Hunt the Dawn

by Abbie Roads

  “…like all the bad has died so something good can take root and grow.”

  He understood. More than she meant him to.

  “But it has been a long day.” The scar at the corner of her mouth hitched up into a giant grin. She pretended to yawn. “I’m going to go to bed early. Want to join me?”

  He drew her to him and brought his mouth to hers. “Fuck, yeah,” he said against her lips. She pressed her mouth to his, sliding her tongue into him. Her flavor exploded across his taste buds, traveled through his body, and converged in his groin.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Her hands slid into the back of his jeans, over his ass, squeezing and kneading. He almost couldn’t think, couldn’t continue kissing her from the erotic sensation of her massaging his ass.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She hooked one leg high on his hip. He lifted her and she straddled him. Her warm feminine center settling over his erection.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She shimmied against him. The friction—exquisite, excruciating. He wanted their clothes gone. Now. Needed to eliminate all barriers, wanted the slip and slide of flesh against flesh. He carried her into the house.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Halfway through the living room, Honey pulled away from him. “Is that your phone?”

  The sensation that he’d been ignoring crashed into his awareness.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The unique pulsation meant one thing.

  His parents.

  And they never texted for the sheer fun of it.

  “Shit. Fuck. Damn.”

  “What is it?” Her legs tightened, pressing his erection even harder against her center. He felt the groan in his throat, knew it was full of the sounds of wanting and frustration.

  “I have to take care of something. You go on upstairs. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  She unlocked her legs from his waist, but he held on to her until he was certain her feet were solid on the ground.

  “Go on up.” He gave her a quick peck on the lips and a smack on the ass to get her moving. The scent of her desire was heavy in the air around him when he finally pulled his cell from his pocket to find a text from his mom.

  Your father and I just pulled in.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He read the next message.

  We’re at your door.

  Getting rid of his parents—priority one.

  He untucked his T-shirt to hide his erection and hauled in a giant breath. The air smelled and tasted like Honey’s desire. Which didn’t help with the erection situation. He walked to the front door—Mom was always one for formality—and opened it.

  The rush of scents clogged his airway. He coughed into his fist. Amber. Sandalwood. Orange blossom. Vanilla. Deer piss. Fucking deer piss. In Mom’s perfume. He was half tempted to tell her, but didn’t want to engage in any unnecessary dialogue.

  Underneath the stench of Mom’s perfume, Lathan smelled the truth. Discomfort. Disgust. Annoyance. Anxiety. The same feelings his parents had every visit. The reason every visit was torturous.

  Mom wore a black dress better suited for a gala than visiting his home. She was petite with long blond hair—that he was certain wasn’t all hers—and never seemed to age. The miracle of modern plastic surgery, he supposed. She reminded him of those women on that Housewives show.

  Dad was decked out in slacks, a tie, and a jacket. Mom always picked out his clothes.

  Mom signed. Son. Hello.

  He was tempted to answer her in sign, just so Honey wouldn’t hear, but he hated signing. It never felt natural to him. Never. He attempted to control his volume as he spoke. “Mom, don’t do that. I can still hear some things, and I can read your speech as long as you look at me when you talk.”

  “I’m just trying to make things easier…”

  No, she wasn’t. Being the mother of a hearing-impaired child was something his mom had made trendy. Oh, how she had enjoyed the accolades of her friends when she’d taken class after class in American Sign Language. It hadn’t mattered to her that he didn’t like sign and didn’t intend to use it.

  “I prefer speech reading. And have ever since I was thirteen.” Reading his parents’ speech took concentration. He only saw them twice a year for a few minutes each visit. Not enough to firmly learn their patterns. He shifted to block the entire doorway. “Now is not a good time for a visit.”

  That look of eternal consternation—the look she always wore around him—pinched his mother’s lips. “Gill called… weren’t acting right… not having an episode, are…?” Mom always called them his episodes. Those times when he’d gotten so lost in an SM that he couldn’t find his way back to reality.

  He clenched his fists. Knuckles popped. “Gill should mind his own fucking business.” Just when he thought shit between them was getting resolved. “I’m a grown-ass man. Don’t need you checking up on me. And do I look like I’m having an episode?”

  “Lathaniel. The use of foul language makes… sound lowborn,” Mom said.

  Lowborn—to Mom, that was the worst insult. She used it for anyone not born with a golden spoon up their ass. Or those who generally pissed her off.

  “…might not be having an episode but… are not behaving normally… haven’t invited us in, and we drove all this way.”

  “I’m fine, and now is not a good time for a visit.” He repeated the words slowly, hoping they would penetrate.

  Mom threw her hands in the air in a gesture of unrestrained exasperation. It was always like that with her. They never meshed. Everything he said, everything he did was always the opposite of what she wanted from him. Always.

  Honey’s scent fluttered to him an instant before she slid in next to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a tight squeeze. Tension that he hadn’t realized resided in all his muscles eased under her touch. Her hand slid up to his cheek.

  The gesture wasn’t because she was in pain; it was so he could hear. Her thoughtfulness melted his resistance.

