by Teagan Kade
Or, at least I think I am.
“That was amazing,” I say as she wipes her face with a damp washcloth.
“It was,” she says. “But I just have one question now, Derek.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Can we do it again?” she asks lasciviously, motioning her mouth towards my cock.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better question in my entire life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELISABETH
Oh, no.
I’m starting to think I like Derek.
Sure, he was an ass at first. Still kind of is. But he didn’t need to go to my house looking for clues and he definitely didn’t need to tell me what he found. I don’t even think he’s told Officer Brady about the curtains soaked in nail polish remover. Surely that insensitive jerk of a cop would have brought it up the last time we spoke.
It’s true. For all his faults Derek really does care about my safety. And who knew his skills in bed could also cure a panic attack? Part of me is glad he’s already left for work. Thinking about everything that happened last night makes my body flush with delicious heat. I glance at my phone. It would be so easy to send a quick text to Derek asking him to come back for another tumble in the sheets.
But you can’t, the tiny voice of reason in my mind squeaks. And the voice is right. The truth is I don’t deserve to take comfort in Derek. I’m using him. However noble my reasons are, it’s wrong. He might be a womanizer with an ego the size of Texas, but he isn’t a bad person. If anyone is bad in this situation, it’s me.
The realization hits me like lightning. Yes, I am the bad person in this situation… but I don’t have to be.
I can come clean about everything. I can call Officer Brady and tell him I lit the fire. I can also tell him why I did it. Derek might hate me for it, but I can’t stand the thought of repaying his kindness with deceit. He’s a good person, or at least, he’s trying to be. Hell, he might even be trying for me. I can’t do this to him. It’s simply not right.
It’s decided. I doubt Derek will ever want to see me again after he finds out, but he deserves honesty. The thought of never seeing him, talking to him, or sleeping with him again puts a dull ache in the center of my chest. I’m falling for him too hard to build our relationship on a bed of lies.
Maybe I should tell him before I tell Officer Brady. I don’t know. I’ve never committed a crime before. I don’t know how this is supposed to work. Why did I never watch any of those cheesy crime shows on TV? Maybe if I did I would have known how to cover my tracks, or at least keep a fire under control.
Regardless of whether I tell Derek or Officer Brady first, there is one person who deserves to know before either of them—Mom. After all, it’s her life on the line. She will need all the extra time I can give her to come up with an alternate plan.
It takes me a few minutes to work up my courage, but I eventually punch in my mother’s phone number.
On the first ring, I want to hang up.
On the second, nerves bundle into a tight knot in my stomach.
On the third ring, I fear I’m going to throw up.
“Beth, honey! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you!” she greets me like I always wished she would. Like she’s genuinely happy to hear from me. She sounds like a proper mother. Guilt twists hard in my gut.
“Hi, Mom,” I say quietly. The word doesn’t taste right on my tongue yet. I’m afraid it never will, especially not after the conversation that’s about to happen.
“Is something the matter, sugar?” Amazing. It’s as if she’s suddenly developed a mother’s intuition. What is going on in the world?
“Actually,” I say, working past the lump in my throat. “Yes, there is something wrong. I don’t think I can go through with this.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Her voice is like flint, all that motherly warmth gone in an instant.
“I wanted to help you, Mom. I need you to know that,” I say. “But I don’t think this is the right way. I almost died. Now I’m just digging myself into a deeper grave with every lie. I’m not a professional arsonist. There are clues all over the house indicating I’m the one who set the fire. I think it’s better if I confess to what I’ve done, keep it simple.” It all comes out in a rush. By the time I finish, my lungs are burning and my heart is pounding. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves as I wait to hear how my mother will react.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My mother’s voice is a cold hiss. Suddenly, I’m a child again being scolded for something I did wrong.
“I—”
“Do you know what happens when you confess?” She demands.
I’m almost grateful when she cuts me off. I hate how weak and pleading I sound. I’m being flung backwards, away from the woman I’ve worked so hard to become and returning to the trembling child I used to be.
I shake my head, realizing after the fact my mother can’t see the gesture. But that doesn’t seem to matter to her. “I’ll tell you what will happen. They’ll put your picture in the paper,” she says. “And on the news so the whole wide world can see you’re nothing more than a dirty, lying, two-bit criminal. Then they lock you up. You’re pretty enough, so you might just get probation and community service.” She spits the word ‘pretty’ like it’s a slur.
“Confessing is better than lying and getting caught,” I argue weakly. Whatever punishment I would face in light of my confession would be considerably lighter than if Officer Brady figures everything out. No, not if, when.
“What do you think is going to happen to that quaint little life you set up for yourself out there?” My mother asks, speaking to me as if I were a simpleton. “I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. You confess and that all goes away. No more fancy job. No more nice house in a nice neighborhood. No more going out with your high-falutin’ friends. No respected employer would ever hire you after something like that.”
