Mon & Natalie

Monk and Nat have kind of invaded my head. At the time of this writing, the first chapter is still pending, so I don't know how you all will like it. I hope you do. Hopefully, Monk and Nat will have more to do in the future.

It was a week after that first night at the club.

Natalie had indeed gone home with me that night, but I had been slightly cool to her the past few days. We hadn't slept together since that first night, but we did hang out together, shopping, catching some movies, and even checking out other guys and girls at the beach.

It was during one of these people-watching sessions that she suddenly turned to me and said, "You need somebody."

I snorted, eyebrows rising over the rims of my sunglasses. "Where did that come from?" I asked. "Sheeyit, girl, I got all I can handle takin' care of myself." I took a sip from my soda. Behind the sunglasses, my eyes were on her, wondering where she was going to take this. She was in a little black tank top, braless, and silk boxer shorts. Really fuckin' hot, to say it plainly. She had auburn hair, this deep brown-red that smoldered where the sun hit it .She had sunglasses, too -- can't live without them, down here in the Liquid Sunshine State. Much as it rained in Florida, when the sun was out, it was blinding. Behind them, her eyes were sea-green. Not for the first time, I wondered what this goddess was doing with me.

She glanced at me, that impish smile turning her pixie face slightly sinister. "'S my point, Monk." She insisted on using that nickname, particularly since she'd seen my house. I have my own place, a small apartment almost devoid of decoration. Nor do I own much. "You can't take care of yourself. Look at you." She reached out and poked my stomach.

I slapped her hand away. I'm thin, wiry; scrawny, if you're feeling uncharitable. I'm a testament to the idea that the less effort you put into your appearance, the better; my brown hair was cut short in a no-maintenance style, I had no piercings or tattoos to take care of, I only shaved because it was easier than dealing with a beard, and my clothes were almost all black, white, or gray, so I didn't have to waste effort figuring out which color went with what. Right now, I wore black jeans with a white shirt; I never wore shorts. "What's wrong with how I look?" I demanded, slightly offended.

"Long list or short?"

I made as if to push her off the picnic table upon which we sat, and she laughed. Then she got serious again. "Seriously, Monk....I know you're lonely. Lot of people call you friend, but they never visit, and you never invite them. Hell, you ain't even invited me over, after that night. You hide. Your books, your music...only reason you ever leave your house is to go clubbing, and ONLY to that one club, and then, you dance by yourself."

I couldn't deny any of it, so I just sat sullenly, staring off at the horizon. I didn't feel like talking about this. My silence was a warning, one she ignored.

"I mean, what gives, Monk? You're a cute guy. You're funny. You can be friendly, when you quit hiding. I don't --"

"Look, why the fuck you care, anyway, Nat?" I cut her off with a growl. "You got your pick of guys. I don't get out enough? Find one that does."

I watched her flinch, and instantly felt like a heel. To her credit, she rose to the challenge. "I picked you."

"Why?"

The question was simple, quiet. It had been between us ever since that first night she seemed to pick me at random. I'd never voiced it until now. She hesitated, then. "Does it matter?" she asked suddenly, almost too quietly. I was too used to reading people not to realize she didn't want me to push the matter.

Too bad. Push me, get pushed back. It was the way of things.

"Yeah," I replied softly. "Maybe it shouldn't, but it does."

For a moment, when she looked at me, there was hate in her eyes. I mean it, too. Real, burning, murderous hate. It flickered and was gone in an instant, but I was certain I had seen it. Suddenly, she got up."Come on."

I stood up, brushing the seat of my pants off. The moment had passed, and I allowed it to. Pushing this farther would lead to areas neither of us wanted to go; it might have gone too far already.

Damn it to hell, Eric, you never could leave well enough alone.

I admired teh sway of her rear as we walked in silence to her car, a sweet little '00 Civic in sky blue. In silence we got in; in silence we pulled out of the beach parking lot; in silence, turned onto the highway. She turned on the radio; Puddle of Mudd, "Blurry", my mind immediately identified the tune.

"You could be my someone, you could be my scene, Know that I'll protect you from all of the unclean Wonder what you're doing, wonder where you are There's oceans in between us, but that's not very far..."

She snapped off the radio suddenly, her mouth twisted in disgust. I sighed. "Sorry."

