Pretty Instinct

by S. E. Hall

  “Of course.” Laura immediately stands, only to get trampled by Conner.

  “Sorry, Laura-mom, sorry. Sister! I’m ready!”

  “Con, house isn’t ready for a few days. We’re all going to stay here until it is, but tomorrow, I’ll take you to pick out stuff for your house, okay?”

  He’s stunned silent—no, really—looking frantically between our father and I. “You don’t hate Dad no more?”

  “No Conner,” I smile briefly in my dad’s direction, “I don’t.”

  “AND I get my own house?”

  “Yes.” I snicker, my favorite look of pure glee radiating of him.

  But then, he gives me a new favorite. He lifts his head to the sky and folds his hands, and in a legit whisper, says, “Thank you, guys; I mean you, Mom and God.”

  Men, women, old, young, usually stoic or not…there’s not a dry eye on that deck.

  Chapter 36

  The next two days, while we wait to take ownership of our house—our house!—were what I now refer to “coming home days.” Obviously, because that’s exactly what we’ll be doing, but more over because that’s what I did. I came home.

  My mother, in death, set me free to love, forgive, smile, laugh, and live with as much fucking happy as I can possibly pack in one day. And with Conner and Cannon by my side, that’s a lot of happy.

  The real estate agent graciously agreed to let us in real quick to take some pictures so we could start planning. It felt intoxicatingly like Ocean’s Eleven, as if we’d just pulled off a master caper—get in, snap pics, get out. Conner wanted to drop in from the ceiling and squeal around in a van to make it more authentic, but that just didn’t sound like a good plan to me.

  Now we stand in Mears Home Makeovers & More and Conner has filled four carts—for one room. I don’t think he understood the dimensions of said bedroom.

  “What’s the wood for?” I ask, puzzled by the planks in cart three.

  “The fort,” he answers with a dumbfounded stare, clueless as to why I’m clueless.

  “Bubs, you can’t build a fort in your room, sorry.”

  He rolls his eyes and waves his hands, clearly unable to “deal with me” and starts to walk away. “Cannon, handle Sister. I give up!”

  I spin around to find my man red-faced and suffocating on his laughter. “Deal with me, Yoda,” I snap.

  “Not to make light,” he tries to harbor his chortling ridicule, “seriously, not at all. But honestly, Conner is the coolest person. On. The. Planet.” I frown, feigning miffed. “Except you, Siren, except you.”

  “So you think it’s cool to build a fort in his room? Actual wood, Cannon? Whatever happened to blanket forts?”

  “Backyard, baby.” He winks. “The fort goes in the backyard.”

  Oh. Well, sure it makes sense, when you tell it right.

  “Where’d he go?” I frantically search the store. “What else could he possibly need?” I spread my arms, indicating the four carts.

  Cannon sticks both fingers in his mouth and wolf whistles (since we’re not in public or anything) and Conner screams from somewhere, “Row of paint!” Since we’re not in public or anything.

  “That’s if we’re done. Get him and meet me at the checkout.” I duck my head and take an alternate route to the registers.

  ***

  That evening, Laura and I both insist Alma take some “her” time and make dinner together. I can’t help the nagging devil on my shoulder telling me I’m moving too fast, caring way soon, but…it feels nice to have “a family,” or at least the atmosphere of one…and maybe if I start looking for the good, I’ll find it.

  At around seven, all eight of us sit down to eat. This is the first real amount of time I’ve spent with Laura’s three children still at home and my opinions are formed immediately.

  Hope is precious, 11 years old, with white blonde hair, grayish green eyes, freckles across her nose, and the voice of a chipmunk. I think she may be just as enamored of me as she demanded the chair next to mine and kept her chubby little hand on my arm most of the meal.

  Bryson; he’s a 13-year-old boy, so there’s not much to say. He’s a handsome young man, very quiet and extremely polite when he does speak, but that is truly the extent of what I know of him so far.

  Vaughn? His days of sharing a room with Conner, when he visits, are over. This kid is ANGRY…like hurting animals in a sure sign of future serial killer angry. Not that I’ve seen him drown a kitten, yet, but he needs some serious help, stat. He’s only fifteen and I’ve seen mug shots that scared me far less than the scowl this kid wears.

