I’m pretty sure I’m the black sheep of the family.
Seth Gifford, on the other hand, is quiet and bookish, the complete opposite of me. The son of my mom’s best friend, he is staying with us while attending college here. That means he lives with me. He’s well-liked by everyone except me. Trapped in close proximity, I start to see him in a new light and eventually begin to care about what he thinks of my crazy ways. Until then, however, no one’s opinion can influence me. Maybe, just maybe, I finally want to impress someone. But now I can only wonder how to make him see me. I’ve always suspected the tragedy of my life is: there really isn’t anything of value inside me.
Prologue
Melissa
Flying. I can fly. I’m almost sure if I stick my arms out, they will catch the wind and I’ll glide off towards the puffy, white clouds gathering in the cerulean sky.
But of course, I can’t really fly. Somewhere, foggy and far away, a voice says that to me. I know. I know. I can’t fly. I can’t do many things. It’s probably Christina saying that. She’s always telling me what to do. She’s always right too. I never am. But that’s okay. Because right now, I’m almost ready to fly. I glance below me. It’s a long way down there. Hundreds of feet probably. I wouldn’t fly though. I would fall straight down and land in a puddle of blood, tissue and organs. It would be me, but splattered everywhere. I giggle at the thought. I imagine one of those old time cartoons where the cat or coyote are splatted on the ground and then it jumps back up, looking just fine, like one of those Daruma dolls. That’s a Chinese doll, which, if thrown down, it rights itself back up. Wouldn’t that be some kind of gift? I wonder if I could do that. It makes me laugh out loud again. Imagine me wobbling down, crashing, and bouncing up, just fine! Except, duh! Falling to the ground from here isn’t like falling over. My metaphors are mixed up. I shake my head as if that will sharpen my brain. I’m a little fuzzy. So fuzzy. Why are my thoughts so fuzzy?
I’m not sure. I grasp my forehead.
There is that voice again, so deep, telling me what to do. It’s not Christina. She doesn’t sound like a guy. My dad? Sure, he sounds like a guy. The obvious assumption makes me laugh harder. Oh, Daddy. My daddy. He would not like this. I giggle again. Nope, Mr. Will Hendricks would not like his daughter hanging off the water tower above town. He’d say it was dangerous and stupid. He would scold me, and most likely, give me one of his famous lectures. Of course, he would also aim the dreaded look of total parental disappointment my way. Disappointment in me. He is usually more disappointed in me than anyone else he ever met. Christina? She’s like a mini–mom in her looks and much of her personality; so gee, he adores her. And Emily? Why she’s nothing more than a little Will Hendricks, his female clone. But me? The middle child? I’m the disappointment. The outsider. The black sheep. Well, he shouldn’t be that surprised I’m doing this. He’ll demand that I get down in that authoritative voice of his. If he told me to, I would obey him instantly. I rarely just defy him, even if I do so when he isn’t around.
“Missy. Missy, please! Just look at me.” That voice again. It’s not Daddy’s. No. I press my fingers on my eyes. Oh, the pounding headache again. Blinding. It makes me sway a little. I step forward and my foot touches the end of the small, metal platform. Not a good time to get dizzy.
There’s a deep gasp near me, then a gentle, but stern voice, saying, “Please, Missy, just step back. Towards me. Please. Come towards me.”
Seth. It finally comes to me. It’s Seth Gifford talking now, all sweet and coaxing, as if he cares about me. As if I matter to him. Ha! Funny. Seth could care less about what happens to me. I annoy him. I frustrate him. I sometimes even disgust him. He doesn’t worry about me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He certainly can’t possibly care if I should fly off this tower, can he?
Wait! Then why is he up here too? I can’t figure that out. Why am I up here again? I shake my head and open my eyes. The ground is so far below me. It wavers and I blink quickly. Why is Seth up here too?
I finally turn my head. Yes! There he is. He’s leaning tightly against the green body of the metal water tower. It’s an old one. Abandoned and unused, its once nicely painted body is now peeling and sprayed with a confetti of colors, sayings, drawings and symbols. Graffiti. It kind of resembles the way my brain works. All swirling colors and pictures and symbols that keep overlapping and interconnecting without making any sense.
