by Scott, Eliot
The only thing holding him back from striking that last blow was the fact that if I died, the Wallaces—Jojo—would own what my father never wanted them to own. My impulsive and childish gesture would mean to him that they won the feud, and because that document is filed not only in the county, but in the state as well, my father had no way of buying his way out of what I’d done. So he buried it. Lied about it. And to keep Jojo alive, I played along. But that original copy I’d kept hidden.
For insurance. For those long nights I thought I might give up and kill myself.
Jojo was never going to find that copy in this building.
As soon as I can shake this paranoia that my father might still somehow reach up from the grave and get to Jojo—once the will is read and a few months have passed—I’m going to tell her about it—make it right. Pay her off or hand over half of what’s rightfully hers. However she wants to handle it.
Will’s words about Jojo being my father’s killer spin through my mind again. Could she have done it? Could she know already what belongs to her when no one else does? Could she have slipped into town, killed my father and stayed for the funeral, secretly laughing at all of us, even now?
It's possible. I suppose anything is possible. My whole life has been evidence of that. Awful things happen to and around awful people like us.
I picture JoJo holding a gun at my father's head and my throat constricts—not with fear or with regret, but with how that image feels right. In my mind, it is right. It would be pure justice finally served. Until Will brought it up, I had my bets holding on my brother Grady doing the deed. Even my own Mother would be justified.
But…Jojo.
Could she...?
Would she?
Could her return all somehow still be part of the feud? Is she here for revenge? Last time we saw each other, the Sinclairs were up a whole bunch of points on the Wallaces. Did all of it change her? Make her into a monster, too?
Damn my thoughts and damn my father—and even damn Jojo’s mother to hell, because she may have been the biggest monster of all in this.
Back then, I didn’t know.
And Jojo didn’t know.
But Mrs. Wallace knew everything. My father, too.
Jojo and I were simply players in this fucked up game they’d created. We were pieces on a chessboard, constantly moved back and forth. Before Jojo and I knew, we were so pure and innocent, rising above what we thought were only simple town rumors of this feud that ruined our lives. Folklore, that’s what we thought it was. Ancient history.
We were the biggest joke of all. Jojo Wallace and Alex Sinclair, rising into this beautiful future we both imagined would be ours.
Together.
* * *
I can still see the exact spot where she told me she loved me on that big flat rock—the rock that later became the cornerstone of my lake house.
It was well after school had started Freshman year, during one of those endless-summer kind of days before daylight savings comes and ruins everything. The kind of day where the air is hot and the sky is blue and you think summer will never come to an end. But all of the leaves had turned yellow—and our book bags were full of assignments to turn in and books that were too heavy.
I remember watching the leaves fall that day—and being annoyed that they were fluttering on top of the glassy water, scaring the fish. I was even annoyed that Jojo’s reflection in the lake was competing with this massive trout I’d spotted, hiding in the deep pool beside the rock.
“Alex.”
She’d been pestering me to stop fishing for the last ten minutes. “Alex, come on. Please put down the rod and come watch this beautiful sunset with me. Please. I have to go soon.”
When the wind blew another wave of dry leaves so they floated like pretty little boats that skittered on top of the water and the trout disappeared, I gave up and waded out of the water.
“Okay, Jojo. What?” I huffed out, thinking I was going to stay annoyed, but then I couldn’t because she was smiling at me so darn wide it was like getting face-punched by the setting sun.
And damn, she was right to call me in. What a beautiful sunset it was.
“Well…” She blinked those wide-set eyes at me while I secured my fishing gear.
“Well, what?” I turned to look at her.
“I think—no. I know, Alex Sinclair, that I love you. And that I’ll always love you. There. I’ve said it.”
Overwhelmed by her wider smile, and that declaration, I moved to stand behind her—to wrap my arms around her—to breathe in her warmth, her lavender scented hair, and get as close as possible to her body so I could remember every bit of how she felt while I made myself a memory of this—her—us in this moment.
I turned her to face me, and my eyes trained on how the lake reflected in her eyes, how the setting sun made the edges of the blue in her iris go light and clear and look like glass.
I smiled and stroked her face, the sides of her neck, and watched the wild tendrils of her brown hair as they swirled in the breeze, also lit by the sun’s rays.
“I love you.” When she said the words again, I thought it was me saying them to her. Or that maybe I’d dreamed them. And when she suddenly looked concerned because I guess I hadn’t responded yet, her brow furrowed with worry that I might reject her.
“Is that okay?” She asked, voice draining of confidence, those eyes drinking up my face, my lips—my soul.
“Is it okay? Jojo…yes. Hell yes. And you know I love you back. You know I do, right?” I felt my chest break open, and it was like the bones had gone out of my legs. I took both of her hands, brushed a fast kiss across her smile and added in this choked up voice, “I love you, too. So much. I wanted to tell you before school started, but I also didn’t want to scare you—or—whatever.”
“Thank God,” was her laughing reply.
I was a stumbling mess as she stretched onto her tip-toes, but she didn’t care. My lips found hers, and her lips were on mine—and fuck—we were swept away as we both dropped to our knees.
