by Kar, Alla
Humph. It’s so silent at the table, I can only hear the forks scraping across the plates. “It’s getting pretty cold out there,” Damon says over the silence.
Grandpa nods. “We’re going to have to get up early in the mornin’. We’ve got to get that fence fixed.”
Damon nods. I scoff and put another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto my plate. “You got something to say?” Damon asks.
What? I know he didn’t. “I’m sure I have a lot to say, Damon. Things that every person at the table would like to know.”
“Ah, shit,” Cindy mumbles, looking over her roll at us, enjoying the free show.
Damon furrows his brow. “Shut your mouth, Layla.”
Taylor grips the table. “Don’t talk to her like that,” Taylor warns.
I ignore him. “Why, Damon?” I slap another spoon of corn onto my plate. “You weren’t too worried about it earlier, were you?”
“What’s goin’ on?” Grandma asks.
“I’d like to ask the same damn question,” Taylor says, turning to look at me. “What’s the matter with you two? What happened?”
Damon tosses his fork against the wall and stands up, his chair flying outwards. “I said I’m not apologizing for that, Layla. I’m sorry if I hurt you or put you in a bad position, but I’m not sorry for the act. What more do you want from me?”
Slamming my hands down on the table, I stand. “I want you and you,” I say, pointing toward Damon and my grandpa, “to stop forcing Damon on me. I’m marrying Taylor!” I point at the ring on my finger. “I don’t love Damon. I love Taylor. I want everyone to stop worrying about my life and let us fucking be!”
Grandpa slams his fists down on the table. “Stop screaming and don’t you dare talk to me like that –,”
“No,” I point my finger toward him. “You did the same thing with Mom and Dad. You tried to break them up, but it didn’t work that time and it’s not working this time.”
Grandpa clamps his mouth shut. No one says anything while Damon and I stare each other down. His eyes are wide and dark. I don’t care, I stand my ground. It feels like a fucking sauna in here. I’m sweating. Finally, I turn and run up toward my room. I take the stairs two at a time. I haven’t been to my old bedroom since we got here. I stop at the end of the stairs and stare down the long, lonely hallway toward my old room. Pictures line the walls. Some of my parents, most of them of me. Slowly, I trace my hand over each wooden frame. Each picture of my past. When I reach the end of the hallway, I push the wooden door open and walk inside.
It’s like I never left. My pink and green bedspread is still here. My track shoes. The old wooden dresser my grandpa made for me. Guilt warms my throat and I push it down. I hate being mean to him, I truly do, but he’s brought this upon himself. He tries to control everyone’s life. Walking toward my bed, I crawl to the center and lie flat on my back. I stared at this ceiling so many nights. The glow-in-the-dark stars are still taped in a heart shape above my bed. A tear rolls down my cheek and I chuckle.
The door squeaks opened and I sit up on my elbow. My grandmother walks in and takes a seat beside me. We sit in silence for five minutes before she begins to chuckle. “I can remember when you wanted to grow up to marry Nick Carter. You told me, ‘I’m going to do it, Grandma. I’m going to go to one of his concerts and win his heart. He’ll meet my gaze across the room and realize I’m the one for him.’”
She giggles while she wipes underneath her eye. “Layla girl,” she coos, reaching over and rubbing her hand over my knee. “I know it’s hard to understand right now but your grandpa is just looking out for you, sweetie. I know you think he’s out to get you, but he just wants the best for you. He always has.”
“He doesn’t understand, Grandma. Taylor is what’s best for me. I’ve never felt a connection like this before. I just wish he’d butt out.”
Grandma nods. “Your mother said the same thing. She loved your dad endlessly, and I never had a doubt that he loved her. Your grandfather … he wasn’t as easily convinced.” She turns toward me. “You have to understand, Layla. He loves you so much. Just like he loved your mother, he is only watching out for your safety and, frankly, fighting isn’t what’s best for you. You have enough problems.”
Closing my eyes, I lie back. “Grandma, why didn’t you tell me you knew Jason was coming after me?”
Silence. “Damon told you?”
I shake my head. “No, we figured it out. It’s not too hard, since Damon is up Grandpa’s ass all the time. It’s freaking annoying.”
