by James, Ella
“Of course it is.” I reach instinctively for him, but remember he doesn’t want me touching his hair. He’s playing tonight.
He must have seen the intention on my face, because he cups my cheek and pulls me up against him. “You’re looking good there in that little skirt, Gwennie.” He rocks his hips against me, just to be sure I feel how turned on he is. “You want to fuck before Jamie gets here?”
I wince at the word—fucking is totally not how I’d like to describe sex—then shake my head and laugh. “She’ll be here in five minutes, you lunatic.”
“It could be a quickie.”
“No one’s that quick.”
In fact—especially not Elvie. Especially not lately. When we first started having sex our sophomore year of college, sometimes he would come before he even got all the way inside. Now sometimes it takes him longer than me. I push that thought away. Models aren’t allowed to feel insecure about their looks. I pat Elvie’s itty-bitty beer pooch. “It’s going to be a long five days without you. I hope New York is amazing.”
“It won’t be the same without you.” He looks down at his big belt buckle, frowning as he rubs it. His green eyes lift to mine. “You could still come, you know. Back-up sing.”
I push my hand at his face. “You arrogant asshole. I’m the star,” I say in a dramatic Southern accent.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Too good to back-up sing for Elvie Wesson.”
“Damn right I am.”
He taps his fingertips against his mouth and frowns at me. “You know…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.” He slaps his jeans and twists his handsome face into a hillbilly duh look. “I know!” He snaps his fingers. “You’re the lady on the billboard!”
I shove his shoulder. Elvie topples toward the couch, and just as I can see his face tighten with embarrassment, we hear a car horn in front of my house.
My house.
I glance around my beautiful space, and Elvie huffs. He doesn’t say anything—he never does—but there are these times when he makes me feel like some kind of big, gross giant: when I wear heels, or when I can reach something he can’t. As if it’s my fault I’m tall for a girl, and he’s short for a guy.
Jamie beeps again, and Elvie gets my suitcase while I shoulder my purse and carry on. He gets the front door for me, and we step outside without a word. Our breaths make pale clouds. I find myself smiling as I turn to lock the door. It’s cold here in Nashville, but not as cold as it will be where I’m going. I can’t freaking wait.
I take a small step back, admiring my little house. My dream. The little wreath on the door. I get chills as I think of going back to the studio. To work more on my album, which combined with my movie and modeling income, helped me buy this house.
My album!
Elvie frowns at me, and I flick him on the arm.
“Daydreaming all the time,” he drawls.
“About the studio,” I say.
“Aww, I gotcha.”
But he doesn’t. The only son of one of country music’s most beloved duos, Elvie cut his first record when he was 9. He’s had a CD in Wal-Mart since last year. A Christmas CD since the year before.
Next year, I’ll have my own album too. My eyes tingle a little as we walk to Jamie’s schmancy SUV, a Cadillac SRX. As Elvie opens the trunk, Jamie gets out of the driver’s seat and throws her arms around me.
We both squeal, and Elvie covers his ears.
Jamie lets me go and jabs him in the arm.
“What is it with you women and the hitting?”
She shrugs and looks him over. “You look nice, cowboy.”
“Singing at the Bluebell.”
“Oh yeah, Gwenna told me about that.”
“Gwennie.” He settles my suitcase in the trunk and shuts it. Then he wraps his arms around me.
“You two. Get a room. Oh wait, I’m taking your girlfriend with me.” Jamie sticks her tongue out.
Elvie flips her off.
She goes around to her side of the car while Elvie kisses me. He tastes like cigar and chicken. We had dinner at Miss Darcy’s Grill. I wipe my lipstick off his mouth. He has the good sense not to complain this time.
He even kisses me again on the cheek. “Stay warm, Gwennie.”
“Break a leg. Not both, though. Or I’ll have to send you away on an ass’s ass.”
