by Daya Daniels
The breath that leaves me is desperate, hopeful. My almost dry long hair tickles the bare skin on my shoulders and the tops of my breasts. I sit up completely, listening to the sound of my heartbeat that feels like it’s in my ears.
Trav’s lips part as he watches my fingers glide over my skin as I peel the towel away from me. His breathing deepens, and he gets that look on his face he always did right before he’d pounce on me once upon a time. He keeps his eyes on my hands as they move over my breasts. I squeeze each one, letting him see. Glancing down, I trace the line of the long appendage that tents his shorts then slumps across his thigh.
“You look beautiful, Callie.”
I say nothing, just keep touching myself, letting him see, squeezing my nipples and pressing my palm against the quivering skin on my stomach. I shift to my knees and reach for him. He keeps his eyes on me and clutches my hand when I place it on his stomach, almost letting it inch down to his dick.
“Callie, no.”
I open my mouth then shut up, allowing it to become tight with rage. “I can just—”
“No, Callie,” he repeats with sympathetic eyes.
Why!
I snatch up the towel angrily, turn away from him and wrap myself in it, trying my best to keep my tears in my eyes.
I never stop trying...I vowed I’ll never stop trying even if it kills me. Because I don’t want things to be this way...
I’ve attempted this numerous times since the accident, and every single time I was rejected even though there was no doubt he wanted it. The proof is right there in the way his dick swells at my naked flesh, but yet, each time he refuses, leaving me feeling rejected and horny. And I hated him for it. I hate him right now for this! I’d ask “why,” only to be screamed at for wanting sex.
So what if he doesn’t have legs! So what if he’s missing half an arm and a few fucking fingers. I still find him attractive. He’s still handsome with a chiseled face and the same pearly white smile he had when I’d first met him. And honestly, I have no plans of riding his arm, his fingers, or his legs. I plan to ride the shit out of his COCK! It still works! He just doesn’t want me anymore...
I choke back my tears one more time at the thought of how many times I’ve been rejected like this. I feel small, unwanted, invisible. And I’m starting to believe it’s the only reason Trav doesn’t want to sleep in here anymore—because I’ll want sex.
Slutty me.
When I’ve composed myself, I get comfortable beneath the blanket and face him. He moves to his side and caresses my cheek a few times. I don’t stop him. I’m just grateful he’s here and not isolating himself in the room across the hallway that’s become his own personal bedroom away from me for the past few years, like we’re brother and sister.
“I’m sorry, Callie, for everything.”
“Trav, nothing is your fault—”
Exhaling, he nods and drags his index finger over my lips, silencing me as a tear slips from his right eye. “Promise me that no matter what happens, Callie...” he whispers, taking long to speak again, just breathing and tracing the line of my mouth with his finger. His warm breaths ghost my cheeks as he starts his sentence over. “Promise me that no matter what happens, that you’ll never leave me.”
I stare at him, lost in his metallic orbs that stare back at me.
“Remember the forty percent rule,” he says, earning a tiny smile from me.
The forty percent rule—the Navy SEALs’ secret to mental toughness, which says that when your mind says you’re done, you’re really only forty percent done and that we as humans can tolerate much more than we think.
“Do you remember it?” he urges, still speaking.
The rule he hasn’t spoken of in so long... The rule I wish he’d heed himself...and try harder.
“Yes, of course.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave me, Callie.” His voice quavers.
“Never, Trav,” I promise him. “I love you.”
He leans forward and gently kisses my forehead. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. And you’ll be the last girl I’ll ever love, Callie.”
CHAPTER SIX
Austen
THE RUMBLE OF THE motorcycle engine shakes the cobblestone street before I shut it off. I kick the stand down and remove my helmet, placing it between the handlebars.
It’s seven in the morning and the orange sun peeks just over the horizon. The high-pitched sound of the crickets and the soft breeze that washes over me reminds me of how serene this place is. I take a deep breath and look down at my boots in the sand.
I’m tired. I haven’t seen or heard from Callie in over a week. I’m losing my fucking mind. She won’t respond to any of my messages and another teacher has been there waiting with Brandon twice after school last week, thwarting my ambush attempts.
It’s Monday again.
The weekend crawled by. I kept busy with work and with spending time with Brandon. We did everything from going to the beach and the arcade to eating out at a few casual places around here. And Friday night we went fishing on the pier, taking a few minutes out to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Ivy had packed for our outing. I enjoyed myself. Then when it came time to take Brandon home later, my chest felt heavy about having to leave him there.
I didn’t do very much from Friday to Sunday, except for work on getting the cottage together. I felt like I was just trudging through the days. But last night the loneliness I felt crept over me and settled there like a thick fog. I twisted and turned in bed until I decided to jerk off before I finally fell asleep, while all thoughts about the woman I can’t seem to get out of my head filled my visions. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss at her absence.
I miss her.
Glancing to my right, I take a look at the restored Colonial-style mansion that covers the entire corner of this residential block—white and pristine beneath the morning sun, surrounded by lush landscaping the Forresters clearly pay a shit-ton for.
