The Fiction of Forever (A Stand By Me Novel Book 2)

by Brinda Berry

  I am in so much trouble.

  * * *

  At seven, I pull into the driveway of Gunner’s cabin.

  He’s standing on his front porch as if waiting for me, shirtless and wearing jeans that hang far too low on his trim waist. I gulp and point the air conditioning vents toward me for a second.

  He saunters over to my door and waits for me to kill the motor.

  My hand shakes as I turn off the ignition. I get out of my vehicle. “Am I late? Early?” In God’s name, is he trying to torture me with his bare chest?

  “Nope. Let’s go inside,” he says and places his hands on his hips, pulling my gaze to the perfect V of muscles disappearing into his jeans.

  Did I imagine a purr in his voice? He’s like a tiger, all dangerous and lethal.

  “You don’t look ready for me. You’re not wearing a shirt.” Did I have to point it out? Of course, he knows this. People don’t accidently forget half their clothes. Do they?

  And can I be here next time he does?

  “You were on time. I didn’t expect that,” he answers casually.

  “If now is a bad time, I can come back tomorrow.”

  He ignores my non-stop chatter and walks toward the door. “Hungry?”

  “What?”

  “I grilled some steaks. I hope you like yours medium well. We can talk about this decorating thing while we eat.”

  “I don’t usually eat dinner.”

  He stops and I run into the back of him. My hands automatically grab his waist to steady myself. My fingers tighten on the muscles of his waist, a place I’ve never really considered to have muscles.

  My knees weaken at the sheer jolt of energy that surges from my fingertips all the way to my toes. If I fell on him accidentally, I’d probably electrocute myself.

  “Why?” he asks. He gives a puzzled look over his shoulder.

  I concentrate on whatever he’s saying about dinner. “I watch my weight and it’s something I’ve always done. Dad was never home at night and it seemed silly to eat by myself.”

  “You’re perfect, so that’s a bunch of nonsense about your weight.”

  “I won’t be this size if I eat meals all the time.”

  He frowns. “I don’t get women. Eat good food. Work off some calories. That’s what I do.”

  I huff at his dismissal of my concerns. “I’m in television, looking ten pounds heavier than real life. People judge. If I gain a couple of pounds, the tabloids say I’m pregnant.”

  He shakes his head while opening the door for me. “You shouldn’t care what people think.”

  We go inside and there’s a bouquet of sunflowers in a vase on the table. “Who did that?”

  “Me.”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “You.”

  Me? This is more than a meeting to discuss plaid pillows for his sofa or a new painting for the wall. This is something more. “Gunner…I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m your Matchmaker on the show. We can’t…” I wave a hand between us. “You know.” One corner of my mouth lifts in a sad smile.

  He looks away from my gaze and pulls out a chair at his kitchen table. “It’s not a big deal. You made dinner for me once. Remember?”

  I grimace and cover my face with my hands. When I let them drop, he’s smiling at me—a beautiful show of straight white teeth.

  “Oh, come on. That was not a meal. That was a sandwich,” I say, mortified that he’s teasing me.

  “If you think I care what it was, then you’re wrong. It’s been a long time since any woman fixed something for me. It was nice. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I stand, because I’m too nervous now to sit quietly as this guy does a number on all my expectations of him. The heavy sunflowers droop over in a glorious riot of yellow and brown. He must’ve clipped them from the massive group I noticed the first time I visited.

  While he’s gone, I glance around at the cabin. The last time I visited, only one lamp lit the end of the large room with the sofa. I hadn’t paid much attention to the side of the room with a small kitchen. There isn’t any decoration, but it’s tidy.

  A large pink cookie jar, a pig with a curly tail, is the only thing on the counter. It’s not French country décor, but more a cartoon pig. For some reason, this makes me smile. Manly guy needs his cookies.

  I should make certain the pig jar stays.

  His soft footsteps signal his return. “There,” he says. “I know it bothered you that I wasn’t fully dressed.”

