by S. E. Hall
*****
I try, and I really mean I try, to go straight home after the game. Sheena, my driver for the evening, wasn’t having any of my introvert tendencies, literally forcing me to leave her car behind in the school parking lot and hoof it across the street to the diner. The noise inside’s deafening. The small building has to be pushing max capacity. Damn near everyone came to congratulate the boys. Hell, even parents are at the counter putting money down on the player’s tab.
“Doesn’t look like there’s any tables, dude. We should head home, it’s getting kind of late,” I try again to reason with Sheena and get out of here, but still, no such luck. Looks like the universe finally got its shit together. All’s right in the world.
“Nobody has a table, Charlie. It’s a free for all. Hang out, meet new people, have a little fun.” The jukebox plays a Top 40 hit you can barely hear, unless you’re Sheena, who starts wiggling around while searching for her other friends. And her latest love interest—Jansen Avery.
“I know all these people. So do you. We’ve known them since we were five. They’re not new to us.” Am I supposed to get chummy with the staff? Coaches? My phone?
“Oh, okay. Try this one on then. Pick out five people, other than me, who you know but haven’t talked to in a while. And by a while, I mean more than asked for a pencil during class or did a skit with in fourth grade. Like someone you haven’t hung out with since Freshman year. Just loosen up, Charlie. And go …” She hardly finishes her sentence and she’s off chatting with a group of kids across the room.
I glance around the small, crowded area and for the life of me, I can’t pick out anyone I really, truly know. Sure, I’ve got their names down pat, but that’s about it. If I didn’t think Sheena would interrogate me later—since she knows everything about everyone—I’d just make up a conversation. I can’t handle the Rowan thing, the Sheena catching me in a lie thing, and the all-knowing Oz calling me out for having a Rowan thing to begin with all in one night.
“Can I get a pop please?” I ask the middle aged woman behind the counter.
“Sure. A buck fifty,” she responds while adding ice and cola to the glass. I hand her the change in my pocket from the concession stand and exchange it for my drink.
As I reluctantly stand here, every so often glancing every which way, hopelessly seeking someone—anyone—to talk to, feeling more foolish than cool, and wait for something exciting to happen. I eavesdrop into other’s conversations while Sheena flits around the room like the social butterfly she is. It’s easier for some of us, what can I say. My bedroom and a book, or maybe some summer assignments sound more fun than this… The older I get the more internal I become. Usually, I don’t mind, but tonight, I wish I had the confidence of Sheena instead of my social ackwardness.
A few guys to my right are talking about the great plays during the game, fully animated with high fives and chest bumps. The girls who sit next to them are discussing how cute they are—probably their boyfriends. The woman behind the counter continues to take orders. When Jansen walks through the front door, Sheena wastes no time cozying up to his side like they’ve been dating for years, when in all actuality, they only started “talking”. I’m not sure if Jansen’s ever had a girlfriend. I bet if you ask the girls, they’ll say they dated him, but Jansen has a totally different end game, as noted by the endless trail of broken hearts.
I hate that term, by the way. Talking. You’re either just hanging out as friends or you’re dating. To me, talking means something more along the lines of “we can sleep together every once in a while, but I don’t really want to have a serious relationship” and it makes me angry for Sheena, but she’s not stupid by any means. She knows what she’s getting into. With long, gorgeous blonde hair and bright blue eyes, she’s the object of many suiter’s affection, but she never pays any one person more time than the other. She claims to be a free spirit, and because she’s my best friend since forever, I know that means she’s a little on the slutty side, but whatever makes her happy, right? Provided she’s careful, which by all accounts and the gory-detailed stories, she is. So, maybe, even though she falls for boys like I brush my teeth, she falls out just as fast, and Jansen may have just met his match. Sheena has a trail of broken hearted suitors just as long.
“Hey,” Rowan sneaks up next to me and whispers in my ear while I’m lost trying to find the deeper meaning to Sheena’s relationship status. What’s with everyone trying to give me a heart attack tonight? Can’t a girl get a warning?
“Hey.” I turn and smile up at Rowan, truly taking in his features. Dark hair with eyes to match, a large frame, but not too large, and the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. “Great game tonight.” I don’t bother bitching about the scare since, well, I’m enjoying looking at him.
“Thanks. Wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow. Welcome surprise.”
“Not that I mind,” I add, doing my best to recover and not sound disappointed with the change of plans. I’d do a lot better if I stopped talking altogether, I bet.
“What was with sending the carrier pigeon … errrr … cougar?”
“I guess when you see a pretty girl watching you play, and you don’t want to wait until the next night to spend time with her, you send in the mascot. What other purpose could he serve?” It’s scary how easy it is with Rowan. One second I’m a ball of nerves, then he hits me with a little humor and I relax.
“You’re adorable, you know that?” I suddenly want to pull my shirt over my head and disappear within it. Adorable? What is he? Five? Alright, maybe if he does all the talking it’ll be easy. I’ll just nod every once and a while. Toss in a laugh here and there too. Reminder to self: apologize to Sheena for making fun of the way she interacts with boys. She’s right… again.
