by Aubrey Watts
I nod. “Born and raised.”
I can feel him staring at me; dissecting me with glances. “Why’d you become a wedding photographer?”
We’re playing twenty questions now. I run a wet hand through my hair to untangle it and glance at the mirage of bruises that cover his abdomen. “Why did you become a boxer?”
He shrugs and finishes off his cigarette, clearing his lungs. “I don’t know. Because I’m good at it, I guess.”
“I’m not.” I laugh, but it comes out sounding sad. I wave a hand in the air. “Good at it. Wedding photography, I mean.”
Macon frowns, not entirely following. “I’m sure you’re just being hard on yourself…”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, laughing, “my last shoot didn’t have a single usable photograph. The brides—it was a same sex wedding—were pissed. I felt so bad I didn’t make them pay me.”
He swallows, unsure of what to say, and I watch as his Adams apple bobs in his throat.
“Well why do you do it?”
The question catches me off guard.
“If you don’t think you’re good at it, I mean. Why not do something else?”
Because it’s not that easy, I want to say, but I don’t.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, biting down on my bottom lip. “I went to school for it. My parent’s were always in my ear, telling me what a pointless degree it was. But I was adamant. I just don’t want to prove them right, you know?”
Macon nods. I can tell by the look in his eyes that there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t. I reach out to run my fingers over the tattoos on his back. He flinches and jerks away from me.
“Sorry,” he says, regaining his posture, “just a habit.”
I nod and change the subject, pointing to a small dark symbol tattooed on his right shoulder. “What does this symbolize?”
“It’s Hebrew,” he says, “It’s supposed to symbolize strength.”
I trace my finger over it. “I love it,” I whisper, “I love all of your tattoos, actually. I’ve never been a big fan of them, but yours all well-worn.”
Well-worn. Like a pair of shoes or something. I cringe at my use of words but Macon flashes me that signature crooked grin, all dimples. I suck in a sharp breath as he leans into me; he’s so close that I can feel his breath against my face.
“I’m going to kiss you again,” he warns.
And he does.
I swallow down the lump in my throat as he lowers his mouth to mine. His grin dissipates as he dissolves into me, reaching up to cup my face. It’s absolutely electric, the way his lips move against mine. I think, in a haze, that I could get lost in him. He explores the curve of my mouth like a seasoned pro, and I wonder, fleetingly, how many other women he has kissed like this.
I moan into him as he laces his large arms around my body and pulls me on top of him in the sand. He presses his tongue against my lips, as though to ask for entrance into my mouth, and I abide. Our bodies are still slightly wet and sticky from the salt water, but it only serves to add to the effect.
When he finally pulls away from me, breathless, the look in his eyes tells me that he’s trying to gauge my reaction. He wants to take things further, and I do too. I kiss my way along the sharp curve of his jaw, down his neck, over the tattoos on his hefty shoulders, but he removes himself from the moment and sits up, holding me slightly at a distance.
I watch in slight frustration as he runs a hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, reaching for his hand.
He stares at me for a long time without speaking, then, he pulls me to his chest and presses a firm kiss against my temple, brushing my hair out of my face. “What’s the rush?”
I sigh into him. Every part of me wants to tell him what I’m thinking; that the night is ticking away, that everything has an expiration, even this, as nice as it is. But I don’t.
“Hey,” he whispers, lifting my chin so that I’m looking him in the eye, “I just don’t want to mess this up, you know?”
“Sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but it also has a pretty fuckin’ uncanny way of complicating things.”
It’s at this point that I realize something I hadn’t before. This isn’t just a one-night stand to him.
And maybe he never intended for it to be.
Chapter 6
“I think you should know that I don’t usually do things like this.” It’s a vague statement but a necessary one nonetheless. We’re sitting hand in hand on the sunroof of Macon’s high-rise apartment, which offers a beautiful view of Los Angeles at sunrise, dangling our feet over the edge. Plates of half eaten breakfast surrounds us; a mirage of egg whites, wheat toast, and turkey bacon.
