by Wendy Owens
I feign a smile, looking into her eyes. There’s more than pity in her look; there’s a story I wish I could know and understand. Perhaps the entire story is in her statement. Is that why she’s here? Was she protecting her baby?
“Okay, can we talk about something else?” Dean huffs uncomfortably.
“Did Dean ever tell you I potty trained him with mac-and-cheese?”
“Really, Momma? I tell you to change the subject, and this is where you go?”
Patti leans back, laughing wildly, a light in her eyes that makes me feel warm all over. There’s something about her that mesmerizes me. I hope one day I get to learn her story.
I quickly join in the laughing. “No, he hasn’t, but I’d love to hear the story.”
We talk, and as she shares stories, I see a mother who cherishes her son, and a son who would do anything for his mother. Just when I’m getting comfortable with Patti, the guards announce visitation time is up. My eyes shift to Dean. He’s staring at his mother, and they nod to one another, an unspoken code. I imagine it’s a way to tell each other to stay strong.
As we leave, a million questions are racing through my mind, but how? How do you ask someone what terrible thing happened to put your mother in this place? So, instead, I continue to walk next to him, silent.
We’re only minutes away from the caravan when I ask him to pull over. I thought I could accept not knowing—waiting for Dean to tell me his mother’s story—but as we’ve sat in silence the entire trip back, the anticipation has been absolute torture.
He nods in response; if his silence lingers any longer, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to contain myself. Why won’t he say something? Anything. Dean pulls over into a parking lot of what looks to be a medical services building—a fitting choice considering I might cause him some bodily harm if he doesn’t start sharing with me soon.
He looks at me, a sadness in his eyes that makes me regret my frustration. “Too much baggage?” He’s nearly whispering.
“Weren’t you the one who told me no baggage means boring?” I remind him, turning toward him. “I just don’t want to have this conversation back at camp, in front of everyone.”
“What conversation is that?” He reaches out, running his fingertips across the skin on my arm.
I expel a hitched breath, a shiver running down my spine. “How about, ‘Hey sweetie, I forgot to mention—I have a mom, and she’s in prison…’?”
“Everyone has a mom.” Dean grins.
I pull away from him. I want him to know I don’t think now is a great time for him to show his keen sense of humor. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” He shrugs.
“This is serious.”
He huffs a heavy sigh, and I sense his sudden frustration. “Why does this have to be serious?”
I pause; I’m approaching this in the wrong way. “I don’t mean serious, I’m sorry. All I mean is, I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
“So this is about my mom.”
I want to tell Dean never mind, that he doesn’t need to tell me anything, but I can’t. I’m starting to feel something for this man. I’m putting myself on the line, and I need to know him—know what has gone into making him the kind of person I’m falling in love with.
I take a deep breath, swallow, and try my best to be honest without upsetting him. “I have no idea how to approach something like this, so I’m just going to be honest. I’ve been happy these past few weeks. That’s not something I’ve been for a very long time.”
“So what does my mom have to do with us being happy?”
“It has to do with your past. You want to be there for me, let me do that for you.”
He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. I lean forward, clasping my hands around his forearm, pulling him toward me. “Don’t shut me out,” I plead.
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I’m trying to do. I guess I’m just nervous. I’m torn, because I want to share this part of my life with you, but at the same time I don’t want you to see me differently,” he says.
I fall onto my knees in the empty space between the seats, and, lifting my hands to either side of his face, pulling his forehead to my lips, I kiss him. My fingers wrap around the back of his head as it lowers to rest on my shoulder. “Dean Johnson, I see you for exactly who you are. Nothing from your past will ever change that.”
He shifts his head, pressing his mouth against my neck. I quiver slightly as a chill runs through my body. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” he whispers against my skin.
I wait for him to pull away, my eyes staying locked onto his the entire time I return to my seat. I sit on the edge, keeping the distance between us small so that I can keep a hand on his leg. This is odd for me, but strangely empowering. For the past three years, everyone has been trying to be strong for me, to help piece me together again. Here I am being that for Dean, or at least trying to be.
“I don’t remember everything,” he begins. “There’s details that get cloudy, you know? Like I could have sworn I was wearing a red T-shirt that day, but other times I remember it as blue. The important stuff doesn’t change, though.”
I nod, swallowing hard, telling myself that no matter what he tells me, I need to make him understand this doesn’t change anything between us.
“I was six years old, and it was a Saturday. I know because Saturday was when my dad would go hunting with his buddies from the precinct.”
“Your dad was a cop?”
“Oh yeah, he and his buddies used to always say they bled blue,” he continues. “He wasn’t always scary; in fact, sometimes he actually was a good guy. He taught me to ride a bike, took me fishing, he’d bring home flowers for my mom, but all of that was usually as a way to say he was sorry.”
I can feel my jaw clench. I know where this is going, and it twists my stomach into knots. I was given parents who cherished me; the idea of them hurting me is unimaginable.
“Dad liked to drink, and after one or two he was actually kind of fun, but he wasn’t the type to stop at one or two. No, he had to keep going until he transformed into one of the meanest son of a bitch drunks I’ve ever met.” Dean falls quiet, staring into a void only he can see.
