I Dream of Spiders

by Keating, Elle

  “Thought you would have brought your buddy along. Introduce him to this happening crew and Pete’s new ale…which tastes like absolute piss.” I whisper the last part. Pete is only a few feet away and refilling a bowl of peanuts.

  “It’s God awful.” Trent forces down another gulp and shakes his head. With his face still a little scrunched Trent says, “Grif was all ready to come until he discovered a leak in the basement of my uncle’s cabin. I kind of feel like shit since it’s technically my place. First the heater and now a leak.”

  “I can see that it’s tearing you up inside.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to shitty beer and your friend’s leak.”

  Trent snorts and punches my arm. “You don’t know the man. Griffin likes to work alone. I called and asked him if he needed some help, but he was already on his way to Home Depot to pick up some supplies.”

  I stare at Trent, at a guy I have known since I was ten years old. He was the first kid I met when I moved here from a remote town in Ohio. My mother followed her latest boyfriend to Quarry Hill, dragging her two kids with her. She was never Mother of the Year material, losing one crappy job after another and snorting coke every chance she got, but she didn’t start hitting us until we moved to Quarry Hill. Her new boyfriend opened her eyes to that new method of discipline.

  But the bruises, the pain my mother and her boyfriends inflicted on us, was worth it. Bree started to rely solely on me to keep her safe, loved. As my mother screamed and tore our house apart looking for money, anything to sell to buy drugs, Bree would seek me out and hide in the closet with me. I would hold her, smell her chocolate brown hair, tell her that I would take care of her. She believed me. She loved me. She cried and I wiped away her tears.

  My Bree.

  Sweet, innocent Bree.

  I loved those tears. How they stained her milky cheeks. How she would dry them off on my ratty sweatshirt as I held her.

  “Well, how’s he settling in? Met him the other day on the lake, but he wasn’t much of a talker.”

  “Nah. Grif’s alright. He’s just not a people person, likes to stay to himself.”

  I already knew that. I know a lot about Griffin McGuire thanks to the internet. Not only was his wife fucking his brother behind his back, but they also tried to have him killed. Both are serving life sentences because they screwed up and couldn’t finish the job.

  And now the ex-Navy medic is living on the outskirts of my town. He’d shown up right around the time my Bree fled. Where was she? Not at McGuire’s cabin. I checked out his piece of shit he was calling home and discovered that there was no evidence of a woman staying there.

  Bree also hasn’t contacted her best friend, Jessie Sato. I know this to be the case because I have my girl’s phone. I’ve read the handful of texts that Jessie has sent her from Japan. All were innocent, just checking-in type messages, updates on her mother’s condition. I swiped to earlier texts between the two women to get a sense of how my girl typically responds, find out if she uses emojis, shortens her words, uses caps, things like that, and then responded to Jessie. As far as Jessie knows her best friend decided to quit her job at the coffee shop and travel a bit to clear her head. Jessie responded with “I understand. Especially now as I watch my mother’s condition worsen. Don’t blame you for wanting to get away. Call me when you can. Love you!”

  So, if Bree isn’t with her best friend, where is she?

  Did someone find her on the side of the road and take her in? Caress those locks of hair I would like to fist? She’s out there somewhere, but I’ll find her. She won’t leave me. Not again.

  Bree will stay this time. She won’t fall asleep.

  Sweet, still-warm Bree.

  She was asleep when I found her, a bottle of pills lying next to her on Uncle Tony’s bathroom floor. Frantic, I kissed her. One breath, two, eight. I thrust so much oxygen into her lungs. But she wouldn’t take what I was giving her. She rejected me. Uncle Tony came home an hour later, took one look at me cradling Bree’s body and walked out. He returned a few minutes later and gathered Bree into his arms. He didn’t offer any words of comfort, just shook his head at me before he left with her, Bree’s slender legs dangling, her head slumped against my uncle’s chest. But I didn’t need his sympathy because Bree wasn’t gone, not forever, anyway. She would come back to me.

  Sweet, innocent Bree.

  “Think your friend will get bored in a town like this? Hope he has a girlfriend, something to fuck.”

