Keep Happy

by A. C. Bextor

  For his impending trial, I was Marcos’ lawyer’s only chance for a tried and true character witness. After I’d heard from the prosecuting attorney and saw firsthand the pictures of what that girl’s time with him looked like, I couldn’t deny, let alone fathom what he’d done.

  At the time, Penny Blake, sweet as could be, had only been eleven. She was walking home from the bus stop, along a seldom-traveled gravel road, one spring evening when her good luck in life took a sharp turn to hell.

  Witness accounts said Marcos had been out all day drinking. Some testified he’d also been smoking weed and crack.

  He’d caught sight of her on her way home, backpack in hand, short girlie skirt blowing in the breeze. He’d asked for directions then asked if she needed a ride. She refused to get in his van. That’s when he opened his door, jumped out, and struck her in the head, using enough force to render her unconscious.

  During her eleven hours held captive with him in an abandoned trailer, somewhere near her childhood home, she’d been beaten awake then raped until she passed out. This went on repeatedly.

  Penny Blake sat on the witness stand, keeping her focus solely trained on her older brother for support, and bravely told the jury every graphic detail she could remember.

  Ultimately, her very young and very innocent life had been ruined to the point she’ll never carry children of her own.

  “What do you want me to do?” I question.

  Riggs puts his hands to his hips and looks down. His jaw tightens, waiting for me to agree to whatever he’s thinking.

  Rob avoids my gaze as well, staring into the pile.

  “I’m not leaving town,” I tell them both. “Fuck that.”

  Katie’s here. Doesn’t fucking matter that I can’t have her the way I want; I won’t leave her again. We’ll build what we can in way of a friendship, and I’ll hope for that being enough. Maybe if I can find peace with how her life has turned out, I’ll be able to move on and find my own.

  “What about a justifiable paid leave of absence?” Riggs suggests. “Just until we can figure this out?”

  “What’s to figure out? We find Marcos, we end this bullshit. Simple.”

  “You’re not thinking this through,” Rob disagrees with my position. “You’re too close to this. I’ll remind you, you testified against him.”

  “I’ve testified against the guilty before. If there’s something else you wanna say, just say it. If not, I have shit to do.”

  “This is personal to him, Cole,” Rob emits quietly. “You know it is.”

  “And it’s personal to me,” I slam back. “Which means, on or off duty, here or somewhere else, I won’t stop looking over my shoulder. At least here, I’ll do it with my gun and badge.”

  “This came with it,” Riggs interrupts, shoving a bow into the stack with the edge of a pen. “No clue why, but also no clue why this sick son of a bitch does anything.”

  “Penny Blake had a pink bow,” I tell them both. “When they found her unconscious in that trailer, she’d been wearing it.”

  “Fucking hell,” Rob utters, looking away.

  “He carried it. He put it on the scene fresh. Girl was bloodied tip to toe. Bow was untouched.”

  “Christ,” Riggs curses to the ceiling.

  “I’m not leavin’,” I reiterate. “Swear to God, you can threaten me, fire me, or worse. But I’m not leavin’ until this shit is done.”

  Riggs breathes one of his disappointing sighs. “Well, let’s get to work then. Got shit to do.”

  “Fuck yeah we do,” I return, grabbing the handle to the office door and moving to walk through it.

  Past…

  “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?” I continue baiting Mason’s patience with my quiz.

  Earlier this evening, my phone rang. I knew before picking up who was calling. I had been in my bedroom watching Mason sitting in his truck, as it sat at the end of my driveway. He never comes to the door. Usually he’ll send a text and wait. If my dad’s sedan is gone, he’ll call.

  But he’s never walked to my porch and rang the bell for me to answer. That’s not his style. Even with our mutually agreed upon Friday nights together.

  So, being my dad is out of town, I wasn’t shocked or surprised to hear his greeting come out as, “I’m waitin’ outside, Katie Mae. Get your shit and let’s go,” then the click to disconnect.

