Love on the Run

by Gemini Jensen

  “This one actually isn’t from me. It’s from Jameson. He told me to tell you Happy Birthday as well,” she explains. Uncle Jameson, my father’s younger brother… He was more of a father-figure to me growing up than my actual father, and I certainly liked him more. Not that it was a difficult role to fulfill, all he had to do was acknowledge me.

  Which he did, every time he saw me. He showered me in affection, hugs, kisses, picking me up and twirling me around, surprising me with random little gifts with each visit. Especially books. I blame my love for books on him. He did all the things a little girl wants her daddy to do, and really, how sad and pathetic is that on my father’s part?

  Uncle Jameson is the only reason my Mom and I were able to make it out of there and still keep our distance today from the man who definitely wanted her, and possibly even me, dead. Jameson is Mom’s contact. But, what’s always confused me, is why would he risk himself to make sure we were safe?

  I take the gift from her and examine it. It’s a tiny little box with a tiny little bow on top, and ribbon curled and flowing off every side. There’s even a note sticking out from under the bow. I flip it over.

  Happy 18th Birthday! I wish I could have been there to see you grow into the incredible woman I know you are now. -J

  “Well, that was incredibly difficult to read,” I point out, puzzled as to how he fit all that onto such a microscopic space. What’s even more puzzling, are his words and their meaning. I feel as if there’s an underlying message I’m just not getting.

  “What’s it say?” Mom asks, so I read it out loud, and glance back over at her. She spins to turn her back to me, but not before I detect her glistening eyes. For some reason, the note has emotionally affected her.

  “You okay mom?” I ask, perplexed. She slowly nods her head, still keeping her back to me.

  “Well open it up and find out what it is,” she urges, her voice thick with emotion.

  I’m not sure why, but my fingers are trembling, shaky with anticipation and confusion. There’s something to this story I’m not reading. That’s how I’ve always felt when it came to my Uncle Jameson, or “Uncle J,” as I used to call him. I unfold the wrapper, and remove it. Opening the little white box, I gasp. Nestled amongst a soft waft of cotton material, is a necklace with a diamond-looking stone hanging from the dainty chain. Another corner of paper peeks out from under the cotton, and I make note of the paper having the same elegant script that was on the first note, once I pluck it from beneath. This one reads:

  More precious than diamonds.

  Huh. I’m pretty stumped as to why Uncle Jameson would send such a big gift. I haven’t actually referred to him as Uncle J in years, but from the sentiments he holds for me (on top of what he did in risking himself to help me and Mom get away), maybe I ought to out of respect.

  “Look what Uncle J sent me… It’s a diamond,” I hold the necklace out and attempt to persuade my mother to turn around and face me. If I know my Mother, she’ll be intrigued at the word ‘diamond.’ It works. She quickly spins around, all signs of tears and hints at being distraught, dissolved.

  “Well that’s just,” she pauses for a beat, “exceptional,” she exclaims, moving in to get a closer look. Her elegant fingers lift the chain, and the way she does so causes it to sparkle. I’ve never been one who places emphasis on material things, but I must admit, this is my new favorite piece of jewelry.

  Mom circles around me, placing the necklace over my head, and clasping it securely at my nape. Walking back in front of me, she stops. I gaze directly in her gray and soulful eyes, and even though she’s smiling at me, I can still see the pain the resides permanently in them.

  “It looks beautiful on you baby. He loves you too, you know,” she professes. I’m unsure of what to say, so I simply nod.

  This whole event of opening presents has left me very confused. My Mother’s behavior in regards to Uncle Jameson? The whole mystery of their relationship, and how I fit into all that? Why does my own father hate me so much? These are all valid questions in my life, and have been for some time. I’m just not going to take the time today to delve into them.

  My phone beeps, breaking the moment.

