Basic Anatomical Parts

“Come on, Jacey. Come on, baby, come for me.”

I cried out as he ripped me off the bed by my hair, crushing me against his broad chest.

“Come for me.”

One hard, tattooed arm snaked around me, rubbing my clitoris into pulp as he pounded into my small frame from behind. He released my hair and latched onto a bruising nipple, eroding away more of the delicate skin between his thick fingers.

I bit my lips hard, swallowing a whimper, wondering if I had enough feeling left in my lower regions to fake it. I felt raw on every surface.

“Come for me,” he whispered, licking my neck. “Make that pussy clench. I want to feel you like a vice grip.”

He shoved me back onto the bed, and a loud hum whirred to life.

No.

I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

My eyes shot open, dashing frantically around the room as the bed stopped shaking. Sounds from the street floated up, mingling with the rain splatters bouncing against the glass, red now with the glow of breaking tail-lights.

Cold sweat veiled my forehead, plastering strands of hair to my neck and face.

Come for me.

I swallowed thickly.

…like a vice grip.

My legs pulled up under me, body curling into itself, as I tried to banish the images. The big, blue eyes of the clock across the room stared at me. Two-forty-seven AM, they said.

Wiping a hand over my face, I pushed back the sheets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The wood floor was cold underfoot. It was still early in the fall, but the nights were cooling quickly, and a t-shirt and boxers just weren’t cutting it anymore.

As I made my way quietly down the hall, I heard dad’s baritone snore somewhere behind me, mom’s something-less-than-delicate sounds reciprocating. How either of them ever managed to get to sleep was a mystery to me.

The little orange light over the stove guided me into the kitchen. It was minimalist, per mom’s preference, with flecked granite counters, stainless steel appliances, and small dome lights set into the ceiling.

Force of habit drew me to the fridge, but I wasn’t hungry. Just the thought of food made my stomach churn unhappily. The fridge had just snapped shut, extinguishing the light inside, when the kitchen overheads flicked on behind me.

“What are you doing?” Ty asked, rubbing the sleep from one eye.

I let out a breath, loosening my grip on the door handle. “Um…making coffee.”

“At three a.m.?”

I crossed my arms in front of my bra-less chest. “Mhmm,” I said distractedly, looking around the kitchen like I’d misplaced something.

“Why?”

“I just…wanted something to warm my hands, I guess,” I stammered. It wasn’t completely untrue.

Ty scratched his head and pointed to the island stools. Sit, it meant.

He shuffled groggily to the fridge and picked a few things off the shelves with sleep-deadened limbs. Blue and green plaid boxers clothed his lower body, but his chest was bare. Maybe he was too tired to notice how cold it was. He glanced around, blinking sleepy eyes. It was a wonder I’d woken him at all.

“How come you’re up?” I asked.

He shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep. Not used to this place yet.”

“I don’t buy that.”

He shot me a sideways glance as he set the dial on the stove back. It ticked four times before the flame lit. “It sounded better than ‘you’re a lousy stealth’.”

Oh. Seems I was a bit out of practice with that.

He tinkered at the stove a moment, adding a few more ingredients to the pot, and pulled out a wooden spoon. Somewhere something made a noise.

“So how you doing kid?” he said, coming to lean on the counter across from me.

“Fine,” I said, brushing my fingers over its smooth flecks, “You?” I could feel his eyes on my face, but he didn’t say anything for a while.

Finally he replied, “Good. Job hunting. It seems New York has a lot of freelance to offer, but not much steady work, unfortunately.”

I nodded.

Ty graduated from Maryland with a degree in Computer Science. He didn’t look it—tanned, California Boy that he was—but he was a whiz with all things computers. That degree should have him set for life, but employers weren’t much inspired by pretty-boy looks and fresh-out-of-college resumes. It was stereotyping at its finest.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“How are classes? You looking for a job?”

I sighed, rolling my neck to get the stiffness out. “I’m looking for a way to keep my sanity. Does that count?”

He paused again. “I know this isn’t what you wanted—not by a long shot, but…I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as you think.”

I kept my eyes down. “Of course you don’t.”

“NYU’s a good school. You’ll kill their program. You know you can.”

“It’s not about that.”

“I know.”

We lapsed into silence while he stirred the pot and poured its contents into mugs. They thunk'ed softly when he placed them on the counter between us.

A smile tugged at my lips. “What is this?”

He picked his mug up, pausing a few inches from his mouth. “You don’t remember?”

“Well, yeah, but where did you find it?”

“In the garage. While I was packing. It’s perfectly clean; don’t worry.”

I traced the raised arrows crisscrossing over its ceramic surface.

“I found the face, too.”

That caught me by surprise. “The face?”

Junior year of high school was supposed to be my final year of Spanish, but after taking a year off from foreign language and then being thrust into the classroom of a native speaker, I just couldn’t keep up. Music Theory and Ceramics had been my switch options, and since Music Theory demanded math, Ceramics it was! It turned out to be way more fun than I had expected.

Among my many sorry creations was the coffee mug before me, which had easily come out two or three times the size of a normal mug, and a twenty-pound vase with a grueling face. It was the Burton/Picasso collaboration that never was. I pride myself deeply on having been able to emulate two such admirable men, even if it was accidental.

“Is it here?” I asked.

“Mhmm. It’s in one of these boxes somewhere.”

I turned on the stool and surveyed the packing boxes stacked waste high around the room.

“You should drink that before it gets cold,” he added, “Schnapps is better hot.”

I looked down at the mug, still sitting untouched on the counter. A big dollop of whipped cream sat on top.

“What is this?”

Not coffee. At least I hoped it wasn’t—not with whipped cream and schnapps—ew. But Ty didn’t say anything; he just watched me over the mouth of his own bright red, candy cane mug.

I lifted it carefully, two hands a must with the monster, and caught the sweet scent of hot chocolate and peppermint.

“This’ll warm your hands and nurse you back to sleep,” he said as I took a sip, “Way better than coffee.”

Rich, Dutch chocolate coated my throat, warm and dulcet. “Where’d you learn to make this?”

Ty was already halfway to the hall. “Mom used to make it for us when we woke up with nightmares.” He flicked the lights off. “Get some sleep; you look like hell.”