"Is it? Where does it say that? Where does it say sex is wrong?"
Tre stopped and thought, then waved his hand in a dismissal. "You're justifying. I know what I said earlier, that I didn't care if it was wrong, but now I do."
I set the ring down on the bedside table and crossed the room to stand next to him. I didn't touch him, though. I didn't want to seduce him out of his beliefs. Not entirely, at least.
"Tre, you have to decide what you believe for yourself. I think you're still partially thinking with the beliefs your father drilled into you. What do you believe, for yourself? Do you think what we have is wrong?"
"What do we have, Shea? You said yourself you don't know what it is. I mean, where is this going? How long are we going to continue this? It's wonderful, and amazing, and I...God, I don't want to stop. But is it wrong? I don't know. I'm so confused, suddenly. I like you. I really, really like you. Too much, maybe. My heart goes all weird when I think about you. That sounded stupid, I'm sorry." Tre turned to look at me, gilded silver by the moonlight. "Am I falling in love with you? I barely know you. I don't...I mean, we've known each other for like, three days. Two, actually. And we've spent most of that making love. Do I just think I feel this way because of that? Because of the sex? I don't know."
"Here's the thing. Only you can decide what you feel. I like spending time with you, being with you, and I hope you decide to stay with me, but I'm not going to try to influence your beliefs or feelings beyond that. If I did, I'd be no better than your father."
Tre turned back to the window, and I could see the conflict written in the lines of his face, the set of his mouth, the tension of his shoulders. He seemed suddenly very much a man, rather than the awkward, hesitant not-quite-a-man he'd been just a few days ago.
"I can't go back," he said, after a while. "I can't go back to being who I was. Maybe it's not being a virgin anymore, maybe its knowing my parents—my dad—don't love me anymore, but everything just seems...different. It's like...it's like being with you, having sex or making love or whatever you want to call it, changed the way I see the world, or...the way I see myself, and life, and...God, just everything."
"It'll do that," I said. "I know what you're going through, to an extent. My ex-husband, Dan, I ran away with him when I was sixteen, almost seventeen. I remember suddenly looking at everyone around me with new eyes, sexual eyes, adult eyes. Even if you don't feel desire for them, you see them differently, knowing they've done what you've done, and it does change the way you see, the way you think and feel."
I wrapped my arms around his waist; he held himself stiff for a moment, then softened and turned to hold me, pulling me against his chest. My head nestled in the hollow beneath his chin, fitting as if formed to rest there.
"Do you resent me for taking your innocence?" I asked.
That was a question, a fear, that had been lurking in my heart for a while now. I waited for his answer with a pounding heart and suddenly tear-burnt eyes. This tryst was turning intense, morphing out of my control into something frighteningly like a relationship.
"No," came the answer, whispered into my hair. "I made the choice. I came here, knowing, at least in some way, what you wanted, and I wanted it too. When I stepped into this house, I knew I was crossing some kind of line that I wouldn't be able to uncross. I did it anyway, and that was my choice, Shea. You didn't take my innocence; I gave it to you. I don't regret it.
"I just don't know where we go from here." This last part was whispered more to himself than to me, and I didn't respond.
I didn't know either.
3
My Audi's engine hummed, purring smoothly as Tre guided my car around the gentle curve of the highway. The top was down, wind whipping our hair, the sun warming us as we cruised south on US-49 towards Jackson.
Tre had decided upon waking the next morning to make a clean break.
"I want to leave," he had said at breakfast.
"Leave? Okay. Where do you want to go, and for how long?"
He met my eyes, and his were intense, determined. "I mean, leave Jackson. Move away, permanently."
I was shocked. "Okay...um...okay. Are you sure?"
He nodded. "I'm not just assuming we'll stay together, if you're not ready for that. I don't want to assume that this is...something it may not be, for you."
I took a moment, thinking. I looked around me, out the sliding glass door to the yard I'd never been in. I realized there was nothing here for me. If Tre left, I'd leave.
"Alright," I said. "Let's go then. Let's go now. I'll pack a bag and we can go."
