Victim Of Circumstance

by Freya Barker

  I get up from my seat and walk up behind him, putting a hand on his back, but he shrugs it off and starts pacing the room.

  “I tried to get us tickets—Mom and me—but air traffic was shut down, so I told her to pack some things, that I was gonna pick her up and we’d drive to New York. Even then she was worried about leaving my father. Bastard was drunk already. All those years and I never could get her to leave his ass. She loved the farm but Reagan was her baby.”

  I’m already crying, watching him pace; four steps one way, then four the other. Never an extra step, as if there was an invisible barrier stopping him. I sit back down on the couch, something he doesn’t even notice he’s so far inside his memories.

  “I was just about to walk out the door with my stuff when she called. Dad yelling and hollering in the background. Told her to take her bags and lock herself in the bathroom until I got there, but then that line went dead as well.”

  I wrap my arms around my midsection in an attempt to hold myself together. The raw agony in his voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Every next word a painful step to what I already know in my bones will be a horrific conclusion.

  “His truck was already gone when I got to the farm,” he resumes, his eyes on something invisible in front of him as he continues to put one foot in front of the other. One, two, three, four steps, then turns a hundred and eighty degrees and does the same in the other direction. I just sit here and watch helplessly. “She was on the bedroom floor, her open suitcase upside down beside the bed, its contents spilled everywhere. I knew she was gone. Found my baseball bat in the closet of my old bedroom and drove straight to where I knew I’d find him.”

  “Gray…” I whisper, and he stops in his tracks, his eyes shooting to me, looking almost confused.

  “I killed him.”

  Gray

  I wait for judgment to cloud her face, but it doesn’t come.

  Tear tracks run down her cheeks but there is no disgust, or fear, or accusation in those warm, gray eyes turned on me.

  “I know,” she whispers, before getting to her feet and walking toward me.

  I take in her appearance, the long light brown hair peppered with unapologetic gray framing her beautiful face, the ratty blue robe tied loosely around her waist, and the swell of generous hips I wish I’d spent more time appreciating.

  “I killed him,” I repeat, wanting to make sure she understands.

  I feel the heat of her body as she rises up on tiptoes and takes my face in her hands, brushing her lips over mine.

  “Yes,” she confirms, her eyes open and seeing. “And I understand.”

  I find myself at a loss for words. I’ve spoken more to this woman than I have to anyone in a very long time. I feel empty and spent. So when her hand grabs mine and she leads me silently to her bedroom, I follow.

  “Sit,” she orders, indicating the bed.

  When I comply, she kneels in front of me and starts pulling off my boots. Then she removes my socks and pushes my knees open, using them to push herself to her feet. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, she starts lifting it over my head, my arms rising willingly.

  However, when she leans forward and presses a kiss to my chest, I have to close my eyes, overwhelmed by her gesture. I feel her move away and hear the rustling of clothes, then a drawer opening and closing, before I can sense her proximity again. When I look, she’s wearing a pair of panties and my shirt.

  I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. As willing as my dick seems to be, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to take her up on the invitation I thought she was extending.

  “Come lie down with me,” she asks, climbing into bed and opening her arms to me.

  Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to get a word through the huge lump in my throat as I lower myself into her embrace. It’s not even dinnertime and I’m suddenly bone weary.

  Her body, her comfort, and her acceptance are like a balm to my soul, and in her arms I allow myself the first real tears of grief.

  When I wake up the room is dark and I’m alone.

  I hear a muted voice through the door and swing my legs over the side of the bed as I run a hand through my hair. I get up, aim for the open door to the en suite bathroom, and I relieve myself before washing my hands and splashing some water on my face.

  I can’t find my shirt—I assume Robin’s still wearing it—and forfeit socks and boots when I go in search of her.

  “Yes, sweetie; pumpkin cheesecake sounds amazing. Can’t wait to try it.”

  She’s sitting at the kitchen table but turns her head when I walk in, a soft smile on her lips. I find myself smiling back, the pull of underused muscles strange. I point at the fridge and raise my eyebrows in question. She nods and waves a hand.

  “I thought the rice and mushroom stuffing?” I hear her say, as I pull a pitcher of what I hope is orange juice from the fridge.

  My guess it’s her mom or her daughter and they’re discussing Thanksgiving dinner based on what I can hear.

  “Oh, that sounds good too.”

  I sit down across from her and notice her eyes are almost sparkling.

  “Okay, let’s do that then. Yes, I’m still picking you up.”

  She grins at me as I sip my juice and listen in boldly. She doesn’t seem to care.

  “I’ll be fine. I just had my winter tires put on. Sweetie, I gotta go.”

  Robin reaches her hand across the table, and I cover it with mine as the faint sound of a woman speaking filters from the phone.

  “I will. I promise. Love you too. Night.”

  “Daughter?” I ask, when she puts her phone facedown on the table.

  “Yeah, Paige. She’s flying in for Thanksgiving.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  I’m still smiling like I never told this woman my deepest darkest secrets just a few hours ago. I don’t even recognize myself as I rub my thumb over the back of her hand.

