The Cave Dwellers by Christina McDowell (readict books TXT) 📕

“I do,” Billy says.

“Copy. Upstairs we shall go,” Bunny says in her most playful soldier voice, “to the general’s bedroom, where it is proper.” She salutes Billy so as to mock his experience since childhood.

“Wait for me!” Stan says.

“Russia!” Bunny shouts in Stan’s direction, losing her eye contact from the alcohol and drugs. “I’m sorry, but you’re not invited to our peace corps.”

Billy laughs.

“Vhut! Aw, man.”

“Go make me a snow angel, we’ll be back,” Bunny says. Stan swirls around in his red peacoat and stumbles into the snowy garden.

Bunny and Billy shuffle into the dim master bedroom, a canopy bed fit for a king on one side of the room and double limestone fireplaces on the other, the floor covered in silk rugs and the ends of drapes. Drake’s “Started from the Bottom” thumps on the loudspeakers under their feet.

Bunny wraps herself in the red silk drapes, twirling round and round. “These feel so good,” she says, spinning as the curtain rod pulls and wiggles above her head before completely yanking the curtain off of the window. Trapped and wrapped like a mummy, Bunny waddles over to Billy as the second curtain flies through the air like a cape catching wind, and she tumbles into him and onto the floor.

Bunny rolls only partially out of her silk cocoon. “Oops!” she yells next to him, both belly-laughing together. “The general will be so mad at us.”

“So mad!” Billy says.

“Mr. Ambassador too,” Bunny says again in her soldier voice.

Billy rubs his arms across the raw silk, as if he’s making a snow angel on the floor. “You’re right, this feels so good.”

“I don’t think Mr. Creepy up there would be disappointed in me if I took off this bra, do you?” Bunny teases, looking up at the portrait of a significant hero in America’s War for Independence.

“Absolutely not, he declares a No Bra Abiding Society!” Billy looks up. “His eyes are moving, black circles spinning… whoa,” Billy says, tripping.

“Billy, why are you so afraid of the dark?” Bunny slurs, taunting him, unable to withdraw from the more sinister place inside of her, from the place that feels unseen in her quest for the truth about the Bankses’ murders.

“I’m not afraid of the dark.” Billy sits up, his gaze still on the supposed war hero above him. He takes several large swigs of vodka from a glass Voss bottle.

“Unravel me,” Bunny demands. “I’m stuck.”

Billy crawls to her and begins to pull on the silk as Bunny rolls out of it and onto the limestone finish of the fireplace, inhaling the smell of cool wood and dust.

She leans over to Billy. “Answer me, soldier! Why are you afraid of the dark!” Bunny is close to his face like a drill sergeant. She arches her back like a cat, leans down and rubs her cheek against his, rubbing them together like Silly Putty.

Spooked, Billy shoves Bunny flying back on her bum. She giggles, not taking it seriously. She stands and finds her balance; extending her arm toward the light switch next to her in the dark, she pulls on it, flickering the bedroom lights on and off as fast as possible. Billy squints.

“Do you hear that?” Bunny asks as if she hears ghosts in the walls. “It’s Audrey, it’s Audrey! She’s begging us for help! She wants to know who killed her?! Was it you?” She makes a serious detective face and looks up at the portrait of the Revolutionary War hero. “Was it you?” She looks to Billy. “Was it I?” She looks down at the floor, hand to chest dramatically, then slams into Billy, who has managed to get up, while holding on to the fireplace mantel as if it feels like velvet. “Tell me,” she says.

Billy walks toward her and grabs Bunny by her bottom with both hands, pulling her against him as hard and tight as possible. Bunny tilts her head back, her eyes rolling with it; Billy gently lifts her head back up. He stares down at her lips, still and apart, then caresses her chin. “Kiss me,” he says. Bunny does as she is told.

“Do you love me?” she slurs.

“I do,” he says.

“Grab my neck,” she says.

Billy feels rage and then sudden sadness; holding everything inside of him, his chest rising, his head spinning. He places his hand below her collarbone.

“This is so erotic,” Bunny says, feeling his hand gentle on her collarbone. She waits for him to grab her neck. Billy can’t bring himself to do it.

“I said… grab my neck.… Or are you afraid to do that too?” Bunny says, staring at him, her eyes glassy and passionate.

Billy outlines her fragile collarbone with his fingers, and Bunny’s head rolls back, a combination of laughter and then choking as Billy begins to squeeze it.

Wind throws hail across the glass windows, the sound of ice against copper drains as Billy pushes Bunny down onto the silk rug.

“You like being powerful, don’t you,” Bunny whispers. “You like where we come from, who we are, don’t you.” She exhales as Billy removes her underwear, caresses the inside of her.

“Who are we?” he whispers. “Tell me.”

“Tell me you love it.” Bunny stretches her arms into the deep red creases of the silk curtain.

“We’re lucky, Bunny,” Billy whispers, then bites and sucks on her neck.

“No we’re not.” Bunny slaps him and laughs. “Did that hurt?” Billy’s head drops then bobbles back up in a blackout. She starts unbuckling his belt.

“Don’t be such a brat, kiss me,” Billy says.

Bunny kisses Billy hard and begins to unbutton his shirt when his grandfather’s dog tags fall out, dangling across her lips. She grabs them in her hand.

Billy watches and pulls Bunny up so she’s straddling him, her skirt high above her waist; he attempts to pull off her cashmere sweater as he thrusts deeper—then his face goes white as a ghost and small chunks of vomit erupt out of his mouth like the beginning of a volcano. He goes