by Aubrey Watts
“What can we do, then?” Nolan questions, waving a hand at his daughter’s emaciated form. Adam clenches his jaw and sits up a little straighter. Alma’s blue eyes remain glued to the ground. “She just sits there, staring off into nowhere like a damn vegetable. So what can we do?”
“I’ll tell you.” He points a wavering finger at his wife and fishes a bottle of whiskey from beneath the sink, uncapping it and pouring a shot into his orange juice. “We can’t do a damn thing, that’s what.”
Adam has heard enough. He stands Alma up and leads her into the other room.
“Dad,” Macon says once they are out of earshot, “maybe you shouldn’t talk about her like she’s not in the room? You know, for starters.”
Nolan is across the kitchen in a flash. He grabs Macon by the collar of his shirt without any hesitation and points a calloused finger in his face.
“Don’t think for a second that you can tell me what to do, boy!”
“You sure think you’re fancy huh? With your pretty little California girlfriend and your sun kissed tan. Well—let me tell you something.”
Macon’s eyes burn against his fathers. He tenses his jaw and doesn’t flinch. Nolan continues speaking, and spit flies with every word that leaves his mouth.
“While you were away, your baby sister was—”
“Nolan,” Lucy interrupts, finding her voice. She pulls herself unsteadily to her feet and reaches for her husbands flexed arm. “Please, this isn’t the time.”
“No,” Nolan says, shaking his head. He nods at his wife but his eyes never leave Macon’s. “Tell him, tell your son what the doctor at the hospital said.”
“No,” Lucy whispers firmly, “I won’t.”
She pushes past her husband and exits the room, slapping his hand away when he tries to pull her back.
“Ma, wait.” Macon tries to stand up to follow her but Nolan throws out an arm to block the doorway. He knocks his son, who is at least a hundred pounds heavier and a head taller than him, to the ground in one move. A look of shock crosses over Macon’s expression, but it’s quickly replaced by something darker.
“Cassandra,” he whispers, nodding at me. “Go into the other room with my mom, please.”
When I don’t move, he gives me an icy glare. “I said, go.”
I pull myself to my feet and do as I’m told, shuffling into the living room without objection. Lucy, Alma, and Adam are nowhere to be found. I sigh and take a seat on the couch, pulling my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck.
Macon and Nolan’s voices clash against each other and echo throughout the house. They’re at each other’s throats, almost inaudible they’re yelling so loudly.
“You drunk bastard!” Macon yells, “It’s good to know some things never change! You’re still as pathetic as you were the day I left.”
Their voices are replaced by grunts and the sound of a struggle. I sit up a little and grip the arm of the couch, willing myself not to intervene.
It’s not my family, I tell myself. This isn’t my business.
There’s a loud crash—the sound of something falling to the ground and shattering—and then, silence. Macon stumbles out of the kitchen a few minutes later, holding his nose, which is dripping blood.
I’m on my feet in seconds. I reach for the first thing I can find, a hand towel draped over an armchair, and I stand on my tiptoes to press it to his face.
“That’s right!” Nolan slurs from the kitchen, “I guess you ain’t so tough after all!”
Macon clenches his jaw and reaches for my hand. “Come on,” he says, and pulls me toward the door, “lets go.”
“Wait,” I start, pulling on his arm to slow him down, “what about Alma?”
He shakes his head and snatches the keys to his father’s truck from off a hook. “Trust me, I fully intend on taking care of that.” He presses the blood soaked hand towel tighter against his nose. “But right now, I’m pretty sure my nose is broken…”
We cross the yard and climb into the truck. Macon starts it up and turns on the headlights. He locks the door and shifts into reverse as his father barrels towards us. His face is contorted and angry, and his fist—dripping in blood. He gestures for us to stop, but Macon shifts into drive and presses down on the gas.
“Fuck him,” he mutters, peeling down the driveway. “I’m not fifteen anymore. He has another thing coming if he thinks he can treat me like this. Fuckin’ asshole.”
