by Scott, Eliot
“Jojo, fuck…fuck, wait!” he shouts, his eyes falling closed with the sensation.
Alex pulls away from my mouth and pushes me flat against the bed, then drags me down the length until my legs fall to the floor and he’s standing over me. The movement hurts, but I don’t care. I need him too much to let sore muscles and bruises slow me down.
“I have to feel you, inside of you, Jojo. I need to come in you...” he says, his voice hoarse, his actions forceful.
“Yes,” I say, arching enough for him to find my entrance easily.
With his hands holding my thighs, Alex pushes into me, lifting me enough that he slides in easily and then out, stretching me open, diving deeper with every pump.
His hips fall forward into me harder, and I gasp, the sensation more than I remember. Alex leans forward, lifting my head, holding his body still until he gets confirmation from me that I want this—all of it—more.
“I’m okay. I’m just not used to you. My body…it’s remembering.” I pant out the words, not wanting him to stop.
“I’m sorry. I’ll slow down.” His eyes on mine, he rocks into me again, slower at the start, but faster with each push until he’s entering me so hard that my breasts shake with the movement and my body moves up the bed.
Alex crawls to his knees on the mattress, still moving me with each push, until I wrap my legs around him completely, and he lifts my body against his warm chest as we move together. His hands slide up my back, fingers threading into my hair at the base of my neck. He’s protecting me, and as his eyes lock on mine again, I realize that he’s still trying to protect me from him. He wants us as badly as I do—I feel it in his gaze, in the way our bodies fit together like broken pieces of fine china. The fragments aren’t perfect, not anymore, but the pieces would never be whole again on their own. They wouldn’t be anything. They’d be discarded and forgotten.
Useless.
“You won’t hurt me. Not again.” I slow our movement and run my hands to his jaw, our eyes locked. I recognize those shadows behind his. His demons, they’re never far. They own him. His parents—they made him. But I am the one who saved him. It’s time I finished the job.
“You won’t, Alex.” His eyes become glassy.
“You love me.” My own voice breaks, and his lips tremble, the corners giving way to a faint curve, his face cast in adoration as he nods and lets his head fall against mine again slowly.
“With everything left of me. There isn’t much, Jojo, but whatever is…it’s yours.”
My body reacts, rocking with his again, our rhythm steady, maybe cautious, as my heart opens itself to trust again and his begins to forgive himself for the past.
The first tear slides down my cheek seconds later, and Alex’s thumb stops the second, kissing the evidence of it away. His lips find my ear.
“I’m yours.” He whispers the declaration again and again, until his mouth can no longer form words, and my ears can no longer hear over the waves of pleasure pulling us in.
We both give in to the edge our bodies have been climbing toward. We hold on to one another just like this, him protecting me, and me protecting him, for several minutes. Alex eventually lures my body to lie with his, flush and still safe in his arms, our bodies drenched with sweat and a mountain of secrets to overcome.
4.
Alex, End of Junior Year.
Grady intercepts me as I'm going to my car after school. "Hey Bro."
I nod, but look past his gleaming black eyes and scan the school parking lot for signs of Jojo making her way here, all the while hating the smug look that's been on my brother's face ever since he and father made me into a good Sinclair.
"Have fun cornering Jojo at her locker with your cheerleader bullies to make her cry again today?" I grit out finally.
"Hell yes I did." His grin grows wider. "She text you about that, the little cry baby snitch? Girl needs to get thicker skin. We were just joking around."
“She texted me that you called her poor trash this time. That this time you let those girls push her into her locker and throw wadded up paper at her. How in the hell is that any sort of joking around?" I drop my voice and try not to shout.
“Grady—please stop.”
I beg like I've begged him every damn day. Humbly. Eyes down, voice contrite, while trying to break into his heart. “Why do you have to do something mean to her every single goddamned day?”
