Hate

by Laurel Curtis

  His face twisted.

  “You were right. You’re wife’s going to want to sleep with you all the time.”

  I grabbed my shirt, pulling it over my head sans bra again, since I had no choice, and hopped into my shorts as I headed for the door.

  He reached out and grabbed my upper arm to stop me.

  “Wait. Please, at least let me talk.”

  “I can’t,” I said on a shake of my head, just barely keeping the tears from escaping.

  I wasn’t ready to hear the truth, no matter what it was.

  He studied my face for several seconds, and against all my instincts, I let him.

  All the years of hurt and mistreatment deserved at least some kind of reconciliation. I could wait to leave until he was ready to let me. I didn’t need to storm out while he was still holding on.

  At least, that’s what I told myself as the urge to flee nearly overwhelmed me, the tremors literally racking my body.

  My eyes fell closed when his lips covered mine, the surprise of it taking me off guard long enough to participate. Well, maybe I didn’t fully participate, but I certainly didn’t fight it.

  He pulled my body against him, the resulting gasp from my realization that he was still very much naked giving him the perfect opening to stick his tongue in my mouth and caress.

  It rolled slow, moving with reverence and care, and I let it.

  When he pulled back, rather than having a hand on the knob ready to leave, I had my back to the door and his hips nestled between my legs.

  “Don’t go,” he begged on a ragged whisper.

  Unable to speak, I shook my head.

  Hair flew randomly from side to side, and my movements were jerky, spastic, and just barely under my control.

  Long fingers tugged at my skin as he grabbed my jaw with both hands, slowing my shaking to a crawl and touching the apex of his lips back to mine.

  He licked his way in, forcing my lips to part, and taught me a lesson with his caress again. He moved strategically, his soft tongue climbing mine as though it was a column.

  The door felt cool against my palms as I forced them flat against the painted surface, afraid to let my fingers get lost in the long locks of his hair for fear that I’d never get them free again.

  He kept at me, licking a path around the edge of my lips and then replacing his tongue with the soft surrounding flesh.

  I knew I would never free myself from the vortex, the swelling of my breasts pushing our bodies even closer together, the evidence of his arousal seating itself between my warm thighs, if I didn’t get out now.

  Gathering all of my resistance, I bit the center of his bottom lip, harder than a nip but not hard enough to draw blood, and capitalized as he pulled back in surprise.

  Twisting from his arms, I ducked under and to the side, swiping the front of his body and freeing the superficial connection.

  “I have to go.” I meant to speak up, but I failed, the desperate plea no louder than a whisper.

  His jaw tightened, but he stepped back, assuming a position of ultimate confidence regardless of his nudity.

  I turned to the door and opened it, looking back over my shoulder just in time to see his lips move.

  There was no sound, but I could have sworn he mouthed, “This is not the end.”

  August 2014

  MAYBE WHAT IF COULD BE what is with a whole lot of perspective.

  You’ve only seen the way he looks at her, but how does he look at you?

  MY NERVOUSNESS WAS POTENT, SO much so, that I thought I could smell it.

  It was by Chanel. Eau de Nervous. Or something.

  Of course, the last flight I’d been on between Tampa and Philadelphia had been hijacked. So I figured I was justified.

  Still, Gram acted as though nothing was new or different or even remotely scary. Perhaps she’d already forgotten my tale of woe. The human mind aged just about as well as the body, rarely holding up without developing a few hairline fractures along the way. Gram had been lucky to hold on to all of her mental faculties for as long as she had.

  According to my mom (who had begged me to stay in Florida forever at the news of my run in with Tommy Terrorist), it had really only gone downhill in the last couple of months or so. She was remembering less, instigating more, and generally choosing not to give a shit about pretty much anything.

  The rules of society no longer existed, the conformity instilled in the mindsets of millions of sheeple, gone from her world.

  And today was absolutely no different.

  Of course, we’d been pulled into a different line at security, her breaching the older than seventy-five distinction by a solid fifteen years.

  This meant she was allowed to keep her shoes on—thank God—since that was something she would have done anyway, and bound by the limitations of her wheelchair, was subjected to specifically tailored screening using a pat down and explosives screening technique.

  Unfortunately, even though I was her companion, I had to go through the regular scanner, checking me for any anomalies and forcing me to leave her unattended for a number of minutes.

  I kept an eye peeled, looking at her surreptitiously and praying that she would keep her big, fat mouth shut. She loved to stir up trouble, but I was in no mood. I’d spent enough time getting questioned in the back, dimly lit rooms of the airport to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

  Not to mention, I couldn’t help but be cynical. Security was on higher alert, but the basic procedures were the same. I’d just been on a plane with someone who had breezed through his attempt at fooling the security system, and I couldn’t help but be skeptical.

  The more of a scene she caused, the more unnecessarily preoccupied the TSA would be. And that might allow something, or someone, to slip through the cracks. Because as much as Gram liked to toy with people, she was no terroristic threat.

  Well, she was a threat to terrorists, but not a threat of being one.

