California Dreamin'

by Saffron A Kent

  After he fed on me, it was my turn. Not to feed on him though, but to feed on the meds. He ran out and got me pain medication. And since he’s so familiar with my anti-depressants, he knew which brand of pain medication to buy.

  As I said before, it’s not as if there are any secrets between us.

  So it’s weird that I’m acting this way, shy and jittery. Maybe it’s because we’re at the end of the journey. Our solitude is over. Now comes the reality of telling my parents, of being a couple in front of them.

  I can’t give it any more thought than this because Dean is demanding my attention.

  “Hey, eyes up here, Tiny,” he orders, the finger that was lingering on my cheek now at my chin, and he lifts my face.

  When our eyes meet, he turns in his seat and shifts closer.

  “Feel what?” he repeats his question from before, looking down at me.

  “You. I feel you,” I whisper.

  His cheekbones flush and he cups my cheek. Well, cupping is gentle. He grabs it. His palm opens up and his fingers grasp my jaw in a possessive hold.

  A hold that kills my shyness piece by piece. A hold that makes me wish that we were back at that motel room, tangled up in sheets and in each other.

  “Yeah? You feel me?”

  His thready, rough voice vibrates in my belly, in my core that’s become slick just from remembering the way he both made love to me and fucked me.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “What do you feel?”

  “That you’re inside of me. That you’re still there.”

  That’s when he lets go of my hand that was joined with him on his thigh and grabs my other cheek too.

  His thumbs make a circle around my throat as his fingers bury themselves in my hair. “Inside of you, yeah. That’s where I am. That’s where I’ll always be, you understand? I’ll fuck you so many times, in so many different ways, that you’ll always feel me. You’re mine now.”

  I fist his sweater as I feel a trickle of my wetness ooze out of my core at his words. “Yeah.”

  “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

  “I’m yours, Dean.”

  “You’ve always been mine.”

  “Always.”

  His mouth tugs up but not in a humorous smile. It’s a tight, brimming with regret. “I’ve just been too stupid to see it.”

  I let go of his sweater and rub the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. You see it now.”

  He frowns, his features bunching up into intense lines. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I go to say something else, but he stops me. “Tell me you know that I’ll do anything for you.”

  My heart hurts.

  It squeezes itself and I feel an ache in my chest. People always say that love hurts but maybe it’s not a bad thing.

  Maybe sometimes love hurts because the man you love loves you back.

  He not only loves you back, he loves you so much that you can see that love take a physical shape in the way he holds you and looks at you.

  The way he breaks himself open for you.

  Sometimes love hurts because it’s bursting at the seams.

  “I know. I’ve always known, Dean.” I lick my lips. “You’ve always protected me. You know what my mom calls you sometimes?”

  “What?”

  “Fallon Whisperer.”

  He swallows thickly, his eyes rimmed with emotions.

  “You’re my whisperer, Dean. You’re my protector. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “My mom, when she talks about Dad, she says that she was born for him. She was born to love him. And I feel the same. About you. I feel like I was born for you too. I was born to love you and I’ll do anything for you. And I know that you’ll do anything for me because you were born for me too.”

  I lean over and kiss his stubbly throat. His grip in my hair twitches, his fingers making a fist out of my strands, pulling my head back.

  “I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to your dad,” he repeats his words from last night and I immediately frown.

  “I’m your protector, aren’t I?” he rumbles.

  “Yes, but listen—”

  “No. Whatever his initial reaction might be, I will be the one to take it.”

  “But Dean, he’s my dad and I—”

  “Yeah, he’s your dad but you’re mine.” His fist flexes in my hair as he continues, “And I’ll protect you from everyone including him, if I have to.”

  My dad is my dad and I love him more than I love anyone else in this world. I don’t need to be protected from him. I know how to handle him.

  But this man in front of me, this man whom I’ve loved as long as I’ve loved my dad, needs this. He absolutely needs this from me. His flaring nostrils, his tight fingers in my hair, the way he’s leaning into me with determination—everything points to the fact that he wants this.

  And I don’t know how to refuse him.

  Everything inside me clenches up and I nod. “Okay.”

  At my acquiescence, a little stiffness from his body drains away. “Okay.”

  “I love you,” I whisper, smiling, feeling a feminine pride that I pleased him.

  “You were born for me,” he whispers swallowing, instead of acknowledging my I love you, his eyes roving over my face.

  “I was.”

  He leans down and presses his mouth on my forehead, whispering on my skin, writing the words with his lips. “And I was born for you.”

  Okay, I have to admit that this is better, so much better than saying I love you too.

  “You want to get out?” he asks then.

  I take in a deep breath. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Because they might be coming out to get us any second.”

  With one last lingering look at me, Dean lets me go and I climb out of the car into the deep winter.

  I’m scared—not going to lie about it—but after our little moment in the car just now, I remember that I’m strong as well.

  I can do it.

  I can face whatever happens from here on out as long as Dean is with me.

