by Anne Calhoun
Some piece of grit in Ben’s soul formed that shell, the uniform, the weapon, the smile and the attitude, the truck. It was a life lived as impenetrable armor, invisible to the casual eye and like a character hidden in a cast of thousands, plain as day as soon as you saw it for what it was.
She wiped her thumb across her forehead, then glanced at the activity in the farm’s parking lot. They’d loaded the Truck Garden and the A&M boys were ready to head out for the day. At the sharp whistle and wave Rachel carried the casserole dish and a bag of fresh-picked vegetables to the truck and climbed in, jockeyed it around until it pointed out the driveway, and led them onto the highway into Galveston, to Sam’s house.
In the daylight she saw Craftsman-style homes with neatly tended lawns and flowering shrubs. The Truck Garden pulled in behind her. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said when she parked on the street. A tall woman with pale brown hair holding hands with a long-haired blond man gave them a wave as they walked a dachshund down the sidewalk past Sam’s house. She hurried up the front walk lined with flowering pots and knocked on the front door.
Ben answered. Cartoon noises drifted quietly from the television and Jonathan was asleep on the sofa, Bear clutched tight to his chest. The location of a Ben-sized dent in the cushions told Rachel Jonathan had fallen asleep on Ben’s lap. Lines tightened Ben’s eyes; he looked like he hadn’t slept at all, but no expression showed on his face.
“Any news?” she said, keeping her voice low.
His gaze flicked over her shoulder to the Truck Garden, idling in the street. “Cracked his skull in three places, broke his collarbone. No spinal trauma. Until he regains consciousness they won’t know for sure if he’s got brain damage.”
A lump formed in her throat at the even, unemotional recitation. She studied his face. On the surface he looked much the same as he always did, skin and muscles revealing nothing, but as she watched, something flared in his eyes only to be tamped down again. Fear. Gone. Anguish. Gone. Bewilderment so similar to Jonathan’s her heart broke. Gone. “I’m so sorry, Ben,” she said, then glanced past his shoulder to the boy sleeping on the sofa. “How is he?”
“Slept for a few hours. Woke up crying. Now he’s sleeping again. I took today off. My sister’s booking a flight back from Florida to help.”
He was tense and tired, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. Ben’s typically sky-high energy level was stilled, like the odd silence when power lines went dead. “Ben,” she started.
“What’s that?”
She offered him the foil-covered casserole dish. “Macaroni and cheese,” she said. “Just bake it at three-fifty for forty-five minutes or so. Fresh beans, peas, and a few tomatoes just off the vines.”
He stared at the Pyrex dish before accepting it, as if he couldn’t comprehend basic information about food. “Thanks,” he said. “They’re waiting for you.”
She looked over her shoulder at the A&M boys, eyeing her and Ben with undisguised interest. “Ben, what can I do���”
He cut her off. “Thanks for the food,” he said and stepped back inside.
• • •
Worn out from the season’s busiest week yet at the farm stand, Rachel dragged herself down the path from the farm stand to the bunkhouse. Two envelopes were tucked between the red silo salt and pepper shakers on the farmhouse table. Rachel picked them up. One was addressed in her handwriting to Ronald Hill, once again marked PLEASE RETURN, SENDER UNKNOWN. The other was a plain business envelope with the vet tech school’s stylized puppy-and-kitten logo and mailing address in the upper left-hand corner. Her heart pounding, Rachel looked around the empty house, then opened the envelope.
Dear Ms. Hill,
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position in our fall class. . . .
Disappointment forced a soft noise from her throat. One hand pressed to her stomach, she pulled out a chair and sat down to finish reading. Largest pool of applications in the school’s history . . . excellent grades in science and math characterized the admitted class . . . all best in your future endeavors.
She found her phone in her jeans pocket and called the admissions counselor. “It’s Rachel Hill,” she said. “I just got the letter.”
“I’m so sorry,” the counselor said gently. “Your personal essay touched the committee’s heart, and no one doubts your commitment to animals’ health and well-being, or your determination. But several instructors were concerned that your transcripts lacked the biology and chemistry necessary to ensure your success in the program.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” she said. “What can I do?”
“Take a couple of classes in the fall at a community college. Get your GED. I know you have a homeschool certificate, but shore up your transcripts and I feel very confident you’ll win a spot in the next class.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Thank you.”
Rachel hung up after the counselor’s gentle good-bye and stared blankly at her phone. Okay. She could do this. It was a simple setback, easy to remedy. Take the classes and reapply. When the farm closed down for the season she’d get a job in Galveston, take the classes, find somewhere to live, someone to live with. She’d do exactly what she planned, except she wouldn’t be in vet tech school. That goal was only postponed, not completely out of her reach.
Nonetheless, rejection stung. To her surprise it stung worse than never having tried at all. It was a completely different feeling from straining against the repressive role Elysian Fields forced her into. For the first time in her life she’d “put herself out there,” as the career counselor at the shelter put it, been assessed and found wanting.
