by Leanne Davis
“Your underwear! Not what… what… whatever.” She flips around, turning her face away from me. I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“Maybe that’s why Wyatt hates me so much. Did you tell him? About seeing me in my underwear?”
“No!”
“Okay, okay. We’ll stop with the glory of me in my underwear. But just so you know, I’d never tell Wyatt about it either.”
She screeches and covers her ears. I have to bend over, I’m laughing so hard at her. It’s way too easy to get her going. I lean forward and touch her shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t tell Wyatt anything. Ever.”
She’s facing away from me still but crosses her arms over her chest as she dips her shoulder out from under my hand. “I think you would tell him that just to upset him. Maybe scream it at him when you get into another fight. I fear it’ll happen no matter what.”
“You lecture your boy like you do me?”
She gives me a glimpse of her profile and cracks a smile. “Wesley, whatever-your-name is, I was trying to ask if you wanted to go down to the beach and go swimming. I don’t want to talk about your underwear or my boyfriend’s opinion of it. It’s hot outside and the water is warm this time of year. Do you want to come with me or not?”
“This is what country people do for fun?”
“It’s what I do. Now, do you want to or not?’
“I don’t have swim trunks, Dani D. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have access to them. I’d like to come, but ya know? The underwear swimming obviously will embarrass you, so…”
She shrugs and scoots past me. “I’ll get you a pair.”
She stomps into the Kincaids’ house, only to come back out a few moments later carrying board shorts that are burgundy with little black squares on them. “There. Those are Wyatt’s. You’ll both live.”
“What about you?”
“I came over to go swimming with Wyatt. I’m wearing my swimsuit. Since you chased him off—”
“He ran off. I didn’t chase anyone,” I grin and disappear into the room I’m using as mine. I hate wearing Wyatt’s clothes, but I refuse to let that be the reason not to spend the afternoon with Dani. They fit me. Damn! It sucks being the same size as Wyatt Kincaid.
When I come out, Dani holds two towels, a bag over her shoulder, and sunglasses. “Come on. The trail to the Kincaids’ beach is this way.”
I follow her. It’s a long trail past the meadow and through some cottonwood trees that shimmer and shift with golden sunlight and shadows. The river starts to peek through the tree trunks. We come out onto some round river rock pebbles that could easily twist an ankle. The river swirls past us. It’s wide and deep, tranquil, but still moving. She goes downriver a short distance to a small cove of sand that forms a beach. She sets her stuff down and slips her hair out of its tieback. It bounces forward, as if spring-loaded. I stare. I’ve never seen her let it free. Its thick spiral seems to have a mind of its own as it circles her head and face. She notices my attention and tries to smooth it back off her forehead. “It’s never easy to control.”
“No. I was just thinking I’ve never seen it down. It’s really cool. Fits you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t see how that could be. I hate it.” Turning her back to me, she holds the edge of the log where she set her stuff. She slips her flip-flops off and ditches her shorts. I turn, realizing I’m watching her undress, which I want to do, but think she’ll die of embarrassment. I’m sure of it. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable with me. She’s the only friend I have here. I appreciate her for that and don’t need to act like the alpha-male ass she accuses me of being. With Wyatt? Sure. Hell, yeah, I’ll be that guy. It is fun. But not if Dani thinks I’m a pig who makes her feel stupid or uncomfortable for wearing her swimsuit, I don’t have to do that.
I slip my shirt off and hope she’ll miss the scars that span between my shoulders.
Fun stuff. I hate explaining it. Though it’s rare I’ve had to in my life. It’s only seldom, okay never, that I’ve taken an afternoon swim with a girl in a river just because.
I step into the water. It’s warm, like she says. But colder than the air, so it feels good on my skin. The sandy bottom reflects gold rings that run in semi-circles, spreading out from where I step. The water is crystal clear. Mountains look breathtakingly high as they seem to scrape the blue summer sky. “Why are the mountains so damn tall here? They look like they should be glacier peaks. Not running along a riverbank. Even a large river like this.”
