Beautiful Revenge

by John Forrester

  My hand reaches out on its own and touches Keary’s shoulder. His head slumps down to his chest and at that moment, I want nothing else but to hold him in my arms and make him feel better.

  “I want you to know that I didn’t ask for your father to be killed…it just happened. I would have rather him gone to jail, not be murdered like that.” Maybe I shouldn’t even talk about it? I feel stupid for even mentioning it, and hope Keary isn’t offended and hurt at me bringing it up.

  He gives me a weak smile. “My mother’s a wreck. Her whole world’s crashed and now my brother and I are all she has left. She’s acting really pathetic, but I guess I can’t blame her. To be honest, I loathe going home every day. Fuck me, I’m constantly living life with this pervasive sense of dread, like something terrible is going to happen, and then I realize that something terrible has happened. Will things ever get better?”

  “I don’t know, Keary; I hope so. I guess they will if we make things better. Isn’t it up to us?”

  “No matter what we do, no matter how much we try, nothing with ever be the same again.” Keary’s eyes become bleak and distant, and he turns and steps down the stairs. I call out to him, but he ignores the sound of my voice and walks away.

  CHAPTER 22

  I DREAM OF distant days in a hazy land, of Keary and I walking hand in hand through golden-red forests of fallen leaves, and I can feel the warmth of his fingers interlaced with mine. The memory lingers in my foggy mind as I lie in bed and stare at the early morning shadows etched across the wall from the sad wisteria vines outside. Autumn for me is beautiful and melancholic at the same time.

  But I’m determined to start anew and fill my future with vivid experiences—to let the past go, create a bright spot of happy memories, and burn away all the darkness. If Keary doesn’t want to be with me, if he’s stuck in a mire of his own self-loathing, I won’t let that stop me from moving on with my life. I can’t let my mind spin like a dervish, fixed in the obsession of thinking about him.

  The quiet of early Saturday morning soothes me. The house is still, and Mother and Father are sleeping, as is their habit on the weekends. The thought of escaping for a day fills my mind: packing a lunch, riding my bike, enjoying the fall colors. Where would I go? I sift through my memories: times with Father, times with Phillip, and rare times all together as a family. One bright spot stands out: Harold Parker Forest. Father had taken me hiking there several times to view the leaves in autumn. I can easily bike there and be back in time for dinner. And the colors should be amazing now.

  I quickly eat breakfast, pack a lunch, and sneak upstairs to change. I check the weather on my new iPhone and discover that it’s supposed to be sunny and warmer. Even so, I grab a jacket since it’s still chilly outside.

  My parents will be worried, so I leave them a note on the kitchen counter and head outside into the crisp autumn morning. I take a deep breath and feel old memories floating away as the air rushes out of my lungs. Inside the garage I mount my Johnny Loco cruiser and glide down the driveway, out onto the road, and feel the soft wind lashing my hair back like Medusa’s serpents.

  Past Scheumann Academy, past houses and fields, past chestnuts and elms and maples, my phone guides me along the way to the forest. The journey is faster than I’d expected, and I turn into Harold Parker Road and make my way through the gorgeous hemlocks and white pines, and finally stop at Stearns Pond.

  After the long ride, I feel like the wind has purified me of the past. Now I inhale the fragrant forest air and allow myself to sink into the feeling of this place. I lock my bike and glance around at the vivid red, orange, and yellow leaves dancing in the gentle breeze. The pond is like a magnet drawing me closer. There’s no one around and I’m glad for the solitude.

  My feet take me aimlessly around the pond, over mossy logs, and past chattering squirrels busy collecting acorns for the winter. I’m startled by a deer that prances away at my intrusion in long, lean strides like a ballerina’s leap. I toss a stick into the pond and am greeted by a frowning turtle displeased by my onslaught.

  A sudden wind whips up and I lift my eyes to the sky and watch a flock of crows taking flight, loudly cawing their discontent. Nature speaks to me, whispering in my ear that I’m unwanted here. I sigh and lower my eyes, spotting a figure ambling towards the pond from the forest. When the figure comes near I recognize the movements, familiarity in each step, until finally my heart races when I realize it’s Keary—his head down, hands in his pockets, kicking the leaves as he walks.

