talking a couple weeks ago in the locker room, and I’m pretty sure it was about Ly becoming team captain in a few more years. Dan is a lineman, and Ly is a tight end—second string right now—and neither of them is consumed with playing, like I am.
Not that I would be team captain anyway. I’m not cut out for that shit. Lyon has always been. And that’s a good thing, that one of us likes being the life of the party, because I’d rather take a knee to the nuts than spend a bunch of time with other people—most days, anyway.
Nights like tonight, it’s cool. The bar is bleeding freely, there’s a bunch of not-quite-strippers in the cinema room, and I heard Murray’s making Mississippi hunch punch in the master bathroom.
I get a buzz on my phone and pull it out and yep, my boy Murray—our superstar wide receiver—is asking me do I know how to sink a honeydew melon. I laugh smoke into the humid air and turn around from my spot at the bow of the yacht. I flick my blunt over the rail and take the port side back toward the stern, to avoid where all the girls are, on the starboard deck. I’m kind of sick of Gillian and her mind games. If she wants me, she can come and find me inside.
I take my time going down the stairs and through the living area. It’s big—way bigger than the one on Robert’s yacht—and flashy as shit, with gold fixtures, a swank ass chandelier, and a bunch of leather furniture, all centered around the biggest flatscreen I’ve ever seen.
As I start down the rear hallway, I bump into McQueen and his girl, Fiona, with her hand in Mc’s jeans. I give him a grin and he slaps my shoulder.
I pass a couple of staterooms before I get to a wide-ass door that’s propped open with a fifth of tequila.
There’s a party in the bedroom: a bunch of the D and a harem of girls who could either be strippers or their girlfriends. Since I’m not sure which, I don’t say much either way.
I tip my chin at them, then bang on the bathroom door and yell, “It’s Kellan, dumbass. Open up!”
Murray slaps the door open. I catch it right before it hits me in the face, then give his cheek a hard swipe. He steps back and shakes his head.
“Man, this shit looked easy when my older brother did it.”
“Us little bros gotta stick together,” I say. He laughs at that, because Murray is six-foot-five and three hundred pounds of lethal muscle—and some long, fast legs—so he doesn’t seem like anybody’s little anything. He told me once his brother, an accountant, is five-foot-eight with a fro and wire-rimmed glasses.
I follow him deeper into the bathroom, which has a flowery, funeral parlor smell, and Murray points to the melon floating in a giant Tupperw
I laugh my way out of a smirk. “You know where the kitchen is, man?”
Murray nods.
“Go ask someone in there for a chopping block and a Kuhn Rikon melon knife, or something like that.”
“Kuhn Rikon, you say?”
I nod. “Whoever’s in there, they should know.”
I think about telling him what to look for if the kitchen is unmanned, but no way it will be. Not with this many people on board.
Murray takes a fuck while to come back, so after I use the fillet knife to finish slicing the three watermelons he busted open on the counter’s edge, I pour another bottle of Everclear into the box and stand at the door, listening to the boom of music from the bedroom.
I look around the bathroom.... at the giant whirlpool. Then I start the water, lock the door, pull my shoes and clothes off. Nothing like a good soak. I slide into the water with a bottle of Cristal.
I lean my head against one of the shell-shaped pillows on the tub’s side and let my breath out. I’m pretty fucking tired from this morning’s game, but very fucking happy. We went 7-3 this season, which is damn good for a team with me as quarterback.
I curl my right hand into a fist. Then I take a long pull of Cristal.
Now all I have to worry about is Gill. And Thanksgiving. My father will probably work the break away, and Barrett won’t come home—he’s down in Georgia, training with the Rangers—but even being in that fucking house makes it hard for me to breathe.
Dad’s expectations stalk me through every echoing corridor, and my mom is still all over. The place is like a fucking shrine to her. Her art, her murals. Even a tapestry she wove. I guess I never noticed how much I hated it in high school. How I tried not to go downstairs for much, or even be home at all. Who can blame me? I don’t think Dad has spent more than six or seven hours in a row at home since Mom’s death. Sometimes I think he’s trying to follow her, the way he always works and never sleeps. I know, I know—he re-wires tiny little baby hearts. Does things no one else knows how to do. But still...