The second we got to the room, Finger kicked the door shut, locking it. We yanked at each other’s clothes and humped on the floor like desperate animals in heat. We were desperate, desperate for each other, desperate for our closeness, for that joy that only being together brought us. The moment he’d first entered me, a flash of blue light had flared behind my lids. I was ecstatic, there was no getting enough of him.

We made it to the bed for the next round.

We slid back to the floor for the next.

“Holy shit, are those J’s?” His index finger traced a line down the back of my thigh to my calf.

“Hmm, a chain of Justins just for me.”

“Fuck.” He dove between my legs again.

A few hours later we forced ourselves to stand upright and shower and get dressed again. If we didn’t, we’d stay on that floor all night, which would be great, but we wanted to do things together. We wanted to do normal things like any other couple.

Life had taught us to make every moment count, to not take anything for granted, so we would make memories and have experiences we could wrap ourselves in and hold onto until the next time we’d be together. Whenever that would be. But we wouldn’t dwell on that shit now.

He had his colors covered in a hoodie, a baseball cap pulled down low, and the hood of his jacket over that and up around the sides of his face. The scars on his cheeks made recognizing him easy. I had a lot of heavy eyeliner on, brown contact lenses, fake glasses, and a short blonde wig.

We had a burrito dinner at a store front walk-in named Mi Ranchito, strolled around Navy Pier people gawking, then headed toward a big movie theater complex on Chestnut St. After the sci-fi movie finished, we walked up swanky Michigan Avenue joined at the hip, our arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Finger was patient with every stop I made to ooh and ahh at the designer clothes in the windows of fancy department stores.

We stopped in front of an Azzedine Alaia window at Barneys. “I was here last week with this woman I met at my store, Ciara. I helped her find a dress for this fancy dinner party she was going to with her boyfriend. She dropped a huge wad of his cash without blinking. He’s some mafia guy.”

Finger’s head snapped at me. “What? Who?”

“Turo DeMarco. He’s with the Guardino family,” I whispered.

“Baby—”

 “I haven’t met him, and I would never tell Ciara anything about me, about us.”

His face was eerily pale under the bright disco type lighting from the Alaia window display. “I know, but—”

“I realize the Guns have connections to organized crime and gangs all over the Midwest. Med was always pissed off at somebody and used to tell me shit he didn’t trust to anyone else, a lot of stuff he probably shouldn’t have. I think he considered me a deaf mute most of the time.”

Finger leaned into me, his eyes hard. “Baby, you got to be real careful here. Real careful. If this Turo ever finds out who you are, you just don’t know how he’ll react or what his boss’s relationship is with Med—or was. Fuck, nobody knows that shit for sure.”

“I know. You’re right.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be such good pals with this…”

“Ciara.”

“Yeah, Ciara.”

“I’m careful.”

His lips pressed together, the scars on his face tightened. We left the dazzle of Barneys behind us and walked in a tense silence for several blocks, his hand squeezing mine.

We got ice cream cones at Ghirardelli’s new ice cream shop, and he swallowed his in four bites. I laughed, and in response, he took a bite of my fudge chocolate and coffee ice cream wrapped in a homemade cone. I took a bite after him, the ice cream smudging my cheek. He leaned over and swiped at my face with his tongue then kissed me. Sweet cream, cool chocolate. These were the flavors, the sensations of happiness, weren’t they? I kissed him back, wanting more, always more, and he bit my lips.

“Ah!” I pulled back, and he chomped on my vulnerable cone, devouring the last bit.

“Hey!”

“It’s so good.” Finger laughed, a hand wiping at his mouth.

I punched at his massive, solid shoulder. “The last bite is always the best.”

“I know,” he said, eyeing me. He brushed my cheek with his cold, wet lips. “I’ll make it up to you, baby. I promise I’ll lick you better than I did that ice cream cone.” He bit my earlobe. “And bite you.”

“Hmm.” I licked my fingers, my insides as gooey as the melted ice cream.

But I couldn’t wait.

I tugged on his hand, leading him around the corner. A narrow side street. A tower of fire escapes gleamed at us overhead. I stepped in a puddle as I pulled him against me, leaning against the slimy graffitied wall. We kissed hard, and I lifted a leg around his hips, pressing into his erection.

“Fuck me.”

He chuckled under his breath as I unsnapped the buttons on my bodysuit between my legs, under my skirt. He fumbled with his jeans and hoisted me up. I slid my hand over his smooth, hard length and guided it to where I needed it to be. I tightened my insides around him, holding onto his cock.

“Baby, shit.” He throbbed, his body stiffening against mine. “Jesus.”

The world moved around us in the shadowy dark as we took our bite of bright heaven.

We ended up at Dave & Busters, a new large arcade on North Clark Street and played pin ball and race car games. Finger played a shooting game, a huge plastic rifle in his hands, his shoulders rigid with focus. He landed every bullseye. He was good.

Of course he was good. This was a game played for tokens with imaginary digital targets, but out there on the street, on the road it was the life he lived. I’d lived it too.

We exited the arcade, and I spotted a photo booth at the entrance.

“Come here!” I tugged him inside and pushed him down on the stool. I sat in his lap, and he pulled me in close. Popping change in the slot, we posed making faces, crossing our eyes, another with our tongues sticking out and touching, the last with our faces pressed together, serious.

We waited, and finally, the strip landed in my eager hand. “Oh, look. I love them.”

He kissed the side of my face. “You’re going to have to get rid of it, though. Promise me. Tomorrow, rip it up, throw it away. Leave no clues behind.”

“I know,” I said, my fingers clinging to the edge of the damp strip of photos. “I know.”