Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  “Hey, Wren,” he says with that slow pronunciation of my name like when we were kids.

  “Where on earth did you steal that uniform from?”

  He grins crookedly. “I didn’t steal it.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Actually, I’m a deputy, but close enough.”

  I shake my head and press my lips together.

  “Look at you. Speechless,” he teases, leaning against the front counter like he owns the place. “Miracles do happen.”

  “I just can’t wrap my head around Logan Sawyer, an officer of the law.”

  “Like father, like son,” he says. There’s pride behind his words.

  “So, are you using your position of authority to stalk me now?”

  He lazily strolls down the first aisle, nothing but confidence in his steps. Like a puppy, I follow without being told.

  “Nah, I just wanted to see you again. It’s been too long.”

  He picks up a record and flips it over before dropping it back into the bin. I catch Preston watching us. He’s wearing that pouty scowl again. With his size and appearance, to the untrained eye, this face would appear menacing. I think it’s adorable.

  “Well, you’ve seen me now.”

  Sawyer walks to the end of the aisle and turns toward me. “I certainly have.” He picks up a framed, autographed photo of Elton John and makes a face at it. “But I want to see more of you. Is this real?”

  I nod and follow him around the corner where he puts down the frame.

  “Sawyer, you were never very good at asking for what you want. Out with it.”

  He leans against the bin that holds Michael Jackson through Iggy Pop and crosses his arms and ankles. I see Preston make his way to the first row and pick up the album Sawyer looked at. He inspects it, flips it over, and puts it in its rightful place.

  “Let’s have dinner tonight,” Sawyer says.

  I walk past him and try to come up with reasons not to. “I don’t know. Don’t you think we’re old news?”

  Sawyer follows me now. I take two steps for each one of his.

  “We’ve got history, Wren. And history sometimes repeats itself.”

  I stop and spin to face him. “Not this time. We were kids. We’re different people now. I’m different. I’m not Reverend Hart’s rebellious teenager anymore. And you’re not Prince Charming, sweeping me out of the tower for a night of debauchery and drunken sex.”

  “Ouch,” Sawyer says, clutching his chest. “Is that all I was to you?”

  I shake my head. “No. You know we were more than that. I just don’t think it’s something to revisit.”

  “It’s just dinner between old friends,” he says. “Not another marriage proposal.”

  I cringe at the reminder of that ill-fated proposal. I didn’t believe he was serious. Sawyer had just panicked when he saw that I was really leaving Crowley. Still, he hadn’t expected me to say no.

  I look past his shoulder and see Preston holding the Elton John photo. He walks over to where it was originally and places it in the exact spot, facing the door. I smile at this, but it sends the wrong message to the wrong person.

  “Great. You’ll go?” Sawyer asks.

  “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  He steps to me and pushes the choppy bit of bangs off my forehead. “This hair,” he says. “Purple hair.”

  “Lavender,” I correct.

  There’s a crackling noise, and a woman’s voice comes over the radio on his belt. Sawyer cocks his head to the side, listening intently.

  “I’ve got to go. But I’d love to know where you’ve been for the last three years. My number hasn’t changed. Call me.”

  I nod and refuse to let the vivid memories of teenage Sawyer and me play out in my head. I hear the door chime as he leaves. Having abandoned my cell phone somewhere around Denver, I don’t tell him that I don’t remember his number, and I hate the insinuation that I would.

  Preston makes his way over to me, his expression completely neutral. He doesn’t say a word, only reaches out and smooths down the front of my hair so that it lays like it had prior to Sawyer’s visit. It’s the first time he’s touched my skin, and I feel the weight of his intentional movements.

  “Thanks,” I tell him.

  He gives me a quick nod and moves to the front counter.

  …

  “Come to The Haystack,” I tell Preston as he flips over the open sign to closed. “I need a drink or six.”

  He shakes his head and leans against the locked door.

  “Why not?” I ask while inspecting my nails. My feet dangle over the edge of the counter.

  Preston turns and walks toward me, stopping between my open knees. We are close, but not touching. I can feel the heat from his body, or maybe that’s just my need manifesting itself.

  “I’m not like other guys,” he says. The words spill out quickly, like a confession burning his tongue.

  “I know. That’s why I like you.”

  “If you’re looking for normal…” His voice drifts off to nothing.

  Preston’s face bears a heavy frown, and he’s avoiding my eyes. He shaved his beard this morning, and I’m intrigued by the strong jaw that lays beneath it. I want to run my fingers over that edge.

  “What’s normal? Who’s normal?” I ask.

  He places his large hands on either side of my legs, gripping the counter edge so tight I think the wood may splinter. Preston drops his head and speaks to the floor.

  “You don’t understand.” His voice is angry now, but I know he’s not angry with me. “I count things. Everything. All the time. If I touch one thing, I have to touch them all. Like with your buttons. I like my space. I need neatness and organization. It’s about having control.”

  When he finally looks up, I find shame and uncertainty there. I want to soothe him, to rub the creases out of his worried forehead. His eyes are intense, and they search mine for something.

  “I hate this part of me. I hate this weakness.”

