by A. C. Bextor
She’s not only bold, but stereotypical. Blonde hair. Blue-eyed. Young. Smart. Beautiful.
Eye. Roll.
I don’t look back. I don’t care about Sabrina Marks. More so, I don’t care to see Sabrina Marks.
I left the house confident about my life, to include my appearance. I plan to return to it the same.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Connie groans. “Had to be,” she shakes her head and sneers. “Just had to be!”
“What is wrong with you?” I chastise.
The tension at our table rises. The hair on the back of my neck immediately stands on end. I close my eyes, guessing what could only make Connie this dramatic. The only person who could put Connie this on edge.
My gut turns as I twist in my chair to find him standing close.
Mason Allen Cole.
The one true love of my life.
The man I’ve crushed on since I was an awkward young girl, watching him through my bedroom window.
The teenage heartthrob, who taught the younger version of me the age-old art of daydreaming.
Years have passed since my heart beat this profoundly against my chest.
Mason is the first, and only man, who ever managed to break my soul. And he did it in a way that the pieces were never set back together. Understandably so, being as he took the center of me with him. My heart.
Staring up at him, my face flushes as memories of us together wash over. My fingertips ache, reminiscing how warm his skin always was and how thick and strong his body once felt beneath them. My heart breaks in remembrance of all our years together, both as friends and lovers. Then one day, he was gone.
Forever.
Mason still wears his dark hair a little too long, brushing the back collar of his hunter green Henley. His flawless skin is still bronzed in color.
When I find those dark blue eyes, I remember so vividly, glaring down at me; I force myself not to wince. I succeed, miraculously managing to hold myself together.
“Cole,” Connie greets casually. “How’s things?”
Answering my friend, but with his gaze locked on mine, he nods curtly and answers, “Things are good.”
God, his voice is just how I remembered. Deep, gravelly, and unforgiving.
“How’s the job?” Connie probes further, filling in for my loss of words.
This time I lose his eyes as he looks to her. “Job’s the job.”
“Bad guys never sleep,” she dutifully returns.
Mason is a police officer. I knew this, not because he told me. But because our community, as ever small, gossips to extreme. With a population of just under seven thousand, it’s not hard to know what everyone else is doing. Namely, when this person is Mason Allen-fucking-Cole.
As a kid, Mason was a troublemaker, a wayward heathen as a teen. No one around here figured he’d ever amount to much. But, after he left this town and all his bad memories behind, Mason became what he wanted to be.
A subtle clearing of a throat calls for my attention, pulling it back to Mason. More to point, Mason’s arm. A small, perfectly manicured hand wraps around his bicep, painted pretty in pink.
Mason looks down to her and a small smile touches his lips. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, bringing her closely into his side. The gesture is intimate, knowing, and comfortable.
“Uh,” Connie strangles.
“This is the woman I’m seeing,” Mason introduces. “Sabrina.”
The woman I’m seeing. Dagger to the chest.
“Sabrina, this is Katherine,” he nods to me then to Connie. “And that’s her nutty best friend, Connie.”
Katherine, he said. Not Katie. Insult to injury.
Connie smiles, waving her hand.
Cheerfully, Sabrina asks, “How do you all know each other?”
Connie starts to answer, but Mason cuts her off with, “I used to know them when they were kids.”
Used to know them. Salt to the wound.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Sabrina greets in return, sizing up Connie first. This move makes sense, being Connie’s beauty rivals her own.
In person, Sabrina appears shorter than what the cameras make her seem. To Mason’s six foot three, her five seven is tiny in comparison.
Of course, she’s still remarkable. With her red painted lips and heavy makeup, which looks professionally applied, Sabrina’s the epitome of what every little girl wants to be.
Successful.
Demure.
Stunning.
Damn it.
My eyes begin to burn as the lump in my throat aches to be set free.
Connie clears her throat so my gaze flips to hers. She nods in uncomfortable silence as Mason whispers something inaudible into Sabrina’s ear. Whatever he said, instantly takes her aback. She holds his arm tighter and leans in to kiss his large shoulder.
She’s claiming him in front of us.
I was still young when Mason ended things between us. At the time, I didn’t have as much life experience as he did. I let him go, even knowing what we had was real. If given a chance to change what happened, I’d like to believe I would’ve fought harder for us. But I didn’t. Because of that, Mason has always been the one unsettled piece of my past I’ve struggled with the most.
“Drinks are paid,” Mason informs, pulling me from thought. “We’re headin’ out,” he says next, reaching to grab Sabrina’s hand.
With tears blurring my vision, I stare at their connection as his fingers envelop hers. She’s not wearing a ring. Neither is he.
I haven’t seen Mason, truly seen him, in over four years. That night, we were in a gorgeous hotel room where he talked to me softly, loved my body with care, and made a promise he swore to us both he would keep.
The same promise I’ve wished a thousand times he’d break.
Mason doesn’t take a step toward the door. When I chance a glimpse, I find he’s considering me. Not the way he used to—with humor, surprise, or adoration. He’s not remembering I was once his champion, lover, and friend.
None of that. Not for me. Not anymore.
