Bear Creek Road

by L. C. Morgan

  “I don’t know, Mona.”

  “I’ll tell him myself when the time is right. I just want you to let him know that you know I’m sorry.” Sniffing, she turned to plead with her tear-filled eyes. “That goes for you too, ya know? I’m sorry for the way I acted. I never should have compared you to Meg. It was stupid. You’re nothing like her and you never will be, and that’s actually a really good thing.”

  Standing, she dusted herself off and finally left.

  Between the excitement of the short morning and the exhausting amount of work still to be done around my house, I only ended up falling asleep on the couch, rousing when I heard the click of the front door closing.

  Stumbling into the foyer, I was ready to go back to sleep, but this time warm and cozy. Just the thought of being wrapped up in Joe’s arms and the comfy confines of my bed was reason enough to smile when one of his strong arms wrapped around the back of my thighs and he hoisted me up and over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Snorting through the sleepy haze, I landed a playful smack on his ass.

  “What’s it look like?” he asked, lightly smacking my ass in return. “I’m taking you to bed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The weather delayed the laying of Joe’s roof for nearly a month, so he was holed up with me in his cabin, week after week, stuck playing either Monopoly or Scrabble. Not that I was complaining. Spending the cold nights sprawled in front of Joe’s fireplace was something I’d become quickly accustomed to.

  Passing the rainy afternoons locked up with Joe reminded me of simpler times—the times my gran would talk about, back when she was a little girl. I was envious of her life back then, how her face would light up whenever she spoke of it. It made me somewhat sad that life in this little coastal town was probably the closest I’d ever come to experiencing what she had. It was easy and, for the most part, carefree. At least it would be until next spring, when I would attempt to grow my own vegetable garden and try my hand at tending to a few apple trees. Which reminded me …

  “Hey, you keep buying up all the property and pretty soon this is just gonna be a … uh …”

  “A what? A monopoly?” Joe asked and I shot him a glare, giving him a firm shove to the shoulder. His chuckle was like music to my ears. Faint. A sound I’d only had the pleasure of hearing a few times before. My eyes raked over his relaxed form, from the white V-neck, down to the red flannel pants he wore so well. His feet were bare, just the way I liked them.

  “What’s mine is yours, or haven’t you learned that yet?” The shimmer of the crackling fire gleamed off his glasses. The declaration left me momentarily breathless. He was always saying sweet things, things I wasn’t expecting him to say, let alone be thinking. I loved what it did to the sensitive lining of my stomach almost as much as I loved those glasses—them and the beard and the way he sometimes watched me when he didn’t think I was paying attention. These were the little things that drew me to him.

  Take his impressively extensive vocabulary, for example; who knew jonquil was even a word?

  Joe did.

  As it turned out, he knew a lot. A lot about nothing, which was truly something. He had a wealth of useless information crammed into that head of his, and he came to life when he shared it. One crack and it all came flooding out, drowning me in a sea of giddiness and painfully wide smiles. It was fun learning about him inadvertently. And the things I found out through the tidbits he shared only made the feelings I had for him root themselves all that much deeper.

  He liked to read, but only non-fiction. He spent hours devouring do-it-yourself handbooks and lengthy biographies—all the while wearing the glasses.

  The flowers planted in his mother’s English garden had been picked and singlehandedly planted by him. He also had helped design and build her beautiful kitchen, which led me to ask, “Why in the hell would you even want my opinion on your house anyway?”

  Picking up the dice, I shook them around in my hand. Joe sat up straight and removed his glasses. “Just want you to be comfortable enough, I guess.”

  “Comfortable enough for what?”

  He shrugged. “Comfortable enough to move in with me.”

  Numbness settled itself on the edge of my lips and the center of my chest as I let the dice drop from between my fingers. They hit the board as loud as the thunder cracking across the darkened sky.

  “You want me to move in with you?” My eyes fixed on the game board, and I picked up the thimble.

  “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t.”

  Rolling the cool silver between my fingers, I moved up six spaces before setting my piece back down on one of Joe’s many properties. I didn’t know what to say, so I just counted out what I owed him in orange and blue paper and handed it over.

  He slid the stack of colorful bills back across the board in front of me. “Keep it and say you’ll move in. We’ll call it even.”

  Looking up into his eyes, I ignored the doubt I felt creeping into my bones. “Okay. Let’s move in together.”

  ***

  It was a rare occasion when I didn’t have Joe deep inside of me, leaving us both sprawled out and spent, sweating on the fleece sheets. As much as I loved those nights, I found the more sedate ones just as nice. Lazily lying there, all forty fingers and toes touching. It was becoming the new norm.

  I could lie beside him for hours, uselessly flipping through home decor magazines as he thumbed through a book. But really, I just side-eyed him around the glossy pages because as much as I learned about Joe through observation, he was still a great mystery.

  Dropping my magazine on the floor, I turned over to face him, running a nail down the length of his arm then back up again. The sound coming from his throat told me he liked it.

  “Tell me about this Stonewall. Did he lead an interesting life?” I didn’t want to be a bother, but he felt a million miles away.