  Trent finishes his beer and places the empty pint glass on the bar. Pete yells over and asks if he wants another, but Trent holds up his hand and shakes his head. “Grif just went through a divorce which means the man needs to get laid. Thinking about taking him into the city my next weekend off.”

  Nothing Trent says should send up red flags. His hands aren’t shaking. He is maintaining eye contact. But that doesn’t mean shit. My uncle always told me to beware of men like Trent. Men who don’t show weakness. Because that was their tell, which means Trent is hiding something.

  • • •

  Trent

  “Shit. Going into the city is your best bet at finding a woman. There’s nothing left in this town,” Brady says.

  “You’re right about that.” I wonder how many beers Brady has had because he is a little more talkative than usual. I peer at the television and pretend to watch the fight. Out of the corner of my eye I see Brady’s hand disappear into a bowl of peanuts.

  “So, how’s your sister? How long has she been working at Filbert Elementary? Three? Four years?”

  I’m not sure why Brady’s question bothers me. Asking about Carol, how she is doing, is something he has asked in the past. But tonight it feels…wrong. “Three years, I think.” I want to get off the subject. Because what can I say in return? How’s your sister, Brady? Still dead?

  I still can’t believe Bree is gone. Carol and Bree were childhood friends. The four of us would go to the park sometimes and fish for sunnies. Bree was always shy, but Carol had the ability to make her laugh and come out of her shell. But once the bruises started appearing on Bree’s legs, arms, even on her face, she became more than shy. She completely shut down, not speaking to Carol, her teachers, nobody but Brady. She seemed to cling to him and he became possessive of her. I thought it was a little odd, how overprotective he was, but I really had no idea how much they were being abused, what they were going through. As far as I could tell they were forced to rely on each other because they sure as shit couldn’t count on their drug-addicted mother.

  Brady and Bree bounced back and forth between home and multiple foster placements until the day their mother died. Less than a week after her death, Brady and Bree moved to New York to live with their uncle. We lost touch after that. And then ten years later, Brady returned to Quarry Hill. Without his uncle. Without his sister.

  I came here tonight to see if anyone was talking about a missing woman around these parts, if something or someone was out of place. Pete’s is the watercooler of the town, where you go to gossip, where you learn who is splitting up and who is fucking who. Brady would have told me by now if a missing girl was roaming our woods, not shoot the shit and ask me about Carol. With the exception of Brady being a chatterbox, all seems normal.

  “I better get going. Long day at work,” I say. Brady shakes my hand and I thank him for the beer. I say my goodbyes to Pete and am heading out the door when I spot Pete’s photo montage hanging on the wall. These pics have been here as long as I can remember. Some are black and white, others are in color, but faded. The photos capture town parades, a Fourth of July picnic, the Quarry Hill’s Little League baseball team from 1993. We made it to the state finals that year. Everyone was proud of that team for going so far, beating teams from towns much bigger and wealthier than ours. The townspeople also fell in love with our team’s ace pitcher, Jason Wallace.

  I peer over my shoulder and see that Brady is busy talking to Pete and a couple to his right. My gaze drifts back to the photo, t
o Jason Wallace. He may have been the town’s golden boy, but I remember Brady hating him. I didn’t care for him that much myself because he was cocky as hell and was completely in love with himself. One day I witnessed Jason picking on Bree, calling her a freak and a mute because she stopped talking to everyone. I was just about to drop that asshole when Brady came out of nowhere and beat the piss out of him. When it was all over, Jason had a broken nose, bloody lip and two swollen eyes. As Jason limped away and headed for home, I remembered Brady going over to his sister and consoling her. But it wasn’t until this moment that I recalled what he said to her.

  “Shh. You’re alright.” Brady took Bree into his arms and stroked her long brown hair. She continued to sniffle in his embrace. I took a step back, feeling awkward and stupid. But even though I put some distance between us I heard Brady say, “He can’t hurt you. Only me, Bree. Just me.” He then gave her a smile, one that she didn’t reciprocate.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nessa

  I no longer smell like him. His scent has been washed away, swept down the motel bathroom shower drain. It should make me happy. It should help me to stop thinking about him and the night we shared. But it doesn’t. I’m not happy. I’m pissed. I sit on the queen-size bed and ignore the Chick-fil-A sandwich and fries Griffin bought me on the way here. I have no appetite, not after everything that has happened.

