by Billie Dale
Thankfully, my hyperactive son continues to babble a mile a minute to keep my mind away from all sinful things Preslee. I’ve seen her respond to a few texts as we drive, but the last miffed her off. From my side-eye I catch her flicking the little side switch, setting it to silent, but the screen continues to light as it vibrates. Several curse words spew from her lips, low enough I only catch a few syllables in the breeze. Over the repeated notifications, she drops it in her purse before shoving the bag to the floor between her feet.
Thirty minutes into our hour drive, my son educates her on all the benefits of a BMX bike over the one at home. I promised if he learned to ride without training wheels and proved he could behave while we visited Carmichael Plantation, I’d buy him whatever new two-wheeler he wanted, within reason.
For the most part, people love Cash but in small doses. His Energizer Bunny mouth and Tigger rambunctiousness takes tons of patience. Preslee hangs on his every word, asking the right questions and testing his knowledge. By this point, anyone else would resort to hums and head nods in hopes he’d hush. But since he was a baby, he’s never been able to resist the pull of sleep during a car ride. After a handful of yawns and eye rubs, the rocking motion drags him under.
Preslee twists, asking him what color he wants if bright red isn’t an option. Her words fade when she sees him slumped to the side with his eyes closed and mouth open. The smile falls from her face. She faces the front, placing her laced hands in her lap, but she keeps glancing over her shoulder as though she’s hoping he will wake up.
I haven’t spoken a word since I confirmed her suspicions over the age of my Jeep. But her response to Cash springs questions.
“He can’t resist napping when we take lengthy drives.” My voice rings out rougher than normal from the whipping wind and lack of use. “Kick back and enjoy the silence.”
“I like talking to him. Can I wake him up?”
“God no, woman. He’s talked your ear off. Aren’t you sick of him yet?”
From the corner of my eye, I watch her jaw drop and shoulders stiffen. “No,” she scoffs, “he’s a great kid.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t but anyone else would’ve begged him to shut up by now, claiming him too hyper and irksome. Hell, even my momma can’t listen to him go on and on for this long.”
“Guess I’m not anyone then, huh? I love his energy. If I could bottle it and sell it, we’d be rich. Anyone who doesn’t cherish Cash Holmes is an asshole.”
She silences any further conversation by twisting the dial on the radio. After a few commercials, George Ezra’s “Shotgun” beats from the speakers. A squeal leaves her lips, “I love this song.” Her fingers move to crank up the volume, but she stops, flicking a worried glance back at Cash.
“Go ahead he can sleep through the apocalypse.”
I glance away from the road long enough to see a smile turns her lips. The volume climbs and she sings, poorly, along while waving her arms and wiggling her ass. Her brother may be a rock star, but Preslee Carmichael cannot sing for shit. It doesn’t stop her from belting out the lyrics.
The song, the ride, the blonde next to me all rings familiar. After a warring pep talk with my mirror this morning, I swore I’d stay stoic. Cash wanted her to come with us and I can’t tell him no. At least it’s the excuse I use to keep from admitting I want her with us too. With her dancing and caterwauling I can’t keep a straight face, instead I release the loud laugh I’ve been choking down since she started.
My God, she’s awful and I love it. Plus, her fan-fucking-tastic rack bounces with her movement. It takes steely resistance to keep my eyes on the road. If she were wearing a tank and shorts it’d be a struggle, but the damn front of her dress clings to her tits and because it’s strapless, she’s displaying a mountain of cleavage. The damn thing defies gravity. She’s all exposed shoulders and freckles I want to taste. I’ve never been so thankful for a lap belt. It’s the only thing keeping my hard dick down. If she’s noticed how many times I pull the shoulder strap to tighten the part over my hips, she doesn’t say it.
If my son weren’t in the back seat, I’d pull over and motorboat the shit out of her chest. Suffocation by tit is an epitaph to wear with pride. She’d slap me stupid but it would worth the concussion.
The song ends and she channel surfs, landing on a nineties channel. She screeches so loud over the beginning bars of the next tune she drowns it out. One of the first things I changed in the Jeep was the radio, trading out the old tape player for a satellite ready system with a screen.
