Striking

by Lila Felix

  I wanted her.

  I wanted to swallow up her smartass quips and delve my tongue into her sweet mouth, stopping more snotty condescension from arising.

  My fingers, once repulsed by the sting she caused in them, now craved the feel of her slim curves and wondered if her fingers felt the same; if her body would respond to me the way I knew mine responded to the mere mental image of her.

  My chest longed for the pairing of our heartbeats, beneath barely there clothing, or none at all, responsively pulsing, answering the other.

  I couldn’t imagine what I’d feel if the girl was actually kind to me.

  I’d be long gone before I could even pack a bag.

  The glass’ perspiration trickled down to my fingertips, bringing me back here, to the maple bar, where the roar around me hadn’t provided any distraction at all from my inner fantasy.

  I heard a faint laugh from the corner by the pool table and turned to see who it was. Shriver was leaned against the wall, some poor dame in the prison he’d made against the peeling paneled wall. I rolled my eyes at his latest conquest but really it just fueled the next projection in my head.

  Cami against the wall, my arm above her head, the other gloriously tangled in the light of her hair. But before long, we were no longer in the bar; we were threaded in lust in my mind’s created bed.

  I was obsessed.

  I needed some air—quick.

  I slapped a five on the bar and walked toward the door and again let the cold mountain air ease my strain.

  I needed to apologize to Cami tomorrow, clear the air, and then wipe my brain clear of her.

