by S. E. Hall
P.S. I haven’t asked a girl out via note since I was 14.
Even if I don’t buy a word he’s saying, except the part about not asking a girl out like since 14—that’s hopefully, for his dignity’s sake, very true—I always enjoy his company, so the answer is easy.
Yes. –L
Throw.
My curtain flies open and I gasp, scooting against the wall, stunned, as one sleepy yet forebodingly sexy Cannon looms over me.
“I can’t wait. Come ‘ere.” He crooks his finger at me and with an echoing gulp, I inch toward him the slightest bit. “Closer,” he says with a wink.
One more wiggle, that’s all he’s getting.
When he does, his head bends in and he places a single, tender kiss on my lips, then leans back to gaze at me. “You are definitely bitchy, in the most adorable, protective way possible. But if you ever call yourself mundane again, I will spank your delectable little ass. Twice. Until tomorrow, sleep well, my bewitching siren.”
He pulls closed my curtain like he didn’t just serenade my girly parts…and I guess falls asleep?
Lord knows I don’t. Estrogen, femininity, and fairytale musings are currently running rampant within me, causing quite the “keep me awake” ruckus.
So I do what I always do and quietly sneak out my notebook to jot down the lyrics flooding my mind.
Chapter 13
The next day begins with me on edge from the minute my eyes crack open. With my date with Cannon on the horizon, I’m anxious, but more nervous about the others’ reactions when they find out. I’m dreading any buts or “are you sure?” skepticism; I want to enjoy this at face value, to blindly…have a little faith in him, it, this, us.
While everyone’s busy with breakfast and showers, I sneak outside to join my uncle in his cloud of smoke.
“Morning, girl.” He smiles fleetingly, turning to cough up a lung.
“I wish you’d stop smoking.” I grimace, patting him on the back. “Why don’t you try Chantix? I’ve read a ton of success stories on it.”
“You know how expensive that stuff is?” he asks, strained.
“No, but I do know there’s not a price I’m not willing to pay. So you’ll try it?”
He tries not to look at me; I know he’ll be unable to resist if he sees my pleading face. So I shift to stand right in front of him.
“When we get back home, make an appointment. Promise me?”
He ponders a minute then nods in defeat, stomping out his current stick. “That all you wanted?”
“Oh, uh, no.” I conveniently take my turn to not look at him. I know it’s silly, I’m twenty-three years old and actually “the boss” here, but nervous as a whore in church all the same.
I wonder if my mom would like Cannon, or if she really did send him to me because she likes him. If she saw him with Conner, undoubtedly she’d adore him, but what about for me? I’m getting too ahead of my whimsical musings—it’s a meal with a man who two weeks ago was ready to spend his life with someone else, nothing more.
Oh, if I would just buy what I’m selling...but I’m quite possibly setting myself up for a hurt from which I might never recover. Because yes, it’s been two weeks, but mine is an unquestionable attraction, no rebounds. I’ve never felt such things before; not with boys in school, not with Josh, our first guitarist, not even with Rhett, so methinks the little voice in my head holds merit.
Cannon’s taken what he can’t offer in return—my exclusive fascination, giving him both the upper hand and security, two things I try to always keep in my corner.
“Liz?” my uncle says, waiting patiently through all that mental rambling.
“Sorry. So,” I turn on the charm, “I was gonna ask if you’d stay with Bubs tonight, before the show, so I could go to dinner? I’ll bring you back something niceeee.”
“With?” His tone drops suspiciously.
“Cannon,” I say to the air beyond his shoulder.
“Elizabeth,” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, “baby girl, I’d rather die than see you hurt. He was engaged not too long ago. And you, so kind and innocent. Do I need to kill the boy?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. My sweet, worried uncle is so much more a father than my own ever was. “No need to load a gun yet. Just eating, do it all the time, with a guy who’s easy to talk to.”
He wraps me in a hug, speaking into my hair. “I worry, that’s all. You play it off all you want, little lady, but I know what a big deal this is for you, and hope it’s not blasé for him. ‘Cause I can be blasé about killing him.”
