The Varlet and the Voyeur

by L.H. Cosway

  No doughnuts the first weekend of every month was a small price to pay for avoiding making any more memories of Simone Payton.

  But here she was. On a Thursday. The second Thursday.

  Frustrating.

  I crossed my arms, and then I scratched my neck. Somewhere nearby, what sounded like a motorcycle engine roared past, seemed to draw closer, and then abruptly cut off. I hadn’t yet cut my car’s engine because I hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or go. The question was, how badly did I want a doughnut?

  Pretty bad.

  I’d just spent four hours on the road with several reoccurring thoughts occupying my mind, the most prevalent one being how nice it would be to treat myself to a fine doughnut from the original Daisy’s Nut House upon arrival in Green Valley. In fact, I’d been feeling generous. The plan was to pick up three dozen for the next morning’s breakfast, share them with the whole house.

  And wouldn’t they be surprised. Just last month, Cletus—that’s my middle brother—had chewed me out for never ‘thinking beyond my own nose,’ all because I moved his laundry out of the washer without putting it in the dryer.

  First of all, the towels in the dryer weren’t yet dry. Instead of moving his wet clothes in, I restarted the dryer for the towels. And second, when the towels were dry, I needed to dry my own clothes if I wanted to get on the road before sundown. And third, I told him when I left the house that he needed to put his clothes in the dryer.

  I did my due diligence, right?

  He didn’t think so and had called me seventeen times since, once for every article of clothing he’d had in the washer, to leave a voicemail detailing how repugnant each item now smelled. I could even hear him sniff.

  Long story short, Cletus overreacted, as he was prone to do.

  Rolling my eyes at the memory, I brought my attention back to the beautiful girl pouring coffee for two locals sitting at the counter. She flashed a smile, the sight making me grit my teeth at the reflexive twinge in my chest.

  Tearing my eyes away, I admitted to myself that Simone wasn’t a girl anymore. I reckoned she hadn’t been a girl in quite a while, but I’d missed all that.

  I never did this. I never sought her out, and I certainly never watched her like a creeper, sitting in my dark car in one of the Nut House’s shadowed spots just after sunset. I avoided her, like the plague. I’d missed everything after we’d turned sixteen ten years ago, and I had no plans on catching up now.

  Maybe . . .

  Maybe I could act like I was in a hurry. Maybe I could pretend I was on an important phone call, which would make meaningful interaction or even chit-chat impossible. Maybe I could order, run out as though I needed to check something, and then come back when I saw she had the doughnuts ready.

  Or maybe you should man-up and just get it over with.

  . . . nah.

  Cutting the engine, I formed a defensive strategy: I’d go in, pretend I was on the phone, order utilizing as few words as possible, walk to the back of the diner—to be polite, so as not to be one of those obnoxious public-phone-talkers standing in the middle of the restaurant—until my order was up. Then I’d place a twenty on the counter and leave, all the while still on the phone.

  Perfect.

  I set my hand on the door handle, hesitating. I opened the door, reconsidering, but then ultimately breathed out as I stood from the car. I hesitated again, reconsidered again, and eventually shut the door behind me while reaching into my back pocket.

  Pulling out my phone, I stared at the screen.

  Actually . . . better yet, I’d call my sister Ashley. I’d make her stay on the phone with me until I had our doughnuts in hand and was on my way back out. Yes. My sister would understand. She wouldn’t tease even if I explained the reason why I called. She was the best.

  Yep. Good plan. Very good plan.

  Swiping my thumb over the screen, I clicked on my phone contacts, navigated to recently dialed, and was just about to tap on my sister’s name when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching closer on the gravel lot.

  Absentmindedly, I glanced over my shoulder. And then I did a double take, my mind went blank, the hand holding my phone dropped to my side, and I backed up a step.

  It was my father.

  More accurately, it was my biological father. He was twenty or so feet away. Cold, greyish light of a late winter evening peeked through the tall oaks of the surrounding forest and offered little illumination. I could see him just fine.

  I didn’t know this man well, but I’d know this man anywhere. Even if his face hadn’t been visible, I knew his walk, the way he moved, with a swagger so like my oldest brother Jethro.

