by Billie Dale
Refusing to avoid his eyes any longer, I angle toward him. “Right. Gotta play the town Boy Scout now with the big ole title of Chief attached to your name. Heaven forbid you do something out of the kindness of your heart.” My sarcasms reigns supreme.
He leans on his elbows, closing the distance between us. Those blue eyes scowl, matching his mouth's one-sided callous mock. “What does a stone-cold bitch know about kindness and heart?”
“Here you go, Preslee.” The guy returns, sliding a steaming cup of black gold and a piled high plate of cinnamon sticky crack between us. He hinges his upper body over the table, forcing Joey to retreat but the hard stare and sting from my former lover's biting words raze me. Fake grin thinning my lips, I tilt a look, trying once again to recognize the stranger.
He’s cute in a dorky sorta way. I take in his resemblance to Mrs. Jones working behind the counter and a light bulb blinks on in my mind. Creeden Jones.
“Thanks, Creeden. I’ve been dreaming about these sticky buns,” I say, stabbing the syrupy mess with a fork before shoveling in a huge bite.
He offers me a shy smile and a nod before tending another customer. Joey scratches his chin, continuing to eye me harshly.
“What?” I sass around a mouthful of heaven.
“You’re still unbelievable and fake. You had no idea who he was.” He shakes his head.
Joey is right and it pisses me off. I don’t remember Creeden, but it isn’t because I’m a snob. We all stuck with each other and if I’m correct, he wasn’t in our grade. “If you hadn’t been up my ass for four years, I’d might know him better.”
Yes, I raised my bitch flag, but damn it he doesn’t hold the patent on pissed off. I deserve a certain amount of animosity but for today I’ve reached my quota.
He opens his mouth to retort but is interrupted and silenced by a blur of color, a flurry of feet, and a little voice yelling, “DADDY!” Microseconds before a tiny Josiah Holmes clone leaps on his lap.
I didn’t enter Seven Mile Forge, nope, I jumped in the black hole of the Twilight Zone, where up is down and Joey Fucking Holmes has a son.
Ten
Joey
I tried to bite my tongue. I swear I did, but my mouth wouldn’t stop spewing venom. This sick, vindicating satisfaction thrilled through me with each hurtful barb I spit. From the second Creeden called her over, I suspected she’d forgotten who he was.
It’s not a crime to forget people you go to school with, especially those who weren’t in your grade. We were a total inner circle gang of misfits. Knowing this doesn’t stop me from riddling her with her shortcomings. I pictured our reunion a million times. After my boy was born, I swore I’d be the bigger man when she returned to town. Instead, I turned into an adult-sized toddler with a colorful vocabulary and an unhealthy bitter tongue.
We could sit and tear each other apart all day, but my son, Cash, halts my Vesuvius-style eruption. His tiny legs bob and weave through the tables faster than a pro football player dodging the defense running for the goal. A blur of shaggy sandy hair, his short six-year-old legs never falter until he flings his small body at my chest.
“Daddy,” he pants, “Granny said you’d take me sledding.” He thrashes his mitten-covered hands around like a fighting badger trying to remove the nylon cover. I tug his knit hat off his head and chuckle at his static-filled strands standing on end. The tip of his nose is red and he sniffles before wiping it on his sleeve.
“Cash Josiah Holmes, boy, you better grab a napkin.” My mom’s stern tone sends a shiver through my son and me. She’s not a mean woman, but she can straighten your spine with a glare.
With greetings to nosy customers, she makes her way to the table. Props to the woman because she only staggers a half a step when she spots my table companion. A warm smile contradicts her wide eyes, which tennis match between the two of us before she composes herself. “Preslee, don’t sit there staring, child, get your skinny tush up and hug me.”
A love-filled grin softens Preslee’s face, melting away our feuding. The vinyl squawks when she slips out, falling into Mom's open arms. After a long embrace Ma nudges Preslee in the booth situating herself next to her.
“Who are you?” my son blurts, still flipping his hands to remove his gloves.
“I’m Preslee, a friend of—” she hesitates. “A former classmate of your dad’s,” she corrects, but she can’t stop staring at my boy.