This is Elvie’s and my private joke. One time I told him I would always love him, even with no arms and legs. It was meant to be funny. Romantic, dark funny—but funny. He said he would love me always, too. But when I got too old and ugly to be photographed with him, he’d send me away on a mule’s ass.
“Such a comedian,” he says now. He runs a hand along my hair. “Be safe, now.”
“For sure. You too. Talk to you soon?”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
I blow him a kiss and climb up into Jamie’s silver Caddy, bound for my favorite place on earth.
Chapter Seventeen
Barrett
November 6, 2015
“Hey, man.” I hold my phone against my ear and lean against the bathroom wall. “You probably won’t remember me, but you did a tat for me about three years ago.”
“Yeah, man. Sounds right. I’ve been here since ’09.”
“It was a snowflake.”
“Yeah?”
“A little snowflake on my neck, kind of near my hairline in the back.”
“I think I remember you. Real big guy? Dark hair?”
I nod, and blink into the mirror. “That was me.” In my line of work, it’s wise to assume you’re going to stick out. When you’re six-foot-three, you have to.
“So what can I help you with?” he asks.
“I was wondering if you drew it.”
“That snowflake?”
“Yeah.”
“I draw them all. So yeah. All my shit is custom.”
“You give them out a lot?” I ask.
“You got a problem, man?”
“No. No problem.” I inhale slowly, hoping to bring my voice up from where it goes down deep when I’m thinking hard about something. So I don’t sound pissed off. “I saw a girl the other day—same tat. I was wondering if that means she got it up in Breckenridge.”
“Exact same?”
“Yeah. You do the same snowflake on everybody?”
He hums, as if he’s thinking. “For a while I did. Last year I started doing another one, seven pointed, kind of artsy. Gotta keep it fresh.”
I exhale slowly. “Yeah. Well brother, thanks.”
“No problem. Nothing I can help you with?”
I laugh, as if I’m embarrassed. “Just chasing a girl.”
“Good luck, man.”
“Yeah. Thanks, dude.”
“Have a good one.”
“You too. Catch ya later.”
I hang up with Roy J. Bidd from High Altitudes Tattoo & Piercing and stare down at my phone.
So the tat we have is custom, sort of. He didn’t get it out of some tattoo artists’ stock art book. I couldn’t tell if it was identical, because I can’t see mine easily. But now I know it probably is. It doesn’t matter. Gwen won’t notice.
I slide the phone into my pocket and walk back into my bedroom. Like I did a little while ago, I catch myself staring at the bed. Gwenna made it before she left. Piled the pillows up, straightened the duvet so there’s no wrinkles. I don’t think I’ve seen a bed this neat since boot camp.
I step over and look down at the note still lying where she left it right in front of the pillows.
How’d you know my favorite scones?
Don’t be a stranger. Pretty please…
XOX
I tuck the note into my pocket and consider getting up there on the bed, but decide to leave it untouched for right now. I go over to the armchair, which I pulled away from the window when Gwenna was here. It feels strange, sitting in it near the middle of the room. I start to drag it to the window, but for some reason I s
top halfway there.
I sink back into the chair and scroll through my phone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice I still have it, or maybe they don’t give a fuck. It is mine, after all. I did all the coding. They would need to gut it—software, hardware, all—so it’s nothing more than just a case, and what would be the point of confiscating that? I could build the same thing inside any regular ass iPhone case. Easier just to let me keep the one I have already. That way they can still track me. We’re told they won’t do that once we leave the Unit, but when I called Alec Ludlum about tracking Blue, he asked me what I was doing down in Tennessee.
I touch my phone’s screen and look briefly at the picture of Gwen’s little snowflake tat, then nav over to track Blue. I find him sidelined in Kentucky, somewhere known as Berea, where he seems to be spending time at a local library.
Then I read Dove’s latest text.
‘All cool, Bear?’
‘All cool,’ I reply.
I shut the thing right down, then wash my face with ice cold water and pop a piece of MEG gum so I don’t have to drink a coffee or a Red Bull. I make a mug of Keurig hot chocolate and take it to the back porch, where, for once, I don’t do anything but sit there watching the trees.