  “Vaughn, honey, why aren’t you eating?” his mother asks him.

  “I’m not eating shit she made!” He points at me with his fork—a weapon in his mind, I’m sure of it.

  “Va—”

  I plead with my father’s eyes to let me handle it. “And why is that, Vaughn? I’m unaware of anything I’ve ever done to you?”

  “You treat everyone like shit and waltz back in here like nothing’s wrong? Fuck you!”

  I hold down Cannon while Dad holds down Conner. Laura and Hope start crying.

  “Vaughn,” I say calmly, setting down my fork and wiping my mouth. “What’s my full name?” He shrugs defiantly. “I’ll take that riveting answer to mean you don’t know. When’s my birthday? Favorite color? Best subject in school?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” he mumbles.

  “So is it fair to say you know nothing about me?”

  No response.

  “You’re angry, and if anyone in the world understands adolescent anger, it’s me. Why I’m the chosen target for yours is what I don’t get. You’ve been in this house a minute, a fraction of the time I was. You’re the visitor, not me. I lost a parent, too, so if you’re gonna have a pity party, you should at least invite me. And since you seem to draw power from curse words,” I look at Hope and ask her to cover her ears before I address Vaughn again, “get the fuck over yourself. You know dick about my life or why I wasn’t or am now in my home. You ever talk to me like that again, the only thing you’ll be eating for dinner is your teeth, which I’ll have knocked down your throat. You feel me, angry boy?”

  “I love you.” Cannon beams. “Gotta have me a nibble after that,” he growls and leans in to nip and kiss my jaw.

  “And I,” my father places his hand on my shoulder and grins, “am damn proud of you. Any chance you’d like to write campaign speeches?”

  “None whatsoever.” I chuckle and shake my head.

  “I’m not your friend anymore, Vaughn. You are very mean, very, very mean,” Conner chastises, getting worked up until Laura puts an arm around his shoulders and cuddles him to her.

  “Go to your room, Vaughn. Gather all your electronics in a pile and I’ll come collect them when the family is done with their meal. While you wait, I want you to write down all the things you’re really angry about and we’ll discuss them later. You’re excused.” Laura finishes with him and faces me, eyes still moist. “I’m very sorry for that, but thank you.” She laughs and pats Hope’s shoulder. “You can uncover your ears now, honey.”

  “I’m sorry for cursing at him, Laura, but that’s the language that empowers him right now. I had to take that power back.”

  She nods. “Understood.”

  Bryson waits until my eyes shift to him, curious how he’ll react, and he blows me a kiss and winks! Always the quiet calm ones, I tell ya—look out, ladies.

  Maybe I was out of line, but I’m looking at a lot of grateful faces around this table. My guess is they’ve all had enough of Vaughn’s crap and were happy to see him knocked down a peg.

  “May I be so bold to say, my girl did the cooking, so ya’ll have fun cleaning while I steal her away.” Cannon winks at me. “Gotta surprise for her.”

  “Of course. Laura, sweetheart, my surprise for you is, I’ll do the dishes. Isn’t your Housewives of Crazy Country show about to start?” my father teases her, rising to stack plates t
ogether.

  “Come on, Siren.” Cannon stands hastily and pulls me from my chair. “Be back later, Con.”

  No qualms following him anywhere, I giddily trek behind him to his car. Which reminds me, I should probably retrieve mine someday. “Where we going?” I ask once we’re loaded in.

  “You’ll see.” He flits a coy smile at me, a husky, secretive quality in his answer.

  I turn on some tunes and settle in for the ride and surprise, softy singing along to one of my favorites, Bon Iver’s “Flume.” Cannon reaches over and links our hands, then sings with me. Four songs of the phenomenal album later, we pull into the driveway of our, as of tomorrow at noon, new house.

  “Babe, this isn’t ours yet, we can’t be here.”

  “Lil’ faith, love, yeah?” He comes around and opens my door, sliding his arms under my legs and behind my back, scooping me out and kicking the car door shut.