She’s next to me, stepping into the water. I can glance down without leering. She’s wearing an all red bikini. I’m surprised it’s so tiny. It ties around her neck and back. She’s got small breasts, but shapely enough to make my hands twitch and want to glide over them. Her legs are short, but slim and defined and her flat stomach is smooth. Her hair springs up a little as the wayward top layers never lie flat like the bottom layers do.
“Thousands of years of glacier melt, flooding from Montana, Idaho, and Eastern Washington mix in with lava flows. It makes it one of the most unique areas anywhere. It’s a popular area for geologists to study.”
“Huh. That’s kind of interesting.”
She laughed. “It really turned on my geology teacher last year. He spent a lot of time on local topography and geological significance of this area.”
“Well, it’s a breathtakingly gorgeous area. One of the prettiest I’ve seen.”
“Being so well traveled as you are.” She’s mocking me. Her tone is snarky.
“Well, while you were studying it, I was just out seeing it all.”
“You can’t see most of science.”
“Touché. But you can read a book, Google a concept. There are ways that don’t require a job or tuition to gather the knowledge.”
She stares at me for a long, drawn-out ridiculous moment. I fidget my feet. What? I try not to cave to her staring. “Wesley. Just pretend you’re a normal teenager and go swim in the river. Okay?”
It’s hard not to laugh as she dives under the water and ends our conversation. She comes up, her hair slicked back. It makes her eyes pop brighter and bigger. I follow her, diving in and coming up beside her, resisting the reflexive desire to reach out and take her waist, keeping her upright. She’s treading water as I stand there. But I don’t touch. She’s Wyatt’s girl. And I’m a guest. No, scratch that, I’m a prisoner here. We are so different, it’s stupid to consider any… attraction. Well, duh, I’m attracted to her, but it doesn’t mean anything. If she were single, well, even then, I’d never make a move on her. She’s the type of girl you have to date. One that expects commitment. Not like coming here one day and then being gone forever the next. It would hurt her. I wouldn’t want to do that.
Except her gaze is still on me, and it’s full of something sad, deep, and profound. What the hell? I don’t know what she’s seeing. I turn, but nothing is there. What changed her playful, fun mood so suddenly? I haven’t gawked at her, even if I wanted to. I haven’t been too close or suggestive towards her. What could have happened to the easy-going comradery that was just enveloping us? Then her hand touches my back. I close my eyes and instantly realize what caught her attention and evoked her sympathy. Confusion. She is focused. She’s noticing the ugliness of my back. The scars that I don’t want to tell her about. The telltale evidence of my brutal childhood. Fuck. I wish now I could just leave forever.
Chapter 7
DANI
Wesley. He’s breathtaking. Sure. I noticed that the first night I held a pitchfork on him. No, actually when I saw him standing on the river’s edge with the large pack and yes, in his underwear. He has a huge body, both in height and in mass. And deep, soulful eyes and dark brown skin. A smooth, deep voice that underscores the intelligence in his gaze and even more so in the words he uses. But his conversations, observations, and sense of humor make him more attractive than all his physical beauty and good looks. He seems to possess both strength and sensitivity.
>
Until Wyatt gets involved.
Then Wesley becomes a rude, belligerent, fist-clenching know-it-all, just like Wyatt. Never before, in all our time as friends and then dating, has Wyatt ever acted like this. He was reliably smart, kind, nice, caring… and never randomly picked fights. But his aggressiveness when he went after Wesley in the barn—and then Wesley’s response—oh, God! The thought of them, huge and young and muscled, of similar weight, makes me quiver with fear. They could injure or kill each other! I knew if I ran and got Ryder and Tara, it would mean the end of their deal with Wesley. They’d grab his pack out of their safe and haul him down to the police station before having him arrested for the theft of the charity money. I’m thoroughly convinced, after all the time I’ve spent with Wesley and seen his true nature, that thieving is not part of his norm. I don’t think I’m gullible either, no matter how I might seem. I’ve been accused of that a time or two. But being shy doesn’t make one unobservant.
