by Neal, Xavier
Putting the truck in park, a wave of numbness rolls through my system. “You'll understand soon enough.”
Our attention turns to the front windshield where I see my grandmother on the front porch of their plantation home, wiping her hands on her white apron. She looks just like she did when I left home about four years ago. 5'2, tan skin from always attending to something in her personal garden, brown and gray wavy hair, and more fit than any woman who eats that much fried food at her old age should be.
I yank out the keys from the ignition and prepare to hop out of the truck. “Come on. Let's get this over with.”
At the sight of me, my grandmother hands shakily raise to her mouth. It was heart wrenching enough walking away from them, but it had to be done. I couldn't stay. I just couldn't. Not with how the situation continued to unfold. Not with the life that was panning out in front of me. Fuck that. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. On a deep breath, I start towards her as she travels down the wide steps to me.
The minute she's within reach, my arms fly around her. She cradles me closer to her before chokes out, “Oh Rascal...”
I whisper in return, “Ma...”
Inhaling the sweet smell of peaches and berries, I let my eyes close. There's a certain comfort to being in the arms of the woman who raised you that you can't find anywhere else. I've missed these hugs. Needed them after deployments. Woke up in tears and shudders, trapped in the prison of guilt for leaving her behind. The black hole of self-hatred for deserting one of the only people to give a fuck about you in your entire life, because you couldn't handle the shit cards life kept dealing, is a deep one. And it's one that almost broke me during HORN training.
Ma pulls away from me and rests a soft hand on my cheek. “Rascal...I've missed you.”
Leaning into her touch I nod. “Me too.”
She smiles softly once more before popping me on the cheek.
“Ou!”
“You're lucky I don't get the spoon,” she seethes planting her hands on her small hips. “You had no business leavin' like you did! Disppearin' right from under everyone's nose! Not even so much as a goodbye Rascal! You were raised better than that! You had me madder than a wet hen!”
“Sorry ma'am.” My hand rubs at the lingering sting.
“Don't you sorry me. I am tempted to drag you in the house by the ear and put you over my knee, I swear to the Lord.” Fighting the urge to smile at her caring ways, I push my lips tightly together and nod. “Now that that's settled, introduce me to your young lady that you didn't open the door for. You know better.”
Jazz adjusts her work bag on her shoulder as I make introductions, “Ma, this is Jazz, one of my commanding officers. Jazz meet my grandmother.”
Extending her hand she declares, “You can call me Ma.”
“Yes ma'am,” she respectfully agrees, shaking my grandmother's hand in return.
Suddenly Ma snips at me, “Where are your manners Rascal? You know better than to let a lady carry her own luggage! First you didn't open her door. And now her luggage! What is the city doin' to you?”
“She won't let me,” I squeak instantly feeling like the misguided teenager who ran away. “She has this whole independent thing she likes to hold on to.”
“Oh sugar, you can be independent and still let a man open doors for you.”
Before Jazz can argue I intrude. “She insists on carrying that bag herself. But I'll get her others ma'am.”
Jazz smiles politely and shakes her head. “I can roll my own luggage.”
“Not around here,” Ma denies. “Rascal has manners. He'll use 'em. You hungry sugar'?”
The echo of a shot gun blast fills our ears preventing her from answering. Afterward my grandfather yells, “Whooo! Good Lordy! Good Lordy! Did you see that shot?”
Quickly Jazz’s head snaps to me, jaw on the ground.
“Yeah. I...may have picked that up from him.” I scratch the back of my neck at the sound of my catch phrase from the man who raised me like his son instead of his grandson. Turning to Ma I ask, “Who's he talking to?”
“Probably Barkley,” she sighs. “Damn dog doesn't talk back.”
“He's still alive?”
“Oh Rascal, ya know Barkley is probably gonna outlive your Pa...He's a lazy dog, but not that old. Now come on you two. You can grab the bags later Rascal. Let's get you to him before he puts a hole in another one of my wind chimes.”
