The Redemption of Nixon Thorne

by T Steele

  Her eyes finally lock on mine, and I find it’s suddenly hard to breathe. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. It’s definitely her. Ella Black. The girl who had helped me when nobody else would, yet also caused my life to get torn apart.

  The most fucked up thing about the situation is that I want to ask her what the fuck she’s doing here. Ask her what right does she have to barge into my life and not even remember me. A voice in the back of my mind reminds me to calm down, and I breathe in slowly through my nostrils.

  It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault. I keep repeating it until I feel my hands unclench at my sides.

  “How do you know my name?” she finally asks, and if she didn’t remind me of a caged bird, I’d make a joke about it. But now is not the time to joke about things. Even a dumbass like me knows that.

  “I went to South Plains,” I say, naming our high school in Florence.

  Unease flashes in her eyes, and I know the reason that it’s there, so I’m quick to continue. “I was a senior when you were a freshman. I remember seeing you once or twice in the halls,” I lie.

  Her eyes bore into mine, and for a second, I wonder if she knows I’m lying, but then she sighs. “What’s your name?” she asks, wrinkling her nose as if that will help pull my name up from somewhere, but she won’t remember because I don’t think she’s ever known it at all.

  “Nixon Thorne.”

  I make sure to keep my eyes trained on her face as she talks, which is almost damn near impossible. I don’t want to be one of those asshats who only thinks with his cock, but Ella Black’s body was hard not to notice. Of course, whenever I did notice, it sent gallons of guilt flooding in, and I wanted to kick my own ass.

  She’s not yours to ogle, my brain pipes up.

  “Sorry, I don’t remember you,” she says, bringing me out of my thoughts. Now she’s looking at the ground as if she’s genuinely ashamed.

  “Not a big deal,” I shrug. Most people from high school wouldn’t recognize me now, and I think that’s for the best.

  She brings her hand up to her face, observing her swollen knuckles. “I don’t normally go around punching people,” she says, and her cheeks redden.

  “I do,” I say.

  Her eyes snap up to mine. She frowns, and I need to shut the hell up.

  “Look,” I start, changing the subject. “I didn’t mean to chase after you, but you bumped your head, and then you ran away. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have a concussion or something.” Then I raise her purse in my hands, just remembering that that was supposed to be my actual reason for chasing after her. “And here’s your purse,” I say lamely, handing it to her.

  She takes it, her cheeks reddening once more, and fuck me for finding it so attractive.

  “So, you good?” I ask tersely and a little forcefully because I need to get away. Need to go find some asshole to punch or a willing girl to fuck. Maybe both. Either way, I don’t want her anywhere near me.

  She nods, looking startled by my abrupt actions. I stare at her a beat longer, debating if I should tell her it was nice seeing her again or something corny like that. But I don’t. Instead, I only nod before walking off.

  Chapter 3

  Ella

  My arms ache as I sling my backpack over my shoulder and get off the bus. I had band practice earlier, and it was a long one since we were preparing for the first football game of the season this coming weekend. I’ve been a flutist since middle school, but my arms still get sore from holding the tiny instrument for so long. My major is in music education while my minor is in environmental studies, and my dream is to one day become the marching band director. But today, I’m starting my new student internship working as a groundskeeper for Willamette National Forest.

  I walk toward the ranger station for the McKenzie River district, which is a beautiful A-frame structure built from what looks to be whole logs. It had taken almost an hour by bus to get to the ranger station from campus, but the scenery alone was worth the trip. I pass the sign that says Willamette National Forest in white cursive letters while leaves crunch under my feet, the beginning signs of fall. Tall evergreen trees surround me and the air is fresh and I want to breathe it in without exhaling, keeping it locked inside. There’s something about the clean, crisp air and the sound of birds chirping that makes me feel light.

  The door jingles as I open it, and I walk across the lobby of the information center to the wooden desk at the back to sign in. There are pamphlets and flyers in racks lining the walls, describing things like how to keep our parks clean and that campfires have been banned permanently.

