by Billie Dale
Frustrated and over the public flogging, we met at the plantation to discuss strategy.
“We need the town behind us,” I complain, pacing the kitchen. Hendrix sits with his guitar in his lap, jotting down notes and lyrics. Sammy Lee busies herself by working the geometry of different tactics, while Mazzy Jae spouts statistics for her mother’s figures. Creeden hasn’t arrived due to the lunch rush at the diner and I’m ready to throw in the towel.
The sound of small rapid steps proceeds the slam of the front door and the squeak of tennis shoes on the tile floor. I don’t wonder long who arrived because Cash bolts through the room, grabbing my hand, he drags me to the living room. Joey growls his name in a brash fatherly way but the boy is on a mission.
“Come on, Elvis,” he cheers. “I can call you Elvis, can’t I? Mazric does and he’s cool. He calls me Johnny, after some guy named Johnny Cash. Daddy says if he gives you nickname, you’re important. Miss Sammy is Splinter and Hendrix is Jimmy. Mazzy is Velma cause she’s great with clues and puzzles or MJ cause of her name, and she’s great like Mary Jane in Spider Man.” The words chatter from his lips so fast it’s hard to keep pace other than picking up the gist of his question.
He skids to a stop in front of the pearly couch. Eyes bouncing from it to me to the television, his short legs wobble. “Daddy said if I pretend to be a wooden boy while the grown-ups talk, he’ll buy me a new bike. I really want a new BMX with trick pegs and fat wheels, but he says I can’t get the furniture dirty. Gran says boys are all snakes, snails, puppy dog tails, and mud but…” He hesitates to scan the room with curious eyes. “Can we cover the couch with a blanket? I promised if he let me watch Sponge Bob, I’d be super good and use my indoor voice. What is an indoor voice? Gran asks me to use it all the time, but I don’t get it.”
Holy crap, when does this kid breathe? His sentences run on and on, swirling faster than my sluggish adult brain can compute. I blame it on not enough time around children, but I remember how hyper Joey was in school. Always reprimanded by teachers for squirming in his seat and talking when he was supposed to read. I didn’t know Josiah when he was Cash’s age, but I imagine the apple doesn’t fall far from the ADHD tree.
Cash waits for me to respond. This room is not a kid-friendly zone. Ironic because Nona Gayle adores Mazzy Jae, though she’s not your everyday messy kid.
“Cash Josiah Holmes.” The woman I was thinking about exits the library with Rosa following behind. “Those cartoons aren’t going to watch themselves. Hop up there on the sofa.” She steps next to me. “Switch on the television, Preslee. I believe he wants channel 168.”
“But, Miss Nona, I’ll get it all dirty.” He waves his fingers showing the dirt smudging his hands.
“Nonsense. I bought it to use. Dirt bestows character,” she scoffs giving him a wink. “Go on now. Rosa will make you a snack.”
My head twists faster than the chick in The Exorcist to eye her as if she’s the one possessed. Before I inquire into her mental state, Cash plops down on the middle cushion—and I kid you not—a cloud of dust reminiscent of Pig Pen from Charlie Brown puffs out from his pants. A cringe shakes my shoulders while I wait for Nona to snap, but she laughs. Not a holy shit she’s gone nuts chortle but a genuine belly giggle.
Stunned, I grab the remote while Rosa disappears to the kitchen. A quick three-number punch on the keypad and the screen lights with a yellow square with legs and talking weird pink starfish.
“Will you watch with me?” His big chocolate eyes blink up and I’m sunk. I see echoes of his mother in his facial symmetry, at least from what I remember of her long horse-faced sneers. But analyzing faces is my business and in a few years when the pudgy cheeks harden into manly lines, Cash Holmes will break some hearts. His cuteness is undeniable and no way can I refuse. Plus, who doesn’t love a little bit of the dude who lives in a pineapple under the sea, whose best friend resembles a dog penis and is plagued by crabs?
I grab a blanket from the wooden chest in the corner before sitting next to him. Twenty minutes and the start of a new episode later, he kicks off his shoes and scoots closer, eyeing my arm until I lift it and the blanket. My legs curled under me he snuggles in, resting his head on my chest. Rosa delivers a plate of cheese, crackers, and a few cookies, along with a two glasses of chocolate milk and a mug of hot cocoa teeming with whip cream. I angle a questioning brow until Mazzy steps out from behind Rosa’s wide hips.