“I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself, I promise. I’m well aware he was engaged, and I’m not naïve or stupid. Not lookin’ to marry him, but I enjoy his company. And a man’s never taken me out before.” I pop my shoulders, hoping for casualty. “Might be fun.”
He lets me go, stepping back to light another cigarette in silence, sucking in a big puff that he blows out slowly through his nose. “I’d be happy to hang out with Conner. You have a great time.”
I stumble back, happily surprised at his sudden understanding and acceptance. “Thank you. I love you, Uncle Bruce.”
“I love you too, baby girl, enough to maim him. Just say the word.”
Turning to walk back in, I look over my shoulder. “You know, I’m not really that kind. You’re biased. And worry too much.” Says the girl who worries about everything.
Now to tell the other three. Jarrett’s the one and only not concerning me.
“You hungry? I saved you a plate,” Cannon asks when I enter.
“I could eat, thanks.” I smile, taking a seat at the table, searching for the plate.
“I kept it warm.” He pulls the missing platter from the microwave and sets it in front of me. “What to drink?”
“She likes coffee!” Conner yells as he plops down beside me. “Cannon said he’s taking you to dinner, Sister.”
The hairs on the back of my neck instantly stand up, and I turn to catch Rhett’s look from the hall. Which look, for the first time ever, I can’t pinpoint. I thought we hashed this out—he isn’t in love with me and will never lose me—so what the current wave of tension is, I have no idea.
“He is.” I turn to Conner with a cheerful grin. “Are you okay with that?”
“Cuz you’re getting there to happy?” He remembered word for word the talk we had the other night…and applied it correctly. It’s little things like this that always give me a boost of hope that he can recall things and make sense of them—maybe one day the really important ones.
“Something like that, Bubs. Did you eat?” I divert, taking a bite of omelet.
“Yes, and now I’m bored. When do I get to go see Dad again?”
I set down my fork, my appetite lost. It slices into my gut every time he asks to see the monster; pain, anger, despair all simultaneously. “Soon, Conner. We’re a ways from home yet.”
So now I’ve got Rhett boring holes in me about the dinner and Cannon doing the same for my reaction to Conner’s request. But most disturbing is knowing Bubs will ask every single hour, on the hour, until I take him to our father.
Suddenly, I can’t get a deep, full breath. My chest seizes and my throat narrows, stopping my inhales short. Panicking, my eyes water and spots cloud my vision and just as blackness creeps in from the edges. I’m conscious only of Cannon’s voice.
“Stay with me, Siren. Look at me,” he pleads, gripping my shoulders fiercely. “Breathe. One in for me,” I mimic him, taking in a large, slow chest full of air, “and out for you.”
Things start to get clearer, the oxygen helping, almost as much as his soothing but demanding instruction.
“Again, one in for me,” he smiles at me, warm yet concerned, “and out for you. Good. Better?”
I manage a feeble nod, blinking away the tears, continuing the breathing pattern.
“You wanna go for a walk?” he asks quietly and again I jerk my head in agreement. “Okay, come on,” he stands and h
olds out his hand to me.
Without hesitation, filled with trust, I take it and allow him to pull me up. “Conner, can you grab your sister’s flip-flops, please? She and I are gonna take a quick walk while you get a puzzle ready, okay?”
“On it!” he cheers, scampering off. “Rhett, you wanna do our puzzle?” he asks as he passes him.
I can’t hear Rhett’s mumbled response, nor do I care. I also have no idea where Jarrett is, and I don’t care about that either. All I want in the whole world right now is to take a walk in the wide open, fresh air filled vastness, with Cannon.
“Here you go, Bethy.” Conner squats and helps guide my shoes on. “See you when you get back.”
“Thanks, Con. See you in a little while,” Cannon replies for me, then guides me to the door.
“Where you two headed?” Bruce asks, still outside.
“Lizzie needs some air. We’re gonna go for a walk. Conner’s getting a puzzle ready and Rhett’s brooding like a little bitch. See ya,” Cannon recaps, squeezing my hand.
“Baby girl, you all right?” Bruce says to me, voice and faced lined with concern.