  “More sad than anything.” A thoughtful worry line creased the center of his forehead. I copied the expression while he kept his eyes on the typed words in front of him. “He knew loss, saw a lot of death, wasn’t very well liked.” Sniffing, he wiped an itch from his nose and then turned the page.

  “It doesn’t bother you to read about war?”

  Closing the book, Joe set it on the nearby nightstand. Squeezing his eyes shut, he massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “It did, at first.” Eyes trained on the ceiling, his hand ghosted down his face to stroke his beard. “It was hard to think about the time I spent overseas. I was angry, bitter. Got lost in my own self-pity, then one day I just wasn’t anymore.” Shrugging, he cleared his throat. “Until you came along anyway …”

  “Me? What did I do?” Popping up in bed, I twisted to face him, and he sighed, trying his hardest to distract me by scratching the underside of his jaw. Feeling self-conscious, I fingered a loose string hanging from the flannel shirt I had stolen.

  “See, I knew you didn’t like me,” I admitted playfully at first, my pout turning into a frown when he didn’t deny it right away. I knew it was silly to feel hurt, but I still did, just thinking about a time when Joe didn’t want me around.

  Suddenly the bathroom was calling my name. I pushed the covers away at the same time Joe grabbed my wrist to stop me.

  “No.” His warmth surrounded and ran through me, sliding across my skin as softly as the sheets. Tilting my chin up, he forced me to look at him. “The problem was I liked you too much. Still do.”

  Encouraging me to lie down on the bed, he followed, positioning himself innocently between my legs. He was attentive, and it was sweet, how he studied me, pushing the hair from my forehead and staring into my eyes. “I noticed you before you even saw me.”

  My heart went into a tailspin. It was beating so fast I could hardly breathe.

  “Barefoot and braless.” He huffed a laugh. “I think it’s safe to say we all noticed you.”

  Placing a soft kiss on my neck, he took in a slow, deep breath. �
�Your scent’s been stuck in my nose since you bumped into me. Sweet and spicy, almost as if I could already taste you.”

  My body was reacting to his words, taking me back to that first day. His scent had stuck with me, too.

  “The more time I spent with you, the more I wanted you,” he admitted into the bend of my neck, lightly skimming the skin with his lips. His beard felt unusually soft and smelled a touch too feminine, making me wonder if he’d used my shampoo and conditioner. The thought was endearing, though I liked the smell of his better. “I always want you.”

  “I always want you, too.”

  His weight kept me sane while his fingers drove me crazy, trailing softly up my thighs. His tongue stroked mine patiently while his thumbs hooked through the waist of my panties. I lifted, allowing him to slide them down. He sat back on his knees to pull them the rest of the way off, and I watched his hands, his thumbs as they dipped inside the waist of his flannel bottoms.

  “I imagined what you felt like every night until I touched you.”

  His confession took me back to that night in Brenda’s hallway. It seemed like so long ago; we’d come such a long way.

  “Did you want me to touch you? Do you?”

  I spread my legs further open, welcoming his weight again as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the side of my neck.

  Keep talking, I pleaded internally.

  “You drove me crazy in that little white dress. Another man’s hands all over you.”

  The possession in his voice caused my stomach to clench and flutter just like the night I caught him looking, watching intently as Patrick played with the strap of my dress. I liked having his eyes on me. I liked that he felt the need to stake his claim, even now. It was disturbing the amount of satisfaction I took out of it.

  “Did you want him to touch you?” His breath was hot against my ear, his words low and rumbling from deep inside his chest.

  I shook my head. Glancing down, I watched his hands as they kneaded the bend in my hips. They were rough and needy, pinning me down on the bed.

  He went to move, but I kept him in place, willing him to lie down and rest on top of me. Hell, he could sleep there if he wanted to. I didn’t need to breathe, not like this.

  I smiled to myself when he gave in, sliding his forearms under my shoulders and laying his head on my chest. My fingers wove into his hair, and my nails grazed his scalp. His approving purr rumbled against my belly.

  “Joe?”

  Eyes closed, he hummed.

  I fought with my mouth to make it move and say the things I was trying to say, to ask what it didn’t seem to want to ask.

  Did he want kids, or were we just going to continue to play fast and loose until it was too late?

  My gut sprung all the way up into my throat, threatening projectile vomit instead of words.

  “Have you …”

  “Hm?”

  My nervous gaze locked on our hips, where they met. Lifting mine suggestively, I sought his lips for a kiss instead of answers, not sure if I was ready.

  ***

  We were well into late fall before Joe finally finished the roof on his house.

  I was sick of painting. Straight up sick of it, and beyond grateful when he hired a couple of the guys’ kids to do all eight rooms. I was exhausted, physically and mentally, too tired to worry about the color of the walls in Joe’s house when I still hadn’t finished the walls in mine. I had more important things to think about, like my dwindling bank account and what I was going to do for money.

  More than anything, I wished I hadn’t listened to Mark and had finished college after my gran died. I was too dependent on him. He made it too easy to be. Now I had no special training outside of bartending and waitressing, and they weren’t hiring at any of the restaurants in town. All the college kids had swooped in and taken the seasonal openings. I had no idea what I was going to do.