She gave a shaky sigh, then smoothed her hands over her hair, checking her pins, securing a few loose strands. She had the house to herself tonight. Jess and the current A&M boys were going into Houston to see a comedian. She’d take a hot shower to steam away the day’s grime, make something easy for dinner, and sit in the meadow to watch the sunset. But when she got out of the shower a text from Ben was waiting on her phone.
Come into town tonight.
This was his first contact in a week. She considered texting back, but decided to call him instead. “Harris,” he answered.
“It’s Rachel. Why do you want me to come into town?”
“Do you have other plans?”
He didn’t like why, so she didn’t ask. “I was going to sit in the meadow and watch the sunset,” she said. To mourn the setback. “Why don’t you come out here?”
“Because I want to get drunk and have sex, not watch a sunset.”
She may not know why, but she surely knew what he was thinking. “And what’s in this for me?”
“Music. Dancing. Drinking. Me. Inside you.”
Bold and brash, with a flat edge to the words. This wasn’t the Ben she knew, but heat wicked through her. He was promising oblivion, and being with him certainly reset her emotional frame of mind. “Where?”
“No Limits. I’ll text you the address.” Then he hung up.
He kept saying she needed to go there, so why not? She looked up the bar’s website, skimmed the pictures, and chose her wardrobe accordingly. Tight, dark jeans, a silky halter top that tied behind her neck, and glittery sandals. She dried her hair and brushed it to shining sleekness in a side part. It slid forward, obscuring her face much as it had that last wild night with Ben. Then she examined her reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink and did her best to re-create the look Jess designed for her bachelor auction date with Ben. Weeks ago she felt like her eyes looked out from a Mardi Gras mask, but tonight she actually recognized the woman looking back at her from the mirror, as if she’d grown into what had been a costume that first night. But had she grown into it, or had she learned to put on a shell, like Ben did?
Pushing the questio
n from her mind, she got in her Focus and drove into town, pulling into the No Limits parking lot at five minutes to nine. Ben stood with the two cops stationed near the entrance but he wasn’t in uniform. Instead he wore jeans, the ever-present western shirt, and boots. He kept talking to the two officers but his gaze followed Rachel as she nipped into an available space close to the entrance.
Arms folded, legs braced, consciously or unconsciously Ben mirrored the cops’ stance as he watched her cross the parking lot. Something in his gaze sent heat flickering through her body, a shock heightened by the shift and slide of the satin halter top across her breasts. Without thinking about it, Rachel gathered her hair and slid the whole heavy mass over one shoulder.
The other two cops stopped talking, too, until one with a hint of concern on his face leaned toward Ben and said something. Ben ignored him, stepped off the curb, and walked to meet her.
“Hi,” she said.
Ben took her elbow and guided her around the back of the building, out of the noise and regulated commotion at the bar’s front door. He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth lingering on hers for just a second for a quick flick of tongue. “Very nice. Very sexy.”
“Ben, tell me about Sam,” she said.
“Still unconscious. He picked up a staph infection so he’s running a fever,” he said. His hand stroked down her bare arm, then toyed with the thick ends of her hair before his hand fell to his side.
“Why aren’t you with him?”
“Because my parents, Chris, Katy, her husband, and her two kids are doing a round-the-clock vigil at his beside,” Ben said, then leaned closer and murmured, “I want to be here, with you.”
Her gaze narrowed. It wasn’t true. Even an emotionally inexperienced person like Rachel could see the agony in his eyes. What he wanted and what he was doing were two entirely different things. “Why here?”
“Because it’s time to take off the training wheels.”
Once again she was missing something crucial. “I don’t understand.”
“Pick up a guy, go home with him, and fuck him.”
Air left her in a soundless rush. It took a few seconds for her to regain the ability to speak, and those seconds she searched his gaze for any trace of the man she’d come to know over the last few weeks. That rakish pirate’s smile firmly fixed on his mouth, he stared back, unblinking, unflinching, all walls and armor and step-back attitude.
The smile didn’t reach his eyes.
She tried to imagine doing what he demanded: going into No Limits and choosing the next man she’d let into her body. It wasn’t impossible. After all, she’d chosen Ben, but the thought that he could dictate this to her made her furious. “Is that what you want from me, Ben?” She leaned closer and whispered, “Do you want to watch?”
He froze. Six feet and two hundred pounds of lethally trained man went utterly still against her. She felt his heart beating, felt his breathing resume, and only then did her unintentional double entendre hit her.
She meant watch her choose another man. He thought she meant watch her fuck another man.
He said nothing, as if her response shocked him.
Let’s see how far he would take this. “Fine. Let’s go,” she said, then ducked under his arm, still braced against the brick by her head.
A muscle in Ben’s jaw jumped as he guided her past the line, right up to the front door. “Don’t we need to wait in line?”
“They do. We don’t.”
