The Hunting Town (Brothers Book 1)

by Elizabeth Stephens

“Yeah. I got out to put up a couple of those cone things, but then a few different guys offered to help me…” Her voice dies and her discomfort makes my hands tighten around the wheel. Then I hear the sound of muffled whispering. She’s speaking to someone that isn’t me. To a child. “No, it’s okay baby Brant. We’re okay. Uncle Dixon’s coming to get us.”

  Uncle Dixon. My reaction to the moniker is twofold: a hatred that the association puts me in a position of responsibility over the young one and his mother, and the fierce desire to be exactly in such a position.

  “Sorry. He’s not happy with me at the moment. Tired.” She’s moving around and as the phone settles I hear crying on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll be to you in five minutes. Leave me on speakerphone until then. You don’t have to talk to me.” I just want to be able to hear her. Even if it’s only her body moving, or her light voice whispering to her kid, or her kid crying in her arms. I hear all of that and more as I cruise down the freeway, taking it at ninety even though the speed limit’s sixty five.

  My phone told me I’d arrive in twelve minutes. Four later, I’m slowing to a crawl on the shoulder behind a beat up old Volvo that makes my trigger hand tingle. I want to shoot the tires out so she never drives this death trap again. I leave my car and walk up to the driver’s side and though I can make out the smear of shifting bodies, there’s a thick fog congealing against most of the windows. I rap my knuckles on the glass.

  “Sara,” I say, “It’s Dixon.” Uncle Dixon.

  “Thank the Lord,” her voice calls through the doorframe. She has to shout to be heard over the sound of the infant crying. She opens the door to the backseat and the sound gets louder. Seated on the far side of the car, on the other side of a large car seat, she’s got a baby in her arms. He’s a golden brown color with a dusting of raven curls on the top of his head. In a blue onesie with a lion on the front of it, he’s clean and smells like baby powder, even from where I stand. Yet the woman that holds him is in a sweater beneath which she wears the signature Camelot crop-top and a pair of medical scrubs. She must see me staring at her wardrobe, because she tries to balance the baby in her left arm while using her right hand to close her sweater over her exposed stomach.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t have time to change.”

  “You look cold. Why didn’t you turn on the heat?”

  She smiles at me weakly and continues bouncing the baby on her shoulder. Brant. “The car wouldn’t start at all. I’ve been trying to wrap Brant in a blanket, but he’s being obstinate. Please, if you just could grab that car seat then I could maybe get all of his other stuff…”

  I cut her off and reach into the car. My hands slide around the small child’s sides and I lift Brant away from her before she can protest. I stand up outside of the car and can hear Sara scrambling over the shrill shriek of Brant’s initial protest. He whines for a moment until I drape his body over my forearm, stomach facing down, and hold his head in my palm. With my free hand, I rub his back in slow circles. The response is near immediate. Brant quiets and so does Sara.

  “How…how did you…” Her question fades as she leans far enough over Brant’s car seat that the moonlight cuts across her face and chest. Her breasts are pushed up high from whatever ridiculous contraption Marilyn made her wear and I’m distracted by them. “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Then how…Brant normally doesn’t like strangers.”

  “I grew up in a foster home. Been raising kids my whole life.”

  “Oh.” Her blonde hair blows around her face and I can see the goosebumps rise on her chest. She’s still wearing makeup from the club and it shimmers in the moonlight. She’s got perfect skin. It’s the color and consistency of fired porcelain. I’m surprised no one’s called the cops yet. A big, black man like me aggressing this poor white female with a baby and car troubles. They’d get close enough though and maybe they’d think the kid was mine. With his high yellow skin, he looks like he could be. I recoil from the thought mentally and turn towards my car.

  “You got a blanket?” I say.

  “Oh yeah, of course.” She passes me something soft and yellow and I drape it over the baby on my left arm. I remove the carrier from her car with my right.

  “Grab your things. All of them.”