“Fine,” I mutter shakily. “We won’t be long.”
My uncle zeroes in on Cannon, a fierceness in his eyes, his next words a sinister warning. “They don’t often come as good as her, young man, and some of us have been by her side for a long, long time. You start stepping in to take our place, you best plan on keeping the job. Otherwise, get the hell out of the way and let us handle it, ‘cause we ain’t going nowhere, ever. Not looking to start all over when you breeze out as fast as you breezed in.”
I snap from my haze with a sharp, embarrassed huff. “Bruce, it’s a walk! He doesn’t have to commit for life in blood. Jesus Christ! Will all of you please stand the fuck down and let me breathe? I love you, but damn.”
Cannon pumps my hand and scoots closer to my side. “I can only promise you this, sir. My awe and admiration of Lizzie is genuine and I’d die before I hurt her in any way. I didn’t plan this road I’m on, nor do I know where it leads or ends, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”
Bruce bounces his scrutiny between the two of us, once, twice, then unfolds his arms, a palpable acceptance setting in. “You guys don’t go far. Date and show tonight, it’s already noon.”
I step forward and brace on both his shoulders, rising on my tiptoes to kiss his scruffy cheek. “I love you very much.”
“Not half as much as I love you, kid. Go on now.”
Turning, Cannon’s hand is outstretched, waiting for me to reconnect, which I accept effortlessly. We walk in silence for a while, but his thumb never once stops caressing back and forth across my knuckles. Finally, he clears his throat and speaks, an easy, low rumble. “One thing at a time. What’s bothering you the most?”
“You’re a list maker, huh? Mr. Break it Down? A spreadsheet problem solver.”
He winks my way with a light lift of his shoulders. “I’m a Virgo. Solid structure is the only way things stay standing.”
“And I’m a siren?”
“No, well, yes,” he laughs, “you are. But siren isn’t your sign. My guess is that you’re a Cancer. When’s your birthday?”
“July 14th.”
“God, I’m good! You’re indeed a Cancer, could’ve told ya that ages ago.”
“How’d you get so into that stuff? Do you own one of those Ouija boards? I’m not doing a séance, so don’t even ask.”
“Come ‘ere.” He pulls me to the side of our walking path and sits down, leaning back against a thick tree. “Sit down, stay awhile.”
I take a seat beside him and fold my legs under me.
“My mom is a grief counselor,” he admits. “She studied all possible facets of human emotion, what makes a person tick, develops who they are. One of the subjects that fascinated her most was astrology, how our sign may dictate our personality and habits. So growing up, she always talked about it, had charts all over her office. I thought it was kinda cool, so I learned about it too.”
I could listen to him talk forever. His eyes brighten and he uses his hands when he gets excited, licking his plump lips every few sentences. If the Jehovah’s Witnesses sent him to your door, they’d obliterate their “oh shit, they’re here” rep, instead becoming the renowned “invite those mofos in for a while” bell ringers. I can picture housewives the world over in my mind, offering platters of cookies, all “No, don’t leave. Here, read me this dictionary,” and a giggle pops out.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, poking me in the ribs.
“Nothing, I just thought of something silly. Anyways, that’s cool. Your mom and you are interested in commons things. What about your father?”
“My father,” he parrots my darkened tone, “is called Dad, and he’s a Family Law Attorney. And, you’re doing it again, Enchantress. I’m running off at the mouth and you’ve told me nothing, as usual. I gotta watch it around you, Witchy.”
“Witchy, Siren, if you didn’t throw in a ‘Lizzie’ here and there, I’d swear you forgot my name.”
“I know your name, Elizabeth, but for reasons you’ve yet to tell me, you don’t like it. But you do seem to like Lizzie, so that’s what I call you.”
I tilt my head and smirk. “I do, huh? Did you read that in the stars?”
He smirks, his eyes turning blackening, a sultry haze to them now as his mouth quirks at the corner. “Lizzie,” he whispers.
My lips part, a feathery inhale tickling over them, my heart thumping wildly. “What?” I breathe out.
“That’s how I know you like it. Every time I call you Lizzie, your body sings to me just like that. There are some things even you can’t hide.”
