“You didn’t?” she gasps. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he ask?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no.”
“You did?!”
“Is that bad?”
Sarah thinks for a moment, her finger tapping on her chin.
“No,” she finally says, grinning and reaching for her coffee cup. “I mean, after all, even though you’re technically married, you’re not really. Not in spirit, anyway. As far as I and anyone else should be concerned, you are a strong, independent, single woman.”
“Yeah, but what if he cares?”
“Call me crazy, but he didn’t seem like the type of guy to care. Besides, if you’re really worried, you should just explain it to him. He’ll understand. And if he doesn’t…”
She trails off as the door to the diner opens and the first real customers of the day come in. It’s two oil men dressed in cowboy boots, Wranglers, and pearl snap shirts stretched tight over their massive bellies. They scan the diner. Seeing Sarah and me standing at the counter, the fatter one smiles and tips his hat.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, his voice booming throughout the diner. It’s much too loud for how early it is. “Reckon I can get some eggs and a splash of the good stuff?”
With a forced smile and an encouraging pat on my hand, Sarah grabs her apron from the wall, tosses it over her head and ties it loosely behind her back.
“Well, come on, sugar,” she says, practically oozing sweetness. She takes both men hands and leads them over to a table near Mort. “What can I get you two boys?”
As she takes care of their order, I sip my coffee and let me mind think over what we’ve just been discussing. By all accounts, Sarah is right. Luke shouldn’t care. If I just tell him, if I just explain how I haven’t seen Tim in weeks, that we haven’t been together like that in years, that I’ve spent the last five years in hell, he’ll understand, right?
Right?
12.
Sean
Everything’s just as I remember it, almost eerily so. It’s almost like this spot has been frozen in time, awaiting my return.
When I turn onto the long driveway leading to my father’s house, I get the feeling that I’m seeing an old friend I haven’t seen in a long while. I drive slowly, picking out the memories of my childhood. Through the row of trees lining the long, winding driveway, I can see pasture on either side, a few cows chewing mindlessly at the grass. All of this is mine now.
I stop next to the biggest tree of all, an ancient oak with bark as thick as the blubber of a whale, and turn off my bike. There’s an old rope swing attached to one of the lower branches. It’s this exact spot where I spent so many hours pining over Sam, wondering where she was, who she was out with, all the while believing it was me she was destined to fall in love with.
Maybe you’re right.
I sit down on the faded wooden seat and kick myself back and forth a few times, my thoughts, for the moment, fifteen years in the past. Though I sure was happy to get out of this place, there’s a certain…relief, I guess…at coming back. I know this place. It was mine. And it’s mine now. Home. If I even know what that word means.
The sun is rising quickly now, the fog of the morning burning off in its long rays. Already you can tell it’s going to be another miserably hot day. There’s no escaping this Texas heat in the middle of summer; it permeates your being, squeezing every last drop of moisture out of you until you’re as puckered as a raisin.
After a while, I get up and go back to my bike. Though I can’t see the house from here, I know it’s not too much further up the road. I know this place so well I’m almost sure I could drive my bike right to the front door with my eyes closed.
The gate is already open, tied off to a sapling wilting from the pervasive heat. The lawyer’s car is here, parked right in front of the garage. When the house comes into view, my throat tightens.
It, too, is exactly the same, down to the peeling paint under my old bedroom window. I could have left yesterday it’s so well-preserved. For a moment, I half-expect my father to come stumbling out onto the porch, a drink in one hand, a belt in the other, hollering for me to “get on over here so I can give ya a proper ass-whoopin!”
I pull up next to Parsons’ beat-up Buick and kill the engine. For a split second the world is utterly silent. Then, one by one, the sounds return: the orchestra of grasshoppers, a crow cawing from the field to my left, the distant rumble of 18-wheelers speeding down the highway that runs along the back line of the property. Even the sounds haven’t changed.
When I get up on the porch, the door swings open and Parsons comes out holding two coffee mugs. He hands me one, and with a big smile, pats his belly and says, “Mighty fine morning, isn’t it?”
I take a sip of the coffee and turn with him to look back at the road I’ve just come ridden down.
“Hot,” I say.
Parsons barks a laugh.
“You really haven’t been here in a while. It’s always hot.”
We fall silent and let the morning envelope us. Though I’m perfectly still, my mind is racing. Could my father really have been worth $150 million? It doesn’t seem possible seeing the old place again. Why did he live in such squalor? What was he saving all his money for?
It was one of the greatest ironies of life, as far as I could see. So many people spent their entire lives working for THE BIG PAYOFF. Only,by the time it came, most of them were too spent up and used (or dead) to take advantage. It ended up being left to someone else, someone that didn’t work for it. Fortune had fucked my father good and proper, but she had deigned to bend over and let me take her from behind.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Parsons asks, seemingly reading my mind. “That your father was worth $150 million and lived in a place like this.” He looks over at me, his eyebrow raised. “Some people just never learn that life is meant to be lived as it’s happening.”
“You can say that again.”
