Wishing for a Cowboy

by James, Victoria

  And the other thoughts, the childish ones, crept in. Like how he wanted a chance at having it all—with Janie. He wanted to go all in, to act on everything they felt for each other and have a real relationship. But he was paying for past mistakes. His kid didn’t trust him enough to be with Janie. Aiden deserved that.

  He paused when he reached the top of the stairs, taking in the musky scent of the rarely used upper level, thoughts of Janie slowly receding. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through. He didn’t want to come up here, but he owed Will something, some kind of history from his side of the family. Will had been asking for some family pictures; he wanted to see what Aiden looked like as a kid. Aiden could have kicked himself for ever putting that thought in Will’s head. He’d thought he could just come here, grab some old photos, and leave, but he felt sick now.

  Walking with a dread that filled his limbs with weight he hadn’t felt in a long time, he unlocked the door to his childhood apartment and flicked the light switch on.

  He stood in the doorway and was engulfed by dust and memories he didn’t want. Moving forward slowly, he told himself to just go to his old room, do what he came here to do, and then leave. But as he passed the dingy, shit-brown recliner his dad had spent most of his last years sitting in, his legs stopped moving and he stared at the empty chair, at first not seeing anything, just staring, still feeling the weight of his dad’s presence suffocate him like a dirty, itchy wool blanket.

  But the chair didn’t stay empty for long. He could envision his dad there, holding a beer in one hand, whipping the remote at Aiden with the other. Aiden had just come home from school and had proudly shown his father his report card—straight As. He’d backed away when his dad had started yelling, calling him a show-off, arrogant, boastful, and then he’d ripped up the report card, telling him it meant nothing. Humiliation, anger, and confusion had consumed him as he fled to his room. Aiden hadn’t understood. The year before, his dad had told him his grades were garbage. Now they were perfect, but that was bad, too? He remembered the humiliation the next morning at school, when everyone was handing in their signed report cards and he couldn’t because his dad had destroyed his.

  Aiden ran his hands through his hair and swore out loud in the empty apartment. None of that shit should matter anymore. He was dead. Aiden was an adult. That was over twenty years ago.

  But he pictured Will showing him a report card, or telling him something he had accomplished, and it physically hurt to think of reacting to him like that. To picture his face filled with pain, all the joy stripped away. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the fact that he had a kid now. He may just be learning about being a dad, but there were things that were absolutes, that he knew were wrong no matter what. That he knew would take a lifetime to heal.

  He’d thought he was healed. He’d thought he was done with this shit.

  This was his other life—the one no one in town knew about. Old Man Rivers was just a little rough around the edges, but everyone liked him enough. No one had suspected he was actually a first-class ass who beat his kid. That resentment still lingered.

  There were so many times he’d wanted to tell people, but he hadn’t. Shame had prevented him. So did the idea that no one would believe him. In a small town like Wishing River, no one forgot anything, and people were ridiculously loyal to the image they had of others, even if it was false. He’d sucked it up, spent half his childhood thinking it was his fault, that he really was a shitty, stupid kid who was responsible for his mother’s death, who just needed to try harder in order to receive his dad’s love. And then he’d spent the rest of it growing up and wishing for a different dad.

  He stormed across the apartment to his small bedroom and yanked the closet door open, then found the box where he’d kept old report cards and school mementos. He rifled through the meaningless medals and trophies he’d won for academic accomplishments until he found the class pictures. Grades one through eight. Good enough. This was all he needed.

  Now get the hell out.

  Except he spotted the broken trophy at the bottom of the box. He should just shut the lid and leave it there, close the lid on the contents, on the memories, on the suffocating pain. That trophy was broken because it had been thrown across the room at Aiden, hitting him in the head. And Aiden had cried angry, frustrated tears.

  He was fifteen at the time—Will’s age.

  He’d won it for highest grade-point average in the class, and when he told his dad, he’d just shrugged and said it didn’t matter anyway because he wouldn’t amount to anything. Aiden had been humiliated and angry, and he’d made the mistake of letting tears fall in front of his dad. Tears weren’t allowed.

  Aiden gripped the sides of the box, hanging his head, as the unfamiliar feeling of having the walls close in on him took over. Suddenly everything was too small and there was no air to breathe; the memories were too big for the room, and he was helpless again, unable to push them away. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take gulps of air, but the humiliation of that day and his lack of control over himself bled into today.

  You’re crying like a girl. What the hell kind of man are you? You’re a pathetic, weak piece of shit.

  That had been the last time Aiden had cried. That had been the second-to-last time his dad had ever thrown anything at him. Because by the time the summer came, Aiden was over six feet tall and towered over his dad. Testosterone took over then, too, as did the muscle he needed to assert himself. The next time his dad tried to hurt him, Aiden had shoved him so hard, with a force that actually scared him, that it had marked the end. The end of physical abuse.