  Smiling at him over the roof of the car, I turn around and walk up the pathway that I’ve taken a million times before, that I know my dad must’ve cleared early this morning before anyone had gotten up, after last night’s snow—Dad likes to do things away from everyone’s eyes, silently so no one pays him any attention. So no one knows that it’s him taking out all the obstacles in our way before we even notice them.

  As soon as I’m on the porch, the brown door with the largest brass knocker that I’ve ever seen rips open and there stands my mother, with her long silver hair in a neat bun, in a dressy but comfortable pair of jeans and a silk blouse.

  She beams with shiny green eyes and waves her arm in a beckoning gesture. “What are you doing out there? It’s cold. Get in here.”

  My own eyes—gray as my dad’s—fill with water at her voice. She’s got the softest voice ever.

  And whenever my days are hard and I don’t know if I’ll ever smile, I hear that voice in my head. I hear her say that we’re warriors. That we can do whatever we want and if I want to smile, I will.

  My brain won’t stop me.

  “It’s not cold, Mom. Well, not in the car,” I say, walking toward her.

  She frowns a little then. Not in a bad way, simply in a curious way. Her gaze moves over my face and I wonder if she can read everything that’s in my heart.

  Oh, who am I kidding? Of course she can and she does, her smile becoming soft. As soft as her voice.

  She looks over my shoulders then and I know she’s found Dean, who’s probably walking up to the porch right now, because her eyes are as watery as mine.

  Before he gets close though, Mom looks back at me. “Does he?”

  My heart squeezes again in that achy way like it did back in the car. I reach her and give her a tight hug as I whisper, “He does.”

  Mom returns my hug.
“Good.”

  I lean back and look at her seriously. “Do you think Dad’s going to lose it?”

  “Maybe,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Mom, you’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

  She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Maybe a little.”

  Before I can say anything, I feel Dean climbing the porch steps and coming up behind me. I move away so my mom can get to him, and by that I mean she literally gets to him.

  “Dean, I’m so mad at you,” she exclaims even as she wraps him in a tight hug. “You’re supposed to check in with me every week and every week, something comes up and you don’t call.”

  Dean’s frame softens up and he smiles as he surrenders to Mom’s hug. “I’m sorry. Work’s just been crazy.”

  She frowns up at him; I know that from her tone even though I can’t see her face. “So? Don’t I deserve five minutes of your time? This is the first time I’m seeing you in two years. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you? How worried we’ve all been? You and me, we’re going to talk now that you’re here. You need to understand how this thing works.”

  Dean wants to smile at my mom. There are lines bracketing his mouth that are almost ready to come out and deepen.

  My mom’s like me, petite and it can be hilarious when she goes all stern on the three men in my life, Dad, Brendan and Dean.

  Actually, no. It’s more hilarious that these three guys who tower over her—and by extension, me—nod and obey her every word.

  Which is what Dean does.

  He nods gravely. “Okay, ma’am.” Then, he leans over and kisses her on the forehead. “It’s good be home.”

  I have to bite my lip at that. At his home.

  How his voice changed and deepened with satisfaction and a sigh. How loose he looks now that Mom’s hugging him like family and how much he belongs here.

  Yeah, this is where he belongs, with us, with our family.

  Thank fucking God that I planned this five-day trip.

  I watch him with my mom for a few seconds without really listening to what they’re talking about when I hear someone boo in my ear and bump into my shoulder.

  I jump and whirl around.

  “Brendan!”

  He stands there grinning like an idiot.

  Well, not an idiot, or at least, not an idiot to the world—he might be that for me though.

  My little brother is turning out to be very good looking, if I do say so myself. That’s because if I’m the carbon copy of our mother, Brendan takes after our dad.

  He has the same dark thick hair as Dad. Only Brendan’s falls on his brows in messy waves. And even though he has a lot of growing still left to do and he’s in that awkward teenage phase where his limbs are lanky and too long, he has the makings of a tall, broad build like our dad’s.

  His eyes though, his eyes are where he’s different from our father.

  He’s got my mom’s green eyes. Shiny and big and beautiful.

  It’s as if there’s one little thing on him that tells the whole world that he’s my mother’s son. Like I have this one little thing on me—my gray eyes—that screams of my dad.

  “You’re so screwed, Tiny. Dad’s losing his shit because you took five fucking days to get here,” Brendan says in a surprisingly deep voice, a voice that somehow didn’t come through in our numerous conversations on the phone—exactly how much did he grow up since I went away to college mere months ago?

  I stab my finger at my brother. “Hey, don’t call me Tiny.”

  Brendan looks over to Dean and winks. These two!

  Before Dean can return the wink or say anything, Mom spins around and screeches, “Brendan! Watch your mouth.”

  He shrugs his awkward teenage shoulders. “What? Dad said the same thing this morning. ‘Five fucking days, Willow. It’s bullshit.’”

  Yikes.

  Dad never uses the F word in front of us.

  I’m sure he does it in front of Mom, as evidenced by what Brendan just said, but he has a rule to never do it in front of the kids.

  “You know what? Keep talking and I’ll take away your phone,” Mom threatens, moving away from Dean, who’s chuckling. “Remember the thing you’re glued to all the time?”