“Come on,” Parsons says with a sigh, turning back towards the house. “Let’s get started. There’s a lot of paperwork to get through. If we work hard, we should be able to finish this afternoon, just in time for me to file. My advice? Take it all in while you can, Sean. This is your last day as a poor man.”
13.
Sam
The day passes in a haze and before I know it, I’m staring down the barrel of 5 o’clock. I manage to avoid Sarah for most of it; luckily the diner is busier than normal thanks to a bevy of oil men in town for a convention. Besides the five minutes I take around noon to scarf down some more eggs, there’s not a single second to sit and shoot the shit.
When I notice the clock nearing five, I can’t help but start looking out the window every few seconds. Though we never discussed it, I know Luke will be here within the hour to pick me up. I can just envision him pulling into the parking lot on his bike, his lips curling into a smile as our eyes meet through the window. I’m lost in this daydream when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Umm, you might want to stop pouring, girl,” Sarah says, nodding down to the counter. The cup I’m refilling with coffee is overflowing, the dark liquid spilling out onto the countertop and dripping onto the floor.
“Oops.”
“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“Cause I see you looking out the window every five seconds, girl! You’re pretty obvious, you know. This guy’s gotten under your skin. You’re like a lost puppy waiting for its master to return.”
I smile as I feel a blush creep up my chest. Damn, I blush a lot. Making up for lost time, I guess.
“Well…”
“Oh, I understand,” Sarah says, winking as she picks up the mug from the counter. “I know what it’s like to have fresh dick.”
“Sarah!”
She laughs as she takes the mug over to a table of oil men. Th
ey eye her appreciatively as she sets the steaming cup down. As always, her top few buttons are undone and her cleavage is on full display. The things that girl will do for tips…
When she comes back, she’s still smirking.
“Okay, come on.” She grabs my arm and pulls me into the kitchen. Mike is no longer here; Jeff, the evening cook, is sitting in a corner reading a magazine and waiting for his next order to come through. He doesn’t look up as Sarah pulls me into a corner. He’s used to her antics by now, her need for gossip and intrigue. “Okay, so tell me more,” she continues. “Enough of you being coy. I want to know the details. Did you two fuck or what?”
I’m about to chastise her when she holds up a hand.
“Uh-uh. I’m not going to let you shove me off again. I’m your best friend and I have a right to know. Now, did you two soil the sheets or didn’t you? Give it to me straight.”
A second passes and then I nod, mentally preparing myself for what I know is about to happen next.
“Oh my god!” Sarah squeals. Through the serving hatch I see every head in the diner pop up and look over at the kitchen questioningly. Only Jeff stays busy doing what he’s doing. As I said, he knows the deal.
“How was it? Was he big? Did you come? How many times did you do it? Just last night, or this morning too? Do you think you’ll do it again? What’s he like? Is he gentle? Rough? He seems like he’d be rough, but then also gentle. Mostly like he knows how to handle women. Well?”
“Slow down there, Sarah,” I giggle, “that’s way too many questions at once.”
“Sorry. Just curious. At least tell me how it was.”
“It was…magical.”
Sarah’s eyes grow big and she leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“Go on,” she prods.
I shrug.
“There’s not much to tell to be honest. It was nice. We had dinner and then he kissed me and then…” I trail off, letting Sarah’s imagination fill in the rest.
“Oh, this is such good news!” She squeals again and hugs me. Her energy is infectious; I can feel it taking over my own heart. Maybe she’s right, maybe it is normal to be really excited about something like this. I mean, I’ve been lonely for a really long time, haven’t I? Who was to say I didn’t deserve a little bit of happiness, a little bit of pleasure?
Sarah pulls back, her eyes suddenly serious. She glances around as if she’s worried of being overheard. If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that she doesn’t mind her business being aired. Or anyone else’s business for that matter.
“So…” she begins, her voice low and conspiratorially. “Was he big?”
I have to laugh. She sure has some spunk.
When she sees I’m not going to answer, Sarah moves to her next tactic. She holds up her hands, her pointer finger extended on each. She places them about four inches apart and looks at me questioningly.
I don’t say anything but just smirk. If I would let her, I know Sarah would tell me everything about her life with Mike, right down to the number of freckles on his testicles. The girl is an open book and, because of that, expects everyone else to be as well.
Sarah smiles wider and moves her fingers another inch apart. Still I don’t answer. She sighs and moves them again. No answer. Finally, she moves them one last time.
Something in my face must give it away because her eyes grow wide and she nods sagely.
“Impressive,” she says. “Very impressive. Was it curved?”
“Sarah!”
“Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone. Just one more question. Did you come?”
“You’re impossible, woman. Absolutely impossible.”
Sarah grins mischievously and twirls a strand of hair around her finger. I know this act of hers, the one where she pretends she’s innocent and is ‘just being friendly’. It works on anyone with a penis. Lucky for me, I wasn’t born so well-endowed.
“Please?” she begs. “Pretty please, Sammy? Won’t you tell me?”
I laugh and grab a fresh pot of coffee.
“Just twice,” I say as I back through the swinging kitchen door. “Though I hope to beat that tonight.”