"Shut up, Monk," she replied, almost tenderly.

We drove like that for several minutes, finally stopping in front of a gym. It was empty; closed. Natalie flipped her keyring several times, selecting the proper key and unlocking the door, jerking her head to indicate we go in.

As she locked the door behind me, I took stock. It was a kwoon, I quickly realized. Jeet kune do. I had taken it for a short while; learned just enough, really, to get myself in trouble should I use it. I never did. I avoided fights as much as possible. The smells were what tipped me off -- place like this, the smell of sweat sinks into the mats, and there isn't much you can do about it. Your best bet is a shitload of Febreze and prayer.

"My dad's," she said, coming up beside me. I had taken off my shoes and bowed as soon as I realized what the place was. "You took JKD?"

"Few years back," I replied, looking around. "In high school. Mom ran out of money for it after a few years."

"Good. I won't feel so bad about this."

In retrospect, I should have cut and run there. As it was, I turned and recieved a solid right to the jaw. And that was that. I don't hit anyone unprovoked. Hell, I ignore most provocation. BUt this was unacceptable.

Her left was following her right; I caught her at the wrist with my own left, and yanked her off-balance. Quick as a blink, I wrapped around behind her, then forced us both down on our knees, her arched back with my hand pulling up on her chin. My left had bent her arm back, forcing her wrist up between her shoulderblades. It hurt; it had to. I heard her hiss.

"Guess I shouldn't feel too bad about this," I hissed in her ear, and tugged lightly on her arm. She grunted in pain.

"Fuckin....bastard..." she panted. I pulled up on her chin more; it was getting hard for her to breath, I could tell. The high was in my brain, the adrenaline rush, telling me to pull, pull, rip the bitch's head off, break her arm, snap her neck. In my mind, the procedures for doing just these things ran, a grisly arabesque of motion and murder. I suddenly let go of her and backed off.

"FUCK!" I shouted at the ceiling.

Years ago, I had felt the same thing. Almost killed a kid; almost suffocated him. I swore I wouldn't get in that mode again; that bloodlusting murderous rage. It was why I had really quit, why I had never started again.

Why I hid.

I stood there, shaking, hands fisted at my sides, rage coursing through me. I fought it, forcing it back, reasserting control. Suddenly, warm arms were around me, pinning my arms to my sides. Hot breath in my ear. "Shh, Monk. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."

Too much. From one extreme to the other; I broke, tears sliding from my eyes. I turned in her arms and clung to her, sobbing silently into her hair. She held me there, for a while. After some time, after the tears had stopped, she pulled back, and kissed me.

I fed off her kiss, fed off her mouth, returning the kiss with ferocity that welled up in me from I don't know where. I pulled her to me, lips locked together hard enough to bruise, and she responded, nails clawing through my shirt. My own hand slid up the back of her tank top, and suddenly clenched, bunching the cloth in my fist. Somewhere, I dredged enough restraint to take it off of her without ripping it to shreds. My own shirt soon followed, and then we were skin to skin, flesh to flesh, heartbeat to heartbeat....rage to rage.

I don't remember removing the rest of our clothing, but I do remember pinning her to the floor, slamming into her in one long thrust, my hands on her wrists, her heels in my back. The ferocity was frightening; we were animals, in that gym, violence and lust intertwined. I think I drew blood when I bit her lip; I know she did when, after I let go of her hands, she clawed my back.

There were no niceties in this; no tenderness, not even anything I would call real passion. This was anger; this was animal heat; this was rage redirected. I took her, and made her mine; she took me, and made me hers. She rolled us over, and sat up, riding me, hands raking my chest, hair a burning waterfall as she leaned her head forward and clenched her hands, nails driving deep into the flesh of my pectorals. I sat up, teeth closing on a nipple, biting hard and tugging; she cried out, and came, shudderingly, her claws at my throat. She bit my shoulder, and we rocked like that for a while, until I could hold back no longer, and spent into her with a shout that seemed enough to rock the foundations of the world.

Exhausted, we lay, her on my chest, still connected as I began to soften. I stroked her hair, my rage gone, and held her tight. I could think of nothing to say, so of course I spoke. "Natalie, I --"

"Shut up, Monk," she said against my chest in a wearied voice. I shut up, and we lay there, at peace with the world.

And for a little while, with ourselves.