Seclusion

by Leanne Davis

  “He wasn’t my father.”

  The words popped out. The thing was, with Angie, she knew exactly what those words meant. He didn’t have to bother with a lot of explanation with her. Not like he would have Rachel with her perky smiles and narcissistic tears. Rachel wanted him to be sad because his dad died, and she couldn’t imagine how that felt.

  What only Angie understood was that it wasn’t his dad that he missed. It was the fact that he had never had a father that he was so upset about. It was being the son of his mother’s rapist, that so screwed him up. It was ruining his family’s life that had Sean so strung out. And Rachel with her perky tits pressed to his arm as she tried to understand what she could never, had made him feel worse than all of Angie’s antagonistic silence.

  “You always knew that, Sean. It’s not new. It’s just official.”

  “How far do you think genetics go?”

  “Not that far. Not far enough to change who you are.”

  “Yeah? And what do you know about who I am?”

  “I know that no matter who you came from, you’d never hurt anyone. You’d never rape a woman. I know that.”

  “I shouldn’t have found out.”

  “Yes, you should have. You needed to know. You need to make peace with it. Let it go. It wasn’t your fault. Not any of it. That was Denny’s mistake. He blamed a child. He never had the right.”

  “Maybe he did. If my mother didn’t have me to remind her of what happened to her, maybe she wouldn’t have become so fucked up she couldn’t walk out to the mail box ever again.”

  “You know that’s not true. It wasn’t you. It was never you.”

  “Sarah doesn’t know.”

  “You should tell her. She needs to understand the truth. Understand you. She never did understand that part.”

  “You did. You understood. Why is that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess because I wanted to be anyone’s kid but Vanessa’s. I hoped her genetics didn’t determine who I’d be.”

  They both looked out toward the beach. They could see the flicker of firelight through the trees; they could hear the far off, dream-like sounds of music and murmurs of voices. She turned toward him, so her face was close. He could see her eyes, the contour of her face in the shadows. She was so heartbreakingly beautiful in a lost, sad kind of way. In a way you never could tell what she thought she was so aloof, so unattainable.

  They were done. She’d close up now, like she always did with him. Pretend he was back to the gnat that disturbed the perfect image she had of herself. But suddenly, startlingly, she didn’t turn away. Her breath hitched. She licked her lips, and then looked up into his eyes, where he felt caught, suspended in time.

  He leaned down, and fit his lips over hers. Gently, his lips traveled over hers. He expected her to push him off her, and pull back. Instead she leaned her head into his. Her lips moved over his, her mouth opened, her tongue came hot and wet into his mouth. Her hands bunched his shirt in her fists. She straddled him, facing him, her mouth wet, open, moving over his. He could hardly keep up with her. The kiss seemed to explode around him. She fit herself over him, her kisses aggressive as her hands came to his face.

  He didn’t know what this was. It was nothing he’d been prepared for. She was all over him. The shock of it almost had him pulling back, questioning her, stopping her. But it was Angie; he wanted no woman like he wanted her.

  His hands moved to her hair, all that glorious, silky, board-straight hair fell through his hands. He wanted to rub it through his fingers. But there was no lingering, no appreciating with Angie. She was like a heat seeking missile, locked on, and exploding around him.

  She suddenly stopped. He knew she would. He tried to keep his disappointment from showing. She simply stopped, got off him and stood up. Wordlessly she pulled his hand for him to stand too. He followed her. Confused. Wasn’t she about to stammer an apology? Say what a mistake that had been? Say something? Then again it was Angie, she was the only girl he’d ever known who never felt the need to talk or explain. In fact, he wished sometimes she’d talk more. Now being one of those times.

  Whatever mood she was in, he didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. He simply followed her up the trail, across his sister’s lawn and to the door of his trailer. He almost stopped short in shock as he realized she was waiting to come into his trailer, with him.