“Ahhhh so you do think I’m attractive. I was wondering,” he chuckles, grabs onto my hand, and begins weaving us through the crowded diner. So, awkward works for him? Put that on the ‘Pro’ list.
Near the back, by the restrooms, a four-top table with only two seats occupied by Jansen and Sheena is where we end. How he was able to know exactly where our friends are without ever taking his eyes off me, I’ll never know.
“Jansen has a table after every game. He knew that I invited you to come, and since you’re his girl’s best friend, we get a table. Hell, from what I can tell about this town, if you wear a jersey and play ball, you get preferential treatment.” He’s not wrong about that. And awesome mind-reading trick.
“She’s not his girl,” I retort defensively, remembering his statement about Sheena.
“Then what is she?” He points at the pair who are locked at the lips and I have zero interest in finding out where their hands are since they’re hidden beneath the table top. “Sure looks like his girl to me.”
“They’re just talking,” I respond, resisting the urge to tell him his quarterback and captain is a whore of epic proportions, and shake my head, disgusted that I used the exact phrase I complained about only moments before.
“Which one’s the slutty one?” he casually asks in a hushed tone, obviously feeling the same way about the “talking” verbiage as I do. “I got my money on Jansen.”
“Right, but also wrong. If I had to guess who wanted this arrangement more, therefore the sluttier one, I’d say Sheena, but if you tell her I said that, I’ll kill you,” I warn, gaining me a sinfully handsome, perfectly straight and white toothed grin.
Rowan pulls out a chair for me—chivalry isn’t dead folks, other men take notes—and takes the one next to me. He opens the menu and shuts it just as fast. “I don’t know why I bother looking, I always get the same thing.” The middle aged woman who took my order earlier strides up to the table for the boys and each order a burger and fries; an obvious fan favorite. And on the house.
“Not very adventurous?” I joke and take a nervous sip of my drink.
“When you find something you like …” He shrugs and fumbles with one of the straws the woman to
ssed on the table. “So, are you talking to anyone?”
“Me? Yeah, that’s a no. One, I’m not much of a talker and two, I’ve got a lot going on. Between school and practice, I don’t have much spare time.”
“I’m not much of a talker either. I’m more of a relationship kind of guy,” he shyly interjects. Okay, give me a single reason to walk away, Rowan. Nobody can be this perfect. Where are the bodies hidden? Secret children? Sixth toe? Something?
“Why do you say it like that? Like you’re embarrassed?” I ask aloud and regret it the moment the words slip from my lips. Filter, Charlie. Filter.
“I’m not embarrassed at all. However, I don’t think my personal business needs to become public, you know? If I’m dating a girl, that’s between us, not half the student body.”
“You’re a rare breed, Rowan Thorne.” I’m kind of shocked how much he intrigues me during only a few short conversations. These are definitely feelings I haven’t felt before. It’s strange, yet welcoming. I like it. And I think more than maybe like him … I really do.
“Not the first time I heard that one, Thompson,” he teases, and I remember what I said to him the day after practice when we were standing at our cars. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and shrug.
“I call ‘em how I see ‘em. What can I say?”
“You look very pretty tonight, Charlotte,” he offers, changing the subject, much to my pleasure—I’m finding it more and more difficult to stay calm and collected. While the ease is still present, I keep waiting for him to ask a simple question like what’s my favorite band and I answer string cheese. The struggle is real.
“Charlie,” I correct and blush at his compliment. “Charlotte’s fine, but my dad really wanted a boy and when I turned up all girl, he gave me a boy nickname. Plus, I’m not really a Charlotte. Not refined enough. Charlie fits me better.” Geeze, ramble much?
“Sorry. You look very pretty tonight, Charlie.”
“Thank you.” I go to lower my head to allow my hair to fall in front of my face to hide my rosy cheeks, but his hand gently touches my chin, forcing our stares to connect and the other pushes the locks back behind my ear.
“Now who seems embarrassed,” he jokes trying to ease my anxiety and it’s making me more anxious, but in a good way. A ‘kiss me now, this is the perfect moment’ way.
“I’m not. I just don’t get compliments very often.”
“You should. Every day.”
“Rare breed,” I repeat.
“Who drove tonight? You or your friend?”
“Sheena.”
“Do you think it would be okay if we got out of here? I’d like to drive you home.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper, enamored by his abnormal charm for a high school football player. He truly is the exception to the rule.
“Hey Sheena,” I tap her on the shoulder, needing her attention so she doesn’t think she lost me when she comes up for air. Her and Jansen glare up at me with annoyance. “I’m gonna take off. You okay here?”
“Sure am, baby cakes. Call me in the morning?”
“Yep. Text me when you get home so I know you made it.”
“I might. I might not,” she adds with a wink and dives back into Jansen, her full attention stolen by the quarterback.
Rowan stands first, reaching his hand out for mine, and together, with our fingers intertwined, we walk out of the diner to his car parked right up front. Again with the chivalry, he opens the door, shutting it only after I’m tucked safely inside. I give him the simple directions to my house which’s only a few minutes from the school.
