Trouble (Orsen Brothers #1)

by Aubrey Watts

I nodded and limped up the rocky hill away from him.

  “Wait!” he called after me, scrambling to his feet. “Look, you can’t tell her about the letters A…”

  But I gave him the finger and continued walking.

  Chapter 2

  —

  “What is the hardest thing about re-acclimating yourself with the outside world?” The group therapist questioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose and looked around expectantly.

  Everyone around me was quiet with the usual timidness that came along with these things. I yawned and rolled my eyes, focusing on my oil-stained hands. My bike stalled once on the way here. I loved the thing but it was never perfect. ‘Course, being left untouched in Liam’s storage shed for half a decade hadn’t helped matters any.

  “Anyone?” she tried again, shifting her gaze between each one of us. “Come on people. You know the rules. If you don’t talk I don’t give your PO’s a good report…”

  When no one spoke up, she sighed and jotted something down on her notepad, twisting her pen around in her fingers. Part of me felt sorry for her. She had it rough. Working with a bunch of stubborn ass ex-cons wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

  Finally, a middle-aged woman broke the silence, raising a shaking hand in the air. I referred to her in my head as Jitters. Giving people a nickname made em’ easier to remember.

  The therapist’s eyes lit up. She pointed a manicured fingernail at the mousy woman and beckoned her to speak.

  Jitters swallowed nervously and looked around at the rest of the group, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. “The hardest part,” she said quietly, “is trying to revive my relationship with my kids.”

  Everyone nodded their heads and someone muttered something in agreement. “Damn right,” another woman called out, coughing into the crook of her arm. “My kids want nothing to do with me.”

  The therapist nodded and wrote something else down on her notepad. She seemed to get some sense of excitement out of all of this. But she was probably just glad people were starting to open up.

  Not that I had any intention to.

  She thanked Jitters for her honesty and—of all people—met eyes with me next. “Anders,” she spoke up, pointing her pen to me. “What about you?”

  “Yeah?” I questioned, looking around. All eyes were on me. “What about me?”

  “Are there any relationships you’re finding yourself having to repair or function without?”

  I swallowed hard and shrugged.

  That was an understatement if there ever was one.

  T H E N

  She didn’t look up when I entered. She didn’t even flinch. She stood with her back to me, pouring a customer a cup of coffee from a steaming pot. Her dark hair was in a bun on top of her head, with loose strands gathered near her temples and secured with shiny barrettes. She favored some kind of Greek goddess; like Artemis or Athena. I joked about it once, years ago, and it resulted in her going on a thirty-minute tangent on Greek mythology; describing things she learned in her freshman philosophy course with such a vivid amount of detail that I almost felt like I was there.

  I couldn’t help but feel awestruck every time she opened her mouth. She was past the point of smart. She was fuckin’ brilliant.

  I listened intently as she talked about the nature of the world and told stories about ancient gods—like Achilles and Orpheus—who she described as one of the first men to ever, “royally fuck up.” In an act of nobility if there ever was one—he journeyed deep into the underworld to save the woman he loved most—only for one wrong move on his part to catapult her into hell for the rest of eternity.

  Love fucking stings and it’s almost never convenient.

  “You know I heard you were back in town but I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to actually come here,” she said, swaying past me without looking, her body curving around the Formica counter.

  I grabbed her hand and she narrowed her eyes at me, all emotion fading from her expression. It wasn’t so obvious now, but just a few moments prior she had been laughing, bent over the edge of an elderly couples booth refilling their coffee. I watched her through the unwashed glass as I finished off my smoke. She spoke enthusiastically and without restraint, using her hands to help her illustrate whatever story she was telling.

  Sometimes I wondered how she did it. How she made people fall in love with her without even trying. But that was as good of a representation as any. She didn’t just talk. She described. She immersed you in whatever it was she was saying and more than anything, she made you feel important for listening.

  With an elongated sigh, she shook her hand free from mine and stepped away from me, sliding a plate of food to a waiting patron at the end of the counter. I settled into an empty seat a few feet away from him and shrugged off my wet jacket. “I missed you,” I told her as she passed me, “I didn't realize that was a crime.”

  She paused in front of me with the pot of coffee raised just above her breastbone; agitation etching it’s way across her face. Time hadn’t changed a damn thing about her. She was still every bit as beautiful as she was the day that I left. "It’s not,” she retorted, “you just have a funny way of showing it.”

  It seemed like an ironic twist of fate, that this time she was the one left waiting for me. For a decade I was her rock; the person she laughed and cried and vented to; the one who got her through every rough patch; and the one whose arms she “accidently” fell asleep in every other night. I was there for her—always—even when she didn’t want me to be. Until a day came when I no longer could be. She was happy with Liam—at least it seemed like it—and my presence was only complicating things.

  Part of loving someone is letting them go when it’s necessary.

  A dark curl fell lose from her bun and curved around her jawbone. She kept her gaze trained on mine and her eyebrows shot up expectantly as two topaz orbs pierced me for an explanation. The problem was I didn’t have one to give. At least not one she wanted to hear. I reached for her hand again but she slapped me away.