Yes! That’s it. I remember now. I came up here to write something on the tower. I glance at my feet. What happened to my spray paint cans? I was going to write something cool. Like my name, or the year I graduated high school, or… just something cool. Maybe a witty saying. A short inspired poem.
But now? I’m leaning against the loose railing and Seth is trying to persuade me to come to him. I wonder why he looks so scared. Seth loves heights. They don’t bother him in the least. Imagine that. All those years of knowing nerdy Seth the computer geek and engineering student, only to find out he’s all bad–ass as a mountain climber. So I doubt if this metal contraption would particularly bother him. But he’s deathly pale, leaning so precariously, his hand stretched out towards me. His eyes are narrowed and his mouth twists up.
“Missy… please… please take my hand.”
It seems so important to him. Why? He doesn’t really want to touch my hand. Or me. Yet… his voice sounds so convincing.
Why do I resist?
Wait. Why am I up here again?
I… just can’t seem to remember.
Seth doesn’t look okay. Am I okay? I—I just don’t know.
Chapter One
Seth
She’s using my bed again.
Grinding my back molars together, I dig my fingers into my thigh muscles, resisting the profound urge to plug my ears, or scoop out my eyeballs. I back up and shut my bedroom door, revolted yet again, by the girl, or I guess she’s almost a woman, who for the seventh freaking time, has commandeered my bed to have sex on it. Not only is it disgusting, since I have to nearly delouse my bed by washing the sheets, and scrubbing the entire bed frame with spray cleaner, it also prevents me from sleeping on it for the night.
I really could give a crap if she screws the whole town, I just don’t want her doing it in my gosh–danged bed!
I rub my eyes as the exhaustion from my latest trip wears heavily on me. I flip the gear I stowed on my back to the floor in a heap. Tired, I still take the time to organize it. I set my camping gear off to the side neatly before flipping off the occupants in my now closed bedroom door. They didn’t even have the common decency to shut it.
I sigh, walking towards the lone window at the end of the small, spare room that serves as a living room and kitchen with a small eating bar for two. The window overlooks the outbuildings and pastures of the Hendrickses’ rural home and yard. I am staying here for the foreseeable future. They have a mother–in–law apartment over their workshop down below. Will and Jessie Hendricks, owners of the land and the apartment, are my parents’ best friends. They have been that way since they first met as neighbors a couple of decades ago in North Carolina. They courteously offered me the apartment to stay in while working on my master’s degree, and I gratefully took them up on it. I came here, not really for the college courses, per se, since it was just a run–of–the–mill, pretty normal, bio–tech program, but what brought me to Washington State was the climbing. I have been climbing pretty seriously for the last five years and covered a lot of rocks and mountains in my own state. I decided why not find a new one to conquer while getting my master’s degree? Washington was the logical choice after my mom’s friends said I was welcome to stay with them if only to save the out–of–state tuition and pretty much receive free room and board. So here I am. I came to climb the multiple volcanoes and peaks of the Cascade Mountain range and later travel to the Olympic Mountains on the western edge of the state.
I did not however, count on their horny daughter who never quite seemed to get, that for now
, this is my place.
Melissa Hendricks is twenty years old and currently the absolute burr up the butt of my existence. I have been here all of three months and during that time, on seven occasions, that I know of anyway, I have come home to find her screwing some guy on the bed that I currently claim as mine. Not so fond of germs to begin with, the dismal thought of sweaty fluid deposits, Melissa, and the strange men who leave them, has me cringing. I continue to contemplate how best to convince her to stop using my bed for her sexual escapades.
How could I know when I agreed to take the Hendrickses up on their kind offer of staying in their apartment, I would be invading the secret sex spot of their middle child? Whatever this is, it will be the last time. I’ll just tell her dad, and I’m sure that will end it. I’m not sure why I haven’t done so yet. Other than, it’s really none of my business with whom and how much sex Melissa has. In all honesty? I could genuinely care less. She’s of age, and not any relation to me, so what do I care about her sex life? What I desire most is not to know or hear about it.