“Watch your mouth, missy,” she snaps.
I sigh. “Sorry.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “He didn’t want you to worry, so he sent Damon. We weren’t one hundred percent positive or anything. Plus, we couldn’t contact the police. What would we say? A man that we think killed our daughter left town? We couldn’t prove he was coming after you.”
Oh. I wait a few minutes before speaking. “I’m not going to end up with Damon. I’m just not. So, I figure Grandpa will have to get over it.” I turn my back to her and curl into a ball, like I did when I was in school. She slides her hands against my back, like she did when I was sick. Tears soak my pillow but I keep any noise from coming out of my mouth.
After soothing me for a long time, she finally leaves, shutting the door behind her. I’m not sure how long I lie on my bed crying like a baby. Crying like I did after my parents’ death. Like I did for weeks after moving into this house. But, I jolt awake when someone touches my hip. “Are you okay?” Taylor whispers.
I nod. “Better than ever.”
“Layla,” he says carefully. “What exactly happened? Do you need to talk to me about something?”
Do I? God, yes. Rolling over, I glance up at Taylor. He frowns and runs his fingertip along my jaw. “Why so down, baby girl? Talk to me. You can always talk to me, no matter what. You need to know that.”
“Damon kissed me,” I whisper.
Taylor’s eyes widen and the side of his jaw tightens. Is his eyebrow twitching? “When?”
“Today in the barn. I went to confront him about my grandpa and he kissed me. I’d slapped him right before then, and then … he just kissed me.”
Taylor swallows and I see the wheels turning in his head. “That fucking … God!” Bending down he presses his mouth against my own, prying it opened with his tongue. He’s shaking against me while he forces his tongue inside my mouth. He brands me with it, pressing his tongue against my parted lips. When he pulls back his gray eyes are dark.
“Taylor, you’re shaking, calm down,” I whisper.
He shudders and palms the back of my neck, pulling my mouth closer to his. “I told him not to touch you, hustler,” he whispers, his voice low. “I specifically asked him not to touch you. And he fucking kisses what’s mine?” He’s breathing so heavily that his chest is rising and falling drastically.
“Taylor,” I say, carefully. “I will never want him. Do you understand that? Never. I’ll always want you.”
Gripping my neck harder, he brings his mouth even closer to my own again. “God, I want to beat his fucking head into the ground,” he growls. “I can’t even … I can’t even imagine him kissing these lips. They’re meant for me. Not him.” Bringing my mouth to his, he kisses me again, until I’m shivering from want. “Mine,” he whispers, trailing his tongue over my lips. “I’m going to kiss you until I know there is no trace of him on you.”
And he does.
I have no idea how long we kiss on my old bed. I would say like teenagers, but I sure as hell didn’t kiss like this when I was a teenager. He’s fucking my mouth again, with his own. Wetness pools between my legs. Begging for a release. I’m about to explode, his hands are everywhere, his mouth hard against mine.
When he finally pulls back, my lips are swollen to the touch. He runs his fingers against the sensitive skin, and pulls me onto his chest. “Taylor,” I whisper.
“Hmm.”
“Don’t fight Damon, okay? That’s wh
at he wants. He wants you to fight him, he wants to show my grandpa that you have no self-control.”
“I’m not going to fight him, Layla. Because when we get back to Ohio, he isn’t going to be able to be around you. He isn’t going to talk to you, or even look in your direction. I’ve given him chance after chance. I’m finished with the bullshit. This isn’t who I am. I’m not a pushover. Right now I want to go downstairs and rip him from his chair, and hand him his ass. But, I know that’s not good for you. So, when we get back to Ohio, we’re going to end this once and for all.”
“You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not going to do anything. And he isn’t either. We’re going to handle this like adults. I’m going to talk to him.”
Talk to him? I’ve most definitely entered The Twilight Zone. I’ve never heard anything this rational come from Taylor’s mouth. “Talk. Really?”
He nods and pulls me closer to him by the curve in my side. “Yep.”
“Do you think that will even work?”