  “Four years,” she grated out through clenched teeth, looking over her shoulder to make sure none of her customers were listening. “I never thought I’d see you again and now you just…”

  She shook her head at me and laughed stoically.

  I still caught myself staring at old dates on calendars sometimes; trying to remember a time when we were still a possibility. But a relationship was a two-way street and there were always too many variables keeping us apart. Wrong place, wrong time; it was the usual tragic story.

  “I know,” I said quietly, “and I’m sorry…”

  “Are you?” she retorted, “Jesus, Anders. I needed you and you fucked off. You couldn’t have at least written me?”

  “I tried to,” I told her. “I wrote you every week for two years. Liam took the—”

  “No,” she interrupted, shaking her head in disbelief. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah well...” I cleared my throat and shrugged. “He did.”

  She stared at me with her lips slightly parted. “It doesn’t change anything,” she said after awhile, “letters or not you still left.”

  “I know…”

  “Do you?” she questioned, leaning into me as her voice cracked. “Because I don’t really think you do. ”

  A customer called out to her for a refill and she obliged without finishing her sentence, shoving past me and pouring the last of the lukewarm liquid into his mug. His gaze lingered on her buttocks as she walked away and he whistled through his teeth, slapping palms with the man seated across from him. I scratched my jaw with my middle finger and kept my eyes trained on them both as they chuckled.

  “So…new job huh?” I spoke up, turning my attention back to her. She was a diamond in the rough here but I didn’t tell her so. She always hated metaphors.

  “Yeah well…I have bills to pay…”

  “I know,” I said, looking back at the men. “I just think you’re better than
this is all…”

  She swiveled around and nudged a finger against my chest. “I don’t need your input,” she said firmly, “I’m a big girl Anders Orsen. I assure you—I can take care of myself just fine. In fact—I have been—for four years.”

  She put emphasis on that last part.

  “I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m not saying you cant.”

  “Then what are you saying exactly?”

  “Just…” I sighed into my palm and waved my other hand around the dimly lit diner. The place had long outlived its glory days. It was actually pretty damn sad. “What happened between you and Liam?”

  Something flickered in her expression but it passed before I could put my finger on it. She pursued her lips and tugged off her apron, hanging it up and keeping her eyes trained on me.

  “Just shut up,” she demanded, her breath grazing my ear as she nodded at the stretch of hallway across the room. “Wait a few minutes and then follow me.”

  I didn’t ask her what she meant. I swallowed hard and remained quiet as her fingertips grazed my back. She stood up straight and flattened her blouse—sauntering past me and calling out to another waitress—who she asked to cover for her while she went on lunch.

  I didn’t get more than five feet down the hall before a soft hand snaked its way around my arm and pulled me into a cramped storage closet. She pounced forward as soon as the door clicked shut. A pair of glowing topaz eyes were the only thing I could make out in the darkness as she curved herself against me and our bodies tangled, warm lips colliding in a kiss laced with desperation.

  My heart beat in overdrive against my ribcage and the small room buzzed around us. I had fantasized about this from the moment I turned fourteen. I just never thought it would come to fruition.

  "You missed me," I breathed in between wet kisses, curling my hands around her waist. The dusty fan above us twirled in slow circles but it wasn’t doing it’s job in keeping us cool.

  I returned her quiet moan with one of my own, lifting her body up against the wall as passion overwhelmed my senses. Her hands traveled their way up my chest, finding shelter in my hair as I palmed her breasts over the fabric of her cotton work blouse. We crashed against a metal shelf and a few boxes tumbled over us—but neither one of us stopped to survey the damage.

  She pushed herself harder against me, eliminating all gaps of space between us, and I pressed my palm against her chest. Her heart was beating just as hard and fast as mine was. I took the opportunity to deepen the kiss and she opened her mouth in acceptance as our tongues danced. She tasted like peppermint. She always loved putting a dash of the stuff in her coffee.

  I pulled at the fabric of her shirt in desperation, feeling her shiver beneath me as I trailed my hands down her porcelain skin. Her nipples were rock hard and a soft moan vibrated against her throat as I grazed over each one with my thumbs. She pulled me against her chest by the fabric of my t-shirt and whimpered in protest when I broke our kiss, lifting her eyes to meet mine.

  “Slow,” I whispered huskily, cupping her chin in my hands and rubbing a finger over her swollen lips.

  “Screw slow,” she said stubbornly, her voice coming out in a ragged breath as she trailed hungry kisses down my neck. “I’m tired of slow.”

  I groaned as her fingers grazed my crotch, trailing my calloused palms over her legs as her skirt rode up her thighs. She smelled amazing—like summer bottled and turned into a perfume—but somehow not too much like flowers. She moaned softly and allowed me to take charge, lifting her hips to aid me in removing her panties.

  “Please don’t ever do that to me again,” she panted as I balled up the cotton fabric and tossed it to the floor, massaging the pad of my thumb over her throbbing clitoris. “I missed you so much…I had to end things with Liam…”

  “Yeah?” I questioned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Why?”

  “He wasn’t you,” she whispered, shaking her head as her dark eyes burned against mine. I caught a glance of her only tattoo—written in small black caps on her inner arm—and grazed my fingers over it.