11.
Alex, Present Day.
I remember how I could span her waist with both of my hands—how it turned me on to push my hands up her curving sides. How, when she’d moan low and quiet sometimes when I’d graze the underside of her breasts, the sound nearly did me in every time.
I remember the sound of the crickets in the grass, and the feel of her smile against my lips, something she did whenever we kissed. I can still sense how we tasted like the warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies we’d shared out of my bag—a treat that was becoming a staple. Chocolate, and crumbs, was something I now associated with kissing, and her, and with utter happiness.
That day, the sun had gone down and made a streak all the way across our lake and spiked into us like a laser beam, just as though nature decided how and when we’d go from our knees to lying on the rock together. Our making out was always timed by some higher power.
And I remember our joy. The unforgettable joy.
So much so, that even now I swear, for that day, and for so many after that, I thought we were magic. Because we were together and in love; we were nearly able to fly. I had this idea we were untouchable and so different from everyone who’d ever fallen in love before.
Problem is, I didn’t know that last bit was true in such a horrible, terrible, devastating way.
We’d created quite a stir, Jojo and I—stepping onto the school bus that first day. We were holding hands and had eyes only for each other.
Hell, even now I lie to myself about it.
She had eyes only for me and I had eyes that tracked how everyone was reacting to me being with her. I was too proud…I was too sure of myself.
I had filled out some more by then, and days spent at the lake had lightened both of our hair to a rich gold and tanned our skin. I remember, even though we were freshmen, holding onto Jojo’s hand and knowing we were beautiful. Entering the bus as one also made me feel more powerful and
alive than I’d ever felt. I was a notch above. I had someone. And together, we instantly became more interesting than Grady and the new crop of seniors who thought they were so cool because of their newfound status. People loved it—us—but they envied us, too. Especially my brother.
My father, in retrospect, must have been laughing his ass off. He must have known that JoJo Wallace and I were more than friends at that point. Grady was already reporting everything to him—because Grady, well, he’d been in on it from the beginning.
Jojo was my girlfriend, and I was her boyfriend—and we belonged to the feud. We thought we'd just had the best summer of our lives. But my father, and my mother…hell, they must have watched my elation and my growing love, day after day, rooting for it with palms rubbing together. They let it falsely fill me up like a helium balloon, one that had been planned for years to simply—pop.
Freshman year, I was so proud each day to ride that bus. I’d been so conscious of Grady behind me, staring from where he always sat with his friends in the cherished back row. I was up front with the other freshmen, and all eyes were on us. Grady had let me know he’d taken note of Jojo day one, just like the others had, but for such different reasons. I feel sick even now thinking about it.
And, damn me, I was so guilty of wanting Grady to be jealous. Jealous of my girlfriend, of my relationship with Jojo, and my growing relationship with my father.
I egged him on, and flaunted my girl—and the lake—in front of him so hard that when the time came to bring me in, my brother could only be on my father’s side. I didn’t leave any room for him to be on mine. There was zero motivation for him. But that’s how my father had planned it all.
When I told a few people her name, that she was Jojo Wallace, that made everyone whisper about her more. It made us all that more sensational.
A Wallace girl, dating a Sinclair? Is it true? Can it work?
Ha.
We showed them that it could…until I proved for my father that it couldn’t.
I had this idea that it was the first time Grady looked at me with any sort of wonder and respect. I could see his wheels turning, feel the jealousy radiating off of him. I also sensed a sort of panic in him that I didn’t quite understand yet. But that was because I was self-centered. I never noticed our father turning the screws on Grady too.
I should have known. I should have sensed that when my brother met Jojo for the first time, he would feel how I felt the day I met her. Enamored. Spellbound.
Despite my father, he’d fall fast and hard for her. He’d want her too. Everyone did.
When I look back on all of the carnage, I can’t help but beat myself up about it. Yes, I was a kid—only fourteen when they started all of this—but Grady was a kid too. And I didn’t even notice what our father had done to my brother to seal his proper place in the Sinclair family, not until it was way too late, and not until Grady hated me more than he hated our father.
Accidents…set ups…games, fear, and people hiding the truth all to execute the feud. All to hurt—and to end—Jojo Wallace.
I know my part in it was forced, but I can’t forgive myself for it. I still think that somehow I should have fucking known. I should have done better, been better, protected her and her family more.
Even now, I’m watching over her, hiding in a fucking shit rental car because I don’t want anyone to know she’s here and vulnerable. Even with my father dead in the grave, I feel like he might just hurt her all over again.
I know that’s impossible. But I have also learned not to count on things like that.
* * *
When I built my lake house, I fully intended to cover the big rock where she and I used to hang out, but I couldn’t do it. Jojo was gone, but the rock witnessed all of it—all of us.
It was where we first kissed, where we first said “I love you.” And it was where Jojo, so sweetly our junior year, seduced me. I lied to her continuously that I didn’t think we were ready to have sex yet because I knew my father wouldn’t approve. More than that, he forbade it.
