FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME

by Scott Hildreth

  “So, you’re in control?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking so,” I said with a nod.

  “So, the belief of sexual addiction. Were you in control of that?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. “Well, if you want my opinion, I created it to keep from being sexually active because I either had fear of the old memories or because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. You know. Sex has always been off limits to me, and short of whacking off I’ve always avoided it.”

  “And your stories of sexual exploitations?” he asked.

  “You know what they were,” I said.

  “I believe I do. Do you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Care to explain?” he asked.

  I glanced at the clock. It was nine o’clock and I needed to get to work. I stood from my seat, cracked my knuckles, and popped my neck.

  “Sure thing Doc,” I said as I walked across his office.

  I opened the door and turned to face him. “They were stories I made up in my head that never happened. I think my subconscious wanted an excuse to avoid sex because I was afraid of it. Well, now I’m not afraid. See you in two weeks.”

  “Mr. West. One more thing,” he said as he raised his hand in the air.

  “Sure, I’m in a good mood,” I said. “What you got?”

  “Are you going to be honest with your female companion and let her know you’re a virgin?” he asked.

  “Not planning on being a virgin for long, Doc. See ya in two weeks,” I said.

  And I walked out the door.

  Chapter 17

  RILEY

  At eighteen years old, we’re provided with the label of an adult, but being an adult at an early age requires making adult-like decisions. I sat three years beyond my declaration of reaching adulthood and watched Blake eat his sandwich convinced I didn’t ever want to be an adult.

  I preferred to live the remaining portion of my life not dealing with the decisions and complexities associated with being an adult. Remaining a little girl forever would allow me to live a life without complications, responsibilities, or making decisions which were potentially life-altering.

  Yet.

  It was time I acted as an adult.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  With a mouth full of food and a combination of vinegar and oil running down his forearms, he raised the sandwich in the air slightly and continued to chew.

  “Good,” he said over the mouthful of food.

  He nodded his head toward my sandwich. I glanced down. I hadn’t so much as touched my food. I reluctantly reached down and picked up the hoagie, feeling if I didn’t at least eat a portion of it we would probably end up in an argument of some sort.

  “Good call on the sandwich. This bread is soft as fuck,” he said as he wiped the oil from his arms with a napkin.

  “I like this place,” I said.

  “Not hungry?” he asked as he tilted his head toward my plate.

  I shook my head and lowered my sandwich to my plate. “My stomach’s upset a little bit.”

  “Well, it’s not something you ate, because you haven’t eaten yet today. Maybe ‘cause you need to eat,” he said.

  I shrugged and picked up the sandwich. “Maybe.”

  I wanted to find out what he knew about the murders, and if he knew nothing, I preferred to be the one to tell him what happened. I had tried to place myself in his shoes and consider if he had told me what happened to my parents, and consider how I would have felt hearing the news from him. My belief of the sadness and rejection which would have followed is what prevented me from proceeding to tell him so far.

  But I felt I needed to.

  For us both.

  The thought of us being in a meaningful relationship and me keeping secrets from him was impossible for me to process as a necessity. I sat watching him finish his lunch knowing at some point I would have to tell him something, and allow the morsel of information to lead into a conversation revealing everything I knew about his parent’s death.

  When was the question.

  I tore the sandwich in two, took a bite from one half, and placed the pieces on my plate. After studying them for long enough to convince myself it looked like I had eaten much more than I actually had, I shifted my eyes to Blake.

  “Can we go sit somewhere when we get done?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, where are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe like a park or the Waterfront by the lake or something.”

  “Somewhere peaceful,” he said.

  I nodded my head. “Yeah.”

  “Sure. You gonna eat that?” he asked as he motioned toward my plate.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “My stomach still feels icky.”

  He reached for my plate and picked up the half of the sandwich I had taken a bite of. I grinned at the thought of him choosing it over the uneaten half. As he proceeded to devour the sandwich I realized just how simply he lived his life. Had I not asked about his parents, I was convinced he would have never mentioned them. Had I never asked about the toolbox on the sidewalk, he may have never mentioned Tyler again.

  Blake was different.

  As he wiped his mouth with a napkin and checked his fingers for residual matter, I ran through potential scenarios in my head of how to propose what I had learned of his parent’s death. Upon deciding I would simply proceed with whatever felt best, I picked up the remaining half of the sandwich and took a small bite.

  “I’m just goofing around,” I said. “You ready?”

  He nodded his head and stood. “Sure you don’t want that?”

  “No, I’m really not hungry,” I responded.

  After paying for the food and walking out to the motorcycle, we rode six blocks to the Waterfront, an outdoor mall which had been developed around a lake. The lake had several benches and a walking path, and I hoped I felt more comfortable talking once we sat down and relaxed together.

  We walked half way around the lake hand in hand, and eventually chose a bench on the far side of the lake. As he gazed out at the body of water, he crossed his arms, sighed, and sat down.

