He patrols outside. Meditating away from wayward thoughts of deeds less than honorable. Slightly calmed by forested land and memories of Josephine holding him… bringing him into a steady heartbeat. His daydreaming takes over. Visions of picnics with her favorite foods over fresh mowed sod. Him lying beside her on a blanket. Outside and… in the open. Safe from secret battles. Safe because she knows everything. She knows everything and it doesn’t bother her. She accepts him. Everything about him. And he imagines her smiling. His chest is nurtured by bliss in such a thought. A thought of her wanting him after knowing. Knowing all of it. He wipes hope from under his eye.
Just a daydream.
“I’d need an entire army here for that. But she could… with one word. She could call an entire army.”
He pauses feet shy of a mangled tree. Memories of a distant night weigh heavy with history, “I almost…” and leans against twisted bark, “I almost ruined her by not letting her choose.” Dew and sawdust brush against the canthus of shut eyes and beneath his fingers. “She would’ve lectured me for sure.”
He studies the aftermath, swimming through thoughts. Thoughts of holding a wife. His thoughts thicken over saturated blue eyes, until, a blurred stump remains. Lucius wipes grains from his hand along with his tears.
He pauses…
as a smile grows. “This’ll be my best one yet,” gathering a dagger. His blade caresses the bark. Just below jagged edges of splintered oak, saying the words he so desperately craves to tell her. His Gamerin metal etches through the tree trunk like butter. “I’m still here, baby.” He blows sawdust from his artwork, “Always yours.”
He re-quivers his blade, staring down at etched wood. “Someday I’ll show her. My proof. Proof I was here.” Lucius steps away, “They don’t have to know about that one either.” He turns from his cryptic message, humming his favorite hymnal tune toward the house.
◆◆◆
Josephine lies with her arm stretched across an empty space claimed every night beside her. Lucius enters her room. “Saving my spot?” He gathers an area closest to her, stroking her cheek. She recoils her arm, resting it at her side. He says, “Happy birthday, baby. I’m so deeply in love with you.” He inhales deep, staring at her arm resting over her hip. Her fragrance saturates his lungs, until, he’s fighting tears. “I wish you could hold me. Wrap your arms around me. The days are longer now. So much longer without your love over me. It felt like seconds and our time would never run out.” His thumb rubs her bottom lip. “I wish I could go back and experienced those moments again. I wish I could wake you just to feel you hold me again. To know you want me.” His parting lips and thunderous chest pauses him.
Be strong, he tells himself, What would you even say to her? In her bedroom? Before sunrise without your camouflage on? Don’t forget who you are. This is to protect her.
He whispers, “My God,” dew coats his eyes, “I’m so deeply in love with you. I have to remind myself to be good… umpteen million times a day. The things you do to me to me, sweet woman.” He studies her body. Her soft figure beneath warm blankets, and he says, “Even in your sleep, you call me. I’m so tempted,” clasping his chest as his breath rattles, “I need you.” His vision climbs over her body, begging, “Search, baby. Find him. He’s waiting for you. I’m waiting… falling apart every day to hold you,” and he moves away. For his own safety, he moves from his warm spot beside her. He moves away before he can give in. Before she understands he’s there. “I love you,” murmured below his breath.
But…
a mumble traps his feet in place from walking out. A feminine moan raptures his heart from leaving the room. she whispers, “I love you, Lucius.”
Time lies to him. Like he has forever in a single moment. Could she be talking to me? His mind plays its cruel deceit with his stuttered step. Is this it? Have I gone this far only to fail her now? Giving in?
Paralyzed feet slowly pivot back, gathering if she sees him or not. His heart throbs painfully. “Baby, I…”
But
she was only speaking in her sleep.
He slams his eyes, releasing his tethered breath. He can’t remember what gave him strength. He doesn’t know where the willpower came from, for him to tiptoe out her door, but he activated his full camouflage. He managed a healthy distance between him and a mistake. Shame. Guilt. The sensation of wanting to slap himself for a moment of weakness. “I almost gave in. She’s my weakness.”
As soon as he leaves her room, he breaks down on the loft. A full heaviness of his knees hitting over wooden beams. Soundless. But he felt it. He heard his pounding heart fall, and all he can do is, “God, I’d give anything for her to hold me again. I’m so lonely for her. I need help.” His face presses against wooden flooring, “Someone… please answer me? I’m not gonna last much longer.”
Abirthday bash is Josephine’s only motivation when readying herself and leaving shoes strolled out around her closet. She says, “Where the poopy are they? I know there’s a fancy pair here. Somewhere.” Drake travels across the loft. His questions about this evening lead his steps into her master bedroom. She’s nowhere near paying attention. Too busy up on the step stool high in her closet, searching for special boots that her mom would wear. The boots with a filigree design etched on the side. Perfect for a birthday party.
Drake stands behind her. Before long he’s staring. Staring at her body stretching upward. Every part that drives a man crazy right front of him, balancing on ballet toes and shuffling through items on her top shelf. Her calves are taut. Abdomen stretched thin. Buttocks at eye level. Her perky upper body has folded a cotton blouse. Her stretched shoulder blocks her view and hasn’t noticed his quiet nature. His staring. Or licking lips. Drake readjusts himself, watching her soft peaks. Peaks pressing her shirt out with her arms up, almost as if posing for him specifically.