“Billy hired you at the diner even though you had a record.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I didn’t want this to escalate any further. I retreat to the old pattern of thinking I developed from dealing with my angry mother as a child. Speak softly, make yourself small, leave as soon as possible. The sooner I’m out of this conversation, the better. I understand why my mother is upset. I told her before she didn’t have to worry. She is, after all, staring into the face of death itself.
“I’m still going to do everything I can to help you. But you’ve got to understand it’s not fair to the people who’ve helped me to go through with this. It’s not right.”
My mother snorts. “You think that police officer is helping you?”
“No,” I reply. Ol’ George is foaming at the mouth to accuse me of something, and rightly so. “But the fireman, the one who literally carried me out of the burning house, has been doing more for me than I ever could have asked for. He thinks the fire happened because someone is after me. He’s trying to keep me safe.”
“Oh,” she sighs, as if I just procured a missing puzzle piece. “I see. He fucked you, didn’t he?”
“Excuse me?” I gasp. A blush colors my cheeks.
“He gave you a mind-blowing orgasm, got between your legs, and now you feel like you owe him the world,” she continues. “Just you wait. If you confess, he’ll leave you high and dry. Then you’ll have no choice but to come crawling right back to Shady Hill.” I hate the smugness in my mother’s voice, but she’s right. Deep down I always knew I would end up back at the trailer park. It’s inevitable.
“I hope you kept my bunk open for me,” I say dryly. I give up. I’ve ruined my life by agreeing with this stupid plan. It doesn’t matter I did it for the right reasons. I ruined everything and now it’s time to pay the price.
There is a shuffling on the other end of the line. I think I hear my mother talking to someone. Or maybe she’s just muttering to herself. I remember her doing that a lot when she got frustrated, especially when the bills were due and she had no way t
o pay them.
“Look, baby,” she says. Her voice carries the same note of defeat as mine does. “I really want you to reconsider this. After all, my health started to decline right after you abandoned me. I stopped taking care of myself. How could I after my baby left home without so much as a goodbye? This cancer bloomed right from the pieces of my broken heart.” Her voice is thick like she’s holding back tears. I wait to feel the stab of guilt like I always do when I think of how I left home. It doesn’t come. Instead, all I get is cold anger.
“Are you serious?” I say slowly, processing the accusation in her words. Before I can control myself, words are tumbling out one after the other. “You’re blaming me for your cancer? That’s a new low, even for you. I can’t believe I let myself get caught up in this.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” she yells into the phone, but I can’t stop. Everything I’ve held in, everything I’ve never said is burning in my throat. I have to let it all out before it consumes me even more than it already has.
“You’ve really convinced yourself you’re the one true victim here, haven’t you?” I continue, my voice choked with emotion. “You blame this on a broken heart, but did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, if you were a halfway decent mother, I never would have left?”
“I am a good mother,” she says. I can hear her voice wobbling.
“Oh, really?” I’m shouting now and I can’t stop. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and my breath hitches with sobs. “Would a good mother spend her child’s lunch money on cigarettes and beer? Would a good mother lock her child out of the trailer so her boyfriend wouldn’t get annoyed? Would a good mother make her child feel guilty for wanting more out of life than a deadbeat husband and a double wide that smells like burning flowers?” My mother is silent on the other end. I’m crying openly, loudly even, but I don’t hear anything coming from her.
The call cuts off. She’s hung up on me.
I sit on the hotel bed and pull my knees up to my chest. I cry harder than I’ve cried in years. I cry for my ruined future. I cry for my childhood. I even cry for my mother and the burned bridges between us. I cry until I have no tears left.
I want to call Derek. I don’t understand why, but I believe he’s the only person on earth who can make me feel less wretched right now. At the very least he can provide a distraction so I don’t have to think about this anymore. But I really just want to talk to him. I want to hear him tell me everything will be okay.
But it won’t be. And I can’t call him. It wouldn’t be fair of me to do that, not when I’m still keeping such a massive secret from him. Until I’m ready to confess, there’s only one clear path.
I have to cut ties with Derek.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DEREK
Hi! You’ve reached Beth. I can’t take your call right now—
I hang up. I don’t want to hear the rest.
After all, I’ve heard the same voicemail every hour, on the hour, for the past two days.
It’s not that I can’t reach Beth by phone—although that certainly doesn’t help.
But I haven’t been able to reach her by any other method of communication either.
Not by phone. Not by text. Not even by freakin’ email.
I check my phone again, looking at the text messages, hoping for an answer.
No such luck. The last message I sent—a one-line text reading, in its entirety, Beth, are you okay? —was simply left as ‘read.’
I sigh, click my phone off, and slump my head between my legs.
I don’t understand why this is affecting me this way.
It wasn’t too long ago I was chasing pussy like it was going to rot on the vine. The last time I had a two-for-one special—Jane and whatever her name was—was only a week ago.
Maybe.
If that.
I used to use women like toilet paper—one-time use, then throw them away for the next sheet.
I never abused them, of course, never felt the need for that, but as long as they knew what they were getting into when it came to me, and as long as everyone was over the age of consent, it was fair game.
How’s that saying go? If there’s grass on the field, it’s time to play ball?