  My boss is an older man named Rob, who I met earlier in the month when I came for a one-on-one orientation with him. He’s got gray hair, a thick mustache, and he wears a green and yellow hat with the Ducks mascot on it. I’m pretty sure it’s probably a violation of the park’s official ranger dress code, which I’m glad I don’t have to follow since I’m a student intern. Khaki shirts and pleated olive green pants is not my ideal look. He smiles at me by way of greeting, and taps the map he is examining.

  “You guys will take the Gator to Tamolitch Falls and Trails Creek today. I want you to pick up any trash and prepare the grounds for fall.”

  Rob isn’t much for small talk, so I just nod, looking around, trying to figure out what he meant by “you guys”. I hadn’t met any of the other student interns during my orientation, since I was the only new recruit and they were all apparently returning from last year.

  And then I see him.

  Nixon Thorne.

  He walks in wearing another pair of ripped jeans and a tight white t-shirt. His piercings glint in the light, and I think a gasp leaves my lips because his head whips in my direction and his jaw visibly clenches, but he looks away quickly.

  I hate that I’m reacting to his emotions. I hate that I’m so sensitive and empathetic in that way, because for some reason he’s angry, and the fact that he seems to be angry with me is making me nervous. Something I don’t need on my first day of work—on a job I was looking forward to.

  Then, two other students walk in. A short blonde girl and a taller guy with glasses, and for some reason, Nixon tenses.

  The guy with the glasses smirks at Nixon, but Nixon stands stiff. Then, Rob inclines his head to the two newcomers and Nixon. “Ella, this is Nicole, Winston, and Nixon,” he says, then nods his head in my direction. “Guys, this is Ella, your new co-worker.”

  “Hey,” Winston and Nicole say in unison. Nicole is short with blonde hair, while Winston is tall with dark hair and stares at me a little longer than is needed.

  Nixon doesn’t greet me or say anything, but he does glower at Winston.

  “Hi,” I say quietly, trying to smile without making it look like a grimace. Meeting new people sucks.

  Rob heads back behind his desk and grabs a set of keys, which he throws to Winston, who catches them easily.

  “You guys ready?” Winston asks.

  We all nod and turn to head toward the exit, but Rob pauses over the paperwork he is filling out. “Nicole,” he calls. “I want Ella to shadow you.”

  Nicole gives him a wide smile. “Sure thing, boss.”

  We walk out to the Gator, and I’m fully intending to sit by Nicole, but she jogs to the passenger seat while Winston slides in on the driver's side. He starts the ignition and then grins at me. “Coming or not?” he asks, and I have no choice but to sit in the back with Nixon. As soon as I sit, he bunches his shoulders. It’s as if he’s trying not to touch me, but his chest is too broad, and our arms brush anyway.

  I hate that my body is reacting to his. I feel my nipples peak inside my bra, and I’m grateful for the baggy t-shirt I’m wearing, but I know my red cheeks can’t be covered up.

  My reaction is weird, because I hate men. Well, okay, I don’t hate all of them, I guess. I did have a boyfriend before coming to college. I had tried to be normal for once in my crappy little life—I had some friends, I did
the boyfriend thing. I even applied to college and got accepted, but nothing filled the emptiness inside me. Not even my parents, who were super supportive and loving.

  They didn’t know my secret, though. Nobody did.

  Generally, being around men makes me feel nervous, and Nixon does make me nervous, but there’s something else there too. Something I can’t quite describe. For some reason, being next to this scary tattooed man is causing a reaction from me that I’ve never felt. Something my boyfriend couldn’t even make me feel when we fooled around. We never got to the actual sex part because. . . I just couldn’t do it. I never felt anything but anxiety, which always caused me to freeze up when the time came for the undressing part. I’d heard my friends back home talk about amazing orgasms that either they gave themselves, or their boyfriends delivered.

