by Billie Dale
Sixteen
Joey
For a raging boner second, I believe I’m dreaming until her trembling body coiled in a fetal ball sends my senses on high alert. Not gonna lie, feeling her skin under my palm and breathing in her sweet scent rattled my dormant places and sparked angry virility. Hate fucking her crossed my mind with dancing benefits of orgasm denial and bondage to hit her with an ounce of my agony.
Vulnerability dims her oceanic orbs, magnified behind the lenses of purple-framed glasses. Loneliness weighted her shoulders, hunching them over with its invisible poundage. I prepared to read her list and rag on her for the number of men she shoved me away to pursue, but there were few and none in the recent past.
Did the salty ocean air eat the brain cells of California men? Why had no one stepped up and claimed her or offered to slay her demons? This person took over her life, stole everything, and scared her to confined extremes. Even the ones she called friends faded in numbers as the stalker progressed. She never even told her twin brother what was happening in her life. Why? Why did she stay so long and live under his umbrella of fear?
The near kiss enraged my bitter heart, but I couldn’t even take pleasure in the denial because the strong courageous woman, who hid her insecurities behind a megawatt smile, sassy mouth, and flirty lashes, was dying in a poisoned existence.
I’d heard stories from her and Hendrix about the supposed haunting of their home. We spent many nights watching movies and taking notes on ways to fight the troubled specters. While I never experienced the phenomenon and believed it to be a bunch of hocus-pocus, I enjoyed the times she would curl up next to me or seek protection in my embrace.
I tossed and turned, unable to hold my hands near my nose. The sweet candy cane scent of her bodywash, lotion, and whatever else she uses lingers on my skin. Lying on my stomach was a no-go because of my arousal and side sleeping didn’t work because I had nowhere lay my damn hands. If I gave in and breathed, the fight to stay in my space would be too hard.
Withdrawal from Preslee Marie Carmichael is worse than any of the drugs I fed into my system. There is no meeting to keep me from succumbing to her siren song. My battered soul can’t withstand another blow. Instead I force myself to remain flat on my back, exercising breathing techniques learned in rehabilitation until I fall asleep.
I will admit, I enjoyed a tiny taste of revenge watching her swallow her tongue while staring at my body. Addiction is a wicked beast and I worked through it with sweat and aching muscles.
She’s too spooked to leave alone, so I drag her with me. Muddy footprints ring the hall in a pacing pattern. The wallpaper hangs in sliced tatters, waving morbidly to her room.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers, “The ghosts never do damage.”
I run my fingers over the rough edges. Upon closer inspection, I see the wood underneath. Only a wicked sharp tip could cut through layers of paper and drywall. Splinters surround a fist-sized indent in Preslee’s door. She peers over my shoulder. Deep groves spell out MINE on the aged oak surface.
Panicked, she runs down the hall to Gayle’s room, where she flings open the door. Disheveled and sluggish her nona followers her out, rubbing her eyes as Rosa crests the top of the stairs dressed in a fluffy bathrobe and rainbow Crocs.
With everyone accounted for, I grab my phone and call in the investigation crew.
∞∞∞
Seven Mile doesn’t employ its own crime scene team, but the state sends whatever we need if a situation arises. Two officers collect evidence from the hall, while Rosa calms Preslee and Gayle with tea and tiny powdered sugar-covered Mexican wedding cakes.
“Hey, Chief,” Investigator Andy Shambarger calls, pulling me from watching Preslee’s hand tremble holding the cup and saucer.
I meet him at the base of the stairs. “Tell me you found something.”
“No forced entry. Other than the mud and destruction, we’ve got nothing but two good boot impressions and a whole hallway of your fingerprints. Been hanging out here a lot?”
“Impossible.” I scoff, not liking what he’s implying. “I never touched anything outside of the two bedrooms unless no one’s cleaned for nine years, you’re mistaken.”
He cocks an unbelieving brow. “The science doesn’t lie. I’ll compile a report and email it to you in the morning. I suggest setting up surveillance.”