  “Much better.” Not really. He wears a pressed white button-down, but the same jeans as earlier.

  He pulls out my chair. “Here you go. Let’s eat.” I sit and twist around to watch him while he walks from the oven to the counter.

  “Can we talk while we eat?” I get a notebook and pen from my bag. “I want to ask you some personal questions. Turn-ons. Turn-offs. Those kind of things.”

  “Shouldn’t the women I date ask me these things?”

  “No. We have to find women whose personalities mesh with yours from the beginning. The TV season goes quickly, but filming is even a shorter time span. A friend of mine wrote a computer program for matching people for compatibility. We’ll build your profile. Then put it up against the profiles of the women in the dates. I’m also going to score your interactions with them.”

  “OK, go ahead. What do you want to know?” In seconds, he’s placed a steak and baked potato on a plate before me.

  “Describe your perfect girl.”

  “Tall, but not taller than I am.”

  “Got it.” I jot down ‘tall’ and frown. He must be six-two. That rules out no one as far as possible dates go. It figures he’d start with physical characteristics instead of personality.

  Men.

  He cuts his steak and points at mine. “I’ll answer if you’ll eat.”

  I decide it’s a fair trade and begin eating my meal. “Mmm mm mm m…,” I mumble, not caring how unladylike I sound. “This is so good. I would never have guessed you could cook.”

  One corner of his mouth quirks up, but he looks away as if suddenly shy. My stomach flips pleasantly.

  “I might surprise you about a lot of things.”

  I flip the page of my notebook and jot down ‘likes to cook.’

  “What are you writing?” He leans across and the corners of his mouth dip. “Are you going to make notes of everything I say?”

  “No.” I put my pen down. “Sorry.”

  “Can’t we talk instead of this feeling like an interrogation?”

  I nod and take another bite of steak. “Tell me about your favorite place for a date.”

  He studies my face and looks mischievous. Pointing with his fork, he indicates the sofa. “I like to be at home.”

  My stomach drops as I remember sitting on it with him the other night. “All your dates can’t be here. And don’t you think that’s going to give a girl the wrong impression?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to wine and dine her. Take her to fun places. Be romantic.”

  “Like dancing.”

  I remember the way we danced on his back deck. His hand in mine, a hand lingering on my back. The way he smelled like man and woods and life. The twinkle in his eyes when he twirled me unexpectedly and I returned to his arms, closer than before.

  That night was the most romantic thing I’ve done in my life. I sigh.

  “Not dancing?” he asks, clearly confused by what he considered a correct answer.

  “Yes, like dancing.” I’m not happy to concede. I don’t want to imagine someone else dancing with Gunner.

  “I also like outdoor activities.”

  “Examples?”

  “Hiking, fishing, camping.”

  I nod. “I’m sure I can find a woman who likes doing things outside.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you like fishing and camping?”

  “I’ve never d
one either one. So I don’t know.”

  “That’s a shame. You should try it once so you’ll know.”

  “Hm…” I grab my pen and write ‘outdoor activities.’ Then I remember I said I wouldn’t take notes during the meal. I put the pen down.

  “I could take you so you’d know the kind of things I would do with a date. It could be research for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” My pulse ratchets and my palms grow damp. Camping? A tent? Alone with Gunner in the woods?

  “How will you know what I’m looking for if you don’t understand it? Me, you and camping. It’s a good plan.”

  “Not a good plan. Gunner, I’m not going on some backwoods trip with you.”

  “Why not?” he asks, his tone dripping innocence.

  “Oh, come on. Are you flirting with me? This is serious. I’m going to find the woman you’ll marry.”

  “You can try.” One corner of his mouth tips. “But you know I’m going home with that cash prize.”

  I grab the napkin from my lap and place it on my plate. “There’s no doubt about it. I’ll find the right woman for you.” I get to my feet and he stands with me. I’m all business now. Enough of the shirtless, T-bone steak tango. I’m done here. “We start filming next week. We want to do some speed dating so we can narrow down the field.”