Macon is a wonderful cook; but it’s only one of many talents. He takes a long drink of his coffee—black—and looks at me sideways. “Do what?”
I pull my sweater tighter around myself and sip my orange juice. “I don’t usually go home with guys I met at clubs.”
He laughs. “Well, Cassandra, I guess there’s a time for breaking rules and a time for following them, isn’t there?”
It’s the third time I’ve heard him say my full name and it still gives me goose bumps.
“Besides, you already said that. Last night, remember?”
I frown. “Oh,” I say, feeling a blush crawl across my face, “right.”
He chuckles and reaches across the plates between us, grasping my hand. “Tell me about yourself, though. I mean, other than the fact that you don’t usually do things like this.”
I hesitate. It’s been awhile since anyone other than my therapist has asked me to tell them about my life. “What do you want to know?”
Macon shrugs. “Anything, everything. Here’s something—do you have siblings?”
I shake my head, picking a piece of egg off my skirt. “Negative. I’m an only child.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” he says, laughing, “I have a small army of them.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah. My parents are Mormon. Birth control doesn’t really come with the territory, if you get my drift.”
I sit up a little straighter. “How many do you have, exactly?”
“Three brothers and a sister. All of em’ but me live back home in Oklahoma with my parents.” He cracks his fingers, one by one. “They’re cattle farmers. It’s exactly as exciting as it sounds, trust me.”
I chuckle, leaning back on my elbows. “What are they like?” I question, “your brothers and sister, I mean.”
Macon thinks it over for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess we’re all pretty close. Different as all hell—but close.”
I arch a brow. “Different in what way?”
He chuckles, taking another sip of his coffee. “You’d have to meet them to understand.”
“Maybe one day I will.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them and I blush.
“Yeah,” Macon says, flashing me a smile, “maybe you will.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek and my heart flutters. “Here’s a question,” I throw out, “what’s your last name?”
He starts to answer but when his cell phone rings, he pulls it out of his pocket to see who it is. “Speak of the devil,” he says, smiling down at me, “It’s my older brother, Trent, would you mind if I take this real quick?”
I shake my head and wave a hand at him. “Of course, go ahead.”
He stands up and I listen to him walk inside, turning my attention back to the view in front of me. The sky is a collage of peach and yellow, and I can see the sun in the distance, forcing it’s way into the sky. I’ve always thought that Los Angeles looks best like this—right at sunrise, and this morning is further confirmation of that.
I can hear Macon approaching me from behind and I turn to look at him as he slides back down beside me. He’s as white as a sheet.
“Hey,” I whisper, resting my hand on his arm, “what’s wrong?”
&n
bsp; He shakes his head and stuffs his cell phone back into the pocket of his jeans. I lace my arms around his neck to try and get him to look at me, but he doesn’t budge.
“It’s Kimball,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair.
I shake my head and frown.
“Before the phone rang,” he says, unclenching his jaw, “you asked what my last name was. It’s Kimball.”
“Oh,” I whisper.
A lapse of silence falls over us, and when Macon finally breaks it, his voice cracks. “I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head and rubs his face, meeting eyes with me. “There’s been an incident with my little sister. I just...I need to go home.”
Then,
“Will you come?”
~
I spend the morning canceling appointments and finding a replacement photographer to cover the wedding I’m booked for in San Luis Obispo the following day. Macon picks me up from my condo just before midnight, and we board a redeye flight to Oklahoma City shortly after.
As we make our way through the terminal and onto the plane, I’m struck by the realization that we must look like a couple heading home for the weekend, and I wonder, fleetingly, how Macon will introduce me to his family.
Not that it’s relevant.