His crew packs up. Despite the adrenaline rush, all three ladies yawn. Rosa says she’ll bunk with Gayle, who shocks me by agreeing to have a roommate for the night. We all trudge up the stairs where I walk them to their room before urging Preslee into hers.
I try to offer her assurances of safety but can’t find the words because I slept through the earlier bedlam. Instead I grumble an order for her to get some sleep before returning to Hendrix’s room. To listen better, I leave the adjoining doors open.
Still on high alert with my brain racing laps, I lie watching the moon play peekaboo through the windows on the ceiling. Shuffling feet and a creak in the floor has me drawing my weapon.
“Don’t shoot,” her quiet voice whispers. “C-c-can… W-w-would it be… I’m scared,” her voice shakes and falters.
I lower my gun, shoving it back up under my pillow. Against my better judgment, but unable to deny her, I yank down the covers. “Come on then,” I grunt. She doesn’t hesitate to jump in next to me. The second she fans the blankets, my nose fills with peppermint, chocolate, and a litany of bad ideas.
Seventeen
Preslee
Two men wearing puffy coats with the letters CSI emblazoned across the back work in tandem upstairs. Joey stands sentinel between them and us. Rosa attempts to normalize with a hot beverage and snacks, but I can tell she’s frazzled.
With a hushed voice I try to factualize the unexplainable with Nona. The effect of her sleep medication slows her comprehension and lends understanding to why she heard nothing. Joey argues with himself because he too slept through the invasion. Whoever did this meant only to scare. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he had plenty of opportunity. All he’s done is prove he is indeed right here in Seven Mile Forge.
I watch the crew carry away their equipment and Joey’s boots. The investigator has a heated mumbled disagreement with Joey before he leaves, and I recoil from the way his body language throws accusation.
When they clear out, Joey urges us back to bed but when he disappears into my brother’s room, the shadows and sounds amplify. What could be a scratching branch on my window sends me fleeing my room.
I figured he’d refuse me. Color me surprised when he invites me to join him.
I curl on my side under the covers, ignoring his corpse-imitating stiffness to revel in the heat waving from his body. I’m keyed up higher than a kid loaded on sugar. The sounds of our unsteady breathing fill the silence. His rapid huffs tell me he’s not asleep.
“Tell me about Cash,” I whisper, hoping the topic of his son will prod him to talk.
“He’s six going on thirty with all my childhood deviousness and the face of angel,” he answers gruffly.
I roll toward him, tucking my hands under head. “I can’t believe you’re a dad. Not in a bad way, because from the few minutes with him I see he’s your world. Sammy never told me you were married with a kid.”
He flops sideways, mimicking my position. “Did you ask about me often?”
The dim lighting in the room offers enough illumination for me to see the smirk tilting his lips.
“Totally taboo topic, which I guess explains why she didn’t say anything.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, Joey. I know my apology is mere words and you have no reason to believe me, but I mean it. All those years ago I told myself I was doing the right thing for both of us. And in a way it was. You’re married with a great kid and everyone in town respects you.”
“You would see it through rose-colored glasses,” he snaps. “I was married, Preslee, to Paris Jones, who is also the worthless mother of my wonderful little boy. After you left, I spiraled
out of control: drugs, alcohol, and a bucket of bad decisions. Had you cared one iota about anyone other than yourself, Sammy Lee would’ve filled you in on spiraling of my life down the shitter and the detox Chief Buford kicked my ass through.”
His pain and anger slices through my soul. My selfishness and justification over doing what I believed right rolls through my stomach, twisting it into knots. I suspected he struggled and hurt, but how did my best friend keep all of this from me? He married one of the uber bitches, who plagued my school years with bullying, and he bore a child with her. If I possessed a nice set of lady balls, his revelation kicked me in them. Add in the drug abuse and he might as well chop them off, bronze them, and hang them from the hitch of his pickup truck.
Sam took my, don’t ask, don’t tell request to the extreme.
I force down the hunk of guilt clogging my throat, picking through his information dump I angle around my petty jealousy, but the thought of him with Paris keeps sticking pins in my heart.