And yes, I could tell her dad, but I don’t relish doing that either. Will and Jessie are good friends of my parents. I know that. I’ve been around them since I was born. My parents and I have visited here at least once–a–year since I can remember. Our mothers are best friends who still talk a minimum of once–a–week. So telling either of them that their daughter keeps having sex in my bed, against my wishes, doesn’t really appeal to me too much. I don’t care if she’s promiscuous; hey, more power to her, but not in my bed.
For this homecoming, I should have stayed up on the mountain. I sigh as I peel off some layers. I need a shower and food. But the shower is through the bedroom where I now hear obscene sounds coming from. Awesome. Melissa likes dirty talk and riding daddy. Yeah, I could really have lived the rest of my life without knowing that about her.
I finally grab some headphones, and slouch on the couch, trying to tune out the noise. I close my eyes and let my body finally relax.
I instantly come to when my headphones are yanked off my head. “Why do you stink?”
I grab my ear and rub it. Ouch, that hurt. It’s Melissa, of course. She snatched the headphones off my head and caused one to slide sharply over my ear. I glare at her. Unbelievable. Only a towel covers her. She just got out of the shower I’m dying for. My gaze scours over her before I quickly glance away. I really hate when she parades through my apartment with next to nothing on. Like all the Hendricks girls, she’s beautiful. She’s tall with long, slim limbs and a tapered torso. Her breasts are just perfectly proportioned to the rest of her. She’s got long, straight brunette hair that she highlights with blond streaks. Her face is as breathtaking with classical, sophisticated features, brown eyes, a straight, elegant nose, and thin, almost perfectly bowed lips. It doesn’t fit her crude, lewd, rude and wild behavior; but I’m not judging here. I really don’t care how she talks, or acts, or even that she’s so wild. She’s a single, beautiful, twenty–year–old girl whom boys and men desire. No skin off my nose if she capitalizes on that. Nor am I interested in her. I’m not jealous. She can’t seem to believe that, but I have no desire whatsoever to be with her. She’s not my type, and that’s all it boils down to.
She swears all the time. She uses crude, almost vulgar words, and tells stories and jokes that just don’t appeal to me. She sleeps around too, often in my apartment, which is the only reason I care. I don’t want to witness her promiscuity, but it’s not a crime.
But despite all my disdain and not wanting her, it doesn’t mean I won’t react to her on the basic level of a guy with a semi–naked woman, especially being all damp and dewy from my shower. Still rubbing my ear, I stand up, scowling at her and reply, “Because I was climbing a mountain and stuck out in the wilderness for four days. Meanwhile, you were in my room, in my shower, and in my bed with some loser. So where was I supposed to go to get rid of my smell?”
She wrinkles her nose. Her gaze examines me. Seriously, just watching her one eyebrow rise with disdain, and while she is not talking, you might think she was some kind of model for a portrait of a Madonna from old Renaissance Italy. She’s got that kind of classic, dramatic, breathtaking beauty. Too bad every time she opens her mouth, she sounds more like a drunken sailor, or a recently released convict. “You’re gay, aren’t you, Seth?”
I twist my neck to the side, gripping the muscles there to relieve the instant pressure. She purposely tries to be insulting. I find her need to call out my sexuality totally crude. If I were gay? So what? What the heck is it to her? Or my showering?
I hold back a sigh. “No. Melissa. As I’ve told you for the last ten years, and through both of my girlfriends, whom you met, by the way. I am not gay. I simply don’t enjoy walking into my bedroom and seeing a white, hairy ass of some strange guy, or the flipside of his junk greeting me. Don’t you ever get embarrassed by it?”
She wanders across the small room to glance out the window. She seems to have disengaged from our conversation and doesn’t hear my insult. She does that often. She’ll be mad, or annoyed, or excited while discussing something with me, and suddenly, it’s as if we aren’t talking and she goes totally blank. It’s like she flips some invisible channel on in her head and tunes into a new show that she’s much more interested in. All I get from the flip is how epically she is not interested in me. She frustrates me to the point that I rarely single her out to talk or interact. I don’t invite her here and limit my encounters with her when I go into her parents’ house.
