Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Sure. I can do that.” It was a mile each way to her apartment and, not wanting to deal with Benita’s opinions on his family, this wouldn’t be an errand he’d share with her, so no lifts. But for Andy? “Anything you need, bro.”

  Too few minutes later, Andy was a rapidly diminishing dot in the distance, and in only moments, he was gone. Wordlessly GeeMa moved to the front door, waiting as GeePa opened it for her and they went inside, leaving Benny on the porch alone.

  He didn’t put a stopwatch on it, but knew he stayed staring up the road for a long time, wishing with everything inside him that things were different. That Daddy hadn’t died. That their mother loved them enough to fight for them. That Andy could find a different solution. If wishes were horses, he thought, turning to go inside only when the sun had traveled all the way across the sky, to rest against the curve of the earth.

  Nervously pacing as he waited for Benita to pick him up, Benny stuck his head into the living room to say goodbye. His grandparents were watching TV, GeePa in his recliner, chin to the ceiling, more likely sleeping than actively watching the show. GeeMa had stretched out on the couch, and her eyes never wavered from the screen when she told him, “Have fun, honey.”

  “I will,” he promised. Ducking back out of the room, he turned to look at the kitchen cabinet over the stove. Hard liquor was kept there, and they drank so infrequently they’d never notice if he took a nerve-calming swig from the bourbon bottle. He’d taken two steps in that direction when the familiar sound of Benita’s horn came from outside, and he redirected his path with a shouted “Goodbye.”

  Inside the gym, Benny scanned the crowd. He knew only a few of the guys, mostly from football, but he could see three girls he knew by face—and touch—if not by name. Benita’s grip on his bicep never loosened as she guided him to the punchbowl. The junior boy manning the dipper winked at her and nodded, handing each of them a brimming plastic cup filled with red liquid. “Bottoms up,” Benita urged, and Benny drank, choking on the alcohol for a moment. Alone, the word flitted through his head, and he tipped the cup, drinking deeply of what he hoped would be forgetfulness.

  ***

  “That’s amazing.” He heard the words but couldn’t make sense of them. “How can he stay hard when he’s so blotto?” Pressure up and down the insides of his thighs, soft and slow, digging in where it felt good, nearly ticklish in other places. His head lolled to the side, and he wanted to focus to see who it was, but nothing was working right. It felt as if he were no longer in control of his body, and there was a brief moment when a bubble of panic tried to rise to the surface, bursting and disappearing long before it really registered.

  “High libido must be something that runs in the family?” From somewhere beside his shoulders, Benita’s mocking voice was followed by shrill laughter.

  “How’d you find him, Benita? So big. He’s just perfect.” Feverish excitement in that voice. Weight bearing down, higher now, on his belly, on his hip, heat washing through him as his dick entered something so hot and tight, it felt as if all his awareness focused there. Demanding urges. Pleasure to the point of pain. Too much. “Benny and Benita, sittin’ in a tree.”

  “F-U-C-K-I-N-G.” Laughter all around, pressure and touch all over.

  Benny tried to lift his head to protest, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate, and he let it fall heavily back to the surface on which he was lying, seeing shadowed figures moving around him.

  Three

  15 years old

  Sweating heavily, just having left the football practice field, Ben sat on the bench outside Coach’s office, listening to the raised voices coming from inside. With a thread of fear, he recognized one as GeeMa, and his mind flashed to the mandatory drug testing the team had done last week. Shaking his head, he pushed the irrational fear down, shoving it into a box and locking it up tightly. It had been nearly a year since prom, eight months since Benita left for college and he’d been careful all this time, ignoring the compulsions and holding onto his control with an unyielding fist.

  Sure, Benita loaned him her car when she left, and he drove it without a license or insurance, but he hadn’t hit anything or hurt anyone. It was purely a loaner, not something he took. On the booze side, the only time he’d gotten blackout plastered since prom was with Danny, and they’d spent the night safely passed out in a field beside Danny’s truck. No drugs, no binging on the hard stuff. Not even any girls, since that was Benita’s requirement in exchange for use of her wheels.