  “Are you hungry?”

  The question is innocuous enough, but my body’s response is immediate. Her eyes darken when she catches the flare of my nostrils.

  “Starving,” I growl, already getting to my feet. I keep a firm hold of her hand and pull her up with me.

  My turn to lead the way to the bedroom, where I rip my shirt off her body, her lush tits bouncing as she pulls her arms through. My breath sticks in my throat as I take in her soft curves.

  “Jesus, Sunshine.”

  I reach out and run the tips of my fingers down the slope of her breast before weighing it in my hand, rubbing my thumb over its hard tip. A slight hiss comes from Robin’s lips. I lift my eyes to hers and see the same heat I feel reflected there.

  The same intense need I felt earlier surges to the surface, and I suck in a deep breath fighting to stay in control. This time I’m going to make absolutely fucking sure her needs come first.

  With a light shove she falls back on the bed, her legs draped off the end of the mattress. I hook my fingers in the elastic of her panties, pulling them off. Then I drop to my knees, lift her legs over my shoulders, and drag her closer to the edge.

  I inhale the scent of her arousal deeply before covering her with my mouth. Her taste, new and yet familiar, floods me. My mechanics may be rusty, but my hungry determination more than makes up for it. It doesn’t take long before I feel her thighs trembling as she presses herself to my mouth.

  I’m up and out of my jeans in a flash, poised at her entrance. I seek her eyes before I slide into her body; a light brush of my thumb over her clit has her scream out my name. With her tight channel pulsating around me, I let go of my control.

  Embarrassingly few moments later, I buck and groan as my tight balls empty inside her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Robin

  “What happened to that smile?”

  I shove my purse in the drawer behind the counter and stand up to face Kim.

  “Didn’t sleep too well.”

  Kim knows me pretty well, and alt
hough I’m not lying, I’m not exactly forthcoming either.

  “I figure you haven’t slept well since that hot as fuck kiss in the parking lot when we had our first snow.”

  I’ll never live that down. I came in the next day and discovered that kiss had done the rounds through the small community. Of course it didn’t help I dropped Gray off in front of Olson’s the next morning, and did the same a few more times the week following. The resulting friendly ribbing didn’t bother me then, but it bothers me now.

  Because I haven’t seen him for the past four days.

  At first I figured it was the weather. We’ve been hit with a few early winter storms and that usually results in cars going off in the ditch. Every year it’s like people forget how to drive in the snow and have to learn all over again. But when my message was ignored again last night, I clued in there was something else.

  I spent most of the time I should’ve been sleeping mulling over events of the weeks prior instead, trying to figure out what I may have missed. Except for that first night, I’m ashamed to admit there wasn’t a lot of talking involved. Too much time to make up for.

  Then the weather turned and he got busy. Apparently, too busy to answer my messages. It doesn’t sit right. The last answer I got was on Wednesday, when I’d messaged and asked what he was up to for Thanksgiving next week. I’d just talked to Mom, confirming I’d be picking her up, when it occurred to me it might be nice to ask him to come. I figured he might appreciate a decent home-cooked holiday meal.

  His response was that he’d get back to me on that.

  Four fucking days ago.

  My last three messages have gone unanswered. At about three this morning, I decided the ball was firmly in his court and I wasn’t about to chase him down.

  I force a smile for Kim and breathe a sigh of relief when the door opens and the first table of the day walks in.

  “Morning!” I call out to the trio shuffling in, and I’m greeted with subdued hellos.

  I grab a carafe and cream and make my way over to where the three seniors sit down in their preferred booth. There used to be four of them, but I heard through the grapevine that Frank Hanson, owner of the Dirty Dog, was gravely ill. Apparently he had moved to a palliative care facility in Clare.

  “Coffee, fellas?”

  “Sure, sweetheart, hit me up,” John McClusky, a retired school principal, is the first to answer.

  “Yup,” is the curt response from former postal worker, Eddie Banks.

  The third in the trio, Enzo Trotti, whose family owns the local pizzeria, simply turns over his cup and holds it out.

  I fill their cups and it’s on my lips to inquire about their friend, but I don’t want to pry. Kim has no such hang-ups and sidles up to me at the table.

  “How’s Frank doing, boys?” she asks, never mind that those ‘boys’ are almost twice her age.

  It’s Enzo who answers.

  “Not long now.”

  “Said he didn’t think he’d make Thanksgiving,” John adds. “Looks like he may have been right.”

  “Well, shit. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “We all gotta go sometime,” Enzo declares. Despite the flippant tone of his statement, the expression on his face shows he’s feeling this deeply.

  “Doesn’t make it any easier,” I tell him gently, placing my hand on his arm.

  His watery, red-rimmed eyes turn up to me.

  “No. No it don’t.”

  “What’s gonna happen to the Dirty Dog?” Kim asks, and this time Eddie speaks up.

  “Crazy bastard left it to that Bennet boy.”