In fact, the opposite has been my experience.
This fear makes me almost crazy to try to stop their macho posturing from turning into a fist fight. I am willing to jump right in between them if I could stop it. My adrenaline keeps my fear of their combined anger and excessive hormones at bay. All I know is I have to stop them. For Wesley’s sake.
I’m not being played. Not by Wesley anyway. I don’t believe he should go to jail or even do community service work. That doesn’t bode well in anyone’s favor, but Tara’s plan does. It allows Wesley to work off the money he owes, which I believe he should do and punishes him for doing such a shitty crime no matter what his friend’s predicament is. Two wrongs and all that. He is a dedicated worker. He attacked the dishwashing duties like other people do doctoring and lawyering. He acted like it was very important and worth his time. He seems to approach his whole life like that. Even the traveling.
He also doesn’t have a lot of family experience. I know nothing concrete about Wesley’s past. Just my own guesses, but the way Ryder’s praise made him wince with embarrassment, it seems like he mostly tries to hide his family history from himself.
He seems pleased when he receives attention, as well as confused. His eyes clouded with embarrassment whenever Ryder or Tara showed him the smallest courtesy. He seemed amazed by every meal. And having his shirt washed. Anything that was done for him. It leads me to believe there is no “normal” experience of family life for him. Not like what Wyatt and I would consider normal.
There’s no way Wesley could have grown up with parents. He’s too awkward and unnerved by the most normal interactions. I wonder how young he was when he was orphaned. Obviously, it all spawned his need to ultimately get out. To lose all connections. No permanent residence. I see the happiness he thinks he finds by traveling. He believes he’s free. Wandering. Full of adventure.
I find it tragic and it makes my heart hurt.
Maybe Wyatt’s picked up on how I feel about Wesley. But I really don’t think so. His anger and rage at Wesley seem to be centered on Tara. He’s sure that Wesley is going to, in his words, “fuck over his parents.” He claims to not know how or when or why, but he’s sure that Wesley will. Several times, Wyatt ends his tirades about Wesley, after I soothe and calm him and try to change his mind, by saying, “I’ll be right. You wait and see.”
So, I didn’t mean to come by today and get in the middle of a fight. Seeing Wyatt storm out of there again before finding some comradery with Wesley wasn’t my plan. I shouldn’t stay here. I should go find Wyatt, even if he stormed away and stranded me.
I didn’t mean to end up staring at Wesley with warm water sluicing over us, barely clothed as sunshine streamed around us, and the wind whipped wildly, making the afternoon beautiful and clear.
Wesley politely kept his distance from me. He did not watch me undress. I appreciated the way he tried to make sure I was comfortable. Not all guys did that.
But there I was, staring at his naked chest gleaming in the sunlight. His muscles are so ripped and corded, I want to touch them. His shoulders are smooth and rise above his collar and the hollow of his throat. But then he shifts, and I’m jolted out of my reverie.
I caught my first glimpse of his back.
I am horrified by the deep cigarette burns I see seared into his smooth skin. They are unmistakable. Some are round, puckered circles, and some looked like they were far deeper than others. There are a lot of them. Clustered between his shoulder blades, his neck, and midway down his back. I gasp. I don’t mean to. But it’s appalling. I shudder as the cool water soothes my skin, but I instantly tear up imagining the unbearable torture that resulted in those scars. Oh, my God! I mean, you think you understand someone when they say they had a tough childhood or were abused, and even if Wesley never said so, I knew it. But this?
Scars.
Burnt evidence.
On his back.
Without thinking, I reach out to touch them. I want to rub them away, soothe the pain and the mental anguish that had to accompany such an experience. It must be etched into his soul as surely as his skin is scarred. He stiffens at my touch and sighs. He doesn’t look at me. His jaw clamps and juts outward. “It happened a long time ago.”