Raine has been out of town for the past week, so Brandon has been left in the care of her parents, who refused to let Brandon stay with me while she wasn’t here. Their decision, of course, didn’t surprise me. The Forrester family aren’t exactly my biggest fans, not that I give a fuck.
Before I can make it off my bike she’s out the door, wrapping herself in a robe—her eyes narrowed and her orange hair everywhere as she makes her way down the cobblestone pathway and to the wrought iron gate.
She unlatches it, steps forward, and settles into an arrogant pose. “I didn’t think you’d come to see me. I was hoping to see you last week when you were supposed to pick...” She leans in to hug me.
Instantly, I back away and her happy expression dissolves. “Yeah, I know, Raine. But those times are for Brandon. They have nothing to do with you,” I tell her in a bored tone.
She bites her lip. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here after all this time and giving me fucking attitude. You owe me a lot of—”
“Here,” I say, shoving her a wad of cash.
She gives me a dirty look, then her eyes drop down to the money in my hand.
“And don’t forget that you haven’t been getting this because I’ve been in jail, not because I didn’t want to give it to you, or because I felt like I don’t have to contribute toward the expenses for my son.”
“Yeah.” She continues to stare at it and, in some way, I know she doesn’t want to take it because if she does, she’ll no longer have the money I haven’t given her to bitch about, or to hold over my head when it comes to my son.
The story of Raine Forrester is a long and hazy one. She’s my little fuckup at the potluck. A part of my history I’d rather forget. It was a one-night stand I barely remember. I was drunk. She was too. It all happened during a time in my life when I was reckless, selfish, and had absolutely no direction in life.
Raine’s a pretty girl. But she’s a spoiled brat and lacks a real personality. She always thought she was special. She alway
s thought I’d really wanted her, but in the state of mind I was in back then, especially that night, I probably would’ve fucked a fire hydrant if it was willing. I didn’t care about very much back then, not even myself.
“Take it,” I urge.
She takes the cash out of my hand and stares at it.
“There’s fifteen grand there—more than what I owe you.”
She purses her lips. “Where’d you get this from, Austen?”
Fucking.
“Does it matter? It’s the money I owe you. Can I see Brandon?”
Raine glances over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, you can.” She gives me a long look. “You look good, Austen. It’s good to see you. Maybe if you have time this week we could—”
“Can I see Brandon, please?”
She stares at me blankly for a long moment, huffs, then heads back inside.
“And stop texting me unless it has something to do with Brandon,” I sing out before she disappears through the massive double front doors.
In less than a minute Brandon comes flying out and I laugh at his Avengers pajamas set and blue slippers. He rushes through the gate and toward me. “Dad.” He crashes into my chest and wraps his arms around my waist.
“Hey.” I ruffle his hair and take a good look at him and although our eyes are different colors, when I look at him all I see is me. He’s the best thing I could have ever done with my life—the only thing I probably haven’t had the chance to fuck all the way up.
“This is a coooool bike.” He checks the Harley out. “When do I get to take a ride on it?” he asks with a big grin.
I laugh. “Uh, probably never.”
He frowns.
“Okay, maybe when you’re twenty-one.” Another frown, but this time it’s silly. He laughs out loud. “I don’t think your mom would approve of you being on this very dangerous machine.”
“But I don’t care what she thinks,” he leans in and whispers, before he hugs me.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, feeling the soft strands against my nose.
“Will you stay this time?” he mumbles into my hoodie.
I run circles over his back with my hand. “Yeah, yes, of course. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Mom said you’re going to leave again.”
Fuck her.
“I won’t, Brandon.” I place my hands on his shoulders and force him to face me. His watery eyes make me feel like such a fuckup and I know my kid has been carrying around a broken heart probably since the day he was born because I’ve never been around. I’d let so many people down, including my own son. I’d sat in my jail so many nights debating what I’d do with my life once I left the confines of that twelve-by-twelve room.
I’d read every letter Brandon had sent to me and I’d replied to every single one. In the last six months the letters he’d sent to me had been about his teacher Mrs. Stone. Brandon had sent me drawings and he quoted word for word the things she’d said to him during his struggles with math. Positive affirmations like “Nothing beats a try,” and “When you know better, you do better.” She’d helped him to come to love math and a bunch of other subjects. Of course, back then, I didn’t know Brandon was writing about Callie, but now I understand.
“I’m painting your bedroom blue,” I tell him. “It’s almost finished.”
“Really?” He grins.
“Yeah.”
“When do I get to see it?”
“Soon, this week. I promise you.”
He leans into my chest. “Do I get to put stuff in it?” His eyes go bright as he looks at me. “I want bunk beds. And I want to put up some posters and stuff. Will I get to stay with you on the weekends like the other kids get to do with their dads?” he rattles out.
I laugh at the sight of this little kid being so excited about spending time with me. “Yeah, yes, of course. Your mom and I will straighten all that out, but you’ll have your own room to stay in when you come over.”
“It sounds perfect, Dad. Today, at school, we’re talking about the use of proper nouns in the English language.”