He nods. “Oh, I’m sure as hell it will, baby. I’m pretty scary when I need to be.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
We sit in silence for a long time. “So, this is where you grew up,” Taylor whispers against my mouth.
I smile up at him. “Yes, and no. This is where I went to high school.” Taylor runs his finger against my cheek. “Do you want to go to my parents’ house tomorrow? Just you and me?” I’ve been thinking about this since my grandma gave me my mother’s dress. She’s right, I need to go.
He watches me with those careful, gray eyes and nods. “I’ll go wherever you want me to go, hustler.”
I have no idea how long I stay buried in Taylor’s arms. I wake to feel Taylor carrying me downstairs. He exchanges words with my grandma, and then the cool air breezes against my skin.
Taylor presses a kiss against my forehead and leans to my ear, “I’ll always keep you safe, hustler. No matter what.”
And I believe him.
Chapter Eight
Layla
It feels like someone poured cement down my throat. I can’t speak. Each breath takes extra work. The trees make my head dizzy as I watch them from the passenger seat. Each finger is wrapped around the handle on the door. I can’t let go, I need to feel something solid because my stomach is flip-flopping.
“Are you okay?” Taylor asks from the driver’s seat.
Nodding my head, I intertwine my fingers on my lap. “I’m fine, just nervous, that’s all. I haven’t been here since I was moved out of here to my grandparents’. I could never make myself go. It was always like a stab to the gut.”
Taylor grips the back of my neck and forces me to look at him. His gray eyes are light, and watching me closely. “Are you sure you want to go now?”
I nod. “Yes, I don’t want to go by myself.”
Taylor squeezes and slides his hand down my arm to grip my fingers. “I’ll be right here, hustler.”
The trailer park is still there. Oak Hills Trailer Park. It was where the rough heathens grew up. The drug dealers, the hustlers, the low-lives’. At least that’s what the rest of the town said. I never looked at it that way, of course. I thought of it as my home. Now, I frown. It isn’t the best part of the town by any means, but my trailer was filled with so much love. So much warmth. I don’t think it mattered if we were in a mansion or a trailer, I was loved either way. “Here.” I point toward the last trailer on the right. The beige paint is faded, the porch is still standing and the green roof is now almost white. Tears pool in my eyes as I watch the rundown place sit in silence. Not one door has been opened in years. No one caring that this was my life. That this was where I rested my head every night. Or that my parents’ lives were taken here. It’s just an old trailer to everyone else. Taylor pulls in and puts the truck in park.
I stare at the rundown trailer. My rundown home. My rundown memories. Every memory surfacing, running against my mind, bringing tears down my face. Trying so hard to crumble the walls I worked so hard to build. Grabbing the door handle, I step out and onto the gravel driveway. The blinds in the trailer next door pull down and a set of eyes are staring out at me. Then the blinds snap shut.
Old Mrs. Chaney can’t still live there. No way, it’s been too many years. I always hoped she would get out of here. She would watch me when both of my parents had to work. We’d watch Andy Griffith and drink hot chocolate, with the best home-made cookies. Taylor’s fingertip trails down to my elbow. “Baby,” his voice is rough. “You okay?”
“Yes, let’s go inside.” I listen to the gravel crunch beneath my feet. It feels almost normal. Like I may go straight back to living here. Hearing my small feet crunch the gravel as it did every day when I played outside. The porch squeaks beneath us. The old potted plant is still in the corner of the porch, dead, like my parents. My mother had a green thumb and always had plants lining windowsills and our porch. Knowing that I’m going to walk into this house, and everything be in its place like I never left, sends a dreadful feeling into the pit of my stomach. Like I never left. It almost seems like my parents should walk in behind me, my dad smiling and opening his arms for his only daughter. Since Dad owned the trailer, and the small piece of land we’re sitting on, my grandparents didn’t have the nerve to burn, or sell, their things. I wouldn’t have let them, anyway.
With my hand on the screen door, I take a huge breath before unlocking the door with the key I haven’t used since I was eight and swinging it open. An old smell, like mothballs and mildew, pushes against my face. The living room is dark, since there is no electricity. I take a step in and everything slams against me, knocking me back against Taylor. The smell. The things. The fucking memories. He wraps his hands around my waist and holds me there as tears and screams rip from me.