I read the display, “Say You’ll Be There” by Spice Girls. I can’t fight my groan at the overplayed pop tune. My hand twitches to change the channel, as I reach forward, she shoves my hand away.
“Don’t even think about it, mister,” she shouts over the music. “Remember this song?” We pull to a stop at a red light and I twist to tell her no. Her hand holds the length of her hair, trapping it in her fist to fight the wind, but flyaway strands continue to sweep along her cheeks. Her skin is pink from the sun and sweat drips down her neck. Light eyebrows matching her hair rise above the frame of her glasses as she waits for my answer.
I flash to the many parties we attended, to all the nights she’d light up at the sight of a karaoke machine, and to how she’d drag Sammy Lee on a makeshift stage to sing with her. Preslee dubbed her and Sammy as future Spice Girls. Nerdy Spice was Sammy and in true self-depreciating fashion she labeled herself Chubby Spice. She laughed it off, but I hated it and changed it to Tone Deaf Spice. She heartily agreed, knowing she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but she never stopped singing. Now Sammy Lee could sing and she made listening to the two of them bearable. They sang several songs but always, always started the night with a Spice Girls’ number.
I harrumph around a nod, unable to keep a grin from tilting my lips on one side. Thankful the green light and road require my focus through the windshield. While my mouth tugged on the side away from her, the giggle shaking her chest confirms she saw it. Undeterred, she continues to sing. Aside from a few tiny lines on her forehead, and the deeper indents around her mouth, she’s the same girl who gutted me—but if you look deep enough—you see the differences. Gone is the wistful girl with stars in her eyes. Life swallowed her light, leaving a woman who trusts few and questions everything.
At one point she belts out, “I’ll be there,” in a pitch high enough to shatter glass or wake the dead. In the rearview I see my son’s eyes pop open and search for the ear-splitting commotion. He watches the woman next to me for several minutes, and I flick between eyeing him and the road. Preslee is uninhibited, shifting her head around and singing into her fist. The passing cars catch her antics and every person shakes their head but smiles.
She amusing as fuck. The song ends and the next begins as Baha Men ask, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Cash catches Preslee’s dance fever because this one he knows. They sing, dance, and bark. She teaches him the Arsenio Hall fist pump to go along with the woofs, and as we pull in to the bike shop the sound of their laughter carries across the parking lot.
Inside Cash races to the line of BMXs and Preslee speed walks to the restroom, grumbling something about drinking too much coffee. The grunged-out greasy guy behind the counter watches every bounce of her chest until she’s past. He licks his chops, zoning in on the sway of her curvy ass. I clear my throat, but he’s too lost in his pursuit. When she reaches the door to the ladies’ room, his teeth follow his tongue sinking in the meaty, dry cracked corner of his lips. He moves to follow her; unaware anyone else is in the store. The hall where the bathroom is has one light and tons of shadows. Blitzed out of his mind, his sure movements confirm he’s done this before. Near the door he lurks, ready to pounce the second she exits the room. I slip behind, laying a hand on his shoulder.
He jolts, twisting his pupil-blown eyes at me. Shock widens his hazy gaze as he eyes the badge on my tee and the gun at my side. He runs a hand through his stringy hair and offers me a grin. The ri
se of his lips split open a few of the sores on his face and shows me the destruction of his teeth.
I wonder if the storeowner knows he’s a meth-head. Preslee returns, rubbing her hands down the skirt of her dress, she ignores my standoff with the stoner opting to join Cash. I shove him back behind the counter, warning him with a simple glare to not ogle her again.
A man in a T-shirt and khakis chains up a nice mountain bike outside the large storefront window before stepping inside. The store logo decorates the front of his tee and he greets us with a big smile and welcoming words. He introduces himself as the storeowner and offers his expertise to Cash.
My son wants a red racer but isn’t willing to wait for one to be ordered. Preslee can’t handle his broken heart. She squats down to his level and asks him what he thinks of the color sunflower yellow.
They argue the merits of it being a girly color. I bend, whispering how she can win this battle. My breath hits the shell of her ear and goosebumps pop up all over her neck and shoulders as she fights a shiver. Her reaction puts a smirk on my face and when my suggestion settles in her brain, her eyes brighten.
