by Casey Winter
I chuckle. “I know what you’re saying, Lennie. Don’t worry.”
“Is it really that crazy, the passion?”
I let out a shuddering breath. Just the thought of how desperate for each other we were as he carried me up those stairs, how badly I wanted him to bend me over the desk and claim me, to drive his manhood deep inside of me, to take me again and again … I wanted to drive back, to feel the crushing wetness inside of me as we met, over and over and—
I laugh away the rising lust. “Yeah,” I say, strangled. “No—better, crazier.”
“Wow,” Penny says. “It might be worth pursuing it just for that. This is the twenty-first century, girl. You’re allowed to just have a good time.”
I pinch her impishly. “Since when has either of us just screwed around like that?”
She pouts. “I’ll have you know I’m the gangbang queen, Hannah. I might pretend to be a bookish nerd who spends most of her time indoors, reading and writing. Or, when I do go outside, teaching. But, really, I host elaborate sex parties here. Really, you shouldn’t be sitting there. I haven’t had the couch cleaned yet.”
We both laugh like crazy. I leap up, screaming in disgust and jumping around the apartment. Sometimes, with Penny, it’s like we’re kids again. It’s a good feeling, just another thing I’ve missed about Little Fall without truly realizing it.
“Anyway,” Penny says, once we’ve calmed down. “It’s not like either of us are virgins.”
“Of course not,” I mutter. “But I don’t know if I could just screw him and forget about him. Even if it was my style, there’s just—It’s not just the sexual tension, that’s the thing. It’s the fun we have. It’s so hard to explain, how badly I don’t want to be pulled in by him and yet how quickly and easily I am.”
I sigh, shrugging. “I’m just going around in circles. The bottom line is, I’m glad to be back in Little Fall. I’m sort of becoming Evelyn. I’m not saying I’m becoming Luke’s mom because, ew, that’d be weird. But you know how she was always helping kids learn to skate at the rink, how people were always happy to see her there? That’s kind of the role I’ve been taking on this past week.
“And it feels good, Penny. I really, really, really like it. Being part of a community again. Seeing the same faces. Sleeping in the same bed. I could ruin that, all of it by getting involved with another Nelson and finding out that he’s just as bad as his little brother, that he’ll break my heart just the same.”
“I wish I had some kickass advice,” Penny says. “But it does sound really effing complicated. Sooooooo … another glass of wine?”
“Yeah, but I’ll get it. You just look too snuggly there.”
“Snuggly,” she scoffs. “Like an oversized stick insect, you mean.”
“Jeez, Penny,” I exclaim, walking into the kitchen. “That seems a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”
“Six foot one, remember? That means I’m basically a lost cause. I think a healthy cynicism about myself and the world is to be expected.”
“So even though my past can’t define me,” I mutter, “your height can define you, huh?”
She considers, smirking, and then nods. “Yep, pretty much. Like I said, I’m no agony aunt.”
“Clearly not.” I drop back on the couch, handing her the wineglass. “But I do hate it when you say stuff like that. You’re pretty, talented, funny, kind …”
“Oh, stop, you’re making me blush.”
“I’m serious,” I say sincerely. “You shouldn’t be so harsh on yourself.”
“I think that wine’s gone to your head, Banana. I’m only messing around.”
“Ha-ha, well, it’s not funny,” I say.
She’s right. The wine has gone to my head. But she wasn’t messing around and we both know it. Penny is super-paranoid about her height, always has been. Sometimes—like just now, for example—she’ll bring it up for seemingly no reason.
“Anyway, how’s the book coming along?” I ask. “You were writing up a storm when I got here.”
“Oh, I’ve taken a break from that disobedient thriller,” Penny hisses with serious vitriol in her voice. She often talks about her projects like they’re ex-boyfriends. “It just won’t work. All the pieces are in my head—hell, some of them are even plotted out—but they just won’t fit. So I’ve started a new project. A fantasy short story about a girl whose fingernails won’t stop growing. They’re super-strong and … yeah, you’re right to look at me like that. It gets really weird.”