  I’m unable to move, staring transfixed at the magnitude of this synchronicity. His shoe catches on a rock deeply embedded in the ground and he stumbles forward and looks up into my startled eyes. He stands there for a long, uncomfortable moment, gazing at me with perplexed eyes tinged with longing. His face, in that moment, shows me his vulnerability, sadness, and love. My voice breaks the silence.

  “This is just too fucking unreal to ignore. I dreamed of you this morning and here you are, standing in front of me. This isn’t a dream, is it?”

  Keary shakes his head, the tension gone from the last time I saw him, his eyes softer and resigned.

  “This is all incredibly real.” He’s shaking with emotion as he speaks. I want to run up and wrap myself around him. “I’ve been thinking about you constantly, about when we first met, about the island, about that night you snuck into my room.”

  I smile at that and I’m sure my face has blushed. I start to speak but he interrupts me with his hand.

  “My father was a complete and total asshole, a monster, but I’m not him. I’ve finally stopped blaming myself for what he’s done to you and your family. Still, I want you to know I’m terribly sorry it all went down like it did. If I could, I’d change it all.”

  This time I can’t help myself from jogging up to him and practically knocking him over. He laughs a surprised laugh as he catches me, and in one movement I feel like I’ve disarmed the sorrow weighing heavy in his hands.

  “Who fucking cares what happened.” I pull myself tight against him and press my lips against his opening mouth, loving the feeling of his tongue inside me. He kisses me so deeply my knees give way. His hands scoop down under my hips and tug me back into him. I’m obsessed with the scent of his skin. My throat releases a low moan as his lips detach from mine, his mouth panting like a lion after catching his kill. His eyes peer into mine, pools of wonder and desire, and he holds my hand as his face forms an expression of wonder and loss.

  “I really missed you. I wanted to see you, I wanted to reach out, but I felt like I didn’t deserve you.” He tilts his head and squeezes my hand. “Probably sounds stupid.”

  I feel my face blazing with a flush of blood, burning from the lingering feeling of his tongue. “It totally doesn’t matter. I don’t give a shit what happened; seriously, I just want to be with you.”

  He raises an eyebrow and grins a sinful grin, then motions me towards the forest. I hold in a giggle as we dart off along the pond, and I can feel my pulse throbbing along my neck from the excitement. I can’t believe I’m holding his hand right now; I’d go anywhere with him. Next to him I feel as drunk as a socialite out on New Year’s Eve.

  The forest is quiet and inviting as he scans around and finally leads me to a white pine-needle bed nestled in between two mossy logs. He pushes aside low branches that cover us like a cocoon as we sneak inside. I feel my throat go dry as he takes off his jacket and lays it down for us. His eyes study my face as if he’s unsure if this is what I want. As if to reassure him, I run my fingers down his chest, feeling his stomach tense from my touch.

  His lips kiss mine again, tenderly at first, and then his arms slide around my waist and pull me closer until my mouth is locked with his, our tongues dancing pirouettes of ecstasy. The heat building inside my body causes a small sweat to flush between my breasts and bead down to my stomach. He snakes his hands under my sweater and I groan as his fingers glide up my chest and tease my nipples until they rise from the s
timulation. I arc my body in like a crescent moon and my mouth lands on his ear, sucking his lobe, and my probing tongue causes his body to shiver.

  I whisper in his ear that I want him and he responds by tugging my sweater off, leaving me with my flimsy cami to cover the prickled skin of my chest. His head trails down my neck, lingering a moment for his lips to kiss along the line where vampires feast. Then he lifts up my cami and kisses an aroused nipple, his hand stimulating the other one, with quick flicks of his tongue dancing between sucking and teasing until I’m completely wet and writhing in a fit.

  His other hand reaches down and unbuttons my jeans. My hips wriggle to help, the zipper goes down, and his fingers spider down, discovering skin smoothed by wetness. They plunge inside of me, and my hips contract in pleasure as he starts playing notes of arousal on my pussy. I can feel his erection pressed against my leg and the sensation sends a wave of hunger coursing through my body. The image of silver ripples washes over my mind’s eye as the feeling scintillates between my thighs. I come so strong my legs quiver and my nails bite into his back. I want him inside of me. Like now.