“He still does that?” I chuckle rushing around to grab the door to let the two of them in first.
“To drive me up the wall, I swear,” the drawl escapes her making Jazz giggle, a sound she doesn't typically share.
It swells my chest with pride at the fact it's my family that can do that for her. That give her something she can't give herself. I follow behind them after wiping my feet on the rug. Veering to the left side of the stairs upon entering, my eyes try not to wander to the family portraits and pictures in frames that grace the walls. Most of them are filled with awkward forced poses between me and my brothers. It felt like there was a never ending effort from Pa to get us to be a little closer than we were. The three of us take another left and enter the kitchen where we can see Pa sitting in his rocking chair on the back porch with his shotgun in hand aimed at a can on the tree, his basset hound companion at his feet.
“Jody!” Ma pushes the screen door slightly open. “Get in here! Rascal's home!”
The man I'm named after places his gun down and shuffles back towards the house, rushing in to see me. While I don't share any of the same light features as him or the rest of my brothers, I will say if I age half as well as he does, I'll consider myself pretty damn lucky. Looks wise, Glove shares more similarities. When Pa was younger he had a whole playboy pretty surfer look to him that even when I was growing up, ladies still flocked after. My height may come from him, but in his old age, I now tower over him. After one long look at me he cocks his famous trouble grin and sighs, “Peach fuzz on your face Rascal? Should I string you up one of the trees until you're ready to be picked?”
I run my hand across my chin. “It's not that awful.” After a beat I say, “Probably wouldn't look so bad if Ma hadn't popped me in the yard.”
“Spoon?”
“That's next,” I mutter.
“Damn right,” she agrees. “Have the nerve to leave me and not say goodbye. I should go get that spoon right now.”
Jazz softly questions, “Is this a real spoon or a metaphor?”
“Oh it's real,” Ma assures her before turning back to us. “Now you two quit with all the man fussin' and get to huggin'.”
Knowing better than to defy her the two of us take a couple steps and hug warmly. He gives me a few good pats and says, “Welcome home Rascal.”
I'm not home. Home is back in Texas, in my shitty little apartment with my best friend who hates to take out the trash. Home is where I have a local gym that knows my face not my house. Home is where the local bar knows my name 'cause we hang out there a couple times of week, not the bar that knows it because your family owns it and the rest of the fucking town. The only thing about here that's home, that's ever felt like home...is him and Ma.
He pulls back and gives me another good look. “It's about time you filled out. Marines are doin' you well.”
“Yes sir.” I nod.
“You look a grizzly bear in the making,” the description of my large, muscular build and dark brown features, makes me laugh. He laughs a little until he starts to cough, the rattle, almost worrisome. “Don't start scratchin' your back on any of my trees, ya hear me?”
Skirting past his joke, I usher a hand at Jazz. “Pa meet Jazz, my commanding officer.”
“Back in my day we called them girlfriends,” Pa replies shaking her hand. “And then wives.”
“You got lucky to call me both,” Ma calls over her shoulder.
Jazz giggles again, the sound seeping through the hardened system I've spent years creating for this place. “I work with your grandson.
Strictly professional relationship.”
Pa grins again mischievously. “For now...”
Quickly I snap, “Pa!”
“I'm jus' sayin' let's not rule out all the ways the country lets you get loose.” He winks at her.
She immediately covers her snicker and I yell again, “Pa!”
“Oh, lower your voice before you ring the church bells in town,” Ma fusses.
Pleased she's on his side he says, “You two are gonna wanna get washed up for supper. Rooms Mary Belle?”
“One,” she answers washing her hands in the sink. “They can share.”
“Share?” I croak out in confusion. There are more than 10 guestrooms in this house alone. Plenty of room for Jazz and I each to have our own space. Not that it would bother me that much to keep waking up beside her. She rarely sleeps, but any time she lays down beside me she seems to just drift off effortlessly. Typically no more than four hours. Still. Most beautiful four hours I have every day.
