Credence

by Penelope Douglas

  Some guy—the same guy, I think, that came to the house with the group of bikers yesterday—sits at a table at a café with a bunch of others, he and Noah locked in a stare.

  I thought he might be Kaleb, but he doesn’t look like he grew up milking cows and cleaning horse stalls. The guy is dressed in the kind of jeans that men who deep condition their hair wear, and he looks like his name is Blaine and his favorite type of girls are named Kassidee.

  “You know him, right?” I turn back to Noah.

  He nods, “Terrance Holcomb. Up and coming Motocross star.” And then he pulls me into his body, and a gasp lodges in my throat as he fastens my chin strap for me. “And he’s not looking at me, Tiernan.”

  Noah gets close, his chest brushing mine and making tingles spread through my belly, and I suddenly go blank. Who were we talking about again?

  He leans in, his breath falling across my face, and I notice a three-inch scar down his jaw as he gives me a wicked little smile.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. Why’s he so close?

  But he just smirks again. “Rubbing it in,” he answers. And then his eyes dart behind me to the guy across the street as he tightens my strap. “That you’re untouchable to him.”

  Because why? I’m yours? Gross.

  “You’re nauseating,” I grumble.

  And he just chuckles, shoving me away playfully and slipping on his own helmet.

  We climb back on the bike and waste no time heading back toward home. I thought for sure he’d try to diddle around with friends or a girlfriend, but he races through town like he’s in a hurry.

  Or in a hurry to get me back.

  I start putting pieces together in my head. The little show he just put on for that guy in town. Jake’s advice that I stay away from local guys. The order to put on a proper shirt before I left today. Father and son don’t get along well, but they seem to have that in common, at least. Both of them are stifling.

  It’s not entirely awful. I might’ve liked to see my father act that way from time to time. Really stifling is bad. A little stifling…I don’t know. Kind of feels like someone cares, I guess. Maybe I would’ve liked more rules growing up.

  Unfortunately for Jake and Noah, I’ve learned to live without them, so it’s a little late.

  I hold tight onto Noah as he climbs the roads up into the mountains again, but thankfully he’s going much slower now, because I feel gravity pulling me backward, and I’m afraid I’ll slide off the bike.

  I fist my hands, my muscles burning as I hold onto him.

  When we get to a spot where the terrain evens out, I loosen my grip to relax my arms for a moment, and he pulls off to the side of the road, the bike resting at the edge of a precipice.

  My stomach flips a moment, but then I notice the view through the trees below. The town spreads before us in a valley with the backdrop of the mountains, trees, and land lying in the distance. The great expanse—everything in one picture—makes my heart swell.

  “Wow,” I say under my breath.

  We sit there for several moments, taking in the view, and Noah removes his helmet, running his hand through his hair.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks.

  I blink, coming back to reality. My parents just died. Should I be chatty?

  But I swallow the words before I can speak them. Their passing isn’t why I am the way I am, but I’m not explaining myself just because everyone else has their idea of what ‘normal’ should be.

  “My dad thinks you resent your parents and that’s why you’re not sad about them dying,” Noah says, still looking out at the valley below. “I think you are sad, but not as much as you’re angry, because actually, it was the other way around, wasn’t it? They resented you.”

  I harden my jaw. He and his father talked about me? Who says I’m not sad? How would he know anything? Is there some checklist of specified behavior that’s acceptable when family members die? Some people commit suicide after a loved one’s death. Is that proof they’re sadder than me?

  I drop my arms from his body.

  “We’ve got the Internet here, too, you know?” he says. “Hannes and Amelia de Haas. They were obsessed with each other.”

  He turns his head, so I can see his lips as he talks, but I’m frozen.

  He goes on, “And they had a kid, because that’s what they thought they were supposed to do, and then they realized parenthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Raising you took them away from each other.”

  I force the needles down my throat, feeling the tears start to pool, but I don’t let them collect. How does he know all that?

