Chapter Eighteen
Branded
I sit at the counter where I can keep an eye on Michael as he plays at Mona’s. I’ve been journaling. It’s transformed into more than just memories of him at this point although I can’t help writing the old ones down as well as the new ones we’re making. One thread that seems to keep reappearing is that of my father. Like Michael, I haven’t spoken to him in about four years. I’ve picked up the phone to call him several times. Once, when I was home visiting, I actually drove by his house. I don’t know what I want out of a reunion: forgiveness, acceptance, an apology? I do feel as though I’ve made peace with my Michael demons and that I need this peace as well.
Whether my dad knows it or not, he is partially responsible for Michael and me being together. Maybe he would be happy for me if he could see how Michael has turned out. How I’ve turned out.
“What the hell are you doing here?” a voice snarls.
I look up and try to focus on the person looming over my shoulder. Great. Missy McIntyre. I knew things were going too smoothly for me. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I deadpan.
“It looks like you’re here, fucking with Mike’s head again.”
Well, look who turned out to be a freaking detective, I want to sneer. Can’t get anything passed you! “Don’t even pretend to have his best interests in mind, Missy. I know exactly who you are and who you care about.”
“You don’t know shit. Who do you think Mike came to every time you screwed him over for the boy of the week?” The look on my face must give her great satisfaction. “Oh, you didn’t know, did you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Missy. We’ve all grown up now and moved on, right? I’m here visiting Michael and—“
Her look turns from disdain to pure hatred and she cuts me off with a snarl, “Do you have any idea what a condescending little bitch you are?!”
My efforts at diplomacy are fading quickly. She has no idea the temper I have. I shoot a glance over at Michael who looks concerned. I give him a smile, and he seems to relax a little. I turn a frosty smile back to Missy. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m very aware of my status as a bitch. I’ve come to terms with it over the last few years. Thanks for inquiring. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I get up and put my journal in my bag. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know that I have to get away from her before I end up knocking that smug look off of her face.
I hear the canned music click on. Thank God. I turn to make my way over to Michael, but she grabs my elbow and twists it to the side. I gasp as unexpected pain shoots through my arm. “Do you even hear yourself? You always thought you were better than everyone else! But if you hurt him again you’re going to have to deal with me,” she snarls.
“Got it,” I grunt through my teeth. She releases my arm and proceeds to order a drink as though nothing has transpired.
I walk towards the door with Michael close on my heels. I spin around when we get outside and bark, “Really? Missy? You know how she tortured me in junior high. You’re the one who put a stop to it!”
“What are you talking about?”
“She took great pleasure in letting me know that you had been together. I just don’t get how you could be with someone like that.” I fold my arms as my anger subsides. I really have no right questioning his choice in women. “I know I have no right to wonder about that, but I do.”
“Well, your disbelief is on target. I was never with her. She grew up two roads over from me, and we became friends a few years back. That’s all there was to it.”
“She said she was always there for you when I hurt you. Like you ran to her behind my back.”
“Really? Because we didn’t even really start hanging out till you were far away in college. And even then it was insignificant.”
“She was lying?” I surmise.
“She was lying,” he affirms.
“Oh. Why would she do that?”
“To get a rise out of you. To bully you. Some people never change.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. I grew up with some extremely manipulative, backbiting, backwoods people. “Well, she certainly feels territorial where you’re concerned. She threatened me with bodily harm if I hurt you.”
“Really? I don’t think that was necessary, do you?” His arms find their way around me. He pulls me tight. I needed this. I run my hands up his leather as I imagined myself doing before. Was that just yesterday?
“No, I will never hurt you like that again. I already know that.”
We stand outside holding each other until we see her and her friends leave and deem it safe to go back in.
………………………………………………………
I’m nervous as we pull into Michael’s apartment complex. I sneaked a call to my mom to let her know I was staying at Ginny’s again. I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to use that excuse. Telling her I’m spending the night with a boy, even sans sex, is not acceptable.
We walk up the stairs hand in hand. He opens the door and pushes it open. “Welcome to my humble abode. And, by humble, I mean miniscule and completely unassuming,” he jokes and flips the light switch as I cross the threshold into his studio.
When my eyes adjust, I’m immediately impressed. It may be tiny, but he’s made it into a lovely home. It looks way more inviting than my dorm room. It’s decorated in tons of bandanas and Indian decor and his own art. He has a few posters of his favorite musicians spread throughout.
I laugh as I recognize the same Jim Morrison poster I have hanging on my wall. I run my fingertips over it and tell him he has great taste.
I make my way over to his bookshelf. It’s always the first item I check out when I enter someone’s office or home for the first time. It’s automatic. I scan the authors—Whitman, Welty, Grisham, Gibran, Rice, Plato, a few I don’t recognize. “You have quite the eclectic vibe going on over here, Michael.” I turn to look up at him. The look in his eyes can only be described as hungry, and I’m distracted from my investigating. “What?” I ask, feeling a little self-conscious.
“I just can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs and shakes his head. “I keep waiting for the universe to demand payment or for you to say ‘Never mind, this is too much.’”