  He would be a junior next year, and based on things Coach let slip, Ben hoped the college scouts might come out. He prayed with everything in him that Coach was right, and having that as incentive helped keep him focused. Toeing the line was easy when there was an exit sign in front of you. Get me the fuck outta here. Like Andy.

  The office door flung open, and he looked up to see GeeMa standing there. She stared at him a moment, then her gaze cut away, eyes angling down and to the side as she said, “Go change, Benny. You need to come with me.” That was not good.

  Coach stood right behind her, with a hand to the door he stared at Ben, the look on his face unexpected, filled with sorrow and regret, both of those emotions liberally laced with a broad dose of disgust. The kind of look he’d seen turned his mother’s way far too often over the years.

  “What’s going on?” Ben stood, the clammy pads of his gear sticking to his skin as he moved, pulling away with a silent squelch. His cleats clicked on the cement floor as he shifted from side-to-side, and nervously, he crossed his arms over his chest, fingers clenching tightly around opposite biceps. “What’s going on, Coach?” At least the man was still looking at him; GeeMa had moved several feet away as if she could no longer stand to be close to him. Proximity contamination, like a schoolyard game of cooties.

  “Ben, hit the locker room and get changed. Put a hustle on it. You need to go with Mrs. Jones.” A pause, then with soft emphasis, “Right now, son.” Coach didn’t give him anything else, only those words before he shut the door, closing Ben and GeeMa out in the hallway.

  “GeeMa, what’s going on?” He knew his voice was shrill, sounding high-pitched and fearful, but he couldn’t help it. “Tell me.”

  “We’ll talk in the car.” She still hadn’t looked at him, and he took a step towards her, freezing when she retreated, maintaining the same distance between them. “It’s going to be okay, Benny. I promise you, baby.” That was twice she’d called him Benny. She hadn’t called him that name in a long time; he’d graduated to Ben before Andy left town. It happened the first time he stumbled into her house at four in the morning stinking of booze and cigarettes. And GeeMa never called him baby. Not ever. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Not taking time for a shower, he stuffed the gear in his bag, raced out the doors and towards the lot, seeing GeeMa’s car parked near the school’s entrance. It wasn’t until he had closed most of the distance that he realized a cop car sat next to hers. She was out of her vehicle, standing next to the uniformed officer, gesturing. As he arrived within earshot, she threw one hand up and sounded frustrated when she said, “I’m telling you I was bringing him down. There wasn’t any reason for you to show up here.” She leaned into the officer and lowered her voice, but Ben still heard. “Don’t do it here.” Leaning another inch, she gave the policeman a low, intense, “Please. You know how this town is.”

  The man’s eyes hit his over GeeMa’s shoulder, and Ben automatically straightened. The cop looked uncomfortable, like his uniform wasn’t fitting right today, and he put out a hand to steady GeeMa when she spun to face Ben.

  “GeeMa?” The same childish fear from before washed through Ben’s voice, making it fragile in his throat, subject to wavering echoes as it exited. “What’s—“

  That was all he got out before the cop stepped around her, asking his own question which was really a statement. “Benjamin Jones?” When Ben nodded, the officer shook his head and then said on a heavy sigh, “You need to come with me.
”

  “Is Ben under arrest?” GeeMa’s voice broke through, and Ben cut his eyes over towards her. Just the word was terrifying. The thought, paralyzing. She had a phone to her ear and seemed to be listening intently. “If he’s under arrest, tell us now and Mirandize him. Otherwise, he will exit this campus in my vehicle.” Not her usual speech pattern. These words were stilted, all legal sounding. “Officer, what was your name? You failed to identify yourself.”

  “Mrs. Jones,” the cop said with a sigh, clearly wanting this encounter to be over just as much as Ben, if for different reasons. “You know me. Don’t be foolish.”

  “Officer.” She still didn’t give his name, and Ben didn’t know if it was because she didn’t know it, or she was making a point. “Is my grandson under arrest?”