  “I want to check out you in that new dress, in the living room in 20 minutes. I’ve made reservations for Gia’s at six tonight,” Mom explains as she retreats down the hallway. Reservations? Please. There’s no need for reservations anywhere in this little town, but it’s cute she did so. I unlock the screen of my phone, prompting a text from Lyra to pop up.

  Lyra: Hey boo. I left my clutch in your car this morning. Are you at home? I’m sending Gray over to get it for me. My phone charger’s in there, and my debit card and cash.

  Me: Hey back, boo. Yeah, we should be here for another 20 minutes. That’s fine. Don’t worry… I always lock the vehicle up no matter where I’m at. It’ll all still be there.

  Lyra: Cool. Have fun at dinner with your mom tonight. See you in the morning, bright and early ;) ILY!

  Me: See you in the A.M. <3 u 2.

  I pick up the lace dress off the bed where it’s laid out. As I step into it, I’m careful to not let the inner-lining of it get tangled up with the rest. Once I’ve shimmied the fabric all the way up, I reach behind and zip myself up. Making my way to the entrance of my room, I push the door to, revealing the large rectangular mirror on the back of it.

  My eyes roam over my body in judgmental assessment. I start at my head, satisfied that my hair and make-up all seem to be up to snuff, working my way down my body, examining the fit and style of the dress. My appearance is exalted to a mature and elegant stature, the fitted dress skimming the backs of my thighs is much more short than I’m comfortable with.

  Although the neckline flirts with the edge of my collarbone, the inner-lining creates a heart-shape and being paired with the see-through lace, creates an enticing-yet-classy effect.

  I’m glad my breasts have filled out so much in the past year or this dress would look really funny.

  Imagining it on me 2 years ago, makes me want to laugh, and then go back in time to assure my younger self, “it’s okay, you’re going to get more in the boobage department after all.”

  Plucking my new necklace from underneath the neck of the dress, I lay it softly over the fabric, making sure it doesn’t get snagged. It hangs at the hollow of my throat, the chain nearly invisible, and compliments the outfit perfectly. I scan myself from head to floor once more, and realize what I’m missing. Shoes.

  Generally places of business, restaurants in particular, have a No Shoes, No Shirts, No Service policy. Shoes are a given, and I’ve no idea which ones would be suitable. Flats just won’t suffice because this outfit is too dressy, but wearing a pair of sky-high heels creates the possibility of being a little too… cheeky. Decisions, decisions. It’s tough being a girl, which is why I generally stick to casual-wear.

  Mom peaks her head in at just the right time, giving me an “ah-ha!” moment. I forget sometimes that I live with a fashion queen.

  “Almost ready?” she asks, viewing yet not really seeing my outfit. I can tell the moment she does because her eyes double in circumference.

  “Valentina, you look so lovely. Like a woman. Scratch that, you are going to make men weak in the knees,” she compliments. She’s always wanted me to be her very own paper-doll that she could dress up. I cut that out years ago, but I’m humoring her today. She moves to stand behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders.

  “Look at us. You look just like the Auburn-headed version of me, except much more beautiful,” she remarks, picking up and examining some of my tresses. “I’ve always been envious of this hair of yours.”

  I scoff. No one would be envious of my hair. My hair comes with lighter skin with a slight smattering of freckles. Men like blondes better anyway, everyone knows that.

  “Don’t make that sound at me, little girl. I can still turn you over my knee,” she challenges, knowing full well she’s never spanked me in my entire
life. She moves in front of me, forcing me to look at her.

  “Valentina, you are beautiful. You’re lovely, gorgeous, intelligent, kind, and witty. Please always know that. Always remember it, no matter what happens in the future,” she remarks with urgency and conviction that almost frightens me.

  “Okay Mom, tone it down,” I reply, attempting to lighten the moment. She smirks at me, then bops my nose.

  “You need shoes,” she orders, before adding, “and I have JUST the perfect ones.”

  She scurries down the hallway, her own shoes clicking and clacking as she goes, before returning straight away, heels in hand. Luckily, not heels so high I’ll break my neck or show some ass cheek. I’m just finishing up on securing the last strap, when a soft rapping floats down the hallway from the front of the house.