  “For the next 15 hours, this is trespassing,” I hiss quietly in the night, even though the closest neighbor is at least two miles, minus perhaps a family of field mice or maybe a nice cricket community.

  “You open that negative little mouth again, and you know exactly what I’m gonna fill it with.” He moves around to the back corner of the house, sets me down and pushes open the very small, very high off the ground guest bathroom window.

  “Wh—how?” I utter in shocked sounds only dolphins can hear.

  “Crawl through, close and lock it back, then go let me in the front door.” He stoops, making a step for me with his locked together hands.

  The longer I stand here bewildered, or argue, the greater our risk of arrest, so I place a foot in his hand and boost myself up, regretting my love of chocolate as I barely squeeze through the window. Luckily, all the windows are naked of curtains or blinds, so the country moonlight guides me through securing the window and making my way to the front door.

  He’s knocking when I get there, and I can’t help but snicker at my quirky love.

  “Who is it?” I coo.

  “Maytag Man calling. Heard you needed something serviced.”

  “Is that so?” I open up with a saucy grin, which fades when I see his arms loaded down with a blanket, pillows, and that may be a candle? “Cannon Powell Blackwell,” I take some of his burden, “what? When?”

  He chuckles and closes the door, the slide of the lock an echoing, erotic sound through the empty house. “Loaded the stuff in the trunk. Unlocked the window when the agent let us in before.” He taps his temple. “Kiss my brain, you know you love it.”

  I stand on the tips of my toes to lay a smooch at his genius temple. “Lemme guess, staying at my dad’s is wearing on your libido?”

  “Not at all.” He fluffs out the blanket, laying it on the floor of our soon to be living room. Then he scatters the pillows and walks over to light the candle that he sets on the mantle over the fireplace. The room fills with an iridescent glow and my heartbeat quickens.

  “I want move-in to be special for Conner, but I want one special, first moment in our new home with you.” He kicks off both shoes, eyeing me hungrily in the candlelight. “We may have many homes, but this will always be the first memory. You good with that?” He smirks, now reaching behind his neck and pulling his shirt over his head.

  “Yeah,” I answer in a fluttery breath.

  Any “first” forever memory with Cannon is one I’ll treasure, guard in my heart and head always, and replay in my mind any time I gaze at him, or use to mend myself when angry with him…needs music; this is me we’re talking about.

  He thought of everything else, so I’ll maestro the soundtrack. I flip through albums on my phone haphazardly, settling on a song only to change my mind a second later. It hits me like a swarm of angry butterflies—I can’t believe I’d never thought of it before. If there’s one song that says precisely what I say mentally to him every single day, this is it.

  I remain still for now, savoring his tauntingly gradual strip tease, until he’s splendidly naked and beautiful in front of me. Then I take my turn, peeling each article from my wanting frame, tears building behind my laden lids for reasons I can’t begin to explain. He defies everything I thought I knew, the epitome of what I feared but desperately wanted, didn’t need yet lived empty and amiss without.

  When I’m brazenly bare for him as well, I grab my phone at my feet and press play, then toss it back down and beckon him to me with a seductive crook of my finger, wetting my lips.

  He stalks toward me, primal and masculine, stopping short when he recognizes my confession, “The Woman in Me,” by Shania Twain. Understanding and acceptance of the plea consumes his deep brown eyes and he advances, pulling me down on the floor with him.

  In his lap, facing him, he wraps my legs around his muscular waist and drives his hands up through my hair. “Always got you, Siren. You have me,” he promises me in husky reverence against my neck.

  Without words, he angles my head to sink his hot tongue as deeply and possessively into my mouth as possible and I lift, finding his hardness with my hand, and place the tip at my core. Little by little, I tease him, taking him in only just past the head and flinching around him, then relaxing.

  His eyes flare open and he emits a carnal, animalistic growl into my mouth, warning me with the unharnessed passion in his darkened eyes that he’s about to take over running the show. But the song and lyrics are tender, so I decide to be so also, and lovingly ease down his entire length, stilling a moment to fully stretch around the base, the thickest part of him.