I have no idea what she knows about me. She rarely follows up on the comments I say about climbing, or school, or living there. Sometimes, it seems like she isn’t wired all the way to the top. Doesn’t she understand this is supposed to be my apartment? I’m honestly now absolutely convinced she doesn’t get it. She seems so much like a simple, clueless, dumb child to me sometimes. I don’t often accuse adults of being dumb, but she just might be. Turning her profile to me, her long hair sweeps down the sides of her face and falls in a silky cascade. She leans her head onto the glass and a sigh escapes her lips. “Was there snow up there?”
“Where?”
“At the top of the mountain?”
“Yes. It’s November. There was a lot of snow.” I don’t elaborate about the ice caverns, or the way I climbed up it.
“I love snow. It’s so clean and pure. It’s like a blank canvas spread on the earth and we can paint it however we want. All the footprints, pavement, blemishes and manmade society are covered; and for a while, nature can almost recapture it all.”
Okay, so that wasn’t her stupidest ramble. It is kind of poetic, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. But it’s bat shit crazy she’s talking about snow and canvases of nature reclaiming the world. What does any of that have to do with our discussion, or her being in my apartment again without my permission? I feel frustrated being unable to live in my apartment as I deserve because she’s so often having sex in it.
“Look, Melissa, focus here. I need you to hear me out.” I press my hands into the pockets of my pants and poke my elbows out, slumping my shoulders. I think it’s because she doesn’t respect me, or believes I’m a computer and science tech geek, so she doesn’t have to defer to me in the least, even though I live here for now.
She turns and blinks as if surprised to see I’m there. “What?”
I wave towards the bedroom. “You. In there. Some guy? That’s my place. My bed. I don’t want you in there anymore. I mean it.”
“Oh. Sure.” She shrugs and walks around the kitchen, stopping before the little shelving unit that was here when I moved in. It has little knick–knacks on it that I assume her mother put there. She reaches her index finger out and picks up a miniature. “Mom used to have this over the fireplace mantel. They got it on some camping trip we took when we were young. I used to take it and make believe it was my Barbie Doll’s dog.”
So? I can’t fathom what that has to do with our stilted conversation. She is a
complete and utter space cadet. She can’t focus, or listen, or seem to follow the thread of normal conversations. I don’t enjoy being around her for that reason. So what if she has a trinket made from the volcanic ash from Mount St. Helens and shaped into a wolf? It is a pretty, but generic, common and cheap tourist souvenir. Why is she staring at it, as if enraptured? Is it talking to her? Speaking in wolf to her? I swear, it would not surprise me if she thought so. I’ve seen her with the animals her mother keeps. It’s a well–tended mini–farm and I’ve caught Melissa talking to all the animals as if conversing. No embarrassment on her part. But an inanimate object in the shape of animal? Sure. I could see her believing it could talk back to her.
She is still staring at the wolf. “Dad used to get annoyed. He didn’t want it broken. So he’d warn me over and over, but I’d forget and play with it again the next day. He couldn’t understand how I always forgot his warnings. But I did.”
Is she trying to compare her forgetting not to play with her parents’ trinket when she was a kid to this? Did she somehow forget she wasn’t supposed to have sex with strangers in my bed? I cross my arms over my chest. She just can’t be for real. I refuse to believe that anyone related to Christina or Jessie Hendricks could be that stupid or clueless.
Christina is Melissa’s older sister. She accompanied her mom most of the times when they came to visit us over the years, so I know her the best. I had a crush on her from the time I was ten until well into high school. She never reciprocated. I knew that. I tried to quietly keep it to myself, but she seemed to always avoid me and treated me with kid gloves. I knew she didn’t feel the same way. And she was always smart with perfect grades and a sharp mind. Not like this sister, who keeps forgetting the main gist of a conversation, or the social norms that are totally obvious to me and almost everyone else. But not to this girl.
Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2) Page 28