He drove to his parents' house in his old F-150, his duffel in the trunk of my car. This time I went in with him, dressed somewhat conservatively in a pair of jeans and a not-too-revealing T-shirt. I held Tre's hand as we stood in the foyer of his parent's house, matching stares with his father. His mother sat in a La-Z-boy, cross-stitching a simple pattern into a cloth stretched across a round hoop. She didn't look up when Tre entered, didn't give him a greeting, or even acknowledge his presence.
"What do you want?" Tre's father said. "And why have you brought this prostitute into my house?"
Tre's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his fingers curled into a fist. Before I could stop him, Tre had let go of my hand, took three long steps, and floored his father with a thunderous right hook. Pastor McNabb tumbled backward, fell to his backside, his nose gushing blood, broken.
"She's not a prostitute, Dad," Tre said past clenched teeth. "And we came to say goodbye. I'm leaving. Permanently. I know better than to think you'd ever change your mind about me, or Shea."
Tre's mother had glanced up now, weak brown eyes wide, hands stilled on her cross-stitching hoop, needle pinched between trembling fingers. His father remained on the floor, letting his nose bleed onto his white button-down.
Tre waited, but neither of his parents said anything. "Fine, don't say nothin'. You're my parents, and I love you. At least, I want to. But if you're so closed-minded as to disown me over this, without talking to me about it, or knowing a damn thing about Shea...then I guess it's just as well. You'd have never accepted me anyway, not if I didn't live my life your way." Tre turned and stalked to the door, face expressionless and hard, and took my hand; he spoke without turning around. "So, goodbye. I hope this is worth it to you, 'cause you ain't never gonna see me again."
Tre's mother took a deep breath, mouth trembling, cross-stitching wavering in her hand. She stood up, reached for Tre with a thin-fingered, gnarl-knuckled hand, as if to stop him. Then, with a single glance at her cowering, bleeding husband, she lowered her head and sat back down. I watched in a kind of apathetic horror as she took the needle in now-calm fingers and plunged it into the white fabric and threaded it back through. She didn't look up again, didn't move to help her bleeding husband. She never spoke a word.
Tre's father, Pastor Brian McNabb, stood as Tre walked out, me trailing behind him by the hand. I stopped, and Tre jerked his hand free and continued to my car.
"You're a fool, Pastor," I said. "Tre is a good man. Mark my words: you'll regret this, someday. You'll realize what you lost and you'll want him back, but he'll be gone."
I turned away then, too, and returned to my car. Tre had left the keys to his truck in the ignition, as the vehicle had been a gift from his parents.
His duffel bag had about a month's worth of clothes, some toiletries, and a worn Bible, dog-eared black leather with gold-edged pages and his name inscribed in the bottom corner: Timothy Robert Evan McNabb. He brought nothing else. No pictures, no cell phone, no memorabilia of his life in Yazoo City. Just some practical necessities and a Bible.
Tre was sitting in the passenger seat, staring ahead, hands on his thighs. The only trace of emotion was the pulsing of a vein in his temple, a single throbbing string of purple.
I slid into the driver's seat, pushed the shifter into first, then hesitated, not releasing the clutch yet.
"Tre, are you sure—"
"Ju
st drive."
I nodded and pulled away slowly, heading towards the highway.
"Can you stop by Jimmy's? I want to say goodbye." Tre spoke without looking at me, still motionless, appearing calm.
I could tell he was seething inside, hiding a maelstrom of emotions beneath a forced façade of calm. I headed towards his friend's house. I tried to take his hand, but he pulled his away.
"I need some time, Shea," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm too pissed off right now."
I just nodded and drove in silence.
Jimmy watched us coming from his porch, hands shoved into his pockets. Tre got out of the car and ascended the porch steps to shake Jimmy's hand; I stayed in the car. The two men didn't speak for a few minutes, just trading the look of friends of who don't need words to communicate.
"I hit him, Jimmy. I broke his nose and knocked him onto his ass."
Jimmy nodded. "He had it coming, I guess."