  “Fast dates. OK. I bet I can cull the herd.”

  Herd? “It’s best if you refrain from referring to women as cattle.” I shake my head and grab my portfolio I’d brought. I’m too shaken up to stay here alone with him and go over the transformation of his man cave.

  “Sorry if this gig is going to be tougher than you thought. Why else would I sign up? Friends?” He holds out his hand like we’re going to shake on it.

  I tilt my head and smile. “Oh, it won’t be easy. But know this. The bigger the ass, the harder they fall.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rescue

  Six Years Ago

  Gunner

  Grandpa doesn’t tolerate what he calls nonsense. Video games and television qualify, so he tells me to store my console in the closet.

  He wakes early and takes me with him to feed his horses. It’s not a hard job for me, but he’s old. Veronica cooks breakfast before we both go to school. Even though Grandpa complains that she’s making him fat, he eats everything on his plate. After we eat, he lets me drive his old farm truck to school and he goes to the convenience store he owns called Gimme Gas, the world’s stupidest name for a business.

  On the fourteenth day of living with Grandpa, Jerry and Jodie show up at the door.

  Thirteen days without so much as a phone call.

  Both Dad and Jodie stand on the front porch. “I need my girl back,” Jodie says as if I don’t exist. “She needs to get her things. Gunner can stay with you.”

  I never expected her to treat me like a son, but I’m still surprised that they only came for Veronica. It shouldn’t be a shock.

  Veronica doesn’t argue. She walks into the bedroom and picks up the bag she brought. She’s ready so fast I wonder if she even unpacked it.

  A knife twists in my gut to see her go. I’ve gotten used to her presence in the house. She’s been talking to me, even if I rarely answer.

  I look at Grandpa’s face, wondering if he feels the same way I do.

  “Why can’t she stay with us?” The words spill from me. I don’t know what makes me say it.

  “Because I need her. She’s my daughter. She has no business here.” Jodie walks across the threshold of the house and grabs Veronica’s bag.

  Veronica holds onto it. But her mom is stronger and certainly more determined, if the rigid unsmiling set of her mouth is anything to go by.

  When the car leaves the driveway, I go to my room without a word. Grandpa knocks on the closed door. He opens it without waiting for me to ask him inside. “You’re lucky they didn’t take you.”

  There’s a knot in my throat that pisses me off. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “She’ll be OK.”

  I lie on my bed, lift my body on one elbow, and shake my head. “Why do you care?” The knot is too big.

  He pulls the door closed with a hard thump.

  Five days pass without any words between us. On the sixth day, the phone rings, an alien noise in the house. It’s seven o’clock. Grandpa turns down the volume on the television and answers it with his gruff voice. Maybe it’s a telemarketer. They’ll be sorry they picked Grandpa’s number.

  I strain to hear his side of the conversation, because I’m so curious. He never talks on the phone.

  “Yes,” he says. Pause. “Stay put. Veronica? Lock yourself in the bathroom.” He shuffles around in the kitchen. “Gunner, I’ll be back,” he yells.

  “Wait.” I jump from my bed and scramble to stop him before he leaves. “Where are you going?”

  He stands with his hands on his hips. “You always eavesdrop?”

  “Yeah. Here I do.”

  “I’m going to your dad’s.”

  “What’s happened?” I run back to my bedroom and grab my tennis shoes.

  Grandpa gives me a steely look. A look meant to freeze the ballsiest man. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Why not?” I tug one shoe on and then the other.

  “Because I said so.”

  “That’s a reason to give a kid.” I walk outside to the truck and hop in.

  He slides into the driver’s side. “You’re as stubborn as your dad.”

  “I’m nothing like my dad.”

  “Small miracles happen.”

  The drive across town tortures me with a constant replay of the one-sided conversation I heard.