  Mom’s gaze locked on Honey’s hand on his cheek. He covered Honey’s hand with his own, feeling like he needed to protect her fingers from the calculating look in Mom’s eyes.

  “Hi, there. I’m Evanee. You must be Lathan’s parents. He’s got your build”—she nodded toward his father, who was staring at her with open admiration—“and your eyes.” She nodded toward Mom.

  “Linda and Nathan.” Lathan supplied their names.

  “Oh, I get it. L from Linda and athan from Nathan. What a cool way to name your child!” Honey’s voice was filled with enthusiasm.

  Too bad he hadn’t had time to warn her about his mom.

  “You’ve got a girl.” He hadn’t heard his father’s voice since he was thirteen, but there was no mistaking the incredulity in his tone. “And a good-looking one at that.” He winked at Honey.

  She giggled. “You’re not so bad yourself. I see where Lathan gets his looks.”

  “Like father, like son.” Dad smiled, and Lathan realized he hadn’t actually seen his own father smile in… He couldn’t even remember the last time. Was his family that miserable? Yeah, it was.

  Mom focused on Honey. “Eevvaneee…” The way Mom spoke her name sounded like they were long-lost friends finally reunited. “So nice to meet you, darling.” She reached out her perfectly manicured hand. A hand whose hardest workout came from lifting all the gold and diamonds she insisted on wearing.

  Honey reached out with her splinted hand. Her fingernails jagged, her skin red.

  Mom hesitated, a look of revulsion crossing her features.

  “I keep forgetting about this thing.” Honey touched her splint—mistaking the meaning of Mom’s look. “It doesn’t hurt. I promise.” Honey clasped hands with his mom, pumping enthusiastically—completely unaware that she was holding the hand of a snob.

  “He’s a handsome o
ne, isn’t he?” Mom’s gaze flipped to him only momentarily, before returning her full attention to Honey. He hadn’t heard his mom’s voice since he was thirteen, and even he could hear the over-the-top friendly tone.

  Honey looked up at him, warm affection naked on her face. “He sure is.”

  “I so wish he hadn’t destroyed his face with that ghastly tattoo. Is that why you’re covering it up?” Her tone was all fake innocence. Her face the picture of angelic purity. “You can’t stand it either?”

  Mom’s tongue wasn’t sharp. It was a surgical laser. But her words no longer hurt him. He’d long since realized he’d never be his mother’s image of a perfect son. Her perpetual anger at him was really a reflection of her own frustration at not being able to present an immaculate family image to all her society friends.

  “Evanee. What a unique name.” Dad’s words rushed out—an attempt at distraction from Mom’s nastiness. Which was rare for him. He hardly ever poked his head out of the foxhole when Mom had her sass on. “How very nice to meet you.”

  Lathan heard Honey’s silence. Smelled her anger.

  “You come here to Lathan’s home—uninvited—then insult him?” Her fingers on his cheek flexed, and her short fingernails dug into his skin, but not enough to be painful. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Dr. Stone was right. She was as much his protector as he was hers. Damn if he couldn’t help smiling like a goof.

  Mom raised her hands as if in surrender. “Oh. No. Dear. I mean no harm. No disrespect. It’s just with his episodes…”

  The smile fell off his face and crashed on the floor.

  “Well…he does unpredictable things. Like tattoo his cheek. Or lose control.”

  Evanee looked up him. “What’s she mean by episode?”

  “Lathaniel Montgomery.” Mom clasped her hands to her chest, feigning shock. The woman was theatrical enough to have been an actress. “You haven’t told her? She has a right to know. Evanee, my son has—”

  “Enough.” Lathan roared the word loud enough that everyone jumped. “Leave. Now.”

  “Evanee.” Mom stepped forward, one arm open wide, looking like she wanted to scoop Honey up into a protective hug. “You should come with us. He’s upset.” Mom sounded so sweet, so sincere, so much like a snake.

  Lathan didn’t wait for Honey’s response. He dragged her back from the doorway, sent an apologetic look toward his father, and then slammed the door in their faces. Locked it.

  Honey’s anger at Mom faded to the scent of garlic. Fear.

  She pulled away from him. Everything inside him urged him not to let her go, but he did.

  * * *

  “What are your episodes?” Evanee moved in front of Lathan to make certain he could see her every word. The sharp planes of his face hardened with an emotion that lived somewhere between anger, hurt, and sorrow. Touching him would soothe whatever he was feeling. She reached for his hand and held it between both of hers.

  His skin was hot and dry. He latched on to her, his grip secure and strong, and yet she felt the uncertainty beneath his flesh and bones.

  “Does it have to do with what happened at Mom’s earlier? You know, with your eye?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “But I need to know right now.”

  He shook his head, the cords in his neck tight with tension.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had episodes. His bitch mom made them sound scary. And violent. “Are you sick?” Tears congregated in her eyes. She hadn’t been able to find one drop of mourning for Mom, but the mere hint of something happening to Lathan was enough to make her cry an ocean.

  “No. God, no. I’m fine.” His expression softened. He caught a tear as it started its slide down her cheek, brought it to his lips, and tasted it.