  For the rest of my shift, I’m preoccupied with what Eddie said. Wondering if that’s perhaps what has kept Gray busy these past days.

  Becca, who has been scheduled on the afternoon shift, comes in at a little before four. She smiles at me as she has for a while now, reluctantly.

  “Everything okay, Becca?” I ask when she slips around me behind the counter to tuck her purse away.

  “I’m fine.”

  The response is instant and as fake as her smile has been, ever since the day I saw her greeting Gray when he came to pick up the keys to my SUV. The same day he picked me up after work and kissed the stuffing out of me, right outside the diner windows.

  I had dismissed the earlier incident as maybe old acquaintances and what happened after between Gray and I solidified that conclusion. I’d never even bothered to ask him about it, but now I’m wondering if perhaps I should’ve.

  I’m not a fan of confrontation, but I’m even less of a fan of stress in the workplace, so I turn to Becca.

  “Are you sure? You seem a little tense.”

  Something flares in her eyes. Anger? Hurt? I can’t quite place it when she turns her face away.

  “Just some personal stuff. Sorry if I’ve been off.”

  “Don’t apologize. I was worried perhaps it was something I’d done?”

  She hesitates, just a fraction too long, before she answers with a forced smile on her face as she looks at me.

  “Not at all.”

  Now I recognize the anger simmering behind her eyes.

  “Good,” I mumble, more than a bit taken aback as I grab my things and with a wave goodbye, head for the parking lot.

  Maybe it’s time to get some answers.

  The snow is starting to come down again when I pull into Olson’s, but I’m disappointed when I find only Tank inside.

  Gray

  “Asshole.”

  My head snaps up as I trudge into the shop, after pulling yet another fucking idiot out of the ditch. Eight of them today alone.

  My mood is already in the sewer and having Jimmy greet me like that doesn’t improve it one bit.

  “What the fuck?” I snap.

  “She was here. Looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  I know damn well who he’s talking about. The same ‘she’ I’ve been avoiding since she asked about Thanksgiving. For some reason that innocent message chilled the blood in my veins. I haven’t talked to her since. An asshole move—Jimmy’s right about that—but the prospect of Thanksgiving at her place, meeting her mother and daughter, made this whole thing a little too real. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

  Jimmy doesn’t buy my feigned ignorance either.

  “She’s worried about you, since apparently you’ve been ghosting her for days. You can be a selfish bastard; you know that? First person she lets close in years. And you? You fucking dine and dash. Nice.”

  My temper flares and I shove my clenched fists in my pockets for fear of letting them fly.

  “You don’t know a fucking thing about it,” I bite off.

  “No. I don’t,” he spits, stepping dangerously close to my space and I take an inadvertent step back. “Because you don’t talk.” I flinch at the unexpected accusation. “I don’t know what goes on in your head, but I know it can’t be fucking easy. Because you…don’t…talk.” Every word is emphasized with a finger poking my chest and I have a hard time keeping from breaking his hand, so I take another step back.

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  Exasperated, Jimmy throws his hands up in the air and lets loose a colorful string of curses. Then he closes his eyes and sucks air in through his nose before looking at me, and he continues in a carefully restrained voice.

  “Then why is it, you suddenly blow off a woman most men would give their left nut to have in their bed? Last week you started to remind me of the man I knew, but over the past few days, I watched you crawl right back into your shell.”

  “Thanksgiving,” I blurt out. I can tell from the confused look on his face he’s not getting me, so I clarify. “I think she wants to invite me for dinner.”

  “So?”

  “Her mother and daughter will be there.”

  “And?”

  Apparently my explanations aren’t helping him understand.

  “Family holiday, Jimmy. I’m sure her family won’t be happy she’s slummin
g with an ex-con.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I don’t give him a chance. “Last Thanksgiving I celebrated, my baby sister was sitting across the table from me. Haven’t had much to be thankful for since then.”

  Understanding dawns on his face and his eyes close again.

  “Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

  “I hadn’t either, until she brought up the subject,” I admit. “Hit me like a ton of bricks.”

  “Why not just explain?”

  I shrug.

  “Does it matter? Not like this could’ve gone anywhere.”

  “Are you for fucking real? Are you so self-absorbed you can’t see how unfair that is to her? Right now Robin worries it’s because of something she’s done. You at least owe her the truth on that, even if things don’t work out, you can’t let her believe it was in any way her fault.”

  Shit. I fucking hate it when I’m wrong.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “When?” he pushes, like he did the first time he called me out on my self-defeatist bullshit.

  “After work.”

  “Get the fuck out of here. You’re done for the day.”

  I stare at him for a moment, catching the sincerity in his eyes. Then I turn on my heel, but before I even get back to the truck, my phone rings in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number when I pull it out and am tempted to let it go, but end up answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Gray Bennet?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Bunker. I manage the Dirty Dog?”

  “Right.” I remember the name Frank mentioned and right away a sense of doom comes over me. Last time I spoke with Frank was last week, but he told me again he didn’t want me driving out. “Is there a problem?”