  “So, they turned you over to whoever they could as soon as you were old enough,” he tells me. “Boarding schools, sleepaway summer camps, nannies…”

  My chin shakes, and I let it, because I know he can’t see me.

  “You didn’t resent your parents,” he finally says. “You loved them.”

  Hours later, long after I’ve gone to bed, I hear his words again. Raising you took them away from each other. They resented you. You loved them.

  No.

  I try to back away, but something has my hand, and it aches. I pull and yank, but the pain grows stronger, and I keep taking steps back, but no matter how hard I try I’m not going anywhere, and I can’t get my hand free.

  What has me? Let go. Let go.

  I loved them once. I did. But…

  I wrack my hand, trying to get it loose from whatever has it, but I can’t turn, and I can’t run.

  I loved them once. But not now.

  I don’t know. I don’t know.

  My eyes snap open, and I feel my cold thumb against the bare skin of my stomach. I blink and sit up, the pain in my hand throbbing as I wince. I look down and see my hand is caught in my T-shirt, the small hole I went to bed with now a gaping tear in the shirt.

  I pull my hand free, fisting it to get the blood flowing again.

  “Shit,” I hiss.

  And then I shoot out my other hand, knocking my alarm clock off the nightstand with a growl.

  I came here to get space. To get away, but if anything, I’m more fucked up than when I came. Three days, and I’m having nightmares and night terrors for the first time since fourth grade. I don’t need this shit. Noah had no business bringing up personal things with me, much less regarding a situation he knows nothing about. If I want to talk, I will.

  Wiping the sweat off my upper lip, I throw off the covers, turn on the lamp, and hit the ground, digging under the bed for my suitcase. I don’t have to go home, but I don’t have to stay here. They don’t like me. I don’t like them. There are tons of places where people will leave me alone. I’ve always wanted to go to Costa Rica. Rent a treehouse. Hike with the spiders and the snakes. Live amongst the insects of unusual size. All of it sounds worlds better than here.

  Charging out of the room, I head downstairs, seeing every light is off and hearing the grandfather clock ticking away.

  Jake will be up in a few hours. I should leave before he wakes. I’m not sure how far I’ll get. It’ll probably take me two days just to walk back to town with my luggage.

  Swinging around the bannister and heading into the kitchen, I open the door to the garage and jog down the five steps to the washer and dryer. Chills spread down my legs, bare in my sleep shorts from the cold night, and I open the dryer, pulling out the small load of clothes I’d dried earlier, including Noah’s flannel.

  I pull out a new, clean T-shirt, lifting up my ripped one to quickly change.

  But the doorknob to the shop door suddenly jiggles.

  I jerk my head left, dropping my shirt back down.

  My mouth falls open and a thousand thoughts race through my head as I train my ears in case I misheard. Jake and Noah are upstairs asleep, right? It’s after one in the morning.

  Less than a second later, the handle shakes again, and a thud lands on the other side of the door. I jump and grab a rusty, steel bar off the worktable. I
stand frozen a moment longer before backing up and deciding to run back in the house to get my uncle.

  But before I can spin around, the door is suddenly kicked open, and I suck in a breath as leaves blow in with the wind, and I see a mess of animal and blood as I stumble back into the railing and fall. I land on my ass and catch myself on my hands behind me, the breath knocked out of me. What the hell?

  A man steps over the threshold of the shop, wearing jeans and blood running down his bare chest from the dead animal carcass hanging around his neck. I watch, my mouth suddenly dry and my heart lodged in my throat, as he walks over to the long wooden table and slings the dead deer, foot-long antlers and all, onto the table and turns around to kick the shop door closed again.

  I gape in horror. Streams of blood run down his back, covering his spine, and I dart my eyes over to the animal, seeing its head hang limply off the table. I look away for a moment, pushing the bile back down my throat.

  Is he where the deer came from that was here when I arrived a few days ago, too?

  Turning around, his eyes meet mine as he heads to the wash basin next to the dryer. He looks away again and turns on the water.

  I try to wet my mouth, generate any kind of saliva, but the blood all over him… Jesus. I fist my palms behind me.