My son is seconds from an epic meltdown, unable to understand this is store meant to sell bicycles but he can’t take one home. Preslee moves toward the yellow one with wide blue tires. One hand on her hip and the other imitating a Price is Right girl, she claims her checkmate.
“Sponge Bob is yellow and he’s cool,” she says nodding her head, relaying what I told her.
Cash considers her words. In his world Sponge Bob is the coolest and he can bring this bike home today. The floppy strands of his hair swish with his rapid head nods. “YES! I want this one, Daddy,” he shouts, jumping in place.
The salesman congratulates him on a stellar choice. We step to the counter and the world, in the eyes of an excited six-year-old, comes to a screeching halt. The man smiles at Cash stating we can pick it up in two days. He rambles something about assembly time and other bull, but my eyes stay on my son.
All the vigor and enthusiasm from moments ago morphs into eyes teeming with tears. Cash doesn’t erupt often and he seldom cries, but when he does it rivals Vesuvius. His lip quivers as those tiny feet stomp and his face turns tomato red.
I lower to my knees trying to explain the delay, but he’s not interested in my reasoning. Before the yelling and fit throwing crests, I see Preslee slip something across the counter and catch the end of a heated discussion between her and the owner.
Whatever she said sends him jolting backward and shooting a death glare at his pervy employee. He gathers his composure, leaning over the glass counter. “How about this.” He smiles, but it’s forced. “Go grab some lunch and come back in an hour to pick up your bike.”
“Really?” Cash cheers. “Aye-aye, Captain,” he quotes his favorite cartoon and drags us both from the store.
We end up down the road at a Chick-Fil-A with a play area. Cash devours his chicken tenders and shoves off to play on the slide.
Curiosity bests me. “How did you coerce the guy to rush Cash’s bike?”
She shoves up her glasses and blinks her big sky-colored eyes, trying to appear all innocent. “Huh?”
Her ploy might work on anyone else. I’m not buying it. “Sunflower. Out with it. What did you do?”
She inhales a huge bite of her chicken sandwich, blaming a mouthful for her inability to respond. My fingers drum on the table, signaling I’ll wait her out. Her teeth work at a turtle’s pace and her gaze keeps bouncing to Cash. She’s hoping he’ll return to save her from answering. Not going to happen. He’s found a few other kids to chase around and won’t stop until we drag him away.
I narrow one eye and shift my lips to a questioning pucker.
“Fine,” she huffs, breathing out pieces of bread. Her mouth works the big bite before her throat moves with a swallow. “I told him how the slimy guy watched me and what he would’ve done had you not been there to stop him. Slipped him an extra fifty bucks while mentioning you are the Chief of Police in Seven Mile Forge, and not happy with the predator he allows to work in his store.”
“What does it matter? He can just fire the addict. Why did he bend to your will?”
“You didn’t notice the similarities? Eye color, bone structure, height? Pervy McPerverson meth addict is his son.” She ends with emphasis on the last word and a smarmy prideful dazzling one-sided grin.
“You read his intentions? How?” I ask, stupefied and certain of obliviousness based on her nonaction.
She pats her palm against my tightened fist. I eyeball it, wondering when I balled it up and how long it’s been there. Without time to analyze what has me clenching, I cock a brow at her instead.
“I’ve lived under a stalker's thumb for too many years. When someone watches your every move, you learn to never be unaware. To catch a creep, you must think like one,” she shrugs, “I scoped him out the second we entered the store and made a snap decision about his character. I wish it were as wrong as it sounds, but in this instance it wasn’t.”
“But you did nothing to protect yourself. If you’d been alone…” A shiver rattles me thinking of all the vile things I witnessed in his doped-out leer.
Her navy eyes gaze up innocent and wide, as her bottom lip sucks in and the rest of her mouth puckers to the side in a forced frown. She mocks me with her ‘you’re a silly man’ face. “If I were alone, I’m competent to handle myself but I figured you’d have my back. Your keen cop sense tingled and I read your body language. For once I was safe and protected.”
Those last words gut me and I hate the bastard for stealing her security, but a wave of admiration and pride sweeps through my veins. She’s good. No. She’s everything.
We stare at each other and the moment becomes too real. To lighten the awkward, I opt to pay homage to one of our favorite movies, Wayne’s World. My arms sweep up and down as I chant, “I’m not worthy,” over and over until her laughter rings through the air, tears fill her eyes, and my confusion devours the moment.