  Ohhh, fuck. Gray.

  My stomach makes quick work of knotting itself up, and my heart begins thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

  I’ve not seen him all week, not since the whole party incident and I anticipate this to be an awkward exchange, even if it is only him retrieving his sister’s clutch from my car. I walk in a slow manner down the hallway, making sure I don’t do anything silly like lose my balance in these heels and fall right into his arms.

  What a greeting that would be.

  I pluck up the keys as I pass by the designated spot on the wall in which they always hang, and placing my hand on the door knob, I brace myself. Another rap on the door insists that I open it. Que the mental pep-talk.

  You look hotter than ever, Valentina. He’s just a guy, here to get his sister’s clutch. What makes you think he’s the hottest guy on the face of the earth? He’s just like the rest of them.

  Speaking of mental, I’m receiving this nagging suspicion I’m about to have a mental breakdown. All over a guy, although, give me a break here, he’s like the most dashing one I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  I slowly pull the door open, dragging my eyes from Gray’s eyes, down his body. That man has a pair of boots for every occasion. He’s got work boots, everyday boots, dressy-casual boots, and then formal-dressy boots, although, I’ve never had the honor of inspecting those, Lyra has assured me that they exist. Today he’s wearing his dressy-casual boots. Even his jeans appear to be a new pair, especially in comparison to the well-worn types of ones he typically wears.

  His buffalo-plaid shirt, layered over the top of his white t-shirt, is so damn becoming on him. If you’re wondering how a plaid flannel shirt can be becoming on someone, you haven’t witnessed a man who looks like said shirt was made specifically for him to market to the rest of the world. He’s like a male model and a sexy lumberjack have been perfectly blended into one.

  I get to the examination of his neck, and I swear the pulse visibly ticks strong and hard. The five o’clock shadow that is almost always highlighting his face, has gone a little beyond 5 o’clock but it doesn’t look gross. It looks sexy, and I’m wondering how he would look if he let it grow out a little more. I witness the bobbing of his apple when I finally make eye contact with those butterscotch eyes that I’ve come to look forward to. They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul, and I’m not necessarily sure it’s true, but they’re arguably his best feature.

  “Sloane,” he exhales slowly as if he’s trying to quell his nerves for some unknown reason.

  I say nothing, mostly because I’m not really sure what to say to that.

  Um, repeat his name back maybe? No, that would be lame.

  The heat from the penetrating gaze he gives me leaves a hot trail on my skin. I suddenly feel emboldened, shedding the inhibitions that had accumulated prior to greeting him.

  “Gray,” I mimic back, despite my just-made decision not to.

  “Where are you going tonight in that?” he pries, all the while eyeing the little black lace dress.

  “I’m going out for my birthday,” I inform him, omitting the part that I’m going with my mom.

  “Like to that new club that just opened a few towns over?” he continues pushing.

  I cock my hip out at this. This is actually a very nice dress, and even though it’s a little short, the long sleeves of it balance out the length, or the lack of.

  “No Gray, like, to eat.”

  “Looks like you’re going on a date… is it with someone you met at school?” he asks.

  What’s with all this inquisitiveness today?

  “No, it’s not.” It’s with my mom. With the way he suddenly grips the banister he’s leaning against, and squeezes, turning his knuckles nearly white, I’d think he was jealous or something. Only, I know this isn’t the case. Something is certainly eating at Gray, though.

  “Is everything okay, Gray?” I ask. Even though he’s avoided me this week, and the last, I still care about how he feels. He’s endured a lot of tedious and trying things the past couple of years, and if he’s struggling with something, I want to help.

  “Yeah, Sloane. Everything is good,” he snaps, running his fingers tensely through his hair, gripping and squeezing tightly when he gets to the ends. Studying him and the stiff way he stands, it’s very clear to me that something has him upset, but I’m completely clueless as to what. He drops his hands, letting them fall to his sides, as he spins on his heel and walks away from me.