Tre looked at the back of his hand, the one he'd punched his father with, as if it had the answers to life's questions. "I'm leavin', Jimmy. I ain't comin' back, neither."
Tre's accent was thick suddenly, and I knew he was trying to contain his emotions.
Jimmy just nodded again. "I figured you would, someday. 'Specially after you met her," he said, jerking a thumb at me. "She's good for you. You're too special for a place like this, I've always known that. I'll sure miss you, buddy, but you can't stay here. I know that. Now go on, get outta here. Write me a letter or somethin', will you?"
Tre nodded, hesitated, then pulled Jimmy into a hug. They hugged like men, slapping backs, a good foot between them, heads held stiff, sideways.
"I'll see you, Jimmy," Tre said, stepping away and down the four thumping wooden steps.
"No you won't," Jimmy said.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding knife and tossed it to Tre, who caught it, looked at it, and glanced up at Jimmy, shock in his eyes.
"You sure? This is—"
"I know. Yeah, I figure if you ain't coming back, you'd best have somethin' to remember me by."
Tre nodded, held up the knife in a salute, and slid into the car, nodding at me to drive. I backed out onto the packed-dirt county road, and Tre waved once before we pulled out of sight. He stared down at the knife Jimmy had given him. It was a hunter's folding blade, long and wide, made of antler and stainless steel. It looked old, battered and worn and well-cared for.
"It was his great-grandfather's," Tre said, after several miles of silence. "He meant to give it to his kid, if he ever got married."
He opened it, ran his thumb across the blade's edge, nodded once, and closed it, put it in his hip pocket.
We made it to US-49 before his emotions got free. It started with a shake of the head, as if to brush away a buzzing fly, then a dash of his wrist across his cheek. I glanced at him, but he turned away to watch the cotton rows flit past, hiding from me. His shoulders started to shake, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, like he could push the tears back in with brute force.
I pulled over to the shoulder, took his hand in mine, tangled our fingers together. He tried to pull away, and I could feel his sense of shame keeping him turned away from me.
I held his hand, and said, "It's okay to be upset, Tre. You're leaving everything you know. I don't think less of you for crying. You'll still be a man if you cry a little."
He ventured a look at me, eyes red, brimming. I smiled at him, kissed him, tasting tears. He shuddered, trembled against my lips, and then broke down. I unbuckled my seat belt and pulled him against me, let him get it out. After a few minutes, he sniffed hard, rubbed his eyes and got out of the car, striding into the cotton field. I let him walk. He came back and I got out, put the top down, and pulled him into another embrace, but this time I pressed my body against him, kissed him hard.
He returned the kiss, moving against me, holding me tight. We pulled apart after a minute, ignoring the honks of passing cars, and Tre moved to get back in the passenger seat.
"Why don't you drive?" I said.
He nodded, smiling. I don't think he'd ever driven a vehicle other than the truck. He slid in, adjusted the seat and the mirrors, put it in first, and promptly stalled out.
I laughed. "It's a tighter clutch than your truck. You have to punch it a little."
He nodded, started the car and tried again, this time he punched the gas, rocketing the powerful little car forward along the shoulder until he had enough speed to match the flow of traffic.
We drove in a companionable silence, Tre lost in his thoughts, me in mine. After about half an hour, traffic thinned out. My hand was on Tre's leg, and I moved it toward his crotch, rubbing the seam of his jeans. He looked at me, a questioning half-smile on his lips.
"Just drive," I told him, grinning a promise at him. "Put it in cruise control."
He did as I told him, and kept his eyes on the road, glancing at me once then back to the road.
I rubbed at him, feeling him thicken under his jeans, pushing against the fabric. We were cruising along an empty highway now, and I unzipped his jeans, unbuttoned them, and reached my fingers between the gap of his boxers. His cock was semi-rigid, firming up in my hand as I slipped my palm up and down his growing length. I unbuckled, leaned across and licked him, tonguing the head, tasting his pre-come as it oozed from the tiny hole. I ran my mouth sideways along him, moistening him, rubbing my thumb in circles around his head. He kept his hands clenched on the wheel, struggling to hold his hips still.