I reach across the truck and rest my hand against his on the wheel.
“Macon,” I whisper, keeping my voice low. He’s still a stranger to me. I can’t know how he’s capable of acting in a weakened state. We fly by a speed limit sign that reads ‘fifty mph’ going at least eighty. “You’re driving really fast. Maybe you should slow down…”
He looks over at me and I motion for him to pay attention to the road. “Sorry,” he whispers through the towel, easing his foot up from the accelerator. “I don’t mean to take this out on you. I feel bad that I even did this—brought you to meet my crazy family, I mean. You must think I’m nuts.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, caressing his arm, “I wanted to come. You didn’t make me...and your family isn’t crazy, Macon. They’re just going through a hard time. You all are.”
He swallows and pulls onto the edge of the road. I lean into him as he shifts into park and rests his head in his hands. “Fuck!” he yells, slamming a bruised fist against the steering wheel. I stroke his back in circles over his shirt, watching his shoulders shake as he dissolves.
It shocks me—how much things change in twenty-four short hours.
Chapter 8
“No, I’m fine,” I say, picking at a piece of drywall, “really.”
I'm standing in the lobby of an off white hospital, pressed against a vending machine with my phone in one hand and a half eaten almond bar in the other. Olivia is on the other end of the line. I can hear her unwrapping something, then, chewing. It's no surprise. She always eats during phone calls; it's been that way since we were kids.
"Okay, so you’re fine,” she answers, still chewing, “that’s great, but it still doesn't explain why you ran off to fucking—”
There’s a brief pause. I can tell she’s raking her memory for the location.
"Oklahoma," I offer up for the third time with a deep sigh.
“Right,” Olivia says, “It still doesn't explain why you ran off to fucking Oklahoma with the guy. I mean, honestly, Cassie! You blow the guy once and all of a sudden you think you know him? I told you to have some fun, get laid! Not meet his entire family!"
“I didn’t blow him,” I say, feeling my cheeks redden, “we didn’t get that far actually, we just—”
“Whatever!” Olivia interrupts, “you get my point.”
I nod my head and bite down on my bottom lip.
"Look,” I say, "It wasn't exactly planned. I just sort of…I don't know. I felt bad for him after I found out what happened to his sister…”
Olivia sighs an exasperated sigh. “I get it. It’s awful, but you don’t know her. And last I checked, you don’t know him either. I just—“
“Hold on,” she says, interrupting herself, “Vega is calling. I’ll three-way her in. She has to hear about this." I start to tell her not to, that I have to go anyway, but there’s a click and the line goes quiet before I can. I've been out here for fifteen minutes now and I've barely been able to get a word in edge wise.
There’s really no point in trying to explain anything to Olivia.
I sink into a chair at the far end of the lobby, near the emergency room entrance. It’s completely empty, but it’s a Sunday night in a small town, so I figure that must be pretty standard; Macon’s fractured nose is probably the most action they’ve gotten in awhile.
Two men barrel into the lobby. They are spitting images of each other and I'm struck by how much they resemble Macon too. Of course, it doesn’t take long for it to click.
They’re his brothers.
“I’m Trent Kimball,” he says, winking at her, “We’re lookin’ for our brother, maybe you saw him.” He pops his gum and gestures with his hands. “He’s about six foot three, covered in tattoos, bleeding from the nose…”
The woman nods and pushes a button. The emergency room doors open and Macon’s brothers pass through them.
“He’s in room 113, go straight and take a right at the end of the hall.”
I pull myself to my feet and start to follow them, but Olivia returns on the line before I can. “Liv,” I say into the phone. Vega’s voice groans back at me. She’s hung over, probably for the second night in a row. “And Vega,” I add with a deep sigh, “I really have to go.”
Both of them start to object, but I slide my phone off before they can. The woman behind the desk glances up at me and sighs when I approach her. She presses down on the button again and I mumble a thank you, making my way down the hall.
