Hero

by Leighton Del Mia

  “Hey,” he says without looking up. “Feeling refreshed?”

  I nod as he moves bowls from a cart to the coffee table. “Did you make that?”

  “Yep. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.”

  “Where’s Norman?”

  “What’s wrong? Think I’m incapable of making and serving a meal?”

  His tone is teasing so I smile.

  “I know it’s not exactly foiegras,” he continues, grabbing two glasses from the cart, “but the wine is good.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Foie gras?” He glances up and shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

  Watching him work intrigues me, and I find myself retrieving my camera from the nightstand’s top drawer. I take it to the coffee table with me and stand over the spread he’s building. I frame the shot, making sure to include both bowls, the wine, and Calvin’s hand as he sets a napkin near my plate. I hold the camera there for a moment and then lower it, smiling to myself.

  “Why didn’t you take the picture?” he asks.

  “I don’t need to. Sometimes I just like setting it up.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t like to waste film. I only capture the shots I know I can’t live without.”

  His eyebrows rise imperceptibly. “You know that I’ll buy you as much film as you want.”

  I shrug and set the camera on the table. While waiting for him to start, I play with my fork.

  “Cataline?”

  I look up. “Yes?”

  “Do you think I’ll withhold film for bad behavior?”

  I curse myself for having given him the idea, wishing suddenly I’d just taken the picture. “No,” I say airily. “I just hate the idea of wasting it.”

  “How long have you been doing that?”

  “Taking pictures? My whole life. Even as a kid, I—”

  “No. How long have you been not taking pictures?”

  “Oh. A few weeks, I guess.”

  He glances behind me where the window is. “I see.” He stabs noodles with his fork and takes a bite, so I do the same.

  “Thank you for making this,” I say. “I ate a lot of mac and cheese when I was younger, so it reminds me of being a kid.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “On the nights where I made dinner but there weren’t many groceries, I was secretly happy. Mac and cheese was my favorite, and we always had a box of that.”

  “Why didn’t you go buy groceries?”

  I scrunch my nose. “Not when I was a kid.”

  “You made dinner as a child?”

  “Sure. I did lots of things for them around the house. Cleaning, mowing, babysitting. Cooking, too, once I got better at making something other than instant pasta.”

  “Them?” Calvin asks.

  “I have—had a foster family.”

  “Had? Don’t you anymore?”

  “Not since I turned eighteen.”

  “But that’s not something that just ends. Surely you keep in touch.”

  I shake my head. “Haven’t heard from them since the day I left.”

  His fork clatters against his plate. “What?”

  “It’s okay. I haven’t reached out to them either.”

  “But surely they call or write you once in a while?”

  “No. They know I’m in New Rhone, but I doubt they even have Frida’s address.”

  He’s staring at me like I have two heads. I touch the ends of my hair, twirling them around my index finger. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I didn’t really fit in with their daughters.” Calvin is beginning to glare. I purposely haven’t thought of these things in years. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and balls it up. He looks about to stand. “They were younger than me,” I say quickly, “always playing with dolls or new toys. Later, it was a lot of getting dressed up and socializing. I mostly read and took pictures, though.” I pause only long enough to swallow. “My living there was more of an arrangement than anything. Like I said, I helped out around the house and babysat. In exchange, the Andersons put a roof over my head and treated me well. I’m grateful, but I don’t feel the need to keep in touch.”

  “If you moved here straight from high school, where’d you get the money to survive?”

  “I had . . .” I pause and look away. The lump in my throat seems to get bigger whenever my past comes up. But I’m afraid he’ll leave if I stop talking. “There was a small settlement from my parents’ death and an inheritance that I received at eighteen.” My fingers quietly shred the napkin in my lap. “Actually, it was a flyer in my mailbox that saved me. For the job fair Parish Media held. Delivered right to my address. I almost didn’t pursue it; I was so close to giving up. But Hale hired me the same day. Any longer without work, and I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  “You spent all the inheritance money during the two years you looked for work?”

  I cock my head at him. Did I say how long it’d been? “It wasn’t much. Just enough to give Frida some money each month and eat.”

  “And the Andersons—they never gave you money after you left?”

  “Um, no. Like I said, we haven’t spoken.”

  Even though his eyes are no longer on me, anger radiates from him.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he snaps before muttering, “that just doesn’t seem right.”

  I laugh grimly. “You’re suddenly concerned about my well being?”

  His head whips back to me. “Forget it.”

  “Oh.” I look down and concentrate on getting macaroni into my mouth, trying to ignore the sting of his dismissal.

  His chair scrapes against the wood floor. “I should try to get some work done tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean what I said. Don’t go.”

  “I—”

  “I’m finished too,” I interject, quickly wiping the corners of my mouth with what’s left of my napkin. “We can do something else.”

  He answers gruffly. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Anything you want.” I hate the words, hate that I’m pandering to him. I unclench my jaw. “A game,” I suggest. “We could play something.”