  She starts to move quickly. Scrambling from her position in the back seat to gather things she left in the front, it takes her a few minutes to amass a bag with a bunch of baby equipment sticking out of it and a second, familiar backpack. By this point, I’ve already got Brant’s seat strapped into the backseat of my Audi – last car in the world I thought would ever have a baby in it – but when I go to strap him in, the kid starts whimpering and Sara grabs my arm.

  “Sorry,” she says in a huff, showing me both palms as if I might be mad at her. I want to tell her I’m holding her kid, and that I can feel his little heartbeat thumping against the pulse in my wrist and the heat of his breath against my palm. I want to tell her that I’m angry and it has nothing to do with her – that she’s the only thing that helps cut through that curtain. I want to tell her that I’m crippled by the sight of her. I want her to know that there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with her now.

  In an effort to control the rage that’s made me a target of her fear and anxiety, I gulp hard and speak in a gentle, even tone. “Sara,” I say, don’t you dare recoil from me, “what is it?”

  “Well I know it sounds insane, but please…” She wrings out her hands and is so far from the girl I first met, she’s no longer recognizable. She’s entirely herself. Still a force to be reckoned with, but with so many weaknesses that she’s tried so hard not to betray. None greater than the boy I’m holding. “I don’t know how you got him to fall asleep so fast, but I do know that if he wakes up now I’ll never get him down again. Would it be at all possible for me to drive and you to sit with him in the back? I know it’s illegal, but I’m literally the next exit and it’s only side streets after that. I have to get up ridiculously early tomorrow and the fact that he’s asleep at all is frankly a godsend. Please.”

  She clasps her hands together and looks like she’s about to get on her knees, the sight of which would freak me out more than her plea already does. The desperation in her eyes has me headed for the backseat before my mouth has a chance to respond. Even though no one but me has ever driven this car and I thought no one ever would, I toss her the keys and she thanks me again and again.

  In the back seat, I reposition Brant so he’s on my shoulder now, head buried in the curve of my neck, stubby little fists clutching at the fabric of my tee shirt. As she drives to her place, I cancel her tow truck and instead, call my guy. Over the phone, I explain about the busted car on the interstate and ask him to come get it, but when I hang up, I send him a text that clarifies what I need more precisely.

  “He’ll have the car back to you the day after tomorrow.”

  “Good,” she says, sparing a quick glance at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are bright and somehow her flushed nervousness makes her all the more magnificent. Not just magnificent. Irresistible. “I mean, thank you. I’m so sorry I got you involved in this. And by this I mean my whole life disaster.”

  She has no idea and I grimace at the thought. “I got you involved first.”

  She laughs at that and though the sound is light and anxious, I enjoy hearing it all the same. “I guess you did. And I guess I’m lucky I went insane that day and decided to intervene in that street fight.”

  “Why did you?” A question, among many, I’ve wanted to ask her for a while. It’s a small weight off of my chest just to voice it.

  She shrugs in the front seat, which is pushed so far forward I imagine how strange it will feel to adjust the position when I drive away. “It’s my job. You know I’m still an EMT on Monday nights.”

  I didn’t know that and it bothers me. “Why didn’t you turn me in that night?”

 
She adjusts the rearview mirror so she can see me, then quickly tips it back to its original position. “I don’t know,” she finally says, “maybe stupidity.”

  “Dangerous lapse of judgment notwithstanding, I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”

  I catch her profile in the light of the dashboard. She’s smiling. “You’re welcome.”

  Next thing I know, she’s pulling into a familiar parking lot. I’m reminded of the last time I was here and the horror she must have felt when I kissed her forehead. Tonight, I know I won’t make that same mistake. I won’t touch her. It’s a promise I make to myself that becomes increasingly difficult when she asks me to walk Brant up to her apartment. It’s the first time I’m invited inside and my anticipation is embarrassing, so I say nothing.

  The front door opens up directly into her living room. When she switches on the lights, I see a beat up blue couch on the right wall. She drops all of her things in front of it. “Here. You can just bring him directly into his bed.” She closes and locks the front door before guiding me around the left corner. On the right is a small, neat kitchen with black and white tiled floors, followed by a bathroom. The bedroom is on the left.