This isn’t about me, after all; he thanks me about a dozen times for coming with him, but I tell him that it’s fine—that I want to. And when the plane is finally in the air, and all of the in-flight messages have been relayed, I reach for his large hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. He stares out the small window next to him and I can see the pain etched across his handsome face as clear as day; I find myself wanting to console him. I lace my fingers through his and rest my head against his shoulder. He’s shaking, not visibly, but I can feel it.
“I’m going to kill him,” he whispers, “whoever did this to her, I’m going to kill him.”
I swallow hard, reaching up to smooth his dark hair back away from his face. There aren’t any words worth saying, so I settle into the quiet, caressing his hand in mine. Eventually, his eyelids get heavy and drift shut.
The plane lands on time as promised. An older man with Macon’s face, except far more aged, picks us up at the gate. There’s a toothpick dangling from his chapped mouth, and his ice blue eyes are tired and bloodshot. I watch him limp toward Macon and pull him into a hug, and they stand like that for a long time; two large bodies tucked in an embrace.
“Pops,” Macon says, pulling away from him. He extends a hand to me and clears his throat. “This is Cassandra.”
“Cassandra, this is my father, Nolan Kimball.”
“Hi, Mr. Kimball,” I say, taking a step forward. He smiles at me and pulls me into a tight embrace. He smells heavily of whiskey, but I don’t think too much about it.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” he breathes into my hair, “I’m just sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
He reaches for our luggage, tossing it into the bed of his running truck, which is parked illegally in front of the gate. “You go ahead and drive,” he slurs, tossing his keys to his son. “I’ve been doin’ a little drinking.”
I glance at Macon, not entirely following, but he shrugs and opens the door for me, lifting the seat so that I can climb in the back. When we’re all settled in, we follow the signs out of the airport and onto the main road.
“So, Cassandra,” Nolan calls to me from the front seat, lighting a smoke. He reaches down to turn on the radio and country music comes pouring out. “How did you and my son meet?”
Macon glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Uh,” I start, finding my voice, “we met at the beach, actually,” I lie.
He chuckles. “Right, It’s California. I should of assumed as much, I s’pose.” He cranes his neck back to look at me and I swallow hard, watching as he searches the ground in front of me. Finally, his hands settle on a crumpled paper bag with a bottle inside of it. He unscrews the cap and takes a long drink.
Macon sighs but doesn’t comment. We pull onto the freeway, going north, toward a small town called Guthrie. It’s dark out, but I can tell that the stretch of road that surrounds us is quite rural.
“What kind of person would do this?” Nolan says, catching Macon and I both off guard. He slams his fist against the dash and the bottle in his hand wavers. His voice dissipates into a whisper. “She’s a child…she’s barely seventeen years old for Christ sakes…”
He shakes his head and takes another long drink. “It’s sick, that’s what it is.”
“Just downright sick.”
Chapter 7
2 New Text Messages
From, Liv
What the fuck?
You’re WHERE?
I sigh and power off my phone. Olivia and Vega have been texting and calling me all day. They’re worried about me, and rightfully so. What I’m doing isn’t normal, not by my standards anyway; but I’m not really in the mood for a lecture on the ethics of going home, literally, with a one-night-stand.
Macon looks back at me in the rearview mirror and frowns. I shrug, waving a hand in the air. “It’s nothing,” I say, sliding my phone back in my purse, “just my friends.”
He nods and looks briefly over at his father, who is passed out and snoring with his hand dangling out the passenger side window. “We’re almost there,” he says, reaching forward to silence the radio. “Just a couple more miles.”
I rest my head against the window and nod. This is definitely cow country, and it smells like it too. Macon signals and makes a right hand turn onto an isolated road that isn’t visible from the road; you have to know it by memory. A large white farmhouse comes into view at the end of it, and beside it, separated by a large stretch of wire fencing, is a peeling red barn.
A large white sign, partially obscured by the grass, reads, Welcome to Kimball Family Cattle.
