Touch (A Denazen Novel, Book 1)

by Jus Accardo

  As I make my way down the hall, I hear a deep, unfamiliar voice. “Are we supposed to be okay with this?”

  I soften my steps, moving slowly, and listen.

  “Of course we are,” Grandma says. “She’s our daughter.”

  A chair scrapes the floor, and the man grunts as he sits. “It’s been seventeen years. Are you telling me she couldn’t find a phone?” There’s a moment of silence before I hear fingers snap. His voice drops to a hush, highlighting its rough, sandpaper quality. “Who was that boy, the one with the stringy hair…Chris something or another?”

  “Mandling?”

  “That’s it. Chris Mandling. It’s got to be him. I never liked that boy.”

  “No,” Grandma hisses back. “They shipped him off to military school almost a year before Addison left.”

  “Lucy Jones’ boy?”

  “Be serious. He had buck teeth and a lisp.”

  “He got braces and a speech therapist. He’s fine now.”

  The sounds of Grandma pulling the dinner together grow louder, and I stop before reaching the threshold to the kitchen. Mom would have a fit if she heard this.

  “Think shallow teenage girl,” Grandma says.

  “Raymond Tiller.”

  Grandma sighs her frustration. “He’s black.”

  “He was around,” he whispers in his defense.

  Plates and flatware clatter when she sets them on the table. “I know, but Dylan is as white as they come.”

  “Mark Taylor, then. He’s the whitest boy I know.”

  “With red hair and freckles. I don’t know…”

  “You used to like red hair.”

  “I still do, but we’re talking about Addison.”

  “I know, I know, but I’m doin’ this off the top of my head. Most of those boys left the second she did.”

  There’s a moment of silence. Within that time, I realize Mom must’ve been the high school slut if they can come up with this many possibilities, plus other guys whose names they can’t remember. Why am I not surprised?

  “Hey!” the man says louder than he should, and then quickly lowers his voice again. “How about Kenny Jacks or his friend, Donny Raynor?”

  Grandma lets out a thoughtful hmm. “Kenny was a handsome boy, if I recall.”

  “And always throwing rocks at her window. I nearly shot him that one night, remember?” Excitement ripples through his voice.

  “I do.”

  Kenny Jacks. I thrust my hands in my jean pockets and jiggle my fingers within. I could be Dylan Jacks instead of Dylan Kennedy.

  I stand there, trying the name out and hating it, when Grandma comes around the corner and bumps into me. “Dylan!” she yelps, her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I was coming to get you.”

  “I’m here.”

  Guilt rings her eyes. “Yes. So I see. Well…”

  She takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. “Look who I nearly knocked over,” she says to the weather-beaten man sitting at the table. “Dylan, this is your grandfather.”

  He’s a solid guy with only a few gray hairs. Where’s the jolly smile? The arthritic hands? There’s no doubt this guy has tough skin and even tougher muscles. He could lay me out with one well-placed slap. Our eyes meet. I nod. He nods back, and his intense stare tells me he’s comparing.

  When Grandma sidles closer, balancing three glasses filled with ice, he mutters, “Now that I think about it, the last one isn’t it.”

  I grab the seat across the table from him and sit. Showing disinterest, I fill my plate and say, “Then how about that Donny guy?”

  Grandma and Grandpa’s eyes lock before Grandma sits. She spreads her napkin in her lap, flattening it over and over again with her palms. “You heard?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like Mom got around.”

  Pain slices through Grandma’s eyes before she covers it up. “She was…a challenge.”

  By what I just heard, that’s the understatement of the year. “Did you ever think about using a chastity belt?”

  “I thought of hog-tying her in the attic,” Grandpa says, “but I was told that’s illegal.”

  Grandma gives him a be quiet glare. What? he mouths.

  She turns to me. “Dylan, you weren’t meant to hear what we said. I’m sorry. We should have—”

  “Mom’s mom. I learned that a long time ago. I can’t name you all the uncles she’s introduced to me. I’ve got a very warped sense of family now, and more than my share of abandonment issues.”

