Rev

by Chloe Plume

  He was big. His arms tensed with muscle as he lowered Ace to the ground. The muscles in his shoulders separated and shifted visibly as he stood up to full height.

  “FUCK YOU!” Ace yelled as best he could, his voice muffled by his immobilized jaw. He stood up and ran past the man who’d beaten him to a pulp. He headed to his car, cradling his jaw, and then turned one last time to shout “Wait till Roman hears about this, Dean—You’re both dead!” He jumped in the car, turned the ignition and backed out to the main road, hitting the gas so hard he spun his tires all the way out.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning to the statue of a man standing quietly in front of me.

  “Dean,” he said, extending his large hand. “Dean Hunter.”

  I put my small hand in his and, after what I’d seen, almost expected him to crush it by mistake. His huge hands and arms were still veiny from exertion, the blood pumping through all those muscles. Surprisingly, his grip, while firm, was equally gentle.

  “Saylor Larson.”

  “Right.”

  I could tell he was a man of few words. “Listen, I just wanted to say thank you. I mean, he would have stopped before…well, he always stops—”

  “It shouldn’t be like that,” Dean interrupted. “You shouldn’t have to wait for him to stop, because it shouldn’t start.”

  I looked down. He was right. “Yeah. I know.”

  Dean adjusted his tank top, and I couldn’t help but follow his motions, watching the muscle ripple under the dark tattoos. The one on his chest looked like a military motto, and there was an eagle tattoo running down the side of his neck and an anchor on his left forearm.

  “So, what’s next,” he said. His voice was like the crashing of the waves at the ocean, deep and powerful but calm and soothing.

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked directly at me with an expression I couldn’t read. His angular, closed-off face was intimidating and mysterious. Before speaking, he took his time, thinking things over in the quiet.

  “Well, you’re definitely not going home.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.”

  “Go to your stepfather’s place.”

  “I can’t.” I thought for a second, putting things together. “So, you work for him?”

  “Yeah, I have the misfortune of working with Ace. I run security. Probably won’t be going in to work tomorrow though, given the circumstances.” He motioned towards the far corner of the warehouse, where he’d left his bag on the ground. I followed him as he walked down to retrieve it. “So, why can’t you go stay with Roman. I’m sure he’d want you there.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to start sharing every bit of my personal life with this stranger. “Listen, I just can’t.”

  Dean shrugged. “Anyone else? Anywhere else I can take you.”

  Something in his presence and the way he spoke made me feel I could trust him. And, given he worked security for my stepfather, I was sure he would get me somewhere safe.

  “Just a motel room somewhere,” I started, but then remembered that I had basically no money. “I’d have to pay you back though…sorry.”

  Dean swung the duffel bag over his huge, shoulders, which were about the size of cantaloupes. “Yeah, I know you’d be good for it.” He started towards his car, the last one left in the dirt lot. It looked like some old classic, with tire rims made from crisscrossing metal in the shape of a snowflake and the word FORMULA written in bold red across the back, but I didn’t know much about cars. “But listen, why don’t you come stay with me. I don’t want that asshole deciding to track you down.” Dean tossed the bag into the back seat and went around to the passenger side, opening the door for me. “And in the morning, we’ll sort out where you’ll go.”

  Again, I felt I could trust him. He was so different from the other men in my life, like Ace or my stepfather. He was gruff, silent, brooding, and concise. He wasn’t trying to charm me or bull shit me. He was who he was. And I knew if he wanted me safe, I’d be safe. Nothing could stop a man like that. Dean was in a league of his own.

  I followed my instincts. I got in the car.

  We drove for just under half-an-hour, towards the coast. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. The roads were empty since it was past midnight on a Thursday night, so we cruised comfortably with the windows down and the warm night air flowing through the car.

  Finally we pulled up to a small house on the beach. I could tell from the route we’d driven that we were on the ocean side of Oak Island. I’d been in this area before since I volunteered with the maritime conservation groups further down the coast.