  My trip to Philadelphia unleashed some of my memories. Certain things, details, are still hazy, but I know who I am. I am Nessa O’Neil, twenty-four years old and born from heroin-addicted parents. I drifted in and out of the foster care system and lived on the streets until Dylan O’Neil adopted me and gave me a new life. I also know that I have a degree in mathematics and that I was supposed to begin teaching Algebra 2 and Trig to high school students within the Philadelphia School District two months ago.

  But I don’t share any of my revelations with Griffin. I haven’t been in the mood to talk ever since coming face-to-face with Dylan’s tombstone. And if I am going to be completely honest, I am still hurt from being used by Griffin.

  And now I am here, sharing a motel room with him. Griffin was right to stop for the night. It was too dangerous to proceed, though as I listen to the shower turn off, I can’t help but think that being in the same motel room with him while a storm brews outside is more frightening. The doorknob rattles and my spine stiffens. I lock down my heart and watch him emerge from the bathroom. A towel is wrapped around his waist. Beads of water sprinkle his tight abs. My eyes drift northward and land on the scar on his chest. I didn’t question him about it before, mainly because I didn’t think it was any of my business. But after what he did to me, I don’t give a shit about his privacy anymore. “Did you get that in Afghanistan?” I ask.

  His eyes narrow. “No.” He walks over and retrieves the duffel bag he brought with him. He pulls out a pair of black mesh shorts and tosses the bag back on the chair.

  His one-word answer pisses me off. “Then where?” I ask, matching his gaze.

  “Do you mind?” he asks, starting to unravel his towel.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” I say, challenging him.

  “Fine,” he growls. He drops his towel, and I fight like hell to keep my gaze above his neck. By some miracle I succeed. Our eyes remain locked as he slips on his shorts. I hold back the sigh of relief that wants to escape when his cock is again fully covered.

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No,” he says. He gets into bed and turns his back to me. A few seconds later, he switches off the light. Why the hell is he so angry? Yes, I may be a huge inconvenience to him at the moment, with my kidnappers out there and most likely hunting me down, but shit! It’s like he can’t stand to be breathing the same air as me right now. I would completely understand if he is frustrated over our situation, annoyed, irritated. All reasonable emotions and feelings to have considering the circumstances. But he is fucking pissed for some reason and I have no idea why.

  “Why did you leave Philadelphia? Why move to a town in the middle of nowhere?”

  “It’s late, Clare...Nessa. Go to sleep,” he says, his voice gruff.

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Yeah, well I am.”

  The silence that follows is deafening. I think he’s fallen asleep when I hear him say, “There was nothing left for me in Philadelphia, no reason to stay.”

  I stare at his bare back. Although the shades have been drawn, light filters in through the gaps, just enough so I can appreciate the man lying next to me. The blanket covers him from the waist down, leaving his torso fully exposed. Twenty-four hours ago, I raked my nails along his shoulders, squeezed his ass as he thrust into me. My fingers ache to touch him. I notice a three-inch scar located between his shoulder blades. I instinctively want to kiss him there. Without thinking, I feather the tips of my fingers over the puckered flesh. He flinches at my touch. My hand stills as I wait for him to tell me to get the hell off him.

  “It’s an exit wound.” He sighs beneath my hand. “The bullet went straight through,” he says just above a whisper. His body tenses, prompting my hand to fall away and rest on the mattress between us. He’s going to shut down and shut me out…

  “Six tours. Years spent overseas and never was even grazed by a bullet. It took me coming back to the States to get gunned down…in my own backyard, in the city I loved.” He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “I never saw it coming.”

  I don’t detect anger in his tone, but sadness…grief. “Who shot you, Griffin?” I want to demand that he roll over and face me. I’m tired of talking to his back.