  The thought is enough to make my eyes fill with tears. What’s wrong with me today? Why am I freaking out like this about a guy? I was just fine this morning. God, why did I have to be so messed up? I think about the funny Youtube videos I watched last night to try and distract myself, and I take a few deep breaths to clear my emotions. Emotions that are completely out of control all because this intimidating man is sitting next to me. Maybe it’s not fair to blame him, but he’s what started it, so that’s what I’m telling myself as we drive along the bumpy trail, vibrations thrumming through my body.

  When the Gator stops, my eyes soak in the view before me, and it’s absolutely breathtaking. The waterfall cascades down into a pond that is blue and clear, and I realize this must be what they call the Blue Pool. I’ve seen it in pictures online, they didn’t do it justice.

  I smile at the scene despite myself, and I catch Nixon staring at me.

  When he sees me looking at him, he continues to stare openly. There’s something fierce and focused in his gaze. As if he’s looking for something and can’t find it, then he turns away. I furrow my brow, somehow feeling hurt by his reaction, and I have to scold myself again. The image of me running away from him a few days ago replays in my head, and I cringe. He probably thinks I have serious issues.

  And honestly, I guess I do.

  “Hey,” Nicole says, bringing me out of my reverie. “Winston and I are going to go work over there.” She nods her head to the side, indicating a place across the pond. “Why don’t you guys head over to Tamolitch and get stuff done, and we can meet up in an hour or so.”

  As soon as she’s finished talking, she throws the keys to Nixon. Not even bothering to see if he caught them, she turns and runs off.

  I couldn't even protest that I was supposed to be shadowing her, not Nixon. Everything happened so fast, and now we’re just standing here quietly together. I’m afraid to look at him. Afraid to see what’s in his eyes.

  “Are they scared of you or something?” In my head, I add “too” just to break up the silence. When he just stares at me, I speak again, clarifying. “They couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “Hmph,” he grunts. “Probably afraid, but its mostly the fact that they go off and fuck in the woods somewhere, leaving all the work to me.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, ignoring his crude words and tapping my fingers against the fabric of my jeans, wishing it was my flute. He eyes my movement and cocks his head to the side.

  “You scared of me?” he asks, eyes hooded. More like bedroom eyes, I think to myself.

  “Fear comes in many shades,” I say in reply, evading his question and trying to sound clever, which I’m sure I failed at.

  A small exhale of air escapes his lips, and his shoulders shrug. I wonder if that could be considered a small laugh?

  “Here,” he suddenly says, and his voice is deep and gruff, almost like he’s trying to modulate it. Like he’s used to talking in a more demanding tone but is refraining.

  I look up at him and realize he’s handing me the keys.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  His eyes bore into mine, unflinchingly. “Because I’m an ex-con. I don’t get the same privileges as all the other boys and girls at the playground.”

  I recoil.

  Anger and something that looks a little like shame pass through his eyes, but then he clenches his jaw and stalks to the passenger seat of the Gator.

  I stare down at the keys in my hand, debating if I should just run away yet again. Something I always seem to do—run from my problems.

  But instead, I slowly make my way to the driver's seat and start the ignition. When my foot presses on the gas, we take off. We’re both quiet until I realize I have no idea where I’m going.

  We speak at the same time.

  “Where-”

  “Turn here,” he says abruptly.

  “How’d you know I was going to ask that?”

  “First day on the job.” His tone suggests he’d like to have added a ‘duh’ after that sentence.

  We’re both quiet, and I want to ask so many questions, but I also fear the answers. And now, even if it’s cruel and judgmental, I definitely fear him, too.

  What could he have done? How was he even a student here?

  “What did. . .” I hesitate, wanting to ask what he went to prison for, but he catches on, curling his lip and tensing his jaw.

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” he says softly, but not the good kind of soft. I flinch back as if I’ve been slapped, and that makes anger race through me along with even more embarrassment. As if I need more of that particular emotion.

  I drive for a few moments more, and we stay silent this time. I barely open my mouth to breathe.