Then, when the sun starts slipping behind the foothills, I grab the groceries I bought a couple hours ago, after I delivered Gwenna’s scones, and put them in my rucksack. I leave it at the bottom of the stairs and go back up to the bathroom, where I stare at the tub for a minute before brushing my teeth.
I rinse with mouthwash like a fucking teenager and can’t resist a quick look in the mirror. Looking fucking weird with this long hair. I trimmed the beard down so it’s kind of prickly. I rub my eyes and look down at my white shirt and black jeans.
I should maybe call first…but I don’t. I go downstairs and get my pack and lock up. I put my hand against the swing, making a mental note to bolt it down or move it at some point, and then I go down the stairs. As I step into the woods, I check my pants for my .38 and find I left without it.
That beats all. Unarmed and with a rucksack full of food. I smile a little as I trek toward her place.
* * *
Gwenna
It’s too warm in Tennessee for hibernation—at least the kind you hear about. Black bears just curl up nice and cozy somewhere and don’t move much. But they’re still bears. Their bodies still know the cycle of things. So they still try to stock up on food before.
I have cameras set on two of their most common dining halls: a patch of wild grapes and a grove of oak trees, heavy with acorns. When I look, after I get home from Barrett’s in the morning, both places look pretty picked over. So I make an unplanned trip into the enclosure a little after noon.
I throw out nine vitamin ball bombs and sink a wooden case of frozen rainbow trout in the pond. I don’t see Papa, who I know from my pre-visit cam check is many acres away. I decide not to linger, even though it makes me sad. I consider going back in tomorrow to organize the stock shed. If Papa scents me and wanders over… Well, who am I to protest?
With a silly smile on my face, I walk back to my cabin, call the local Walmart to ask about Christmas lights, and spend the next two hours catching up on work-related emails—with St. Jude’s, with the stuffed bear supplier, with a few Beary Appreciated Donors, and with the fencing company, who last week was supposed to send someone to patch a weak spot on the east side of the fence, but didn’t.
I realize as I wait on hold with the fencing place that I haven’t even thought to check the cameras for my creeper. I skim through a few hours of footage, then Jamie calls and I keep on skimming as she tells me about Niccolo, and how his mom is depressed because she and his dad are having trouble, and Nic’s brother—the poor, sweet, dead one, John—was honored recently with some kind of posthumous Army award, and did I know Jamie thinks she might have gotten her very first gray hair, and before I know it, I’ve skimmed 42 hours of cam footage and there hasn’t been a single trace of anybody.
Sweet!
I hear Jamie stop her motor-mouthing and take a sip of something.
“Are you at Starbucks?”
“I’m meeting a client.”
“When?” I giggle. “We’ve been on the phone almost an hour.”
“Hmm, well then they’re late. I should go find out what happened.”
We hang up without me telling her about my night with Barrett, and to be honest, I’m kind of glad. It’s nice to keep it to myself: my very own delicious secret.
I spend the next hour doing Bible study and then meditating, and by the time I’m finished, I’m feeling very zen about this thing with Barrett. Either it’ll bloom into something or it won’t. All I can do is open myself up to what God wants to give me and continue trying to be grateful for whatever comes my way.
I pass the rest of my afternoon fertilizing my gardenias, making a trip to Wal-Mart for a laundry list of household items, and then dragging a ladder around my bedroom, stringing lights from the ceiling.
I tell myself if nothing more happens with Barrett, I’ll be glad to have the lights. It’s getting colder, closer to the holidays, and usually when it gets near Christmas, I have a harder time with my own nightmares.
On that note, I decide to pull out my journal and get a hold of my feelings.
I spent the night at Barrett’s last night. I went over there drunk, and he seemed really off from the first moment, now that I look back on it. I tried to leave after just a little bit, and he wanted me to stay. And then we were in his den and he started having a panic attack. I felt so bad for him.