She demands we move so I’m in the middle with a kid glued to each side. “Cash,” she complains, “I told you this show kills your brain cells. It’s a proven fact. Why don’t we watch something on NatGeo Wild?”
“No. Phonge Boph rules.” Crumbs spray from his mouthful of cookie.
She grunts the scoff of preteen girls everywhere. A harrumph of a gasp meets a snort, which only a frustrated pouting young woman can expel. I nudge her with my shoulder, leaning in. “It’s not so bad, MJ. Losing yourself in mind-numbing binge watching is America’s new favorite past time.”
Sammy yells for me to come to the kitchen. Both kids emit a disappointed groan. Sandwiched between two human heaters, I don’t want to move. The smell of Mazzy’s strawberry hair blends with Cash’s salty fresh air. I’m even enjoying their minor bickering during commercials.
The motherhood bug never bit me. Joey would say it adds to my cold-hearted, selfish bitch plight. But I didn’t see the appeal other than the fun of the actual baby making, which thanks to a thin piece of latex is done without the actual creation of life. Mom and Dad are wonderful, albeit absent parents, but I never held their life goals against them. People admire and revere them. I learned from an early age to depend on Hendrix. He is my rock. Care and consideration for his mental well-being zapped all my mothering tendencies. Besides, after Joey, I never met another I was willing to procreate with. But sitting on this couch with the future generation of Vortex and Holmes, my heart hurts for what could have been.
Sam yells again for me to move my ass. “Sorry, guys,” I grumble, dragging myself up.
“Nona Gayle, come watch with us,” Mazzy calls. I didn’t see my grandmother lurking behind us by the fireplace.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she responds, slipping into my vacated space. “Close your mouth, Preslee, before you let the devil in.” She smirks at my dropped jaw.
My feet shuffle and I keep glancing over my shoulder. She didn’t even worry over the cleanliness of her silk cream pantsuit.
“I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone or Invasion of the Body Snatchers. This is not the Gayle Carmichael I know.” I pause in the doorway, shaking my head. “It’s crazy. Absolute bonkers.”
My words taper off, leaving my friends to catch my last phrase.
“Shit, she already knows what we’re planning,” Creeden says. “So you’re not on board with poking the lion and reactivating your stalker?”
Twenty-Two
Joey
“No. No fucking way. We are not using craziness to stir up shit.” Rage keeps my arms crossed tight and fists white-knuckled. Legs spread and shoulders rigid, I stand resolute against the absurdity falling from their lips.
“All we need is one incident. Something small, but substantial enough to draw sympathy. The townspeople don’t actually hate Preslee, but they’re not loving her either. If we hope to pull them on board for this whole wedding thing, then we need them to love her again.”
“Creeden, you don’t understand all this guy is capable of or how rough he’s made her life for the last seven years. Besides, who cares if this town climbs aboard the Creelee nuptials train. None of them are invited anyway.” Sammy’s voice pitches with her argument.
“You want to keep some business local, right? Infuse as much money back in the community as possible? I mean you already outsourced the formal wear, but you said you wanted to use Love Bug for the flowers and my parents’ diner as the caterer. And if word spreads about it all being bullshit, these people will be the ones who steer away the reporters.” Creeden counters Sam’s
claims and I hate to agree, but damn it he’s right.
“Sammy, can’t we just elope? Charter a private jet. Run off to Bermuda. Pink sand beaches at sunset. Candles lighting the flower petal lined aisle, with the turquoise surf crashing in the background and Jimmy playing the guitar. Plus, it sends Elvis outta town where her stalker creep can’t find her.” Mazric is over the entire debacle and I hear it in the slight frustration in his voice.
“No!” Creeden stomps his foot, drawing all our stares. For a split second something sinister flashes between his blinks. A minute tick if I weren’t glaring a hole through his head I’d have missed.
Creeden’s suggestion adds fodder to the already blazing dumpster fire ignited the minute Preslee entered the city limits. I hate feeling useless. My fuse is already short from Preslee’s stalker staying a step ahead of me and now one of my good friends seems to have a thing for my girl.
Wait, no. Shit. She’s not mine, yet she is mine, because dammit I’m the only one allowed to hate her as much as I love her.