  Who…?

  And then it finally hits me.

  This is Kaleb. The older son.

  He pulls up the hose and leans over the sink, running the water over his dark hair and down his back, cleaning the mess off his body. When he stands up straight again, I watch as he rubs the water over the back of his neck, and I notice a thin, faint tattoo running vertically from the bottom of his skull to his shoulder. Some kind of script.

  His hands glide down, over his stomach, making the muscles there flex and the water drench his jeans. The overhead bulb swings back and forth from the wind he let in, the light hitting him and then the darkness swallowing him up again.

  But I see him turn his head again—looking at me. His dark eyes fall down my body and stop, zoning in with his jaw flexing, and my stomach flips and then drops, every hair on my body standing on end. The room suddenly feels so small.

  I inhale a breath. “Um, you’re, uh…” I say, standing up. “You’re… um, Kaleb, right?”

  He meets my eyes again, and I see that his aren’t really dark, after all. They’re green.

  But he looks mad.

  His black eyebrows narrow, casting this shadow over his gaze, and he turns back around as if I’m not here, finishing his washing. He turns off the water and grabs a shop cloth, wiping off his face and neck and then runs it over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back and soaking up the drenched strands.

  Hello?

  What’s his problem? Why isn’t he answering me?

  As he turns toward me, though, and tosses the shop cloth into the sink, he meets my eyes again, holding my stare, and then he cocks his head a little. I almost laugh. The gesture makes him look so innocent. Like a curious puppy.

  But then his loaded eyes drop to my stomach again, and his chest rises and falls heavier, and I clench my thighs. Instinctively, I put my hand where his eyes are, and I feel it.

  The bare skin of my stomach.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I look down, seeing I’m still wearing my ripped T-shirt, the fabric torn and exposing my belly. I cringe. This whole time…

  But as I trail my hand, my fingers brush the exposed underside of my fucking breast, and I stop breathing altogether. I pull down my shirt as much as it will go and back up, ready to scramble for the stairs.

  As soon as I move, he moves, walking right for me. He approaches, droplets of water hanging from his skin, and I dart toward the stairs, but he shoots out his hand, grabs me, and shoves me into the wall instead.

  Wha…

  I gasp, fear curdling in my stomach.

  He presses his body into mine, taking my waist in one hand and planting his other hand on the wall above my head, and dips his forehead down to mine, looking into my eyes. The embrace is intimate, and it feels like he’ll kiss me, but he doesn’t. I open my mouth to say something, but his breath brushes my lips—hot and heady—and the room is spinning.

  He’s cold, but I feel warmer inside. Like I’m about to sweat.

  Reaching up, he takes the ribbon I’m wearing and runs it through his fingers before bringing a lock of my hair to his nose and smelling it.

  Then he dips to the side, running his nose over my ear, up my hairline, and across my forehead, inhaling me.

  Smelling me.

  It’s weird, but I can’t move. I shiver, pleasure at the gesture making my body react. My skin tightens, the flesh of my nipples pebbling and chafing against my T-shirt, and I close my eyes for a moment, loving the electric current flowing under my skin.

  I should push him away.

  I can’t lift my arms for some reason, though.

  “I, um,” I choke out. “I don’t think you should—”

  But he reaches between us with one hand, his forehead resting on mine with fire in his eyes as he starts ripping open his belt and undoing his jeans.

  Whoa, what? My mouth falls open. “Wait, stop.” I plant my hands on his chest. “You can’t…What are you…”

  But he presses himself into me, breathing harder with his teeth bared a little, and I feel the hard ridge of him rubbing between my legs.

  I exhale hard, my eyelids fluttering.

  He slides his hands down the back of my shorts, cupping my ass as he lifts me into his arms and spins us around. My stomach somersaults, and I can only grab onto him as he lands me down on the hood of a car, pulling my ass forward, so he nestles between my legs.

