by Nell Iris
His Steady Heart
By Nell Iris
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 Nell Iris
ISBN 9781634869690
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
His Steady Heart
By Nell Iris
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Chapter 1
I see him immediately as I turn my truck onto our street. Huddled under a threadbare blanket, he’s curled into a ball at the top of the stairs leading to the tiny, rundown house he shares with his mom. He has a paperback open on his lap and he’s using the flashlight on his cell phone to read since it’s still dark outside.
Frowning, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten. It’s too cold for him to sit there. It’s the second week of January, and even though we still haven’t gotten any snow—it was our first green Christmas in years—the temperature is hovering in the low thirties. Even in the dim light, I can see him shiver.
With a huff, I park on my driveway, throw open the door, and step out. “Hey, Pippin,” I holler, and his head shoots up. How he missed the rumble of my truck is a mystery, but he tends to shut out everything around him when he’s got his nose in a book.
His generous mouth stretches in a wide smile, and he raises his hand in a wave.
“Get your butt over here,” I call.
He pulls the blanket tighter around his narrow shoulders. “I’m okay. You must be tired after your shift.”
I roll my eyes, not caring that he can’t see me. That darned, stubborn man! So adamant to not be a bother, not realizing he never is. Not when I first moved back in with my ma to take care of her when she was sick—I was twenty-two and he was six the first time I found him on the stairs because his mother had a “gentleman caller,” as Ma used to call them—and not now.
“Don’t make me come get ya, Pippin Olander. That’ll make me grumpy for sure.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him, but that only makes him laugh.
Imp.
But my words have the desired effect. He closes the book, tucks it under his arm, and shuts off the flashlight before he jumps to his feet.
I can’t help smiling at him as he crosses the lawn. He never regained his coordination after hitting a growth spurt when he was sixteen, and five years later, he still reminds me of a newborn foal taking his first steps on long wobbly legs.
Darned adorable is what he is.
I step inside and kick off my boots, happy to be able to wiggle my toes again. A second later, Pippin stumbles through the door and bumps into me.
“Sorry,” he says with a grin.
I huff out a fond chuckle and shake my head. “You’re hopeless.”
“I know.” He grins again and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
With a scowl, I yank open the coat closet, grab a charcoal gray fleece jacket worn soft over the years, and toss it to him. “Put this on. You’re not freezin’ to death on my watch.”
He lets the blanket fall to the floor and puts on the garment. It’s huge on him; he’s only a couple inches shorter than my six four, but where I’m wide and muscled, he’s slim and lanky. Willowy, borderline skinny, with narrow shoulders, thin hips, and the legs of a giraffe. The jacket hangs off his frame, making it look like he stole his dad’s clothes. As usual, the sight of him like that fills me with an urge to feed him and put some meat on his bones.
“Thank you.” He smiles and throws his arms around me, squeezing me in an affectionate hug. Ever since he was little, he’s always been a touchy-feely kind of guy and takes every chance to hug or express his emotions with a touch.
After he pulls away, he neatly folds the blanket and puts it on the floor next to the door, and I shuffle into the kitchen. “Hot chocolate?” I open the fridge to take out the milk, but his hands on my biceps stop me.
“I’ll do it.” He turns me around and gives me a little push toward my bedroom. “Go change. Take a shower, if you wanna.”
I don’t argue; I really wanna wash up after work. “Make some for yourself, too.” If I don’t remind him, he won’t do it.
Moments later, I stand in the cramped tub and a contented sigh slips out of me as the water beats down on my head. I could use the shower at work, but I’ve always preferred going home to clean up. My house may be tiny and plain, but there’s nothing wrong with the shower. The water heater is about as big as the house and I haven’t managed to use up all the hot water once.
After a quick wash, I pull on a pair of lounge pants and a hoodie and rejoin Pippin in the kitchen. He’s perched on his usual stool by the breakfast bar with the book opened in front of him and a steaming cup of chocolate in his hand. I sit, grab my mug, and take a sip.
It’s perfect. Not too hot and extra sweet, just the way I like it. “Thanks,” I say.
He looks up from his book and shoots me a smile.
“What’cha readin’?”
Pink spots appear on his cheeks. “Twilight,” he mumbles and shows me the cover. “I didn’t buy it,” he hurries to add. “Someone forgot it at work last month and hasn’t been back to claim it, so Maggie said I could have it.”
Maggie is Pippin’s boss at The Friendly Bean, the coffee shop where he works as a barista, and she knows how much he loves books. “That’s nice of her.”
He nods.
“What’s it about?”
“You haven’t heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“It’s uh…” He squirms on the stool. “Vampires.”
“Like Dracula?”
He snickers. “Not quite. They’re teenagers. And the vampires glitter in the sunlight.”
