Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  She was standing on the deck of her parents’ beach house, the winds off the Pacific fierce, sand blowing through the dunes and onto the floor. The morning sun was weak, and Harley felt cold as death. He’d come to tell Kendall because he thought she should be the first to know. Now he realized what a mistake he’d made.

  Through sheer curtains, he saw Kendall’s mother seated in a leather recliner, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee as she read the morning paper. If she had the least bit of interest in what was going on between her daughter and the boy who had dated her for nearly a year, she didn’t show it.

  Thank God.

  Harley wanted to comfort Kendall, to tell her she’d get over him, to help her through this pain, but how could he when he’d been the cause of it? Her breath, wet from the wash of tears, was hot against his neck and he felt like a heel. Whereas Weston triumphed in breaking girls’ hearts, Harley hated it. “Look, I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

  “But what—what if I’m pregnant?” she choked out and fear, real and dark, clawed at his sense of decency.

  “You’re not.”

  “I—I don’t know.” She sniffed, tried to pull herself together, but, giving up, flung herself against him. His arms, of their own volition, surrounded her. He moved slightly so that the umbrella of the deck table, flapping in the stiff breeze, partially hid them from the bank of windows, just in case Kendall’s mother looked their way.

  “We’ll take care of it. I told you—”

  “And I told you I’d never have an abortion,” she vowed with so much passion it scared him. “My father will kill me.” She sagged against him and he smelled her skin and the scent of the elusive perfume she wore, some fragrance that her aunt sent her from Paris each Christmas.

  “Things will work out.”

  “How?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling too young to deal with all this. He didn’t really believe that Kendall was pregnant. It was too convenient, suited her purposes too well and yet how would he know? “I’ll go to the doctor with you,” he offered.

  “Would you?”

  Damn! She sounded hopeful when he’d intended to call her bluff. Could it really be true? Was he going to be a father? Oh, shit. “Of course.”

  “The appointment’s in three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “It’s the first I could get with Dr. Spanner in Vancouver. I tried one of those in-home pregnancy tests and . . . and it looks like . . . like I’m pregnant, but I want to check with a doctor.”

  “Oh, God.” So it was true. Harley felt a noose tightening around his throat. She smiled up at him. “Please, until we go check this out, don’t make any rash announcements about getting married to Claire.” She nestled her head against his chest and he knew in his heart he couldn’t say no. Just as he never had. Christ, why was he such a baby?

  “Harley?” she said, and her voice was so small he could barely hear it over the roar of the surf. Salty air clung to his skin.

  “Yeah.” Harley had never been so scared in his life.

  “I love you.” She sighed against his shirt. “No matter what, I’ll always love you.”

  “Don’t. Please, Kendall—”

  “I’d do anything not to lose you.”

  “This is crazy talk.”

  “Maybe.” She looked up, her face innocent, her lips, long bleached of any lipstick, beckoning. “I’m serious. Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure that you love me again.”

  And she meant it.

  Weston lit a cigarette, then let it burn in the ashtray by his bathroom sink as he soaked his beard and smoothed on shaving cream. He felt the edge of a hangover burning his eyes and pounding in his brain. His mouth tasted like shit and his muscles ached a little, but he was one who believed in the old adage that if you soared with the eagles at night, you had to rise with the sparrows in the morning.

  With practiced hands he shaved off a day’s worth of stubble and saw the dark spots on his neck—hickeys of all things—where Tessa Holland had pressed her hot little lips against his skin and sucked like no one he’d ever been with. Hell, he got hard just thinking of her.

  Who would have thought she was a virgin, the way she’d been strutting her stuff around town for the past couple of years? She’d been hot and willing when he’d driven her to the cabin he kept for just such times; she hadn’t shown any fear. She’d kissed and touched like a woman of the world instead of a naive schoolgirl. Instead of jailbait.

