by Jenny Hayut
He doesn’t say anything about the pictures, and neither do I, as he wraps his arm around my lower back and I lead him to the dining room. I shiver in delight at the feeling of possession that overcomes me every time he touches me there. That slight hold almost screams, She’s mine, back the fuck off.
Aunt Helen has made us dinner and, just as I thought, she must’ve been in the kitchen cooking all day with the full spread she’s laid out for us. As promised, my favorites are there: fried chicken, butter beans, sweet potatoes loaded with butter, cornbread, and super sweet lemon-iced tea that I know she had sitting out on the deck, brewing in the sun all day.
I missed those days in the kitchen together laughing while she taught me everything she knew about cooking. Cass, the lucky girl, was able to enjoy Aunt Helen’s cooking, made from my own hands, but nothing beats her cooking. It was the best, and I’d been craving a good meal all week.
We sit down to the aged maple table that sits in the dining room, off from the kitchen. It belonged to my great-grandparents, and it, just like all the other furniture, adds to the character of the house, showing its age. It’s nothing fancy. Old, beaten, weathered even, but still very much functional and beautiful. Adding to this home that’s full of love, happiness, and lots of memories. That’s what I felt, coming here when Dad died. It pulled me in instantly, protecting me.
I turn to Holt, eying him as he silently takes in all the food covering the table. I lean over in my chair and giggle. “You, my friend, are about to fall in love.”
He takes his attention off the table and turns to me with that ever-present storm brewing in his eyes. “I think I already have.”
I almost choke on the cornbread I’m shoving into my mouth. I look away, my cheeks and neck burning as if someone has taken a blowtorch to me.
I’m gulping down my glass of tea as Aunt Helen walks in, hearing my near-death experience. “What’s got you all choked up, child?”
I can’t speak. I can’t look at Holt either. Surely he meant he’d already fallen in love with all that is Aunt Helen? After all, he’d said himself as we pulled up to the house how beautiful it was. No way had he meant anything else.
He’d never led me to believe he was in love with me. Never. And I never risked telling him how I’d felt about him, figuring it would scare him off. I hadn’t wanted to ruin what we had, so I kept things simple between us. Fun.
“I just haven’t had your cooking in so long that I was eating too fast,” I finally manage.
She exchanges a look with Holt and, I swear, grins. Grins. What the hell? If only I’d told her how things really went down between me and him, she wouldn’t be so quick to be part of his fan club.
During dinner, Kilo sits right at Aunt Helen’s feet, wagging his tail. His gaze is locked on her hands, as she’s been sneaking him scraps of chicken and cornbread all night.
Aunt Helen knows how much I disagree with feeding animals table scraps, but I decide not to say anything because I know she’s enjoying every minute of having someone to spoil, and of course, Kilo’s loving her food being tossed his way.
She lifts her head to gaze over at us—I’m guessing to see if she’s been busted or not. I pretend not to see her, and giggle under my breath. She wipes her hands clean, takes a sip of tea, and then looks directly at Holt.
Here it comes.
I sit silently and wait for the questioning to begin. Holt is clueless, still finishing off his third plateful.
“So, Holt, is that your real name?”
He looks up from his plate and must instantly see what’s about to go down. He pushes himself away from the table a bit, laying his napkin in his plate, looks over in my direction with a grin and then turns back to her.
“Yes, ma’am. Short for Holton.”
She nods at him, smiling. “So tell me, Holton, what is it you do for a living?”
I tense up and steal a glance at him, looking for any sign of anger, knowing I’m the only one to call him that. It hits me then as I stare at his still relaxed face. Did his mom call him that? Chills come over me.
“I get hired to find people.” His tone is gentle, with no sign of annoyance. He’s entertaining my aunt. Giving her what she wants. To know more about the father to her grandbabies.
“What, like that Dog person on TV? I love that show!” she says, clearly excited.
I bust out laughing, and she jerks her head to me with a quizzical look.
