Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  “Yeah. Clever.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. It’s strange to be receiving advice about life from someone who is about to go into a therapy program for his emotional instability.

  “I never got to apologize for being such a shitty girlfriend to you.”

  “You were perfect.” He gives another devilish grin.

  “Hardly.” I laugh.

  “I’m serious. You never promised anything more than what was offered. You were honest with me and I appreciate that. I’ll never regret the time I spent with you.”

  I lean across the table and Dylan leans in to listen. “You were my first, so I’ll never regret my time with you either.”

  “I know and I think everyone already knows your secret,” he whispers loudly.

  “Very funny.”

  “Jess, I have made some bad decisions in my life, but you were not one of them. I hope you listen or at least try to believe what I’ve been telling you. Stop thinking you could have prevented any of this from happening. I really didn’t want to get married and moving in on you was a mistake. I dragged you into my screwed up brain; that’s what happened.”

  “Okay. I believe you and now I want you to listen to me. I know you idolize Carson. That’s understandable. But you’re also a very good person. He’s not better than you.”

  “Huh. Yeah, well thanks.”

  “Huh, yeah, you’re welcome.”

  “Smarty pants, I want you to come visit the shop and see what we’re doing. Carson’s business deal came through a while ago and he’s expanded the place. We’re doing these weathered pieces of furniture—aged wood—and I helped get the operation going. Carson has a great appreciation for your art, so you need to see his.”

  “Maybe so.

  “You see me moving forward, you don’t have to tip-toe around me or feel responsible anymore. You are free to date Carson without feeling any guilt.”

  “Ah. It’s not that simple, Dylan.”

  “It’s also not as difficult as you make it out to be,” he says.

  Thirty-One

  The Friday before Carson’s party, the snow comes down like a thick, white, fluffy blanket. As I watch the peaceful flakes float down from my library window, Lauren is busy in the next room working on some new necklaces that she and Imogene want to post on their new website soon. She listens to classical music while she strings beads and crimps wire.

  Imogene is cleaning the house. She’s decided I am a slob and she will clean once a week in return for a hefty rent reduction. I don’t argue with her, especially since I’m not sure I’m brave enough to hire Talia just yet. She’s too close to Carson and it would put me in another very awkward position if I drag Carson down into the black hole where all my dates go to die.

  Since Imogene and Lauren are both occupied with tasks, I convince myself to make a trek into town. I need the exercise and I want to take Dylan up on his offer.

  Jogging through the snow along the main route to town requires more stamina than I expected. By the time I arrive at Blackard Designs, my wool cap and running shoes are soaked.

  “Hi, Jess!” Daisy greets as I walk through the door of the shop. I tell her I’m just visiting, no need to buzz anyone.

  I peel off my soggy watch cap and run my hands through my damp hair, trying to fluff it up. I hang my down vest on the front coat rack and wipe off any remaining snowflakes on my black running tights.

  On the left side of the building, in the showroom, I can see Dylan talking to some men and women in business suits. He must be giving his pitch to some sales reps. I watch him for a moment, admiring how he’s at ease talking with such authority on the subject of their craft.

  I turn and walk back by Daisy’s counter and through the right side to the actual workshop. I spot Leo and Daniel right away, both are wearing goggles and gloves, painting or staining furniture. They wave and give me silent hellos as I walk by. There are projects everywhere, most in the finishing stages, but the crew is unusually sparse in this part of the shop.

  In the back I see where the extension has been added, the new addition Dylan mentioned. The back wall has been knocked out and a glass wall has been installed in its place that allows me to see the whole new addition without going in. It’s very industrial looking with concrete flooring, a high ceiling, metal doors with rivets, metal skylights and tall windows, machinery that looks like ovens and lots of timber. It has an artisanal ambiance, a place for real craftsman who work with basic elements of earth, fire and wood. It reminds me of Carson’s home. Every bit of this workshop has Carson in it. It even smells like him.

  There are more people working here, even a few women, so Carson must have used the investment loan to increase production as well as number of staff. I’m watching the activity without really understanding their process when I see Carson. He is speaking to a man by the enormous oven with a tool that resembles a pizza paddle.

  Carson looks up and sees me then says something to the man and walks towards the partition door. In that instant I realize how much I have missed seeing him. His dark hair hangs loose down to his chin and frames his handsome face. His stride is long and shows off the hard lines through his arms and legs. He runs his hand through his hair to push it back. I love that move. When he opens the heavy, metal door, the sounds of machinery and crackling wood carry into the workshop area.

  “Jess,” Carson says. He offers a conservative smile, a pleasant version for greeting business people.

  “Dylan said I should come by and visit.”

  “He’s in the showroom if you want to see him,” Carson tells me. His jeans and boots are dusty with wood chips and he smells like a campfire. He holds his heavy work gloves in one hand and keeps the partition door open with the other.

  “I saw him. He’s with customers or reps. I wanted to see the new addition.”

  “Oh. Great,” he says, genuinely surprised. “Come in, I’ll give you the tour.”

  I walk by him through the door and feel like a panther in my body-hugging black attire.

  “Did you run here?” he asks.

