Battle

by KJ Bell

  His strong hands push into the top of my shoulders, encouraging me to sit. “Please,” he says with desperation. “I can’t trust anyone else.”

  As I sit, he stays behind me. His presence distracts me from his words, but a second later, they crash into me. He knew where I worked. He planned this. I spin on the stool and face him. “You lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry.” While he said the words, his smile tells me he doesn’t feel apologetic.

  “I’m willin’ to accept your apology if I get an explanation.”

  His forehead crinkles. “Promise you won’t leave.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The heavy sigh from his lips, along with his sad frown, warn me whatever he’s about to say is something he doesn’t like to talk about. “My grandfather is Edgar McCoy.”

  I’d already figured he was related to the cattle moguls when my boss laid into me. “That isn’t much of an explanation.”

  “You’re bossier than I remember,” he laughs.

  “And you’re as elusive as I remember. Do you want my help or not?”

  “I do.” He scrubs his face with his hands and exhales loudly. “When Granddaddy died, his grandchildren received a trust fund that would be granted to us at twenty-six. Granddaddy hoped we’d be mature adults by then and wouldn’t be tempted to blow it all. The fund has been managed by a trustee who also happens to be McCoy Cattle’s Chief Financial Officer. I turned twenty-six last month and cut ties with the McCoys for good. They’re bad people.”

  “Why?” I press.

  He hesitates until I grab my purse. “My father, and years of family drama I’d rather not discuss,” he admits, which I’m positive was difficult for him.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure why you’d come to me. I’m not an accountant.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with my father. He hasn’t claimed me as his own since I was twelve-years-old. And I don’t want to do business with any friends of my father’s. Around here, that’s kinda difficult. I found out where you worked, and I knew I could trust you.”

  I smile on the inside, which is ridiculous, but if he found out where I worked, he must have been thinking about me. Knowing that makes me deliriously happy.

  Understanding washes over me. Where he’s coming from is a tough place to be. These small cow towns are great for raising families, but everyone knows your business. His father not claiming him since he was twelve explains why I never knew Battle was connected to the cattle McCoys. The severed relationship between father and son breaks my heart.

  “That’s why you didn’t want anyone else at my office to handle your account?”

  “Yes.”

  His life sounds like a pretty darn ugly mess I shouldn’t get involved with, but I want to help him. As pushy and controlling as they are, I can’t imagine feeling alienated from my family.

  “I’ll help you, but you still need an accountant. I know someone who has no idea who your father is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. If Ginger knew, believe me, she would’ve told me. She’s a CPA and works alone.”

  He tilts his head. ”Your friend Ginger’s a CPA?” I nod. “Huh, I would’ve never thought.”

  “Oh, now, Mr. McCoy, you didn’t put my friend in a box, did you?”

  “Touché,” he laughs. “I had her pegged for a real estate agent.”

  Of all the irony. “Marty’s the real estate agent.”

  “Oh.” His cheeks flame red, which is adorable.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Oh, no you don’t! What?”

  “I was gonna say, pole dancer.”

  “Shut up!”

  “I’m kiddin’.”

  He may or may not have been kidding, but it feels great to see him laugh.

  I give him instructions and we get started, separating paperwork into piles of bank and credit card statements, tax returns, financial statements, and monies to be deposited, including a few grand in cash. I call Ginger who agrees to meet us at the Savings and Loan on Main Street at four-o’clock.

  While looking over statements, I laugh silently as I catch Battle chewing nervously on a toothpick. Why does it have to be such a sexy habit? I mean, if he picked his nose, or chewed with his mouth open it would be easier to ignore how attracted I am to him.

  I notice the signature of the preparer, Gerald McCoy. Battle’s father is McCoys Chief Financial Officer. He managed Battle’s trust. I wonder about the bad blood between Battle and his father, but don’t ask. Their relationship has no relevancy in my managing his portfolio. His life perplexes me more now that I know about his father. He could leave this town and escape his father, but he stays. “Can I ask you somethin’?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Sure.”