  I didn’t have time for her kind of distraction.

  ~~~

  I was so damned proud of myself. I hadn’t looked her way one single time during the sermon. I was so rock steady, you could build a fort out of me.

  Plus, I’d made sure to sit in the pew in front of her.

  She’d kicked the back of my pew seven times in a thirty minute preaching—seven.

  There was something seriously wrong with that girl.

  And after the Lord’s Prayer was said, I filed out last, making damned sure I avoided the asinine sarcasm sure to pour from her sinful mouth. The crowds of people broke through the front door of the church, eager to get to the once a month potluck that awaited us.

  The preacher called out the order of plate filling, kids first, then the elderly, then women, then the men—it had been that way for as long as I could remember.

  I looked over the line and could hear the whining of Joseph Richter from the back. The kid had a glass shattering voice like no other and I took the initiative and skipped ahead to help his mother. I balanced three plates, giving the children choices in their lunch while Mrs. Richter balanced three of her own—someone had to help her. Her kids weren’t picky and were just grateful for one more meal in their bellies. We got all five children settled and I went back three times, making sure they all had a red plastic cup full of homemade lemonade.

  Joseph tugged on my pants and asked me to sit with them and I obliged—I couldn’t deny his freckles or his green eyes. Preacher Wife appeared after the crowds subsided and placed a plate before me of the slim pickings that remained on the buffet line.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  She patted my cheek and moved to mingle with the rest of the congregation. In between spurts of Joseph and the other kids’ conversation, I let myself peek at Cami. She was stiff, trying desperately not to touch Mr. Lambert beside her who was shaking so badly, he could barely get a bite in his mouth. It almost made me change my mind about apologizing to her. She deserved my brash words. How could anyone be so cold, to another person in need?

  From the other side of Cami, Will got up and squeezed her way between Mr. Lambert and Cami and began feeding him. I could see them lock eyes as he blinked his approval and Will smiled her sympathy. I’ve never been prouder to be who I was and who my sister was, than in that moment. And before I was aware of what I was doing, I scowled in Cami’s direction, ashamed of her blaring callous attitude.

  Who in the hell did she think she was?

  She understood the antipathy in my grimace and in an instant I’d done it again.

  My eyes followed her form almost sprinting towards the line of forest.

  Mrs. Richter patted my hand, “Don’t let it fester, Stock. Go get her.”

  I locked eyes with Will, who pleaded with me through mirror image irises.

  I stalked towards the same tree line-but ten or so feet away from her entrance-trying to cut her off before she got to the creek. I made quick work of it. She and I were parallel as we barreled through the trees, her perfect red heels crunched and crushed crackly leaves as she appeared in and out from behind the oaks as we raced in the same direction.

  Then she stopped, hands on hips and yelled in my direction, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Chasing you.”

  “Why? It’s obvious I don’t meet your hillbilly standards. Just leave me alone.”

  I closed five feet in her direction before answering, “I came to apologize.”

  “You? Apologize? Did someone pay you?” She cocked out her hip a little, way too pleased with her comeback. And that hip—her hips should either be illegal or obscenely insured.

  “Not everything is about money, Duchess. I had planned on apologizing to you all week. So, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been rude to you for no reason. It’s not how I was raised and I’m kinda ashamed of it.”

  She was still fuming, but at least I’d tried. And her eyes told me this was far from over.

  “You don’t owe me an apology, Stockton. I see how you’re rude to everyone, that’s why they stay so far away from you. Except for maybe that pregnant woman—she seems to be especially nice to you. And those kids have lovely green eyes. Tell me, oh masterful blacksmith, are those all your kids or just the one on the way?”

  I repeated—who in the hell did she think she was?

  That’s when I decided to get in Blondie’s face and give it to her, reputation, manners and Will’s opinion be damned.

  I’d bought my ticket to hell at a Sunday church social.

  And even though my main purpose for getting this close to her was to tower over her, villainize myself before her, there was something else brewing down below, under the thick layers of despise was a bubbling fire of want. Out of pure instinct, I took another unwelcomed step forward, making the top of my stomach touch her breasts, buried beneath her very virginal white dress. She gasped and stepped back, and I remembered my original intentions.

  “Number one, don’t ever let anyone hear you say that about me or Mrs. Richter. She works her ass off at the diner to provide for those five kids and the one in her belly after her alcoholic husband left her for some whore he met at a bar. I don’t give a shit about my reputation but she’s innocent in all this. Number two, don’t ever—ever presume you know anything about me. And number three, I really was sorry, but you know what I’m even sorrier about? I bought you a gift to back up my apology and left it on the Macon’s porch this morning. I wish I’d never thought enough of you to spend one of my hard earned dimes on. So from now on, you and your uptight Beverly Hills heels need to stay as far away from me as possible. And by the way, return my effing jacket!”

  I backed up, and took a breath, completely horrified at what I’d just said to her. Tears bubbled to the surface of the bottom lids of her sky eyes. I wanted to take it all back, swipe my thumb across the apples of her cheeks and take her tears with it. But it was too late. I’d gone too far. I’d barked too loud. I’d pulled the scab of a wound that, after my tirade, might not ever heal.

  Reclaiming my step again I reached out to touch her, thinking maybe I could retract it all with my hand on her jaw. But I took my hand back as soon as I’d remembered she probably wouldn’t want all this dirt touching her.

  I bustled through the trees, not towards the church, but in the direction of my house, sasquatching my
way through the brush and trees, wishing I was someone else—anyone else.

  She was a duchess but I was a bastard—at least now she knew for sure.

  Chapter Nine

  Cami

  God, these feelings.

  How could anybody put up with these feelings?

  I wiped my nose with the back of my jacket sleeve-super attractive-and hiccupped one more sob.

  This much was certain, Stockton Wright was an f-ing bastard, and if he thought I would ever talk to him again, ever share the same air as him, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  Only, maybe he wouldn’t be disappointed. Maybe that was what he wanted.

  That thought alone sent me into more hysterical crying. This was so stupid!

  And it was all his fault.

  Ok, maybe not all of it.

  Nope, definitely all of it. I could blame all of this on him.

  Somehow.

  I’d been stupidly thinking about him all week and now I could just punch myself in the ovaries for it. First, it was those mint green eyes that seemed to haunt my every waking thought. Then, that body. God, that body. If I wasn’t daydreaming up ways to help Stockton shower all that dirt and grime from every peak and valley rippling over every muscled inch of him; then I was dreaming about what it would be like for him to help me shower all his dirt and grime off me….

  But, those were wasted thoughts. And I was tired of wanting someone who clearly didn’t want me back. That was the story of my f-ing life and I was sick of it.

  I looked over at the paper sack that held the journal Stockton brought me. After the church potluck, Mallory and Henry drove me back to their cabin, and I saw it immediately. They walked inside, knowing I was a blubbering mess and not having the patience or the insight to know what to do with me. I’d slid down the wall and hugged my knees to my chest while crying for the last hour.

  And it wasn’t just Stockton-although, mostly it was him.