I hear them before I see them; I press my back against the wall just outside the door and eavesdrop, trying to get some sense as to what I’m about to walk into.
“Jesus Christ, brother,” I hear Trent’s deep voice bellow. “How much are you lifting these days?”
Macon laughs but doesn’t answer. A nurse walks out of the room with some paperwork in hand and we both jump when we see each other.
“Sorry,” I mutter. She gives me an odd look and continues down the hall to her station.
The gig is up. I step inside the room, making my presence known.
Macon’s nose has been set. He has some gauze in each nostril, and there’s some bruising, but the blood is gone. Trent whistles when he sees me. I blush because it’s really not deserved. I haven’t showered in a day, my hair is disheveled, and I can feel my make-up starting to dissolve.
Macon holds out his hand to me and I grab it, stepping toward him. “Guys, this is the girl I was telling you about, Cassandra.”
“Cassandra, these are my brothers.” He nods at both men. “Trent and Griffith.”
Griffith extends his hand to me. He’s paler than the rest of his brothers and his face is covered in freckles. “But you can call me Griff,” he says, flashing me a smile. Trent, however, is less welcoming. He hangs back and crosses his arms over his chest, giving me a slow once over. It’s not a vindictive action as much as it is an uncomfortable one, but it still catches me off guard.
“Nice to meet you,” Griff says for both of them, “sorry you had to witness our pops sour side. He’s not always like that, is he T?”
Trent grunts and rubs a hand over his neck, rolling his shoulders. “Sure,” he answers drily, “not all the time.” There’s a glimmer in his eye that’s slightly off-putting. I break eye contact with him and turn to look at Macon.
“At least it’s not broken,” I say, pressing a finger lightly against his nose.
Trent snorts. He pulls a pack of chewing tobacco out of the pocket of his jacket and pops a wad of it in his mouth. “You should have given the old man a dose of his own medicine,” he says, nodding at Macon, “I sure have, and you know what? He doesn’t fuck with me anymore.”
I chance a glance at him; he’s built in the same way Macon is—tall and all muscle, and it’s clear by the similar lines on their face that they are close in age.
Macon shakes his head. “I’m not laying my hands on dad.” He clenches his jaw. “It’s exactly how he wants me to react.”
“So?” Trent retorts. Griff hangs back and remains quiet. “He deserves it, and the way I see it is—you could teach him a better lesson than any one of us if you would just lay down the damn moral compass and stop letting him treat you like shit.”
His words pack a punch. Macon re-adjusts beneath me on the examination table and thinks it over. “Maybe,” he answers with a nod, “But that doesn’t really matter right now.” He looks up at narrows in on both of his brothers. “What I want to know is—why haven’t either of you found the guy who did this to Alma?”
Chapter 9
We’re sitting in the bed of Macon’s father’s truck just outside the entrance to their farm. My legs are dangling over the edge and Macon and his brothers are beside me, each of them with a Blue Ribbon in hand. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s barely 8 a.m.
When in Rome…
I take a sip of my precipitating drink.
“I just can’t believe this,” Macon says for the third time. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and shakes his head. “What was she doing out so late, anyway? Since when do mom and dad allow that?”
Griff snorts. “They don’t,” he says, spitting into the grass. Trent doesn’t seem to have much input. He’s standing next to the truck, smoking a cigarette and staring off into space. “My guess is that she snuck out. I mean, isn’t that what we did when we we’re seventeen?”
Trent grunts in agreement. Macon nods and relents, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s a shadow of the free spirited man I was with on the beach. “Where were you two when this all happened?” he questions, tapping Trent’s shoulder for a smoke. He hands one over and Macon lights it, taking a long drag.
“I was asleep,” Griff says, “mom called me in the morning and told me what happened.”
“What about you?” Macon asks, nudging Trent in the shoulder.