She handed the bouncer her ID and stepped into the whirling noise and flickering lights that was like the Pleasure Pier times ten. The dance crowd bounced and sang along to a song about drunk sex. She made her way to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine, then stood there watching Ben while he ordered a beer for himself.
My God, he was broken. So broken, this frightening vulnerability protected only by pieces of bulletproof vest held together with razor wire, attitude, and a smile that broke her heart every time he flashed it. And something about the bar, the way the noise shut down all the clamor in her head, brought clarity unfelt since she made the decision to leave Elysian Fields.
She was falling in love with him, and he was so broken, so damaged, and trying so hard to hide it.
How do people do this? How do they offer everything they have, taking the risk that it’s not enough?
“Who do you like?”
She looked around, considering and discarding possible candidates based not on looks but on demeanor. Too cocky. Too drunk. Too preoccupied trying to get his hand up a woman’s skirt to even notice her.
“Come on, Rachel. Which one turns you on? Which face do you want to see above you as he pushes inside you?”
“Having you here won’t help,” she pointed out.
He tipped back the beer bottle, then flashed her the smile she was growing to actively hate. “You are still such a virgin,” he said.
She walked away from him, making her way through the crowd, using the noise and crush of the crowd to shut down her brain as she looked around. One possible candidate stood in a pack of men at the opposite corner of the bar. He wasn’t tall, but he held his shoulders with a straight-backed confidence she found intriguing. He put more attention into the conversation than into projecting attitude or scoping out women, which didn’t bode well for her. She sipped her wine again, and when she looked up, she found him watching her. One corner of his mouth lifted in an easy smile.
The second time it happened, she smiled back. He detached himself from his group of friends to make his way through the crowd to her. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said.
“I’m Seth.”
“Rachel,” she said.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, then looked at the group he’d just left. “You’re here with friends?”
“Guys I work for,” he said. “They just landed a big contract. They’re celebrating.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Security,” he said. “You?”
“I’m . . . in school.”
“So you’re not an admin?” he said. “They need to hire an admin.”
She shook her head. Conversation was nearly impossible in this place. The noise level both deafened and frightened her. Seth leaned close, and she caught the scent of cologne. “Want to dance?”
“Sure,” she said. It was almost impossible to hear him over the music, talk, and laughter, and in any case this wasn’t about talking.
She left her wineglass on the bar. Seth slipped his hand into hers and led her to the dance floor. While some of the dancers were clearly showing off practiced moves, others were immersed in the beat, eyes closed, hips and arms moving to the primal heartbeat she felt in her ears, low in her belly. That she knew. That she could do.
Apparently she did it well enough for him, because after a few bars he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her against his body. His strength and confidence carried over to the dance floor but despite the bump and grind he didn’t light her up like Ben did. She remembered Rob’s words, that it was possible to have amazing sex with someone totally wrong for you, and mediocre sex with someone you liked very much.
The knowledge tasted bitter, like honey gone rancid.
The song started to shift into the generic thumping drumbeat that signaled a change in songs. Seth tipped his head toward his group of friends and said, “Come on.”
Why not? She followed him to the periphery of an entire group of people. He replaced her glass of wine, and she paid attention to the conversation, to the way they finished each other’s sentences. Standing off to the side, she eventually pieced together that the men were former military, now working together here in Galveston, and Seth was a contractor. While their friendly banter and sense of community only heightened her awa
reness of what she’d lost when she left Elysian Fields, it did help block out the aimless noise of No Limits, the emotional high without any meaning, the emptiness of the looks, dancing. The distraction, desperation, and not just for someone to take home. Avoiding life.
She didn’t want to be here. The knowledge slid sharp and sure along her spine. Even if Ben brought her here, danced with her, took her home, she wouldn’t want to be here. The surface appeared wildly different thanks to the slick gloss of sex and skin covering everything, but underneath, No Limits was exactly the same as the empty rituals and routines of her life at Elysian Fields. She didn’t belong there, but she didn’t belong here, either. She didn’t know how to do this.
She didn’t want to know how to do this.
Seth’s gaze sharpened just as a hand slid along Rachel’s waist and a voice murmured low and rough in her ear. “Dance with me, darlin’.”
Ben. She didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Ben. His scent, his touch, that hard body at her back and she lit up like a live wire. In that instant she understood why wiser voices recommended delaying sex until marriage. Would any other man call that response from her body? Was she supposed to go to bed with her husband knowing this hot, sharp longing would never be hers again? Was she supposed to choose between all-consuming passion and a lifetime love?
“Actually,” she said, evenly, “I was just about to leave.”
“He’s your choice?” Ben murmured in her ear as he sized up the other man. She knew what he was doing because Seth’s expression shifted from assessing to pure challenge.
“You know this guy?” Seth asked.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
“Protective,” Ben said. The sharp bite of whiskey drifted to her nostrils as he spoke. His hand slid under the halter’s hem and he stroked his thumb along her bare stomach. “A nice touch. But he doesn’t do it for you like I do.”