  When we pull into the apartment parking lot, he turns to me. “Stay in the truck. I’ll be back in a minute.” He studies my face. “Don’t test me. There’s going to be enough trouble in there without you getting into the middle of it.”

  He slams the door and runs up the outside stairs to the second floor apartment. He’s pretty spry for an old man, his shock of white hair bouncing with each step.

  The minutes tick like hours as I wait for him to return. I waver on whether to push my luck on his order.

  I push open the truck door and close it quietly, so I stand beside it. Better. I can breathe now and maybe hear something from the apartment. The closed blinds hide whatever happens inside.

  What’s taking so long and why did Veronica call?

  I’m moving toward the building without conscious thought of how mad Grandpa will be or what it will be like to look my dad in the face after he’s discarded me so easily.

  A loud crash sounds from the apartment. I run up the metal steps and fling open the door. A broken lamp lays in the center the floor. Dad pushes Grandpa against the wall with one hand and then presses a hand against his throat.

  Fuck.

  I don’t even notice where Veronica and her mom might be. I can’t hear the yelling or interpret the words. All I see is the war happening in front of me.

  “Let go!” I bark out the plea, scared and pissed at my dad. Grandpa’s an old man. What the hell.

  I bolt forward and grasp Dad by the shoulders. He whips around with bloodshot, wild eyes.

  “Gun, this is between me and him. Go to your room,” Dad says.

  “I don’t live here. Remember?” I stand glaring at him, our bodies almost touching we’re so close.

  His eyes widen. “You always think you’re so smart. Of course you don’t live here. I can’t stand the sight of you.”

  A hurt slices soul-deep, and I’m surprised. I didn’t think I cared anymore. “What is wrong with you? Have you gone crazy?”

  He’s unshaven and smelly, his hair a whirl of bedhead like I’ve never seen. Then it hits me. This isn’t drunk-Dad. He’s hopped up on something else.

  Something really bad.

  Grandpa moves away from the wall. “Veronica? Come on. We’re leaving.”

  The bedroom door opens and she comes out. She
looks like hell with her tear-stained face. She’s carrying the same bag she’d packed the other time she came to Grandpa’s.

  A movement from the kitchen catches my attention. Jodie stands with a fucking butcher knife in her hand. “You’re not taking my baby.”

  “Go,” Grandpa says to me. “Take Veronica to the truck.” He puts a soothing hand up to Jodie. “We’re leaving with the girl. You don’t want her to be unhappy. She’s scared here. Be a good mother.”

  Jodie leans against the threshold and slides to the floor wailing. “No, no, no, no…” she blubbers.

  I open the apartment door and Veronica stares at her mom, but only for a second. Then she runs for the truck. Her feet pound down the stairs so quickly, I’m afraid she’s going to fall.

  Dad makes a grab for Grandpa again, but I’m faster and more alert than he is. I twirl him around and punch him in the nose.

  He screams like a wild thing and tackles me. His knee rams into my balls and piercing pain shoots through my entire body. Hot blood from his nose drips onto my face.

  And then he’s lifted from me. Grandpa pulls him up and drags him across the floor by one arm.

  “You ever touch Gunner again, and I’ll break both your arms.” Grandpa reaches down to give me a hand.

  I get to my feet and Grandpa looks me over for a second. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer through gritted teeth. We walk out together. I shove my hands into my pockets so they’ll stop shaking.

  Inside the cab of the old truck, Veronica sits in the middle of the bench seat with her face in her hands while she sobs. Each sound thumps against my heart. I’ve never seen anyone look more broken and alone.

  Grandpa peels out of the parking lot as if making a statement. The squealing tires grate on my already frazzled nerves. I glance around for cops.

  “Next time I tell you to stay somewhere, you stay,” he says.

  I sit quietly for several seconds, not knowing what to do about Veronica. Garbled, gulping sounds from deep in her throat make me want to open the windows for fresh air.

  I throw an arm over her shoulders and hug her to me. Stop crying. Please stop because I can’t listen.