  “No, I jogged and it turned into more of a brisk walk before the final half mile changed into a limp.”

  He smirks. “Well, you’re here. I’m glad.”

  “Me, too. This looks impressive. You never told me about any of your plans to expand.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Come here.”

  I follow him to the big oven where the man with the paddle is shoving wood inside the high flames.

  “We’re doing a new line of furniture. It’s all aged wood. It looks similar to our recycled barn wood furniture, but waiting for wood to age naturally is slowing things down so we came up with our own process. This is a boiler where we cook the wood at high temperatures. Then we put it in the season chamber for drying.” He points to a set of ominous, black metal, double doors. “After that, those guys over there use steel brushes on the cooked wood to give it a more weathered look.”

  “What about all the cracks and imperfections?”

  “They add to the individuality of each piece of furniture,” he says, walking me towards two women.

  “Noelle and Gemma. This is Jessica.” They smile and shake my hand. I’m struck by their attractiveness.

  Gemma is a redhead like me, yet her hair is smooth and perfectly straight down to her shoulders. She is very pretty with a nice, slender figure. We study each other as if we’re competitors. I doubt Carson picks up on this, but I sense Gemma is having the same thoughts as me about Carson.

  “Very pretty hair,” Gemma says with a lovely English accent. “I wish mine was thick and wavy like yours.”

  I smile, however, I’m no match for this woman who is closer to Carson’s age and has much more experience and confidence. She is polished and beautiful.

  “Noelle and Gemma are designers, too,” Carson says. “They are creating the new line with me, but they also do some of the heavy lifting.”

  I notice the
women wear the same heavy gloves; they look cool and trendy in their jeans and work boots. I envy them for getting to work here with Carson. Actually, maybe I even hate Gemma for being here where Carson can see her every day. Jealousy really does make us feel ugly inside.

  Carson continues and there’s excitement in his tone. “The business is changing since I started. It used to be guys who were good at carving and tinkering in their woodshops. Some of our new staff, like Gemma and Noelle, have college degrees in design and actual work experience in the craft.”

  His reserve is breaking down and the real Carson is coming through as he gets more animated describing his business to me. I admit I like having his hand on my lower back in a possessive way, which is noticeable to Gemma. I’m also relieved when he propels me away from the pretty women to introduce me to others. Everyone is looking at me with wonderment as though it’s a novelty to see Carson with a woman who isn’t a part of the business or trade.

  I get caught up in his attention and relax a bit. It’s being next to Carson that makes me heady. There’s something intense about the room with its crackling fire and the dry air that leaves my cheeks rosy and my hair curly and voluminous rather than limp. Aside from my paintings, I never have mystical experiences like this. I am Cinderella, transformed from a sooty cinder girl into a wild haired redhead. Maybe it’s my active imagination, which is fine. What’s wrong with finding happiness in my own world in my own way?

  By the end of the tour, Carson and I have changed our demeanor. His hand is on my shoulder and I find myself standing closer to him, especially when I laugh.

  “Can I take you out for lunch?” he asks.

  “I can’t go anywhere dressed like this.” I sound like I’m fishing for compliments. I could see how Carson looked at me when Gemma remarked on my pretty hair; he had that glazed, lovelorn look of admiration that every woman enjoys. I have no shame and milk it for all I can to feed my sagging ego.

  “You can absolutely go anywhere you want like this,” Carson says.

  “You came!” Dylan exclaims as he bursts through the partition door. Damn these Blackard boys and doors.

  “Carson gave me the complete tour. I love it. It’s amazing,” I reply, thinking I may be overdoing it.

  “Good.” Dylan grins at us.

  “Am I missing something?” Carson directs at Dylan.

  “Your lunatic brother made you a very big sale.”

  “How big?” Carson asks skeptically. Dylan hands him a stack of papers I assume are wholesale orders.

  “Wow. Cool, Dylan,” Carson compliments as he flips through the pages.

  “More importantly, are you going to the party tomorrow night?” Dylan asks me.

  I look at Carson and then Dylan scoffs at his big brother. “Seriously, you didn’t even ask her yourself?”

  Carson’s face blanches with embarrassment. We’re both uncomfortable being directed by Dylan.

  “I wouldn’t miss your hillbilly hoedown for anything,” I say in my best honky-tonk accent.

  “Ha! We’re not that backwards. Don’t be surprised if you see some women in Prada,” Dylan says. “But you can come in a burlap sack and you’ll still be the prettiest girl there.”

  It’s an awkward moment for all three of us, Dylan innocently flirting as comes naturally to him. I rub his head as a show of his impromptu jest.

  “I’m more interested in your hoedown outfit than anything from Prada,” Carson says, eyeing my hand that was touching Dylan. “Does it come with clogs?”

  I laugh and slap my hand playfully against his arm. Dylan follows the move in slow motion, not as a jealous former lover, rather as a man who wants to bow out of this threesome.

  “I have to give Daisy these orders.” He takes the papers from Carson’s hands and heads quickly to the front counter.

  “It’s too weird having me here,” I say. “I’m going to go.”

  “No. I’m glad you’re here.” Carson takes hold of my arm to stop me from moving away. “Don’t misread this. That was Dylan being generous to both of us.”