I giggle. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like I’m inbound to Pluto. Completely outta this world. And you’re pretty much right.”
“I do sometimes wish you’d finish a project, Lennie,” I murmur. “You’re so talented and I know you’d be a huge success … if you just had a book, a start-to-finish book, to put out into the world.”
“Thanks, babe,” Penny says airily. “But don’t you know anything about literature? I’ll be a complete failure until I’m in my mid-forties. And then I’ll publish some mediocre novels. Only, years after I’m dead, I’ll be declared a genius.” She chews her lower lip. “Scratch that, actually. I haven’t got a dick. So I’ll probably just be forgotten.”
“And the wine’s gone to my head?” I laugh. “You sound hella bitter.”
She tosses her wine back in a single gulp. “Bitter?” she exclaims, gesturing with her glass. “Never. I’m as optimistic as they come. I fully believe that everybody is, in the end, going to get everything they deserve. I just don’t believe I deserve that much.”
“Okaaaaay,” I say. “This isn’t funny at all now. Like, seriously. But it is good to find out that you’re still a lightweight. Two glasses of wine and we’re already in pity-party territory … oh, wait.” I give her a dark look. She fidgets, smiling childishly. “Wait a second …”
“What?” she huffs.
“That wasn’t your second glass, was it, Penny?” I accuse. “You’ve been having yourself a Wednesday night private drinking party, haven’t you?”
“Mebbe,” she titters. “Mebbe not.”
“Jesus,” I say. “Well, that explains the sudden self-hatred. I’m getting you some water. No arguments, kay?”
“Fine,” she grumbles, but she’s laughing. “I didn’t realize you were a detective as well as a skating champion now. Oh, and a pretty awesome artist. You know, Banana, has anybody ever told you that you’re too damn talented?”
I go into the kitchen and get her a glass of water, carrying it through. Handing it to her, I say, “Drink.”
She drinks it, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, and then drops onto the couch, eyes closing. “I’m gonna have a nap now,” she smiles. “But you do whatever you want, Hannah. You can stay here tonight or go home. You can screw Luke until your vajayjay falls off, or you can forget he exists. But do what you want to do, okay? Not what the … the … effing past tells you to do.”
“Thanks, Lennie,” I whisper.
I sit with her as she falls asleep, and then stand up and cover her with another blanket. Maybe because of how scared she sometimes gets, Penny likes to be positively shrouded in blankets when she’s sleeping. The more, the better.
I sneak out of her apartment quietly. When I’m in the street, I call home.
“Yes?” Alejandra says, answering.
In Spanish, I say, “Grandmother, it’s me. Is Mom okay?”
I hear the smile in Alejandra’s voice when she speaks, since she always likes it when I call her grandmother, even if we both know it’s just wishful thinking. In reality, two of my grandparents live in Florida, and the other two have passed.
“Sleeping, little monkey,” Alejandra says. “I’m staying the night, so you’re free to … to do whatever it is young women do on a Wednesday night.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, switching back to English. “I’m gonna really tear up the town. No, but I might head to the Fork and grab a bite to eat.”
“Go easy,” Alejandra says. “It’s almost e
leven o’clock. You don’t want to make yourself ill, do you? Will be the diner even be open this late?”
“The Juke, then,” I mutter.
“Hmm, well, just make sure not to go pig-wild, girl. You don’t want to play havoc with your digestion.”
I smile. “Okay, Alejandra, I’m hanging up now.”
We both laugh as I hang up the phone. I love Alejandra, but sometimes she can get a bit OTT with her concern. I walk through Little Fall, quiet and peaceful, toward Main Street.
I think about Penny’s advice about doing what I want, about not being dictated to. Part of me wants to believe it, probably the same part that can’t stop thinking about how steamy and intriguing that orgasm was, how easy our banter is. But there’s that other part—the part that lives in the past—that’s just painfully, achingly terrified.
It’s so hard to know which me to listen to.