  “No, ma’am, he’s not. I need him to come with me down—“

  The cop—whose name tag read Simons—found it was his turn to be interrupted. “Benny, son, get in the car.” Ben didn’t move because Simons’ face had turned hard, angry, and the man took a half-step towards GeeMa. Ben didn’t want her to get into trouble, but he absolutely didn’t want to be put in the back of the cop car. He was frozen, not sure what to do. “Benjamin.” She snapped his name, and he swung his gaze to her. “Get into the car and if I’m not there in one minute, you lock the doors.”

  He glanced back at the cop as he made his way to her car, climbing into the front seat and pushing his bag over and into the back. GeeMa was silent until after he’d closed the door, then through the glass of the window he heard her say, “Lewis Simons. Yes, Darnell's boy.” A slight pause and her gaze turned back to the cop. “Right then. We’ll meet him downtown.” She paused before her face softened into a small smile, but it wasn’t directed at the cop. Her next words shocked Ben. “Thank you, Andy. Most helpful. Tell Myron thank you, too. I’ll let you know what’s going on.” Another pause, then, “Love you, too, son.” Hand up in front of her face, she peered at the phone and angrily punched a button with one finger. “Lewis,” she called, and the cop flung up a hand, clearly exasperated with her. She waited a moment, then continued, “We’ll follow you. Okay?”

  As she was climbing into the driver’s seat of the car, she was already talking. “I don’t know anything, really. We’ll have to wait to see what they want to know. Coach got a heads-up the police had called to see if you were in school, so he picked up the phone to let me know. I got here in time, and now we’re going to see what’s going on.” She paused, carefully steering to follow the police car out of the lot. “Benny. Son. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  Without hesitation, he answered. “No, GeeMa.” Anything to which he might need to confess was months in his past. His act was cleared up, cleaned up, and he’d worked hard to make everyone in his life proud. Coach and his family had been as big an influence as anything else, and as soon as Benita loaned Ben her car, he started taking the roads towards their house at least once a week, finding a mother figure in Mrs. Tynell.

  “No girl’s daddy is gonna be waiting on us?” He pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head, keeping his gaze on her. “No outstanding ticket you haven’t told me about?” Another head shake. “Nothing at all?”

  “No, ma’am.” Twisting his neck, he stared unseeing out the window. Whispering now, he repeated his words, “No, ma’am. Nothing.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll figure it out, sort it out, and then hopefully be home in time for supper.” Her optimism made him snort, and they rode in silence the rest of the way.

  Seven hours later, GeeMa had gone home to fix supper, but Ben’s ass was still parked on a bench in a room off the cops’ bullpen. The cops told her it might be tomorrow before they finished asking questions, but so far, they hadn’t even started. Simons had filled out a form on a clipboard and looked at his permit, taking the slip of paper and his keys. Nothing else.

  Ben had sat in one position for hours, leaning his cheek against the cold wall, thinking. Remembering the way GeeMa avoided his gaze, avoided him, not touching him once. In her mind, he was already convicted of something. Coach knew the cops were after him. And GeeMa had called Andy, which meant everyone who mattered knew he was in trouble. Am trouble, like Mom. She’s the queen of everything GeeMa hates. Words teased him, balancing right on the edge of making sense. Queen of what you hated, smears of fear on your face. Might be something. Face. Lace. Space. Race. Trace. Fuck. It was gone, escaped from focus.

  Not finding anything useful in his thoughts, stiff and sore, he was turning this way and that, trying to find a more comfortable position when he recognized Benita’s voice talking fast. He listened as her voice grew louder, she was apparently coming closer. What in the hell?

  The door to the holding room burst open, and she stood in the opening. Phone to her ear, she glared at Ben as if it were his fault she was here, and if she was here for him, he supposed it was. She was supposed to be in Cheyenne. Already loud, her voice got even more so when she said, “No, Daddy, I told you. I loaned it to a friend. A friend. It wasn’t stolen. Jesus, Daddy. You could’ve called me.” She snapped her fingers twice, and Ben stood uncertainly, not sure if he should follow when she turned and walked back into the bullpen.

  “Lewis?” Her shout could have been heard a hundred miles away. “Keys. Benny’s coming with me.” Ben slowly walked to the doorway and stood, feet still inside the threshold where he’d been instructed to wait. “Benny, come on,” she turned and called, snapping her fingers again. A glance at Simons showed he wasn’t about to try and naysay Benita Owens, even against what evidently were her own father’s accusations.