  Her heart went weightless inside her. She felt like it was falling but recognized what the sensation was—she was falling in love with him.

  “Don’t cry over me. I never want to be a source of your pain.” Sincerity sounded in his voice.

  “Then tell me. I need to know or I’m going to think the worst. Especially after seeing Mom…”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head in timeless resignation. “I didn’t want to do this. Especially not today.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I have a genetic anomaly. The olfactory regions of my brain are twice their normal size. My olfactory sense is off the charts. They literally can’t even measure it. I can smell everything.” His sad gray eyes opened and bore directly into her soul. “Even memories.”

  Even memories. Even memories. Even memories. Memories. Her memories. Did she even have any good memories? Not until she’d met him. Her face began to tingle. A muted throbbing began behind her eyes. She wanted to call him a liar, claim that what he said couldn’t possibly be the truth. But his honesty was etched in the misery on his face. “How?”

  “Every moment of our lives we’re breathing. Our brains automatically link whatever scent is in the air to activity in that moment. The action of linking scent and memory leaves energy markers on people. My nose smells those markers, and my brain sees the memory contained inside.”

  The throbbing intensified. Her throat felt funny, like she couldn’t swallow. Could she even speak? “You’ve seen my memories.”

  “I can’t smell your memories. I think it has something to do with how you said food doesn’t taste right. Scent plays an important part in people’s appetites.”

  Thank God and all his tubby little angels. If Lathan ever saw the horrors in her mind, her humiliation would be deeper than a bottomless abyss. “So an episode is when you’re having…er…smelling someone’s memory?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And that’s what happened at Mom’s? You were smelling a memory.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whose memory?”

  Something shifted in his eyes, softened into an expression she’d never seen from him before. Recognition slammed into her. Pity. He was giving her a look overflowing with pity.

  That day he’d almost hit her in the kitchen, he’d gotten mad at her for pitying him. Back then, she didn’t understand his anger. Now she got it. Pity sucked giant elephant balls. His pity made her a victim. Pity pissed her off.

  “You know.” Her brain paused, letting the space between thoughts grow infinite while she waited for confirmation.

  “Since the night I met you. From Junior.”

  He hadn’t even questioned what she meant. He didn’t need to. He knew. No wonder he never asked her questions about Junior. About her mom. About her life. He already knew the answers.

  “How could you not tell me something this important? I trusted you.” She tried to pull her hand out of his, but he kept a viselike grip on her.

  “And I’ve never betrayed your trust. Not once. Let me explain.” He spoke with a calm his face didn’t express.

  “Explain!” The word exploded from her mouth loud enough that he had to have heard it. “You just did. From the moment I met you, you’ve been secretly looking at everyone’s memories about me. Not many good ones, are there? Bet you really enjoyed Matt’s and—”

  “You wanna know why I didn’t tell you?” The volume of Lathan’s voice overrode her. “Because of the reaction you’re having right now. And—” He dragged her toward the stairs.

  She tried to pull back, but his strength was far superior to hers. “Let me go.” Anger made her resist him the entire way up the stairs, but his grip never slackened.

  In the bedroom, he stopped in front of his dresser and dropped her hand. Curiosity kept her rooted to the spot.

  He ripped open the bottom drawer and scooped out an armload of files. He dropped them at her feet. “—this. This is why I didn’t tell you. Because after you read through just a few pages, you’ll prefer Morty’s Motor Lodge over stay
ing with me.”

  His face was red. His eyes bloodshot and shiny and pleading. He turned and left the room.

  Anger at his deceit roiled beneath her skin. There was nothing these papers could possibly say that would excuse him for not telling her he knew every rotten detail of her life. She almost followed him to tell him as much, but the file titled Children’s Hospital caught her attention.

  She opened it.

  June 12, 1989

  Name: Lathaniel Owen Montgomery

  DOB: May 28, 1983

  Presenting Problem:

  Six-year-old boy of below-average weight and above-average height. His parents have brought him in—at the insistence of the boy’s pediatrician—for his continual violent outbursts. On several occasions, he has struck both of his parents, but both insist they don’t believe his violence is intentional. He becomes unresponsive to them and appears to be responding to internal stimuli—hallucinations—and acts out according to what he is seeing. The boy rarely eats, claiming his food always tastes bad. His pediatrician has mentioned a feeding tube if the weight loss persists.

  Observations:

  The patient acts in a bizarre manner. He sweeps his hands through the air as if he is blind, yet his eyes are open. His left eye flutters and moves independent of the right one. His parents claim their doctor has said their son’s eyes are normal. The boy’s behavior is always worse following this kind of episode where his eye is moving.

  Mental Status Exam:

  The patient is unresponsive to either of his parents, direct questions, or external stimuli in the room. He will obey simple commands if repeated and guided through the motion of them. Affect is labile. One moment he is sitting quietly; the next, he is batting at the air and shouting.

  Course of Action:

  Patient will be admitted to the Children’s Behavioral Unit for further observation and testing.

  Antipsychotic medications will be administered to combat the hallucinations.

  Patient will be tested for seizures.

  A consultation appointment will be scheduled with an eye specialist.