My thought train is all kinds of petulant but my give a damn is on the fritz. Ma says I’ve been a bear these past few weeks. More bastard-ish than normal toward my staff, pissing off Trudy because I ignored her advice to be nice. Without worrying about the man chasing Preslee, I can’t find enough excuses to hang out at the plantation.
When Mazric’s goons arrived and brushed me off, I sat on the sidelines cursing myself for not offering to guard her myself. Pissed off, I stormed out to Double V ranch to demand he send them away.
He halts my tirade with one question. “You plan on moving Cash into her house while you watch twenty-four seven?” I shout a raging curse word, which Mazzy chastises me for and he laughs. It takes all my control to not punch him in his smug know-it-all face. When he claims I have it bad for my former girlfriend, I flip out. Face flaming, I stomped the accelerator in my town-provided SUV hard enough I throw up gravel, fishtailing down the long lane. I screamed ‘fuck’ until my throat hurt. A week later I visit the diner for my ritual daily lunch special, and there’s Preslee and Creeden all but screwing in our back booth.
Okay. I may be exaggerating due to the veil of green envy clouding my vision. They were sitting on the same side, shoulder to shoulder sharing a menu and he kept peppering her cheek and forehead with kisses.
Christ on toast. Fake kill me for all their cuteness.
The entire restaurant feasts their pitying eyes on my bitterness. They wait for reaction. My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek until an iron tang coats my tongue. From the depth of my inner hell, I plant a smug smile between my cheeks and take a seat across from them. All those prying stares deflate as faces turn back to mind their own business. Preslee’s guards sit at the counter sipping coffee seeming lax, but the cop in me sees their straight spines, tuned in ears, and watchful eyes.
For a month I’ve watched the actors portray their roles. Heard whispers on the lips of people we’ve known most of our lives callously calling bullshit on each loving exchange between Creeden and Preslee. Aside from the rumor mill yarning, the outside world seems oblivious. But stalkers rarely seek new targets until playing their current one to madness.
We met to brainstorm ways of swaying our closed-minded town, but dangling Preslee on a big hook hoping to draw sympathy is not happening. Mazric’s island elopement grows roots in my brain, vining through my gray matter, staking up promise.
Sammy Lee’s wheels spin, turning her eyes vibrant with potential. Nothing holds them to this town. At least nothing they can’t take with them.
“I agree with Mazric,” I chime. “One chartered plane will carry all the guests. Hell, I’ll even get internet ordained and perform the ceremony myself.”
“Your dad will not fly to Bermuda, Sammy,” Creeden says with a smug grin.
“Carrie Lynn has that man by the short hairs,” Hendrix rebukes. “Johnny Gentry won’t utter one refusal if it means keeping the three most important women in his life happy.”
“La-la-la.” Sam covers her ears. “Do not mention pubes, Mazric’s momma, and my daddy in the same sentence ever again, Hendrix Carmichael,” she shouts following a gag.
Hendrix chuckles. “Just keeping it real, Samantha baby.”
“So we’re doing this?” Mazric asks, waving his phone showing the website to rent a plane.
Sam bounces from her seat, rushing across the room she leaps. Her arms ring his neck as her legs lock on his hips. She clings to his front like a spider monkey. “Yes.” Kiss. “Yes.” Kiss. “Yes.” Kiss. She covers his face before stopping a breath from his mouth. “Marry me on the beach, Mazric Vortex.”
His phone hits the floor as his hands grip her ass and his lips devour hers.
“Ahem,” Preslee coughs, but the two seem to forget they’re in a room full of people. “AHEM! Dudes!” she tries again and they pull apart. Sammy slips down Mazric’s front, twisting her body to keep her back flush to his chest. A puffing moan of air leaves Mazric’s lips. Her face flames cherry red and if I were him, I’d be sporting a major hard-on. Hell, watching their live soft porn show stirred my dick, so I’m sure he’s aching.
Poor bastard.
At first Creeden’s face sours as though someone kicked his puppy, but the longer Sam and Preslee gush about preparations he turns from crestfallen to vindictive. Under the table his hands clench and unclench, matching the ticking vein along his neck. If he grits his teeth any tighter, they will crack. As I’m about to call him out on his apparent anger, he pops up to his feet. “What about your dress?” He tries to sound neutral but I hear the bite to his words.
While Sam calls the dress shop for a timeframe on her gown, Creeden asks to speak to Preslee outside.