  She leaves the lights off, though I can still see that the bed is made and that she’s got either a lavender or pale blue bedspread. A tiny C-shaped bed is pressed against the bed’s opposite side, so I have to fully cross the room in order to reach it. I whisper softly to Brant as I lay him down and I wait a few moments before withdrawing. He whimpers at first, starts to sniffle and cry, but I keep my palm pressed over his tummy and draw the small blanket up over his legs.

  He stretches, looking momentarily like a tiny old man. His expression twists then and his massive, brown eyes blink open. He sees me and a small smile flutters across his face, inflating his rounded cheeks. I touch one and kiss the boy’s forehead for absolutely no reason I can justify. When I pull back his eyes are closed and his breath is even. I rise to stand and when I turn it’s to see Sara watching me from the doorway in a stunned, haunted way that makes me uncomfortable. I clear my throat.

  Her lips move, and she looks like she’s trying to come up with something to explain why she’s watching me like I’m God and she, a mere apostle even though it’s entirely the other way around. I spare her from the grief.

  “You have an early day tomorrow?” She nods and doesn’t speak. “Get ready for bed and I’ll wait here with Brant.” Her eyebrows draw down and the soft expression shatters into a sharpness that I should have anticipated. Quickly, I add, “If you’d like. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

  She exhales, smiles, looks at her feet. “Alright.” Then pauses. “Thank you.”

  She disappears around the corner and I can hear her moving rapidly. She isn’t gone for long. When she returns, I’m seated on the edge of her bed and she’s standing in the doorway wearing boxers and a big tee shirt. From the way she crosses her arms over her chest, I can tell that she doesn’t have a bra on.

  “Thank you,” she repeats, “I’ll show you out.”

  I nod. “Bye Brant.” He doesn’t respond and I smile again. It pleases me to see how soundly he’s sleeping. I pass her as I head out into the hall, noticing and hating how she makes sure that our bodies don’t touch. Still, that hatred isn’t enough to make me angry. Her presence is a soothing balm and I’m grateful that she stops me before I reach the door.

  “Dixon?” she says.

  I turn to see her standing in the center of her living room. She’s not wearing shoes, and her arms are exposed and her neck is long and lean and she doesn’t have any makeup on. She’s not the same girl she is on that stage. She shouldn’t be on that stage dancing. Stripping.

  “Yes?”

  She smiles and makes a face, balls her hands into the hem of her tee shirt, the one with the hospital’s name on it – Westfield – then huffs, “I was just wondering…hoping really, that I might ask you out for dinner sometime this weekend.”

  Did she just slug me over the head with a baseball bat? No, I’m still standing. “I don’t date my employees,” I say mechanically because I don’t know what else to. I don’t have anything else.

  “Sorry.” She shakes her head and blonde hair flops down over her cheek. “That was super inappropriate. I feel bad for asking. Sorry again, I…” The first wave of lust is her soft acquiescence, the second is her self-flagellation, and the third is her simple beauty. But it’s her desire that tips me.

  I take the step that brings her right beneath me, slip my finger underneath her chin and tilt her face up. I’m going to kiss her again, but this time it won’t be for curiosity. It will be for need because the simple truth is that I do need her. I need her in order to breathe evenly. I need her to quench my thirst.

  Sara

  I don’t expect him to kiss me – I really don’t – but I don’t push him away when he does. Instead, like the girl that I am, I swoon. I am Scarlett O’Hara and Elizabeth Bennett and Jane Eyre and Catherine Earnshaw and he is him. Dixon. I’ve wanted him for a while and despite the cold rejection I just endured I want him still.

  And I don’t just want him. I want him to want me back, but I know that’s stupid. I’m a stripper and a student with a baby that she can barely take care of and he’s a bachelor who owns most of the city – the only world I’ve ever known. But when he presses his mouth to mine he doesn’t kiss me like I’m worth any less. Rather, he kisses me once and then pulls back. He licks his big, soft lips as if tasting them, and meets my gaze. He looks between each of my eyes. The rest happens in the span of a moment.