  “I love you, Cannon,” I moan on his lips, rocking back and forth on him, grabbing around his neck for anchor, letting my head fall back and my eyes close as I make slow, sweet love to him.

  Together we writhe and gyrate in flawless coherence, his up and my down, my grind to his thrust. In this position, straddled in his lap, I need not his hands, the short, crisp hairs at his groin tantalizing my clit dreamily, and way too soon, I’m coming around and down him as he groans around my breast in his mouth.

  “So sweet, my Siren, more perfect every time. Love me forever, swear it.” He kisses me now, flat tongue licking after each puckered nip on my breast and collarbone, then up my neck. “Fuck me hard when you’re mad, soft when you’re not, bite my dick when I won’t listen, and deny me until I beg when I’m late or forget something important. But always, always love me?”

  I nod as tears begin to fall and I whisper, “More than my own life, promise.”

  “I believe you.” He leans his head back to smile at me, which quickly morphs to a sinister, domineering smirk. “My turn,” he grunts, gripping my hips and holding me flush against him as he thrusts up and into me with brutal, deliberate force, throwing his own head back, a feral howl escaping as he releases into me.

  Chapter 37

  At 12:17 pm, we co-signed on our house, $180,000, half me, half Cannon, bought free and clear. God bless the vapid housing market, because tons of acreage, in-law quarters and over 3,000 square feet of living area when it’s worth almost twice that much. Who buys a house in full, no financing? A girl with mama’s family money and a man who stockpiled since his money couldn’t buy daddy’s princess anything good enough, that’s who. And we won’t mention it, because I’ll replace them the first chance I get, but I may be privy to the fact that Cannon sold two guitars and an amp that he somehow carted out of Ruthie’s in his ten minute time allotment. I also highly suspect my father slipped him a check for “Conner’s house,” because he knew damn good and well I wouldn’t dip a dime into his actual account for it.

  Sneaky ass men.

  From the signing to our pad, 1222 Erin Drive, took 36 minutes, so knowing we signed at noon, and bureaucratic things, much like doctor appointments, never happen on time, I was more than stunned to see everyone we value in the driveway…or parked in the grass. It is Indiana after all.

  And since I’m so tough and all, I’m equally surprised that my face is mysteriously, yet again, leaking of its own accord. Charm
ing and a sign of being humanized at first, it’s starting to get on my damn nerves now.

  The first to attack, all at once, are Libby, Sommerlyn, and Vanessa, Jarrett’s lovebird with amazing longevity and an even longer way from home and school, and Laura, who’s not the evil stepmother I’d feared. Oh, and little Hope, holding Sommerlyn’s hand.

  “Sweetheart,” Libby says pitifully, worried face, wringing her hands, “you have nothing. I’m not exaggerating. Sommerlyn, tell her I’m not overreacting. I mean, it’s absolutely barren. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Mother, we talked about this.” Sommer gives me an apologetic grin. “They’ve owned it for five minutes, it shouldn’t be filled with their things.”

  “Oh,” Libby clasps her chest, relief washing over her. “Thank God, so when will the moving trucks be here?”

  “Libby, I lived on a bus for five years. I’ve never even had an apartment. And nothing from his house with,” I shiver, “She-Devil is allowed inside. So,” I rub my hands together optimistically, “there are no trucks coming; there’s nothing to bring.”

  “OH,” totally different inflection in the word this time, her chest clasped now in horror, not relief. “Wh…I don’t…um…” She’s flabbergasted, eyes flitting to everyone individually for a possible solution.

  “Who likes assigned tasks?” I ask in as chipper a voice as I can, a reassuring hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Trust me, I got it.”

  All hands go up, and I pounce into action before they have time to change their minds. “Who’s got paper?” Of course, Libby whips out a yellow legal pad and pen from her purse. “All right, let’s see.” I close my eyes, picturing my new casa—gotta get a pattern room by room. “You first walk up to the front porch. Who wants it?”

  “We’ll take it,” Sommerlyn raises her and Hope’s joined hands and Lil’ Bit nods enthusiastically.

  “Sommer and Hope, porch,” Libby says aloud as she titles the page. Yeah, cannot fathom where Cannon got the list making thing.