Cash is the spitting image of me, except for his wide chocolate eyes. He’s small for his age, but so was I until I graduated. Full of energy and comprised of the best of me and his mother, the only salubrious part of Paris sits on my lap.
Our fluke of a marriage began in Vegas under the influence of weed, alcohol, and loneliness. She got pregnant the same night, which is the only reason I stopped the annulment. We started the process, but my hesitation gave her the time to inform me we were having a child.
Nine years ago, my soul was empty and my heart still wanted Preslee. It was torn between flying to California to beg her to take me back and screwing everything with four lips in hopes she’d hear and become so jealous she would return for me.
Neither happened. A few years in Creeden landed a windfall, selling one of his applications for the up-and-coming cell phone boom. He fronted a trip for a group of us to Las Vegas, where they were unveiling his creation during a conference at the Bellagio. When Maz, Sam, Hendrix, and Pres split town, I fell in with an eclectic gang of miscreants ranging from former geeks to stoners. All the castoffs who never got out of Seven Mile.
Paris Jones was one of Asia’s mean girl herd. Her, Brooklyn, Dallas, and Asia lorded over us all, taking pleasure in perpetuating the bullying hell of high school. Preslee deemed them Townies, claiming their parents wanted vacations more than children thus their names.
Dallas never fit the bitch mold and ended up becoming friends with Preslee and Samantha. Asia outgrew her hatefulness when her daddy screwed the family maid and she fell head over heels in love with Sammy’s daughter, Mazzy. Brooklyn is a worthless housewife in a loveless marriage to a stockbroker in New York City. She visits several times a year and has more plastic in her face than bone from her vain attempts to stay youthful. Last I heard, her husband was stepping out with his secretary.
Paris remained in town. When her parents went through an ugly divorce, her father ran off with the pool boy, after losing all the family’s money in a Ponzi scheme with a man named Nic Geppetto, who lived in Farawayville.
Turns out he did want a French vacation instead of a daughter because he was an in-the-closet gay man. If the rumors are true, Paris’s mom accepted a mighty payment to become his beard and became pregnant via turkey baster. She got him drunk off his rocker, captured his sperm, and impregnated herself.
Paris was as screwed up as me. Hell, we were so out of it she might’ve bastered me that night in the hotel. I’m certain I suffered whiskey-dope dick, but there’s no denying my little boy is mine.
She fit our no direction or drive gaggle of castoffs. Before the ill-fated trip to the city of sin, we spent many bonfire nights commiserating our shared ineptitude and brokenness while our actual friends spread their wings learning to live their best lives. We flirted a bit, fooled around more, but like her mother before her, she wanted the luxurious easy life.
We spent seven days toasted out of our minds, high on a myriad of illegal substances, drowning them further with whiskey and the ringing bells of slot machines. None of us were old enough to imbibe, but the outstanding thing about partnering in crime with a computer genius is fake IDs. Creeden might seem mild-mannered and awkward working the lowly life in the diner. But he is stupid smart and creates pure gold with a multitude of monitors in his parent’s basement.
The one thing we could legally partake in was marriage.
I don’t remember most of the trip, but each waking introduced me to the unfortunate woman who stumbled to my bed. Days and nights bled together; locked in the windowless, timeless casinos. For a h
andful of hours each night, I tangled in the sheets with a bevy of forgettable faces until the last where I cracked open a blurry eye, finding a very naked Paris sprawled beside me.
Hungover and craving more crank, we fit the foggy pieces together. We spent the afternoon at the conference. Creeden, the only one of us to stay sober through the trip, took off returning to his room to dress for dinner with investors but agreed to meet up later. Paris dragged us to the chapel under the guise of curiosity. I assumed Creeden joined us, but no one recollected his presence. The simple gold bands were purchased, while neither of us recalled where the money came from. Blurred faces around us, and supposed ‘I do’s,’ the entire debacle was curious but lost in the abyss of our loaded heads.
We interrogated the rest of the group on the way home, but none remembered even arriving at the building with the white steeple. A collective memory pull from the lost zone of the brain fried was useless. Creeden claimed he drank too much at dinner and passed out in his room. We accepted it for what it was and processed the fall out. Paris was a warm place to stick my dick while I rode the high, but she’d never be Preslee.