  “Kaleb,” I say, trying to push him away. “Kal—”

  He fists the back of my hair and presses his body into mine as he comes down on my mouth, hungry and wild, kissing me and shutting me up. His tongue dives in, and I moan with the throbbing down low.

  Stop!

  Holy shit.

  He rolls his hips into me, faster and faster, breathing hard as he bites and chews at my lips before sucking on my tongue so hard, my thighs are on fire.

  What the hell is he doing? Fuck! Have we met or something?

  I finally swallow. “Stop!” I shout, my pulse ringing in my ears. “Stop. Just stop!”

  But he comes down on top of me, forcing me back onto the car, and his hot mouth finds my stomach.

  I shake my head, tears hanging at the corners, because it feels so good, and I don’t want it to. I don’t want him to go lower. I don’t want to wrap my legs around him. None of this feels good or warm, and none of it makes me feel soft on the inside like I could kiss him back.

  I close my eyes as his lips suck and nibble their way across my stomach, and I feel air hit my left breast, knowing it’s popped out from the rip in the shirt again. I feel him pause, and I dig my nails into the car, because I know he sees it.

  I wait for it, wanting to shake my head to stop him, but failing at even trying, and then… he catches my nipple between his teeth, his warm mouth sending heat pouring over my whole body. I let out a loud groan, hearing my nails screech across the hood of the car.

  “Please stop,” I murmur, but I know he hears me. He growls and yanks me back down to the end of the car, diving for my stomach again as he starts to pull off my sleep shorts.

  I grit my teeth together. “Stop,” I mutter.

  But he doesn’t. His kisses only get lower, trailing over my hip bones as he eats me up, and warmth pools between my legs, almost burning with needing something there.

  “Stop,” I mouth.

  He gets my shorts and panties down over my ass and comes down, sucking my lower belly, just an inch above my clit, and I rise up, growling as I slap him across the face. “Stop, I said! Stop!”

  He freezes, looking at me in the eye and glaring. Sweat glistens down his neck, and his breathing is ragged as he digs his fingers in my hips, fisting his hands.

  “When
someone tells you to stop, you stop!” I bark. “Can’t you fucking understand? Are you stupid or something?”

  And he snarls, grabbing me by my upper arms and scowling down at me. A whimper escapes, but I scowl right-the-fuck back.

  His chest heaves, and I can feel the heat on his breath and still see the desire in his eyes, and I feel it, too, even though I hate to admit it. For a moment there—maybe longer—I wanted to do this. For a moment, I was soft again.

  It was hard to stop.

  But this is his fault. I told him to stop like six times, and I certainly didn’t invite the attention, so his blue balls are on him. I don’t have to love the first person I fuck, but I don’t want to be scared, either. He’s like a machine.

  He glares down at me, not letting go, and I stare back.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey,” someone says, rushing into the garage. “Stop! Man, get off her.”

  Noah comes up, pulling Kaleb’s fingers off my arms and pushing him away.

  “Dude, she ain’t a townie,” he tells Kaleb, holding his shoulders and looking him in the eye.

  But Kaleb’s glower is still on me. I quickly slide off the hood of the car and fix my shorts, seeing his gaze fall down my body again. Not a townie? Like it’s okay to treat anyone like that?

  “Dude, look at me,” Noah barks at him.

  Slowly, Kaleb pulls his gaze away and finally meets his brother’s.

  “It’s Dad’s… brother’s daughter,” Noah explains, and I hear humor in his tone. “Remember? The step-brother he hates? This is his kid.” Noah gestures to me. “She’s family. She’s staying with us for a while. You can’t fuck her.”

  And then Noah releases him, laughing under his breath.

  “This isn’t funny!” I snap. And then I glare at Kaleb, now able to finally find my goddamn voice. “What the hell is the matter with you? Huh?”

  “Just cut him some slack,” Noah says. “He’s always starving when he comes back from being in the woods this long.”

  “Then eat!”

  “That’s what he was doing,” Noah shoots back, glancing at me.

  Eating.

  Eating me.

  Oh, you’re fucking clever, aren’t you? Assholes.