The quiet is so painful, I have to break it, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“That’s life, right?” He laughs uncomfortably. “Bad shit happens, you deal with it, and move on.”
“So did you and your mom leave?”
“We tried,” Dean continues. “There was a party, a cookout at one of the neighbors’ houses, the night before. It was one of the guys on the force—Mom called him Teddy. He was friends with dad, but things always got weird when Mom was around. I never understood why until after it all happened.”
His eyes shift around the parking lot, then back at me, as if he expects someone to be watching. “She loved Dad. His paranoia was just that; she swears they weren’t messing around, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Who?”
“My mom. Dad thought she was sleeping with Teddy. Jesus, the guy was married too. They dated in high school, but that’s all it was. That night, he had too much to drink and practically dragged my mom home by her hair. Teddy offered to have me stay the night with his kids, which I’m sure he was just trying to be nice and save me the hell he knew we were in for, but that only pissed Dad off more.”
Deans sucks in a nervous breath, and I can tell he’s struggling with the memories. I know I need to hear this so I can be there for him, but I hate putting him through it again.
“He only ever hit Mom … that was his pattern—until that night. When we got home I begged him to leave her alone. He backhanded me so hard I went flying across the room, shattering a living room lamp. I don’t remember too much more from Friday. Most of it’s from the day—” His voice cracks.
“Baby, you can finish telling me later,” I offer, wanting his pain to stop.
“No, you’re right; you need to know,” he insists, th
en continues. “I was watching Saturday morning cartoons when she came out with the bags. She told me we were going on an adventure. I think I knew because I asked about Dad. She told me he’d have to join us later. On hunting days, Dad was always gone until late in the afternoon. Always. He forgot his back-up rod and decided to come back for it. Maybe he was suspicious; maybe he thought Mom was planning something. Who knows? Mom was getting me in the car when he pulled up. Most of the argument happened out of earshot. He dragged her in the house, kicking and screaming. I just froze. I always went to protect her, but after the night before I was terrified.”
“That’s understandable,” I offer in a soft tone. He looks at me, and his eyes make my heart ache.
“The next thing I heard was a shot,” Dean says almost coolly, as if he’s separated all emotion from the event.
“What happened?” I gasp.
“Mom staggered out of the house; her hair was a mess, there were red marks all around her neck, and her lip was bleeding. The gun fell from her fingers onto our perfectly manicured lawn. And that was it. She’d killed him.”
“Your mom shot your dad?”
“Yup, and she got twenty-five to life for it,” he answers solemnly.
I shake my head wildly. “No, that’s impossible. She can’t. It was self-defense.”
“You’d think so, right?” Dean scoffs.
“I don’t understand.”
“I told you—he and his buddies all looked out for each other. She shot him in the back, so they said there was no way it could be self-defense. She claims he was going for his service weapon, but she had already hidden his back-up piece in her sweater pocket. She says she shot him in the back to stop him from reaching for his gun. The prosecutor claims having the other gun on her body meant it was premeditated, and shooting him in the back only proved he was running away. They said she was in no immediate danger.”
“No jury would convict.”
“Oh, by the end of it they had made her out to be a whore, an unfit mother, and a cold-blooded killer. I went to live with Grandma, and we visited at first, but then it was too hard on Grams.”
“I don’t know what to say, but this is possibly the most terrible thing I’ve heard in my entire life.”
“So do you think I’m totally fucked up now?”
“What?” I’m back on my knees, pulling his hand close to my chest. I lift a hand up to his cheek, touching it softly with my palm. I wonder how someone so amazing could have been born of such a violent past. “Baby, if anything, I love you more.”
“You love me,” he says quietly.
“I—You—I mean … you know what I mean, I like you a lot,” I stammer. “You’re so amazing. To find out what you’ve been through, it just...”
He leans forward, stealing away my words as his lips press firmly against mine. It isn’t like any other kiss we’ve shared. There’s a pain behind the tenderness. A vulnerability that shows we have no more secrets, no skeletons, and we still accept each other for who we are.
We break from each other for a moment. He’s looking into my eyes, and I into his, and I can see a smile tickling at the corner of his lips. “I like you, too, Macaroon.”
I laugh. This man drives me crazy, and it’s clear he loves it.
I’m standing off to the side, a black floor under my feet, black curtains to my left and right, the band directly in front of me. My eyes are locked on Dean, but he doesn’t notice me. He’s instructing the person in the sound booth to adjust the settings.
Looking at him, one would never know the tragedy he emerged from. I can’t even believe that he could be so tender and loving. For a child to experience what Dean had to go through must have been an unimaginable torture. Yet there he is confident and sexy. No monster lurking, waiting to burst from him. I can see the tenderness in him when I look in his eyes.
“All right, I think we’re good,” Dean shouts to the faceless man off stage. Suddenly there is the sound drumsticks clanging together, the hum of guitar strings as they are shifted, and the pop of an amp shutting off.