Creeden fronted us the money for a lawyer to process the annulment, but after the meeting my thought train derailed. Gorgeous, svelt, and right with the wrong way we were living, Paris and I could make a go of it or so I deluded myself. I’d never catch feelings, but as far as wives went it could have been worse.
My life flipped upside down faster than the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I reasoned with Paris, bargaining with promises of how we worked as we drank ourselves to oblivion every night. My heart belonged to Preslee and she wanted the safety of money, and we both sought solace in each other and substance abuse.
Six weeks after we left our secrets locked in Vegas, she announced she was pregnant. Not everything that happens there stays there, apparently. My response to the news ended with my car in pieces, tied in a bow around a pole, and Sheriff Buford detoxing my ass in his hot as Hades attic. Without my vices as blinders, I faced my damage.
With the help of my Alcoholic Anonymous sponsor, Hugh, and Buford’s size twelve boot, I dug my head out of my ass and fought to keep Paris sober while she carried my kid. There were days I walked the thin line of relapse but the sonogram picture I kept in my pocket fueled my sobriety. Creeden was a godsend in helping Paris. He fought in the trench with me to keep us together until she vanished.
Hearing Preslee stumble around her introduction to my son, and how she reduces what we were to a mere nod in passing, slams my present with all I lost.
A loveless marriage continued out of obligation and expectations. Daily fights against cravings and ways to ride the waves of life without buffers. Her timid, blasé categorization of us is the final low blow. She scooped out the last visage of my heart with a dull spoon, leaving the void to stone the rest of the way over.
I swallow my ache with my last gulp of now lukewarm coffee. “Right, yes.” I nod. “She’s no one. Come on, Son, let’s get our sled on.”
Eleven
Preslee
The noblest of intentions can go suck it. I panicked. There sat this adorable little man, with a face almost identical to his father’s, batting long-lashed innocent Hersey eyes at me awaiting my response to his question.
Who am I?
My chameleon résumé lent many ideal introductions: a movie makeup artist, a friend of Sam and Mazzy, a gal pal of his grandma’s, or simply an old friend from out of town. Any of these would work but his high lilted words and his existence sent my brain tumble weeding into infinity, and I choked on my tongue while my eyes zeroed in on Joey’s ring finger. Moisture slicked my palm and dots above my lip.
Joey wagered a battle weaponized with sharp-tipped words wielded with a disassociated cool glare meant to slice and dice. His hard armor, ruthless backbone, and wicked glint pissed me off, but a more pressing need arose. This icy, desensitized version of Joey combined with his honed physique has my body screaming va-room. Pedal to the floor acceleration into chair squirming wetness. He had a spectacular gearshift way back when, and seeing him long, strong, and unrepentant has me itching to roll through his gears.
Living in the land of the beautiful people and working with many, I heard tales of the ‘ab effect.’ Women and men alike say there is nothing sexier than watching a ripped washboard rolling and tightening with each hard thrust. From the mold of Joey’s T-shirt, he is a prime example of the ‘ab effect.’ Add in any knowledge he retained about how to take me from low moan to howling banshee and I’m primed for pleasure town.
Whew that man-boy knew how to work my body. I ain’t too proud to beg or daydream while in public.
Self-love and stalker-driven loneliness begets wanton lust and relinquishment of dignity, turning me into the equivalent of a horny teenage boy fondling his first boob.
Drool puddles in my mouth and I’m seconds from offering to take our fight somewhere prying eyes and ears won’t spectate, to push his boundaries in hopes he will cross mine, when a little boy and his grandma bebop in throwing a pail of ice water on my libido and pride.
Joey stares off into the flickering flame within the hearth while I catch up with his mom and watch his son try to remove his gloves. At first, he flips and flings with wild abandon, but they refuse to budge. Before I can reach across to unfasten the strap holding them tight to his wrists, he shoves a hand in his mouth using his teeth to assist, but he’s missing both sets of front choppers and the material slips free. The force of his bite is so great it sends his head backward where it bounces off Joey’s chest, recoiling his nose into his hand. His round cheeks grow red and he fights tears. The entire act has me trapping laughter behind tight lips and fighting to keep my chest from shaking. Finally, he shoves his hands under his thighs and pulls, releasing a happy breath while he wiggles his fingers. His joy is short lived.