  Grandma sighs, and Grandpa places his hand over hers. I don’t know why I said anything. It was cruel.

  “Well,” Grandma whispers, “let’s eat.”

  Before I can react, they each grab my hand. When I’m about to pull away, they bow their heads, and Grandpa prays. I don’t know what to do. I glance from one to the other, and quickly look away when they say “amen.” My hands are freed, and I feel the need to wipe them clean. No one, not even Mom, touches me without my permission.

  “So, Dylan,” Grandpa’s voice booms, “you like sheep?”

  I nearly choke on my pot roast. I’ve heard all the jokes about sheep herders and ewes. I toss him a horrified look. “No. I like girls.”

  Obviously he’s heard the jokes, too, because he lets loose a big laugh. “That’s a huge weight off my mind.”

  “George,” Grandma says in a firm voice. She doesn’t look at me, but directs her words my way. “What your grandpa means is that he would like you to go out with him and the sheep.”

  The devil in me flares to life. “Really, Grandma. I only go out with girls.”

  Grandpa coughs on his milk, and I find it hard not to laugh, too.

  “Honestly,” Grandma snaps. “The both of you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  I force down my disrespectful nature, and Grandpa clears his throat. “Tell you what, Dylan, tomorrow you can come out with me and see what it’s like to run a sheep ranch.”

  “Sounds…fun.” I ask Grandma flatly, “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. I need to talk to your mother. Besides, it’s a perfect time for you and your grandfather to get to know each other better.”

  “You’re talking male bonding, aren’t you?” I shake my head. “Is there beer involved?”

  The pair slant worried glances at each other.

  Oops. I sit back and give them the smile that always gets me out of trouble. Always. “I’m kidding.”

  Grandpa stares bullets at me. “Sounds like there’s a bit of a wicked streak in you, Dylan.”

  My smile cracks just a hair. The old guy isn’t falling for it. Grandma isn’t that impressed, either. Maybe there’s a genetic flaw that blocks the full potential of my smile with these two? I clear my throat. “Uh, no, sir. I’m wicked-free.”

  He grunts, stares a little longer than what makes me comfortable, and then returns to eating his food.

  “What are your interests, Dylan?” Grandma asks, fishing for who I am.

  How can I tell her when I’m not even sure? Rarely do people ask, and even more rarely do I offer insight. “Long-boarding. Music. You know, the usual stuff.”

  Grandpa pauses, his fork poised near his mouth. “Sports?”

  “Sure.” Virtual over actual, but no sense in putting the “today’s lazy youth” card on the table. Besides, it feels more natural to steer the conversation toward them and the ranch. “So this is a sheep ranch, huh?”

  I’m bored before Grandma takes her next breath. I pretend to pay attention, and instead, wonder how I’m going to survive this encounter. As I plan what classes I’ll need in order to graduate, I hear the words “rare,” “ancient breed,” and “soy.”

  A guy blanks out for half a second, and suddenly, we’re talking about soy? T
hey’re not the kind of people who drink soy milk and eat tofu, I hope. Is this my last real meal before they bring out the granola?

  I shake myself back to the present. “What did you say?”

  “I know. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s possible our sheep have been around since the ice age.”

  Images of snaggle-toothed, monster sheep flash through my head. I quickly readjust my thinking when she brings me a picture they use to promote their business. Along the top are the words: Pine Grove Soay Sheep Farm, and under it are a half dozen cute, little sheep. And I do mean little. Apparently Soay sheep are the midgets of the sheep world.

  “Their meat is all the rage,” Grandma gushes as she gazes at the photo. “Your aunt Susie is our top customer. She runs a gourmet five-star restaurant in Seattle.”

  “Interesting.” I give back the picture and quickly stuff another bite of roast beef into my mouth so I’ve got an excuse to stay quiet, because now I’m fuming.

