by Maya Rossi
Shameless
Maya Rossi
Copyright page
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
PROUDLY SHAMELESS
Copyright © 2019 Maya Rossi
Written by Maya Rossi
Dedication- For my family
Griffin
They say we should be careful what we wish for.
When the town falls asleep and I have my dogs and the yawning silence of the big house for company, I dare to dream.
I dare to imagine the unthinkable — a beautiful woman and children to share my world with.
A promise. A woman at the bar. She looks expensive, skies above my league.
I take the first step. We end up at the back of the bar.
The night is the perfect backdrop.
Her sucking sounds the fitting soundtrack.
A flash of bright light. Peeling off old wounds, exposing ugly truths.
The last time I saw Olivia Lee-Sterling she was six years old and the cutest little thing with her gap-toothed smile and the pink bow in her hair.
Now? She has mouth-watering curves and hauntingly beautiful eyes.
My attraction to her sidles through the cracks in the wall of ice around my heart — dark, unexpected and powerful.
I’ve made a career out of being alone. I didn’t ask for her; I didn’t want to fall in love with her.
Maybe everyone will finally get their wish and I will pay with my life for my sins.
God knows I’m guilty this time — I am twenty years her senior, and she is my ex-stepdaughter.
Shameless
Maya Rossi
Griffin
An unlikely beginning
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
An uncertain middle
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
A satisfying ending
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
An unlikely beginning
Chapter one
I should be content.
Like father used to say, I have more than I deserve. With a slight twist of my hips I set the swing going. The rusty sound of iron grinding together as it struggles to pull my considerable weight causes my dog, Clark to eye me curiously.
“Yup. I should get off before I ruin it.”
With a sigh, I jump off the swing and head for the house. Framed against the stark background of the hills bordering my property, the two-story ranch house is homely and breathtakingly beautiful. As the evening creep over the countryside, the electric candles I newly installed in the windows beckons like an old lover. The porch is wide and inviting with handmade chairs and a table decorated with wilting flowers. Briskly, I sweep the flowers off the table and discard them, glad for something to do with myself.
Tomorrow, I will return to the stream on the west side of my property to get more flowers. I should probably get the dying flowers inside, but I’m suddenly beset by the worse kind of loneliness. I’m tired.
If father sees me now, he will laugh his head off. I can picture it easily, his lumbering figure with its head full of gray hair. And those fists. My memory of them makes me shiver. What sort of grown still gets scared of his father’s fists? A wimp.
I don’t bother moving up the porch stairs, I sit on the last rung and look over my well-tended farm. I should be content.
Clark walks over and drapes his head in my lap, bringing a lump to my throat. I rub his head. “What should we do with ourselves, big boy?”
The evenings which should be the best part of my day are usually the worst. After the backbreaking farm work is done, I have the time to think. My thoughts and memories whirl in and around my head like old ghosts — a disturbing, discomforting presence. On the heels of that come a restlessness too and I don’t know why. Is it because of my birthday coming up or the past that accompanies it?
Just the thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Thirty-eight years old and still without sense. I have proved father and mother right. That’s one achievement right there. I rise from the stair and move indoors. Clark bounds in and takes his place by the fire. Why can’t I be like Clark, know my place and be content with it?
Somehow, I manage to immerse myself in a new romance novel that is all the rage. But the promise of ever after, the dream of a happy ending for the couple only leaves me more depressed. I check the storage before turning in. For the past three years since I began selling my fruit and vegetable crops, Peter comes in every Wednesdays and Fridays to make the deliveries.
Twelve years of living like a recluse and following a strict routine had instilled in me the habits of an old grump. So I always check after Peter when he’s gone. The air is cool and somewhat balmy with the promise of rain after the hot day we endured as I make my way to the storage.
After passing my flashlight around the surrounding, I roll up the gate one-handed. I notice the lone basket waiting in a corner. Murmuring obscenities under my breath, feeling somewhat smug for catching Peter in a bad form after years of consistency, I pounce on the basket.
There’s a handwritten note from Peter attached. Yeah, I know you check up after me. I’ve had this man’s delivery in my truck for the past five days. He’s not answering his door. Maybe, you’ll have better luck?
I bristle at the barely hidden prod to leave the farm. The only reason I use Peter is to avoid going into town. I pick the card where the customer order details and address is written. Peter’s right. The order has been due for six days now.
