She goes through the same routine I just did. Looks in the mirror. Doesn’t like what she sees and turns on the water in the other sink.
“Where did you hang your shirt?”
“There’s hooks on the toilet doors.”
She takes off her blouse and comes back to the sink in just her bra and skirt.
I keep my eyes to myself, scrubbing the last drops of dead guy off my arms and face. I should probably do something about my boots, too, but I’d feel kind of stupid shining my shoes next to a half-naked woman. I can wait until I get home.
Brigitte dries her face with a paper towel.
“How do I look?”
“Like thrill-kill Mona Lisa.”
“No, you fool. Look close. Is there any blood? On my neck? My arms? Check my back.”
“You’re fine.”
“Good,” she says, and pushes her hair back with her wet hands.
“Now I’ll do you.”
She turns me into the light and inspects my face.
“You missed a spot.”
“Where?”
“Lean down.”
She uses her thumb to rub something off my cheek. Then my forehead. Her fingers move around and hold the back of my head. Her arms ripple where the muscles work underneath her skin. So different from the pretty girl at the Geistwalds’ party. And the rancid meat we just left in the alley. Her heartbeat and breathing are up. She runs her other hand over my chest.
“I like your scars.”
And just like that, we’re kissing.
My hands move down her back and up her sides. I can barely remember what it’s like to be this close to another body without trying to punch or stab it. Brigitte’s skin is smooth in a way that feels brand-new. Is all skin like this? Have I really forgotten everything about bodies that isn’t about killing them?
I run my hands up Brigitte’s belly to cup her breasts. She reaches back to undo her bra and tosses it on the sink. We catch ourselves in the mirror and how ridiculous we look. Making out in a bathroom. Tracking gore on the floor. Brigitte smiles up at me and pushes me back with surprising strength into the stall where I hung up my shirt.
I sit down on the toilet and she follows me in, closing and locking the door behind her. She drops down onto my lap, straddling me, and we’re kissing again. Her skirt is pushed up and she’s moving her hips up and down over the hard-on that’s been tucked away in my pants for eleven years.
Maybe she’s part mind reader because she reaches down, unzips me, and lets my cock flip back against my belly. She reaches down and wraps her hand around it.
“What about your pal Ritchie?”
“You talk too much.”
She lets go of my cock and stands up, reaches under her skirt and slips her panties off, balancing on one leg at a time with the sure and practiced motion of a sniper taking aim.
“You should know I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“Shut up.”
She lowers her hips, grabs my cock, and slides me into her. The feeling is both familiar and strange, in the same way that everything happening is both familiar and strange. The good news is that bodies are bodies, and even if your brain is on overload, sense memory takes over when you feel her body start to move. After a couple of fumbling tries, we fall into a gliding rhythm and our bodies seem to sync up, Brigitte coming down deeper and deeper as I move up into her.
My hands move back up her body, cup her breasts, and pinch her nipples. She leans back, pressing her hands and arms against the stall walls while thrusting down hard with her hips. Every few strokes, I put my hands on her waist and hold her there, deep inside her, then let her go and we fall back to our rhythm.