“Sunlight? I thought vampires melted in the sun?”
“So did I, but apparently we were both wrong.”
“Huh. Glittery vampires. Who woulda thought?” I yawn and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands until tiny spots start dancing in my vision.
“Long night?” He closes the book and peers at me under the unruly bangs hanging over his eyes. He could definitely use a haircut.
“Mhm.” I yawn again. “We had a monster clog. Took me forever to fix. Almost expected to find a lost piece of luggage stuffed in the pipes.” It wouldn’t be totally improbable. People try to flush all kinds of shit at the airport.
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He wrinkles his nose. “Sounds unpleasant.”
“It was.” I cross my arms on the breakfast bar and rest my forehead on them.
“You should get some sleep. I’ll go,” Pippin says.
“No.” I straighten and rub my eyes again. Then I make a quick decision; I pull out the drawer and grab the extra key for the house, and put it on the bar in front of him. “Stay until you need to go to work.”
I’ve meant to give it to him for a long time, but getting him to accept stuff, even little things, is a struggle. His pride’s got pride, so just reaching a point where he accepts a hot drink without me having to twist his arm has been an uphill battle.
His fingers twitch as though he wants to take the key, but he just keeps looking at it. I put my index finger on the key and nudge it closer to him.
“I…” He lays a fingertip on the metal and frowns.
“Pippin.” I soften my voice. “I worry when you’re sittin’ out there freezin’ your butt off, strainin’ your eyes tryin’ to read in the dark.”
“I’m all right,” he whispers.
“I know you are.” He’s more than all right. I don’t understand how he grew up to be such a great person, considering his childhood. “But do it for me?” That’s pretty much the only way to get him to agree to accept things from me—by making him believe they’re more for my sake than for his.
“Why?” He looks at me with furrowed eyebrows.
Because someone needs to look out for you when your mom is too busy screwing her latest sugar daddy to be able to afford to warm the house this winter. Because you’re so darned strong, working two crappy jobs and saving up what little you can spare for college. Because you’re too good for this shitty situation life dealt you.
Many times over the years, I’ve wanted to stomp over to Crystal Olander and yell at her for neglecting her son. I haven’t, of course. I always do my best to avoid situations like that; I’m not a confrontational guy. And Pippin wouldn’t approve. I never say a bad word about her to Pippin; he wouldn’t accept it. He’s the most loyal person I ever met and has never complained about his situation. So I don’t either. But, Christ on a cracker, sometimes I’m biting my tongue so hard to stop myself from spewing crap about her, I’m afraid it’s gonna split in half.
“I care what happens to you,” is all I say.
The corners of his mouth turn up. “If you’re sure?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Is that Ashley-speak for ‘yes’?” His eyes twinkle.
I nod with a chuckle. He’s the only one with the guts to call me Ashley. To everyone else, I’m Buck. Heck, even Ma relented and started calling me Buck when I was a sullen teenager who hated my girly name. But not Pippin. He claims Buck is a stupid hick name that doesn’t suit me.
“I’ll give it back to you before you leave for work tonight.”
“No.” I take the key, press it into his hand, and close his fingers around it. “Keep it. I don’t wanna see you on the porch steps again. Next time your ma has, uh, her boyfriend for a visit, you get your butt over here. Since I ain’t got a guest room, I only have the couch to offer. But it’s plenty comfy, trust me. Sheets are in the closet in my room.” For the first time, I regret turning the teeny-tiny second bedroom where Ma used to sleep—me and my sister shared the master—into a gym.
He blinks rapidly and looks away as he presses the hand clasping the key against his heart. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs, and I fight the urge to do a victory lap around the kitchen for getting him to agree.
To hide my happy smile from him, I, too, look away. And not looking at him eases the urge to pull him into my arms and squeeze him hard and whisper stupid promises in his ear that I’m not sure he wants to hear.
A yawn threatens to crack my face in two. “Gotta hit the hay.” I finish off the hot chocolate and stand to wash the mug, but Pippin plucks it out of my grip.
“I’ll do it.”
“All right. See you tonight, then?”
He turns his back at me and starts rinsing out our mugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Good. G’night.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite and all that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Halfway down the hall, I turn back to the kitchen. “Oh, and Pippin?”
“Yeah?”
“Eat somethin’ before you go to work.”
His mouth sets in a stubborn line. “No, I—”
I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Don’t argue. You’re not starvin’ on my watch either. Besides, I’m goin’ to the store when I wake up so you don’t have to worry about me bein’ hungry. I ain’t got much, but help yourself to whatever you find. Eggs. Bacon, I think. Bread’s in the freezer.”
He shuts off the water and dries his hands on a towel. I narrow my eyes and stare him down. He doesn’t say anything, but after a few seconds, he gives in with a nod.