  ‘Think you're escaping and run into yourself.’ It was her favorite quote—from her favorite book—Ulysses by James Joyce. In fact, I could still remember the first time she ever introduced me to it…

  We were twenty-three and she had just started dating Liam. I watched her read as she rubbed her temple and closed her eyes, exhaling an elongated sigh as her fingers curled just below the crescent moon scar beneath her right earlobe—a permanent reminder of the incident at the bridge. She looked up at me from the table and scrunched her face in contemplation, waving a hand at the open book in front of her.

  “This is—”

  “Amazing ain’t it?”

  “I was going to say pretentious.”

  “Aw come on,” I said, sitting down beside her, “It’s my favorite.”

  “It’s the only book you’ve ever read,” she pointed out, raising an eyebrow at me, “you don’t have anything to compare it to.”

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  She shrugged her small shoulders and cocked her head to the side, her slight smirk becoming more pronounced. “I don’t know. I guess I get that Wilde is like—this literary genius—but I’ve never much related to his prose.”

  Prose.

  She was always using flighty words like that.

  She ruffled through her backpack and pulled out a heavy book, handing it over to me. “Here,” she said, nodding at it. “Now that’s a book.”

  I turned it over in my hands and frowned. “There’s no way I could ever read that,” I said, “it’s what, a thousand pages?”

  “Seven-hundred,” she corrected with a crooked smile, “and you really should give it a chance, it’s a classic.”

  “So is the Importance of Being Earnest.”

  “Well.” She shrugged and closed book. “It’s also contrived.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why do you do that?” I asked her. “Why do you always use some big word where a small one could fit just fine?”

  She frowned at me and scratched her chin with a red painted fingernail. “I didn’t realize you were analyzing me…”

  “Yeah, well—” I stood up and crossed the room to grab a beer from the fridge. “I’m not. It’s just something I noticed is all.”

  She nodded and stood up, gathering her things and stuffing them in her bag. “When you hear from Liam would you mind telling him to give me a call?”

  I sighed and took a slow drink of my beer, sloshing it around in my mouth before swallowing. “Yeah,” I answered drily, “I would, actually.”

  She looked back at me with her full lips slightly parted and her eyebrows raised. “Sorry?”

  “You heard me.” I shook my head and took a step towards her. Her bag slipped to the ground from a stiff shoulder. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you coming here when Liam isn’t around and spending all day with me under this false pretense that you just need somewhere to study…”

  I swallowed hard and rubbed my back. “He’s not calling you…don’t you see that?”

  “He’s just busy with work.” She laughed bitterly and tore her gaze from mine. “He told me it might be like this sometimes.”

  I shook my head. “Come on. You’re smarter than that, Nean. He’s my baby brother, you think this is easy for me to tell you?”

  She tried to pull away from me but I deflected it.

  “You make it sound like he’s some asshole,” she breathed, “he’s not, you know he isn’t. If he’s not calling there’s a reason. Maybe things are busy at the plant…”

  “So maybe they are.” I shrugged. “It’s just, I’m tired of this. I need to be honest here. With you and myself…”

  Her eyes softened.

  “I—” I licked my lips and lowered my eyes. “I wouldn’t treat you like this.”

  “Well,” she spoke up after a few minutes, pulling her arms from my grasp and taking a seat on th
e couch. “I’m not yours, Anders. And I’m not Liam’s either. I’m not some piece of property to be bought and traded.”

  “I wasn’t saying—”

  She nodded, her dark eyes burning against mine. “I know what you were saying.”

  “But we can’t,” she added, reaching for her bag. “You’re a great guy, even if you do have a terrible taste in literature, and I like spending time with you. But this isn’t…we’re just friends…really good friends. Let’s not complicate things for ourselves alright?”

  I shrugged and swallowed the lump in my throat, taking a seat beside her on the couch. “So what’s it about?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “What?”

  “This book—” I picked it up and gave it another once over. “What’s the story?”

  “Oh.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged. “It’s about this guy, Ulysses. He’s kind of an untamed spirit. But he has a disease and the only cure for it is for him to keep traveling. It’s not that his sedentary life isn’t good. It’s just that there’s this voice inside his head telling him to preserve, to keep moving even when it seems hopeless, to experience as much as the world as he can…even if it kills him.”

  There was a glimmer in her eye and she was breathless by the time she was done speaking. She talked about that book with so much passion that I actually ended up sitting down to read it myself, granted it took me the better part of the summer.

  “You were right,” I told her one-day, “about the book I mean. It was a damn slow burn but I’m happy to call it the second greatest one I’ve ever read.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes at me. “You’re really something, you know that?”

  I shrugged and took her small hand in mine. “Actually there’s something I need to tell—”

  “What?” she interrupted.

  “It’s not that.” I shook my head. “I was just going to say that he kind of reminds me of you. Ulysses, I mean.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He—”

  I fell silent when the bathroom door opened and Liam advanced from the steam with a towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping from his hair. Nina sat up straighter and let go of my hand, shifting away from me on the couch. “You two look cozy,” he joked, stepping into his room.