  When the desire is too much for me to stand, I tense my stomach and reach down and unzip his hoodie, slide it off, and yank off his shirt and run my fingers along his beautiful, taut skin that feels as soft as silk. Goose pimples form over his chest and I pull off my cami and press my breasts against his chest, wrapping my arms around him and indulging in the feeling of heat our bodies create together. Flushed, feverish, I snake my hands down and hastily unbutton his jeans until together we manage to slide them off. He shakes them off his ankles, an innocent, vulnerable smile on his lips, and he leans to grab the edges of my jeans; my hips rise as he pulls them off, exposing the heat of my skin to the coolness of the warming day.

  Keary crawls forward and lays on top of me and we kiss, our tongues urgent, the feeling of beauty and pleasure flowing over me like a warm wave over hot sand. His fingers glide under my panties, feeling how wet and ready I am, and my hand wraps around his cock and I feel this immense animalistic sensation crippling my mind, possessing my hands to yank down my panties, pull off his underwear, grip his hips, spread my legs apart like nightshade to the moon, and pull him inside of me.

  My eyes bulge under the pressure and pain and I groan as he grinds his hips into me.

  Fuck, this hurts. Keary senses my tension and he stops and pulls out, studying the expression on my face.

  “Are you okay? I can stop if it hurts too much.”

  I shake my head. It feels a bit better now, so I flash him a reassuring smile and run my fingers along his shoulder.

  “It just hurts a little.”

  He mouths, “I’m sorry,” and I mouth back a silent, “It’s okay.” His beautiful fingers trace over my hand and I exhale and force my eyes closed, feeling the crisp autumn air cooling my exposed skin.

  Keary touches my arm tenderly and kisses my cheeks and under my eyes and whispers in my ear that he’s sorry—that it will get better, it will feel better, it’s only just this once, and the pain will eventually go away.

  I nod, wanting to believe him. He kisses me softly, an apologetic kiss, and releases a long sigh. We lean into each other, arms clasping arms, and kiss for a long time, until the heat rises again in my body. I feel aroused again, like the hunger that rises after an unsatisfying meal. His eyes show me his desire for me—not only desire, but also love and tenderness.

  My thighs open up once more to him, the heat relaxing me and making me ready this time. Soon wetness is once again coaxed from his caressing fingers. His engorged tip, soft and insistent, rubs against my clit and vulva, filling me with the craving to have him inside me again. I reach down and touch his thighs and tell him it’s okay, and he leans in and stares into my eyes with a look of love so sweet it makes my eyes water.

  This time his cock isn’t like a rock and it feels softer and gentler pressing inside. It still hurts a little, but his tender kiss and light touch along my skin softens the tension inside. He’s slow and incessant, his hips driving in and out so earnestly, like he’s trying to discover some deep secret. After a while the hurt goes away and the crazy, amazing feeling of him deep inside me grows and expands like a seed. I rake my nails along his tensed back and he groans, tells me he loves me, and begins to grind me deeper now, causing my mouth and eyes to open in a fever of terror and ecstasy. I suck on my fingers and I stare up at the mottling of pain and pleasure on Keary’s face.

  I twist my hips slightly and Keary catches my meaning and rolls on his back while I crawl on top of him. I feel so tiny putting myself over something so large. This time he’s so rigid it rises up and away from his abdomen and bounces with a life of its own as I trace my fingers along the shaft. I lean in towards his chest; his hands hold my breasts and his thumbs start massaging my nipples. I position myself over him, my hand guiding it inside me, and glide my hips down and thrill at the feeling.

  My eyes rise to greet sunlight piercing down through the branches, the rays warming my face and my breasts, my hips grinding into him, back and forth and around like a mortar and pestle, the smell of pine flooding my nostrils. I let my head fall back, hair running along my prickled skin, Keary’s fingers digging into my ass, helping my movements. I feel it now, the euphoria, and now it’s all mine.