“Good,” I grunt and turn to leave. I haven’t taken more than a couple steps when he catches up with me. He snakes his arms around my waist and buries his nose in my neck, his front plastered against my back. “Thank you, Ashley,” he breathes.
He’s surprisingly strong for someone so thin, and his hug is fierce. Carefully, I rest my hands on top of his.
Neither of us moves. His breath puffs against my neck, his arms surround me and keep me safe, and his body heat radiates through my clothes and into my bones. I wish we could stay like this forever.
Another yawn breaks the moment between us. He lets go and steps away, taking his warmth with him. I feel like I’ve been doused in ice water, and I shiver.
“Sleep. I won’t disturb you.”
“I know,” I mutter, but he’s already back at the kitchen sink.
I shuffle into the bedroom and crawl under the covers without getting undressed. Muted sounds drift in from the kitchen. The tap running. Dishes being returned to the cupboards. The scraping of a chair. Quiet humming of a song I don’t recognize. And then silence.
But the silence is different than usual. Not as deafening. Not as lonely.
And it’s that shared silence that finally rocks me to sleep.
Chapter 2
The house is empty when I get home from the grocery store later that afternoon. I don’t know what I expected—and it’s not like I know Pippin’s schedule by heart—but standing all alone in my kitchen, I can admit that I’d hoped he’d be back by now.
I scratch my neck with a loud huff. He spent a few hours here this morning, and now the house feels emptier than ever before? That’s not even possible. I’m downright pathetic.
At least his book is still on the breakfast bar, so he’ll be back. Right?
Tracing the outline of the two hands holding a red apple on the book cover, I allow myself to think about him. Really think.
Something about Pippin has always triggered my nurturing side, which has always been huge to start with. When he was little, he had only me and Ma on days when his own mother was more focused on whatever boyfriend she had at the moment. And during his adolescence, he spent a lot of time at our house, trying not to be a bother.
My feelings havn’t lessened now that he’s all grown up. On the contrary, the need to be there for him and care for him is ingrained into my very being. As important to me as breathing.
Despite his bravado and independence, there’s still an air of innocence about him. There’s something vulnerable about his full mouth, with the pouty lower lip and pronounced Cupid’s bow when he’s not smiling. The way his brown hair—almost black, like dark-roasted coffee—always falls over his left eye and how he tries to push it out of the way with an impatient brush of the back of his hand, which shows his uncoordinated movements. His huge brown eyes twinkle with happiness most of the time and drink in everything happening around him with enthusiasm, but fill with loneliness when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking,
But I look. Probably more than I should, considering he’s sixteen years my junior. The spine of steel, the bubbly joy,
and the vulnerability he does everything to hide, make my belly all warm. Make it impossible for me to look away.
With a shake to my head, I slam my palm on the book and push it away. I need to stop being ridiculous, right this second.
That decided, I go to the car and pick up the rest of my shopping bags. As I unpack eggs and tomatoes and beans and all my other purchases, my thoughts return to him.
I think about him a lot. I’ve always done that, from the first time I saw him and asked my ma why the little boy was sitting alone on the stairs. She didn’t know—Pippin and his mom had just moved into the house next door, and Ma’d felt crappy for a long time and hadn’t had the energy to even get out of bed some days.
The next day, he sat there again, and I decided to investigate.
I didn’t even have to ask him about it. As I approached, I could hear loud sex noises leaking out of the house, even from a distance. A rough male voice grunting “Take it, take my cock” and a female voice howling so loud she was either the most satisfied lady on Planet Earth or faking it. Or she was a werewolf.
And the boy—“Pippin like the hobbit,” he told me, glancing up from under shaggy hair in desperate need of a trim—just sat there thumbing through an old picture book as though it was nothing out of the ordinary.
And it wasn’t.
It was too easy to convince him to come with me to meet Ma, who was charmed by him instantly. Despite her fragile state, she fed him milk and store-bought cookies, and made him promise to never go away alone with strangers again. Even now, fifteen years later, I get sick to my stomach thinking about what could have happened to that trusting little boy if someone other than me and Ma had gotten to him first.
I shudder.
When my groceries are packed away—I bought extra, hoping I’ll have a frequent houseguest—I stare at the last shopping bag.
A sale sign in the thrift store window next to my grocery store had caught my attention earlier—All paperbacks 25¢.
The last time I’d read a book was in high school—I prefer watching baseball, crappy movies on Netflix, homesteading videos on YouTube, or pretty much doing anything that’s not reading—but the memory of Pippin with his nose buried in the book this morning made me go inside. A kind employee—about Pippin’s age—helped me pick out ten titles he assured me are popular. On my way to the cash register, I passed a shelf of sweatpants and hoodies marked down seventy-five percent.