  “This is peaceful,” he said.

  “It is,” I said as I sat down beside him.

  In comparing the Blake I met to the Blake sitting on the bench, the differences could almost be described as drastic. When we met, he was fidgety and nervous acting. Now, he sat quietly and gazed out at the lake, seemingly at peace with life and everything around him.

  “I like it when I think about us,” I said.

  He continued to gaze out at the lake. “You mean like us as a couple?”

  “Yeah. Like us. You and me together,” I said.

  “Yeah, me too,” he responded.

  “You know,” I said, pausing as I realized I was speaking much sooner than I was prepared to.

  He turned his head to the side. “What?”

  “Uhhm. Well, I wanted to talk about secrets. Like maybe not secrets in a secretive sense, but things we should share with each other. Maybe something we want each other to know eventually, and are kind of like scared to say. I think we should take an opportunity to do it now,” I said.

  “Okay, you go first,” he said.

  It was going to be tough to do, but I decided if I told him the truth about my father, it may prompt him to tell me about his parents, as long as he knew what happened. I inhaled slowly, stared out at the lake, and exhaled.

  “For my entire life, I thought my father was killed in a car accident,” I said.

  The words came much easier than I had expected. After glancing at Blake and confirming I had his full attention, I continued.

  “But I found out yesterday that all this time my mother was protecting me from what really happened. She didn’t want to tell me because she was afraid it would have hurt me more. I’m glad I know now, but she was right,” I said.

  With his eyes filled with concern, and his hands clasped together
in his lap, he inhaled a shallow breath and spoke.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “He was murdered. The guy came in our house, killed my dad, and tried to uhhm…he tried to kill…” I glanced up at the sky and took a shallow breath.

  “He tried to kill my mom, but uhhm…she…well, she lived. She walked to the neighbor’s, called the police, and then she uhhm…she testified against him. You know, in court. He got eight life sentences after they tied him to a string of murders over something like twenty years. It’s why she has that scar.” I pointed to my neck. “You know, on her neck.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he lifted his arm over my shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I said as I leaned into him. “It happened a long time ago.”

  It felt good to tell him the truth. It was easier than I thought, and I felt tremendous relief knowing there was really nothing about me or my past that Blake didn’t know; short of the fact I knew about his parents. After he held me for a moment, he released me, leaned into the edge of the chair, and turned to face me.

  “I really hate even saying anything after you said what you said, but I guess I will,” he said.

  “It’s okay. Whatever you have to say, say it. I’m okay, really,” I said as I wiped my eyes with the tip of my finger.

  “I uhhm. I was an orphan. I lived with this preacher. He uhhm, he adopted a few kids, and he had some others he kept in foster care, but he didn’t adopt them. I was one of the kids he didn’t adopt. But uhhm.” He shifted his eyes from me and gazed blankly out at the lake.

  After several seconds of silence, he stood, crossed his arms, and continued to speak, but focused on the lake the entire time.

  “He wasn’t…uhhm…he didn’t…yeah, he didn’t treat us all the same. He uhhm. He had his own…his own kids. There were boys…some boys. He uhhm. He took me one day…” he paused and bit his lower lip.

  I didn’t like the way I was feeling. The thought of someone hurting Blake, especially as a child, wasn’t something I wanted to try and understand. As I sat and fidgeted in my seat, he chewed his lower lip and continued.

  “It was a Tuesday. I was eight. He and his son…you know…they uhhm. They molested me. It happened…more…uhhm. More than once. The cross I wear? I took it from his home. It’s the only thing I’ve ever stolen. I felt like it had some special power or something, I don’t know. I just knew he took something from me, and I wanted to take something from him. So I buried it in the yard. When I finally left the foster home, I took it with me. Wear it every day now.”

  He turned to face me and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said as I stood.

  He raised his hand in the air between us. “I’m uhhm. I’m not done.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I sat down, crossed my legs, and folded my hands in my lap. Feeling sorry for Blake, angry at his foster father, and disgusted with the system for allowing people to adopt children and not take proper care of them, I realized Blake’s parents being murdered was the start of it all. In the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter what started it, but for some reason, it mattered to me.

  He turned toward the lake and continued. “So…I’ve uhhm. I’ve created a safe place for my mind because of all of it. I kind of developed a subconscious fantasy or something. It…I…it’s just…I’m…”

  He turned to face me. “I’m a virgin.”

  I sat and stared, shocked almost more by what he said than I was when I read the newspaper article in my mother’s room about my father. It made sense now. His running away, his reluctance to proceed sexually, and his constant excuses for needing to leave when things got heated between us.

  “I’m really sorry about what happened when you were young. I hate people sometimes. Have you like…have you talked to anyone? You know, like a professional? I asked.

  He nodded his head. “I see a guy.”

  “Like a doctor?” I asked as I stood.

  “Yeah, a doctor,” he said.