He reaches…
and stops.
He steps back. Looks around and moves a few objects, pushing a stack of shoes into a pile in front of him. A newly formed obstacle. An alibi. He works it in his head with a nod and steps forward. His follow-through is successful. A pretend trip toward her and he’s grabbing for her breasts and his nose presses into her hip.
Yelp
Josephine loses balance. She bumps over, shuffling off her stepladder. His added weight is no help to her either. He might have grabbed her breasts, but boxes are knocked free in the process. Knocked free from the top shelf. And landing on his head, which is most definitely not what he had previously planned.
She’s falling…
but
not over him. Her body is angled into clothes, overstuffed and dangling from hangers. However, Drake lands on several high heels, jabbing him in the back. A moment passes before he’s breathing in, wondering what went wrong. He opens his eyes just in time to witness a delayed response. One last box plummets down, landing on top of him. And… full of items.
Pong
Smacking over the bridge of his cheekbone and forehead. “Dammit!” He rolls out of the closet, rubbing his head. He grips a shoe from his makeshift pile, and throws it. In his moment of anger, it bounces back from the corner of something he never saw. Something clenching a fist. The heel of the shoe strikes Drake’s cheek. Josephine grimaces from what little she saw, and is left peeling herself from several dress suits in her mom’s old closet.
Drake rubs his aching cheeks, “I have to go to the store real fast, after putting ice on this,” remembering to keep his snapping to a minimum. “Be ready when I get back. Don’t forget your license.” His damaged ego trundles out of the room. “Dang it,” and stomps around the house, until, slamming the front door shut behind him.
“Next time it won’t just be a box,” Lucius scowled.
◆◆◆
Drake enters a store, throwing costume jewelry over the counter. He flashes a smile at the register clerk, “Ring me up.”
She glances a caustic expression back at Drake, scanning fake diamonds for him. �
��Going all out for her?”
“Nothing but the best.”
“She must be something else,” and places cheap stones in a bag.
“They sure are.” He winked, handing over a few dollars before strolling out.
◆◆◆
He jumps into his car just as his phone rings. The name, Butcher, lights the screen. A half roll of his eyes sprouts a few words as his fingers open up the conversation with, “Alright, stupid prick. What the hell you calling for? I told you to fix your own problems.”
But…
the voice on the other line is not Butcher’s. Drake’s eyes amplify. His voice lightens, “Mr. Est —
“I thought I’d find you,” a controlled tone answered.
Knowing exactly why Butcher is no longer governing his phone. Drake glances around the parking area. He’s memorizing a few pedestrians, wondering if eyes are staring back at him before saying, “Nice to speak to —
“Cut the bullshit… Drake the fake,” he snapped. “Where have you been?”
“Hey man,” Drake explains, “I had your money, but… but… Butcher took it when he smoked the rest of it. I swear. I’m working to get it all back. I just need some time’s all. I’m good for it. You know Butcher —
“Oh… I believe Butcher smoked a lot of it,” a voice of magic takes over, making Drake’s face lose color. “In fact, I was looking for Butcher earlier today. I’m not looking for him no more. And you don’t live here no more either, Drake the fake.” Drake tenses in his driver’s seat. Unable to speak. Barely able to move his lips. Or to sly himself out of name-calling. “You speechless?”
“I’m trying to —
“You don’t live here. I found that out when I found his phone… lying in his hand. The only thing of yours I found…” he paused, “was your number.”
“He could always give you my number. In fact, I told him to give it to you after having it changed. I’m glad he gave you his phone to call me.”
“Gave it to me? Yes. I guess you could say that. I figured he won’t be needing it anymore. He doesn’t work for me.” Drake turns a few shades lighter than concrete, as the voice continues “In fact, he’s retired now. We were just throwing him a little retirement party? Would you like to join?”
Drake’s silence screams over a haunted line. His breathing shallows out with his answer, “No, sir.”
“So respectful all of the sudden?”
“I’m always respectful of you, sir.”
“Where’ve you been? Nobody’s been on the walk for me. I’m losing revenue… and patience is a virtue I’m running short of.”
“Um…” Drake clears his throat, “I had everything ready. I was ‘bout to give it to you. I had one sell left. Butcher took it before I could make the final delivery. I’m sorry. It takes time to recover what he’s lost.”
“Oh… he’s lost a lot… Drake,” plastic ruffles as back noise, “I’m looking at what he’s lost right now.” Drake grabs his throat as the voice of a preemptive death rattle continues without graphic censorship, “It’s all over the place, Drake. His chair. Walls.” Words slur without guilt of explaining the new paint job around him, “Lining his bookshelf. Even his shitty television set from 1995.” He gives background orders to someone, “Peroxide that spot, so his landlord doesn’t catch on. I know that guy.”
“I’m getting it together,” Drake swallows, “I swear. It’s why I moved out. Come on man. We’re old friends. You gotta believe me. Have I ever stolen from you?”
“Don’t make me come looking for you,” and the phone line disconnects.