  Presently, I marveled at how ageless—how exactly like my memory—he seemed to be. His hair was still salt and pepper, but mostly pepper. His form was still tall and lean and strong, looking like a man twenty years his younger. His face was nearly free of wrinkles, except the deep grooves of laugh lines around his vivid blue eyes and mouth.

  But what struck me dumb was how much I looked like him. My father was smiling my smile. At me. I was momentarily beset by an unnerving sense that I was watching myself.

  Eventually, I stiffened, my sluggish brain finally realizing that he meant to intercept me, meet me where I stood gaping at my car door. He was going to talk to me.

  Which had me wondering, Why?

  I hadn’t seen my father since the day of my momma’s funeral, my last glimpse had been him carted away in the back of a police car after trying to kidnap my sister and brother Billy.

  Before that, he’d shown up to our family’s house at twilight, the day after my momma died, making threats and demands.

  The last time before that, he’d picked me up from school unexpectedly—he never picked me up from school—and I’d been happy to see him. He’d asked me all about myself, about school, about girls, about my momma and how she was doing.

  It had felt like the best day of my life until he’d dropped me off in the middle of Cooper’s Field, grinning his grin, telling me to find my way home. If I could. I needed to prove to him that I was a man worthy of carrying his blood.

  I’d been twelve.

  But here he was now, his boots crunching the gravel, his stride smooth and unhurried, looking at me like he knew who I was better than I knew myself.

  Why is he smiling?

  I could only wait dumbly, confounded by his approach. But I did manage to snap my mouth shut, my brother Cletus’s voice in my head saying, Close your mouth, no one wants to see your papillae.

  Darrel Winston slowed his steps, coming to a complete stop approximately five feet away. His eyes moved over me with peculiar gleam.

  “Son,” he said warmly, his voice startling me. It was deep like my brother Billy’s, but roughened, presumably due to years of cigarettes and breathing motorcycle fumes. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Is it?” I asked and wondered at the same time. My own voice hoarse with astonishment, I fumbled in my confusion.

  He was the last—and I do mean the absolute last—person I’d ever expected to see. Ever. Not just now, but ever.

  “Of course it’s nice to see you.” Darrel’s grin spread a little more, his eyes glittered with what looked like amusement. “How have you been?” he asked in a tone laced with a sincerity and interest that had me blinking.

  Standing straight, I lifted my chin and crossed my arms. It was instinctive, a defensive posture, as though I could protect myself against his show of sincerity.

  The sincerity wasn’t real. Like I said, I didn’t know my father well, but I knew when someone was faking sincerity.

  “What do you want?” I asked, annoyance finally eclipsing my surprise, and made no effort to return his show of politeness or interest.

  Darrel’s eyes moved over me, still looking amused. “You going inside?” He gestured to the diner. “Let me buy you dinner.”

  My nose wrinkled, all on its own, the beginning of a sneer. “No.”

&
nbsp; “No?” He chuckled, like he was dealing with an adorable toddler, one he had a long-standing affection for. “Come on now, Roscoe. I haven’t seen you in—what is it now—three years?”

  “Six years and four months.” And twenty-two days.

  Now he was full on grinning, looking pleased as punch by my accidental correction of his poor recollection, and definitely reading too much into it. I remembered the date and time of each and every one of my last encounters, with each and every person I’d ever met. He wasn’t special in this regard.

  My father spoke through his laughter. “Yeah, I can see you haven’t been missing your old man at all.”

  Frustrated, I ground my jaw and looked away, determined to set my gaze anywhere but on this man who—if the bits and pieces of stories I’d managed to overhear throughout the years were true—had wrecked my family in all ways that matter.

  And that’s when I spotted Simone Payton.

  She was no longer in the diner, passing out smiles and pouring coffee. She was walking over, her eyes on me, her foot just about to the leave the sidewalk and step on the gravel of the lot. I froze for a split second, rocked back on my feet, and then quickly returned my attention to my father.

  Something about my unintended expression change must’ve caught his notice, because he was now looking over his shoulder. A second later, he was standing taller, watching her approach. A few seconds after that, his gaze swung back to mine, assessing, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

  “Well, look who it is,” he said, steady and quiet, like this—Simone’s sudden appearance and my reaction to it—also amused him.

  I need to leave.

  I wouldn’t leave.

  There was no way I was going to leave. Not with Darrel here, not with Simone all alone. Well technically, she wasn’t all alone. Two locals were still in the diner, but she may as well have been alone.