Conceptually holding me at arm’s length, Mason’s picking me over as one would an acquaintance at a party or a stranger standing in their way.
Breathing deep, I nod and manage, “Thank you, Mason. For the drinks.”
“Mason?” Sabrina chimes in. “I don’t—”
Mason turns his gaze to hers and she says nothing more. Apparently Sabrina calls him Cole. Just like everyone else. Great satisfaction is found knowing that, at least, is still mine.
His eyes narrow as he winces, but he manages a tired smile.
Why do you look so tired, Mason? I want to ask, but it’s not my place. Are you as tired of feeling empty and unsettled as I am?
My breath hitches as the warmth of Mason’s lips settle on my temple. His hand cups the back of my head. I blink slowly as he whispers what he has so many times before, “Keep Happy, Katie.”
Finally, he calls me Katie.
Yet, as if seeing him again wasn’t painful enough, having him this close threatens my undoing.
Stepping back, he lifts his chin to Connie for goodbye. She says nothing in return. Her concentrated worry is aimed solely on me.
As Sabrina and Mason head for the door, I watch them both with a heavy heart. Mason uses his large, muscular frame as a shield, guiding her way untouched through throngs of drunken patrons.
When they disappear, the tears I was holding start to fall.
“Keep Happy, Mason,” I whisper back.
Past…
“WE COULD HIT UP ABE’S bar. Get into some trouble, if you’re feelin’ up to it,” Caleb suggests, rolling down his window to exhale a drag of smoke. “Can’t remember the week of your menstrual, so who knows what you’re up for.”
The cab of my 1984 Ford pickup is littered with pot paraphernalia. Empty dime bags are scattered at Caleb’s feet, remnants from what must be his third joint tonight.
He’s surpassed a casual high,
now hanging on the precipice of straight stupid.
Staring at the dark road ahead, I reply, “Think I’ll pass. Takin’ you anywhere there’s trouble would lead to more.”
“What the hell?” he questions.
“You’re wasted, Caleb.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he utters with petulance before taking another hit. As he fights to hold onto the high, he brags, “I’m living the free life, brother.”
“You’re a bum, brother. Your life is free ‘cause you live in the shitter.”
“Asshole,” he returns, knowing I’m right.
I met Caleb a few summers back. Shortly after, his old man had kicked him out of his house for reasons I never really knew. Caleb needed a place to crash, and because my old man is usually passed out drunk, I let him stay.
Since, he’s been the kind of friend you know you don’t need, but you know they need you. I tolerate Caleb because, in all truth, he has no one else. And most times, neither do I.
“So tell me where the fuck we’re goin’,” I order, stopping at the light and watching the road ahead.
“Hold up.” Caleb lifts his finger in the air as he scans the crowd in front of the small, rundown, movie theater on Main Street.
The outside of the building isn’t much to look at. The brick exterior hasn’t seen a good cleaning in some time. The cracked, broken sidewalks could use some work, as well. I’ve only been inside there once and that was years ago.
“Stop here. Let me out,” Caleb orders.
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“Stop the goddamn truck, Cole!”
Doing as he demands, I parallel park in front of the growing crowd.
Star Wars is playing tonight, the banner above lighting up its audience waiting in line.
A few of those standing around are dressed in character costumes. In front of the still locked door, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker playfully duel with illuminated lightsabers. Parents stand beside them, some going as far as to coach a scene. A young girl dressed as Princess Leia stands beside a boy dressed as Yoda.
Why the fuck do I know so much about this shit, anyway?
“They’re replaying the original movie,” I talk to myself because I’ve lost Caleb’s attention.
Catching only his profile, I study his expression. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, zoning in on one girl, just outside another group of kids.
I don’t get a good feeling.
“Who the fuck are we lookin’ for?” I casually inquire.
Sitting up in his seat and unbuckling his belt, my friend licks his lips, coaxing the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“The young, brown-haired bitch alone at the end of the line.”
He points to the girl in question. She has dark hair, long and lean legs, a cute face, and high cheekbones. She’s wearing a short black skirt, a simple, button-down white shirt, and a pair of yellow flip-flops.
In the middle of fucking winter.
She’s not wearing a coat and it’s thirty degrees outside. My first thought is to give her mine.
The girl doesn’t notice us watching her from my inside truck. She’s staring at her feet and kicking a rock back and forth on the top of the ice-covered cement sidewalk.
“Think she’s alone?” Caleb questions as he scans the crowd.
“What’s it matter if she’s alone? She’s a fuckin’ kid.”
“She’s not,” he denies.
Surely the idiot can see she’s every bit of a kid. Young adult would be putting too many years on her.
“We’re leavin’,” I advise, starting the truck and happy to hear its exhaust roar.
With most of the attention on us, the young girl looks up. Her shoulders are slouched, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Her dark brown eyes are swimming in unshed tears.
“Fuck, she’s cryin’ too. Here’s where Caleb comes in,” the dirty-minded bastard states, reaching for the handle, then jumping out without a chance to stop him.
Fuck me.
“Wait!” I yell, rounding the front of my truck to where he’s already standing in front of her.