  But it was this whole goddamn place. It was like I’d left Earth and entered the orbit of an entirely different planet. These people didn’t speak my language, didn’t live anything remotely like my life and had no patience for someone who didn’t understand them.

  Someone like me.

  The last week had been hell for me. My Aunt Mallory worked me to the bone and then straight through the bone, straight until I couldn’t do anything but collapse into bed at night, praying my parents would be here to get me in the morning.

  And I had never felt dumber in my entire life. It wasn’t like I was stupid back home. Ok, maybe I didn’t get the best grades through school; but to be fair, I had never really tried. I was smart enough. I could have finished college if I wanted to. I could have had a decent paying job if I wanted to.

  But down here, it didn’t matter if I’d read every single classic from the Iliad to Animal Farm, or was classically trained on the piano and the violin.

  No, the only thing that mattered to my aunt and uncle was that I got the f-ing sheep where they were scheduled to go. How was I supposed to know when I lost a few-they all looked the same! And it was hard to count them when they were constantly moving positions. They were so sick of me losing sheep I could physically feel their disappointment in me.

  I’d also broken her mother’s ceramic serving dish yesterday before dinner and you’d thought I’d gambled away their retirement.

  This morning I was five minutes late to leave for church and my Uncle Henry wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the morning.

  I didn’t get it down here. I knew I was a screw-up. I’d been living that whole cliché my entire life, but for the first time in my whole insipid existence, I was freaking trying. But nothing was good enough-not for my parents, not for my aunt and uncle and not for the god among men, Stockton Wright.

  And that old guy next to me. I knew he needed help. I could see that. I wasn’t blind! But I didn’t know what to do! LA must hide their old people or send them away on icebergs, because I’d never been around someone like that before. When I pinched Will’s leg, pleading for help, I wasn’t trying to be callous; I was trying to get him help.

  I’d apparently hit the limit to how many times a girl could mess up because there was no more understanding left in my life. I thought feeling cynical and bored in LA was bad, but insufficient and insignificant was so, so, so much worse.

  I pulled out my cell phone before I could talk myself out of it. I was on the porch, which was the only place to get service around here, even though I had to scoot towards the cliff side a little bit. I swallowed against the nerves and kept my ass on the ground. Nothing would get me over to the cliff side all the way. Not unless all this negative energy made me suicidal.

  My dad picked up on the fifth ring, right before it went to voicemail, “Tennyson Montgomery.”

  “Hi, daddy,” I answered in a small voice.

  “Katie?” he clarified sounding worried. Apparently he hadn’t checked the caller id.

  “It’s Cami.”

  “Oh,” he sighed, sounding disappointed in me already. “Listen, Cami, I’m not coming to get you. We talked about this. And I think it’s kind of rude of you to call me while your mother is-“

  “I’m not calling you to come get me,” I rushed to explain while my heart dropped to my stomach. I shook my head, ignoring the feeling that I was being pushed in the corner-I’d been ignoring that feeling all my life. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh,” he repeated while sounding a little surprised. But then his tone went back to his familiar impatience and he barked, “Alright, let’s hear it.”

  I was nervous now. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I was hoping for just a regular conversation, where I could bring this up naturally. But it was so obvious he didn’t want to be talking to me that I didn’t know how to go on.

  “Come on, Cami, I’ve got to leave for tee time in ten minutes.” I could hear him tapping his foot impatiently on the marble floor back home. “Out with it.”

  I cleared my throat and swiped at a tear that slipped out the corner of my eye. Forcing my voice to be strong I said, “I, um, I’m just having a hard time connecting with Mallory. And I was hoping, maybe since you used to live with her that maybe you would have some advice?”

  My dad let out another loudly impatient sigh and groaned, “This is why you’re calling me? Listen, Cami, trust me when I say it’s not Mallory that’s hard to connect with. You know, you never see how you’re the problem, how you’re the one causing all the conflict. But Cami, if anything is wrong it’s coming from you, not her.”

  My heart shattered into a million pieces and I quickly sniffled, “No, I know. I was just-“

  “Sweetie, I really don’t have time for this right now. I’m going to be late. Call your mother later, alright?”

  Before I could answer, he’d already clicked off.

  I pulled my knees to my chest again and let the tears fall. Staring down at my phone, I really contemplated chucking it over the side of the cliff, but I couldn’t emotionally handle getting blamed for anything else. A hundred other thoughts went through my head too, like closing down the bar and then racing Aunt Mallory’s truck all over these curvy roads, getting the sheep all good and liquored up and then trying to see if I could ride one, hunting down some local herbals and forgetting what state of the confederacy I’d been banished to.

  In the end, I didn’t do any of that.

  I stood up, wiped my eyes clean and kicked the journal Stockton gifted me with half-strength. Even with my lack of effort, it still went sliding out of the paper bag and towards the cliff like it was going to slip right off and into the abyss of the unknown.

  Panicking, I chased after it and caught it just before it hit the edge. Then I caught myself with one hand raised on the banister. There was a railing that protected anyone from falling straight off, but the journal would have slid underneath it.

  My heart was pounding furiously in my chest and my breathing hitched and
erratic. I stood up slowly and forced myself to look over the side of the railing. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and gazed down at the rolling mountainside.

  I’d made this up to be something in my head that in reality it wasn’t. I’d pictured a rocky death trap that fell straight from the porch to the pits of hell below. But all it really turned out to be was a rolling hillside that sprawled out gracefully from underneath the porch. Some of the sheep grazed the grass just below me, and one of those dogs-I now called them all T-bone and they all responded and obeyed me, so obviously I wasn’t the only idiot around here-lounged lazily nearby.

  The view was absolutely breathtaking, maybe even life changing. The Appalachian Mountains were thick with forest and dense with beauty. I relaxed onto the railing, feeling foolish for the fear that kept me from enjoying this earlier.

  At the edge of the porch, facing this huge expanse of wildlife, I didn’t feel so afraid anymore. In fact, I felt very ready to face the great unknown. The pits of hell weren’t waiting for me, just the great beauty of life and all it had to offer.

  I looked down at the gorgeous, leather bound journal Stockton had given me and decided I was going to keep it. He was the loser for not waiting to give it to me in person. He could just deal with the aftermath of me being happy about something.

  I was so sick and tired of people making me feel unworthy, of being looked down on, of disappointing people. God, fine, I’d made some really stupid decisions in my life, but if you took three whole seconds to give me a chance I might not frustrate you with every single thing I did or said.

  There were good things about me too.

  There were worthy things about me.

  And if all these people in my life didn’t want to see them, then to hell with them. I was forging my own path from now on.

  Haters be damned.

  I ran back inside and to my room, where I tossed the journal on my bed. I grabbed Stockton’s coat that I’d kept laid out on the chair beside my bed like some kind of lovesick idiot and my purse. Back in the kitchen I swiped at my eyes one more time, wishing I’d paid attention to what I looked like before I decided to leave the house.