  “Have you thought about getting your real estate license?” Mona’s voice carried through the receiver and echoed off the barren walls. “You could join a group or go it alone. We could even go in together. Oh my God, you want to?”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. Probably one of the better ones she’d had. And I would have been more open to working with her if she would stop bugging me about talking to her brother.

  If I wasn’t comfortable bringing up my own issues with Joe, I wasn’t about to bring up hers.

  After I told her I’d think about it, we hung up. My previous thoughts kept me company as I patched the walls in the family room of my own home. I thought of Joe and the move, of being jobless and about what the hell I was going to do with my house. Was I going to keep it?

  What if it doesn’t work out?

  Where will I go?

  What if I find myself in the same situation with Joe as I did with Mark?

  I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to put Joe in the same category as Mark, but Mark hadn’t always been the villain. I thought I loved him at one time and never expected things to turn out the way they did. The ending of my relationship with him and Julie left me questioning everything and everyone around me. I hated it. Hated the way I had to re-evaluate the people I loved the most. Hated the mistrust I grew to find in others.

  I didn’t want to think that way about Joe, but I was. The honeymoon period was rolling over into reality, and deep down I knew I’d come to regret it if I sold this house too soon.

  I didn’t know why I felt so bad holding onto it. Joe hadn’t questioned me about the future of my home—whether I would sell or keep it—leading me to believe he was leaving that decision entirely up to me.

  It was as daunting as it was a relief that he trusted me to make the right choice, to pave my own path in our future together. He was brilliant that way, allowing me to be my own person, relinquishing all control to keep from trying to change me. Then again, maybe he was changing me. Maybe he had been helping me find my own way back to the person I used to be—whoever that was.

  Cradling my stomach, I breathed through a cramp, escaping out to the porch for some much needed air. The stress of everything was getting to me, and I was starting to show physical symptoms—crying, cramping, all around acting like one moody bitch.

  I sat down on the top step, stretching the hem of my shirt over my legs to watch the tree branches bend, my soundtrack their whine under the strain. The changing colors on the leaves were calming, but I couldn’t stand the cold for too long. Standing back up, I turned to head inside only to find a pool of my own blood where I had been sitting on the porch.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A numbness settled itself into my bones as I sat back down to cover the blood on the porch, most of which had seeped through the tiny cracks and into the dry grain of the wood. I was eleven years old again. Lost and alone, and not quite sure what else to do.

  The sound of gravel popping under tires had never been so unwelcome. I was hardly in the mood to hitch a lift from some stranger to the nearest hospital. However, the pain shooting down my spine and across my abdomen begged to differ.

  You’ll catch a ride with whoever I say, it wagered confidently.

  The threat came in waves, slicing through my back and ripping across my stomach in tandem, leaving me soaked in a monsoon of fresh sweat. It cooled with a kiss from the breeze, causing me to shiver and shake uncontrollably, which only made things worse.

  I was never much for pain. I could handle my fair share, just wasn’t much for it. Wasn’t much for faith or religion either—mostly just when it was convenient. But I found them both on that porch step, hunched over and helpless, praying to God that I would do anything if He just made it stop.

  Crossing my arms over my abdomen, I rocked back and forth, hoping it would somehow ease the pain. But my nerves had the best of me—as they always did—causing my stomach to tighten and cramp up all that much more. Fuzzy, black dots clouded my vision, bouncing off my peripherals in a dated game of Pong as another stab of fate’s steely knife p
enetrated my side.

  I will not cry in front of strangers.

  I will not cry in front of strangers.

  I did my best to blink the dots and the tears out as the unfamiliar car came to a dead stop in front of the porch, the grill practically kissing the bottom step and spraying small clumps of dirt at my bare feet. I glanced at the plate before shooting my gaze back up to the driver’s side door, the entire moment blurry and unfolding in slow motion.

  Did blood loss make you hallucinate?

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The wind stood still, the branches of the trees freezing just as briefly as the woman did. The cold wind picked back up with the jolting slam of her car door, and a hint of cocoa butter wafted in on the breeze making the air smell like the friend I’d once known.

  Shaking my head, I smiled humorlessly at the ground.

  Of all the days for her to show up, it had to be this one.

  “You wouldn’t answer, and I needed to talk to you. So … here I am.” Shrugging, her black-lined eyes shot to her feet to watch her shiny, black pump toe the dirt. I glanced down at my paint-stained flannel, peeking back up at the clean, white wool of her coat, internally cringing.

  She looked better than the last time I saw her, while I no doubt looked like shit. Probably smelled like it, too. My skin had lost all the golden glow of summer, turning pasty white under the shelter of cozy, warm sweaters and manly flannel while hers still shone, her skin alight with a million kisses from the affectionate sun. I hated her for it. I hated her for a lot of things.

  “And you never stopped to consider that me not picking up the phone was my way of saying I don’t want to talk to you?”

  Hurt colored her hazel eyes while defeat weighed heavy on her shoulders, docking her a couple of inches. My gaze traveled down her arms to her fidgeting hands, settling on the diamond adorning her left ring finger. He hadn’t even bothered to buy her a new one.