“Are you sassin' me?” She turns on her heels. “Because it's my house you dropped into after years of being away, demandin' you need a place to lay low for you and your girlfriend--”
“Colleague,” I mumble.
Unhappy Ma's voice raises, “Rascal--”
“It's fine,” Jazz speaks up. “We don't mind sharing a room.”
“Good,” Ma hums and gives me a stern look. “You two go wash up. Miss Tina already dusted your room, fixed your sheets, and got you fresh bath toiletries.”
Curious, my bunk mate questions, “Who's Miss Tina?”
“One of the maids,” I answer before Ma has a chance.
“House this big, she needs a little help cleanin' it every now and again.” Pa chuckles to himself.
“Well you damn sure ain't helpin',” she grunts at him.
“You have cooks that help too?” Jazz's curiosity continues.
“Bite your tongue city girl. Ain't no one comin' in my house and cookin' for me. I'll be cookin' til the day my feet can't hold me up any more,” Ma swears placing a hand in the air.
“Even then, she'll probably demand for us to roll her in here so she can bake something,” I insert and receive a chortle from Pa.
“Damn right.” Her quick nod is followed with, “Now y'all wash up. And Rascal?”
“Ma'am?”
“I suggest you find those manners you buried with so much else when you left here. Understand?”
Without hesitation I agree, “Yes ma'am.”
“Good.” She turns back around to return to cooking.
“Everyone will be here for dinner,” Pa says reaching for his freshly cleaned whiskey glass that has a cursive L on it.
My shoulders slump, the weight of the situation increasing with each passing minute. Under my breath I grumble, “This day just keeps getting better and better.”
“The big guestroom at the end of the hall Rascal. You should remember the way. It's got plenty of space. Supper's at 7.” Ma grabs a knife and cutting board.
“Come on Jazz. Let me show you our room...” In disbelief, I turn away from them and head the direction we came to take the stairs.
Without any more words spoken, I lead her up the grand stairs, catching a glimpse of my brother's wedding photo hanging next to my parents’. The image causes me to lose a step in which Jazz's attention flies to where mine was.
Doing my best to clear away the irritation, I hurry up the remaining steps and grunt, “This way.”
At the top of the stairs we take a right leading us past several guest bedrooms, bathrooms, and an additional sitting room Ma liked to use for her reading club. I wonder if she still has it. I wonder how much has really changed since I've been gone. Once we reach the very end of the right wing, I open the double doors and reveal the second master bedroom in the house. While the first is downstairs, this one was created to entertain out of town guests who would be staying longer than a weekend.
“Wow,” Jazz whispers out admiring the room with the oversize luxury bed and antique touches everywhere. “This is not what I was expecting.”
“Well, my grandparents may be the epitome of southern charm at times, but at others, they like luxurious things. They're not your typical southern pair,” I sigh with a smile.
“I'm beginning to see that,” Jazz replies. “I'll make sure to add that and Tina's name to the files.”
Surprised I ask, “She's not in there.”
“Just says maid and changes every other year.”
“Ah.” When she gives me a questioning look I inform her, “Ma has this thing about hiring local college students who need a job with flexible hours and a stepping stone to something bigger. Typically they stay the two years they're in community college and leave when they transfer to a university.”
“Better than flipping burgers.”
“Way better pay.” I point to another set of double doors. “Bathroom is through there. It's a full master as well. Built in glass shower. Clawfoot tub. Plenty of space for...girl...stuff...”
“Make up?”
“And hair stuff.” My hand gestures what I'm trying to communicate. “Not ideal to share a room with me for another night, I know, but I'll see what I can do by morning. They're punishing me in their own odd way.”
“Sharing a room with me is punishment?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “So you've been grounded for a week.”
“I didn't mean it like that,” I quickly blurt out. “I just meant...I figured you might want your own room--”
“I'd ask if I did,” she clarifies.