  Over the last three months, I’ve gotten to know Mason. And all of this has been exciting. Not wonderful, not fun, not great.

  Exciting.

  My stomach flutters when his face comes to my mind’s eye.

  My breath catches when he gives me that look he does a lot; the tilting of his head along with a small heartwarming grin. His way of telling me I’ve done something he thinks is cute.

  My hand trembles when he grabs it, no matter how often. We could be walking through a crowd of people; he’ll latch on and not let go until we’re safe and together.

  And the way he shares his stories. Not many. Not in great detail. But I’ve learned a lot about Mason Cole and not by listening to him talk to my dad while I was hiding behind trees and bushes.

  Since the night Mason took me home from the frat party, we’ve been in contact—kind of.

  At first there were a few simple texts, where he declared I better be ‘fucking behavin.’

  Then there had been an occasional telephone call here or there. Each had a purpose then a fast hang up.

  Then as time passed, Mason decided we’d be friends.

  We’ve been to dinner once, albeit a quick run around the Dairy Queen drive-through.

  We’ve been shopping, though only to Walmart to ‘pick up some shit’ he needed.

  We’ve also been alone, just not often, and never anywhere which allowed quiet late-night talks.

  We do everyday things that everyday people do. Dates in a sense, but not really.

  Until tonight, under the stars, in the bed of his truck, I felt my dreams of Mason being the Prince Charming slipping away.

  Since he’s never been good at easy conversation, the burden of getting to know each other better has fallen on my shoulders. Not that I’ve minded. I’ve started to enjoy taunting him. As I’m doing right now.

  “I don’t have a favorite color,” Mason returns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after downing a pull of his beer.

  “You don’t have a favorite color?” I question, shocked and confused.

  “Do I fuckin’ need one?” he counters tersely.

  Only Mason Cole would ask if he needed a favorite. Every person has a preference, whether they realize and admit it or not.

  God.

  “Well, yeah. I mean, how do you decide on things?”

  Cocking his dark brow, he rests his elbows on his knees. Mason is sitting directly across from me. I’m lying down, most of the time concentrating on the star-filled sky. I don’t want to get caught eyeing him in a way I shouldn’t. But, lucky for me, I’ve stolen a few glances of him in the moon’s light.

  For the first week in September, the weather is humid and warm. Even still, considering it must be close to midnight.

  The CD playing is one of my favorites. I love all things Garth Brooks. But “Shameless” is a song I consider a classic.

  “How do I decide on things like what?” he prompts.

  “You know,” I assert. “The color of cars, clothes, crayons, pens…whatever.”

  “Next question,” he pushes. “If you have to ask another one.”

  “I do happen to have another one.”

  “Can’t wait,” he utters, then lifts a bottle of beer to his lips and taking another healthy drink.

  “Why don’t you sign the greeting cards you send to my house?”

  Since Mason found out when my birthday was, I’ve received a card on that exact day every year. I also got one unexpectedly after Mason ran into my dad in town. The two chatted and Dad shared that I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth pulled.

  He mai
ls them directly to the house, addressing each not as Katherine Morris, or even only Katherine. All those from Mason read Katie Mae. They arrive with no return address and not a single one has ever been signed. Without having to open or ask, I know the dark, bold, nearly violent script on the envelope is Mason’s.

  I’ve never talked to him about the cards, never asked his reasons why. I feared if I did, he’d stop sending them. And I love and save them. They’re in a box beneath my bed.

  Now that we’ve become more acquainted, I’m too curious not to know how come he’s never made that extra effort.

  “Why should I sign the card?” he pushes back in defense. “You already know the damn thing is from me.”

  “You could say something inside. Maybe Happy Birthday or Get Well Soon?”

  Shaking his head and tossing his used beer bottle into the empty field, he argues, “Fuckin’ card already says what I paid for it to. Why repeat myself?”

  I suppose, in a way, he’s right.

  Still, though. “Maybe I want to memorize your signature?”