“I can hear your brain boiling, Preslee. We opened this can of worms so go ahead; ask your questions. The worst I’ll say is it’s none of your business.”
“How did you end up with Paris? You couldn’t stand her.” He explains what happened with her dad, which I remember Sammy mentioning. Fury blankets his story about how they ended up married in Vegas and his confusion on the whole pregnancy. After fighting with her for nine months, she took off after Cash was born. Thanks to his connections with the department, he tracked her down long enough to acquire her signature on divorce papers and to relinquish custody.
“Having Cash saved me. His tiny hands and watchful, innocent eyes needed all of me. When Paris took off, I was clueless. I didn’t give a shit about her, but a baby needs his mother. With her gone, I found rock bottom. No more addiction, but it isn’t easy to keep the monkey off my back. My son gave me purpose, but Buford Beaumont showed me the tools and motivated me with a hefty boot up my ass.”
His love for his son lightens his voice, despite the heaviness of the conversation. I adored Chief Beaumont. The small-town cop who hated to arrest you and would offer the shirt off his back if it meant saving someone. He refused to coddle us though and was the first to kick us in line if we stepped out, but he did it with love.
“I hated hearing about Buford. He was one of the few genuinely great men left in the world. I’m sorry you lost him.”
“Yeah, you cared so much you didn’t bother to return for his funeral,” he mumbles angrily and so low I’m not meant to hear, but in the room's silence I don’t miss his ire.
When I said I hadn’t come home since I bolted, I lied. Don’t judge me. A little fib never hurts, besides no one saw me. Hendrix bought my ticket. I hid behind a mausoleum at the cemetery crying my eyes out while the entire town buried their hero. I didn’t look for Joey. I didn’t contact Sammy. I slunk in and out without notice. A true feat in this town. I never even told Sam I was there. Who knew six months later I’d be here again?
“Remember the summer after eighth grade?” Unwilling to use my truth as defense, I dive into the past. “We’d all just started hanging out and spent our last Saturday of freedom sprawled out in the cornfield on Mazric’s farm.”
His nose crinkles, “Ah yeah. I feigned myself the shit, proving my coolness with a pilfered bottle of Wild Turkey…”
“And Hendrix provided the Mary Jane.”
As a musical prodigy, Hendrix spent all his time with tutors. Our parents encouraged him to seek acceptable peers. He met up with a budding band in need of a keyboard player. The guys clicked, except they were all older and spent more time riding the high than practicing. My brother walked away, but not before pilfering some weed of his own. Unlike Sammy Lee, Hendrix found calm and muse while stoned. My best friend legit skipped many grades and she refused to risk deadening any of her millions of smart beans.
“We were gonna rodeo, buck wild with our teenage angst…” He laughs heartily and the sound soothes all the way to my toes.
“But we were all too scared to light it up, so we stuck to chugging gulps of nasty cheap bourbon…” I cringe remembering the awful aftertaste.
“I can’t believe we missed his approach but next thing we knew there sat Chief Buford, cross-legged, mirroring a big ole Buddha in beige with a badge.”
“We were certain we were going to jail, but…”
“He told us we should’ve grabbed some Jack Daniels, nodded at the joint in Mazric’s hand and told him to spark it. Samantha went nuts ranting about losing brain cells, fretting over a police record demolishing her chance for college, and how drinking the rotgut was bad enough for her highly intelligent mind. You were crying about becoming some woman’s female Brokeback Mountain, Hendrix kept belting out show tunes, and Mazric laughed so hard he cut his face on a cornstalk when he fell over. The boy never could hold his booze.” My stomach hurts from laughing, but God I could listen to him forever.
We shit our pants thinking we were so screwed. I mean there sat the chief of police, watching four fourteen-year-olds and a twelve-year-old Sam underage drinking and holding pot. Buford snatched the joint, stuck it between his lips, and blazed it with a lighter from his pocket. Without taking an inhale; he passed it to Joey first. He said if we were going to experiment then it was gonna be under his watchful eye. We were to each take one lungful and then tell him if we enjoyed it. Sammy Lee flat-out refused but the rest of did as he ordered. One by one we polluted our lungs and overloaded our drunken bodies. One by one we puked the nastiest bourbon in Kentucky all over each other.