  “A game?” he repeats.

  “I’ve been practicing pool downstairs, but I have no one to play against.”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “I’ll—we can play for money or something.”

  “You have no money.”

  I look at my hands. “No.”

  “Or something, then. We’ll play for something.”

  “Okay,” I agree, swallowing.

  “If I win, I get a blowjob.”

  The backs of my ears heat. “What’s to stop you from getting a blowjob ever?”

  “This blowjob is special. No fighting or resisting. You don’t do it because I make you, you do it because you want to.”

  “But you would be making me.”

  “That’s what I want, take it or leave it. I have plenty to do otherwise.”

  “Okay,” I find myself saying. “I agree. I can’t promise I’ll enjoy it, but . . . okay.”

  He grunts. “And if you win?”

  I don’t hesitate. “You unlock my window.”

  My eyes are locked dead with his, a silent battle we seem to have over and over again.

  “That’s what you want? Out of anything in the world?”

  “Yes,” I say. “No. Wait. What? I can have anything?”

  He chuckles as I gape at him. “It’s too late. You already chose.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Are you being serious?”

  “Of course not, Cataline. Unlocking your window is about as much as I would consider.”

  “Oh. So we have a deal then?”

  His fingers drum on the coffee table until he says, “Fine.”

  I can’t help the way my eyes widen or the smile that spreads across my face. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you
,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You have to win first.”

  “I’ve been practicing a lot,” I say. “Seeing as how I have nothing but time.”

  He stands and stretches his arms to the ceiling, showing me a sliver of tanned skin. “Come on. Rosa’ll get this.”

  In the game room, I chalk two cues while he looks around. “It’s been years since I’ve come in here,” he says.

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m not much for games, especially when there’s nothing at stake.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not a sore loser, because I’m about to dominate you.” Neither of us laughs. When he turns his head over his shoulder to look at me, I drop my gaze. “Sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Is that okay to say?”

  He turns back to the board game in his hands. “It’s fine. Jokes are allowed, Cataline.”

  “Oh. Okay. It’s ready.”

  He swaggers over and takes the cue from me. With his other hand open, he gestures at the table. “Ladies first.”

  “We have to lag for the break.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “This is your first game?”

  “There’s a book on eight-ball in the library. I’ve been reading up.”

  “I see. It’s fine. You go ahead.”

  I shake my head and grab the cue ball as I head to one end of the table. “We play by the rules.” I bend over the table, take my shot, and watch as it glides back toward me, landing inches from the rail. I mark the spot before Calvin does the same. His ball touches the end rail and stops less than an inch away.

  “You win.” I balance my cue against the table and proceed to carefully rack the other balls around the eight ball. I slide them over the table until they’re in position.

  “You’re very thorough,” Calvin remarks.

  I put my hands on my hips and look at him. “Go,” I urge. His gaze lingers on me a moment before he leans over the table to break. One ball goes directly into the corner pocket. “Solids,” he says.

  “No shit.”

  He turns to me slowly. “Mouthy tonight.”

  I force a smile. “Another joke.” His next try is less successful, even though it should’ve been easy, and excitement flutters my heart. I round the table while surveying my options. I end up slipping between where he stands and the rail to set up my shot. When he doesn’t move, I turn my head over my shoulder. “Do you mind?” I ask.

  He smirks. “Not at all.”

  I look back at the table. When I bend over, my ass just brushes his crotch.

  “You know,” he says, slightly pushing his hips into me, “for a beginner, your stance isn’t half bad.”

  “You’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?” His body closes over my back, and I immediately tense. His hands cover each of mine, and he says, “Bend lower.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Lower.”

  When I bow deeper into the table, his body comes with me until his mouth is by my ear. “Your chin should only be inches above the stick.” His right hand squeezes mine and pulls gently so the cue slides through our left hands. “Relax your grip. Lock your wrist.” He presses forward, and I can feel the graze of his penis against my backside. Together, we glide the stick back and forth slowly. “Keep your cue and head lined up with the shot. Envision a direct line of where you want the ball to go. Got it?”

  I nod, breathless and unable to respond, but he doesn’t move.

  “Are you sure? You’ve got a lot riding on this.”

  “Yes,” I rasp and clear my throat.

  He remains another moment before releasing me. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I barely remember what he just said, much less anything I’ve read or practiced. I miss the shot.

  “You did that on purpose,” I say.

  “Sorry to disappoint, Sparrow, but I don’t need to distract you. We both know I’m going to win this game.”

  If anything can diffuse the haze he’s just inspired, it’s a challenge. I straighten up immediately and look him in the eye. “That may be, but I won’t go down easy.”

  His lips roll into each other as his chest pulses with a suppressed laugh. “I have no doubt.”

  I slam the base of my cue into the floor. “You knew all along you’d win. Did you even consider unlocking my window?”