  He nicked himself, swore, dabbed at the wound, and rammed his Marlboro into the corner of his mouth as he continued scraping his beard away. He should have been more careful, at least used a damned rubber, but he’d been swept off his feet by the thought that he was actually scoring on one of Dutch Holland’s daughters.

  Tessa wouldn’t have been his first choice, of course. That particular obsession belonged to Miranda, but he hadn’t been too choosy last night. Tessa had sighed when he’d kissed her, mewed when he’d stroked her breasts, cried out as he’d nipped at those glorious globes with his teeth and teased her with his tongue. She’d gone down on him as if she’d done it regularly, so it was a shock to him when he’d spread her willing legs, thrust into her wet cunt, and felt resistance.

  Not that he’d stopped. She’d wanted it, begged for it—or had she?—seemed as determined as he about making it. At first she’d cried out, shifted away from him on the bed where he’d scored so often, but then she’d given into the hot-blooded animal she was.

  Shooting a stream of smoke, he crushed his cigarette and rinsed his face. At times he wondered why his damned sex drive was always in fifth gear. He couldn’t look at a woman without fantasizing about bedding her and when it came to the Holland girls, it was worse. He didn’t want to think it was because of some twisted condition because he’d seen his mother’s treachery . . . No, that couldn’t be it. Nor was it because of the feud between the families, not really. It was the challenge of it all. Miranda, Claire, and Tessa were so damned arrogant and their better-than-thou attitude coupled with their beauty got to him. Big-time. So he’d scored with Tessa . . . one little virgin down, two to go, though he doubted the other two were innocents. Claire was doing it with Harley, Weston was sure of it, and Miranda, ice princess that she appeared, was surely all fire below the surface.

  He wanted to bed all three Holland girls in the worst way. But those thoughts were normal, the quirk he dealt with was that he was forever acting on his impulses, even when he instinctively knew he should be more selective, probably because of all his mother’s sermons. As if she knew anything about virtue.

  His jaw tightened, and as he frowned at his reflection the years rolled back and he was a boy again, no more than ten or eleven. He’d climbed his favorite oak tree and was on the lookout for squirrels, his slingshot ready while he wished that he had a BB gun like some of his friends. Settled onto his favorite branch, eyes trained on a hawthorn tree where a family of squirrels usually nested, he heard music coming from the second-story window of the guest house.

  Mick Jagger—his mother’s favorite in recent years, she’d seen him in person, even gotten his autograph—was singing about brown sugar again. Jeez, Weston was sick of that song. He’d heard it for years, watched in stunned awe as his usually conservative mother would close her eyes, wag her head, and swing her hips to the music. He just didn’t get it. And he didn’t like the noise now. It was bound to drive the squirrels away.

  He was about to shimmy down the tree when he heard laughter—his mother’s tinkling, and rare laughter—coming from the open window. Another voice, deeper and male, said something indiscernible, and Mikki Taggert giggled like a schoolgirl again. A sense that something was wrong settled over Weston, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he inched farther onto the branch that brushed against the guest house.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Mikki said, whispering in delight again as the song ended.

  “Couldn’t stay away.
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  “I’m glad.” Her voice had lowered an octave and Weston, his hands sweaty as he looked down toward the ground that looked so far away, closed in on the open window.

  “Looks like you were ready for me.”

  “No, silly, I was going to work on my tan.”

  A rumble of laughter. “In September?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think we can work on something else.”

  “You’re evil,” Mikki insisted, though she didn’t sound scared. Her voice was breathy and low; the tone made Weston’s skin crawl—like the sound of fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. Something in the back of his mind cautioned him to scramble back down the tree, to run as fast and as far away as his legs would carry him, but it was as if he were drawn by a magnet, pulled closer to that open window by an irresistible and probably malignant force.

  “Evil?” the man repeated, and Weston thought he heard the sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass. “I don’t think so.”

  “What would Neal say?”

  Yeah! What would Dad say?