14.
Sean
I sign the last of the paperwork just as the sun falls behind the trees. I drop the pen onto the kitchen table and look up at Parsons. He’s sitting across from me, his arms folded over his big belly, two large sweat stains leaking out from his armpits. He grins, lifts a cheap bottle of whiskey to his lips, and takes a swig.
“All finished?”
“All finished,” I grunt. Motherfucker. You know as well as I do that I finished. You just watched me sign a thousand sheets of paper.
“Good,” he drawls, patting his stomach with one hand. “I was just starting to get hungry.”
“So what now?”
I get up and walk over to the fridge. It’s the same fridge from my childhood. As I pull it open my eye catches the shadow of a dent in the freezer door.
Suddenly I’m fifteen years in the past, the memory of that afternoon when I was thirteen as vivid as if I were watching it in on a television:
My father’s drunk. Again. Like’s he been every night since I can remember. He’s angry too. Must have been drinking vodka again. He always gets violent when he drinks vodka. I’m standing there in the kitchen, my stomach rumbling. I haven’t eaten all day. I couldn’t. There’s no food. My father hasn’t been grocery shopping in weeks. Too busy getting shit-faced.
He’s sitting in the living room on that old ratty recliner of his. The TV’s on, some old John Wayne western on low. My father’s holding a beer, several crushed cans and empty liquor bottles scattered around his feet.
“When are you going grocery shopping?” I ask, looking over at him.
My father doesn’t respond and I clear my throat and try again, this time a little louder.
“When are you going grocery shopping? I’m hungry.”
My father raises the remote to mute the television. When he turns to face me, his face is purple with rage.
“What did you say to me, boy? What did I tell you about talking while I’m watching TV?”
I’m steeling myself for what I know is about to happen. It’s happened too many times before to not know what’s coming.
“I’m hungry, Dad,” I protest pathetically.
“Oh, you’re hungry?” he sneers. He pushes himself up from his recliner and I take an involuntary step back. He stumbles into the kitchen, taking huge gulps of beer with each step. The closer he gets the stronger he smells. It’s all I can do not to gag.
“What did I tell you about talking while I’m watching TV?” he snarls, stopping in front of me and setting the now-empty beer on the counter. “Hmm?”
I don’t answer. My fists are curled at my side. I’ve never hit my father, but I sure as hell have dreamed about it.
He looks at my clenched fists and laughs.
“You going to hit me, boy?”
I swallow heavily. I can feel the blush spreading up my cheeks. Already I’m thinking up an excuse for school tomorrow, something I can tell the teacher to explain the bruises I don’t yet have.
I don’t see his fist coming. Before I can steel myself, stars explode before my eyes and I fall back against the wall. He’s hit me right below my left eye, just hard enough that I should know not to get back up.
But I can’t help it. Not this time. Something has snapped. All I see is red. Tears are streaming down my face and my entire body is shaking with the same rage in my father. Before I can stop myself, I leap forward, my fists flying wildly.
But it’s no good. Though my father’s as drunk as a skunk, I’m too small for him. He easily swats away my punches, the few that land not even phasing him. He’s no longer smiling; instead, his lips are twisted into a vicious sneer. There’s rage in his eyes. And something else. Something I haven’t seen before.
“You motherfucker!” he screams. As I continue to punch him he reaches out
and takes hold of my throat with his hands. I struggle against his grip, trying to rip his hands away as they slowly tighten, but it’s no use. I punch him once, twice, three times. He doesn’t care. It’s like he doesn’t feel a thing. He squeezes harder and I gasp for breath, the red world dimming as black begins to take over.
“You fucking cunt!” he screams again. “Who the fuck do you think you are!”
He turns and, still holding me by the throat, slams my head against the freezer door. The blow almost knocks me out. He slams my head a second time, this time as hard as he can. The last thing I remember is a sickening crack…
“Sean? Sean? Hellllllllloooooooooo…can you hear me?”
Parson’s voice cuts through my memory and suddenly I’m back in the present, no longer that scared, little boy of yesteryear. My father is dead and I’ve just inherited the abusive sonofabitch’s secret fortune
“Sorry,” I sigh, shaking my head to clear away the thoughts. I open the fridge door and lean down to peer inside. I reach up absentmindedly to the top of my head and run my fingers over the long scar created so long ago. There’s still the shadow of an ache there, as much memory as reality. “Just lost in my memories. What were you saying?”
As Parsons begins to go once more over the details of my ownership of the Hartwood estate, I grab a beer—coincidentally the same brand as the beer my father was drinking all those years ago—from the bottom shelf and pop it open. The smell of it is almost enough to send me tumbling back into the past.
“So, anyways,” Parsons is saying. “I’ll get these documents filed at the courthouse in the morning. By the end of the next week the transfer should be complete. Of course, we’ll have to take out quite a bit for taxes…”
“And some for you, I take it.”
Parsons smirks.
“Not too much though,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. I can see why my father liked this man. He’s one shifty motherfucker. Does he know how my father treated me?
Hard Choices: An Erotic Romance Page 5