  I move my hips faster and faster, like a belly dancer, and stare up at the sky. I feel my body rising, stars bursting against the inky black night, and I’m flying, twisting, twirling with Keary, our bodies interlocked like DNA. His face is shining, his eyes luminescent, and our skin is translucent with golden light beaming from inside.

  A feeling starts to rise inside of me, slow like a storm across a desolate plain, then fast and violent like thunder, until peals of lightning wrack through my body, and—just like that—I’m gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  WEEKS PASS IN the sweet tenderness of night, the aroused sighs, humorous whispers, and teasing eyes. Pictures are drawn on my skin, delicate traces of Keary’s nails. I’m fucking obsessed with his touch, his vulnerable gaze, and his incredibly soft lips. He’s my opium.

  We sneak into old movie theaters, traveling back in time, when jazz was all the rage and poverty pervasive from hard times in the Great Depression. My imagination soars back, back to when my great-grandfather reigned proud; I can see his eyes shine with determination and defiance. I feel it too.

  Fuck Howard McNaughton. I’m glad Cornelius Chambers swindled and stole his way into society. I can stand proud, knowing I did the right thing, despite the terrible outcome. I did what I had to. My parents are safe, Phillip finally has his head straight studying at Yale, and somehow, beautifully, I’m in love with Keary. And he doesn’t hate me for having his father’s brains blown out.

  A fading ember floats in front of me, sending a shower of smoke in my face. I cough and pull myself in closer to Keary, the bonfire giving my cheeks that toasted, tight feeling you get from fires on a cold, late-autumn night. Winter is coming but I’m warm, so warm and certain, and uncaring for winter’s bite. People at school still stare at me with icy stares and suspicious expressions, but at least Keary and I flip them off together. Fuck them. Fuck the sluts and the jocks and the arrogant, cocksure losers who’ve never experienced an ounce of trouble in their lives.

  The horizon of time, the road ahead, is filled with the possibility of adventure, the thrill of danger, and the uncertainty of meetings with remarkable people. We vow to travel, just go, anywhere but here. Predictability is emptiness. I’ve been thinking about it, and everything learned was once created in the mind of brilliance, the mind of a rebel, or the mind that thought differently. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, thinking and hanging with Keary, my mind drifting, wandering aimlessly, lazy and creative, an untethered exploration into the free-roaming land of endless potential.

  We fuck and we smoke and we trip. My mind’s blowing up. One time I saw shit that made me stop in my flow, eyes open wide, but there it was, a symphony of coolness. A wide
open road, us on a sweet motorcycle, wind slapping my hair back, the endless horizon before us, the Costa del Sol on one side and the arid land dotted with almond trees on the other. I love this scene. I’m so there.

  At school, the teachers flap their lips, spouting words of insanity and repetition, words of higher learning: old shit repackaged as relevant, sold to minds filled with illusions of power. Each teacher says that if I pay attention and get into that Ivy League, I can get paid, get rich, and get it all. I’m not buying it.

  Don’t get me wrong, I know the value of money; I saw what it did to free my parents and save my brother from torture and certain death. I saw the lack of money (or the lack of managing it properly) ruin my father’s business. Speaking of which, with word out about Howard McNaughton’s involvement in ruining Father’s company, and with the settlement money from the lawsuit, Father was able to renegotiate with his creditors and several key investors agreed to see him through bankruptcy and the restructuring of his investment firm. All in all, he’s not in a bad place right now—especially without a destructive hand secretly working against him.

  Soon winter really comes, as do the holidays, a full-on mad bull rush. A storm slaughters roads and power lines and puts me in a divine mood. We light candles and huddle around the fireplace in the family room, memories of violence lingering in the ether of time. Phillip is home from Yale, sitting ponderously in the same chair where we clung together that night. Mother and Father cuddle together in a new love seat, their faces hopeful and subdued, a calm tension rooting their eyes to the fire.

  I played a devious trick. A little bird told me a killer nor’easter was coming, so I convinced my parents to let Keary come over for a few days to hang with us. I’m glad I did. We sit on the rug in front of the fire playing Monopoly. The room is blissfully quiet save for the miniature explosions from the pine knots burning and my shouts of joy from Keary landing on a boardwalk filled with houses. Pay up, bitch.