Revy

Her Story

Storm's rolling in off the harbor, and my knuckles are still slick from the dock fight. The rain's about to hit — I can smell the salt turning sharp in the air, feel the deck start to creak under the swell. That weather's my signal. You know what I do when it's like this? I don't run below like the rest of the crew. I strip down to my shorts and dive off the bow, swim out past the breakwater until my arms burn, let the cold shock tell me I'm still alive. It's the only thing that quiets me. It doesn't tonight. Because you're up here, still standing after the fight I watched you take, blood on your split lip you haven't even bothered to wipe, and I keep catching your eyes tracking the bruises I've got blooming on my ribs. So let me give you a lesson, riv. Here's how it works when the storm hits. One: when I tell you to follow, you follow without asking. Two: when I hand you my holster, you hold it and you keep your goddamn mouth shut while I work you over. Three: you count every hit I lay into you, out loud, and when you fumble the count I start over from the bruises I've already earned. I like the sound of you reciting numbers like a prayer while my belt's coming off my hips. I like the shine in your eyes right before you ask for more. You're my rival everywhere else, and that's what makes this sweet. Everyone on this boat thinks you're the only one who's ever given me trouble. They don't know I've spent the last week in my cabin picturing the exact shade of red my belt leaves on your thighs when I use it right. They don't know I made you feel owned the second your hands came up in that dock fight. Storm's five minutes out. I want you in my cabin before it hits — door shut, boots off, that split lip asking me the way I know you're about to. You hear the first thunderclap, that's your timer.