  As we exited the car, I looked down the small driveway and out over the water to where the moon was reflected in the sparkling ocean. The ocean was beautiful during the day, but it was even more gorgeous at night. The breeze tossed my hair and the smell of salt and sand mixed in the air. I was in heaven.

  Dean, for his part, didn’t seem to care. Maybe he took it for granted. He opened the door and walked inside without so much as a word. I surveyed the simple grey exterior of the little square house—cottage was more like it—and smiled. It was so much more welcoming than the sprawling modernist monstrosity that Ace had built for himself up near Wilmington. The place I’d lived the past two years stuck out like a sore thumb and looked hostile at best.

  This cottage was like a little escape nestled right into the grassy dunes. It hardly matched the owner though, that’s for sure. I found it hard to think of Dean—disciplined, brusque, and harsh—as anything close to a beach bum.

  As I went inside, I heard the water running and realized he’d just gone straight to the shower. He’d casually left the door ajar, and part of me wanted to go and sneak a peek. I mean, it wasn’t everyday you came across a guy like that… I was curious.

  But my sense of decorum overcame my often times unbridled curiosity, and I took a seat on the couch instead. It was a plain looking couch in a sparse looking apartment. The furniture was minimal and—not at all surprising—Dean wasn’t one to decorate. In a way it was nice though. The walls of the cottage were wooden, from a time when things were built with character. The place had an old-timey nautical feel. I loved it.

  Dean got out of the shower, with a towel wrapped loosely around his chiseled waist.

  Wow.

  I gulped rather audibly, catching my breath. He didn’t have any fat on his torso, whatsoever. The plunging V-cut of his abdomen cast deep shadows over that concave part above his hips that I wanted so badly to touch. His skin, with a light dusting of hair across the pecs and down the middle of the abs, stretched tight over the swells and ripples of his torso.

  But he was huge. Huge like he was hewn out of marble with a presence and bearing you had to admire. His shoulders popped with muscle and he turned sideways to fit through the bathroom door. He ran a hand through his wet, inky dark hair, and walked past me to the fridge.

  “You want something to eat, drink?”

  “Just water,” I replied, secretly wishing his towel would slip down further.

  Dean threw me a bottle of water and grabbed a beer for himself. He popped off the cap over the side of the counter with a tap of his fist, and walked back over past me and into another room.

  “I’m going to go change and clean up the room for you. I’ll take the couch.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as he closed the door behind him.

  I waited five minutes. Curiosity got the better of me. The house was small, so I wandered through the kitchen into a small dining room with a basic wooden table and chairs with backs made of oars. It was cute and made me smile. It was a detail so unlike Dean, it seemed like it had to be someone else’s house.

  The dining room led out to a small balcony. I unlocked the sliding door, and stepped out onto rickety wooden boards that made loud noises with each and every step. The view was gorgeous. It looked and felt like I was standing right on top of the ocean. And the old, gritty character of the cottage made it that much more spe
cial, like I was taking off to sea in ye olden days, about to sail off into vast, powerful, and uncharted waters.

  “There you are.”

  I snapped my head back over my shoulder to see Dean standing in the doorway. He’d put on some jeans and traded his white tank top for the exact same thing in black. And he looked just as good, if not better. He seemed a bit more relaxed, like the rage and rush from the fight before had finally receded.

  “Bed’s ready.”

  I followed him back through the dining room and kitchen, into the bedroom. A simple bed with dark navy sheets split the room in half. On one side was a wooden desk and chair. On the other side was a closet overflowed with clothes and odds-and-ends that Dean had clearly thrown in there during his hasty cleanup.

  “Let me just grab this,” he said, picking up a tattered old cardboard box. “No more room in the closet.”