  “Aren’t you here to get Lyra’s clutch? It has a lot of her important stuff in it,” I remind him.

  He stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around to face me.

  “Yeah, where is it?” he growls.

  “It’s in the car still.” I hit the button on the keyring and Gray heads in its direction when it gives the signaling beep.

  “Here, I’ll help you find it,” I tell him, opening the door opposite of the one he’s leaning through.

  “What does a clutch look like anyway?” he asks, as he looks around quickly and thoroughly.

  “It’s a small bag that a lot of times doesn’t have a strap on it, and some would argue is an over-sized wallet,” I school him. “Hers is a black leather one.”

  Seconds later he holds it up in an unenthusiastic show of victory.

  “Got it,” he remarks before glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the driveway.

  “You better get back into the house. You wouldn’t want your date showing up and catching you outside with another man,” he warns.

  “But that’s not…”

  “Thanks for helping me find this Sloane,” he interrupts before I can correct him.

  “Gray, I can tell your upset about something. I might not be able to solve your problems for you, but I can at least listen so you can get it off your chest,” I implore.

  He’s my best friend’s brother and I consider him a friend as well. Doesn’t he understand that I care more about him being unhappy about something than some dinner? I’m not going to be delusional and trick myself into thinking his demeanor has anything to do with me, but I still want to know what’s up with him.

  His laughter sounds off.

  “Yeah. Somethings is definitely wrong with me,” he remarks matter-of-factly as he hops into his Jeep, and backs away.

  Well, this is certainly a side of Gray I’ve never witnessed.

  Retreating, I spin on my heel and stomp back up the steps in frustration.

  Men.

  They never make sense, and they ALWAYS expect you to read their minds.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gray

  I drive home pissed and irritated as fuck and I can’t even pinpoint why. Sure, there’s this girl stuck in my head and I can’t stand the fact that she’s going out to dinner tonight with someone else. The fact of the matter is, though, she isn’t my girl. I have no claim to her and she has every right to do what she wants.

  And I want her to be happy, I want her to enjoy herself. She only lets a little bit about her past slip every now and again, and she hardly ever gets into specifics. I know it can’t be good from the way she gets that faraway look in her eyes when her past is brought u
p, almost as if she’s remembering one thing but voicing another.

  I’m consumed with this overbearing need to protect her, worried any bit of pressure from the world will cause her to crumble, like she’s barely holding it together. The notion spewed up out of nowhere, long before last weekend’s incident, and now it refuses to go away. Sometimes I hang around in the background, thoroughly driving my sister insane. No teenage girl wants her older brother as a shadow, especially when she’s wanting to partake in the mysterious “girl talk” that I’ve never understood the concept of.

  But, fuck it, Sloane is like a mystery I need to solve even if it is an unachievable goal. I hang around like a dog begging for scraps, or in my case little snippets of information about her so I can piece together the puzzle. I think about her way more than I should.

  Way more than is normal.

  Way more than I even want to.

  My thoughts are uncontrollable when it comes to her. She’s an enchantress calling to me constantly and like a succubus she even calls to me even in my dreams.

  About an hour ago, my beloved little brat of a sister just had to send me over here to get the belongings she had left in Sloane’s car, and when Sloane answered the door I saw her in a light that I never have before. She looked like a full-blown woman, like she was my age. And with the way she carries herself, like she’s experienced more than she should for her years, like there’s knowledge of a side of life she should have been protected from, it did something to me.

  She stood there in front of me, those big gray eyes peering up through thick lashes, red lips painted on that look lush as hell, and her hair hanging loose in those sexy curls. I almost got caught up on her face alone, nearly missing the whole ensemble she was wearing. When I caught a glimpse of it, I had a mind to push her back through her front door and shut it, as I ordered her to put something on that wasn’t so revealing. Either that, or kidnap her for the evening. I couldn’t really decide.