Stone Silence (Sound of Silence #1)

by Taylor Dean

  After a long pause, he says, “You’re doing a good thing.”

  “It’s humbling. In the psychiatric field we don’t shy away from the awkward and uncomfortable moments in life. We share the dark and ugly moments and talk about them openly. Nothing is hidden. I know all the details of the patients’ lives and what they’ve endured. If someone was raped, I know it. If someone was abused, I know it. I witness the broken form of the human experience.”

  I lose eye contact immediately. I wonder if that hit too close to home. Is Stony broken? I’m not sure yet and I’m withholding judgment. But something made him move to this godforsaken land all alone to build his home. There must be more to his story than a missing leg.

  I’m dying to know everything. However, that particular emotion evidently kills cats, so I suppress it.

  I continue. “I had an interview yesterday for a paid internship at a top psychiatric hospital in Lubbock. Because of my experience in the field I had a really good chance of getting the position too. I missed it, thanks to Finn.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I needed the money to help get me through the next school year. I’m starting on my second degree in the fall at Texas Tech. I’ll earn a bachelor’s in nursing. The school highly discourages working while attending the sixteen month program. The failure rate is high when students try to combine the two. I need to have a large savings in place to supplement my student loan. Eventually I’d like to be a psychiatric nurse.”

  “Something tells me you’ll be good at it.”

  “Thank you, Stony. It’s something I’m passionate about.” I’ve gone on and on while he hasn’t said a word about himself. “Sorry, it’s something I can talk about endlessly and I tend to bore everyone around me.”

  He shrugs. “Let’s check the roads.”

  Even though he seemed interested in what I do for a living, I feel like he can’t wait to get outside. I’m sure I shared more than he wanted to know and he felt forced to fake interest. Maybe he can’t wait to be rid of me.

  He stands, hesitates, and clears his throat. “Your work is fascinating, Spencer.”

  I perk up and appreciate his attempt to let me know he’s interested. Or maybe he’s just being polite because he realizes he’s acting anxious to leave. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s went.” He cocks his head toward the door.

  My brother often says that phrase when he’s restless and ready to get going. I smile. “Okay.”

  My displeasure is carefully masked and hidden deep inside me. I wish my dream had been real. If it had been real, he wouldn’t be eager to see if the roads are clear. Clear roads mean it’s time to say goodbye.

  And I’m not ready to say goodbye to Stony.

  WE STARE AT the flowing water that has overtaken the road to Roby. On the other side of the flood waters, we can barely see the road sticking out like a raised hand in a classroom.

  “Can we cross?”

  “No. Can’t chance it. Could be deep in parts.”

  Although the surrounding land appears to be flat, it’s deceptively filled with rolling highs and lows. Odds are, this is where a depression in the land is located and that’s why it’s flooded.

  “Didn’t the news say the roads are still closed?”

  “Yep. Had to see for myself.”

  Stony drives a large black truck that seems as mysterious as he does. Somehow, it suits him. He turns the truck around and heads back to his homestead. It’s nice to get out, even if we didn’t go very far. The seats of his truck include a warming device and even though it’s supposed to be hot out today, a warm seat feels so good against my body, like being pampered in a massage chair in a salon.

  I notice a strange writhing mass of dry land amidst the flood waters and ask, “What is that out there?”

  “Prairie dogs on a spot of dry ground. They live in an underground maze of tunnels. Water has flooded their home. They’re stuck until the waters recede.”

  “Poor things,” I say.

  “Considered pests. They dot the land around here and drive farmers crazy.”

  “I once heard they’re considered pets in Japan.”

  “Yep. Crazy enough, it’s true.”

  “They are cute little things,” I add.

  “To each his own. Want to try the opposite direction?” he asks.

  “You mean toward Anson?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” Is it my imagination or is he eager to be rid of me? My thoughts about us are pure fantasy and simple physical attraction. At least I now know I can feel it. Now I know what everyone is talking about. And I understand the allure. My stomach is fluttery and I feel tingly—and I like the sensation.

  And he hasn’t even touched me yet. Not in the way I think I’d like him to anyway.

  I should be thankful he’s trying to return me home safely. I was very lucky to stumble upon Stony. The many possible outcomes of the predicament Finn left me in are terrifying. Especially when episodes of Criminal Minds can’t be unseen and toy with my imagination.

  Ten minutes later we’re staring at another mass of water covering the road.

  Stony lets out a deep sigh. “Few more days.”

  Yes, a few more days with Stony.

  Darn.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  AS WE PULL into Stony’s fortress, I say, “The home you’re building looks amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Two stories?”

  “Yep. Upstairs will be a master suite.”

  “And that’s all? I love it. Are you going to sell it?”

  “Nope. Gonna live in it.”

  “Just you?”

  “For now,” he answers cryptically.

  All of his words are a bit cryptic. He never explains himself.

  It surprises me that stairs will be a part of his home. At the same time, I find it impressive that they are a non-issue for him. He obviously keeps himself quite fit. “Is this house for you and the girl in the photograph next to your bed?”

  He breathes in and out deeply. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Where is this mystery lady anyway?” As far as I know, he hasn’t spoken to anyone on the phone except his mom. And we’ve been together most of the time, other than when we’re sleeping.