  I lay both of my hands over both of his. He doesn’t seem bothered by my touch. “Hey, it’s not a weakness. It’s a medical condition, like bad kidneys or high blood pressure.”

  “It rules my fucking life,” he says.

  “Well, Preston-who-counts-things, if you won’t drink with me in the bar, how about here? Surely you have something in your apartment.”

  “No one’s ever been in my apartment.” His shoulders go rigid, and he forces them back down before pulling his hands away.

  “That’s okay. I don’t have to go in there. You get it, and we’ll hang out in the store. You’re comfortable here, right? For one night, we’ll rule your fucking life.”

  A long moment of silence sits between us while Preston shifts from foot to foot. One hand rubs at the back of his neck as his eyes study the floor. I silently beg for him to fight through this and give me a chance.

  Finally, he raises his gaze to mine and nods. “I’ll be right back.”

  Preston disappears through the swinging door, and I jump down, checking my reflection in the front window. I adjust my boobs and tug on the deep V-neck of my shirt. When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I walk to the lounge in the back of the shop, grabbing a Bon Jovi album on my way. I put the record on and have a seat on one end of the vintage couch.

  When Preston reappears, he’s carrying two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He glances at the couch and then the oversize chair adjacent. I pat the spot next to me, making sure he knows where I want him. I see his chest rise and fall before dropping onto the couch. I smile at the small victory.

  Preston pours a generous amount of whiskey into each glass. I grab mine and raise it in the space between us. “What shall we toast to?”

  He raises his glass and holds it next to mine, spinning it around in his large hand so that the logos on our glasses line up. “To homecomings and hair bands.”

  We clink our drinks together and take a sip, holding each other�
�s gaze over the rim of our glasses. The alcohol coats my throat and brings an instant warmth to my empty stomach. A long silence sits between us. The only sound is Bon Jovi’s voice and guitar riffs. Preston looks at his watch and sips his whiskey.

  “Do you have somewhere to be?” I ask. He shakes his head. “So, Preston-who-likes-his-space, how do you feel about girls?” He takes another sip and doesn’t answer. “Okay, how do you feel about guys?”

  One side of Preston’s mouth lifts. “I like girls, Wren.”

  “Oh, thank God!” He chuckles, and those lovely eye crinkles appear. “Have you had girlfriends?”

  “One,” he says with a long sigh. “The relationship was difficult. No, I was difficult. In the end, she couldn’t deal with all my…issues. She said it was exhausting. I was exhausting.”

  “You are not your disorder, Preston.”

  He nods and takes another swallow of whiskey. Silence fills the space between us, and it’s as if I can almost see him shutting down. I can’t imagine what’s going on in that head of his.

  “Want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

  Preston’s gaze flicks to my mouth and up to my eyes.

  “Kissing.”

  Hope ignites a fire inside me. “And how do you feel about kissing?”

  I see his Adam’s apple bob, and he taps the side of his glass with his index finger.

  “It’s easier when I’m drunk. The alcohol seems to take the edge off.”

  I frown at the thought of this. Needing alcohol to dull your senses seems like such a waste. I try not to give him a sympathetic look. I know he doesn’t want my pity.

  “That’s too bad,” I say, letting my palm rest on his knee. The song changes, and I grin at the familiar beat. “Kissing is one of my favorite things. I mean, sex is good, but kissing is much more intimate. Don’t you think?”

  Preston shrugs at me, but I see that I have his undivided attention.

  “First there’s the build up. Innocent touches,” I say, dragging my nails up his thigh, “and mutual flirting just to let the other party know you’re open to the idea. There’s that slow burn in your body. It builds every time you catch the other person staring.” Preston listens intently, finishing his whiskey. He licks those perfect lips, and my fingers tighten around my glass, holding on to the last of my control. “Every time you drink or take a bite of something, your full attention is brought to the mouth. You imagine what those lips will feel like. Will they be soft and submissive? Or hard and possessive?”

  I sip my drink while he pours himself another.

  “And which do you prefer?” he asks. His normally deep voice is even lower and gritty. It reminds me of the static scratching noise when an album finishes playing.

  “I like both—individually and at the same time. I like to be owned by a kiss.”

  Preston leans back on the couch and sips his drink again. He stares out at the store.

  “Seems like a lot of pressure for a kiss.”

  I turn sideways, sitting on my knees, and set my glass down on the table.

  “It is. Not every kiss will be perfect, but there’s a difference between a good kiss and a great kiss. Surely you’ve been kissed before?”

  “I have.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  He gives a slight shake of his head and sips his whiskey. “Not much to tell.”

  “Come on,” I say, leaning in closer. “I don’t want your complete sexual history, just tell me how they made you feel.”

  Preston’s gaze flicks to my mouth and away again. “They were a means to an end, a way to get something else I wanted. More of a necessity than a desire.”

  He stretches his arm out along the back of the couch, his hand holding the drink near my head. His body is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, and while I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, I do want to take advantage of our positions. I debate on how far to push Preston. If I come on too strong, he could shut me down completely, and I’m not sure I could handle outright rejection. I fear that once I lose his trust, I’ll never get it back.