“That makes it worse, not better,” I sniff and shake my head. My eyes feel so big, they almost pop out. I want to grab him. I would reach out to comfort anyone with those kinds of scars from childhood abuse on their skin. But he stands still, and I see the tension in his muscles. I can’t. I can’t touch him. I have to tread water, or I’ll go under. I swim closer to shore where I can touch the bottom. He follows, knowing, I’m sure, I’m not done.
He nods. His gaze still looking over my shoulder at something on the shore. “I know.”
“What? Who? Oh, my fuck.” I stumble around with words. I can’t stand it. The thought of the demon who could repeatedly do that to him? Who? How? Fuck! I run my hands over my wet hair as the enormity of what he suffered dawns on me.
He passes me, rising out of the water. The rivulets roll down his skin. I shake the dizzying anxiety that is filling my head and wipe away the tears. I follow him.
He mutters, keeping his back to me. “I knew you’d see those and ask about them. I should have kept my shirt on.” His calm, even tone is resigned and makes my tears restart. He leans down, grabs a towel, and wipes down the round, pockmarked scars. I shudder. Oh, God.
“I would have questioned why you kept your shirt on.”
“Yes. Probably. I could have blamed it on my shyness.”
“You’re not though.”
“Right.” He pats his chest, neck, and back. Then he throws the towel down and pulls his shirt over his head. It sticks to his damp skin. I follow him. I grab my towel and wrap it around me like a blanket, holding it over my shoulders. He sits on the log, and I sit next to him.
Silence becomes a physical presence that fills the gap between us.
“Who did that to you, Wesley?” I keep my voice steady and low, straining to also remain tear-free.
“A woman, actually.”
“A woman did that to you?”
“Yes. She lived with my foster guardians. It’s bullshit to call them my parents. Or foster mom and dad. My ass! Just because they answered some questions from the state and passed a stupid test doesn’t make them fit to be parents. Anyway, she was a friend of theirs who lived in their house. She liked to get into my bed at night. She was… so gross. I remember that. Smelled like an ashtray. She’d laugh at me and put her cigarettes out on my back after… doing things I never liked. She was young, too, maybe twenty or twenty-one. I never knew. She eventually got kicked out for stealing money from them. I tried to report her, but they refused to listen. They panicked and made up a story that I stole from them. They needed a good reason to get me out of their house. It was a mess for a long while. Eventually, I got shuffled to the next set of parents and on my life went.”
I shut my eyes and the tears slide down my cheeks. “How old were you?”
�
�Eight.”
“Eight.” I repeat. My body shivers, not from the cold, but the horror of his tale. All the things that were nice and pleasant this afternoon pale with his story, and the rest of the evening feels ruined. The world is suddenly a disgusting place if it could allow anything like this to happen to a child.
“Did she rape you?”
“She touched me. I don’t remember too much about her. I try not to. She had natty, blond hair that was long. I remember she wore a slick kind of lip ointment, it reminded me of jelly, and I hated the feel and smell of it.”
“Lip gloss.”
“What?”
“Slick ointment is lip gloss, probably.”
“Yeah, that stuff. I refuse to ever kiss a girl who’s wearing it.” He lets out a small snort. Very small. Not so much for making a joke but to avoid sinking back into the memories of a horrible experience if what he just told me is true.
He reaches down and grabs a handful of fine, dry, white sand and lets it trickle between his fingers. Staring at the granules as they fall in rhythmic streams, he seems hypnotized by it.
“Did you tell anyone else? A caseworker? Your next guardian? A friend? A teacher?”
“There was no one to tell, Dani.” He squints into the sun, but I think it is more owing to his memories. His mouth is bracketed with stress and his jaw squared.
“But those scars.”
“Well, one did get infected. Like a third degree burn if I remember correctly. My foster-mom bitch just treated it with antibiotics and advice she found on the internet. There was never anyone to tell. My caseworker changed several times and none of them were around me much. None of them ever lifted up my shirt to examine me or anything. The next one, whom I might have told, never asked me. She didn’t even speak to me. She only spoke to my foster mom and dad.” He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. “I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone so much before.”