Can I make the walk out of the farm? My heart pound a shallow, fast beat. I reach for the address card attached to the basket with a shaky hand. My legs almost give out under me when I discover the house is right beside mine.
Swallowing hard, I call Peter. “Why didn’t you deliver Rick Tisdale of--”
“The man’s crazy, man,” Peter retorts in his annoyingly cheerful manner. “And you know damn well the reason, didn’t you see my note?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “Yup.”
“Grif?” Peter’s tone is serious, lacking his playful manner. “You know his house is right next to yours? You can make the order --”
“Shut the hell up,” I snap back. At twenty, Peter’s just a boy. A very responsible one, but still a boy. I don’t need him telling me what I ought to do. At once, I regret my harsh words. “I’m sorry, but how I live my life is none of your business.”
For a second all I can hear is Peter’s breathing down the line. I can almost picture him, with furrowed brows, hunched shoulders and sagging trousers, trying to force the million thoughts in his head into some kind of order. Was I ever that young?
“It’s just --” he clears his throat, still sounding uncharacteristically serious, “Never mind, I will come by to pick it up.”
“No,” I return hurriedly before I lost my nerve, “I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure?” Now, he sounds dubious. “The man’s kinda crazy.”
Shock pins me to the spot. Several thoughts hit me at once. One, if Peter thinks this man is crazy then the community does too. Two, I wonder what he did to get the ‘crazy’ label. As all these thoughts run through my mind a shameful tinge takes it place — there is someone like me in town. Different like me.
“Griff --”
“I’ll handle it.”
Before I will ta
lk myself out of it, I grab a fresh basket and pack fresh milk, corn, tomatoes and eggs.
It is my first foray out of the farm in a long time and the vise-like grip fear has on my heart nearly sends me to my knees as I trudge down my driveway to my truck heading to Rick Tisdale’s address. Luckily, the house is even closer to mine than I thought. In roughly five minutes I get there. I spend another two minutes in my truck almost talking myself out of it.
Finally, I turn off the truck and get out. At this time of the evening when the young ones should be up and about having a good time, I’m the only one in the middle of the road. When I strain my ears, I hear nothing, not cars or music or anything. It reminds me of a dystopian novel setting where the whole town is gone and I’m the one left behind. The imagery is disturbing enough to spur me forward.
I take a second to take in the overgrown flowerbeds and half hanging door. Yup, this is definitely a scene from a dystopian story. As I stand on his doorstep, I can trace the dance of dust motes in the air. My heart sinks.
Peter is right. I’m not as crazy as whoever this Rick is. With its flowers, the stream and animals, Lizanne is a fucking paradise, I make sure of it. I pull the card where we jot down the address of customers out of my pocket and check again. This is really his house. The porch isn’t just sagging, it’s gone. The remains are rotten and trailing all over the place — a perfect recipe for weeds and what not to sprout from. After much hesitation, I knock harder.
The sound of furniture hitting the ground reach my ears. I wait, fiddling with address card, the basket a nonexistent weight in my hand. It’s all I can do to stop myself from peeking in. Minutes pass, I shift from one booted feet to the other. I run a hand over my overgrown blond hairs. Unable to help it any longer, I peep through the sagging door. My blood run cold at the sight before me. The past rise before my eyes like some mythical creature ready to plunder and kill. Bile fill my mouth and I gag while stumbling into the house.
A small-boned man stand slouched by an overturned chair. A noose hang from a knot on the ceiling. For a full minute we don’t speak, just stare at each other. There’s no shame in his defiant stare. The old fan in the room produce a crickety sound on every turn. And still we stare.
My thoughts are bottomless pools of ash and gray and rage. I can’t see from the pain and anger holding me in thrall. It seems like forever before I notice it’s my breathing making the wheezing sound and not the fan. The man takes a step back, scanning me warily.
“Are you alright? Looks like you need some help man,” he says.
I lose it. Without thinking, I stalk over, ignoring his panicked yelp, I grab his blue shirt in my huge hands. Next to me, he’s no bigger than an ant. With my fists in the folds of his shirt, I notice the quality of the material. His cologne. Even to my hermit eyes they are undoubtedly expensive. Designers. A thought strike me. He didn’t need to wear his clothes to die. He could have given it to someone. The noose from above brush my face, and I glance up to give it an annoyed glance. My stomach rolls over. It is a reminder of what I walked into.