He bends and picks me up like a baby, carrying me to the kitchen table, sitting down, he pulls me onto his lap, and holds my head against his chest. “Shh, baby. It’s okay, love. It’s okay, baby. You’re fine. I’m here. Let it out,” he whispers into my ear over and over. Rocking me back and forth like a child.
I cry until my tears have stopped and my throat is too sore to speak. He pets my neck with soft kisses, trailing his fingers over me in a soothing way. “I’m ready to look, Taylor,” I whisper, my voice rough.
He nods, stands and sets me straight. Rubbing his finger over my knuckles, he keeps his eyes on mine, waiting for my go-ahead. Turning, I stare at the living room. It’s the same. Same old couch, same old TV. All the same. Carefully, I ease around the living room. My eyes scanning the dusty old VHS’s, the huge box TV and the pictures hanging on the walls. Mom took pictures constantly. Always behind the lens, and never in front of it. The only picture in the room of her is my dad and mom’s wedding picture. My mom was so beautiful. I always hoped I’d grow up to look like her. I’d watch her do her makeup from the corner of the doorway. She’d gently push the brush against her cheekbones. She would pat her lap for me to sit in, and she would put blush on my cheeks. Then mascara. I thought I was beautiful. Taylor’s fingertip slides against my wet face. “You look just like her.”
I do. Tracing the outline of her face and then my fathers, I smile at the obvious love that they had. No matter how hard they were pushed apart, they always ended up together. Where they were supposed to be.
I pull Taylor’s hand and we walk through the small hallway toward my bedroom. It’s so small, but it seemed so big to me when I was younger. Dad even let me paint the walls lime green. Mom was so mad when she came home to me and half of my things covered in lime green paint.
My old twin-size bed is pushed against the wall, a small pink comforter still unmade from the day it happened. It hangs lifeless from the side of the bed, faded, like my parents’ memories. My brown hope chest still rests at the foot of my small bed. My closet full of smaller clothes. A picture of Nick Carter is above my bed and a soft chuckle floats from my throat.
�
��My dad would tell me stories every night before I went to bed.” I sniffle. Stepping toward the small bookcase, I pull out a Dr. Seuss book. Then The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. “Every night.”
Taylor rubs his thumb down my spine to my belt loop, soothing me. “Why don’t you take some of this? For a keepsake?”
No. Dropping the book, I hold my hands on my eyes. I can’t take anything, it doesn’t feel right moving it. Because, even though I don’t act like it, I hurt every day because of this. Because I don’t feel I should take anything. A part of me begs God to bring back my parents, so we can start our lives over and everything will be ready for them. Nothing moved, like they never left.
I shake my head. “No. I can’t move anything. It’s not right.”
“Baby,” Taylor says, moving in front of me, bending his knees to look me in the eyes. “They were your parents, they loved you. You deserve to take something to remember them by, hustler.”
No. I turn away from him. Then I’m walking toward my parents’ bedroom, without even realizing that my feet are moving me. I feel numb. I can’t breathe. My parents’ king-size bed is unmade, my mother’s clothes for the night laid out on a chair in the far corner. A pale blue nightgown. My dad would always tell her she was beautiful and slap her butt in that gown. Bile rises in my throat, but I push it down. Demanding to stay in control. I won’t start blubbering again. Looking at the faded brown carpet, I try to keep myself together.
My fingers burn as I trail the tips along the red fabric of the bed. Sitting, everything swarms me in. Drowning me like water. It’s coming. A memory I don’t want to relive. A memory that makes my chest burn, and fire erupt in my throat, as I lie back and let the memory take me over. Utterly helpless.
***
I was six-years-old. My pink Barbie backpack was hiked up my shoulders, and my lunchbox was swinging at my side. The school bus came to a slow stop in front of the trailer park. Several of us filed off in a line. Emily, my best-friend, held out her hand for me to grab. I did. We skipped toward our houses, laughing and talking about how we were going to watch TV later. We parted when we reached my house. Mom was out on the porch watering a plant, her blond hair tied in a bun on top of her head. The same bun I would beg her to put in my hair.