  While waiting on the other side of the scanner for the okay, the sound of her giggle put me on red alert. It didn’t take much to hear her, her ability to speak quietly only slightly more advanced than her actual desire to do so.

  “Oh yeah, really grab a handful,” she told the flabbergasted female TSA agent in charge of giving her a full body pat down. “Go ahead, really squeeze them,” she taunted, the sparkle of the gleam in her eye shining clear across the room.

  Looking Heavenward, I prayed for patience, both that of my own and of the workers forced to have intimate interactions with my personal troublemaker.

  The absence of wailing sirens and armed military eased my mind as I was cleared to gather my belongings. I made quick work of it, as always traveling in clothes that were strip-ready and tempting fate by wearing another white shirt.

  Gram’s voice continued to carry as they pushed her toward me, “You guys need to lighten up. My breasts are more like deflated balloons than actual breasts anymore. It would have felt like you were patting an empty paper bag.”

  Jesus.

  “Gram, please, stop giving them a hard time,” I chided her, looking directly into the shell-shocked eyes of the woman pushing her immediately afterward. “I’m so sorry. I’d tell you she’s not normally like this, but she’s always freaking like this. They haven’t invented anything to keep her thoughts inside of her head yet.”

  “Don’t bother, NeeNee,” she advised, “I’ve been making jokes up and down, and it’s official. These people have no sense of humor.”

  I smiled, completely contrite and apologetic, relieving them of her custody and bending down to speak in her ear as I did.

  “Maybe they’re trying to actually do their jobs, Gram. There was just a terrorist attack on a flight associated with this very airport.”

  “That’s bullshit. It’s possible to be efficient and funny. Those people are neither,” she broadcasted loudly.

  “Keep your voice down, you old bat.”

  “See? You can multitask. You’re taking ca
re of me and being a stick in the mud.”

  I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against feeding into her insanity. “I’ve obviously lost my mind.”

  “Me too,” she agreed as though I was actually speaking to her. “Years ago. Just let it wander. It’s much more fun.”

  “Not for those around you.”

  She shrugged.

  Weaving my way through the bustling crowd, I kept my head down and on their feet and refused to engage her for the rest of the trip to the gate.

  She bobbed along to some imaginary song in her head, slapping her knee randomly and making the crowd around us flinch with surprise.

  “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” I questioned as we passed the last and most convenient one before our gate.

  “In that cesspool of bacteria they call a public bathroom? No thanks.”

  “Gram, it will be way harder for me to help you on the plane,” I reminded her, trying to coax her into going now like I would a child.

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is exactly the point I just pointed out,” I talked in circles, exasperated.

  “Say that five times fast.”

  “Forget it. I relinquish your right to choose. We’re going to the bathroom now,” I decreed, pushing her into the bathroom.

  “That’a girl,” she praised. “Grab me by the balls and make me submit.”

  Disgust is the best way to describe the expression of the woman who’d been walking by us at the exact moment that she said that. No doubt she thought I had some sort of BDSM for cross-dressing elderly fetish and was going to tweet about it as soon as she cleared the bathroom door.

  “Be glad you don’t have balls right now,” I warned her.

  “Why?” she asked turning to look at my face. Taking it in, she asked, “You’d be doing a dance and twist on them like you were snuffing out a cigarette, wouldn’t you?”

  The corner of my mouth turned upward. “Something like that.”

  “I guess I better shut up then,” she conceded, the wicked twinkle in her eye anything but gone.

  She stayed quiet as I helped her into the stall and settled her on the toilet, stepping outside of the stall door to let her take care of herself. She called me back in to help her up, and I did, settling her pants back where they belonged and making sure that there were no wrinkles or bunches that would make it uncomfortable to sit for the next few hours.

  Turning back, I flushed the toilet with my foot and then pushed her over to the sinks to wash our hands. They were too high for her to reach in her chair, so I washed mine first and then let her brace herself against me as she took care of hers.

  After I settled her back into the chair, checking to make sure she was comfortable, we made our way back out of the bathroom and headed for the gate.

  Several silent seconds passed before she murmured quietly, “Thank you, Whitney.”

  I squeezed her too thin shoulder, fighting the rush of wetness shining in my eyes. “Anytime, Gram.”

  We arrived at the gate just as they started pre-boarding, something that because of Gram’s difficulties we were a part of.

  One of the gate attendants came with me down the jetway, helping me to ease Gram out of her chair and leave it at the end of the road for it to be gate checked. After folding the chair she helped me get Gram into her seat in the first row, something I’d strategically planned in order to make the transition in and out of the seat easier. She kept her mouth shut the whole time.

  The silence started to creep in, weaving its way into my head and unlocking the all too fresh memories. It’d only been three days since the incident on the flight down. The scab on my neck felt rough under my fingers, and the flight attendant gave me a look as I rubbed at it.

  Forcing myself to drop my hand, I intertwined my fingers with each other, working them back and forth in a sort of anxious twisting motion.

  The rest of the first class passengers trickled in, and I watched them closely, studying their eyes for malicious intent and their sleeves for hidden wires.

  My throat felt tight. I gripped it with my palm, but that only added to the pressure. Panic started to overwhelm me and my breathing cheated me out of air by only dipping shallowly.