  He picked up the box and walked towards the door, but suddenly staggered and clutched his left shin with his left hand, clearly in pain. The box dropped to the floor and the contents spilled out. He immediately began to throw them back in, hurriedly, as if he was embarrassed.

  “Fucking leg. That guy got me with the kick. Always acts up after a solid block.”

  I stooped down to help him. “What is all this?” I asked, lifting what looked like a medal to my eyes for closer inspection. It was gold with an eagle like the one tattooed on Dean’s neck. There were about a dozen of them on the ground and in the box, some shaped like crosses and more with eagles. I reached for a sheet of paper that had ended up all the way back towards the bed.

  “Dean, what is this?” I asked, reading over a list of medals under the heading “Second Tour: 2009-2013.”

  He grabbed the paper and scooped up the remaining medals. “Nothing! None of your business!”

  “I don’t get it,” I began. “Anyone else I know would have those up on some plaques all over the walls.”

  Dean rushed out of the room and pushed the box into some cabinet in the kitchen. I saw him grab a bottle out of his bag by the door and take a long swig. Finally, he came back towards the bedroom and stared at me with those dark, impenetrable eyes.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Dean—”

  “Goodnight,” he snapped, cutting me off. “In the morning, we’ll figure out where you’re going.”

  “Alright, but—”

  “Get some sleep,” he said abruptly, taking another swig of the dark brown liquid before he turned and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 5

  Ten Years Ago…

  It was about 100 degrees and I was sweating like a fat man at a buffet. Fayetteville was like that in the summer. The good news was that I got my old job back at the end of the school year. So I was on break, sprawled out in the sun with a good book, looking forward to taking a quick dip in the pool to cool off.

  Being a lifeguard was a great gig when you were about to turn 18 and go to college. I mean, fuck, this summer had been one wild party after another. And next year, I guess I’d be heading to Wake Forest, with all the rich kids and their well-funded keggers.

  Life could be worse.

  Well, in truth, the loan forms were sitting unsigned on my desk back home. I had reservations, even if everyone told me I was crazy for so much as thinking twice about an opportunity like that. It was a chance to rise above the shithole life my dad had given my mom and me—at least until she’d passed away five years ago. He was miserable, his life was miserable, and almost everyone I knew in Fayetteville was miserable.

  Now, the well off people up in The Triangle—shit, that’s where it was at. What the fuck did they have to worry about? Remodeling the kitchen in their vacation home or some shit? Sounded good to me. I’d buckle down at Wake Forest and figure my life out. I’d be playing golf or some crap in no time.

  Still, something felt wrong. I dismissed it as jitters and nervousness. It was par for the course that the son of a retired trucker would feel a little apprehensive about studying with the sons and daughters of the 1% in the suburbs of Charlotte and all. I mean, fuck me, there were towns out there where half the people made $150,000 or more a year!

  But it might be something else, something deeper.

  I had to admit: it felt wrong somehow. Was I really that shallow? Was that all I really wanted out of my life? I’d spend my life kissing the asses of my so-called betters so I could hit the greens with them someday; so I could move out to a pretentious place with an even more pretentious name; so I could buy a lot of crap I didn’t need and keep track of my life in terms of dollars earned and dollars spent.

  Better than sitting around with the fan pointed at your balls, watching daytime television reruns.

  That’s what my dad did.

  “Hey Dean, you gonna stop tanning your abs and actually do some work?!” Ryan’s commanding voice cut through the heavy, humid air. “Those girls over there just went into the middle section. Someone goes over to that section, your ass is standing at attention over there, eyes like a hawk, you got it!”

  “Sir yes sir,” I replied, jolting to attention. Ryan was starting training over at Fort Bragg after the summer when he turned 18. Joke was he’d make sergeant in no time.

  “And what are you reading over there anyway,” Ryan asked as I passed by the head lifeguard’s desk to grab a rescue buoy.

  “Les Misérables.”

  “What the hell? You reading that for fun? Why?” Ryan scrunched his face, utterly baffled.