The spark from our banter fades within Joey’s narrow glare. Whatever satisfaction he gathered sparring with me vanishes. To his son’s disgruntlement Joey shoves his hands back in his gloves, proclaiming me a no one, before he bolts from the booth like his ass is on fire.
His mom, Amanda, shifts out, taking his spot across from me. Creeden makes his rounds refilling coffee. His hand lands on my shoulder, “Need anything else?” he asks. When I meet his eyes, I see more than a simple inquiry behind his words.
I shake my head, ignoring the grim downturn of his lips. When he moves to the next table, I flop against the booth back, blinking up to discover Amanda mirroring my position, except I see a multitude of words brimming on the edge of her lips.
“Soooooo,” I hedge, “Joey is a dad. Adorable kid, by the way.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, sipping her hot beverage, eyeing me over the cup. “Yes, he is,” she answers, but it’s laced with something I can’t put my finger on.
“How did that come about?”
“Well, Preslee Marie, his is not my story to tell, now is it? I believe you lost privy to my son’s inner workings the day you bolted from town.”
Ouch. I sit up straighter from the slap of her words. Guess Amanda is not so happy to see me.
“Look, Preslee, I’m not gonna sit here and blow smoke at you with pretty words about understanding why you did what you did. It wasn’t so long ago I was eighteen and wanted to test the waters of the world beyond the border of Seven Mile Forge. You took the yellow way out, decimating my son, but if you hadn’t then Cash wouldn’t be here, and Joey might not be the man he is.”
Red-hot shame flushes my face. “Amanda, I’m—” She holds up her hand, halting my words.
“We’re past time for apologies, so let’s leave them there. Are you back for good?”
Guilt eats me over my earlier thoughts of getting sweaty with Joey. I let my wants overheat my brain without considering how my departure might hurt him. “My life and work are in California. I’m home for a few months, give or take.”
“Right, well I’d appreciate if you’d steer clear of my boy and grandson. Not sur
e they can weather another pass of your destruction. If you want to mend fences in the name of friendship to coexist with Mazric and Sammy’s upcoming nuptials, so be it, but check your amorous feelings at the door with your shoes.” Damn the woman doesn’t mince words. My ass feels the sting of her mama bear bite. She awaits my acknowledgment and with my slow, sad head bob she walks away, leaving me the focal point of the entire diner.
I want to bolt but refuse to cower and let the town feed on my misery, instead I stare at the contents of my mug, swirling the spoon and watching the creamy color twirl. Warmth on my palm snaps me out of rehearing Amanda’s warning. Creeden slips in the booth, resting the hot pot at the table’s edge.
“I own a Jet Ski you could borrow,” he says. I tilt a questioning brow his way. “Gonna need something to ride the tsunami through town. Would you prefer a surfboard?”
I shake my head, chuckling. “Nah, I’m thinking a shovel and hip waders might prove more à propos. I for sure brought a wave with me, but it’s a big ole stinking curl of shit and Imma need to dig myself a breathing tube before I suffocate in it. I ‘Came in Like A Wrecking Ball’ should become my anthem.”
“After witnessing Joey’s demise, I think Miley’s song fits the way you fled town. Can I ask why you came back now and not closer to the wedding?”
“Can I ask how in the hell Josiah Fucking Holmes has a son and who the boy’s mother is?” I counter.
“Touché. But as Amanda said, it’s his tale. But because anyone in town will blab it, I can tell you Paris Jones is Cash’s mother. Now if you want to dig into my personal profile, I’ll gladly trade tidbits with you, but I lead the boring-still-live-in-my-parents-basement geekdom life.”
He’s full of lies. BIG LIES.
If he’s camped out in the ‘rents cellar it’s because he chooses to. I’ve seen Creeden Jones on the cover of Forbes and Tech Geek. His cell phone applications sell for millions, yet he stays in SMF humbly waiting tables in his parents’ restaurant and socializing with the locals. He’s handsome in an ordinary boy next door way. The trim waist, narrow bony shoulders, long lanky body topped with unremarkable chestnut hair blend with the background. His clean-shaven jaw, broad nose, and dimpled chin wouldn’t gander a double take if you crossed paths, but his full lips and heavy lashed brown eyes draw you in once he snags your attention.