  “Jail.”

  Jail? Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. “Your girlfriend is in jail?”

  “Long story. She’s not my girlfriend anymore. It was over between us before she went to jail. Better get to work,” he says. “Rain has put me behind.”

  A thousand questions are buzzing through my mind, but I don’t ask them. I know he won’t answer a bombardment of questions. He’s the type who will talk about things when he’s good and ready and for no other reason. And he has no reason to tell me why his girlfriend is in jail. It’s none of my business.

  My father is a grammar geek, constantly correcting our speech, and he’d object right now. He’d remind us that jail is for short term lock up and for holding people awaiting court appearances. I know some jails hold people convicted for less than a year. But, any sentence over a year would technically send a person to prison, not jail. So where is Mia? Jail or prison?

  It doesn’t matter. Jail and prison are often used interchangeably nowadays and I need to stop reading too much into it. I doubt Stony is concerned over specifics and I’m not going to question him and make him explain.

  I wonder what on earth I’m going to do with myself while he’s working. “Do you mind if I cook dinner? I need something to do.”

  “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

  That’s all the permission I need. I’m taking over his kitchen today. I search his cupboards and refrigerator and come up with a game plan. Then I get to work.

  I choose a time consuming meal so I’ll be kept busy for the day. Still, I’m left with time on my hands, so I do a little deep cleaning in the motorhome, even though it’s practically spotless. I consider it payment for letting me stay. It’s the lea
st I can do.

  When Stony doesn’t come in for lunch, I decide to take it out to him. I grill him a cheese and tomato sandwich, seasoned with dried basil. I take some of the leftover potato I boiled for dinner and make a small potato salad.

  His eyebrows shoot into his forehead when he sees the meal. I like that I surprised him. He eats quickly and I love it when he says, “Delicious. Thank you, Spencer. Just what I needed.”

  “You’re welcome.” I don’t think he would’ve stopped for lunch if I hadn’t forced him. He seems very intent on his work today. I get the vibe that he’s in a hurry to complete his project. “Are you on a schedule with this house?”

  “Want to be done before winter hits.”

  “Is winter harsh around here?”

  Without missing a beat, he says, “It’s forbidden until December and it exits March the second on the dot.”

  I think a minute. Those words are familiar to me. “Wait. Did you just quote . . . Camelot?”

  “Maybe. If I did, it will never happen again.” Then by way of explanation he adds, “It was my mom’s favorite soundtrack. Heard it all my life. Could quote it in my sleep.”

  I’ve always loved that musical as well. “And in autumn, do all the leaves fall into neat little piles?”

  “Sure do.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Sounds magical.”

  He goes on as if he didn’t just impress the socks off of me. “Nah, winter’s pretty mild in comparison to most. Just anxious to be done and livin’ in my home.”

  “I’ll let you get back to it then.” My steps are light as I practically dance back to the motorhome. I like feeling as though I helped him for a change. At the door, I turn and holler, “I’m not going to forget that you quoted Camelot.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says and keeps working.

  I smile to myself. That man has a hidden sense of humor. Dinner is all set and the motorhome is spotless, leaving me with absolutely nothing to do. I’d like to go out and work with Stony, but I sense he’s determined to get a lot done today and I feel as though I’d be in the way. So, I grab one of Stony’s books and curl up on a chair close to a window. I end up hardly reading a word. Unbeknownst to Stony, I spend most of the afternoon watching him. I find that there’s something about a man at work that appeals to my senses. I think it’s all those rippling muscles. Watching him makes my insides melt and I allow myself to drown in the unfamiliar sensation.

  Stony doesn’t come in until nearly six-thirty at night. When he enters, he stops dead in his tracks.

  As our eyes meet, I immediately know I’ve made a mistake. Dinner is beautifully laid out on the table and a single candle is lit in the center, creating a certain welcoming ambiance.

  I wanted to surprise him and I did. Only not in a good way. As I watch his eyes travel from mine and then down to the candle, I see his eyebrows knit. Too late, it occurs to me that the entire set-up could imply “romantic evening.” I mean, it’s not as if all the lights are out, it’s just a centerpiece. My lack of experience suddenly feels so very obvious. I curse the moment I found the emergency candles buried deep in the back of the cupboard.

  Stony walks to the table, blows out the candle and dumps it in the sudsy water-filled sink as he leaves the room quickly. “Gonna shower,” he says, not looking my way.

  I’m stunned by his actions.

  If there were any lingering doubts in my mind about whether or not I dreamt the happenings of last night, they were just laid to rest with a hard slap to the face.

  Maybe he is the Beast after all.

  I hear the shower spurt to life and I know he’s cleaning up before coming to dinner—at least I assume he’ll still join me for dinner. It’s not as if there’s any place else for him to go. I kick myself for my actions. I should’ve realized that candlelight screams intimacy.

  I’m confusing my dream world and reality. The unwritten rules state that one may not touch the other. Everyone knows that—even me, the perpetual bachelorette.