—
It turns out the Fork-N-Spoon is officially open until half eleven, but unofficially open until whatever time the last patron leaves. The owner, a grey-haired man who’s fixated on his crossword with a vengeance, sits at the desk. A kind-looking woman serves the coffee to the few patrons. Seeing me, the lady walks over. She wears a plaid shirt and big golden earrings, smiling broadly. She looks matronly, pretty, and friendly all at once
“Well, lucky us,” she smiles. “If it isn’t Hannah Coleman-Ortiz. The whole town’s been talking about you, dear.”
“How did you know it was me without my skates?” I joke, feeling a little embarrassed by all this attention.
“I’ve been to the rink,” she says. “My name’s Lacy Trundle, and that over there’s my worse half, Joey Trundle.” Again, I get that odd out-of-the-loop feeling. This is my town, yet I’m a stranger. “We own this fine establishment. Just so you know, the kitchen’s closed now, but we can rustle up something small if you’re hungry? How about some toast?”
“Thank you, yeah. Some toast would be great.”
“Okay, coming right up. Holler if you need anything else.”
“I will, Lacy, thank you.”
I watch as Lacy walks behind the counter, past her husband, Joey. They do the cutest thing as she heads for the toaster. Without looking up from his crossword, he reaches out and gives her arm a brief squeeze. She finds his hand and squeezes back … and then they just go about their business.
Is that what a happily married couple looks like, silent love, not having to make a song and dance about it? I wouldn’t know, since Mom and Dad were anything but happy, hence the divorce.
Once Lacy has brought the toast over, I tear it into little pieces and begin eating them one by one. But mostly I just sink into my thoughts, letting them wander in all kinds of directions. I see horrible images, like I’m standing at Mom’s graveside, like I get home one day and Noah is standing there, teenage Noah, the one who told me that if I didn’t listen to him I’d regret it.
And of course there’s Luke, the older brother I can’t stop thinking about, the man I should be running away from but want to run toward. Guilt stabs at me as I mentally undress him, peeling away his shirt, his pants, revealing his ridged muscles and his bulging manhood. I felt his manhood through his jeans. Trapped in denim, it was hard to properly grind against, but it felt rock-hard and huge.
“Thinking about your boyfriend?” Lacy says, passing by.
I flinch. “No. I don’t have one. Why?”
“Just had this dreamy look on your face,” she says. “Sorry if I offended you, dear.”
“You didn’t offend me,” I say quickly. I must look pretty freaked out and aggressive, if she’s saying that. I smile. I try to, at least. “It’s just been a long night.”
“Mm-hmm, you’re telling me,” she laughs, walking away.
Like a hamster, I stuff my cheeks with toast. I take out my cellphone and mindlessly browse through Facebook, liking a few statuses from my rollerskating buddies. I haven’t checked my Messenger in a while, and it’s bloated with checkups from my nomad friends. I reply, letting them know that I’m okay in Little Fall, nothing much to report. I mention the new rink.
I don’t mention Luke.
I’ve decided I’m not actually that stoked for the toast after all, and I’m about to leave, when Graham Fitzgerald slides into the seat opposite me. He looks different without his nurse’s scrubs on … as well as with his red, manic eyes. His freckled skin is flushed. His hair is damp with sweat. “Hannah,” he breathes.
“Graham,” I mutter. “Are you okay?”
He nods frantically, almost leaping out of his skin when Lacy approaches. “Coffee,” he says. “Black. No, nothing else. Thanks.”
Lacy gives me a look, and I nod, letting her know that it’s fine, he can sit here. He must look like an intruder.
“I was just at the Box,” Graham says, grinning awkwardly. He’s shifting around strangely, can’t sit still. I wonder if he’s on drugs: speed, coke, some sort of stimulant.
“That’s funny,” I say, trying to ease the tension. “You call it the Box. Some people call it the Juke. It’s like with this diner. Is it the Fork or the Spoon?”
He stares at me blankly. “Look at you,” he says after a pause. “All grown up now, aren’t you?”
Uh-oh.
“That’s what people tend to do,” I say good-naturedly. “Look at you, with a wife and a beautiful family.”
