Page 86 of Antihero

It was gentle and intimate and lovely.

It was not the fantasy.

It was better.

It is not polite to inquire further.

35White Horse

An enormous painting across from the tousled bed featured an exceedingly feminine flower, pillowy petals of pinks and peaches, as if Mapplethorpe had tumbled into a Georgia O’Keeffe.

Candy rested her cheek, hot with exertion, against Evan’s chest. They stared at the art.

“Subtle,” she remarked.

“Quite,” he said.

The ball of his shoulder tingled. Moments ago she’d had her mouth fastened to it, sucking greedily, as he moved above her. The radio was on, a full-rasp country tenor singing with more soul than made human sense: This love is gettin’ kinda dane-ja-rus.

She traced her nails across the top of his stomach. He felt it in his spinal cord.

“She’s so wholesome. Like she was designed by Disney in 1937.”

“I know.”

“And she’s actually good,” Candy said. “A good person.”

“I know,” Evan said.

“It’s so annoying.”

“I know.”

“I wonder what that would be like.”

“Me, too.”

More rasp from the radio, dangerous love feeling like a loaded gun.

“I almost can’t believe what they did to her. But of course I can.”

“I know.”

“You have to”—her hand tightened against his chest—“put them in the ground.”

“I can’t. I swore an oath.”

“She’s not your liege.”

“No,” Evan said.

“What then? Why do you owe them anything because of her?”

“It’s her pain. Hers to carry. And if I react more than she wants me to, I’m taking it from her.”

Candy nuzzled into his neck. “I know,” she said. “But I really, really want you to.”

He smiled, ran his fingers through her hair, kissed her forehead.