I bravely look at him then and try to connect—this time it has got to work. “Why do you have to be Father's puppet in all of this? Don't you have a mind of your own? You're literally torturing her. She can't even walk down the hall and feel safe in class. Her grades are slipping. She's just a girl, and we're brothers, and I've begged you every day. Can't you at least back off of her here at school? No one needs to know."
He shakes his head at me like he's ashamed of my begging. "I can't back off of her. I'm doing my job, ass hat. What would I tell Father at the dinner table? You know he expects daily interactions on my part with your trash girlfriend. If I make her cry, Father bumps up my allowance. You get to play hero. She loves you more. We all win.“ He grins. "And fuck yes, I'll make fun that she’s poor. It's an easy topic for an easy target. She's always wearing those cheap clothes, even the shoes from the Savey-Mart. How can I resist teasing her about that shit. She's trash to me; always will be. I could always scare instead. You know, by pushing her into the bathroom and cornering her for a little while? I’d like that…“
Bile rises in my throat as he laughs loud and long. "No. Whatever. Never mind."
He shrugs, blinking at me, obviously completely unmoved. "Father was right," he mutters. "You need to get your ass kicked so you can learn how to man up, boy."
He's said that last word exactly how Father says it. Boy. Like I'm nothing. Like I'm stupid, a bug to be squished.
I feel my chest crumpling in defeat, because for months, ever since they brought me in on their plan, I've been trying to work on my brother to soften. I even tried to beg my mother for some kind of help with our father's plans. I searched in her eyes for some sort of sympathy at least, because sympathy might give me strength when I find that mine is steadily decreasing.
I've received nothing from either of them, though. I get more of my mom's dead eyes when I try to bring it up. I get my brother's consistent responses, like the one he just gave me. I think that underneath it all Grady loves all of this, because he knows it's destroying me completely as well. They all know that they're killing me, literally.
I hurt so bad each day when I look into Jojo's eyes and tell her that I love her, because I do—yet I'm the one who stands by and knows that tomorrow Grady will hurt her again, or that my father will plan some stupid thing to happen in town that will make her upset or cry, or scare her mother half to death.
And I'm the one who hasn't told Jojo what's going on, because I'm too afraid of my father to do that. I just put my arm around her, hug her, love her, and hate myself more and more. I am exactly like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, one hour a human, the next a monster.
They must know they’re sacrificing me to this feud. I may not survive this. Something like this changes a person forever; it makes them mad from guilt and mental torture.
I've never fit in with my family. I've been told I'm a constant disappointment. I’m the one always reading, always fishing—always too sentimental and soft. I've heard that since birth from all three of them.
My family. What a joke.
Maybe this whole thing, in addition to the feud, is some sort of way of getting back at me for being the anomaly Sinclair. The only Sinclair in generations born with a soul!
I haven't had the balls to ask Grady—or any of them—if that's true. I don't need another beating from my father. Grady wouldn't understand the word soul because that concept is lost on him. And it hurts enough that my own mother just shakes her head at my tears, and tells me that this feud and Father's plans are “none of her business.”
I look around the
now emptying parking lot and check my phone for any texts, and my stomach drops, because I always drive Jojo home. It's not like her to go so long without at least checking in.
Grady's still standing here taunting me with his ever-widening and wicked grins, and I get a surge of anxiety. "Do you know where she is?"
He blinks at me innocently then answers. "Your little whore was picked up by her mother. I was out here, making sure they didn't miss each other. The woman needed a ride home from her chemo."
"Yeah, I know. Jojo's father always drives her."
Grady chuckles. "It appears our Father has an appointment with Mr. Wallace this afternoon, so he couldn't drive his half dead bitch around today. Jojo is going to stand in for her daddy while we all go up to the farm."
I reach for my cell and start typing a text.
"Don't bother." Grady holds up Jojo's cellphone and flashes it to me. "She won't text back."
"Why do you have her phone?" My heart thumps too hard into my chest. "What the hell is going on?"
"I pulled this out of her bag on impulse when I was helping her into her mother's car. I don't want to watch you two texting love shit all afternoon." He rolls his eyes, but he’s a bad liar. His smirk gives him away.