In no mood to have an argument or an awkward discussion on why she would want to share a space with me knowing my nuts can't get any bluer, I say, “I'm gonna go grab our bags.”
“I can help.”
“I've got it, Jazz. I can take care of it.”
Walking out of the room, I stroll back the way I came, and out the front door. The minute my feet hit the first step, I abruptly stop and flop down. My head falls forward as the hot sun starts roasting me from it's peaking position through the trees. I can't do this. I can't go through these next couple of weeks. Not here. Not with what lies ahead. And damn sure not with what I left behind.
**
After a long hot shower, a shave, and a change, I walk out of the bathroom to see Jazz sliding on a pair of high heels that aren't her signature, sky high height or preferred color, black, for dinner. Her sundress is a pale yellow halter with a floral design that compliments her tan skin and exposes places my eyes rarely get to taste. As always her dark brown hair is wound tight on top of her head. Someday, I'd love to be the one to replace my hand where that hair tie has a firm grip.
Seeing me leaning against the door frame, watching her, she stops and smirks. “Wow, those jeans are snug.”
I hook a thumb in my pocket. “I prefer my jeans this way.”
“I've been around you boys for months and never seen you wear a pair of jeans like that. Not even when you go out trying to pick women up.”
“That's because there are only so many nut hugger jokes I can hear before strangling Glove becomes the only logical conclusion.”
“That I believe,” she mutters.
“So for the sake of my sanity, and his health, I started wearing looser pairs, but these are the way they should be worn.” My eyes watch her tongue dart out of her mouth while drinks me in. Tasting me the only way I'm allowed to taste her. The actions cause a low groan in my throat. “Do you like these?”
“I um...” Her eyes have trouble dragging themselves up to mine. However when they finally do she compliments, “Nice belt buckle.”
The custom made peach buckle with a cursive L in the middle, is one I haven't worn since I left home for the Marines. I took it with me when I left for nostalgic reasons. Each of us Lords have one. Traditional gift given for our 18th birthday from Pa, along with a bottle of whiskey because he believes when you can see over the bar, you can start to drink, and when you can go off to fight for your country you deserve the
bottle he bought the year you were born. Sentimental. He's always been that way. Always obsessed with passing down lessons and customs that were passed down to him. My bottle has never been open. And this buckle, was worn the birthday I got it, and the birthday I left.
“Gift from Pa on my 18th birthday. We all got one.”
“It's a peach.” Without waiting for me to say something back she returns to putting on her heels. “Considering your family owns, runs, and operates the third largest peach distribution in the country that makes sense.” Once her shoe is on she looks back at me, “The boys have no idea, do they?”
Folding my arms across my chest, I shake my head. “No. They just think I'm some run of the mill, come from middle of nowhere, country bumpkin cowboy.” After a brief pause I ask, “This is in my file, isn't it?”
“Of course it is.”
“So you've always known.”
“Since the day your name fell on my desk.”
“It fell on your desk? I thought you actively found us.”
“I did,” she states. “But I still had research to do.” I hum as response. “You're supposed to be brothers on and off the field yet you all have secrets you've kept from one another. Grim with Haven. Glove with Khloe. You with your heritage. Why? Why don't you just tell them?”
“Because this.” I motion a hand at my body. “Isn't who I am. I'm not the southern gentleman groomed to inherit this legacy. I'm the Marine who has become trained to be the best fucking Linguistic Specialist for HORN.”
Jazz crosses over to me, her delicious scent flooding my veins like a calming poison, paralyzing me in place. I can feel my dick swell as much as my tongue. Adjusting the collar of my shirt she states, “I think in some ways you can be both.”
I do my best not to dissolve into her touch. It's tempting. Just as tempting as it is to push her backwards, yank up her dress, and run my tongue in places it has no business being on the woman who could easily have my team disassembled and me banished for even considering that a possibility.
Offering her my arm for escorting, I sigh, “We should get downstairs.”
She wraps her arm around me. “No hat?”