  Deep breath. I grab another book from Stony’s bookshelf and lay down in my bunk, leaving the Wall of Jericho open. I peruse the book while waiting on Stony. I need to apologize and make things right between us. I read a few lines, then realize I’m not paying attention to anything I’m reading.

  When the shower stops, I think my heart does too. After a short while, I hear the bathroom door open and I hop to my feet.

  “Can I talk to you?” I manage as I switch on the hall light.

  “No light,” he says.

  Too late. I’m frozen in place, staring at him with wide eyes and my breath hitches in my throat. He’s already put his prosthetic leg in place and donned his jeans, but he’s shirtless and his short hair is wet. He’s muscular, with ripped abs. I want to dwell on those muscles, but my eyes are drawn to the extreme right half of his chest, his shoulder, and the front half of his arm. Burn scars cover the length of skin down to his wrist. His skin is mottled and puckered and I gasp at the sight. His leg isn’t his only injury and I now understand why he always wears long sleeved shirts, even on the hottest of days. My eyes wander up to his. His eyes are narrowed slits as he lets me look at him. I can see his fear. I feel as though he’s waiting for me to draw back in disgust.

  But I don’t. Instead I forget my fears, my insecurities, and my anxiety toward the opposite sex. I forget myself and think only of his feelings. Somehow this attitude is liberating. I walk forward until I’m face to face with him. I reach out and glide my trembling fingertips over his smooth chest. His skin is warm to the touch as if he radiates heat and my stomach involuntarily tightens. In my heart, I don’t think I expected to like touching him. I only wanted to ease his discomfort. Now that my hand is on him, I’m besieged with wanting more. While I’m fascinated by my reaction, his response to my touch captivates me even more. There’s a sharp intake of breath and I can feel his heart pounding beneath my fingers. The thought that I could induce such a reaction from a man enthralls me. Feeling as though I can hardly breathe, I continue over to his scarred shoulder and down his arm. The front half is bumpy and the back half smooth as silk. Such a harsh contradiction and constant reminder of his imperfections. He closes his eyes and his chest heaves from a deep unsteady breath. Again, his reaction to my touch electrifies me in a way I’ve never known. I want to tell him he’s beautiful, that these scars don’t define him, that his masculinity is still thriving, that the sight of him leaves me breathless. He’s strong and muscular, a perfect specimen who oozes raw maleness in its finest form. He’s a man who has overcome adversity and come out on top. He beat the odds and won. Has he any idea how attractive that is?

  I don’t verbalize any of these things. I fear I’ll sound trite. I want him to know I think he’s beautiful, I want to assure him I am not repulsed. My desire to share my feelings outweighs my fear of finding myself feeling cold. Before I can talk myself out of the gesture, I gather some courage, lean forward, and press my lips to his scarred shoulder and kiss him. I don’t feel brazen, instead I feel as though my actions send him a message my words never will. His skin is warm from the shower and he smells soapy and fresh.

  And I like kissing him. My lips like the feel of his skin beneath them, imperfections and all.

  All at once, he grabs my shoulders and sets me apart from him, holding me at arm’s length. He flicks off the hall light. It’s still light outside, so we’re not plunged into complete darkness, but I can no longer see his scars.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his breathing erratic. “I didn’t mean to be rough.” Then he moves past me and escapes into his bedroom.

  Yep, he’s the Beast. Full of both rage and kindness all at once.

  I don’t know what to do, so I sit at the kitchen table and wait for him, hoping he’ll come to dinner. I can’t believe I actually kissed him. Kissed him! What was I thinking? I’ve never felt so attracted to a man in my life and it’s an amazing feeling. Yet, I’m so uncomfortable with our situation, I
’d like to sneak out the door and run away, but I know where that road will lead me and I’d rather stay right here and face Stony. I feel like crying, but don’t allow myself that luxury. Stony doesn’t emerge for twenty really long minutes. I stand as soon as he comes out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for making a candlelight dinner and I’m sorry for kissing you. I can tell I’ve made you uncomfortable. You don’t need to explain, I get it. I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to . . . to . . .” I want to say it wasn’t my intention to come on to you, but I can’t even voice the words.

  I feel like I just turned into the “Finn” of our relationship. I feel as though I’ve pressured him into something that he clearly isn’t ready for—and doesn’t even want. “I like you and I just wanted to get to know you better. As friends, I mean. That’s all. I didn’t plan on kissing you. I just wanted to tell you that you’re beautiful to me and a kiss seemed the best way to do it.”

  His eyes are wild with emotion, but he says nothing. His silence kills me. I never know what he’s thinking. “I’ll reheat our food. Come sit down,” I say. We’re stuck together and we might as well make the best of it.

  I reheat the homemade chicken pot pie in the oven and keep myself busy by pouring the extra gravy back into the saucepan and giving it a constant unneeded stir. I hold back tears, knowing I’ve found a man I like, but he doesn’t reciprocate the feelings. I’m surprised by the pain in my chest. Love is a painful emotion and maybe I’m better off without it.

  I’m so embarrassed by my actions. Am I acting like a kid in a candy store who has suddenly been let loose and allowed to grab as much candy as she wants?

  Stony watches me in silence and doesn’t say a word. Finally, I place the food on the table and join him.