“Oh, you didn’t get your food,” I mention as we pull out. If we turn around, he’ll still be able to eat.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You’ve gotta be starved. I know after a meet, I can put away a whole cow if I could get my hands on one.” Foot in mouth, yet again. I’m really slaying this charm and class nonsense.
“Seriously. I’ll grab something at home. Right now, I just wanna hang out with you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’s more than okay.”
When we pull up to my house, I expect him to just let me out at the curb, yet he stuns me when he gets out of the car, walks around the front, and opens my door. Extending his hand, I take it, and allow him to help me out of the car. All hands should know how it feels to be wrapped up in Rowan Thorne’s. There’s just something about the way he holds them—like he’s never going to let go.
“I liked spending time with you tonight, Charlie.”
“It was a good time. I guess I’ll see you on Monday.” We reach the front door and I fish my keys out of my bag, prepared to call it a night.
“We have a date tomorrow, or am I mistaken?”
“I didn’t know if you’d want to hang out again, since you invited me to the diner. I just … I don’t know what I thought, but … I’m not making any sense, am I?” I laugh nervously—shocked stupid.
“You’re adorable,” he says, using my words against me. “I invited you tonight because I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. Now that I’m dropping you at the door, I want to see you again. A real date this time, not just the diner with friends.”
“I’d like that.” I blush and try to duck, and again he catches me. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be sorry. Just be ready by seven tomorrow.”
“Alright.”
“Sleep good, Charlie,” he says, letting go of my hand and making his way down the sidewalk to his car, my fingers tingling and missing his touch already. I watch him reach the driver’s side door where he flashes me one of those signature grins, hops inside and drives away, all while I stand on the front porch, keys in hand, smiling like a fool.
And I like it.
Nine Minutes
by Beth Flynn
Prologue
Summer 2000
I’d never attended an execution before. Well, at least not a legal one. My husband sat to my left. A reporter for Rolling Stone was on my right.
The reporter, Leslie Cowan, fidgeted nervously, and I looked over at her. I’m pretty sure this was her first execution of any kind. Rolling Stone had an upcoming issue dedicated to celebrity bikers. They thought it would be interesting to include a real biker story in that issue. The story of a girl who’d been abducted by a motorcycle gang in 1975.
That girl was me.
The remnants of Leslie’s accident three weeks before were still visible. The stitches had been removed from her forehead, but there was a thin red line where the cut had been. Her eyes weren’t quite as raccoonish as before, but it was apparent she’d recently suffered two severe black eyes. The swelling of her nose had almost gone down completely, and she’d been to a dental surgeon to replace her broken teeth.
When we’d first started the interview, she’d told me she wanted me to be completely honest about my experience with the man who was about to be executed. I’d spent the last three months with her and held almost nothing back about my relationship with him. Today was supposed to be the culmination of the interview, a chance for her to truly understand the real side of that experience. To see the unpleasant alongside the rest.
Of course, a man’s death should be more than just unpleasant.
I knew as well as he did that he deserved what he was getting. It was strange. I thought knowing it and believing it would make it a little easier, but it didn’t. I thought I would get through his execution unscathed emotionally. But I was only fooling myself.
Just because I hadn’t been with him for almost fifteen years did not mean I didn’t have feelings for him. He was my first love. He was a true love. In fact, he was the biological father of my firstborn, though she would never meet him. He wanted it that way. And deep down, so did I.
The curtain opened. I was no longer aware of anyone else in the small viewing room around me. I stared through a large glass window at an empty gurney. I’d read up on what to expect at an execution. He was sup
posed to be strapped to the gurney when the curtain opened, wasn’t he? I’m sure that was procedure. But he was never one for following rules. I wondered how he’d managed to convince law enforcement to forego this important detail.
With a jolt, I realized someone had entered the sterile-looking room. It was him, along with two officers, the warden and a physician. No priest or pastor. He didn’t want one.
Him.
His name was Jason William Talbot. Such a normal-sounding name. It’s funny. I’d known him almost twenty-five years and it wasn’t until his arrest fifteen years earlier that I learned his real middle and last name. That is, if it was his real name. I’m still not certain.
He was always Grizz to me. Short for Grizzly, a nickname he’d earned due to his massive size and brutal behavior. Grizz was a huge and imposing man. Ruggedly handsome. Tattoos from neck to toe covered his enormous body. His large hands could crush a windpipe without effort. I knew this from experience. I’d personally witnessed what those hands could do. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them now.
He had no family. Just me. And I was not his family.
I immediately sensed when he spotted me. I looked up from his hands into his mesmerizing bright green eyes. I tried to assess whether those eyes held any emotion, but I couldn’t tell. It’d been too long. He’d always been good at hiding his feelings. I used to be able to read him. Not today, though.
As he looked at me, he lifted his handcuffed hands and used the fingers of his right hand to encircle the ring finger on his left hand. He then looked down to my hands, but couldn’t see them. They were in my lap and blocked by the person seated in front of me.
Would I give him that last consolation? I didn’t want to hurt my husband. But considering I was the reason for Grizz’s impending death, I felt the stirrings of an old, old obligation to comfort him in those last moments. At the same time, I felt an uncomfortable thrill in having some control over him. In having the ability to be in charge of something, to be the decision-maker, the empowered one. For once.