  Chapter 7

  He opened the door, went in, and was all too aware of Angie entering behind him. He could feel her eyes looking around, taking it in, and judging it all, as she judged everything. There was never a wishy-washy moment with her. She always had an opinion. She just rarely chose to share what it was. He reassured himself, it wasn’t a trailer trash kind of place. The decor was brown and beige, with two full recliners, a couch and dinette. The kitchen had granite counters and stainless steel appliances.

  He noticed the clothes he’d carelessly tossed after the funeral lying on the chair. He grabbed them, and stuffed them into the hamper behind him. Angie noticed. She looked at his hamper and then up into his eyes. She didn’t smile. She didn’t play coy. She didn’t give a damn hint what she thought, or what she was doing. She had him at a complete disadvantage with her lack of response.

  “You want a drink?” He sounded like a fifteen year-old girl with her first date over. He was so nervous he couldn’t hold her eye contact.

  “I told you I don’t drink.”

  Right. Of course, she had told him that. Of course, she couldn’t pretend to be polite about it. She couldn’t remotely clue him in on what exactly she was doing here.

  “Well, I do.”

  “No. I don’t like the taste of beer on your breath.”

  No? Had she just told him not to drink? Who the hell was she? Why couldn’t she even pretend to be a girl?

  She turned, took her jean jacket off, and tossed it on the couch. She wore a black t-shirt, it wasn’t tight and stomach showing, but hit her mid hip, loose over her khaki cargo pants. There wasn’t a thing seductive about her. Yet she was. And he was just drunk enough to totally not understand this.

  She sat down, unlaced the strings on the brown shoes she wore, not quite boots, but not feminine slip-ons that most girls wore. She pulled them and her socks off, until she stood up and nearly stomped over to him. Not a strut or pouty look in sight. She nearly glared at him as she passed him to the three stairs that led to the bedroom. He stared after her. Was he supposed to follow her?

  He trailed behind her. She was standing in his bedroom; she turned to him, eyebrows arched. “It’s not so bad in here.”

  “No. It’s not so bad.”

  “Why a trailer?”

  He sighed and scratched his neck in annoyance. “It’s a fifth wheel, not a trailer. This is bigger, roomier, taller ceilings than a trailer. And why? Because I can afford it.”

  “You live with your sister.”

  “No. I keep my fifth wheel on their land. I pay them rent. Why do you always try to completely emasculate me?”

  “I just wondered why.”

  “Because it works. Look, I’m a little drunk; do you think you could explain to me what you are doing here?”

  She suddenly stepped forward, and came to him. She was a tall woman, standing to his chin. She put her hand to his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. He resisted out of pride. Who did she think she was? Coming in here, judging him? Yet not explaining what she was doing.

  She opened her mouth, touched her tongue to his, and sucked gently on his lip. And he forgot his will to resist her. He pulled her to him, stepped between her legs, and bent her back so he had easier access to her mouth. He kissed her mouth, sucked on her lip and trailed his mouth down her neck. She responded. She sighed. She groaned. It inflamed him.

  He found the hemline of her t-shirt and ran his hands over her breast. She moaned. She pulled him back to the bed behind her. She fell on it; he was over her. He leaned over her, his mouth on her bra. He could feel her nipple harden under the silky
fabric. He groaned this time.

  She squirmed under him. Her legs opened as he was positioned against her. She suddenly sat up, was at his jeans, unbuttoning them, peeling them down his legs, not bothering to finish, she sat back on the bed, undoing her own. She didn’t even bother to look at him. She didn’t bother to be embarrassed, she was too busy. She got her own pants off, and soon her cotton Hanes underwear were off just as quick.

  He was shocked. Not many things shocked him, but the speed, the insistency that she was taking this, taking over, had him shocked. She didn’t seem interested in anything other than it. Sex.

  He shook his foggy from drink, from grief, from almost sex head. What was with her? Why the hurry? The lack of any kind of foreplay? It was like, well, it was like any cock would do for her, she just needed one now. And to his surprise it offended him. He wasn’t just there for her pleasure.