  “Why do you stick around here? You have more than enough points to qualify for the national tour. Why stay local?”

  His expression turns solemn as he takes the toothpick out of his mouth. He tosses it in the trash before answering, “I stay for Erinn.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask, although, I don’t understand. Erinn has parents, and it’s not like he’d be gone year round.

  As if summoned, Erinn enters the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” she says, moving to the pantry. She grabs several bags of fruit snacks.

  Battle stands. “Put those back. I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “I want these,” Erinn argues, holding the fruit packets to her chest.

  Battle moves closer to her. “You may have one bag when you’re done with lunch.”

  “I don’t want a sandwich!” Her bottom lip pops out. “I want the delicious chewy snacks made with real fruit juice and Vitamin C,” she says, her words either copied from a commercial or the front of the box.

  “And you can have them after you eat a sandwich,” Battle says, reaching for the snacks.

  The bags fall to the ground as Erinn flails her arms and screams, “No!” She kneels down to pick them up, chanting. “Delicious fruity snacks.”

  Battle fists his hands in his hair, his patience visibly evaporating. I feel bad for him.

  “Hey, Erinn,” I say. “I love fruit snacks. Can you show me what kind you have there?”

  I glance up at Battle who doesn’t appear to be upset with my interjecting. He mouths, thank you and gets lunch meat from the fridge.

  She giggles, bursting with excitement as she brings the bags to the island. After deliberately lining them up in a neat row, she points at each bag. “Berrylicious berry, tropical explosion, and citrus melody.”

  “Oh, I’ve never had the tropical ones before. Are they good?”

  “They’re my favorite,” she sings, her big brown eyes sparkling. “You can enjoy them on the go or include them in your kid’s lunches. They’re only eighty calories per serving and contain one-hundred percent of the daily recommended Vitamin C. And they’re made with real fruit juice.”

  “Thank you,” I smile. “That’s good to know.”

  “Would you like to try some?”

  “I would, but I promised your brother I’d eat a sandwich first.” I roll my eyes as though I’m mocking Battle. She giggles. “I tell you what, if you eat a sandwich with me, I’ll eat fruit snacks with you.”

  Her lip works back and forth as she ponders my offer. She’s on to my game. I expect her to decline, but she smiles and says, “Okay.”

  Battle sets plates on the table and pushes one in front of Erinn. She eats her turkey sandwich without argument. I try not to smile at the thought that Erinn seems to be the one person on the planet capable of challenging the Battle McCoy.

  After lunch, Battle clears the table and Erinn wastes no time tearing open a packet of fruit snacks. She organizes them on the table by color. I follow her lead and do the same.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  She slides the piles around until they’re in a row, lightest to darkest. “Light to dark,” she says. “I like to eat them light to
dark.” I make a similar row with mine. She laughs and says, “You have orange with yellow. You can’t have orange with yellow.”

  “Oh. Of course, how silly of me,” I say, palming my forehead.

  I glance up to Battle, smiling at the two of us. I smile back, and he winks at me. I return my attention to Erinn and my carefully arranged snacks. “Can we eat them now?”

  She hums, her long brown hair flying through the air as she shakes her head.

  “We have to count them first.”

  And we do, making certain all the piles contain four snacks. The extras are pushed aside. Once our piles are exactly perfect, we eat them, light to dark.

  They’re ridiculously sweet, and not as good as I remember them being when I was a kid. I keep my opinions to myself, and enjoy the unadulterated smile on Erinn’s adorable face. If only life were as pure and as simple for everyone as it is for Erinn. Maybe it could be if people didn’t like to complicated things so much.

  A door bells sounds out in the house.

  “That would be Mom,” Battle says.

  Erinn scoops up her remaining fruit snacks, including the extras, and leaves to collect her things. Battle goes to answer the door.

  “Hello, darlin’.” I hear a female voice I assume is his mother.

  “Hey, Mom. She went to get her things.”