  Nixon’s knee bounces up and down rapidly as he sits with his hands in his lap, clenching and unclenching his fists. I find myself getting more and more anxious. Even though the temperatures in Oregon are still at their warmest this time of year, I feel my teeth start to chatter. I clamp my mouth shut, tightening my jaw to refrain from showing weakness or fear in front of him.

  When we reach our destination, I flip off the ignition with a trembling hand, and I hate this. Hate that I’m letting him intimidate me so easily. Hate that I feared him almost instantly the first time I saw him. It makes me feel small and weak, but I’m also confused.

  Fear comes in many shades, I told him. And that is true, but even though my guard is up, something in my gut is telling me that I shouldn’t fear him. Yes, he’s being kind of an asshole, but I’m beginning to wonder if he might have good reason to have his guard up. And with the way my body reacts to his. . .

  Disgusted with myself, I finally go to get out, but then Nixon’s hand latches onto my arm. I gasp loudly at the contact, and he retracts his hand so fast, you’d think I burned him. His nostrils flare and his eyes are terrifying.

  “I may have spent time in prison, but I would never fucking harm a woman,” he says, gritting the words out through clenched teeth. He’d noticed my fear.

  Well, it’s not like you did a good job of hiding it.

  Embarrassment fills me, and my shoulders relax a fraction. I give a subtle nod, wondering if I should maybe apologize? Maybe that would make this whole situation better?

  “Don’t you dare apologize to me,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “You should always keep your guard up.” He pauses, choosing his next words. “And yes, I guess even around someone like me, but you don’t have to fear me just because I’ve been to prison.”

  My brow creases and I worry my lip. I’m dying to know just how dangerous this man is and what he did time for, but I’m not about to make the same mistake twice. And of course the socially awkward girl in me perks up with something else totally inappropriate.

  “So, just because you’re an ex-con, you aren’t allowed to drive the Gator?”

  Nixon grunts, side-eyeing me. “It’s never been expressly said. It’s just sorta like some silent agreement Nicole, Winston, and Rob have, but I’ve picked up on it. They always find some excuse for me not to be able to drive it. I don’t know if it’s that they think I’m too much of a dumbas
s to figure it out, or that I’ll run off with it.” He shrugs. “It’s expensive equipment and I’m still a criminal in their eyes. They don’t want a criminal driving their vehicles even though I have a valid driver’s license.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, genuinely appalled. “Why do you even work here, then? Can’t you find something better?”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I purse my lips shut. He probably has a hard time finding work considering his background.

  He eyes me as if he’s debating if it’s worth wasting his breath to speak to me again. Probably because I’m acting like a complete idiot.

  “I have to work here,” he says, and when I go to open my mouth to ask why, he just shakes his head and stands from the vehicle. “Long story, little fox,” he says with a smirk on his lips.

  Little fox?

  He watches me, his stare intense. I feel as though he misses nothing. After so long of our staring contest, I finally give an awkward nod before getting out of the Gator.

  I feel his eyes follow me, though, and I pretend not to notice. I start my job, trying to focus on the task at hand.

  One step at a time, I think to myself. This is something I can control. I can pick up trash. I can pull weeds and clean up the mulch. These are simple tasks, and I try to ignore him, imagining that it’s just me out here. There’s a slight breeze making the trees swish and brush against each other. The sun’s scattered light filtering through the trees is called komorebi in Japanese—something I learned from the great and wonderful Google. It shines like a beacon onto the grass and water, and with the background noise of the waterfall chiming, it makes for a heavenly spot.

  We’ve been working in silence for about half an hour, each of us staying to our own sides of the pool. There’s a plastic bottle in the mud near the stream, and as I go to pick it up, my ankle twists. I faceplant directly into the water, only to have a hand grab me and yank me back up.

  I gasp, flailing about and wiping water from my eyes. When I open them, Nixon is staring at me with pursed lips, and I don’t know if he’s angry or trying not to laugh. And since I’m a basket case, and don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I decide to go with the former.