"That's not why, is it? Why do you have her fucking phone?" I can feel my nostrils flare.
I reach for Jojo's cell, but like the ass that he is, Grady moves his hand away so I can't grab it away from him. It’s exactly like when we were kids and he stole my ice cream cone.
"You’ll give that to me, or I'm going to take it in blood. Your choice!” I grow bolder with my anger.
"Ooh. So scared." He pulls a face. "Of course I always choose blood. You can do your best to try to get it from me later."
He pockets Jojo's phone, and I feel sick.
I unlock the doors to my new Ford F150, a gift from my father because I'd been such a very good Sinclair. I hate it. Grady got one too. He loves his.
"What kind of appointment would Father and Mr. Wallace have?" I ask him, my mind buzzing with worry and running wild with ideas. Maybe he’s trying to hammer out an end to the feud, or negotiate a trade for whatever he wants in exchange for letting us date. The sickness I feel in the pit of my stomach signals that I’m probably wrong.
"Family business." Grady's brows go up and down, like he's trying to be funny. "Father says I'm supposed to go with you, escort you in your truck, up to the Wallace place."
"Why would you need to go there. Only I go there,” I stammer. The worry has grown into panic. This isn’t right; nothing about this is right.
"Not today. Father's been planning this for weeks. And he's already been up there for hours, waiting with Mr. Wallace."
"Waiting for what?" My stomach swirls with nausea.
Grady opens his passenger side door after I've hit the unlock button, and as we get in and close the doors, he looks over at me with a stone-cold stare, but a sinister bend on his lips. “We're going to ramp up the drama here and kill Mr. Wallace today. Your job is to be present when Jojo gets home with her sick little mommy. You, brother, get to make it all better, as best you can."
He shrugs, then laughs as if this is all pretend. I fire the engine as I look over at him, working hard to hide the shaking in my hands as I try to call his bluff, but I know this is real. Grady is not the creative type. He wouldn't be able to think up saying the words he just said to me on his own.
I force an eye roll anyway, and put the truck into reverse, adding, "Shut the fuck up, Grady. Stop kidding around. What are we really going to do?"
I look him in the eyes before I push the gear into drive. Grady's expression turns serious. "I said we're going to kill Mr. Wallace today. It's your damn fault. You've been bull-shitting us. We know you’ve been pretending you're all in and then talking to Mother behind Father's back. You've been ditching class to protect Jojo and thwart my plans to mess with her head. Father isn’t happy about any of it. Oh, and I had to tell him all about the billions of times you begged me like a little pussy—just how you did today…again—to go behind Father's back and try to deviate from his plans. You're a selfish little baby-fuck, and now you're going to pay for it."
He shakes his head at me, his expression wavering towards pity but ending on his usual disdain. "Did you not think Father would find out. He can read our minds, you idiot. And your mind has been screaming since homecoming. Now drive the truck to the Wallace farm.”
I drive, my eyes scanning for places to turn quickly and escape, but a part of me still thinks he's kidding. When I'm forced to stop at a red light, I prepare myself to challenge him one last time. My words never leave my lips this time, though. He’s got a gun trained on me, aimed at the deep center of my body. And it’s not just any gun. It’s our father's 44 Magnum, a gun we're never allowed to touch. Ever. It was a gift from the police department; they gave it to Father after he supplemented their pension—after he bought them.
Grady's grin and his cold-sparkling eyes speak for him, and I know beyond doubt now that killing Mr. Wallace is actually today's plan. He stole Jojo's cell phone to make sure I don’t interfere or text her. He's been laughing in my face this whole time I’ve been begging him not to mess with Jojo in the school.
I swallow hard, a thousand needles scratching my insides on their way down. My heart sinks and my mind reels.
This is my fault.
I should never have trusted our mother. I should have known she would tell Father I was resisting. I let them see me cry and beg, and that was a mistake too. They know I’m weak. I’ve learned nothing from being a Sinclair.
