HICKEY

by Cora Brent

  My answer was to bend my knees back and stretch as wide as I could. Bran swore and thrust and pushed deeper. The initial discomfort was gone, a brief nuisance, having given way to something much more powerful. I clutched the coverlet and cried out as it consumed me.

  “I fucking love watching you come,” my husband said and then let out a sound between a growl and roar as he finished inside of me.

  He held me afterwards. He always did. I kissed his shoulder and he raised his head, giving me a strangely penetrating look.

  “You were always meant to be mine,” he said like it was a fact. Indisputable.

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes, I think I was.”

  There was nothing really extraordinary about getting married young in Hickeyville. My own parents had only been twenty when they married. I could remember other couples running straight to the altar after graduation, although it did seem to happen less and less as the town faded and people moved away.

  His stepmother, Nell, threw us a small party in the backyard about three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon. I shook a lot of hands, showed off my modest ring and felt generally uncomfortable with receiving so much attention. It was unfortunate that Bran’s snotty stepsister, Kayla, decided to come home for the weekend at the last minute. I hadn’t missed her venomous glare at the sight of Bran and me together, yet a split second later she was smiling.

  “Congratulations you two,” she said as she folded us in her bony embrace. I thought she hung onto Bran a little too long.

  “Thanks,” I said as Bran laced his fingers through mine.

  “This was a hell of a surprise,” Kayla said. “I didn’t know you guys were that serious.”

  She was still smiling but there was a sharp quality in her grey eyes as she watched Bran and it made me feel territorial. I didn’t like her, never had. We’d known each other since elementary school but we didn’t tend to run in the same social circles. Worst of all, she was always a ringleader in Antha’s torment and I didn’t feel like being polite to her now no matter what role she played in my new family. What’s more, she and Bran used to hook up eons ago, before their parents got married.

  Bran never had much to say about his stepsister, only that he kept his distance. When I glanced up at him I was surprised to see that he was scowling in her direction.

  “I’m gonna go see if Nell or Dad needs any help,” he said. He raised an eyebrow at me. “You okay here?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, wondering if there was more animosity between Kayla and Bran than I’d guessed.

  Bran abruptly pulled me in for a kiss. It was no quick peck either. He held me close and kissed me long and hard as if we were alone. When he released me he didn’t glance Kayla’s way again before heading over to the covered patio where his father sat beside the mayor, sipping a drink and talking quietly.

  Bran had mentioned several times that there were plans in the works to finally reopen the factory and since Eric Hickey was one of the leading local business leaders it made sense that he was involved in whatever important discussion was taking place. I wasn’t sure I believed it, this talk about the factory being resurrected. There had been so much hope for so long. It had to wear out sometime. My father-in-law noticed my stare and he raised his drink with a smile. I didn’t hesitate to wave and smile back. Both Mr. Hickey and his wife had been nothing but kind to me so far.

  “You don’t like me, do you, Cecily?” asked Kayla with false sweetness.

  I looked at her in surprise because I’d already forgotten she was there.

  “No, I don’t,” I said honestly.

  Kayla seemed untroubled. She played with a long strand of fiery hair and stared at Bran’s back. “I can’t blame you. God knows I used to be a bitch sometimes.”

  “You think?” I grumbled.

  Kayla dropped her hair and laughed. “You seem all quiet and shy but you don’t take anyone’s shit. That’s kind of cool.” She leaned closer. She smelled like cigarette smoke. “You know, I bet we’ll be friends.”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it.”

  Kayla backed away with a sneer. “You won’t last long with Bran if you’re worried about competition all the time.”

  I leveled her with a glare. “I’m not worried at all, Kayla. And I don’t consider you competition.”

  Kayla sighed and then pointedly looked me up and down. I was dressed in a teal-colored blouse and long bohemian skirt with a grey cardigan to guard against the autumn chill but under Kayla’s scrutiny I suddenly felt homely. She wore a hot pink dress that looked like it was made of rubber paint and she showed no sign of being bothered by the cool air.