  Aiden had hated himself when he shoved his dad, watching him stumble backward and fall. That thud followed by a groan when he’d hit the floor. He’d hated himself because he’d taken satisfaction in it. And that had scared the hell out of him, because the lines between them blurred. Who was good and who was bad? How far could he go to defend himself?

  How many nights had he spent in this room, alone, while his dad worked downstairs at the bar? How many nights had he wondered about his mom? He’d stare at the ceiling; he’d imagine that she was loving and kind and would have been proud of him. Then he felt bad for wishing she were here, because he knew deep inside that his father would have raised his hand to her, too, and that probably she was happier wherever she was.

  Aiden took another gulp of air and tried to stand on legs that refused to hold him. What the hell was wrong with him? And then out of the corner of his eye he spotted the quilt in the back of his closet.

  He should leave it there. He didn’t need to see the words; he didn’t need to touch the fabric softened by so much wash and wear. But he moved to grab it anyway, wanting for a second to feel the comfort from it. He picked it up, hating that his hands were shaking, hating that he did need to hold this blanket, to smell the cotton, to read the words, to hear his mother’s voice even though he had no recollection of ever hearing it.

  He’d heard her voice so many times as a little boy. At night, in the dark, in his dreams, as he’d shielded himself from a fist, as he’d hidden in his closet. Her voice had been soft, like what he imagined an angel would sound like, when he still believed in angels, and she would always tell him how much she loved him. She would say things like he’d heard Logan’s dad saying, like how proud she was of him, what a good son he was.

  And then when he’d gotten older, when he’d allowed pain and anger to guide his decisions, he’d stopped hearing her voice. He didn’t know if she had stopped talking to him or if he’d stopped listening. And then he’d just stopped believing that his mother had ever been talking to him from…wherever she was. He didn’t believe in anything after that and made his way in the world without her. Because boys who became men didn’t need their mothers anymore.

  And yet, he sat here, tracing the letters she’d sewn into the quilt with his fingertip, because it made him feel close to her. It
reminded him that she believed in him without ever knowing him. Because he missed her, he loved her, without ever knowing her.

  “Aiden? Are you up here?”

  Shit. Not Janie. She couldn’t see him like this. Get up, Aiden.

  Maybe she’d go away if he didn’t say anything. Then he could get his head back on straight and go back downstairs. He squeezed his eyes shut as her footsteps approached. He didn’t want her in this place; he didn’t want her to see him like this. He was weak. He wasn’t the man she thought he was. He was no hero. He was a kid sitting in the closet, broken and wishing for his mother.

  He gripped the sides of the box until the cardboard bent.

  “Aiden, are you okay?”

  Janie’s soft voice—the hesitation, the worry—hung over him, hovering, beckoning him to let her into this dark place until she filled it with light. But he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t risk losing her. He couldn’t let her see who he really was. He couldn’t scare her. But God, he wanted her. He wanted her softness, her compassion, her heart—all of her.

  “I’m fine. Wait for me outside,” he bit out, hating the harshness in his voice. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest as he waited to hear her footsteps leaving.

  Janie didn’t leave. Instead she knelt down beside him and placed a hand over one of his, which were still holding on to that box like it was his last hope. Until the sight—the feel of her softer, smaller hand on his, gripping him—pulled him back from an edge he hadn’t visited in so long.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay, Aiden.” She turned to him, her other hand going to the scarred side of his face. The side he hated.

  He forced himself to meet her eyes and searched for signs of disgust, because he knew she could see his tears.

  He was a man, not a child. There was no place for tears, for self-pity, for fear. But maybe a part of him wanted to know how she would react to this. To him being real.

  She didn’t move away, even when he didn’t speak. Janie didn’t back down from him—and his world opened up, letting her inside the place he thought was too small and too ugly to share. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her everything.

  He placed his hand over the one she had on his cheek and gently turned it, kissing her palm. The sound of her sharp intake of breath reminded him of what it was like to kiss her, pulling him from his past, because the present with Janie in it surpassed all his boyhood dreams.

  “Aiden,” she whispered, his name sounding like a plea.

  As much as he knew she wanted him to talk, he couldn’t find the words that had been hidden for so long. He leaned forward, burying his hand in the nape of her neck, and reached for her, for the lips that could offer solace and fulfill a desire that only seemed to grow with every kiss. He wanted more of everything she was offering, and he wanted to give back in the only way he knew how.

  They stood up together, his mouth not leaving hers, and he held her tightly, like she was a lifeline, his way out of the past, his way into a future he wanted more than anything. If only he deserved it. And soon, he wasn’t thinking about anything else except being closer to Janie. They stumbled over to the narrow bed tucked against the wall, and he followed Janie down, covering her body with his.

  She tugged at his shirt, and seconds later it was on the floor and she was running her hands over his scorching skin. She touched his body as though he were a prize, as though she only saw the good in him. Her eyes were heated as she pulled her mouth from his and kissed the scar along the side of his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the emotion coursing through him. Somehow, she made him feel very much like the man he could be, for her, and finally forget the man he really was.