  “Did you get all your finances sorted out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, and you need to have a Will drawn up. It’s important, you know.”

  “Yes, Mom, I know.”

  “How’d pick up go?” she asks.

  “Same as it always does.”

  She laughs. “I hope you were polite to Mrs. Jacoby.”

  “I tried, but I still think we should discuss placing Erinn in a specialized school.”

  “We can talk later. I’m so tired, and James is waitin’.”

  I wonder who James is, and further, how a mother can be too tired to discuss her own child. Maybe I’m being judgmental, but Battle is obviously stressed. She could take ten minutes to talk about it. Eavesdropping isn’t polite, but I have nowhere to go. I can hear every word.

  “How’d your appointment go?” Battle asks.

  “Same as it always does,” she mocks Battle.

  “I hope you were polite to Mrs. Kay?” he mocks her back.

  “Always. Come on, Bean, we have to go. James is waitin’,” she shouts.

  Erinn breezes past the doorway without a goodbye. “Ready, Mom,” I hear her say.

  “Tell your brother thank you for pickin’ you up.”

  After Erinn complies, I hear the door close and Battle’s footsteps before he returns to the kitchen. He looks miserable and resentful—hurt. I want to get up and wrap my arms around him. I want to hug him and tell him that he can talk to me, but he grabs his keys, and says, “Let’s go,” before I have a chance.

  “We don’t have to meet Ginger until four,” I remind him, noticing the clock on the wall—two forty-five.

  “I need a drink first.”

  He leaves. I hear a door open and close. While I gather his box of paperwork, his truck starts. I grab the stack of checks and cash and put them in my purse for safe keeping. With the file box in hand, I go out to his truck and place it behind my seat before climbing inside.

  In the thirty seconds we were separated, his mood shifted from depressed to angry. He quickly backs out of the garage. The tires squeal when he peels out of the driveway. I’m walking on egg shells, afraid to say anything, but I can’t sit quietly and pretend not to notice his blatant ire. “Do you wanna talk about it?” I ask.

  “No! I wanna drink until I forget.”

  “Oh, because gettin’ drunk solves everything.”

  His jaw ticks. “It helps.”

  “For a little while, but …”

  “Don’t, okay! Don’t pretend like you know anything about me!”

  His deflecting his anger toward me is upsetting. I’m not his mother. “I know you’re pissed off your mother couldn’t be bothered to spend ten minutes discussin’ your sister when you clearly need to, because she’s too tired, which is bullshit, but don’t take it out on me.”

  Cars honk as Battle quickly shifts lanes, pulling the truck over to the side of the road. He slams the truck in park and thrust his palms into the steering wheel, growling angrily. I’m slightly terrified and consider getting out and calling Ginger to come get me.

  He turns in his seat to face me, his blue eyes ice cold. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about my mother!”

  I swallow hard, knowing I had no right to say what I did about his mother. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, but your anger is with her and you’re takin’ it out on me.”

  He huffs out a breath. “I’m not angry at my mother.”

  “Who then?”

  “God … The universe. Whoever it is that’s takin’ her from me and Erinn. Whatever fuckin’ force out there decided it’s her time to go and is slowly killin’ her.”

  “Battle … I’m sorry … I didn’t know.” How pathetic. I’ve never felt more ashamed.

  His eyes well with unshed tears. He wipes them before they fall. “She has stage four breast cancer—terminal.” His head falls back and he looks up. “Why?” he screams until his skin glows red and the veins in his neck bulge.

  I’m helpless to comfort him. I now have a faint understanding of why Battle and love aren’t on good terms. “How long does she have?”

  “That’s the kicker,” he says with an indignant huff. “No one knows for sure. She underwent radiation and appeared to be in remission, giving her what we hoped would be a few more years, but the cancer came back with a vengeance. She started another round of radiation last week. That’s where she was today. And that’s why she’s too fuckin’ tired to discuss Erinn. Is it all right with you now if she’s tired?” I flinch when he slams his fist into the dash. “Or do you still think it’s all bullshit?”