  Reaching in the cooler of beer he brought, he questions, “So you can forge it?”

  “Maybe I want to remember every time I look at your handwriting there was a time you were thinking about me?”

  “Again, Katie Mae. The card itself says that.”

  I won’t win so I concede with a mumbled, “Never mind,” and let it go.

  “Thank fuck.”

  “You surprise me, Mason Cole,” I tell him, adjusting my head on the jacket he rolled for me and passed off as a pillow.

  “How do I surprise you?” he questions.

  Turning my head toward him, I admit, “I never figured you for a guy who dates.”

  “I don’t date,” he denies.

  “This is a date. And this isn’t the first date we’ve been on.”

  “It’s not a date,” he hopelessly tries to correct again. “And we’ve never been on one.”

  “Um, yeah, Mason. It totally is.”

  “Have I had my tongue in your mouth?” he berates.

  “No,” I return.

  “My hand up your shirt?”

  “No.”

  Confirming he holds fast to, “It’s not a date.”

  Not letting one go, I return, “I’ve been on other dates and this is definitely that.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Nodding, I give, “Yeah.”

  “Any of these dates not include being drunk and high at a party you had no business being at?”

  “Thomas apologized,” I explain.

  “Thomas is a fuckin’ moron who doesn’t know fuck all about anything.”

  Well, okay then.

  “Grrr,” I sound out in a word.

  “So for once you agree I’m right.” He smiles. “Good.”

  Thomas and I still talk. He apologized for being an idiot—his word, not mine—at the party that night. I told him all worked out.

  Since, he’s asked me to the movies a couple of times, but I’ve always politely declined. He’s also asked me to dinner.

  He’s a really nice guy. He’s going to be successful, no matter what he decides. He’ll make some woman a really good husband.

  But Thomas Dyer isn’t for me.

  I’ve already decided that Mason is.

  “Speaking of the party,” I start, suddenly curious as to where marvelous Mallory went. “What happened to you and that blonde woman?”

  “Mallory?” he reminds and my heart trips. She must’ve made quite an impression to be remembered so easily.

  “Yeah, Mallory.”

  “Shit didn’t work out.”

  “Why not?”

  Leaning toward me, Mason’s mouth stops only inches of mine. With a devil’s grin, he answers, “Mallory insisted I sign those fuckin’ cards.”

  A laugh erupts and I hold my stomach. He’s trying to be funny. Mason has never been funny.

  Once I’ve settled, I look up to note he’s staring at me. His expression is guarded, but still gentle in a way I know he’s ruminating over something important.

  “So, tell me,” I start, pulling his study of me away. “What do you do with girls when you have them all alone on a country road at night?”

  “Kiss them first,” he replies abruptly and without humor.

  My thighs quiver as Garth belts out the chorus to “Unanswered Prayers.”

  I’ve had sex. Once.

  I hated my first experience and unequivocally choose to forget it. This isn’t to say I’m necessarily saving my next for marriage. And truth be told, I’ve thought about sex with Mason. Just the idea of what being with him might be like has ruined me for others.

  “You kiss them?” I ask. “That’s all?”

  Mason puts his beer bottle down and settles his large frame next to where I lie. My skin pebbles with anticipation when his side brushes purposefully against mine.

  As he rests his head on his hand, Mason’s eyes grow lazy. The moon casting its glow over his face showcases every beautiful feature.

  “You’ve kissed me before,” I lie.

  Releasing a one-syllable laugh, he rests his free hand over my stomach. My smile fades while my stomach knots. He’s never intimately touched me in all our Friday hangouts. Not once.

  I’ve wished for him to grab my waist in a growing crowd, ushering me away. Or moving me at his side, with his hand settling at the small of my back. I’ve daydreamed of having his hand caressing my jaw, his lips whispering across my cheek.

  So far, nothing. But as his touch here burns through the thin material of my tank top, I fight not to close my eyes.

  “I fucked that up. Shouldn’t have happened.”