The men tasked with protecting her stand ready to follow, telling me I’m not the only one in the room who noticed his ire. She waves them off but they’re prepared, reminding her they go where she goes, even if it’s right out on the patio. Creeden shoots them a glare which one responds to with a wink, letting my friend know they see him and they are not happy.
The standoff holds for several blinks. Curiousness gets the better of me and I offer to escort Preslee and Creeden so I can listen. Seth and Miguel nod, but between breaths warn how nothing better happen to her on my watch.
Twenty-Three
Preslee
You could cut the testosterone in the air with a knife. It’s enough to choke on. Too much male posturing breaks me out in hives. The whole ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ is archaic but living large in my kitchen. Sammy and Mazric huddle, oblivious, while Hendrix bounces his stare between Creeden, Joey, and my guardian beefcakes.
I pull open the patio door, gulping in fresh warmth scented with the budding blooms of spring. Creeden meets my eyes reading the ‘over it’ set to my pursed lips, he relaxes his cocksure shoulders offering me a sly smile. I step outside, ignoring Joey’s scrambling steps to protect me from all the evil nature secured within the privacy fence.
Yes, Joey Fucking Holmes, I’m sure the budding lilac bush is planning a seedy attack. Jesus, these men are nuts. Am I the only one who remembers there is no way to enter the backyard without walking through the house? I guess if you’re determined you could scale the fence. But unless the would-be attacker is living in a cloud of stupid, he knows my guards are close and armed. Boy, oh boy, are they armed. All kinds of tattooed, veiny, I could lift you and fuck you sideways prepared.
Delicious bitable biceps for the win!
Their tight-fitted T-shirts leave nothing to the imagination and plenty for bathtub fantasy. No, I’m not muddying up the water so stop shaking your judging head. If you had these twin-ish hot, sunglass-wearing, former military hotties at your disposal you’d splendor in the meadow of erotic dreams too.
I need to get laid.
I’m not the first woman to admit it, nor will I be the last. And while I am a dry itchy island of born-again virgin, it’s not enough to tackle one of the men keeping the crazy at arm’s length.
Nine years without a man between your legs regrows your hymen, right? Does this count if you’re in an active relationship with B.O.B—battery operated boyfriend? Probably not going to join a nunnery any time soon. I shiver at the notion of abstinence and I’m not big on the whole God thing either.
Don’t shun me fellow Bible Belt residents. I believe an all mighty something is out there. Growing up with literal, scientific Sammy touting her disbeliefs and parents who lean more toward evolution and Cro-Magnon man spun my ideology at an impressionable age. Mom and Dad encouraged us to study different religions to form our own opinion. I’m still undecided.
While my life mirrors the devout women who find enlightenment serving an invisible man, I crave the intimacy and rough touch of a living, breathing fleshy male. One whose eyes mimic the sky and sea with an imperfect nose, plush kissable lips where the bottom is plump and perfect from a fall when he was a kid, and who grew into his long limbs and filled out in the most fuckable way. A chin divot hides within the goatee scruffiness on his chin. If you know where to place your finger, you find it in the coarse hair. His ears stick out a little too much, his eyebrows and lashes are the lightest blonde, while his short hair is sandy brown. Tiny lines of life stretch out from his eyes and a dimple digs into one cheek when he smiles.
“Preslee,” Creeden interrupts my daydream.
Huh. Oddly enough, my fantasy man bears an uncanny resemblance to Josiah Fucking Holmes.
The birds frolic and flirt, enjoying the first warm rays of the changing season. A chill hangs on each push of wind, but the sun works hard to chase away Old Man Winter. Hard to believe a few weeks ago the town shoveled off mounds of powdered snow. I fill my lungs with the sweet floral air, tilting my neck to absorb some Vitamin D.
“PRESLEE!” Creeden repeats.
I cock open one lid, squinting it in his direction. I’m not too thrilled with him after the shit he spewed earlier. For the first time in years, I’m not scared of what lurks beyond my door. We’ve joked and laughed while perusing bridal magazines. Discussions of cake flavors and decorations while snuggled on the same side of the booth in Jonesy’s Junction. At first, I believed all hell would break loose in the form of dead animals, break-ins, and drama, but the man haunting me vanished. Honestly, with my protection detail I hoped he would make a careless mistake, reveal his identity, and fuck off.