I roll over in his arms. He brushes my hair out of my face. “Okay,” I agree before snuggling more into him. He holds me tight. It’s the kind of hug you give to someone you love.

Seventeen

Jay

I take her to an old railroad bridge on the southeast side of the city. This part is mostly industrial.

“I’ve never been here before.” Dove picks her way gingerly down the broken concrete stairs leading to the embankment. There’s no sidewalk here, only a dirt path that hasn’t been attended to for a long while. The hard-packed soil is disappearing under the creeping growth of weeds.

“Before I left, I did a lot of walking around the city. I’ve probably taken photographs of every corner, every acre of this place.”

“And did you get so sick of it that you had to run off?” She stops and looks back at me. “Wait. You don’t have to answer that. It was rude of me to ask.”

“No. It’s fine.” It wasn’t so much that I got sick of the city but that I was no longer inspired by it. “I think I was looking for something and I didn’t find it so I left.”

I’d been looking for her the whole time and didn’t realize it until I saw her walk into her apartment building. Everything changed the moment I laid eyes on her. The sun shined brighter. The grass was greener. The air smelled better. She would think I was weird—or weirder than I already was—if I admitted that, so I keep it to myself. But it’s true.

“I’m back now, though, and remembering all the little things I discovered.” I lead her down the dirt path and under the bridge until the door appears.

“What’s in here?”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “A hideaway.” I pull open the door. The hinges creak from disuse. No one has been in here for a long time—maybe not since the last time I was here. I duck under the low entry and offer my hand. “Don’t worry. It’s safe,” I add when she hesitates.

She does the cute thing with her nose but takes my hand like a brave, trusting girl and allows me to pull her inside.

“Wow,” she says, her eyes growing big. “I didn’t realize we were that far down.” The hobbit-like doorway that is only about as high as a ten year-old’s frame gives way to a large cavern. Light filters through manholes at the top and long, rectangular openings facing the river. The space is cavernous and deep. Kids used to come here and drink and graffiti the walls, but that generation never shared the secret hideaway with their kids, so it’s now empty with only the faded paint on the walls.

As Dove walks around, her fingers tracing the bubble-shaped four foot high letters and the sometimes profane drawings as I take photos.

“You’re not taking pictures of me, right?” she says without turning back to me.

“Right.” It’s a small white lie. I’m taking photos of the old graffiti, the stone floors, the dust mites dancing in the ray of sunlight. That she happens to be in all of these photos, that it’s her red Converse sneakers against the dark gray cement floor or her hand intercepting the beam of light are coincidences. I take a dozen shots before she comes back to my side.

“Can I see?” she asks, peering over my arm.

I show her the blank view finder. “It’s a film camera, not digital.”

“Oh, how come?”

“Digital cameras process photos even in a raw format. Film never does.”

“Do you always use film?”

“Not always. I shot most of my stuff overseas on digital but back here”—with you, I silently say—“I want the truest version I can get.” I tuck the camera back into my case and swing it over my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see a few other places.”

I take her to an old round-about in the cute neighborhood north of the city central. The houses here are all brick and built in the forties and fifties. The center of the neighborhood is defined by a tiny cemetery that the city was once going to tear down during a development phase. The residents fought for the cemetery, and now it’s the center of a round-about. The local residents take care of it, tending to the boxwood hedges that frame the circular space.

After the cemetery, we visit Grant Park in the eastern part of the city. It houses a war memorial for the World War II vets. Behind the memorial is a small arboretum funded by one war vet’s family who happened to be very wealthy. The arboretum specializes in orchids and other rare flowers. There’s a small butterfly house attached. The owner knows me but is gone today, or I wouldn’t have brought Dove here.

“I know you’re taking photos of me now,” Dove murmurs.

I lower the camera. “Guilty.”

“You’re too far away to get a good photo of the butterflies. Come over here and take a picture of this one. He’s gorgeous. Do you know what kind he is?”

“I don’t.” I cross to her side and bend close to the brilliant blue and black creature. Its wings fold and open at a slow, steady rate. I snap two shots for Dove and then step back. “Let me take one of you looking at the butterfly.”

“Why though?”

“Because the picture is better if you’re in it.”

“Like for balance or something?”

“Something.” Does she not know how beautiful she is? When I show her these photos I’ve developed, maybe she will be able to see what I do. That she’s a muse, an inspiration. The way her hair falls across her face, the delicacy of her fingers, the soft curve of her cheek all stir me up crazy inside. I can’t make love to her with my hands, so I have to do it with my lens. I capture her bent over, straightening, and then staring straight at me through the glass eye of my camera. I drop the equipment away from my face.

“You’re breathing heavy,” she says quietly.

I lick my lips and swallow hard. “Yeah.” My heart is thundering behind my chest. Can she hear it? “I’m trying to take it slow, Dove, but it’s hard.”

She takes a step toward me. The humid air in the lepidopterarium becomes thicker, heavier. “Maybe I don’t want to go slow anymore. Got a higher speed?”

A smile breaks across my face. “I do.”

Lust is a consuming thing. It’s a fire that can heat up in an instant and flame for an endless amount of time. It can be stoked by starvation or constant feeding. You’re only fully safe from it if there’s been no ignition, but my fuse has been lit and there’s no stopping it.

I sweep her up, nearly knocking myself out by the low-hanging door header. My camera bangs against the side frame. I curse. She laughs.

“I can walk,” she tells me.

“Sounds fake to me.” I hold her tighter. “Grab my camera, though, so I don’t bust it worse than I already have.”

We make it home in one piece. I made her sit in the back seat because I didn’t trust myself not to reach over the console and finger her as I drove. I would’ve gotten into an accident and put us both in the hospital before I had a chance to taste her honey.

I slam the Rover in park and jump out. Before she can get the door fully open, I drag her out and press her up against the side of the SUV. My tongue plunges between her lips, and I wish it was my cock parting her mouth, sliding over her tongue and down her throat. The sensitive head of my dick throbs in anticipation. If I spend any more time out here kissing her, I’m going to end up fucking her in front of the basement garage security cams.