  “Someone I trusted.”

  My blood boils at the thought of Griffin, this man who has helped me, hidden me, being shot in cold blood by someone he trusted, maybe even loved. I still can’t forgive him for how he treated me this morning after we slept together, but he didn’t deserve to be shot. “Did they catch him? Did you make him pay?”

  “She’ll live out the rest of her days in prison. She’ll die there. And so will her accomplice.”

  A woman shot him?

  I want to hit him up with questions. Discover what kind of woman would do that to him. I then remember how he looked at me when I held his gun in my hands. As he taught me how to flip the safety over with my thumb. He appeared uncomfortable and now I know why.

  “Get some sleep, Nessa.”

  “Clare,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I know my name is Nessa, but I would rather…just call me Clare.”

  I know who I am, and I’m not trying to be someone I’m not. But Nessa doesn’t sound right coming from his lips.

  A gust of wind pounds the one and only window in the motel room, causing the thin pane of glass to rattle. I want him to hold me like he did last night and tell me everything is going to be okay. That I am safe. That my nightmares will stay away. That I wasn’t a mistake.

  I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me, but then I hear him ask, “Do you feel like you betrayed him…by being with me?”

  My eyes shoot open and I stare at Griffin’s muscular back. “What?”

  “I know Dylan is…gone.” Griffin sighs and rolls over. We are now face-to-face, his lips within inches of mine. “Do you feel like you cheated on him?” His eyes search mine as he waits for me to answer a question that doesn’t make any sense.

  How the hell did I cheat on Dylan?

  And then it dawns on me.

  “Griffin, Dylan was my dad. When I was fourteen he found me on the streets, or rather I found him and tried to pick his pocket. In return he took me in, enrolled me in a prestigious prep school, and adopted me. He was the most selfless man I have ever met…and lost.”

  I watch Griffin’s lips part and the furrow in his brow deepen.

  I was so wrapped up in my own head after we left the cemetery that I didn’t tell Griffin who Dylan was and what he meant to me.

  “I thought that he was…”

&
nbsp; “My boyfriend?” I ask. Griffin’s jaw clenches as he gives me a slight nod. “I didn’t know Dylan was my dad until I arrived in Philly this morning. I had a vision just minutes after I arrived at the train station. This man I loved, his face had been crystal clear in my mind. I just knew. I was his daughter.”

  I hear him swallow hard and his legs shift. I have no idea what he is thinking at this moment. But I know what I want. I raise my hand and cup his cheek. His sharp intake of breath almost makes me stop, but then he closes his eyes and leans into my touch. I run my fingers along his chiseled jaw and then across his lower lip, causing his breathing to quicken. He is so beautiful like this, allowing me to just touch and feel in this dark room with the wind howling outside. I prop myself up on one elbow and roll him until he is flat on his back. I trace tiny circles on his stomach and then farther up, where I can feel his heart pounding against his rib cage. His hand envelopes mine and he holds it against his chest. “Clare,” he says, his voice gruff, filled with desperation.

  I slowly swing my leg around and straddle him. I can feel his hard length through his mesh shorts pressing against my cotton panties. He groans as I grind against him, feeling every inch of his cock. I have no idea what I’m doing but he doesn’t seem to care. The sounds he is making drive me crazy, hotter, wetter. I tear off my shirt, leaving me in just my damp panties. His eyes go to my tits and he licks his lips. I continue to move against him. Up and down. In slow circles. Heat rushes to my core.

  And then he raises his pelvis and his shorts are suddenly gone and kicked to the floor. I look down and see his cock. It’s so hard. The head glistens with precum. I want to taste him. Something I didn’t do last night. Something I have never done. I look up at him and see the lust in his eyes, the tension. I don’t break eye contact as I position myself between his legs, or when I take his length in my hands and trail my tongue along his silky flesh. His body jolts as I swirl his essence around with my tongue and swallow. His hand flies to my hair and tugs, not too firmly, but enough to tell me that I just did something he likes. I cup his balls with one hand, which earns me a groan that vibrates in his chest and I lick him from root to tip. Out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand grip the sheets.