“Yes, ma’am, like Dog. I just don’t have all the sidekicks.”
“Well, that has got to be some exciting work!”
My aunt, with her sweet, welcoming smile, absolutely loves murder and mayhem. Hearing her, seeing how her face has lit up, I know she wants to pick his brain, hear all the stories I already know he isn’t going to give her.
“The thought of tracking somebody down then going in for the kill. Bam!”
I jump at her hand slamming on the table. Ever since that phone call with Vinnie, I’ve been on edge. She doesn’t notice, but Holt reaches down to grab my hand, calming me. Instantly.
“Niki, honey, have you ever gone on one of his chases?”
Before I can answer, Holt says, “No, ma’am, she hasn’t, and she never will. Not something I want her to be around. The people I deal with are mostly scum. Your niece is so far above that. She doesn’t belong down there with the trash I have to clean up.”
I’m struggling for breath. I shove another piece of cornbread in my mouth and look down at my plate. I know Aunt Helen is looking at me: The burn of her stare is blistering the side of my face and I don’t have to look to know she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Holt goes on to tell her about the night he met Kilo and how they kind of adopted each other. I stand as he’s still talking and start clearing off the table.
“Sweetheart, leave those for me. Sit. Sit.” Aunt Helen gets up, walks to the cabinet in the corner of the dining room, and pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Now, I’m not a drinker, but my dear husband, Vernon, he loved his Jack, God rest his soul. So on nights when I’m feeling a little lonely, I pour myself a drink. Not feeling so lonely tonight, but you, Holton, strike me as a man who likes his liquor. How about the two of you go on out to the porch and enjoy that view while I clean these dishes up.”
It hasn’t taken Holt long to figure out you don’t say no to Aunt Helen. “Yes, ma’am.”
He whistles for Kilo as I reluctantly lead the way to the back porch. As I swing the screen door open, Kilo flies past me, scurrying off the porch into the pasture.
He’s loving all this room, I can tell. We watch and laugh as he chases the hundreds of fireflies lighting the night sky. I walk over to the swing that’s been a fixture on the porch my entire life. Like most everything inside, it’s old, weathered, but still inviting. Calming.
So many nights I found myself sitting out here, just reading and daydreaming. Daydreaming about my future, my life, finding love. Out here now, full from Aunt Helen’s soul-warming food, looking out at the night sky, with Kilo chasing the dancing lights and the shadows they create through the pasture, it’s all so peaceful, a bit nostalgic.
This place, coming into my life when I needed it most, has become my escape. When I’m here, nothing else matters. I feel safe. I feel loved. Even as an adult, when I need to get away, this is always the first and only place I come.
Holt follows me over, carrying two shot glasses and the bottle of Jack. He sits beside me and pours a shot for each of us. When he hands me mine, it instantly jolts me back into the present. I grab it and shoot it down. I definitely need some liquid courage to ease my nerves being this close to Holt, here, like this, where I have nothing but good memories. Sitting on this swing where I fantasized about falling in love over and over again.
The view is much the same as it was for me back then. The only difference now is I’m not alone. Even though he doesn’t know it, the first man I ever loved and gave my heart to is sitting only inches away from me.
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“Want another shot, babe?” he asks, jolting me again.
“Um, yeah, sure,” I reply, not wanting to ruin my moment of peace. I’m almost happy, and I can pretend for a little while, even though I know none of this is real. He’s not mine. Never was. Never will be.
“So what was it like growing up here?” Holt asks me as he leans back in the swing and puts an arm across my shoulders, resting his other on his leg, with the shot glass in his hand and the bottle squeezed between us.
“I can see you sitting out here with a boy in the dark, and he’s taking his chances with you, hoping your aunt doesn’t catch him. Not really liking the thought of that shit, but I can’t hate on it. I would’ve done the same if I’d known you back then. Hell, yeah, I would.”
If only he knew, there were no boys out here with me. Well, at least not real ones, just the ones in my books.