  He pulled her sweater over her head and took a moment just to look at her, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows over the dips and hollows of her body, highlighting the smooth, creamy flesh of her breasts in a pale blue bra. And then he couldn’t look anymore because he wanted her too much; he wanted to feel her as close to him as possible.

  He claimed her mouth with his again, desperate for her, for that connection to her, before kissing that soft spot beneath her ear and then making his way down the valley between her breasts and finally taking a nipple into his mouth. She whispered his name and clutched a hand to the back of his head. Janie made him feel like he was everything. That he was more than enough for her.

  She squirmed beneath him, her hands going to the top of his jeans and then flicking open the button, and before he could remember all the reasons they had said they couldn’t do this, how far this was going, he was helping her take his jeans off and then doing the same with hers.

  He ran his hands up her smooth calves and thighs before lowering his head and kissing her, feeling her almost fully naked body against his. His hand dipped to that spot between her legs, feeling her heat through her underwear.

  But when her hips lifted and she whimpered his name like a prayer he wanted to answer so badly, he knew this had to stop. He stilled, blood pumping through him too fast for his conscience to keep up.

  Janie was heat and desire, faith and redemption. She gave him something he’d never felt, never thought possible to feel, like she was some kind of promised land, and he wanted desperately to stay here.

  With a willpower he didn’t know he had, he pulled his hands from her body and braced himself on his forearms, hating that this was the right thing to do, and looked deep into her eyes. “We can’t do this.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut but didn’t speak, and he had no idea what she was thinking. He couldn’t pull completely away from her, though; he couldn’t let her go, not yet. “Janie, for the record, just so there’s no miscommunication, so you know where I stand: There is nothing I’d rather do than be with you right now. There’s no place I’d rather be than inside you. I didn’t stop because I wanted to or it was easy to. Not being with you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  “But I can’t…I can’t screw things up. Not for you, not for Will. And if you and I…if things get complicated with us, he gets hurt. I can’t do that to him. This is my chance. This is my only chance to be a dad he can be proud of, to make up for the years that I wasn’t there. And I don’t want you to get hurt, either. I just hope…I hope you can accept that.”

  She gave him a wobbly smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and reached up to kiss him softly, her breasts grazing against his chest and setting his teeth on edge. “I understand,” she said. “And it actually makes me want you more. Will is very lucky to have you as a dad.”

  He held on to her, burying his face in her neck. “We should go home.”

  “Not yet. Let’s just stay here a little longer.”

  Aiden rolled to the side, pulling her with him, making no move to get either of them dressed. There was something about skin to skin with her, a feeling that he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

  She laid a hand on his chest and rested her chin on it, staring at him. “I was looking for you downstairs. You didn’t tell me. How could you do all that for me and not tell me?”

  He swallowed hard, trying to follow her question, wanting to know what the hell she was talking about but wanting to kiss her more. He lowered his mouth and gave in to the temptation, the days of wanting her, the torture of not being with her. He kissed her until she sighed his name against his mouth.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said gently.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That you wanted to be a vet.”

  Shit. Thanks, Logan. He leaned his head back on the pillow and searched for words that wouldn’t evoke her pity. He didn’t want her to think less of him. He didn’t want to talk about any of this.

  She pressed her lips to his chest. “I think you’re amazing,” she whispered.

  He wasn’t going to pull away from her and duck out on
this conversation. He couldn’t. And maybe he was lucky that this was what she wanted to talk about and not the fact that she’d found him huddled in the closet crying. “I’m not amazing. I owed you. I’m not sitting here depressed about not being a vet, Janie. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  She pulled back slightly and frowned up at him. “I don’t feel sorry for you. But I wish I’d known. I wish you’d confided in me.”

  “What difference would it have made?”

  “For one thing, I wouldn’t have so carelessly gone on and on about what a great time I was having doing the things you wanted to do but couldn’t.”

  “No, see? That’s what I mean by you feeling sorry for me. I like you telling me things you’re excited about. I didn’t want you to hold back because of me.”

  “Okay. I get that. So, what happened? Why didn’t you go?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I was needed here. My dad had health issues. He never saw value in education, or maybe he was threatened by it. By me having a higher level of learning than he had. His solution was to put me down, but I was pretty stubborn. Maybe naive, too, for thinking that if I showed him the good grades, the scholarship, he’d be proud of me and would finally understand.”

  “He didn’t, and then he ended up having a heart attack. So I needed to stay. He always thought that I thought I was too good for this place, and that wasn’t it at all. I just loved animals. I had a dream for myself, and it wasn’t running this bar.”

  “It’s not too late,” she said. “Why don’t you go back to school now?’

  He smiled ruefully. “You’re sweet for saying that. But it is too late. I’m thirty-three years old. I can’t do eight years of school now.”