  “You should,” she said, smirking. “Bran and I have a history. And you know what they say.”

  I didn’t care what ‘they’ said. I was already tired of this girl. My opinion of her hadn’t changed. Kayla was nothing but a bitter, gossiping brat. I wanted to go find Bran and feel the warm comfort of his arms around me.

  “What do they say, Kayla?” I asked wearily.

  She clucked her tongue and leaned in closer. “History has a way of repeating itself,” she whispered triumphantly and then strutted in the opposite direction.

  “How fucking creative,” I muttered as I watched Kayla flounce away. I didn’t have time to reflect on that odd encounter because an instant later my mother was pulling me away to go pose for some pictures beside a colorful old elm tree in the corner of the Hickeys’ sizeable yard.

  “Did you have fun today?” Bran asked me later when the guest were all gone and we were alone up in our apartment. He slipped his arms around me and kissed my neck.

  “Yes,” I whispered as a shiver rolled through me at the touch of his lips. “It was nice of Nell to throw us a party.”

  His hands moved over my body. “It was nice but I’m glad to have you all to myself again.”

  I twisted my neck so I could look up at him. “It seemed like you disappeared for a little while.”

  He grinned. “I did. Just ran out to my truck to drive over and deliver a plate of food to Eddie Heal.”

  “The homeless guy?”

  “Yeah. He hangs around the corner by the dealership and I bring him something whenever I get a chance.” He shrugged. “He’s a good guy who’s gotten some tough breaks.”

  “Kind of like Hickeyville.”

  He brushed his lips across my neck again. “Haven’t you heard? Better times are just around the corner.”

  “Soon the factory will reopen,” we said in unison and then laughed together because that had been a longstanding promise around town for years.

  “I saw your father talking to the mayor,” I mentioned.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, “that deal with the umbrella company fell through.”

  “Well that sucks.”

  He shrugged. “Something else will come along.”

  I looked around the tiny apartment. “We really do need to decorate some more in here.”

  I’d already hung some pictures and scattered some accents, like the colorful pillows from my old bedroom. But there weren’t enough windows and the interior still looked drab. A few times I’d mentioned the idea of painting the walls. Perhaps a bright yellow or a lime green. Bran didn’t seem to care much about interior decorating but he said whatever I wanted to do was fine with him.

  He squeezed me around the waist and pointed at the wall above the bed. “No matter what, that will always be my favorite addition,” he said softly and we stared at the picture together.

  I’d been seized by inspiration when we returned from our honeymoon. My first finished project in a long time was a painted watercolor of the Grand Canyon. Bran loved it, hung it on the wall the day I finished. He promised me we’d go there someday and every time I looked at it I believed him. We’d go places. We’d see things. We could do anything together.

  Bran’s breathing was quickening and I knew what that meant. One of the most obvious things I’d learned about my new husband was that he needed a
ton of sex. That was fine with me. I leaned back against his chest and tried to concentrate on nothing but the sensations rolling through me as he moved his hands up and down my body. But for some reason I kept seeing Kayla’s toxic smile and I sighed.

  “Cess? Something wrong?” Bran stopped what he was doing and gently spun me around to face him.

  “What the hell is up with Kayla?” I blurted.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Kayla? Who gives a shit?” He paused and studied me. “Did she say something rude to you today?”

  I ran my hands over his broad chest and reached up to flick my tongue over the hollow at his throat. I really didn’t want to discuss Bran’s rotten stepsister. I wanted Bran to peel my clothes off and make me forget that anyone else existed.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said. “She’s just a creep. It seems she considers you her property though.”

  Bran snorted. The he took my left hand, selected my ring finger and pressed it to his lips. “I only belong to you.”

  I let my hands drop to his belt. Bran sucked in a breath as I started to work the buckle.

  “Well then, I’m going to claim my rights,” I said sweetly as he hardened instantly at the feel of my fingers.