  “He is different,” I say, searching for a better word to describe Dylan’s small transformation.

  “He has committed to going through with the program this time. He can do it.” Carson releases my arm, but closes the space between us to make this more personal.

  “I think he’ll be very successful. There’s an eagerness in him, he seems renewed,” I say. As much as I care about Dylan and want to help him, I’m wondering if Dylan is the main thing Carson and I have in common.

  “You’ve been a good friend to him over the last few weeks; I was wrong when I told you to stay away from him. He still talks about you a lot, but in a new way; he says his conversations with you help. Thank you for that.”

  Carson struggles to think of something else to talk about, but either we have nothing other than our shared concern for Dylan and our afternoon of sex, or we’re both too afraid to go beyond small talk. That is my fault, of course. I wanted to slow my dating life down. Unfortunately, I’ve essentially put it in a coma and Carson is being too careful around me, or maybe he has lost interest. Regardless of his quest to push me and Carson together, Dylan’s no prophet and I’m not very good at reading men.

  “Sure,” I say.

  We’re stalled for more dialogue. Moments ago, I thought I was in a magical realm and I thought the man I’ve been attracted to for months was experiencing the same desire for me; suddenly, I’m a nervous, doubtful ninny again. I hate that nag inside of me, however, she’s very persuasive and I feel the need to leave immediately.

  “I have to get going.” I back away and then walk quickly through the work area to gather my clothing by the front door.

  Thirty-Two

  I’m out the door of Blackard Designs and running back up home, sliding and stumbling on the shoulder of the road, yet determined to keep moving away from the shop and Carson as fast as I can.

  “Hey!” Carson yells through his window as he drives his truck alongside me. “Get in.”

  When I shake my head and keep running, he guns the engine and drives the truck farther ahead. He blocks my path by parking the truck at an angle across the shoulder so the only way I can pass is to climb down in the ravine off the shoulder or go left into oncoming traffic. There are very few vehicles, but intentionally running around his truck to the other side of the road would look juvenile, even for me.

  I climb into the truck, out of breath and panting.

  “You can’t run along the side of the road in this weather. I’ll take you home,” Carson says.

  “No, I don’t want to go home.” I look out the window, pull my wet cap off again and ruffle my hair. I am too anxious, sad and scared. “Take me anywhere else.”

  Carson starts driving. “What happened?” He looks upset. I turn away, keeping my gaze on the scenery.

  “Nothing. Everything is great at the house. I just need a break from work and staring at the same walls and my sleeping dog.”

  “Okay,” he says, however, he keeps glancing at me warily.

  “Take me to the Ridge, the place where people hike and have picnics.”

  “Sure. I know the Ridge. I’ll take you there.”

  Carson cranks up the heater and I take off my wet vest and my shoes, which are pretty much demolished. The heater gets my skin good and toasty, especially when I put my bare feet on the dashboard. “Do you mind?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” Carson replies, looking at my feet as I rub them.

  He’s not wearing a jacket so he must have left in a hurry to chase after me. I like the idea of that, but I’m not kidding myself with unrealistic fantasies anymore.

  We drive in silence while I keep my focus on the passing houses and farms. After a few miles, Carson takes the truck off the main road onto a steep dirt road, which takes us to another smaller, inconspicuous, makeshift road. He shifts down into a lower gear and we begin crawling over the uneven ground. I could not have driven here on my own. Cars
on is obviously very experienced with the terrain and handling a vehicle that requires some clever uphill maneuvering.

  “Goodness,” I say when we reach the top and drive onto a flat area.

  The Ridge overlooks a valley of smaller towns and hills buried in snow. There’s no one up here since it’s really only used by locals in the summer and fall months.

  My initial anxiety dissipates as I ponder the fact that we are alone up here in our private snow tower. He parks the truck, although he keeps the engine and heat running.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks.

  My feet are hot, so I remove them from the console and pull my knees up to my chest. I rest my head back against the seat and sigh.

  “Is it all about sex?” I ask. “Us?”

  Carson looks confused for a moment before he then shakes his head. “No. If it were about sex, then I would have spent the last five months getting laid every day. With you, by the way.”

  I laugh nervously.

  “We spent one afternoon together, Jess.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  I unbuckle my seat belt and climb over to his seat. Straddling him, I kiss him before he can say anything. It takes him two seconds to register what is happening before his hands are buried in my hair and he’s dragging a long, hungry kiss across my lips. My heart is racing along with my voracious desire to have him inside of me. The need is blinding and doesn’t allow for any slow tenderness. We’ve been at a distance from one another for so long—too long—we’re both fireballs of energy; grabbing one another, kissing and pulling clothing off.

  My fleece top is off and thankfully, I wore a regular bra and not my running bra, which is more cumbersome to remove. This bra snaps off with a flick of the fingers. I remove my tights like an acrobat, my tongue probing Carson’s mouth while my hands pull the clingy fabric from my limbs. I’m completely naked on top of him; Carson is unhinged, his hands roaming up and down my body. He undoes his jeans and yanks them down enough so I can pull his cock out.