  “No, of course not.” I barely get the words out before I cover my mouth. Tears spill and race down my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulls back into traffic without another word. I want desperately to escape his truck, to go to the sanctity of my own space. What I said was insensitive, and I regret jumping to conclusions, but his reaction scares me. I don’t want to be around him when he’s emanating hostility.

  He turns into McGee’s sports bar and finds a parking spot near the door. “Come inside and have a drink with me.” His unbearable blue eyes move between my lips and my eyes as he leans over the center console. My chest flutters. Butterflies dance in my stomach like Grammy said they would. I feel sick from the storm they’re creating in my gut. Of all the men to make me feel butterflies, why him? Why Battle? Why a man who is incapable of love with huge walls, who refuses to let me in? Grammy told me not to let him go, but he isn’t mine to hold onto. I bite my quivering lip. “I’m sorry for yellin’ at you. Don’t cry,” he says, his lips inching closer to mine.

  I swallow hard. “I …”

  Before I say another word his soft lips connect with mine. I turn my head, denying him. I don’t know why. I want his kiss, but I know he’ll take more than a kiss if I let him.

  He groans. “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad at you.” My chest heaves, but I fight back tears. “I’m afraid of you.”

  “Fuck this!” He gets out of the truck and goes inside the bar.

  Before I go inside, I text Ginger to pick me up. The bar is crowded, but it doesn’t take me long to find him. I wish I hadn’t. He’s sitting on a stool at the corner of the packed bar with a blonde ornament on his lap. He pounds a few shots, oblivious to my presence. I secure my purse over my neck, crossing my body and round the corner for a better view. Blondie wears a skimpy dress with knee high cowboy boots. Battle and I make eye contact as he whispers in the blonde’s ear. I try to ignore how her squirming and giggling affects me.

  My relationship with Battle is strictly professional. He’s free to
screw any buckle-bunny-bimbo he wants. I stride over to him with confidence and sit on the empty stool next to him.

  He makes no effort to acknowledge me and continues flirting with the blonde. My chagrin grows stronger with each nose brushing, ear nipping, and knee rubbing. I may have spoken out of place earlier, but his behavior is intentionally cruel. When he takes a shot from her cleavage, I’ve had enough.

  “Bartender,” I call out, waving my hand in the air.

  A middle aged woman with leather skin and yellow teeth smiles at me. “What can I get ya, girlie?”

  I dig around in my purse and pull out the envelope full of cash. Battle’s eyes widen when I slam the envelope onto the bar and say, “Mr. McCoy would like to buy drinks for the entire bar.” I smile, holding her gaze.

  “That’s darn nice of him.” She smiles and rings a bell. “Listen up folks. The next round’s on Battle.”

  The bar breaks out in applause. Patrons take turns thanking Battle and slapping him on the shoulder. His jaw clamps tights. The blonde says something, only I can’t hear her over all the hootin’ and hollerin’.

  My satisfaction disappears when Battle shoves the blonde from his lap and wrenches his hand around my wrist. I feel like a human pinball as he pushes through the crowd, dragging me behind him. He keeps going until we’re outside in front of the bar.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks, letting go of my wrist. I rub the spot where his hand was and keep my head down. “Your little stunt isn’t cute.”

  “Yeah, well, neither is the skanky blonde,” I scream in his face.

  He stalks toward me, an irate expression on his gorgeous face. I back up until I run out of room. His large arms cage me in against the wall as I inhale and hold my breath while my heart tries to escape my chest.

  “You’re jealous!”

  I’m beyond jealous. I passed jealous once I sat down next to him. I’m hurt.

  “I am not,” I exhale. “You’re rude and insensitive.”

  “I’m rude and insensitive?” he huffs. His eyes narrow as he dips his head to meet my gaze. “Twenty minutes ago you were tellin’ me how my dyin’ mother is unfit to be a parent.”

  I turn my head to avoid his intolerable wounded expression. “I didn’t mean it,” I say quietly.