He was rock-hard now, and I used my saliva on his cock as lubrication, pumping my fist around his cock, licking the tip, sucking it. When he started to groan and move his hips despite his attempts at control, I took him all the way in my mouth and dipped my head up and down on him, still pumping with one hand.
"I'm...I'm gonna..." Tre gasped, wrapping his fingers in my hair, "Oh, God...I'm coming..."
I felt his cock tighten and then salty, liquid heat hit the back of my throat. I sucked hard, still moving my hand on him; he whimpered in the back of his throat, moving his hips in small thrusts as I lifted my head free. He glanced down at me, and I gave his cock a long, intentional swipe with my tongue, meeting his eyes.
I tucked him back in, zipped him and buttoned him, re-buckling. A car zipped past us just as I sat up, and the man driving gave Tre a knowing grin. The woman just rolled her eyes and shook her head. Tre seemed mortified that they'd correctly assumed what had just happened.
"Do you know them?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why are you worried about what they think? The guy was jealous, I can tell you that much." I laughed. "I bet she's probably not ever given him road-head. She probably doesn't go down on him at all."
Tre tilted his head. "No? Why not?"
I laughed again, realizing this was something else he just didn't have any way of knowing. "Well, sex is like anything else, honey. Not everyone is the same. Some women like giving head, some don't. Some will do it if they're asked to, some won't, and others would rip you a new one for even suggesting it. It's just a personal thing."
"I can't imagine asking you to do that," Tre said. "I mean, I like it a lot, but it seems like something that would have to be your choice."
"That's sweet, Tre, and I wouldn't expect anything different from a guy like you. And that's why I'll keep doing it to you."
"What's that mean? A guy like me?"
"Well, just that you're considerate, and generous. and kind. You think about me, as well as yourself, if not more."
"Well, yeah," Tre said, sounding as if such a thing was obvious.
"Not everyone is like that. It's rare, actually. Most guys don't care about what their partner wants or feels. Sex is about getting them off and that's it."
Tre shrugged. "I guess I was just raised to think about other people. My dad may have been a bad father in some ways, but he did instill some values in me that I think are good things."
I squeezed his hand.
"I agree. I think someday your father is going to regret driving you away."
"I don't want to think about him anymore," Tre said.
Silence, then, for several miles.
"Shea? You've...you've done all this before, haven't you? Sex, I mean."
"Tre..." I sighed. "Yeah, I have. Do you really need to ask?"
He shrugged. "Well, I knew, since you were married, and older than me and whatever...I knew you had, and you act like you know what you're doing. I just...I don't like thinking about you with anyone else. I know you don't belong to me or anything, it just—"
"Tre, listen. Yeah, I've done all this before. I know what I'm doing from experience. I'll tell you whatever you want to know about me, but, in my experience, there are some things better left unasked. I'm not keeping secrets from you, please understand that. If you ask me a question, I'll tell the truth. But, please think about it before asking, because once you know, you can't un-know it."
"Were there others besides your ex-husband?"
"A couple, right after I left him. Just quick, one-night things that didn't mean anything and didn't even feel that great. Before you, it had been a while. More than a year, in fact."
Tre nodded. "Why'd you leave him?"
"That's a long, long story, Tre, and not a pretty one."
"We have time."
So I told him. Tre listened intently, not interrupting as I talked about Dan sweeping me away from sleepy old Savannah, going from being a poor country pastor's daughter to being the wife of a wealthy casino magnate, learning about the world and sex and money. Learning about unfaithfulness, and the difference between sex and love. Learning the hard, painful way that Dan expected me to ignore his cheating, but refused to tolerate mine.
We pulled into Jackson as I finished my story.
"Thanks for telling me, Shea," Tre said.
"So...what do you think about me now?" I asked.
He thought before answering. "Well. I think you were just a girl when he took you. I know you went with him, but I don't think you were in any position to make that choice properly. I think you did the best you could, and I think I'm glad you left him." He was silent for a moment, then glanced at me as we stopped at a traffic light.
The Preacher's Son: Unleashed Page 3