  “Fuck, yeah,” he growled and lifted me in his arms. I squealed when he tossed me on the bed. “You can claim what you want, wife, once I conquer the hell out of you.”

  I was laughing as he loomed over me. “Such a filthy brute.”

  Bran yanked my skirt up, ripping it slightly. The sound thrilled me. “You like it filthy, don’t you, Cess?”

  I moaned. “Yes.”

  He tore my panties savagely. “Not such a good girl after all.”

  “No, I’m not,” I moaned as his tongue invaded to teach me a lesson. I spread my legs wider and reveled in the way his hot tongue teased me until I whimpered. I was about to ready to scream with pleasure when he picked his head up and flashed a devilish grin. He knelt between my legs as he pushed his pants down, revealing that his mighty dick was ready for action.

  I wrapped my legs around his waist with eagerness and he was about ready to thrust his way inside when I rose up on my elbows and gasped, “Bran? Condom?”

  “Fuck,” he swore and rooted around in the nightstand until he found one. We’d been careless a few times but when we returned from our honeymoon we agreed that we didn’t want to make a habit out of it. There wasn’t enough room in here for a baby.

  Seconds later Bran entered me with a hard thrust that always made me gasp at the sheer size of him. Outside the thin walls of the apartment a thunderstorm rolled through town, pounding and flashing and knocking out the power for a few minutes. Bran was tireless and the first time I came with a violent kind of glory, shrieking his name and running my nails down his back. The second time I whimpered into his neck and clutched him close as the spasms shook me.

  Bran wasn’t done yet. He was still hard inside of me when he rolled over to his back, taking me with him. His strong hands seized my hips. “Go ahead, baby. Claim what’s yours.”

  I fucking loved riding him. I tore my shirt and bra off, throwing them aside as he urged me on harder, faster. The only light in the room came from the crashing lightning outside and at the next crack of thunder, Bran stiffened underneath me, clutched my hips tight cursed a blue streak as he came. I gently ran my fingers over his lips as I watched. I was trying to memorize him, every detail.

  “Bran,” I whispered. The lights flickered back on and he opened his eyes and smiled at me.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said and kept me in a straddle as he tenderly caressed my skin.

  “Stop looking at me,” I complained, grabbing for the sheet. Even though we’d done everything by now I still felt shy sometimes when the throes of passion receded and he still watched me so intently.

  “No,” he growled, and shoved the sheet aside. “You’re mine and I’ll look at you any damn time I want.”

  “Bran, I-“

  He sat up and silenced me with a kiss. He was good at that. When he was satisfied that I had no other objections he sank back onto the bed and resumed staring at me. I ran my hands over his chest, the fascinating muscles rigid beneath my fingertips. I let my hands travel all over his skin, sketching something unseen.

  “What are you writing, babe?” he asked sleepily.

  I grinned. “I’m using you. You are my canvas. I’m recreating van Gogh’s ‘A Starry Night’ right on your chest.”

  He laughed, a sudden deep rumble. “I remember in fifth grade how it used to piss off old man Kaplan when you scrawled all over your desk all the time.”

  “The desktop was so bare. I hated how it was so plain and I wanted to make it prettier. I can’t believe you remember that.” I brushed my palm over his chest like I was erasing the picture. “I don’t know, I guess that’s why I always dreamed of art school. I wanted to make my own pretty world and teach kids how to do the same.”

  He frowned. “And now you don’t?”

  I bent down and kissed his chest, then traveled lower. “I don’t need to make the world prettier. It looks quite stunning at the moment.”

  Suddenly Bran reached over the side of the mattress, hunted around in the drawer of the nightstand and withdrew a marker, pressing it into my hand.

  “Make the world prettier, Cess.”

  “Now?”

  He smiled. “Now.”

  Bran was a cooperative subject. His dick rose to attention as I worked carefully on his skin but he didn’t touch me. Once, right before I started illustrating, I questioned whether he was sure the dry erase marker would come off in the shower. Bran just laughed and said he didn’t give a shit if it didn’t.