I shake the man violently, so much his head rag along his neck like my old plow at home at the control of my horse, Lex. A gurgling frightening sound stretch out of his slack lips and I halt, causing his forehead to smack into my chest.
After a pregnant pause, punctuated by our harsh breaths, the man struggles, pushing hard against my chest until I let go.
“Are you crazy?” he asks, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Funny, that’s what Peter said about you.” I grab the noose and tear it down, ripping out part of the ceiling. Pieces from the plaster, sand and what else rain down on us.
“Who’s Pe—ahh.” My anger deepens when the man scurries away like his life depends on it. Like I’m the crazy one. Why will a man about to kill himself run from danger? “You don’t want to die, not really,” I bite out.
“Are you mad? Get the hell out of my house!” he gasps.
I stoop down to his height on the ground and fear shoot across his features, pinching his handsome face into a terrified mask. With a sigh, I run my hand over my face and walk out. It takes sometime, about twenty minutes before the man comes out. We are quiet but I can feel his wary watchfulness without seeing his face. The house is even more desolate from the front.
“You’re Rick Tisdale?”
“Errmm, yeah?” His voice is high-pitched and thin.
“I take it you’re not from around here?”
“No?”
He looks wary and shell-shocked, like I suddenly zipped down and flashed him or something equally stupid. I point at the basket. “You placed an order from my farm six days ago.”
“Normal people will wait to be let in before barging into my house, but whatever,” he snarks.
I wonder how old he is. With his small stature and unlined face, it is difficult to tell. My eyes bounce around the house. Suddenly, my throat close up and my emotions inch dangerously close to the surface. “I will be back to clean your house and repair the door.”
Rick stutters, his dark brows the only color in his white face. “I-I don’t want you to come, just… forget--”
“I will be back,” I say, the tone of my voice brooking no argument.
I keep my promise, returning in the evening the next day. Rick, as I come to learn doesn’t like or want my help. But I do it anyway. When I start work on his front porch, he relents and we start talking. He previously lived in New York city where he is some kind of big shot designer or something. Since I know next to nothing about art, I don’t much care.
I want to know why he almost killed himself, but he seems determined to avoid the topic as I am to know about it. So I let it go. Somehow, he ends up in the farm a lot, helping out or just dipping his toes in the stream.
One day, I join him by the stream. The weather is perfect with just a hint of breeze and sunshine. With my back against a rock, and hands propped on my leg, I watch the water ripple around his legs. Clark presses close to Rick, licking his chin.
A heavy weight I never knew I carried lifted off my shoulders. I relax, pressing my back into the rock. I tip my head back and enjoyed the breeze caressing my face. “I made one bastard apple cake, hmmm, yummy.”
“Grif,” Rick suddenly calls.
“Yeah?” I murmur, letting my eyes drift close.
“I will surely try to kill myself again.”
My eyes snap open. For what seems like an eternity, I stare up at the heavens in disbelief. I will surely try to kill myself again. I mouth the words. It whispers down my throat like air, filters down to my gut. I digest it and still come up with nothing. How do people make such a monumental decision?
“Why?” The words come out like gravel.
“I’ve got nothing to live for,” he says simply.
“What,” I snap, “no family?”
“But you do.”
This conversation is going nowhere. Mentally, I backpedal, trying to figure out where I lost the thread. “What are you talking about?”
This time he lifts his toes out of the water and swings around on his butt to face me fully. “You want more, I don’t. You want a wife, children,” he gestures at the house, “you’re prepared for it. Go for it.”
I swallow hard. I can’t exactly deny. But… “You might want more too, if — ”
“I’m done,” he says emphatically. “But you’re not.”
An idea strikes me. “I’ll make you a deal. You will get help,” I raise my voice over his protests, “promise me you’ll get help and I will try.”
“I promise to get help and you go into town and ask a girl out,” he counters.
“You get help and I go into town.”
He scratches Clark behind the ears, avoiding my eyes. “It’s a deal.”
Chapter two
They are fighting. Again.
Is it too much to ask they act normal for my eighteenth birthday? I cinch up my new Manolo Blahnik shoes and I’m ready. As I prepare to leave t
he room, Dana my stepsister enters. I ignore her as I move around, gathering my things. Home trouble or not, I’m determined to enjoy my eighteenth birthday party with my friends.
When I’m done, I turn around to find her blocking the door. “What now?”