I let out a sigh. “I came here feeling alone. Missing my daddy.” Yeah, my liquid courage has kicked in. “It was hard, because he was all I had. We’d visited my aunt a few times, sure, but I didn’t really know her all that well.” I smile at the memories of coming here with Dad, remembering not quite what to think of her in those visits.
“So when Dad died, and I was taken away from my home and everything I’d ever known, and forced to come and live here, I was scared. Aunt Helen opened her arms and heart to me.
“I really thank God she was here and willing and able to take me in, because looking back, I’m sure Dad would’ve have been on the phone with her non-stop with my teenage craziness. I can laugh now, thinking back on all the times I would come home from school, screaming at the top of my lungs to Aunt Helen about what some boy had said to me.” I laugh, seeing myself running up the steps, huffing and puffing and madder than fire.
“I met Cass not long after I started school here. She’s my exact opposite and exactly what I needed. She would pull me out of my books some nights and convince me to go to a party, which I would, but I’d always end up in the corner, listening to the music. I couldn’t be further away from the poster child for the all-American teenage girl.
“I spent more time here at home with my aunt than anything else. She helped me with the animals I brought home, helped me nurse them back to health. We’d both spend a lot of time at the hospital helping Doc C, and when I wasn’t there, I was at the animal shelter in the city, volunteering on the weekends.”
Damn it, why the hell did I just tell him that?
Damn you, Jack Daniels…
Now he’s going to think I was some pitiful girl, at home crying over the boy I couldn’t have. Fuck it. Let him think what he wants. Doesn’t matter anyway.
“If someone asked me to describe the perfect moment in my childhood, this would be it. Sitting out here like this, watching the lightning bugs, drinking Aunt Helen’s sweet tea, and reading a book. I’m sure that doesn’t match your idea of excitement and fun, but that’s pretty close to perfection for me.”
Holt caresses my shoulder, the tips of his fingers barely touching my skin. The sensation of his touch surges through my body. I risk looking up at his face, only to see him already looking intently at me. “Sounds pretty perfect to me, babe. I think you’re very lucky to have such beautiful memories of this place and what it did to keep you from feeling alone.” He lets out a deep sigh and pours himself another shot. “I wish I could say the same about me, babe.”
I wait for him to speak, begging, pleading with my eyes, caught up in the moment and my alcohol-fueled bravery.
“Tell me.”
Chapter 18
“I grew up with parents and music. The music came first—at least for my father. They both played guitar, my mom not as well as Dad. She was more a singer, which is how she and Dad met. They were both doing a gig on the same night at the same bar. They became inseparable, apparently, after that first night, and Mom ended up quitting her band to follow Dad with his. They travelled together, played music together, partied together. They just did whatever they wanted and had fun doing it, but then Mom got pregnant with me.”
I watch as Holt rubs the back of his neck, clearly tense. I’m guessing not many people, if any, know about his childhood.
“Mom told me, when they first found out, they were both scared because they didn’t have anything, nowhere to raise a child. With the shows they did, they made enough money to get them to the next town and the rest they blew on whatever they wanted. All that shit changed when Mom decided to keep me. They planned on saving money to get a place, and Dad was going to get a job working for my mom’s uncle at the garage.
“Mom stayed on the road with Dad while she was pregnant, and by the last month before she had me, they’d saved up enough money and got a small apartment. Dad was finishing up the final shows they had scheduled and was going to start the new job before I was born. Well, I had other plans.”
Holt laughs, and I can’t help but grin. Controlling shit even before he came into the world.
“During Dad’s last show, which was about four hours away from Mom, she went into labor and had me. He missed the whole thing. That should’ve told Mom something.” Holt shakes his head and grunts.
A shiver escapes down my back at the sudden feeling that this isn’t a happily-ever-after kind of story.