Jojo was awakening, though, and so curious. The way she wanted me was impossible to resist most of the time, so when she got on her knees and unbuttoned my jeans out in the open air, where we could be discovered, I gave in. Hell, I asked for more. And she gave more.
I’ll never forget how my eyes rolled to the back of my head in pleasure, or her, catching her breath while telling me that she studied blow jobs by searching for directions online. Fuck. The thought of her watching porn for tips to please me made it hard to hold on for long.
She was so sweet that day, but she wasn’t sweet when she was like this. In a sudden decision, she became a vixen—so goddamned sexy that I was ready to forget all reason and take her virginity fast and hard.
The memories pound into me, and I try to push them away. Seeing her just brought them rushing back, though. Especially her beautiful mouth. It’s hard to forget the way it stretched around the width of me—her big eyes peering up, sheepish at first then hooded and wanting more. I always lost control and would push deep into the back of her throat. That is seared permanently into my core, and I can come now just thinking about it.
She would ask me if this is what sex would be like, and it was all I could do to not simply just show her right then and there. She would wonder if I was being sweet or rough, and if I’d be like that when we finally slept together. It was a question I could not answer, because I was being all of the above.
And then, like she couldn’t tell I was in a coma-of-release and new wanting, she beamed proudly over at me and bragged about how she made me lose myself completely. She added with an impish laugh, “I took all of you in my mouth, and I like the control.”
My response to that was again a loss for words. At that age, I was a star-struck dumbass. My inability to communicate was directly connected to every time Jojo and I were naked together—as would be any high school guy who was lucky enough to look at Jojo Wallace’s small, high, rose-tipped breasts and have his dick sucked by her on top of that.
That first time I saw her bare skin. It was impossible not to stay hard at the sight of her, which I think is why she stripped for me. She put her mouth on my cock until I was so hard that I begged her to make me come again. And she did.
As the weeks passed, we did a ton more studying on that topic. And she got better and better at taking me in. She would popsicle-lick the sides of me, circle her tongue around the tip with way more flair, and those plump lips would swallow me whole every single time. Later on, she preferred to stroke me until I came, loving the way my warmth landed on her lips or her breasts. I would always wash her off in the lake afterward as she stared at me with eyes wide, heavy with her own desire.
I wasn’t selfish about what she was doing for me, either. I learned expertly how to return every favor she’d given to me. Always going first, though. That was only fair. My tongue, even now, has a memory-map of her soft, tight clit. My fingers could easily find the spots on the heated insides of her. I learned how to stroke the hidden, satin button at her center. I knew when to go hard, when to go soft, when, where and how to suck to make her go insane. On that rock, she’d moan and beg—cry and even scream my name. I can close my eyes now and my pulse hums with the feel of her heated skin against mine, the memory still so strong of how she’d buck against me, gasp, and then come against my tongue, or my hands.
Tighten and release. Again, and again.
What we did on that rock. What I did to her. What she let me do to her as we got older. The image of Jojo with her legs spread wide for me—not like that last night, but those days we were really and truly both in love—almost does me in.
I shift in the seat of the rental car because fuck me for letting the memories crowd in here. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter, shaking my head. One glimpse of her and I’m a teenager again.
I know what we did together, though, and I know it was because of how much she truly loved me. She felt safe on that rock
, out there with me. At our lake, we were free. My dick drains instantly with those last thoughts.
Safe and free are two things she and I have never been.
* * *
When it came down to doing covering the rock up so my home would hide the memories, I didn’t have the strength.
I sent the architect back to the drawing board, and that rock is now built into the edge of what is a long back deck that connects to a sliding door off of my master bedroom. We decided to build no railing so the edge of the rock ends with the steepest side of the rock dropping off into the lake. For years, when I remember too much, the rock has been the perfect place to dive in—to hold my breath and stare up through the water and try to forget.
Sometimes I get into the mood where I like to torment myself by sitting on the edge of that rock. I picture her there with me, hovering near, whispering in my ear while I stroke myself. I’m so basic in my needs, but it’s the only way I stay focused on the mission. If I don’t indulge the few fantasies I have left, then I’ll act in reality. I’ll break my promise to keep her safe, all because my body wants hers too badly.
To keep my sanity, I’m careful to only go out there when it’s pitch dark outside. I don’t bask and relax on my back deck or anywhere near that rock. It sits there for the occasional glance to remind me of what I lost, and what I protect. I’ve avoided warm chocolate chip cookies, too. Any cookies, for that matter. And I avoid all lavender, both the color and the smell. As for sunsets, I never really look at them, because why would I invite hurt like that and unspeakable longing into a space that is already too filled up with my own personal self hatred?
And when I’m in my house on those nights where the moon is too full and too bright, and the small waves on the lake remind me of the sparkles in Jojo’s eyes, I close off the blinds or drive away fast into Tacoma so I can watch the view of the soulless shipyards then go to a bar and take home a woman who’s willing to bring me some release. Mostly, I drink myself into a stupor and pray as hard as I can that Jojo’s holding out, safe and alive, and hopefully not thinking about the days we were young and in love, just like I always am.