He seems annoyed that I’d reference his family, but I have to remind him before he says anything he might regret.
“Oh, yeah, got the most popular girl in school, didn’t I? You know she spit in my face once in the hallway? I was walking by and some asshole grabbed me and pinned my arms behind my back and she spit her chewing gum right in my goddamn face. And now that bitch is the mother of my children.”
“Graham,” I snap. “I don’t know if you’re drunk or on drugs or what, but I’m not going to sit here and listen to you call the mother of your kids a bitch. Actually, I kind of want to be alone. Do you mind?”
“Little Hannah Coleman-Ortiz,” he mutters, actually running his tongue over his upper teeth like a vampire getting ready for a meal. “All independent and strong now, aren’t ya?”
I sigh through clenched teeth, wondering if I should make a scene or if I can talk him into leaving. It’s evident in his every gesture and tic of his hopped-up expression that he wants to make a point of sitting here, and of making me sit here with him. I wonder if my first assessment of him was wrong. Maybe he’s not over our high school drama after all.
Chapter Nine
Luke
“I thought Oliver was making this up,” Morgan says, standing at the window of my office and looking down on the rink.
Morgan Gunnarsson is easily the biggest man I’ve ever seen. He’s six five and must weigh over three hundred pounds. From Norway but now a US citizen, he looks like a man out of a Viking fever dream. His hair is ash-blonde and his eyes are stark blue. He turns to me slowly. He rarely shows emotion, but his lips twitch slightly. For him, that’s the equivalent of a beaming grin.
“The man who singlehandedly defended that shipment of assault rifles from those bastards who betrayed us overseas—held up for twenty hours under siege, if I remember correctly—the man who could beat the hell out of a fair few professional fighters, the man who knows how to use every weapon known to man … is running a goddamn roller rink?”
“You know about Noah’s letter,” I say. “You know I had no choice.”
“I would’ve burned the letter,” Morgan growls.
“What if I died on a job, and I asked you to do it?”
He flinches. “Then I would’ve done it, min bror. Of course I would.”
“Exactly.”
He nods, turns back to the rink. I lean back in the chair and glance at the clock. We have to wait for Coach to get back from Lorham to take our statements, since two of his deputies are sick and the other two are busy elsewhere.
I think back to the alleyway, when I was leaning over the b
usted air conditioning unit and heard somebody approach behind me. When I spun around ready for a fight, I was shocked to find Morgan standing there, watching me quietly. For a moment, we just stood, staring at each other. Then I ran over and clapped him on the back. We gripped arms, me smiling, him doing what passed as a smile.
“I’m just passing through,” he said. “I have a job in Montreal, so I thought I’d swing by. I showed up and heard the racket, and I chased the bastard. But he was tricky and he knows the terrain better than me. He got away, Luke. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, brother,” I told him. “It’s just good to see you. Don’t sneak up on me like that again, though. For a big vending-machine bastard, you sure know how to move quietly.”
Now, I lean forward, lifting my beer and taking a small sip. “What’re you doing up in Montreal, anyway?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Luke,” Morgan growls sarcastically, azure eyes glinting. “You’re no longer affiliated with Sun-Disk Security.” He turns, strolling over to the desk, giving his version of a smile. “It’s nothing interesting. Security for some pop starlet. It’ll be the usual boring stuff. Escorting her to and from shows, hanging around outside her room.”
I nod. I’ve done those sorts of jobs, too, and he’s right. They’re paint-drying boring.
“So you’re having problems with these Hanlons?” Morgan asks a moment later.
“Some,” I say. “A little scrap in the park. This is the first overt show of aggression, though.”
“Be careful, Luke,” he says quietly.
I laugh. “You don’t think I can handle myself?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Be careful that you don’t get too angry and do something you’ll regret. Don’t forget, you’re a trained killer, an assassin, a SEAL. If things got really nasty, it wouldn’t even be close. You could dismantle them in two seconds flat. Don’t get yourself locked up over some small-town drama.”