Somehow he ended up telling me he’s a killer. And of course, I had no idea what to make of that. I finally figured out he was saying he was a sniper, and somewhere in the night he said he was in ACE. I saw some random internet news story about Delta Force where they talked about the name change, so that’s the only reason I even know what it is. (So, holy hell, Barrett came from Delta Force… I now understand the mad martial arts skillz).
Anyway—he talked so long about how he should keep his distance from me because of the things he’d been through, and at one point he even said something along the lines of ‘people shouldn’t come back from war,’ or maybe just he shouldn’t have. I know what PTSD is like but… I don’t know. His stuff is so different than mine. He just seemed so lost. I can see that he’s in so much pain, and I’m not even really sure what to do for him. It’s hard, and it already really hurts, and we don’t even know each other long term or anything. There have been so many moments that I’ve had my arms around him, just holding him. I can feel how much he needs it. I can tell he’s trying to be strong. I asked once in bed last night if he was awake and he said he didn’t know. And then he said he was sorry. For having this traumatic dream where he sobbed and sobbed. I can’t even imagine him there by himself when that happens. Even last night with me there… he really didn’t accept that much comfort from me.
Downstairs earlier in the night he laid on the floor with me after telling me about how he sees people he knows, dead. He let me hold him, and he held me back. But after his dream, the second he was collected enough to get up, he did. He had a really hard time accepting comfort from me at first. And I said we should sleep together more—like the close your eyes kind of sleep—and he didn’t get why I would offer. I don’t know. It makes me sad.
And then there’s this entire other element because we had sex last night. THREE times. He took me from behind the first time downstairs, and oh my God—the way his dick rubbed my G-spot. He’s…shall we say ‘well hung’ and he knew just when to reach around and rub. I still get all hot thinking of it. And then upstairs… We got this bath together after his nightmare, and I was in the bath with him and… Whoa. He’s just so beautiful. I can’t even. Even his feet are perfect.
I found out he’s 29, and he says in special forces, that’s old. He said he heard me talk at county commission, and you know what, I think I remember? I’m going to ask him next time I
see him if he has a blue ball cap. Anyway—geez. He’s said so many kind things to me. So many sweet things. Still, I didn’t feel like I knew for sure what was going on until he jumped on me at the end of our bath last night. He said something like “I tried to stop myself.” All his sounds, all his movements, they were frenzied. As soon as we finished, we went and got in bed, still wet. I’ve felt on guard for so long, and lonely, and then I’m with Barrett and I just feel like I can rest. I’ve got it bad. I know. The funny thing is, I’m scared but in a larger way I’m not. I feel like someone standing on a precipice with my arms stretched wide. I’m not scared of falling. Especially if he falls with me, and I can hold onto him.
I laugh when I realize I didn’t write a thing about my own trauma or my own nightmares. But that’s not bad, I tell myself.
I notice when I put my journal back on my bedside table that it’s 4:30. I wonder what he’s doing. Then I tell myself I can’t wonder. I make a plan to take a bubble bath, in which I’ll shave and groom…certain areas. Then I’ll lotion myself up and re-paint my nails and maybe do a mask. After which I may have some Absinthe. I might cook the tenderloin I got the other day: an easy, crockpot thing. Then, if nothing else comes up, I’ll read. I’m still a little tired from last night, so if nothing else happens, I’ll hit the hay early and skip my workout today.
I do a good job sticking to my vows, and I do things in the order I planned. I’m lying on my bed, holding my phone up above my face so I can read Kyland by Mia Sheridan, one of my favorite authors, when I hear my doorbell ring.
I swear, my heart nearly explodes. I set my phone down, grab a deep breath, and look down at myself.
It’s probably the mailman, I tell myself. Mom was going to send a package with some jeans she bought me at some special best-ass-ever jeans store. I tap my face—my cracking, blue-green face—and tip-toe to the door. I peer through the peephole and my stomach ties itself into a knot.