I make my way over to him and wrap my arms around his waist. “I’m not going anywhere. You have no idea how fortunate I consider myself. I’m the lucky one, not you, Michael.”
“Right now, I’m the smelly one,” he jokes and plants a small kiss on my forehead. “Let me grab a shower real quick, OK? Make yourself at home.”
While he’s in the shower, I take out my journal and start to work through all I have to tell him. I try to put it into words since I’ve never uttered them before. It’s not quite as hard as I thought it would be. Now if only I can gather the courage to engage in this conversation with him.
I glance up as I hear the door open and put my journal back in my bag. When I look back up, he’s standing outside the bathroom and steam from his shower is pouring in the room. I feel my mouth drop open and hear my breath escape in a whoosh. It turns into a throaty little laugh.
“Sorry. The bane of studio apartment living. One room fits all.”
“I’m not sorry. You’re beautiful,” I say without thinking.
His eyes widen as I make my way over to him. His damp hair hangs slightly longer than usual, and he is ensconced only in my favorite worn out blue jeans. His tattoo-covered chest and torso are damp. I see his bare feet peeking out from under his jeans. Placing my hands on his chest, I lean in to plant a quick kiss on his lips before I pull him over to the bed. I throw him down and lay beside him, propping myself up on my elbow. “What is all this?” I ask, curious about his tattoos.
“Too much?”
“No, they’re sexy,” I admit. I never have been one for tattoos, but on him they look delicious.
I trace the familiar profile on his right breastbone that reads Mary. It’s the image I don’t re
cognize, though. Mary’s profile looks towards his heart, but the usual Marion features aren’t there. Her features look more like Michael’s if truth be told. I look up at him questioningly.
“It’s a traditional Mary profile that I designed with my mother’s face. I feared that it was kinda sacrilegious, but then I figured it was a fitting tribute to two of the most sacrificing women in my life.”
I love how he talks about Mary as if she is a living, breathing person in his life. His love knows no bounds. He was always reverent like that when he spoke of his mother as well. “Isn’t your mom’s name Mary too?” I ask.
He nods his head, and I lean in to sneak a kiss. Drawing back, I focus on the area that covers his heart. An intricately designed heart is inked here. Its shape is outlined with a ribbon of thorns. Inside the heart, is my name in Michael’s perfect cursive. I gasp. What a turn on! “You were that sure we’d end up together, huh? When did you get it?” I ask as my fingernail traces over it.
“Umm…on your birthday, two years ago.” He grabs my hand to still it and brings it up to his lips.
Still pining for me after all these years. What did I ever do to deserve this kind of devotion? “Happy birthday to me!” I lean in and continue the pattern I had begun with my tongue.
He squirms out from underneath my ministrations and flips me over on my back, stretching out his length on top of me. His hands grasp mine above my head. “You’re driving me crazy,” he grunts.
I throw my head back and laugh. He attacks my throat with tiny little kisses and makes a path to my mouth.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet and spinning around the room. He’s caught me in a little dance. “There’s no music,” I protest.
He dances me over to the complicated-looking stereo and pushes a series of buttons until I hear Dave Matthews serenading us with a sexy song of his. “Is that better?” he inquires.
“Well, for our entertainment, yes. For our libidos, probably not.”
“Touché,” he says on a laugh, rendering him more beautiful than ever.
………………………………………………………
I make my way out of the bathroom after having brushed my teeth and scrubbed my face. I have on my favorite pajamas, which means they’re kind of ratty. I didn’t have the time to shop for new ones, though. I don’t want to lose another moment with him. He’s changed from his jeans to dark gray pajama bottoms. I delight in the fact that he’s still shirtless. I walk over to him and spot his first tattoo. The one that freaked me out all those years ago. If I were telling the truth, I’d admit the freaking out wasn’t just about what other people would think.
“You’ve added to it. I’m surprised you didn’t have this covered up or redone,” I say. “It seems somewhat lacking in light of your other distinctive ones.” My eyes trace over the rose that now adorns my initials. If roses had feelings, I would say it was the loneliest, saddest rose on earth.
“I added the rose shortly after you left for college. I actually thought about having it redone at the same time, but it is too precious to me the way it is.” He suddenly laughs out loud, “Gah, you were so pissed,” he grins.
“You want to hear something really funny?” I venture. “I wasn’t angry about what you thought I was angry about.”
His brow furrows, “What do you mean?”
“Well, I was angry about what other people would think, especially my dad; but that wasn’t the entire reason I was so angry.”
“Do tell, Miss Dabney.”
I cover my face with both of my hands. There’s no turning back now. I swore honesty both with him and myself. I run my hands up and over my hair, pulling it into a side ponytail and letting it drop again. Finally, “I was upset with myself,” I hedge.
“How so?”
I can’t seem to keep my hands still. “Well, when I first realized what it was, I was shocked; but then it…appealed to me.”
“What do you mean ‘it appealed to you’?”