The girl’s eyes widen and she takes a step back, nearly tripping when her ankle hits a concrete step behind her. People move from the crowd to give Caleb room. His tatted skin, dirty complexion, and the souring stench of his perversity clears his way.
With his sadistic tone, he asks, “You been out here waitin’ for me, Buttercup?”
The nickname doesn’t register until Caleb leans in, getting so close to her face she’s forced to back up farther, even being she’s out of room. When he raises his arm, his fingers nearly reaching her jaw, I grab his wrist and squeeze it tightly.
His perversity doesn’t get to touch her innocence.
His piercing glare clashes with mine and he barks, “What the hell, Cole?”
Shaking my head, and moving my angry gaze to her terrified one, I demand a gravelly, “No.”
The terror in the young girl’s eyes is palpable. She swallows hard. Her small, pink lips quiver as her focus darts back and forth between my sick friend and me.
I remember her now. I also remember that same panicked expression she had the last time I saw her.
The Morris girl.
No more than two years have passed since I last laid eyes on her. My life hasn’t changed much since that day. I’m still tempering Caleb’s dirty darkness and perverse longings. Making excuses for him because his father is a lot like mine, sans the alcoholism and frequent beatings.
“Get out of here,” I tell her. “Go home.”
When she doesn’t step away, I lift my chin in the opposite direction, while still keeping a firm hold on Caleb’s wrist.
“I can’t,” she quietly returns.
Caleb angrily jerks himself from my grip, stepping a few feet from us both.
Ignoring him, I hesitantly ask, “Why can’t you go home?” She worries her bottom lip. When she doesn’t respond, I push, “Answer me.”
Releasing her lip, she explains, “I don’t have a ride. I lied to my friend’s mom so she’d drop me off. I’m supposed to call after the movie. My dad—”
“Fuck,” I utter, trying to alleviate my frustration.
“Let’s take her to your place,” Caleb suggests. “Your dad’s gotta be out cold by now. She’ll be good and safe with us.”
“No thanks,” she quickly and snidely denies.
Smart kid.
“Then we’ll take you to my place,” he sneers, closing the small distance he’d just given her. “I got all sorts of toys you can play with there.”
Fuck that.
When her hands come out in front of her to stop him, onlookers clue in. To avoid a scene, I shove Caleb aside.
“You can walk to your place from here,” I tell him, realizing he can actually walk home. We both live one street over.
He points to the girl. “I’m not goin’ anywhere without her.”
“You are,” I tell him, my tone venomous.
“You’re sidin’ with the rich bitch?”
“No side to take. Be cool, Caleb. Walk away.”
Caleb’s not nearly as powerful as I am. With the beatings I take from my dad, I’ve come to be stronger than he is by far. His father has never beat him, although looking back, maybe he should’ve.
The sexual abuse Caleb suffered as a child is what likely led to these same disturbing tendencies as an adult. I’m no head doctor, but Caleb’s dark thoughts have never been right.
As far as I know, Caleb’s twisted threats are empty. This is his way of exuding power and control in a world where he has neither.
However, if there’s any depth to his demonic character, every lit bomb eventually explodes.
“You’re an asshole,” he claims, pacing two steps back.
“Yeah, been that for a while, man.”
“Dickhead.”
“You’ll call me tomorrow when you calm down.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, t
urning around, lighting a smoke, pulling up the collar of his jacket, but doing as I’ve told him.
Turning back to where the girl was standing, I find she’s gone. She’s off walking in the opposite direction.
She’s alone, in a crowd of Star Wars fans, downtown, on a goddamn Saturday night. The air is cold and it’s well past dark. Crime in this county isn’t heard of often, but there’s always the chance. Wherever she’s headed, she has no business being alone.
Son of a bitch.
Fuck me again.
“Wait,” I growl, taking off on a run in her direction.
I have no clue what I’ll do once I make it to her. I’m not good with kids her age. Really, I’m not good with people in general. The last person I’d ever be able to comfort is a teenager, who was nearly fondled by an idiot wasted out of his mind.
“What’s your name again?” I finally ask, out of breath and nervous for no reason.
“You don’t remember,” she accuses, not looking at me but keeping her focus ahead. “Typical.”
“I’m shit with names, sweetheart,” I return.
“Katherine,” she replies, stopping on the sidewalk, looking up with less tension and more ease.
Thankfully, she must not see Caleb and me in the same regard. She may be a young teenage girl, but she’s smart. Though, not smart enough to know she should be at home, watching reruns of Three’s Company or whatever kids her age watch on television.
“Katherine Morris,” she includes.
I smirk. “I know your last name, babe.”
“Katherine Margret Morris is my name. Not sweetheart or babe.”
Ignoring her correction, I allow her to start walking again before asking, “How old are you now?”
Sighing, she pouts. “I’m fourteen.”
“Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doin’ out here at this time of night?”
“Wanna tell me why your pet still isn’t on a leash?” she spits back. “The jerk is a menace to my kind.”
“Your kind?” I question, anxious to hear her comedic reply.
“Teenage girls,” she clarifies. Looking to where Caleb once was, she says, “I can see it in his eyes. He’s not right.”