Macon pulls up and parks along three other trucks of similar appearance. There’s an older woman sitting in a rocking chair beneath the glowing porch lights, wringing her hands. She jumps to her feet when she sees Macon and rushes toward him, wrapping her arms around his large frame. He’s a giant beside her; she’s a tiny little thing, a caricature of a woman—with big brown doe eyes, a heart shaped face, and a head full of unruly blonde hair.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice cracks, and she pulls away from him. She wipes the wetness from her face with a rag and gives him a slow once over, glancing briefly back at me. “And who might this be?”
Nolan awakes at the sound of his wife’s voice and staggers out of the truck. He groans and pats the pocket of his plaid button up for his smokes, pulling one out of the pack and lighting it. The woman, who I’m assuming is Macon’s mother, rolls her eyes and waves a hand at him.
“It’s nice to meet you…” I say, taking a step forward. I glance at Macon for confirmation and he’s quick to step in.
“Cassandra, this is my mom, Lucy Kimball.” She smiles at me, tight and small, and gives me a slow once over. “Mom, this is my friend Cassandra.”
“It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. Kimball,” I say again, extending my hand to her. She stares at it for a moment before shaking it, but it’s brief. I swallow hard, feeling my palms begin to moisten. There’s something about her that’s slightly intimidating.
“Macon,” she says, turning her attention back to her son. She grips his biceps and holds him at an arms-length. “You’re getting so strong. We could use these on the farm, you know.”
Nolan chuckles lightly from behind us. Macon laughs too, but it’s not authentic. We all know what brought us here. Jokes aren’t any comfort.
“Anyway.” Lucy stands up straighter and is suddenly all business. “Alma is inside. Come in, you two.” She gestures with her rag. “And you too, Nolan. I’ll fix you some coffee and an early breakfast. No time to sleep, now. Cows will be up soon.”
Nolan grunts in response and flicks the butt of his smoke, stepping on it. The three of us follow Lucy in
side the dimly lit house. Macon reaches down pet a spotted Great Dane who rushes toward him. The tag around his neck reads ‘Cooper.’
“Hey Coop.” He bends down on a knee and smiles softly, rubbing the dogs head. “It’s been awhile.”
Nolan carries our luggage down the hall and tucks it into a room. He steps into the bathroom a second later and the shower turns on.
“Alma, honey, Macon is here!”
There’s a lapse of silence and when she doesn’t answer, Lucy sighs and makes her way into the kitchen. I start to follow her but Macon pulls me back.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers low enough for only me to hear him, “this was a mistake. I can’t see her like this. I should be out there finding the asshole who did this to her.”
“Macon,” I say, lightly touching his arm, “It’s late. You can do that in the morning.” I nod at the kitchen. “Your sister is in there, right now, and she needs all the support she can get.” I stand on my tiptoes and roll up his sleeve, pointing at the Hebrew symbol tattooed on his shoulder.
“Strength,” I whisper, brushing my lips against the faded ink. “Remember?”
~
Every eye around the table is glued on Alma. She’s staring off into space, barely registering anything going on around her. Beside her is her twin brother, Adam. They’re the youngest and the only two of Macon’s siblings who still live with his parents. They’re spitting images of each other—different versions of the same picture.
“Alm,” Macon says, reaching for his younger sisters small hand, “please say something.”
“Don’t bother,” Adam answers stoically, “If she won’t talk to me, or any of us, what makes you think she’s going to talk to you?”
Macon sighs and throws his arms in the air in frustration.
Adam doesn’t flinch and neither does Alma. She’s tiny like her mother; all bones and hair, fragile like some kind of doll.
Nolan pounds a fist lightly against the table and the dishes on top of it jump. Coffee spills and he lays the crumpled newspaper in his hands down on top of it.
God dammit!”
He stands up and paces from one end of the kitchen to the other, pulling at the roots of his graying hair. Lucy sighs and stirs her coffee beside me. She starts to open her mouth to say something but appears to think better of it.