  Laughter. Deep and dark and dangerous. “Now that’s an interesting question, but let’s not think about him right now.”

  “Shouldn’t we?” Mikki Taggert’s question hung in the late summer air. “I thought this was all about him, that he was the one really getting screwed, so to speak.”

  The window and edge of the curtains were near. Weston craned his neck and squinted. As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior his stomach, already churning, turned over. His mother was standing on her tiptoes, her arms thrown around the thick neck of a big man, his fingers moving against her bare back, untying the string to the top of her bikini. Oil gleamed on her already-tanned skin.

  The man kissed her, and with a quick movement, pulled the red bra down. Weston swallowed as he saw his mother’s breasts, white where the sun hadn’t touched them, dark huge disks for nipples, stretch marks marring their beauty. He squeezed his eyes shut and nearly fell off his perch. His brain thundered. What was his mother doing with this guy—this stranger with the thick neck and brown hair just starting to gray?

  His stomach convulsed and it was all he could do not to retch and throw up. Sweat slid down his nose and he wished to God he’d never climbed the tree, never crawled near this damned window, but still he stared, unable to drag his gaze away, watching in morbid fascination as his mother, the woman he’d looked up to all his life tipped her head back and let the guy kiss her, his hands finding those big pillowy breasts as they tumbled onto the antique quilt Grandma had stitched. Mikki made deep, ugly sounds in the back of her throat and arched up against the man—rubbing his crotch.

  Bile tickled Weston’s throat as the man stripped himself of his shirt. The slingshot in Weston’s back pocket pressed against his butt and he thought of aiming through the window and shooting a rock right at the guy’s head. Why not? The bastard deserved it. He reached for his weapon as his mother let out a long, low, “Ooooh, that’s it baby.”

  Weston’s heart shriveled. How many lectures had his mother given him and his little brother about being good, playing fair, never cheating, always being loyal? He couldn’t count the times that Mikki had smoothed his cowlick with loving fingers, straightened his tie, and driven Harley, Baby Paige, and him into town to the Second Christian Church where from high in the pulpit Reverend Jones, the most boring minister in the world, went on and on about the wrath and power of God.

  Mama had always told him to be true to himself, to his family, to God and Jesus. She’d told him over and over again that the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule were never to be broken, and yet there she was, stripping some guy of his clothes, humping him for God’s sake.

  Still it was too dark to see the man’s face, but Weston had the sickening feeling that he should know him as he stared at his freckled hairy back. There was a mirror across the room, facing the bed, but the guy never looked up, and all Weston viewed was the top of his head as he straddled Mama, his back to the window. Weston heard the distinctive metallic hiss of a zipper being lowered. “You want me, baby?”

  That voice! Weston had heard it before.

  “Yes.”

  “How much, baby? Show Daddy how much.”

  He couldn’t stand it another minute. Yanking the slingshot and a sharp-edged rock from his back pocket, he took aim. Through the open window, right at that white, freckled back he sighted his slingshot, drew back on the thick rubber band, and with a thwang, let his sharp little missile fly.

  Crash! The mirror over the bureau shattered and the man, startled, yelled and looked over his shoulder. Oh, shit! He was in for it now. As he swung down from the limb and landed hard on the balls of his feet, Weston caught a glimpse of Dutch Holland’s red face.

  Dutch Holland. Dad’s rival. Mom’s been fucking Dutch Holland?

  Betrayal screamed through Weston’s brain.

  “Was that your kid?” Dutch demanded.

  Weston rolled into the undergrowth, startling a rabbit that dived into the bracken. Agilely, Weston scrambled to his feet, but the burning image of his mother, his mother! screwing her brains out with Dutch Holland burned through his mind, clouded his vision. How could she? How? With that mean son of a bitch? Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Weston ran. Faster and faster. Nearly tripping over dirt clods and potholes. Branches slapped his face, brought tears. Because he couldn’t be crying over his mother. No way. Jezebel. Cunt. Whore. He tore through the forest, putting as much distance as he could from the nasty, ugly, horrible scene that was jammed into his brain. Mikki singing. Mikki smiling. Mikki moaning while that bastard rutted on her.