  At this point I wasn’t sure if I wished Blane were with me or if I was glad he wasn’t. He made me feel safe, but he also would have served as a affirmation of my fears.

  More passengers boarded, this time headed for coach, and as I watched them walk past me, I started to wonder if I could really do this. I’d survived the flight to Tampa the day after the attack by sheer force of will. Well, will and alcohol. Truth be told, I’d resorted to drinking heavily in order to numb the nerves, and while ragged by the time we landed, it’d done the trick.

  But I couldn’t get drunk now. Gram needed me cognizant and competent. Aware and awake. In a body that wasn’t completely functional, with a mind that didn’t always understand reality, she was counting on me to make sense of confusion and ease her difficulty of movement.

  “Heh,” she chortled unexpectedly, pulling me from my mind and putting my attention on her. She was looking at the other passengers as they walked by. “That’s right. Back of the bus, suckers.”

  “Gram!”

  “What?” she asked innocently. “This is the point of you paying all that extra money for these seats isn’t it? So we can tease the little people?”

  “No,” I admonished. “It was so that you would be more comfortable, and the access would be easier.”

  “Sure,” she huffed on a laugh. “It didn’t have anything to with you, right? You would have rather been sitting back there with someone’s elbow in your ribs for the entire flight?”

  Okay, so not really. “Alright. I’ll admit that I figured it’d be a good advanced reward for the impending doom that is you.”

  “Good thinking,” she praised, wiggling in her seat and snapping her fingers at the flight attendant.

  I hung my head in shame.

  “I’ll take a vodka on the rocks.”

  “Water. She’ll take a water,” I corrected.

  “Water? Jiminy Cricket. You sure take all the fun out of being an old woman.” At my look, she explained. “I’ve got news for you. I’m not gonna need my liver for much longer, so I might as well work it until it dies.”

  If she was drunk, maybe she’d pass out.

  Turning back to the flight attendant, I agreed, “She’ll take a vodka.”

  BAD NEWS. DRUNK GRAM WASN’T quiet. She was one of those voracious drunks, talking to everyone who made the mistake of even breathing in her direction.

  She stuck her nose in their business, accusing several men of having affairs and threatening to tell their wives and telling a crying child that she, and I quote, “better shut [her] fucking trap.”

  I needed a nap.

  “Good God,” I breathed as I pushed her wheelchair up the ramp of the jetway in Philadelphia, happy to be safely on the ground and on the road to being sequestered from other people. “You’re exhausting.”

  Gram looked up and over her shoulder, her brown eyes waiting until my blue eyes met and held them.

  “I kept your mind occupied?”

  “Yes,” I huffed. “You kept my everything occupied!”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “Monsters can only attend the meeting if we leave room for them.”

  Enlightenment flooded my synapses.

  “You annoyed me so I wouldn’t think about everything?”

  “Every once and a while I use my evil in order to help the good.”

  I loved the crafty ways of my grandmother.

  And I loved that I was so much like her.

  But most of all, I just loved her.

  THE DOORBELL RANG FOR THE second time as I struggled to get Gram settled back in her wheelchair after helping her go to the restroom.

  She looked at me like I was annoying the hell out of her, and I stared right back.

  N
o one said taking care of her was going to be easy, and so far, it really hadn’t been, but she found her moments to remind me of how worthwhile it was.

  This wasn’t one of them.

  “You know, when people ring that thing they generally want you to answer the damn door.”

  “Gee, Gram, really? I thought it was their way of spreading music and cheer.”

  She smiled, just barely, and wheeled her way out of the bathroom narrowly missing every single one of my ten toes.

  I puffed a breath out of my puckered lips, blowing the wayward hairs out of my face without using my hands.

  Knowing things were only going to get more interesting from here—a person at the door, Gram in the house, and dinner on the stove—I washed my hands far more quickly than the recommended twenty seconds, hastily wiped them dry, and took off for the front door at a near run.

  “I’m coming!” I shouted, doubting that the person on the other side of the door could hear me, but hoping I was wrong.

  Of course, nothing was that easy anymore, and if I was really a smart woman, I’d get used to it. Adapt. Accept it for what it was.

  When the door came into view, though, I screeched to a halt, practically sliding like a professional baseball player in order to prolong the calm before the storm.

  Standing tall in my doorway, looking every inch the sex god he was with aviators, a baby blue t-shirt, and perfectly quaffed hair was none other than the man I’d hit and quit.

  Blane Hunt himself.

  And perfectly positioned in her rolling chariot in front of him was one of the frankest women on this side of the Mississippi.

  Things were about to get interesting.

  Especially if she remembered who he was.

  “Well, hello there,” I heard her say with a flirtatious lilt.

  Ninety. She was ninety years old. And it still didn’t stop her.

  “My God, they’re packaging things really well these days,” she continued, staring directly in front of her. Right at his crotch.

  Blane’s arm flexed nervously, and a grin lifted the apex of his cheek, but he didn’t let it discourage him as he pulled his sunglasses off and tucked them into the front collar of his t-shirt.