I sigh then walk out on stage to make my announcement. “Hey guys, food’s ready.”
They waste no time. A clatter fills the space around me as the three men exit to the left and right of me, in the direction of the green room. Dean is the only one not rushing off. He’s standing, looking at me. The spotlight is still on him. The other guys are gone before he moves toward me.
I’m frozen, as if his eyes have somehow locked me into my exact position. He’s walking closer. I don’t look away, and neither does he. He closes the space between us until he is gripping my upper arms and pressing his lips against my forehead. “Hi beautiful,” he says in a near whisper. My stomach flutters.
He gently nudges my arm and turns me in the direction the guys went. We walk toward the stairs, but then he suddenly stops and looks over his shoulder. I’m watching him, wondering what is going through that gorgeous head of his.
When he reaches out a hand in my direction, I instinctively grab it and he pulls me to the side, weaving between the curtains until we are against the back concrete wall of the building. I’m breathing heavy. My heart is pounding. And I can barely make out the features of his face in the darkness.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I wanted to be alone with you,” he answers. I can feel his breath on my cheek and the heat coming off his body. I swallow hard, no idea what to expect next.
“How was practice?” I ask, trying to mask my nerves.
“Fine, but that’s not really what I want to talk about,” he nearly growls as he speaks the words.
“What do you want to talk about?” I’m now practically shaking.
His lips graze my cheek and settle on my ear. “Well, to be honest, I don’t really want to talk. I’d much rather be doing other things.”
From the hard bulge pressing against my leg, I know exactly what he would rather be doing. I don’t resist when his hand slides up my waist.
“Oh yeah,” I taunt. “And what exactly did you have in mind?”
His lips touch my neck at the point just below my ear. He pulls away a little. “I think you know.”
I do know. I’ve been thinking about it since we got together. I press my back against the cool wall to try and steady myself, my legs growing weak. He doesn’t allow the distance between us to grow and quickly closes the gap.
“Umm...” I begin. “Let me see if I can guess. You want to go see a movie with me?”
He leans in, his lips delivering a soft and wet kiss. Pulling away, he whispers, “No, guess again.”
I swallow and wonder if it was as loud as it was in my head. “You were hoping we could play a board game?” I squeak out.
A hand slides around my body, settling on the small of my back as another kiss is delivered, but this time a little lower down my neck. “No, not a board game.” His lips are so close to my flesh I can actually feel him grinning.
“Hmm,” I moan. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what else there is.”
“Let me show you.” He sighs, bringing his lips up to meet mine.
He parts them without resistance from me. His tongue explores the inside, entwining and dancing with my own tongue. Even though we are shrouded in darkness, I close my eyes, but I can see little pops of color on the back of my eyelids as he kisses me. God, he smells good.
This gorgeous guy is kissing you. You are being kissed by him. He wants you. Jesus, this feels good. How is his tongue so soft and smooth when it moves? Travis was not a great kisser; it always felt like a hard, wet probe repeatedly sticking itself in my mouth. Jesus! What’s wrong with you? Quit thinking about your dead husband.
Our lips part only long enough for me to catch my breath, then Dean is right back in there. I love that he has taken the lead. I’m not sure I could have done this. I couldn’t have been so bold to simply take something I want.
You know you’re a terrible person. You are making out with your boyf
riend while thinking about what a terrible kisser Travis was. Who does that? That really isn’t fair; Travis made up for his lack of anything orally pleasing with his—Stop it! You’re doing it again.
Dean pulls away. “Are you okay?”
I nod frantically. “Of course, I’m great. Why would you ask that?”
My eyes have started to adjust to the darkness. I can see him pressing his lips together in concern. He sighs and takes a very small step back, still holding my waist. “You seem distracted.”
Do I lie? Do I tell him what I am really feeling? Will it terrify him? Tell him.
I shake my head. “I’m nervous,” I admit.
I can see his mouth form into a grin. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises.
He doesn’t return to kissing me, but I can feel his eyes on me. What is he looking for?
“What’s wrong?” I ask, afraid I’ve ruined the moment.
“Nothing,” he starts, before adding, “I’m just getting the vibe you’re not ready.”
“I’m totally ready!” I exclaim. “See, this is me, totally ready.” I press out my lips in an exaggerated attempt to kiss him.
“I tell you what … how about we go grab a bite to eat?”
“What?” I gasp. “No way, we were totally going to public sex this up.”
Dean laughs. “Wow, that sounds so romantic when you put it that way.”
“I’m serious. I want to make sure you understand how much I want you.” I’m squeezing his arms.
His hand reaches around and grips the back of my head, his fingers entangling with my hair. Tilting my head back, he moves in for another kiss. This one is slow and soft. One, two, three motions, and then he pulls away, his lips pressing against my cheek.
“Let’s take it slow,” he says at last.
My face is hot in an instant. “Did you just use the ‘go slow’ line on me?”
“Whoa, baby, calm down. It’s not like that.”
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” I question, my voice squeaking.
He takes my hand and presses it against his hard and bulging cock. “What do you think?”