  I’ve got an aunt who lives in Seattle. Mom could’ve taken us there, but no. I get quality time with the sheep ranch branch of the family in the Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, instead. Lucky me. Again.

  By the end of dinner, they don’t know what to think of me, and I’m at a loss about what to think of them. Upstairs, a toilet flushes, then a door bangs closed.

  Mom.

  Even though Grandma’s smiling, stress pulls at her lips. It probably never occurred to Mom what our coming here would do to her parents. Then again, Mom lives for drama. She eats and breathes the stuff. I’ve learned to ignore it all—well, most of the time—but Grandma might find that hard to do.

  Grandpa pushes his plate away and frowns in the direction of the back stairs. He mutters something under his breath, unfolds from his chair, and stalks off toward the den. Grandma sighs when the TV pops on. I get the feeling Grandpa isn’t too thrilled with Mom’s reappearance, but will suffer anything to make Grandma happy.

  Poor Grandma. Does she really think having Mom back is a good thing? She stands, gives me a quick smile, and starts clearing away the dishes. “Pie?” she asks in an overly cheery voice.

  I haven’t eaten so well in…well… I can’t remember. I nod and clear away my place. After she slips the last dinner plate into the soapy dishwater, she cuts me a massive slice of chocolate turtle pie, and then cuts another, smaller one, and hands it to me. “Take this one to your mom.”

  I’d rather not. My face must show my hesitance, because she purses her lips and pushes me out. “Go on. She loves pie.”

  Why do I get the feeling I’m carrying a peace offering? It’s a waste of good pie, but I do it, anyway.

  I navigate the stairs with a plate and fork in each hand. At the top, four doors welcome me. I could play eeny-meeny-miney-moe, but instead, I go to the first door and knock softly. Nothing. The next is empty too. At the third, Mom’s sad voice warbles from behind the door. She’s talking to someone on her cell phone. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but it doesn’t sound good. I could either give her the pie, or tell Grandma she’s busy and leave it to her to interrupt the ongoing melodrama. Before I can step away, I hear the hard click of her cell phone closing, and a bang as it hits the door.

  She better not’ve broken it. That phone is my only link back to my friends.

  What am I talking about? What few friends I had have already forgotten about me. When I called Mike the fourth day after we left, it had taken him a whole minute to figure out who I was. Granted, he’s not the brightest bulb, but we’d hung out every day at the skate park after school. It’s almost as if when I’m there, people love me, but when I’m not, they don’t even remember I exist. Mom’s the only exception. She remembers me, only she wishes she didn’t.

  I knock on the door.

  “Go away.”

  “I’ve got pie.”

  The door flies open, and Mom stares at me with a tear-stained face. “Did she spit in it?”

  I thrust the pie at her. “You’re sick, you know that?”

  With a shrug, she takes the plate and begins to eat. “What’re they saying? Wait. Let me guess. Who do they think it is?”

  I don’t get it. Mom’s pretty. She’s smarter than most. And when she’s not going ballistic about a guy, she’s actually fun to be with. So, why can’t she see beyond herself? Doesn’t it even occur to her how much pain she puts people through? Puts me through?

  “Some guy named Kenny,” I say flatly.

  “Kenny Jacks?” She snorts. “I would be so lucky. Dad chased him off before I got a chance.”

  I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to think of her as the town slut. I want a normal mother, one who cooks and cleans and cares for me.

  She stuffs the last of the pie in her mouth. I know my disgust is showing. I can’t help it.

  She swallows and lifts her chin higher. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m…”

  I dare her to say it.

  She doesn’t, and quickly thrusts the plate back at me and begins to shut the door. I wedge my foot between the door and the jam, determined this time to get an answer. “I don’t look like you. I don’t look like them. I’ve got to look like someone. I’ve got to be like someone. So, who is it?”

  Her face sinks into an unattractive pinch. “No one they know.”