  I decide the chance of having his hands on me is worth the risk.

  I throw one leg over Preston’s lap so I can straddle him. The muscles in his jaw twitch as he sucks in a deep breath, holding it. He’s nothing but solid man between my thighs. He smells like whiskey and aftershave, my own personal aphrodisiac.

  “What are you doing, Wren?” he asks, releasing his breath. While his voice is calm, I know that things inside his head must be on red alert.

  “Which do you feel right now, Preston? Necessity or desire?”

  He doesn’t answer, but I feel the muscles in his thighs tighten beneath me.

  “What are you thinking right now?” I ask.

  “I can barely think with you so close. My thoughts are scrambled.”

  I lean forward and stop with my lips hovering just inches from his.

  “Tell me one of those thoughts.”

  His eyes are on my face. “There’s an eyelash on your cheek.”

  “Do you need to get it?” Our words are barely more than breathy vapor between us.

  Preston turns his head, brings his drink to his lips, and finishes the second glass of whiskey. He turns back and nods in the affirmative.

  When he reaches for my face, I close my eyes. The tip of his finger sweeps across my cheek removing the eyelash, then traces the curve of my jaw and lifts my chin. I feel his body shift and hold still to keep from scaring him away. The moment stretches between us. I can feel his breath against my lips, and I want to lean in.

  Preston’s mouth is tentative at first, barely brushing mine. There’s a hum from inside my throat urging him on. I keep my hands on my thighs in an effort to take things slow. When his tongue sweeps across mine, I taste mint and whiskey—a delicious combination mixed with Preston. Our kiss becomes more hard than soft, more demanding than asking.

  I turn my head to take a much-needed breath, and Preston’s lips trail down to my neck. The scratch of his prickly facial hair rubs against my collarbone, and I hum in satisfaction. My hands have a mind of their own, finding his ribs and sliding around to the solid muscles of his back. I am on sensory overload, consumed by this moment, when he abruptly pulls away.

  Climbing off his lap, I try not to feel rejected. There is now two feet of space between us, but we are an obvious display of mirrored passion. Heaving chests, flushed cheeks, and an internal fire fueling my racing heart. I lean against the opposite arm of the couch, smoothing my shirt and pulling my knees up.

  “What are you thinking now?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.

  “Half of me is thinking about all the disease-causing agents we could have just exchanged.” His voice is shameful as he leans over, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

  “And the other half?”

  “The other half is wishing I didn’t have to stop.”

  Preston stands, grabs the bottle and glasses, and disappears through the swinging door.

  A formidable foe

  Trying to reclaim what was once his

  While I own no part of her

  I want to slay him with blades

  Of confidence and possession

  But I do not own those weapons

  But then, she is looking at me

  Eyes that tempt and tease

  Mouth that defines kissing like

  It is landing on the moon

  Words and physical beauty

  Live in the shadow of those kisses

  She eclipses all that I am

  The taste is candy lips and whiskey tongue

  The effect is a hard reboot

  Even with her calming elixir

  My mind screams its objection

  I hold that demon back

  As long as possible

  Too needy for her touch

  Eventually he wins and

  I must crawl back inside myself

  But at arm’s length

  Wren Hart
still rules my thoughts

  Making her my only obsession

  An off switch for compulsion

  In my system of disorder

  - Preston

  Chapter Six

  At Last!

  “I’m bored.”

  Bennie closes the register and turns to face me.

  “You could go help those customers,” she offers, motioning to a couple inspecting some furniture pieces.

  Preston approaches the couple and gives them a cautious, practiced smile. I can’t hear what they say, but the woman giggles and takes a step toward Preston. The guy holds his hand out to shake, and there is a fleeting look of panic before Preston holds up his palms and flips them back and forth as if offering them up for inspection. The guy nods and tucks his hands into his pockets.

  “Maybe you need to find a job or something to fill your time,” Bennie says, interrupting my observation.

  “Preston has my job. And my apartment.”

  “Bitter, party of one,” she points out with a raised eyebrow. I’ve been calling it the bitch brow ever since I learned that word. “You’re the one who left, Wren. Speaking of Preston, did you say something to him? He’s awfully quiet today.”

  “He’s always quiet. Why do you assume I did something to offend him?” Another sideways glance from Bennie, and I offer my best innocent smile. “We kissed last night. I think he’s still processing.”

  Bennie’s eyes widen, and she slumps into her chair behind the front counter.

  “Wren,” she starts, but doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. I know she’s concerned, about him, about me, about how messy this could get.

  “It’s cool, Bennie. We’re both adults. Now, what can I do in this town to earn some money?”

  The couple leaves without buying anything. I watch Preston sort through a new box of inventory for the third time this morning. He’s wearing another plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and instantly, my mind goes to how easy it would be to peel that thing from his body. One hard tug and it would open right up.

  “What about Millie’s?”

  “What? No. I can’t deal with smelling like french fries.”

  “Coach is looking for part-time help at The Haystack. The kids in Franklin like to come party here during the summer, so he’ll need backup.”