And somehow, I seem to factor into that equation.

“How do you do that?” he asks me as the song on his phone changes to Jace Everett’s “Bad Things”. It suits him, this song. I reach down and curl my fingers under the hem of the t-shirt—it just so happens to be a Batman tee—as Hael runs his tongue across his lower lip. “Look at me like you can read me in a single glance.”

“I just make shit up in my head,” I retort, slowly pulling the shirt up to reveal the creamy whiteness of my thighs and the vibrant pink splash of my dragon tattoo. “In reality, I don’t know shit. I’m as lost as you are.”

“Bullshit,” Hael retorts with a ragged laugh, running his hand over the seam in his jeans and taking hold of his thickening cock through the fabric. “It’s because you’re a writer, a poet. You see into people’s souls.” He winks at me, but I know he’s being serious right now.

“And you’re avoiding my question,” I reply, letting the shirt fall back into place. Hael lets out this low, deep chuckle and shakes his head, like he’s about to leap across this room after me. “What does it mean for you to have me here?”

He watches me carefully and then begins to circle toward me, past the Eldorado, as I match his pace, staying just ahead of him. We end up walking in a circle as we face each other, those same fat moths fluttering around in the in-between space beneath the light.

“It means …” Hael starts, grinning at me like the devil he is. His bloodred hair matches mine now, like we were forged from the fires of hell just to find each other. “Avec toi j'ai l'impression d'être une personne et pas juste un bon coup.” He pauses, and I frown at him. Speaking in French is hot as fuck, but I can’t understand a word he’s saying, and he knows it.

“Cop-out,” I murmur, and he laughs. “I guess you’re not interested in seeing what’s under this shirt then?” I lift up the hem a bit, teasing him with a clear view of my upper thighs but stopping just short of revealing my cunt.

“Blackbird, ne me chauffe pas comme ça,” he purrs, reaching up to run dirty fingers through his hair. Hael pauses near the door, and I stop where I am, my hand resting on the rusty hood of the Cadillac. His honey-almond eyes find mine, a smear of black grease on his cheek. His muscular arms are dotted with beads of sweat, like little magnifying glasses highlighting the ink underneath. There are hot girls and cars and Sailor Jerry style hearts. He’s got skulls and roses and bluebirds. I could look for hours and still find something new in all that art that wraps his hard muscles. “I’m not great with vocalizing my feelings,” he continues in English, licking the corner of his lip.

My body is aching for the feel of his hands, that sweet coconut oil smell that clings to his skin because he uses it so often to remove the grease and motor oil from his body. But not tonight: I really do want him to be as filthy as possible.

“Try,” I reply, knowing I’m playing hard to get here, but needing something from him. These boys like to play cat and mouse with me. Despite their declarations of obsession, our strange history, their single-minded focus on me. They all need to work on the touchy-feely shit. “Tell me, Hael. What does it mean to have me here?”

“It means I can be saved,” he replies in a rush, like the thought’s just occurred to him. This time, when he gives me that shit-eating grin of his, it feels genuine. “Fuck, maybe I could be a poet, too?” He moves through the middle of the room, underneath the light with the fuzzy white moths, and then stops just short of touching me. “Having you here tells me that maybe, just maybe”—he pauses to point at Batman’s logo on my borrowed shirt—“that the idea of good versus evil, of happy endings, of great romance … isn’t all bullshit. Possibility, Blackbird. That’s what you are to me, what you have been since we snuggled up together in a homeless shelter on a shitty, stormy night.”

“Fuck,” I breathe, my hands trembling slightly as Hael puts his fingers under the t-shirt, finding my bare hips and letting out a curse of his own. “Maybe you’re right? Maybe you should try your hand at poetry?”

He chuckles at me, but the sound is different now, much deeper, a bedroom laugh if you will.

“Yeah, no,” Hael whispers, leaning down to press his mouth against the side of my neck. “I’ll leave the writing to you; you leave the explosives and the cars to me. Whatever else we can’t handle we’ll make the guys take care of. That’s what I like about this whole arrangement, Bernie. Everybody has a job; everybody has a purpose.” He lifts the shirt up, pausing with it halfway over my head, so that my mouth is the only part of my face that isn’t covered.

When he kisses me, he tastes like heartbreak and drive-ins from the fifties, classic cars and hot summer passion.

Hael licks my lower lip and then moves back just enough to take the shirt off the rest of the way, leaving me standing there naked in nothing but a pair of stolen leather stilettos.

“Hot damn,” he growls, taking me in with dilated pupils and heavy-lidded eyes. “If my poor maman wakes up and finds you in here like this, she’ll have a fucking heart attack and then drown me in good old-fashioned Catholic guilt.”

“Guess we’ll have to try our best to be quiet then,” I whisper back, my voice coarse with need, my thighs slick with desire. I wrap my arms around Hael’s neck, kissing him like the high school sweetheart that every girl wants, the one that tastes like heartbreak yet goes out of his way to keep your heart whole.

He lifts me up with his dirty hands, leaving grease prints on my white ass as we stumble over to the Cadillac. Hael scoots onto it, pulling me into his lap so that I’m straddling him.

Our eyes meet as I grab hold of his wifebeater and tear it off, chucking it aside and then grabbing his face in both hands, kissing him like I might very well die if I don’t. He touches my face right back, reverently, lovingly. Hael is not afraid to show affection, and it’s exactly the sweet dose of emotional medicine that I need tonight.

He trails his fingers over the pink demon wing tattoos on my chest as I do the same, caressing the words Hot Rod inked into his own skin. We both have designs up and down both arms, just swirls of vibrant color that tell the world we’re not afraid to hurt, to bleed, to express ourselves.

Hael drops his hand between us, undoing his pants and freeing that beautiful dick of his. Not only is it pierced at the tip, but he’s got a few tattoos down there, too. I can only imagine how those appointments must’ve gone, or what the tattoo artist must’ve thought when he asked to have his junk inked.

“Ride me, Blackbird,” he tells me, and I groan in anticipation. “Just like you did at school that day. You remember?”

“I think about it all the time,” I reply as I lift up on my knees and Hael takes hold of my hips, holding me while I guide his cock to my opening. I sink down on him with a deep groan, my eyes closing as he slides his hands up to my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. “All the fucking time.”

I ride him hard and fast, the Cadillac rocking beneath us. It’s noisy, but hopefully not loud enough to wake his mother. By no means am I a prude, but holy shit, that is not a situation I want to find myself in.