  “So I can think about bigger things,” I mumbled. “Things that are way bigger than this place.”

  “What’s wrong with this place?” Ryan asked.

  I looked out over the pool and watched as one of the two girls plopped into the water. Her beautifully rounded ass and breasts tensed against the thin material of her bikini.

  Not so shabby…

  “You know what, Ryan,” I acknowledged, making my way over to the edge of the pool, “you make a good point.”

  One of the girls, a tasty looking brunette with big, brown eyes, invited me to a party later that evening. I was home to change and get my things. My dad was in front of the television in his underwear, scraping up the last bits of his microwaved dinner, so I quietly rushed upstairs to avoid him.

  I stacked my copy of Les Misérables on top of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—my reading was always eclectic, but I was fascinated by the way several common themes played across all of it. Then I took a shower. A long one. Maybe too long, because I was interrupted by the unmistakable clamor of my dad throwing my room into disarray.

  I should have hurried. When I exited, towel around my waist, he was standing over my backpack. I’d just cashed my check earlier that day, and he was helping himself to the contents of my wallet.

  “What the hell!” I shouted.

  “It’s my god damned right, boy!” he spat back, still in his underwear, the unmistakable smell of cheap liquor wafting across the room with every labored breath he took.

  “The hell it is!”

  “This is my house and you live in it. You’ll pay your fair share or you’ll get the fuck out!”

  “I’ll be out of here soon enough,” I said, grabbing the cash from his clutches and throwing a threatening look his way.

  “Oh, look at you!” my dad taunted. “Big guy, going to a fancy school… What are you going to beat up an old man?”

  I almost did. Angrily, I shot back, “You mean like you used to beat up mom?” I immediately regretted it.

  My dad’s eyes glazed over with rage. “You piece of shit. Get the fuck out of here. Your mom and me never wanted you. You’re what tore us apart.”

  “Yeah, right.” I stepped into the bathroom to pull on my underwear and jeans.

  He screamed outside the door. “I was going to kick you out on your 18th birthday anyway. What’s another two weeks?!”

  I stepped out past where he was standing at the door and grabbed my t-shirt and backpack from the bed. “You know what dad,
fuck you.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “I’m leaving. I’m packing some things and I’m not coming back.”

  He smirked. “And where the hell are you going, just out of curiosity?”

  “Fort Bragg.”

  My dad laughed mockingly. “You were always so damn stupid. The only good thing that ever happened to you, and you’re just going to throw that away?”

  “I want to get as far away as I can, from you and everyone in this life.”

  He staggered back out of the room, his legs heavy with thrombosis brought on by a diseased and dying liver. “You know, it says on TV that the Army, Navy, even the National Guard for Christ’s sake, they’re all missing recruiting targets. Everyone’s catching on. They’re just shipping boys out to that unholy desert.”

  “I’m counting on it.” I packed my duffel bag, shoving in random articles of clothing—I didn’t even care. I’d made up my mind.

  I rushed out of the house and past that beautiful silver ’79 Pontiac Firebird that my dad kept hidden under a tarp and never drove. When I was a little kid, I’d secretly hoped we’d spend time together on that car; that he’d teach me how to maintain it, fix it, and drive it; and that one day it would be mine. Now that beautiful Formula 400 WS6 was sitting there collecting dust, the last of a now extinct breed of large displacement engines before ever-increasing emissions restrictions forced Pontiac to drop the displacement on all their V8’s.

  I strapped my duffel and pack to the back of my bike—an old Honda Rebel I’d bought from a friend. Then, I took one last look at that car. It was like everything my dad could have been but never was, and I was done waiting. I was done being the little kid waiting quietly with my head in the books while my parents argued and fought. I was done being the son who walked the five miles to the gym and back when my dad and I argued and he kicked me out, blaming me for my mom’s illness. And most of all, I was done waiting for my life to start, anticipating another four years of bullshit.