  He was about to tell her so when her hand came out and was on him, and then her mouth. That quick his resolve, his disdain, his anger at being used, rushed out of his mind. And there was nothing left there but a rush of unbelievable feelings. He needed to grab a condom. He had learned that the first night he’d ever had sex, sex with this very girl.

  She pulled back. She was waiting for him. He had to hurry apparently. He grabbed the drawer handle, pulled it open, found a foil packet and opened it one handed as he slipped it over himself. She was on his bed. Angie Peters was on his bed, naked but for her bra and t-shirt up around her shoulders where she hadn’t bothered to take it off. She lay on his made bed, not bothering to even pull back the bedspread. Her legs were open, her gaze on him. There wasn’t a hint of the shy girl he’d known years ago. There was this strangely bold, earthy woman, who aggressively took him, and yet he wasn’t so sure how glad he was of that.

  He came to the bed, and crawled over her. Her legs shifted under him as her bottom came up to fit to him. He didn’t want it like this. Not so fast, not so furious, not so cold and emotionless. Didn’t he have enough of that in his life? But she wouldn’t look at him. She pulled him where she wanted him; she shifted and ground into him when the tip of him found her.

  He didn’t fight his urges. He pushed into her. Her feet pressed down on the mattress. Her arms came around his neck. She suddenly stopped fighting him or trying to control him. That quickly she was under him, hanging onto him, as if, finally, she trusted him to take over.

  His anger grew at her. It was easy to hammer into her hard and fast like she wanted. It was easy to use her to take out his frustration, his grief, the uncertainty that his father’s death had caused in his life. All ending with this strange, angry girl in his bed.

  He didn’t understand why Angie was here like this. A girl who acted like she couldn’t stand the sight of him was now moaning and twisting in what he assumed was pleasure beneath him. But then again, who knew with Angie? Not like he could begin to understand her.

  Why had she started this? Done this like this? He didn’t know, couldn’t fathom what she thought. He felt her moving under him, as she moaned while he relentlessly moved into her. She wanted it rough? Impersonal? Fine, he could do that. He did that. He forgot he once loved this girl. He forgot he’d spent years fantasizing about just this and instead found the anger at the girl who had blamed him for her life falling apart. He was able to easily remember he resented this girl for never forgiving the boy he’d once been.

  For when they had made Amy he’d been as fragile, as lost, as she had been. But back then he’d been a boy and he wasn’t allowed to be that. He was supposed to be different, tough, and not care. Hadn’t Angie taught him that? Isn’t that what he’d become?

  Finally, he drove into her as hard and as deep as he could, he let go, heard her scream as her body pulled over his, in a deep, almost violent orgasm.

  Sean felt like he’d died. He collapsed onto her and she quickly pushed him off her. He flopped down next to her, not touching her. After several long moments feeling started to return to his limbs. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sex.”

  “No, that felt like warfare.”

  She sat up, pulling her t-shirt down over her. “I didn’t see you complaining.”

  He sat up too. “I’m serious. What was that? Why did this happen?”

  She finally glanced his way. A glint in her eye. “You were a surprisingly good kisser. Turned me on. So we had sex.”

  His mouth came open. She turned back around, grabbed at her underwear and pants, and started putting them on. He merely sat there staring after her.

  “Not the sentimental girl you once were, are you?”

  She stopped dressing and meant his stare with a cold look. “Somehow after giving away my heart to Luke and Kelly Tyler I just don’t get quite as choked up over sex as I once did.”

  “My God, it’s still my fault, isn’t it? What’s wrong in your life always goes back to what I did to you.”

  “You didn’t exactly help me out, now, did you? I was nine months pregnant before you even acknowledged that I had never had sex with anyone but you.”

  “You hid it.”

  “You knew for months.”

  “You’re grasping at straws here. This isn’t about Amy. That was eight years ago.”

  “Nothing is about Amy for you. You want to know why I despise you so much? You blithely take the presence of your daughter, my daughter, as totally acceptable. You don’t care she’s being raised right in front of you by other people. It means nothing to you.”