I dart my eyes downward, fidgeting uncomfortably. It’s not only what he says, seeing me better than anyone ever has, but the way he says it—a deep, husky murmur laced with sexuality. It calls to the deepest recesses in me and begs the woman to emerge.
“Do I like when you call me Siren?” I whisper.
He laughs faintly, and in one movement, scoots closer and positions me in his lap. “You love it. You love that I call you that and you love knowing you have the definitive effects of a siren on me.”
I remember the brief conversation we’d had about it before, but in this moment, and not just because I really could listen to him talk forever, I want to hear the whole story and why he appeals to me. A fishing expedition, admittedly…but still going for it. “Tell me the story of the sirens again, but really tell me this time,” I purr.
The gentle touch of his warm hand on my knee draws me back, acutely aware of where I am right now, unable to meet his eyes. He lets me have that one defense and simply cups my head in his hand and pulls it down to rest upon his shoulder.
“In Greek mythology, sirens were the goddesses of the sea, irresistible female bodies who lured the sailors to their demise with their song.” That’s the part he’d told me. “What you do to me, Lizzie, your song, your smile, a look…you draw me in and I’m captivated, willing to sell my soul to know more. I can’t wait to hear what you’ll say next, what you’ll wear each day, what will make you smile and laugh. I watch the way you love and take care of Conner, Rhett, and the others and all I can do is envy them, try to figure out how to get you to pour all that Lizzie love over me. Then let me give it right back.” That part he hadn’t told me; glad I asked.
No way is this real. I exude nothing that “lures” in a man, especially a gorgeous, kind, soulful, talented one. I’ve finally graduated to full-blown hallucinations, but I pray I never stop.
“Lizzie, look at me, say something. Please tell me I’m not alone and crazy.” I’m crazy, doesn’t he know that? I’ve never felt more out of control, confused and ready to jump from the highest cliff with him—crazy. “Lizzie?”
“You don’t even know me,” I mumble at the ground.
“I know your heart and your character. I know that anything you do gets your all, especially your love of someone. I know yo
u long to be held and cherished, but you’ll never ask for it. And I want desperately to know the rest.”
“I don’t like Elizabeth because that’s what my father calls me, and I hate him. I don’t want Conner around him, but legally, I can’t stop it.”
I have now, out of nowhere, shared with him more than I have in two years of therapy.
“You precious little thing.” He nuzzles his face into my hair, inhaling rhythmically, slowly. “Now, big, deep breath, on in for me,” we inhale synchronously, “and out for you.” He curls both arms around my waist, not too tight, but telling me he’s got me. “Why do you hate your father?” he asks calmly, like simply needing my pizza order.
Surprisingly, it comforts me into speaking the answer as easily. “He’s a serial narcissist. A textbook sociopath.”
I feel and hear his brusque intake of breath; yeah, it’s a pretty heavy accusation, but sadly, true. See how precious he thinks I am now with so much hatred inside me.
“And why do you think that?”
Finally, I meet his eyes for the first time in most of this rendezvous. “Are you sure it’s your mom who’s the grief counselor?”
“Positive.” He bows his head and kisses the end of my nose before I know it’s happened. “Now continue, Witchy. I’m not falling for it this time.”
“I like Siren or Lizzie better. Witchy sounds evil.”
“Noted.” He winks. “You do cast a helluva spell, though.”
I adjust in his lap, getting more comfortable and he groans softly. “Oh, sorry,” I mutter. “Am I hurting you?” I start to climb off him but he snares me back in a blink.
“You’re not hurting me. But you gotta quit squirming around,” he assures me, but his plea is strained.
“Why don’t I just move?” I don’t—”
“Lizzie, please sit still.” He closes his eyes, titling his head to the sky and exhaling loudly through his flared nostrils. “Okay,” he’s instantly back, “go on.”
I’m about to ask “what the hell?” when he shuffles us slightly and…oh! Blushing feverishly, I drop my head, biting on my bottom lip. He’s rock hard against my bottom…and it’s distractingly erotic. “I feel that,” I moan, unable to stop myself.