“Sammy Lee didn’t even take a toke but chain-reacted all over Mazric’s brand-new shirt.” I suck in a breath expelling it on another round of gut clenching giggles.
“It was awful. My chest burned and my throat felt like I swallowed fire. Then the hacking cough began.” A deep laugh shakes his chest, growing in intensity. “You were last,” he sucks in a breath, “but still had to do it. Buford insisted you not miss out on all the fun.”
“Sammy kept crying, claiming the contact high would lower her stellar IQ,” I wheeze, as joyous tears fill my eyes.
“Our parents grounded us all for weeks but it didn’t matter cause we were all so sick and hungover.”
God, I missed Joey Holmes’s laugh. Low, gravelly, and so boisterous you can’t help but join in. Aunt Viv was livid when the chief delivered me and my brother home. The next day Buford sat down with all of us for the big “This is your brain on drugs” speech, but he punched it up with a warning to arrest us if he caught us again. He explained how last night was our one free pass and if there was a next time he would tough love our asses straight to jail. For an old man, he was seriously cool.
Eighteen
Joey
Tears fill her eyes as her laugh lights up my soul. I can’t believe I forgot about our first foray with drinking and drugs. To this day, the mere smell of Wild Turkey churns my stomach. It was the one whiskey I steered clear of during my binges.
Buford Beaumont held true to his promise when I went off the rails. He locked me up but not behind bars. She lays her small hand against my cheek, “I’m glad he was there for you.”
One breath in is all I allow myself to revel in her touch before I fall back. “So you work with big movie stars, huh?” I ask, veering us away from our shared past. Too much history and hurt lives in our memories and I can’t go back there.
She talks about her start as an apprentice after she got her degree. How she spent a year doing speed makeup for a commercial company who mass-produced ads, explaining how exhausted she was after caking up fifty faces a day. I hid my shock behind anger as I read through her list, but holy shit, she’s worked with some of my favorite actors and actresses. Sure, there were many no-names but I’d have been a starstruck oaf facing off with Julia Roberts, Chris Pratt, and more.
Her big break came by chance on the set of the hit show Open Universe. The entire makeup crew attended a party and ended up with food poisoning. One woman re
commended Preslee. With her fast working skills, she kept everything on schedule. She impressed the actresses with her techniques and in two short days she befriended them. A few referrals later and offers poured in. Now she is one of the most sought after makeup artists in the business.
“What about your clothing line? You left to follow your dreams of fashion design,” I ask bitterly. The whole reason she traveled to California for school was because of her grandiose ideas of fast-tracking into the mainstream. Sparkling up people’s faces isn’t the dream she abandoned me for.
“Money, Joey. Living the dream takes cash and connections,” she whispers.
“You have both, so what are you waiting for? Gayle’s money drips from her pores. One of your best friends is the biggest name in the NBA, and the other changed the world using her genius to design a better way to grow crops. Hell, your brother is on the edge of stardom. All of them would fund you,” I challenge.
“Why haven’t you officially requested a vote from the town board for permanent assignment as chief?” she counters. I shift, turning to narrow my eyes at her but she’s not done. “Something gained through perseverance and demanding work builds a foundation. Gain gotten through nepotism or favor places you on a pedestal where the first step is a doozy. I want my ambition realized because I deserve it, not because I’m besties with famous people. It’s the same as you fearing the people would love you because their treasured chief did. I’m good, no great, at what I do and because of it I will succeed on my own and in my own time.”
I swallow hard, gulping down how she still reads my fears. “Are you lonely?”
“At first, yes. This person seems to know what and who I’m going to do before I do it. A simple kiss goodnight from a date made me need a new mattress. A hug from a male friend brought a fresh hell and buying new panties. It’s maddening. I still have Sammy, Mazric, and my brother, plus my neighbors but they’re gay so don’t pose a threat. The other members of my crew know to be on guard and we chat, but fear keeps everyone at arm’s length. The only time he never reacts is when Hendrix visits.”