  I tried to tell myself I’d behave in a similar fashion with any person, but this was a boldfaced lie. I wouldn’t suffer through my father’s company for many, and Simone was probably near the top of that list. Even if she’d been surrounded by the entire police force, there was no way I was going to leave Simone Payton with my father.

  Hell. No.

  Anchoring my legs, determination—to keep her safe—calcified my chest and breath and bones.

  Meanwhile, Darrel’s smirk widened and he openly scrutinized my face. “Looks like your girl is all grown up.”

  There was no mistaking his tone, and a thirst for violence such as I’ve never experienced exploded outward from my gut, a shockwave coursing through my veins.

  I opened my mouth to respond, maybe to threaten him, but before I could, Simone called out, “Roscoe? Roscoe Winston? I thought that was you.”

  I didn’t look at her, my attention focused solely on the menace in front of me, my eyes narrowing into slits when my father answered for me, “Yes, darlin’. Here stands Roscoe Orwell Winston.”

  Darrel turned to her again. I glared at his profile as his mouth curved into a full smile.

  “And is that . . . is that Mr. Winston?” she asked, sounding pleased by the possibility, and this brought me up short.

  I could not believe my ears. First of all, Simone hated my father. At least, she’d always said so when we were kids. And secondly, the way she was talking was . . . weird. Like, she was putting on an accent, wearing it. I doubted my father could tell, but I certainly did.

  I had a southern accent, so did Simone’s momma, Daisy, and her grandfather, the judge. But Simone didn’t have an accent—not ever—nor had her daddy, her sister, nor her brother. They’d always sounded like Yankees.

  Darrel tipped his head in her direction, unfazed by the oddness of her enunciation. “Hello, Miss Simone.”

  That’s what he’d called her when we were kids, when he’d drop in unexpectedly and she’d been over at my house. He always said it with an air of amusement and mock-respect. It hadn’t charmed her then.

  But now, she laughed lightly, the sound causing my frown to deepen.

  “Well, Mr. Winston, look at you. Long time no see,” she said, drawing even with my father.

  My notice flicked over Simone without really seeing her, more concerned with watching the scene before me unfold than the details. She held out her hand for a shake. He reached for it. Instead of shaking it, he held her fingers between his palms, like her hand was a precious thing.

  “I was just saying to my son,” his voice adopted a gentle, intimate quality, one that had me balling my hands into fists, “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. How old are you now?”

  “Same age as Roscoe.” Her answer carried a smile.

  Simone pulled out of his grip and turned to me. She moved close, and then closer, seeming to hesitate.

  But I hadn’t looked at her yet.

  I kept my eyes fixed on my father, not missing the way his gaze lowered to her legs, and then rose leisurely, conducting a deliberate, admiring perusal of her backside. I fought the urge to blacken both of his eyes as she stepped forward into my space.

  I understood why patricide was illegal. That said, given who my father was and how he was presently ogling Simone, I also understood why it happened. These were my thoughts when she unexpectedly slipped her arms around my torso, catching me off guard.

  On autopilot, I wrapped my arms around her while I held my anger closer, telling myself that my father’s presence—and my enduring hatred for him—would be enough to keep this quick embrace from becoming a plague, like so many other moments involving this woman.

  I knew noticing her couldn’t be helped. I’d lived my adult life greedy for her even as I’d avoided all mentions and news of her person. There was nothing I could do about committing at least parts of this quick moment to memory, despite my best intentions.

  Except, it didn’t end up being a quick hug.

  Simone inhaled a sharp breath as our bodies met, and that caused my focus to waver. She then held me for several beats, her arms growing tight, disrupting my thoughts from the violent-intent coursing through me.

  I blinked. My attention shifted.

  She smells like midnight jasmine.

  Now, there’s no such thing as midnight jasmine, but there is such a thing as the fragrance of jasmine in the middle of the night, and that’s what she smelled like.

  Closing my eyes until they were scrunched tight, I did my best to grasp at the anger.

  I would not remember what it felt like to have her in my arms. I would not remember how she pressed close, how she fit, how she was both soft and firm. I would not remember how warm she was or how her cheek and lips felt next to the skin of my neck.

  I will not.

  Damnit.

  I was so screwed.

  ** Coming July 2018! Pre-Order Dr. Strange Beard Now! **

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