  “You regret kissing me,” I whisper with defeat.

  “Nope. No point in ever having regrets. Especially if you enjoyed something as much as I did that.”

  “You enjoyed kissing me,” I whisper again, this time to myself.

  “I did.”

  Pushing, I prod, “What else do you do with a girl on a date?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  All thoughts of playful banter disappear. The route and time it took from my house to here has become a blur.

  “Yes,” I whisper into the dark. “I want to know.”

  Mason’s face draws closer to mine. The smell of beer, sweat, and all I know of him, becomes more vivid with every inch he advances.

  “I’m not a virgin,” I blurt, filling the tension with ridiculousness. When Mason’s head rears back in surprise, I move for damage control. “I mean, I don’t know why I told you. That detail isn’t important. I’m sure you’ve dated other women who weren’t virgins, not that you’re considering anything with me at all. Ever—”

  My rambling stops when his warm hand cups my cheek and his nose runs along the side of mine.

  Perfect.

  “Stop talking, Katie Mae,” his voice rumbles in my ear.

  “I don’t think I can,” I admit, my voice trembling, and my heart beating so loudly I can hear and feel its frantic cadence swooshing in my ears.

  “What would you want?” he asks. “If this were a date. Tell me what you would want.”

  What would I want?

  To never leave the bed of this truck.

  To always have his attention the way I have it now.

  To touch him.

  To have him touch me.

  To taste his breath. To taste what ours would be like together.

  To be with him in a way I’ll never ever forget.

  “I don’t want to be scared,” I hesitantly confess.

  As soon as that sentiment flies from my mouth, I freeze, expecting him to laugh or move away.

  He doesn’t.

  Bringing himself closer, at the same time pulling my waist to bring me completely into him, he leans down and kisses my neck. The coarse stubble of his jaw scratches my sensitive skin and my toes curl. Another kiss, this one rougher than the first. Then he brings his eyes to mine. My heart thumps and my n
ipples tingle like I’ve only felt when I’m alone in my room at night.

  “You’re not scared,” he whispers. “You’ve never been afraid of anything.”

  He’s right and wrong. Each time he drops me off at my house, I’ve been afraid of never seeing him again.

  Every time we’re out and a pretty woman walks past, I fear he’ll find something in her that he never will in me.

  He’s so very wrong. I’m scared of ever losing this.

  “Kiss me, Katie Mae,” he gently orders.

  Doing as he says, I tilt my head. My tongue sweeps across his bottom lip but he doesn’t open. When my hand reaches the back of his neck, my fingertips sifting through his thick hair, he gives in and I take advantage.

  I move in deeper.

  The kiss becomes frantic—wild, hot, and passionate. A whimper from me. A growl from him. Tongues duel, teeth clash, and our breathing becomes uneven.

  The best first date kiss I’ve ever had.

  Mason pulls back and looks down. He’s smiling and his wet lips are mocking. They tasted exactly how I remembered all those months ago.

  “How drunk are you?” he queries, his eyes narrowing as they rove my face.

  “I’m not drunk,” I don’t lie. I’ve only had three beers. One could say I was headed toward tipsy, however being close to him like this—I’m sober.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m not drunk,” I assure.

  “All right. Then you’ve got ten seconds to decide how far you want this to go.”

  “How far I want this to go?” I clarify to stall.

  Mason’s gaze is determined. And impatient. “Ten seconds, Katie.”

  “Ten seconds?” I mimic.

  “My guess, you’ve already thought about what my hands would feel like.”

  Oh God. He’s right but I don’t verbally confirm.

  “Probably thought about my mouth, too.”

  My lips part for needed breath, staring into that same mouth that I have, indeed, thought about. Many times.

  “Baby, you gotta say somethin’,” he pushes.

  “I want you to keeping touching me,” I blurt.

  Smiling, his mouth falls to mine, where he murmurs against my lips, “That I can do.”

  Mason moves fast. For a split-second he’s above me smiling down, then he’s on his way down.