Yeah.
That.
If there’s grass on your field, it’s time to play with my balls.
But Beth is different.
I knew after that first night she wasn’t a one-and-done like the rest.
Now I want something more—something special, something different, something real.
It’s not just the sex that draws me in either, though certainly the sex with Beth has been next-level amazing. No. It’s her.
Her essence. Her being. Her personality. Her desire to have me be her protector.
There’s something so fragile yet resilient about her. She’s someone who suffered an unbelievable tragedy, yet survived and, dare I say, thrived. She’s a woman of great vibrancy: sexy on the outside, most definitely, but equally sexy on the inside, which only makes her all the more attractive.
I’m drawn back to her body.
The sex. Oh God, the sex.
It’s not just the crazy positions or the multiple times she comes each time I fuck her. It’s her eagerness in the sack—her willingness to please me, her ability to make me come just as many times as I make her come—that makes her my perfect match in both life and the bedroom.
I play these thoughts in my head again and again before checking my phone on impulse.
No messages from Beth. No missed calls. And the last text message still left on ‘read.’
Sigh.
The alarm in the house blares loudly. As usual, I board the truck with the boys in tow.
This time though, I’m the first one on the truck—a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by McAllister, who looks at me curiously at first. He nods slightly and shrugs his shoulders.
“How nice of you to show up, Derek,” he says, but instead of muttering it under his breath in a sarcastic tone, his voice is clear, serious, and almost apologetic.
Mike and Tim aren’t far behind. They both look shocked when they see me on the truck already.
Neither of them says a word for a few minutes. They simply stare at me intently, waiting for me to volunteer some information about my altered frame of mind.
With no explanation forthcoming, Tim starts in on me. “What’s the special occasion?” he asks, trying, and failing, to stifle his laughter.
I look at him glumly. “Nothing, brother. We got a job to do, and I’m here to do it.”
Mike breaks out, guffawing, almost hysterical with laughter. “Yeah, right, Ricky. Yeah fuckin’ right. You? Where she at, bro? Whassamatta, you bury her body in the backyard or something?”
I glare at him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole of the highest order, Mikey?” I ask. “Because, if not, let me be the first to break it to you: you’re an asshole of the highest order, and I fuckin’ hate your guts.”
That last remark causes Tim to break out in equally braying laughter. “Oh shit, Derek! Don’t even tell me you didn’t get some because you’re in love,” he says between fits of laughter.
I don’t return his joviality. “So what if I am?” I ask semi-rhetorically, but also quite seriously. “I’m not immune to Cupid’s arrow.”
“Or his cock,” someone shouts.
Suddenly, Mike and Tim stop laughing, and Mike stares at me intently.
“Oh shit, Ricky,” he says. “You’re in love! In love!” he repeats, as though it’s a rare disease, the kind that only exists in science-fiction novels.
“Don’t tell me it’s with that crazy Beth bitch,” Tim remarks offhandedly.
“She’s not ‘crazy,’ Tim, and I’ll thank you for not calling her a bitch,” I retort with more anger in my voice than I expect, or the situation warrants.
I don’t get a chance to defend her honor, because we pull up in front of a large yet simple house
made of ecru-colored stucco and the requisite manicured lawn.
I squint, then turn to McAllister, who’s sitting in the front seat of the truck. “Where’s the fuckin’ fire, Chief?” I ask, almost incredulously.
“It’s in the back,” replies McAllister. “You know how these Silver Lake hipsters are. It’s a barbecue gone wrong, nothing serious, but if we don’t contain the fire, it’s gonna get a very serious and very quickly.”
As I’ve done so many times before, I rush to the back, where I see two girls—your standard hipster fare, nothing remarkable about either one of them in their oversized blue baby doll dresses, knee-high wool socks, and well-worn saddle shoes—standing about five feet away from a barbecue that’s completely engulfed in flames.
I glare at the two hipsters intently as Tim and Mike rush behind me to put the fire out.
“How the hell did this happen?” I ask coarsely, not really sure I want to hear the ridiculous answer.
Sure enough, the blonde hipster, who hasn’t seen the inside of a shower since Obama’s last presidential term, clears her throat and gives me one of the dumbest answers I’ve ever heard in my entire career as a firefighter.
“We were just barbecuing avocados,” she says, in a nasal, whiny tone. “The fire wouldn’t go high enough. We poured some kerosene on the wood. That’s it.”
That’s it?
I shake my head and scoff. “First of all, you were barbecuing what? Second, what the hell made you think pouring kerosene on wood was a great fuckin’ idea?”
The brunette hipster, who clearly washes herself, unlike her more, uh, fragrant counterpart (but whose chipmunk cheeks and matching buck-teeth make her look less attractive than her pungent roommate) steps forward and repeats herself, speaking slowly, as though I’m a particularly obstinate child.
“Don’t knock it,” she says. “You totally need to come by and try some when you’re off-duty, see how tasty they are for yourself.” She smiles flirtatiously, taking care to shift her upper body towards me to show me her faded blue bra strap.