  God, I loved him for that.

  I drew the scene of ‘A Starry Night’ from memory. A print had hung over my bed in my childhood room. I’d spent so many hours lying there, staring at it and wondering how many more hours I would need to spend in that very spot before something worthwhile happened to me. I remembered every detail and I drew them all.

  “Finished,” I said, signing the corner of my husband’s chest with a flourish.

  Bran said nothing. He pulled me to him and kissed me again. I wanted him badly when he rolled me over and nudged my legs open once more. I welcomed him inside and silently thanked all the surrealistic stars in the world for creating Branson Hickey. And for giving him to me.

  If our story had only been full of times that were so intimate and tender then I could feel only gratitude that we’d found each other at such a young age.

  But that’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Branson

  Nell texted just as my plane landed to let me know my father was going to be discharged shortly. I’d only brought a carry on bag so I hopped right in a cab and headed over to the hospital.

  I figured Nell would have warned him I was on my way and I braced for a caustic greeting when I walked into my father’s room but I stopped at the door with shock. My father had always been a tall, thickset guy. I wasn’t prepared to see the thin, tired man whose hair had turned mostly white.

  “Branson,” said my father from his wheelchair and held a somewhat shaky hand out. I dropped my bag, went straight to his bed and hugged him, startled at the feel of his bones. Since I was a teenager, he’d been overweight with the flushed face of a man who was too used to drinking hard. Now he was pale and somewhat gaunt.

  “Hey, Pop,” I said and felt something wrench inside my guts.

  Things hadn’t been great between us even when I was a kid but they’d gotten downright bad after I hastily joined the Army. He didn’t understand why I’d given up. On my marriage, on our hometown, on the business he’d assumed I’d take over someday. When I left he saw it as a betrayal and he told me so with angry words. My father was stubborn, refusing to accept what I’d bitterly learned by that time.

  Some things couldn’t be saved, some families couldn’t be fixed, and some towns coul
dn’t be forced back into prosperity. Crime was rising in the neighborhood, businesses continued to close and even my father’s house had been broken into several times. I had called my father a fool for hanging on to Hickeyville. I pleaded with him scrape together whatever he had left and start over somewhere else, just like the rest of us. The last time we’d been in the same room, we argued and Eric Hickey had made it clear he didn’t care to see me again anytime soon.

  That was water under the bridge. It didn’t matter now.

  Nell walked in the room and smiled at the sight of the two of us together. Her frizzy red hair tickled my nose as she embraced me like a son.

  “We should have the discharge paperwork any minute now, Eric,” she said and then gave her husband a kiss on his sunken cheek. He was fifty-seven and he looked at least ten years older but he smiled happily at the touch of her lips.

  For the first time my eyes strayed to my father’s right leg, now missing below the right knee. He’d been a football player in high school and college. When I was a boy he seemed like a pillar of marble. Strong. Formidable. Unyielding. He had everyone’s respect and the fact that our last name was attached to the name of our town just made him seem even more commanding.

  Maybe every boy likes to think of his dad as indomitable.

  Maybe every boy is hurt to find out differently.

  Eric Hickey’s cracks started showing even before Caden’s death. He was always perplexed by his eldest son, always at odds with his wife. He hit the bottle too often and his weight ballooned. Lying in my bed at night, I’d hear the fights. Caden vs. my parents. My parents vs. each other. I didn’t worry about it much because by morning everything seemed fine.

  The first time I ever saw my father cry was the Sunday morning a sad-eyed police officer knocked on our front door with the news that my brother wasn’t lazily sleeping late in his upstairs bedroom like we’d thought. Caden had been found on the floor of Harrison Cantor’s garage. There’d been a party, a drinking game with shots of straight whiskey. Two other teens were hospitalized with alcohol poisoning but Caden never made it that far. He’d been dead for hours before anyone thought to check his pulse.