  “Let’s just play, Sparrow. Who knows, maybe you’ll have a bit of beginner’s luck.”

  I don’t. I realize halfway through that he’s missing shots to extend the game, but he doesn’t let me win. I sigh as he collects my cue and replaces it on the wall rack.

  “You did well,” he says. “Really, I’m impressed.”

  For whatever reason, it eases my disappointment that he thinks so. Despite my attempt not to, or maybe because of it, my eyes drift as he walks back to me. In the flimsy pants, his growing erection is obvious. When he reaches me, he stands close enough that our bodies almost touch. A new kind of fear develops in me. I’ve never willingly had a man in my mouth, and I have no idea how to do it on my own. My jaw tingles, and I bend my knees to drop to the floor.

  His hand catches my bicep. “I’ll collect later.”

  My lips part. “Oh.”

  He gives my arm a firm squeeze before leaving the room. My loneliness is immediate and crushing. So much so that I wish he’d let me pay my debt, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone again. And because I know well the anxiety of waiting until the moment he’ll return for his prize.

  Tuesday afternoon can’t come soon enough. Obligations have kept me tied up in New Rhone when I have a pressing matter in Fenndale. I leave the office early to make the two-hour drive to the Andersons’ home. Since Sunday night, Cataline’s been dangerously on my mind. Her words, her scent, her touch all cloud my thoughts. I’ve both given and taken too much. What it will take to restore balance between us won’t be pleasant, but it must be done.

  But before I can face her again, I must rectify the wrong done to her. My mistake, my failure to see that she wasn’t comfortable when I thought she was. Growing up poor before the accident, I knew her tendency toward frugality. I meant for her to have a choice, but that choice was never allowed her.

  My fists curl hard around the steering wheel. In order to deflect questions, I’ve always been amiable and patient with the Andersons. If nothing else, I’ve stressed the importance of anonymity—Cataline was never to know of a third party. I realize now that they’ve used that against both of us. Cataline has made it clear that their role in her life is minimal at best, and knowing that, it’s tempting to make them pay for their greed. As I pull the car into the farm’s dirt driveway, Norman’s warning from earlier is fresh in my mind.

  “Remember the code,” Norman says. “The punishment must fit the crime.”

  “I know better than anyone. One exception will lead to another, and eventually, our system will fail.”

  “Any kill must be warranted. Maintain control. I only feel compelled to remind you because this is a more personal matter than you normally deal with.”

  “Personal, no,” I say. “It’s obligation, Norman. Lately, you seem to be confusing the two.”

  I hear voices in the house before I even enter, which makes them easy to locate. When I stride through the kitchen doorway, Mrs. Anderson screams, raising her wooden spoon so spaghetti sauce flies across the cabinets.

  Her husband jumps up from his spot at the dinner table. “What the fuck you doing, barging into my place like this?”

  “We had a deal,” I say, slamming my fist on the wooden table. “What happened to the money?”

  “I don’t know what you’re on about, Mr. Lawrence. Cataline’s got a check every month like we worked out.”

  “And her savings?”

  “Yup, she’s got that too. All, what was it, Lynne? Must’ve been twenty thousand or something close. She’s got it.”

  “That so?” I ask. “I heard otherwise, A
nderson.”

  He picks something from his teeth as he studies me. Fear, something that I identify easily, is missing from his expression. His flannel is only half tucked, and I watch his eyes travel down my Armani suit. “Whatever you heard’s a lie, Mr. Lawrence. If it’s the girl telling you that, she’s a little liar. We raised her, we know. Something about growing up the way she did.”

  If I were physically able to grow bigger, I would be right now. My muscles are tightening as adrenaline surges to all the dark corners of my body. “You’re saying she made it up?”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “You talk to her?”

  “Like I said, I heard it from somewhere else.”

  “Young girl called here last month, asking after Cat. Said she’s missing, but the police done think she ran away and won’t do nothing.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. You’re my only contact with her, and she’s your responsibility.”

  “Not no more, not apart from getting her that money.” He nods at his wife without removing his beady eyes from me. “Lynne and I been talking. Want to know what your interest is in the girl.”

  “I’ve told you, I can’t disclose that.”

  “Well, maybe we disclose it to Cataline, you don’t get the fuck out of our house. I don’t know what gets you off about giving some little brat money, but I don’t think I want a part of it anymore. Perverted, high-class asshole.”

  His words hang in the silence for a moment. His wife’s slight, uneven breathing borders on whimpering. Before she can even scream, I have him by the throat slammed up against the wall. “You’re a piece-of-shit liar,” I say calmly as his fingers pry at my grip. “I want a check for every last dime I’ve given you. The money I paid you and the money you were supposed to give Cataline. Right now.”

  “I don’t have it,” he pants. “I gave it to Cataline.”

  My grip tightens, and he’s coughing, a rough, dying noise that is music to my ears. I turn my head to his wife. “Tell me the truth, or that’s the last sound he ever makes.”