After I strap my son’s bike to the back of the Jeep, we head home. Amid the traffic and stoplights, Preslee checks her phone. Though she tries to hide it, I see a screen full of text and call notifications but she flicks it off so fast I can’t make out the sender. A hefty sigh deflates her chest and a peek of white tells me she is gnawing on her bottom lip. Her head turns watching the sidewalk and the people scuttling by. At the last light before open highway, she sits ramrod straight. I accelerate forward but she whips her stare behind, flitting between the side mirror and twisting her head.
I ask what she saw, not liking the paleness of her cheeks or the saucer width of her eyes. She shrugs me off, allowing her indifferent mask to slip into place in the form of a fake smile. My lips split to ask again but she reaches forward, cranking up the radio, silencing further conversation.
Memories plague my head and words I swore to never speak again knot my tongue. I can’t love this woman again, no matter how awe-inspiring her strength and resilience. She is the cold, evil, and heartless girl who left me pussed out with nothing better to do but trade my addiction to her for something else.
These ramblings prove my manly man, puffed-out chest persona false, and damn, it pisses me right the fuck off. I side-eye her and watch Cash in the mirror. Preslee channel surfs until she finds a song Cash recognizes and they scream it out as though auditioning for American Idol.
I hate how I love it.
She is still all the Preslee I fell for and I am still the hopeful puppy wanting to lap it up. I shake my head, arguing with myself to remember the pain. Life chewed me up and spit me out, but I grew stronger and despite fighting what it tried to show me, I learned and adapted.
I’m not the weak boy she wrote off. I’m a man who lived at the bottom and clawed my way out.
My ah-ha moment electrocutes my brain a mile from the plantation. For an hour I flexed my grip on the steering wheel, labeling my thoughts like the pieces of a crime scene. A wicked hard feat
with my ears ringing from all the ‘singing.’
It doesn’t take a game of Clue to figure out who did who with what.
She is not the stubborn girl who left me in a cloud of heartache dust. No. Preslee Marie Carmichael is a woman stuck in a hole and working her fingernails to nubs trying to climb out. A dark cavern dug by a power-stealing stalker and damn it, Buford Beaumont threw me a lifeline when I needed it so maybe it’s time to pay it forward.
Twenty-Six
Preslee
The briny ocean welcomes when we descend the airplane stairs. Blue sky, burning sun, and palm trees greet us as we load into a chartered SUV. Green, bright, hot, and flat, it’s a huge change from the mountainous horizon of Seven Mile Forge.
We avoided the Bermuda Triangle, or so the pilots jested. Sammy warned me to stay away from all things Google when it came to the dreaded mystery of the sea, but did I listen… hell no.
Curse me and my curiosity.
I begged for a Xanax when Sammy, Mazric, Joey, my guards, and I settled into the plush leather jet seats. Hendrix needed to wrap up with his current production schedule. Mazric’s teammate and best bud, Curry James, twisted his ankle during the last game of the season and is wrapping up with his physical therapist. They are arriving in a few days. The rest of the gang boards another charter and flies out in a week. We wanted to make sure everything was prepared and perfect. Somehow Mazric diffused his mother’s explosion and I’m one ecstatic maid of honor.
No one had a pill and Joey refused to let me drink my anxiety away. Sam tried to distract me with an itinerary of possibility but gave up halfway through the flight, opting to join the mile-high club with her fiancé instead.
Yeah, cause listening to my best friends shout in ecstasy helped my situation. By the time they finished, Joey and I were both squirming in our seats. Thing One and Two—Seth and Miguel—appeared unaware but couldn’t hide their shit-eating grins.
After our time shopping, I realized dating anyone would never do unless his name is Josiah Fucking Holmes. Creeden blew up my phone with a multitude of texts and calls because he heard I was free and wished to collect on our date. Creeden Jones is searching for something I can’t give and I don’t want to lead him on. I haven’t dated in a coon’s age, but he appeared a little too gung-ho. Plus, I swear I saw him outside a shop in Lexington. He was hovering there staring at us, but when I snaked my head behind us, I couldn’t find him.