"I won't do it. I'll stop you guys from doing this," I utter out, pissed off that my voice is shaking. I’m not as brave as I should be.
Grady waves the gun at me, then jams it so hard into my stomach that I nearly double over as the air goes out of my diaphragm. It’s worse than taking a punch.
"Father said you'd say that. He told me to do this." He shoves the gun harder into my gut with all of his might, causing both me and him to grunt. "He says if you want Jojo and her mother to live out the day as well, you will do exactly what we say. And then we will leave the farm, and you'll stay there, waiting for Jojo to get home. You'll pick up all of the pieces, and you'll put her back together how you do. Unless you want to die today and let Father and I handle those sad little pieces of Jojo ourselves. We could always do it my way.“
The light changes, and I start driving again, towards the Wallace farm. If it were only my life, I’d veer off the road and kill us both. But my father is still there, and he can still do more damage.
Grady doesn't take the gun pressure off my gut, and I get my shaking under control. I shove down my tears and swallow down my nausea. I'm done being afraid of them. Done feeling sorry for myself.
I will find a way to stop this today.
I will.
* * *
To ignore the pain of the gun Grady's got shoved into my diaphragm and the terror attacking my soul about this plan to kill Mr. Wallace, I’ve been commanding my mind to stay calm and focused by inwardly chanting: I will save Mr. Wallace. I will. I will stop this. I will save Mr. Wallace... I will keep Jojo safe. Today. It all stops today.
As I park, Grady pulls the gun out of my gut. There is little relief.
I'm finally able to draw in my first full breath, but it's ragged because this kind of fear fucking hurts. I've parked my truck right next to where Father's too-shiny black Lexus is hidden behind the back entrance to the larger granary on the Wallace farm.
I look up to the top of it, brushing away the empty wheat hulls that make up the swirling air around here. I'm trying to picture what Father and Mr. Wallace are doing up there right now. This granary was filled nearly to the top with wheat by the last farmers wanting to store for winter, and that was only a week ago. It's not comfortable in there when it's full. The air is too thin and the space feels muggy, and I think it's the last place my father would want to hang out for an entire afternoon.
It also makes me wonder if what Grady has told me might not be true? Have Father and Mr. Wallace truly been up there for hours? To me, this plan doesn't seem like Father—not at all.
Poker-facing it, I stare around the farm, waiting and hoping Grady is full of shit and that he will finally call the bluff. God, I pray silently. And then I pray harder when Grady's eyes start to flicker with some sort of dark and secretive happiness that I simply can't understand. Please—please—let it all be some sort of bluff. Please, God...please.
My gaze flicks wildly around the property in search for some sign, some spiritual answer. I'm now hoping to find Mrs. Wallace's car coming up the drive, hoping to hear the crunch of a neighbor's vehicle approaching to say hello or at least bring me a distraction so I can run and gain time to figure out what to do.
Fuck. I'm hoping for the mailman…anyone! But there is only more wind, more wheat hulls cutting into my eyes, and fucking stupid-ass Grady. He's kept his gun out and pointed at me and when I'm still motionless, he sighs like I've annoyed him and he jerks it in the direction of the long metal staircase leading to the top of the granary.
"Dude. Get up there. I told you Father's been waiting. You lead up the staircase. All the way up."
I roll my eyes at the gun—and at him—acting like he's an idiot. I act like I don’t think he’ll use the weapon on me, but my whole body knows deep down that today he will. A part of him has always wanted me dead, I think.
As I start up the steps, they clang and bang beneath my feet. I want Mr. Wallace to know I'm coming. I want them to hear me coming…in case it may somehow help.
Help. Help. Help.
The word ping-pongs around my head, mocking me.
To stay strong and focused for whatever I might see up inside the granary, I force away ideas of Mr. Wallace already hanging from a rope. I ignore my ideas of Mr. Wallace beaten and bloodied by my father, and force myself to picture even worse things.