Words barely slide from Drake’s tongue, “The fuuuu…” staring through space. His phone slides across his palms. Minutes pass before regaining thoughts. Realizing what has happened to his old business partner. His old roommate. The closest person he had as a confidant. He says, “Butcher…”
and pauses.
Then yells, “… you suck balls!” He hits random objects around his dashboard, steering wheel, and everything else within his reach with a roar, “Prick, you let him get my number. You, sleazy piece of —
Random honking escalates throughout the parking lot. A beat-up car shakes in a parking spot. Several bystanders witness a strange individual losing sanity, and keep their distance. Trying not to pry into anyone’s lunatic behaviors. He sits back in his chair, rubbing his face before slapping at the wheel. “Moron ‘til the end, Butcher.” His fingers wrestle through sweat beaded hair, “Deserved it.”
Josephine wears her hair long. Pressed by a hat against her back. She exits her front door just in time to witness Drake’s eighteen-year-old sedan driving across blacktop. Gravel crunches under her boots, meeting him on the driveway. He shovels it out of gear and jumps from his car. “Sugar,” placing his hat back on, “you’re gonna knock their boots off tonight.”
“I don’t know,” glancing down at her denim ensemble, “I think my jean skirt’s too much.” She thumbs back at the house, “Maybe, I should just put my jeans back on. I don’t wanna overdo it.”
“No,” measuring her up, “you look great. Perfect for this evening. Skirt and all.”
A bashful weave of her fingers, and she says, “Thanks,” pushing her nervousness through straightened elbows. “I don’t usually wear dresses or skirts.”
“Well, hop your skirt in the passenger seat.” She takes two steps…
he then realizes with a glance back at his car… They know what car I drive, and releases his door handle. “Um… wait.” Josephine stops a foot shy of his hood. Drake’s eyes discover a solution beside the house. Parked beyond her sedan. “Is that the one you let your friend borrow?”
“Yeah. My dad’s old truck.”
“How old is that pickup,” staring at the patina aged paint, angling his nose toward his disguise.
“Um —
“We need to take that instead of a car,” as if no other option, “You can’t go to a country bar without a country truck… it ain’t right.” His hands fan out, “Doesn’t work like that, Jojo.”
“Well —
“But you probably already knew that…” nodding, “be’n a country girl and all. You know you don’t go on a country outing without a country truck.”
She shrugs a harmless shoulder, “Okay. That’ll be fun. Haven’t driven it in a while.”
“Really? Good thing I said something. You can’t park an old truck like that.”
“It’s been there for a month,” she answered.
“The engine’ll go bad. You have to use it often. Parts aren’t what they used to be. We can’t just let a classic die like that. Wasn’t it your dad’s?”
“Yes, it was,” changing her voice with a turn of her neck, “I don’t want it to break down.”
“Let me grab a few things before leaving. We’ll head out in a sec,” and he runs toward the house. Josephine follows behind him, and he stops her with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to follow me. I’m trying to hurry and you already look great,” signaling toward the truck, “Check how much gas it has. We might have to fill ‘er up.”
“If so,” she continues following, “I have gas cans,” aiming a gesture toward the shed. “I’m sure there’s enough, if I needed. I used them during a snowstorm this last winter. I’m just gonna wait in the foyer for you. It’s getting cold out here with evening.”
“Fine. I’ll be down in a second.” He dashes full speed upstairs, grabbing his mixed narcotics wrapped in a baggie. He sticks one on his tongue, and slides a few strong doses into a small powder case. Drake slips the case into his back pocket, and walks across the loft with a glance down at Josephine. He raises a fist, hooting enthusiasm, “Alright! The birthday train is leaving the station… toot… toot.”
She shakes a cranked smile, “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy ‘bout having fun on your birthday.”
◆◆◆
They pull up to the club. Drake says, “Park here,” a few parking spots over from the door outside the cou
ntry dance hall, limiting his time outside. With a hearty stride in his step, Drake walks in with his date. “Let me get the door for you, miss,” escorting her all the way through the dance hall to sit toward the corner, not far from the dance floor.
Live music plays. Loud and with an overenthusiastic drummer. A highly talented group of guitar players swing hips and keep rhythm. The lead singer continues his midpoint before backup singers build their harmony through a catchy chorus. With every twang, echoes a swing of a hip, scoot of a boot, and a wink of a smile beneath a billed hat.
Drake raises his voice, “Hey.”
She cups an ear, tilting toward him, “What?”
His finger jabs air toward her chair, “Stay here.” But she looks off in another direction. He signals for her attention from looking around, “Alright? I’ve gotta order our food and drinks. I’ll be right back.”
She nods, sitting slowly, absorbing the environment.
On the dance floor, people move in line over scratchy wooden tiles. Worn down from years of dance. Tiles that have been waxed weekly and washed daily. Their clothes aren’t flashy. No glitter, rhinestones, fringe, or tassels hanging from the patrons. Only belt buckles showing off rodeo wins. Each man wears that one good pressed shirt, making them look civilized for an evening out. A couple men have boots older than she is by the looks of it. Boots that are built to last. Tough and holding true to the rugged characteristic of who the wearer is.
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