  I opened my arms and hugged him. As we stood holding each other his breathing changed from labored to shallow. After a few more seconds, he relaxed into my arms and sighed.

  “That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be,” he said.

  “Mine neither,” I said.

  “I’ve got one more,” he said as he pulled away.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He pointed to the bench. I sat, crossed my legs, clasped my hands together again, and waited. After he inhaled a deep breath he tilted his head back, exhaled, and turned toward me. “My parents were murdered too.”

  I waited for more.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? No comment?”

  I twisted my mouth to the side and nibbled on my lip. “Uhhm. Yeah. They were. Your parents were murdered by the same guy that murdered mine.”

  His face washed with wonder.

  “What…why…why would you think that?” he asked.

  He stumbled backward and sat down at the end of the bench. As he gazed at me with confused eyes, I explained.

  “When you were over for dinner, mom said she was sick. She wasn’t. After what happened to her and my dad, she said she became uhhm… like obsessed with the…you know, with the killer. She felt she needed closure. So she collected all of the old articles from the newspaper and kept them in a box.” I paused and turned my palms upward.

  “She recognized your last name, realized your parents were both dead, and went to her room and got down the box. She must have fallen asleep while she was going through everything. After you left, I went to check on her, thinking she was sick. I found the article. Brandon and Velma. Was that their names?” I asked.

  As he nodded his head slowly, his eyes welled with tears. I spread my arms wide as my eyes did the same.

  We scooted toward one another, met in the middle of the bench, and collapsed into each other’s arms.

  And we both shed tears we had spent a lifetime reserving for just that moment.

  Chapter 18

  BLAKE

  Growth. I felt that I had grown more during the last week than I had in the previous decade altogether. My expected reaction of a woman when she found out about my virginity caused me to conceal it as if it were a crime.

  Riley’s acknowledgement of it, her acceptance of me, and the strange bond we developed as a result of our similar losses by the hand of a murderous psychopath allowed us to be open and honest with each other completely. I felt as if I could be not only honest with her, but for the first time in my life, I was able to be honest with myself.

  Stevie coughed a laugh. “What? Natural born killer? You’re fucking kidding, right?”

  The guy she was taking to was roughly five foot ten, weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds, and was wearing a wife beater, boots and jeans. His arms were covered in a variety of tattoos, most of which appeared to be done in the comfort of his home by one of his drunken friends.

  He shrugged his shoulders and glared at her. “No, I’m serious,” he said.

  “I don’t tattoo words on people. And, I don’t tattoo idiots,” she said. “So you’re clearly double fucked.”

  He folded his arms in front of his chest and did his best to flex what little muscles he had on his biceps. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I didn’t stutter, asshole. I didn’t try and say shit. I said it. Go somewhere else,” she said as she pointed toward the door.

  Riley swiveled in her stool, glanced in my direction, and raised her eyebrows. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned. If I had learned anything about Stevie in the last few weeks, it was that she didn’t pull any punches, and she wasn’t really afraid of anything or anyone.

  “So you won’t do it?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms - clearly to mimic him - leaned back, and shook her head lightly. Wearing faded jeans, lace up boots, and a black wife beater, she resembled him in dress to some degree. She had proven herself to be a fabulous artist, but the en
tertainment value of having her in the shop made hiring her well worth it regardless of her abilities.

  “How many people have you killed?” she asked flatly.

  “None of your business,” he responded.

  “Kill somebody real quick, and I’ll do it. I’ve never done a single piece of script, but if you’ll kill somebody real quick, you know, show me you’re a killer, fuck it, I’ll do it,” she said.

  His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yeah,” she said as she pulled her knife from her back pocket and held it at arm’s length.

  “Kill her. Or him. Fuck it, kill ‘em both,” she said as she shook the knife in front of him.

  She extended her left arm and wagged her index finger at Riley.

  He turned his head toward Riley, made eye contact for a moment, and quickly turned to face Stevie. Riley’s eyes stayed fixed on Stevie as they narrowed slightly. Although the conversation was regarding something as serious as killing, I fought to keep from laughing.

  He scrunched his nose and glared at Stevie. “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Yeah, no shit. Beat feet, dumbass,” she said as she slid the knife into her back pocket.

  “Fucking bitch,” he said as he turned away.

  “Excuse me?” she said as she reached for her knife again.

  I raised my index finger, caught her attention, and shook my head from side-to-side. As she released the knife, she gazed down at the floor and sighed. He glanced over his shoulder, coughed a laugh, and continued to walk toward the door.

  Stevie shook her head, exhaled a deep breath, and turned to face me. “Natural born dumbass.”

  “I can’t believe you told him to kill me,” Riley said.

  “He wasn’t going to kill anything. Fucking dumbfuck. I hate stupid people,” she said.

  Riley jumped from her stool and walked toward the front door. After a moment, she returned.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  Stevie shrugged her shoulders. “What? Were you afraid he was going to come back and do something? So he could get that tattoo?”