“Things were good for a while after I was born. Dad came off the road and started working for Uncle Lou. But Dad was missing performing and travelling and being with the band. He begged Mom to let him go back out, and she let him. That was her second mistake. It started out slow. He was gone a few nights then a week, then two weeks, then a month, then four months. It got to the point where Dad was on the road more than at home with us.” His hand goes back up to his neck, rubbing it, and I instinctively drop my hand to his thigh.
“Mom did the best she could with me. I wasn’t like you, babe.” He looks up at me then with a sly grin. I can only imagine what kind of hell he put her through. Jesus. As if hearing my thoughts, he says, “I gave my mom a lot of shit, even before I hit puberty. I was always drawing or listening to music, not paying attention in class. I cared more about stringing a new song out so when Dad came home I could impress him with it, and maybe he’d let me go with him on a gig. Yeah, that’s all I wanted. Just some time with my dad. I wanted to be just like him. So when the punks at school talked shit about him, I beat the fuck out of them. It got me kicked out of school over and over again.
“The years alone took their toll on Mom—raising me on her own, having to work full time because the money Dad sent home didn’t amount to shit. She started begging him to come back off the road, but he refused. He was sending her money, what more did she want? She told him she didn’t care about the money, she just wanted him. She loved my dad. I could see it when she talked about him, the way her face lit up when she told me the stories of them on the road.”
I tighten my hand around his thigh. It’s clear he was close to his mom. Having to watch what she went through because of his dad had to have been hard. Even for an adult it would be.
“When we knew he was coming home for a few days, I would watch her go through all her clothes, putting on and taking off, back and forth for hours until she was satisfied with how she looked. She would sit in front of the mirror in her bedroom, staring at herself in a kind of daydream while she put on lipstick and sprayed perfume on her neck, smiling at her reflection. My mom was beautiful but my dad...he took her pretty away. Just threw her in the trash.”
I swallow the hardness back forming in my throat. The tears fighting to come out.
“Mom was lonely, and when Dad refused to come back to stay for good, everything went bad for us. She started sleeping all the time, some days never even getting out of the bed. Lost her job because of it. The days of her teaching me a song to strum out on my guitar while she sang it to me were gone. Her voice was just as beautiful as she was, but when she finally realized Dad was choosing the road over her, over his family, it was all gone. Music was dead to her.
“I was there the day she walked down to the dumpster outside our apartment and threw her guitar in the trash. She never knew I followed her, dug it out the garbage, and hid it, keeping it for myself.”
I don’t dare ask, but I’m dying to know if the guitar he keeps in the trunk of Sex on Wheels, the one he used that night to sing to me, is hers.
“She started drinking more, and when that didn’t help, she started with the fucking drugs. At first I didn’t know, I didn’t realize, but then I snuck out of my bedroom one night and watched her shoot up. I was twelve.”
I cringe at the thought and can’t help but compare my childhood to his. When I was fourteen, I was depressed because my father had died, and I felt so alone. Holt, though, was only twelve when he had to watch his mom stick a needle in her arm. The only person he had in his life. Jesus.
“Dad came less and less, maybe three or four times a year. I didn’t know what the fuck to do to help her, but I thought maybe if I got a job or something and stopped getting in fights at school, it would make her happy again. I started working nights for this trucking company, helping unload shipments off the docks and getting paid under the table. That’s where I met the guys I got hooked up with to drag.”
The tone of his voice changes a little. Probably this part of his life is when he first felt happy, excited about something.
“Uncle Lou had the Buick sitting around the garage, and I asked him one day if I could buy it off him. It was a piece of shit, broken down, ragged out. He couldn’t understand why I wanted it and ended up just giving it to me. Took me a few months to gut it and get it running, but over time, with my uncle’s help, we brought it back to its original condition. I added some shit to it and by the time I was finished, it could fucking fly. And it was mine. First fucking thing I ever owned. I started racing then, late at night after work.”
A little surge of excitement hits me, visualizing him behind Sex on Wheels, racing. Fuck. And it makes total sense now why he keeps it so immaculate. He’s proud of it, his first accomplishment.