“Me? I was at Melissa Carthers.”
A shocked look surfaces in Macon’s expression. “You were where?”
Trent laughs and ashes his smoke, glancing back at his brother. His eyes find mine for one brief moment but I avert my gaze. “I know, I know,” he says, rolling his eyes, “she was a bitch in high school but she ain’t so bad these days.”
Macon laughs and shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Unbelievable.”
“Hey,” Trent says, holding up his hands, “we ain’t dating or nothing. It’s real casual.”
“Right.” Macon rolls his eyes and takes a hit off the joint handed to him by Griff. He’s been rolling it on his knee since we got here and finally managed to get it smoking. He tries to pass it to me but I hold up a hand and shake my head.
“No, I’m okay,” I say with a slight smile, “thank you, though.”
Both of Macon’s brothers stare at me with wide eyes and their mouths agape.
Trent pokes Macon in the back. “You didn’t tell your girlfriend this is tree country?” he teases.
I can feel myself blushing. “No,” I start, trying to explain myself. “I mean…I used to smoke, in college. I just…it’s not really my thing anymore. That’s all.”
I meet eyes with Macon, feeling like a total moron, but he gives me an easy smile that makes me feel better.
Trent whistles and takes a slow hit of the joint. He flashes me a smile, and I catch a glimpse of gold in his mouth. He has a capped tooth. “College, huh? Macon here didn’t even finish high school.”
I take another sip of my beer, unsure of how to respond.
Macon gives his brother the finger and steers the conversation back on topic.
“So, what do we do, then?” He slides down beside me and my cheeks flush when I feel his leg pressing against mine. “About Alma?”
Griff shrugs. “I don’t know…I mean…she won’t talk.”
“Yeah,” Trent says evenly, “she ain’t talking, and all of her friends who were at the bonfire say they didn’t see anything, either. Seems to me that she just got to drinking, wandered off, and…” He shrugs. “Anyway, we might never know who it was.”
Macon snorts and stands up. “Yeah? And you two are cool with that?
Trent and Griff exchange a glance but remain quiet.
“It’s not that we’re okay with it,” Griff says, breaking the silence, “It’s just,
if Alma won’t talk—what do we have to work with?”
Macon’s furrows his brows and swats at a mosquito on his arm. “I guess I’m just going to have to get her talking, then.” He extends his hand to me and pulls me up, tossing the keys to the truck to Trent, who catches them without effort.
“Come on,” he whispers to me, leading the way, “let’s get out of here.”
“Hey, good luck!” Trent calls after us. “We’ve all tried! Don’t feel too bad when she refuses!”
~
“The air is different here than it is in LA,” I say, swatting at a mosquito, “cleaner, less polluted.”
Macon nods.
“Yeah,” he answers, but he doesn’t sound entirely in the moment. He lets go of my hand and continues down the dirt road, walking a few steps ahead of me.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to stop him. “I’m sorry…I know small talk isn’t probably what you need right now.”
He smiles at me. “No, you’re sweet,” he whispers, “I’m just kind of pissed at my brothers, that’s all.”
I nod, walking alongside him. “Do you really think you can get her to talk?”
He thinks it over for a few moments and shrugs. “Maybe,” he answers, “I have to try, at least.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against a tree, lighting a smoke. I can tell by the way that his lips are parted that there’s a question lingering there, waiting to be asked.
“Why did you come here with me?” His tone is low and deep. He waves a hand over my small frame. “We don’t know each other, after all.”
It’s the golden question.
“I…I don’t know,” I mumble, meeting eyes with him. The soft glow of the morning accentuates his olive skin. His tattoos shine in the light, and I’m struck, again, by how beautiful he is.
“Well I’m glad you did,” he confesses with a nod, “It means a lot to me.”
I smile and break his gaze, lightly kicking at the dirt. “This is definitely not the one-night-stand I thought it would be, I can tell you that much,” I tease.
