The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 8. Fremont Bridge

The rowboat bumps its nose into the latticework of the low wooden fence that runs along the bank underneath the Fremont Bridge. The bridge itself looms about thirty feet above us, groaning and rumbling each time a car passes overhead, tickling me with a human soul concerto. A cold breeze ruffles my hair. I barely register any of this, enthralled by the idea of what Hunter said, hearing the blood rush to his cheeks, and feeling his eyes burn me with light in the velvety darkness. My mouth is dry. First, the impossibility of his proposition renders me speechless, then it turns into a vivid image of the possibility of it actually happening and my eyes widen to the rapid beating of my betraying heart. A myriad of memories of awkward attempts at making out while stoned stir my chilled muscles.

"If I could choose how to die, I'd choose to die from loving you. From...feeling your skin under my fingers. Like this." He places his hands on my shoulders, then changes his mind and pushes both sides of the clumsy, oversized fisherman jacket apart, tracing the lines of my collar bones underneath; and a different type of hunger sears me from neck to knees.

"Of course you want me, I'm a siren, right?" I swallow. "That's how it's supposed to be. It simply means that the charm is working, or the magic, of whatever you wanna call it." My voice comes out in the feeble shaking manner of a schoolgirl who's been called to the principal's office.

"No, no, no, you're missing the point. It's not like that." He takes his hands off my neck and holds my face, cupping it.

"I know it's hard for you to believe, and I understand why, but please, for the umpteenth time, please believe me when I say this. I don't care what shape you're in. You're Ailen to me, always have been, always will be. Always. I just want to feel you, all the way, at least once, before I die. Is that so hard to believe? Don't you want the same?" His voice catches at the end, his head tilted to one side, childlike and earnest.

"Me?" I suppress the urge to dive and hide under the boat. "You really want me, really?" I whisper, beginning to shake like a sick person shakes from a high fever.

"Yes, you, silly. Really." He looks at me with those blue eyes of his, and I lose it.

A catastrophic yearning to be held, to be loved, boils over and sweeps away my hatred, anger, anxiety, guilt, all in one smooth swipe, sending them up into the sky in an invisible stream, as if the lid held over my heart flew open. I tip forward and place my lips on his in answer.

Slowly, like a man who's dreaming, he takes me into his arms. Then he's kissing me. Wind gusts throw raindrops under the bridge and onto my face, but I hardly feel them. And before descending into an ache of falling that's sweet and final for both of us, the last feeling I register of this world is the peculiar sensation of being watched.

I ignore it.

Nothing matters right now. Only this closeness.

With Hunter's help, I shed the sticky, unpleasant jacket, then the pants, and then my logic and sanity, all together. I throw them on the bottom, as I try not to tear Hunter's hoodie off, wanting to feel the warmth of his energy.

"You want to do it right here, right now?" The last of my doubts escapes when we break the kiss to take a breath, Hunter wiggling out of his pants, goose bumps springing up on his skin and making him shiver.

"Yes, right here, right now," he says, and chucks his sneakers.

"Okay," I say, and then I can say no more, because we tumble in a bind between the boat's benches, our legs twisting on top of each other in an awkward dance of finding a comfortable position. The front bench begins cutting into my neck under Hunter's weight, so I twist my head, breaking the kiss, muttering, "Sorry, just a second."