I stop fidgeting and look at him, considering the impact my words will have on both him and me as I’ve only just admitted the truth of it to myself a few moments ago. Before I can talk myself out of it, I allow the words to tumble from me. “I…It made me feel powerful. Like, even though it was you that made the decision to get it and it wasn’t my idea, it made me feel like I had a hold on you. That no matter what, you had this permanent reminder of me. That you could never deny me or forget me. Is that completely twisted?”
“Hmm,” he appears thoughtful and runs his hand through his hair as if bewildered. “I don’t know that it’s twisted, but it completely changes how that certain memory has been playing in my head over the last several years.”
I still don’t feel as if I was as clear as I could’ve been. I don’t want to leave any room for interpretation so I continue more succinctly, “I was angry with myself because I loved the fact that you had branded me on your body.” My gaze flies to the floor. There, I’ve said it. Chips, fall where you may.
“That’s incredibly possessive of you and, might I add, passive-aggressive.”
I frown and stare holes in the floor. “I know, right?”
“And very hot,” he murmurs.
My gaze flies up to his face to find a flirty little smile waiting there. He grabs me by my hips, pulls my hips to rest on his, and rubs his nose to mine. “Really?”
“Really.”
………………………………………………………
I feel his calloused fingertips making their way up and down my arm. I’ve never stayed the night with a guy before, and I’m glad that he was my first. I grin as I remember how incredibly tender he was, talking to me about mundane details as if they were the most important things he’d ever discussed. Then, finally singing me to sleep in his beautiful baritone.
“Mmm…good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replies. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did. How ‘bout you?” I peek at him over my folded elbow.
“I slept well. Are you ready to see my routine?”
“Already? What time is it?”
“It’s about six,” he puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up for kiss. “It’s passed time for you to get up.” He takes my hand and pulls me into a sitting position. “Come on sleepy head.”
He told me to bring comfortable clothes and tennis shoes, so I make my way to the bathroom to get changed. I glance in the mirror at my reflection and have to look again at myself. I look…happy. It takes my breath away for a moment. That’s pathetic to be that shocked over my own happiness. I try to remember the last time I looked in a mirror and anything other than determination, denial, and defiance in my expression looking back at me. I shake my head and thank God for the way I’m feeling. That’s a sentiment I haven’t had in a while either.
When I return, I find him spinning his keys on his finger. “Ready?” He’s wearing a tight black muscle shirt, black running pants, and well-worn black Nike’s. As usual, he looks incredibly sexy.
I take a deep breath. “Yep, ready.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ten Years in the Making
As we ride through town, I glance around at all of the changes my hometown has gone through. It’s funny how, even though I’m all grown up, being here makes me feel almost childlike. Being with him, makes me feel like I’m a teenager again. It’s a euphoric feeling really.
“So where are we going anyway?” I inquire. I steal a glance at him. He’s wearing his Top Gun shades and looking completely at ease with himself. I envy him.
“Oh, here and there,” he teases and shoots me a lopsided smile.
“Ah…you know you’re torturing me and my control-freak self, right?”
He laughs and raises his brow at me, “Oh, yes. I’m very much aware of what the unknown does to you.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes before coming to stop at St. Michael Catholic Church. I raise my eyebrows at him, “A church? What are we doing
here?” I ask suspiciously.
“Funny thing about churches. They have services where anyone can go in and worship, etcetera, etcetera,” he jokes.
There’s no way I’m stepping foot inside. I try to hide my panic, “Michael, I’m not Catholic, and I’m not dressed for church.” I grasp at my most inoffensive excuses.
“Oh, well, you don’t have to be Catholic, and it’s not a formal service. It’s daily Mass, so you’re fine. More than fine actually. Beautiful.”
“Flattery will go you nowhere, sir. I’ll just wait for you here,” I offer.
“Come on,” he cajoles me. I think you’ll enjoy it, and it will offer insight into my lifestyle, which is what you wanted to know about, right? It helps me build my faith, stay strong, stay sober,” he shrugs and looks over at me. “It’s only thirty minutes or so.”
“No, Michael. I’d really rather not.” I turn a beseeching look on him.
“Ya know I’ll help you with the rituals and all if that’s what it is,” he counters.
“No, that’s not it. I don’t want to get in the way of your time here, though; so please just let me wait here.”
He sighs and I can tell I’ve disappointed him. “OK,” he relents and kisses my hand, “I won’t be long.”
I watch his retreating back as he shrugs on his hoodie. I wish I could join him. It’s seems very important to him, but I haven’t been in a church since I graduated high school. Too much judgment. Partially self-induced.
I journal while I wait for him. I frown as I realize it’s mostly about my dad. This relationship has plagued me most of my life. When I was really young, we were very close. We share a lot of the same personality traits: creative, analytical, vocal. He was amazing with our horses, and he passed that love on to me. The similarities are abundant; however, he’s an addict. Unfortunately, that dulls everything positive about him and amplifies everything evil about him.
I look towards the church as I see movement. I see Michael speaking to the priest. They talk for a couple of minutes and Michael turns to make his way over to the Jeep. Much to my surprise so does the priest.
Every Rose Page 10