  I spot her bags, still packed, on the bed. She follows my gaze and whispers, “Don’t push me, Dylan. You’ll know soon enough.”

  Her response catches me so off guard, she’s able to force the door closed. The lock clicks into place, shutting me out for good.

  I think I actually hate her.

  The plates rattle with my pent-up rage. I want to hurl them to the ground. Shake the walls with an anger so fierce, it would send her into a terrified fit, but I don’t. I search for control. I breathe deep. And when my anger calms, I go downstairs.

  I don’t eat my pie. I can’t.

  “I’m not feeling so good,” I say to Grandma, and push the empty plate into her soapy hands. When I set my untouched pie on the counter, she grabs a dishtowel and sneaks a quick glance up the stairs. She doesn’t say anything, but her lips thin.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” I say.

  She nods and wraps my pie in plastic wrap. “Grandpa will knock on your door when he’s ready to go.”

  That’s right. I’m playing with the sheep tomorrow. Man, my life sucks.

  I peer out the kitchen window. Dark, heavy clouds rush in from the south, and a bunch of fireflies buzz around like they can’t wait for the light show to begin. Weird how they’re so bright even though it isn’t dark out yet. Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe it’ll storm hard, and Grandpa will decide not to go.

  A guy can hope, can’t he?

  Before I leave, Grandma asks me to put away an old iron skillet, the kind that weighs a ton and looks like it should be used over an open camp fire. As soon as I take it, pain jolts through my skin. My head swims and my whole body grows weak, like it’s deflating.

  I drop the skillet and grab my hand. Red welts, pocked with blisters, streak the skin where my fingers touched the pan. I’ve been burned before, but this one is worse than any I’ve ever had.

  Grandma’s face wrinkles with worry. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say automatically.

  As I watch, the blisters begin to fade. The red welts fade to pink. The pain eases. What the—

  I ball my hand into a tight fist and eye the skillet. “Old baseball injury.”

  Grandpa, having heard the ruckus, pokes his head into the kitchen. “Baseball? Catcher?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I’m not paying attention. I’m freaking out. How can a cold skillet burn me? Stranger still, how can such a severe burn begin to heal so quickly?

 
He smiles. “Win any games?”

  “None I’d want to brag about.”

  “Tough luck.” Grandpa stoops, picks up the skillet, and slips it on top of the cabinets without a problem. “Senior year is coming up,” he says. “That’s the one that counts.”

  “Yeah.” I take a few steps back, my mind grappling with what should be happening and what is. The skillet couldn’t have burned me. Grandma and Grandpa both touched it. “I’m going to go to my room, okay?”

  Grandma gives Grandpa a kiss of thanks before nodding my way. “That’s fine, dear. Go relax. You’ve had a long day.”

  A Good Day to Die

  Navar’s trail wasn’t difficult for Kera to find. He was a bull, thrashing his way through the forest, indifferent to what he trampled. He would not make a good king. His tactics were brutal and fostered loyalty based on fear.

  Yet, ever since their king had disappeared, Navar had shown himself the strongest and most able to rule Teag’s feuding subjects. And to show he was capable, he had carried on the Lost King’s campaign—ridding Teag of all those unworthy to live, so her people would rise to a more perfect and pure state of being.

  The neigh of horses and the rattling of soldiers sounded up ahead. Kera stopped running and listened. There were so many men, and in their midst…

  Lani.

  Kera gasped when she saw her best friend. What was she doing, roaming the forest so close to the forbidden barrier? She knew better. Why would she put herself in such danger?

  There could be only one reason. She had sacrificed her own safety for someone else.

  Though Lani’s blue dress was ripped along the collar, revealing the lace edge of her corset, she stood straight, defiant. The men gripping her wrists wore hard expressions and had even harder eyes. All their hate was pointed at the small woman they held captive.

  Kera circled the group. Listening. Watching. Worrying. She had to do something, but what? She stopped at a point where the barrier rose behind her and a wisp of mist hung low to the ground.