I bob my head. “Sounds cool.” And I find myself insanely jealous he’ll get to see Callie today and I won’t.
Brandon tells me more. “Yeah, I’m excited about it. I spent all night going through them myself, so I can answer Mrs. Stone’s questions on them this morning.”
I chuckle. I was never an attentive kid in school, but Brandon seems to be quite the opposite. He’s a most-dedicated student, especially when it comes to any lesson Callie teaches.
“Where are you going today?” he asks.
“To work out on Sullivan’s Island. Remember? I told you.”
“Oh, yeah. Right, Dad.”
“I’m going to be fixing old man Morris’ place up for a while, so he can sell it.”
“Sounds neat.
“Are you going to do his landscaping too?” Brandon asks.
“Probbbably.” I smirk.
“I want to see it when it’s done.”
“Okay.”
“Promise, Dad.”
I laugh. “Yes, I promise.”
“Brandon!” Raine calls out from the front of the house. “It’s time to get ready for school.”
“I have to go.” Brandon’s gaze moves between my face and the front of this ridiculous mansion.
He gives me a big hug.
I kiss him on the cheek. “You can call me anytime, okay?” I tell him. “Anytime.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Bye, kiddo,” I say quietly, watching him dash back into the house and inside.
Raine gives me a hard look before she shuts the door. Shaking my head, I pull out my phone and type a message out to Callie.
Me: If it meant losing a friend, then I wish we’d never fucked.
I stare at the words on the screen for what feels like an eternity, waiting for the response that never comes. Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I mutter a few curse words before I kickstart my bike and ride off.
Austen
IT’S LATE IN THE afternoon.
Standing in the den on the second floor of Arthur Morris’ house, I admire the work I’ve done on this place since I’ve been back here.
The chestnut-colored original wood floors have been stripped. A few of the overhead supporting beams have been replaced that cross the vaulted ceilings above me. The entire roof has been replaced. And most of the interior walls are on their way to being painted a nice cream color I’ve selected.
It all looks good and I knew I was charging old man Morris a fraction of what some of these other guys would’ve expected him to pay for my services. Frankly, I was just grateful for the work. And old man Morris wasn’t too fussy about fixtures and finishings. Much of the time he let me select those items without much interference or interest, really. He just wanted the work done so he could sell this place.
It’s a quaint cottage that stands on its own. There are no neighbors close by and it’s surrounded by big magnolia trees. The neighbors are far away on both sides. It has three bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms and is just off the beach. The place had been empty for a while even though high-end furnishings still covered up by plastic were still inside of it, placed sparingly throughout the place. And it hadn’t been kept up at all for years, since it still had shown signs of structural damage from when Hurricane Hugo had touched down here back in ’89.
Sullivan’s Island is an affluent part of Charleston with a population nowadays of just under two thousand people. Back in the 1600s, it was the point of entry for approximately 40 percent of the four hundred thousand African slaves brought here.
And believe it or not much of Edgar Allen Poe’s work such as his stories Gold Bug and The Balloon Hoax were either written about or inspired by Sullivan’s Island. His poem Annabel Lee is said to be written about a girl Poe fell in love with when he was stationed at Fort Moultrie here during the Civil War. I don’t know much about Poe except for that, which they’d taught me in ele
mentary school all those years ago.
The memory forces a laugh from me. I run a hand over my beard then walk across the room. I drag my hand over the freshly-sanded doorframe, that’ll be varnished tomorrow, and look around. I nod a few times, satisfied with my handiwork.
Light footfalls jerk my attention toward the kitchen where the new stainless steel appliances have been installed just this morning by a guy I know.
“You’re still here, boy.” Arthur’s scratchy voice fills my ears as he walks in through the doors, hunched over with a cane.
“Yeah, I’m still here. I just have a few more things to do then I’m out of here for the night.” I stroll toward him and extend my hand.
He takes it with a firm grip and shakes it a few times, looking up at me. His gray eyes soft but steely at the same time. He’s a small man by stature and his bald head is covered in wispy white hair. This man is pushing ninety years old.
Even when I came here looking for work, Arthur Morris was the only one who’d give me a job. I was upfront about my incarceration and why I’ve been in the slammer. Arthur looked me over then and with a few suspicious grunts told me he thought he had a job for me, which I accepted.
I take a glance out the window at the Prius parked just outside that his driver, who waits in the vehicle, has brought him here in.
Arthur smiles and moves across the open-plan kitchen to run a hand across the stone countertops. “This place looks amazing.” He cranes his neck up to the ceiling and takes a breath as his cane knocks into the cabinets. He nods a few times approvingly.
“A few more weeks and it should be sale ready.”
“Yes, I should say so!” he shouts.
In the recent weeks I’ve gotten used to Arthur’s shouting, which is partly a combination of his spirited ways and the reality that he’s slightly deaf. He squints his eyes and looks me over. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks,” he growls. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. I moved into my brother’s place on the beach.”
He nods. “Uh-huh. And you’ve been staying out of trouble, I assume.”