  Ben took a single step forwards, and she whirled, turning back to Simons. “Any paperwork to sign?” The cop shook his head, glanced up at Ben when he handed over his permit, then over towards the captain’s office, darkness behind the shutters at this hour. From across the room, Benita called, “Benny, Jesus. Will you come on?”

  Before he really knew what was happening, she had him out the door and into her car; the vehicle miraculously transported from the school, where he’d parked it this morning, to the curb outside the police station in downtown Enoch. He buckled as she pulled out, and then rode in silence for a moment before twisting in his seat to look at her. From fear to anger, his emotions had traveled the gamut, and he was solidly on the side of pissed off now. “What exactly just happened?” She shook her head, not responding. “No, seriously, Benita. What the hell was that?”

  “That was Daddy being pissy.” Her father was Darren Owens, a man who wielded a great deal of influence in their little town of Enoch, and one wealthy enough to gain the ear of the state governor at will. He and his most recent wife had spent the last six months in South America, and Ben didn’t even know they were home.

  “Why would your dad be pissy at me?” This wasn’t adding up. But it had to be a vendetta against him. First, the call to the school to ensure the greatest embarrassment, and then the maneuvering at the station to keep him there without charging him, ensuring that most folks would have a chance to find out? In small towns, perception was everything, and the town drunk’s whoreson being escorted off the school campus and into the station would have made the rounds in about a nanosecond.

  “Not at you, silly.” Her hand crossed the expanse of vehicle between them, landing high on his thigh. He reached down and plucked it off, putting it on her own leg. “Benny.” Her voice was soft and sweet. “Don’t be like that. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was doing this to get back at me.”

  “Intent doesn’t matter. But I’d still beg to differ. It was only me who was hurt today.”

  “I quit college.” Trembling boldness colored her words, but it was undercut by a swath of fear. This was her making a statement to her folks.

  It shocked him because she liked what her parents did for her. Money, cars, education, vacations—all paid for as long as she toed the line and maintained a modicum of decorum. They didn’t even care about her grades, only how thin
gs looked. This act of defiance shocked him enough that he sucked in a breath, blowing it out on a soft “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit. Thanks. Eloquent as always.” Her words stung because she had no way of knowing what he’d been doing for the past six months. She couldn’t have seen the shoebox shoved underneath his bed alongside a guitar case, those two things holding more dreams inside them than anything else in his life ever could.

  In the months she’d been gone, he’d made friends outside the narrow circle she’d previously defined for him. Down in Cheyenne, Ben had met a man who owned a motorcycle shop. That shop had become a place where he could hang out, help if he could find something to do, and there was always something to do. A safe place, a haven. The owner was a man who knew his brother, a man who had helped Ben more than he probably understood. Harddrive.

  Harddrive had handed him an old beat-up six-string one night when he was leaving the shop. In his gruff manner, he’d told Ben to, “Fuck around with that flattop a little, see if you like it.”

  He had fucked around with it, learning what sounded good, and what didn’t. He’d even talked to the music teacher at school and got a chord chart then taught himself fingerings and patterns, listening to songs again and again, dissecting the sounds the guitars and drums made. Fucked around with it, and liked it. Liked how it made him feel, his blood heating when he got it right, feeling a rightness in his bones. Liked how it opened a door inside him, letting feelings and emotions pour out through his fingers. Liked how it felt in a way that made playing it as addicting as anything else.

  With the one gift, something that probably cost the old man nothing, taken in trade on a bike or some shit, Harddrive had helped him stay straight. More than he would ever know, the man had impacted his life in so many ways. But, this one? Profound.

  Part of fucking around with it was coming up with his own sounds, chords, which when played in sequence, pulled words from him. Painful as a horse foaling, but just as natural, things flowed sometimes, and the words strung together helped change the pain and anxiety inside him into something he could hand away. Danny was the only one outside of the folks at the shop who had heard him play. And his grandparents of course, but he tried to keep it to a dull roar inside their house, out of respect for them.