  He stood up. Her eyes moved over him. He didn’t care. “I was fifteen years old. How can you blame me for what I did as a kid? I didn’t mean to get you pregnant.”

  “But you didn’t care that you did, either.”

  “Of course, I cared. You wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I was terrified of you. I’m sorry I wasn’t suaver for you at the whopping age of fifteen.”

  “And still, you hardly consider Amy as anything. Not really even a big deal for you, is it?”

  “No, she’s not. I held her one time, one fucking time, Angie, when I was fifteen. I had no business raising her, so I’m not. And yes, I let it go instead of wearing it on my sleeve as a reason I can’t be happy, or have relationships.”

  “I have relationships.”

  “Oh, that’s right, with your professor. Your married, has his own children, professor. Tell me how old are his kids, Angie?”

  She turned her head away as if he slapped her.

  “Come on, if you’re so healthy, this shouldn’t be so hard to tell me. How old are your boyfriend’s kids?”

  “Twenty and sixteen.”

  “You should introduce me. I could date the older one. What are you doing with a man twice your age? Married? Grown children? You think that’s healthy? And if you’re so in love with him, what the hell are you doing here with me?”

  She shook her head, and finally looked up at him, her expression horrified as if it just occurred to her. “I don’t know.”

  “Now you sound like the clueless fifteen-year-old I once knew. One who doesn’t know any better than to sleep with a married man or cheat on said married man with me. Grow up. Really. Quit blaming your life on Vanessa, on me, and even on Amy. Amy isn’t your child, she’s the Tylers. She doesn’t want you to be her mother. She wants Kelly. Accept that. Grow the hell up and quit running from everything. And now that you’ve used me to punish your boyfriend. Get out. Please, just get out of here.”

  Angie stared for a moment, before she turned and fled like the emotional chicken she was. She grabbed her coat and shoes and slammed the aluminum door as she stumbled outside. He numbly sat back down on the bed dejectedly. He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe tomorrow he could blame this on too much beer, too much grief, too much Angie. Still, ripping into Angie after all these years, didn’t make him feel as good as he thought it would have.

  Chapter 8

  Angie walked into the big, bright, airy kitchen at seven the next morning and wished for torrents of dark rain, draw
n shades, a small, faceless kitchen like the one in her own apartment. Not this. This home of Scott and Sarah’s, with three pretty little girls, eating their breakfast as Sarah moved around the kitchen, and Scott sat next to one-year-old Sheila spoon feeding her oatmeal. Everyone looked her way when she appeared in the kitchen, the room turned quiet.

  “Need some coffee? You look hung over.”

  Angie scowled at her uncle. She desperately wished she were hung over and that was the extent of her mistakes last night. Instead she’d been stone cold sober, and there was nothing she could blame last night on. She had seduced Sean Langston, and the worst part is, she didn’t even know why she had done it. She averted her face from Scott before he noticed her stricken look. She walked over to the coffee pot, poured some for herself and more for her uncle. She brought her cup over to the table and sat down near him as she talked to Stella. She took a few sips before she finally raised her head and looked at Sarah. Sarah looked exhausted. And sad.

  Angie immediately was stabbed with guilt for how sorry for herself she’d been acting, when it was Sarah who had lost her father. She suspected that Sarah, like Sean, grieved the what if’s and what should have beens of a relationship that was far less than it should be. A grief that she had understood way down to her gut last night.

  “Why don’t you take it easy today, Sarah? I’ll take the girls. You have to be exhausted after yesterday.”

  Sarah smiled as she rubbed her head. “I am. But I can’t. Sean and I need to go out to our parent’s house. We have to figure out what to do with mom. She’s been alone out there for two days because neither one of us could get there. I don’t know what to do. I really don’t, we can’t spend the rest of our lives going out to her house every day. Plus there is dad’s stuff. There’s so much to do.”

  Angie knew one of Sarah’s great disappointments in life was her agoraphobic mother. And now Tina’s primary caretaker, her link to the world, was gone. Leaving Sarah holding the position. How could Sarah possibly add that to her already brimming schedule?