  Brendan walks backward as Mom approaches him, his hands up in surrender. “But Mom, you don’t understand. It’s the best day ever. Dad’s finally gonna yell at Fallon.”

  My default reaction would be to say that he’s not going to yell at me. But I think today just might be the day that he does.

  He was so totally against the road trip. Not to mention, he was so totally against me moving away for college because he wanted me to stay close to the family.

  To be clear though, Dad never yells at anyone. Yelling isn’t something that he does. He simply says your name in a calm, low voice and gives you a disappointed look, and you wither in shame.

  For the record, Dad’s hardly ever looked at me like that. He looks at Brendan like that all the time though. Brendan is a bit of a troublemaker in our family, which I maintain is why he gets all Dad’s legendary disappointed looks.

  But according to Brendan, my brother gets those looks because Dad refuses to be mad at me, so Brendan has to carry the brunt of it all. So it’s a running joke that I’m Dad’s favorite.

  As it is, all I do right now is frown at my little brother and he wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Aww, are you scared? You should be. He’s been freaking the fuck out for the past week.”

  “Enough.” Mom raises her voice and Brendan finally looks sheepish. “Say goodbye to your phone and you’re grounded.”

  “But Mom—”

  “No, don’t Mom me. I’ve had enough of you and your bad language. You come out here and talk with your sailor mouth. And you don’t even say hello to Dean.”

  Brendan waves a hand at Dean. “Hello, Dean.”

  Dean smirks and tips up his chin. “Hey, kid.” Then, in a firm voice, he declares, “No one is getting yelled at. Least of all your sister. Not while I’m here.”

  At this, Brendan’s mouth drops open—that’s the only way to describe it. His lips open in an O and his green eyes become wide.

  “No way,” he breathes, his gaze oscillating between me and Dean. “You guys kissed and made up?”

  What?

  Now it’s my turn. To drop my mouth open, I mean. And my own eyes follow my brother’s and go wide.

  Oh my God.

  How does he know? How does my brother know?

  I mean, I could take my mom knowing but not my brother. He’s my little brother. He’s not supposed to know these things. But the way he’s staring at me—at us, Dean and me—it’s clear that he does know.

  I’m not sure what Dean’s reaction is but I’m freaking speechless right now. All I can do is stand here and stare at my brother, who, after a second or two, shrugs.

  “What? I’m not an idiot. I pick up on things. Fallon loves Dean. Everybody knows.”

  His words bring me out of my stupor and I lunge at him. I literally lunge at him like I used to when we were kids and he takes off, screaming.

  “Get back here, Brendan,” I shout after him.

  I can hear my mom behind me, asking us to cut it out, but I don’t care. I’m also aware that Dean is witnessing our heathen behavior—mine and my brother’s—but the truth is that he already knows. He’s seen Brendan and me fight on numerous occasions so this isn’t new.

  What’s new is the fact that my brother knows.

  How does he know? Does everyone know?

  Including my dad.

  Gosh, please don’t let my dad know until I, or rather Dean, gets a chance to tell him.

  So I run after my brother who’s still screaming, What’s the big deal? Everyone knows. Although he’s so much faster than me, not to mention his stupid long legs give him even more of an edge, that before I’m even halfway down the hallway that leads to our back
yard, he’s already bursting out the door.

  Even so, I try to catch up to him. But when my feet slip and I crash into something really hard that almost knocks the breath out of me, I know I’ve lost all hope.

  But then, I don’t care about the lost hope or catching up to my brother or who knows what because I’ve just collided with the very person I’ve been thinking about all the way here.

  My dad.

  He has his hands on my arms, keeping me steady—thank God—and judging by the open door of his study, he’s just come out of it, probably after all the ruckus we were making.

  Growing up, whenever Dad would work in his office, Mom would obviously tell us to be quiet. I’d obey her, of course. But I’d also miss my dad. So I’d open his door really quietly and tiptoe up to his desk. I’d even hold my breath so as to stay completely silent.

  I used to think that if I didn’t make any noise, my dad wouldn’t notice a tiny silver-haired girl floating inside his room while he was focusing on work.

  To his credit, he pretended to not notice me. He’d stay absorbed in whatever he was doing and I’d sit on the carpet, by the legs of his giant desk, and play with whatever I’d manage to sneak in.

  And when he did notice me, he’d act so surprised that it made me laugh. He’d tell me that I had the prettiest laugh, just like my mom’s, and so I should never stop laughing.

  Like my mom’s words, I think of his words too, at moments when I feel like I’ll never laugh again.

  Right now, I smile up at him. “Dad.”

  His gray eyes stare at me from behind his black-rimmed glasses, concerned and bright.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He sighs, the lines around his eyes and that permanent crinkle between his brows deepening. “You both should know better than running in the house. Floors are slippery, Fallon.”

  “But I didn’t slip,” I lie. I kinda did slip a little.

  The lines on his face change places. A second ago, the lines around his eyes were bunched up but now, the lines surrounding his lips deepen.

  “You didn’t,” he says in a flat voice.