  His stomach heaved and Weston had to stop to puke. Then he was running again, splashing through the creek, rocks slippery under his feet. Scrambling up the far bank, berry vines tore at his pant legs, spiderwebs and leaves brushed his tears away. Sobbing, scared and angry he ran farther and farther into the forest. As far as he could go until he collapsed on the ground and pounded a fist into the earth. How could she do it? How? He gasped for breath and thoughts of his mother, his friggin’ mother—his good, churchgoing, pious mother—tore at his brain.

  He hated her.

  He hated fucking Dutch Holland.

  And he’d get back at them both. Someday. Some way. That was it. He’d show both of ’em. And he’d start by staying away. Making his bitch of a mother worry about him . . . if she did . . . maybe she didn’t even care. Maybe she never had.

  He stayed out all night, hiding in the forest, crouched under a rocky ledge where he imagined cougars and bears and coyotes lived. He spent the next day tired, hungry, and sick with thoughts about his whore of a mother. He didn’t want to live and hoped she was sick with worry about him. As night fell again he slept outside, closer to the house this time, near enough to see the warm patches of light glowing through the trees, beckoning him home.

  On the third day his stomach was cramped from lack of food. He sneaked into the kitchen to grab a couple of Cokes from the back porch and a box of Hostess cupcakes from the pantry when she caught him. Dressed in a beige pantsuit, her purse over her arm as if she were running to the market, she spied him from the hallway.

  “I think we need to talk, Wes,” she said. Her eyes were cool and blue, without emotion. “Your father is very angry that you ran away.”

  He didn’t say a word, just stood at the sliding door, ready to escape to the forest.

  Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “Look at you. You’re filthy. Now, if you come upstairs and clean yourself up, I think I can work things out so that your father doesn’t beat the tar out of you.”

  Weston’s eyes narrowed. This was all wrong. Everything she was saying was wrong.

  “I told him that you broke the mirror in the guest house, that you ran away from me, and that it was best to let you come back on your own rather than have the police hunt you down, but your father . . . well, you know how he is. As I said, he’s angry with you, son. Very angry.�
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  “And how about you? Is he mad at you, too?”

  “Why would he be angry with me?” she asked as if she really didn’t understand. She’d screwed his father’s enemy and was playing the part of the innocent.

  “Because of the guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Mr. Holland. You were in bed with Mr. Holland. Fucking him!”

  “What?” She crossed the room and slapped him so hard his head slammed against the wall. “Take that filthy talk out of here.”

  “But you were—”

  Smack! Her hand caught his cheek again. “Don’t you ever spread lies about me, Weston. I’m your mother, and I deserve some respect. Now, I’ll plead your case with your father. I’ll ask him not to punish you too severely for breaking the mirror and running away, but if you start telling these lies about me, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” she said, leaning down so that her nose was nearly touching his. “You’ve been a liar from the day you were born, Weston. Always making up stories, but until now they weren’t particularly harmful. But this . . . this lie . . . is malicious. If you breathe one word of it, just one, I swear I’ll tell your father, and he’ll make your life a living hell. You know he can do it, Weston. He’s done it before. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to take the punishment for breaking the mirror and running away, or are you going to keep lying about me and force me to have your father put you in isolation down in the cellar? Remember the cellar? You saw a rat down there the last time, didn’t you? And spiders.”

  “Spiders don’t scare me.” But he shuddered. And he remembered being locked in the basement. It had been cold, damp and dark. His backside burned from the welts of his father’s belt and he could remember Neal Taggert’s taunts from the other side of the door. “Watch your goddamned mouth, Wes, or I’ll leave you in there forever. You’ll never get a piece of my estate. No, siree, I’ll cut you off and leave you in there to rot.”