  His left hand slides around my back and lines my spine, which is good because without it, I would have fallen. His lips part and his tongue invades my mouth, tasting all of me and with a force that demands I fight back and stand my ground against it. I hook my arm around his neck and suddenly my feet no longer touch the ground and Dixon’s falling back like I’ve just pushed him.

  He hits the wall and he slides his hand along my thigh, all the way up my boxers so that he’s fully cupping my right ass cheek. If he moved his pinky over an inch, he’d be inside of me and Jesus, I want him to be. Men never interested me too much, but he interested me from the first moment I saw him beating on those two other men, even the drunken mess that he was. He’d been jumped. I’d suspected as much when I saw those guys walking down the block towards him. What I hadn’t expected was my body’s physical response towards him, to do something, to save those guys – and not just to save them: to keep Dixon from harm. I’d wanted to protect him.

  My lips find Dixon’s ear and I suck the lobe hard into my mouth. He grunts and pulls at the hem of my shirt. Before I know what’s happened, it’s flying over my head and he’s lowering me onto my carpeted living room floor. He rips off his own jacket and it lands on the couch with a soft thump before he takes off his tee and comes at me. My breasts arch up and meet the wall of his chest. His mouth finds mine and I swear, as he massages the thick length of his cock against my pussy through the fabric of my boxers and his jeans, he whispers my name between us. It sounds like a plea.

  “I want you inside of me,” I moan.

  Dixon releases a roar before rising up onto his knees. He’s a big guy. Huge. And corded muscles ripple down his stomach and make me feel soft all over. Soft maybe, but also beautiful. I’ve never been stared at like that before by anyone. Not the sleazy guys that come to Camelot, not my past boyfriends, not boys at bars. He’s looking at me like I’m the single most perfect thing that’s ever existed. And I feel that I am, for just one ephemeral moment. Then he rips off my boxers and kisses his way down my body.

  “Dixon,” I cry out as his lips pull on my nipples at the same time that his fingers slip inside of me. “Sh…” I start to curse and for some reason that makes him laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever made him laugh before and I want to know how I’ve done it, but he doesn’t give me the time to ask.

  I’m dripping w
et and his mouth on my tits sucks relentlessly. My back arches as his thumb joins his pointer and middle finger. He rubs my clit with it while the other two pump in and out of me. I wanted to last longer than this, but I’m not going to. The orgasm hits me and I scream his name loud enough I know the guys next door will hear it. Maybe that had been his plan.

  I’m panting and whispering his name, trying to sit up when I see him working with his belt. “Dixon, fuck me,” I say. I’m not usually so crass but he doesn’t seem like the type for love making and I don’t care enough to mess with the semantics.

  I reach for his cock, but he holds me down by the chest. He kisses me hard and his body smothers mine to the floor and I can feel the smooth skin of his erection against my stomach seconds before he whispers a curse between us. His whole body stiffens and he breathes hot air against my throat as, seconds later, his semen spills over my abs, my thighs, and my pussy.

  “Sorry,” he chokes, moving off of me slowly.

  I struggle for words. “It’s…it’s okay.” I prop myself up on my elbows to look at him on his knees, but that’s as far as I make it. My head is spinning. He doesn’t move either. My leg kicks – an involuntary reaction – and his broad, flat hands cup me underneath each knee. He spreads my legs apart and I gasp as he looks at his own semen spread over my body. The white milk of his orgasm drips from my stomach to the shaved section around my most intimate part. My clit is covered in it and I can feel it sliding over my pussy lips and inside of me. It’s all over my thighs.

  My head falls back in wanton rapture as he spreads my legs wider. He slides another finger inside of me and I collapse, unable to hold myself up a second longer. He uses his cum as a lubricant and draws patterns over my clitoris with two hands now instead of one. It takes me less than sixty seconds to come for him and it’s only as I lay there wasted and spent that he stands up.

  “Wait are you…are you leaving?” I pant, unable to catch my breath or form rational words or complete sentences.