A Special Obsession

by A. M. Hargrove

  “Cody! Where are you?” I call his name a few more times before I hear him scream. Fuck. I take off in the direction of his voice, shoving branches out of the way. “Cody! Tell me where you are. I’m coming.”

  Silence greets me. I yell his name over and over as I press forward. Something tells me I’m close. There’s a creek ahead I used to play in, and I have a hunch that’s where he is. When I get there, he’s sitting by the water. I call out his name, but he doesn’t move. As I get close, I understand why. There’s a snake nearby, and it’s frightened him.

  When I approach, his whimpers nearly do me in. The tiny tear-streaked face that looks up at me reminds me so much of Sasha, I find myself holding my breath. But then a movement to his right grabs my attention. Now that I get a better look at the snake, I realize it’s a cottonmouth, or a water moccasin. They can be very aggressive, and it’s too close for comfort.

  “Stay very calm, my man, and don’t move,” I whisper. Cottonmouths are venomous, but not as deadly as rattlesnakes. If left undisturbed, they normally don’t bother you. However, I’m not sure what happened before my arrival, and I’m not going to take the time to find out. My goal is to do a grab-and-go and put as much distance between the snake and us as I can.

  “Cody,” I whisper. “I’m going to pick you up and run. When I do, you hang on to me with everything you got. Okay?”

  He nods. Mentally I count to three and take off like a wild mustang. Branches tear at my face and our arms. Cody’s fingers clench my T-shirt and a chunk of my long hair, which feels like he’s going to yank it out at the roots. When we burst into the clearing, my pulse pounds like it’s going to rupture the skin at my neck.

  “Honey Bear, is the snake still chasing us?” His voice breaks through the breeze.

  Looking around it sinks in that we’re safe. Slowing my steps to a walk, I say, “Nah, I think we left that old snake down by the creek. He didn’t get you, did he?”

  “No way, but I thought he was going to. You saved me.”

  “What in the world happened to you two?” Mimi asks as we get close to the house, wringing her hands.

  When I explain, she launches in with the “And that’s why we tell you no leaving the yard, young man.”

  Cody, who I set down to walk on his own, hangs his head. “I only wanted to play like the big boys do.”

  “What big boys?” I ask.

  “The ones in school.”

  “Don’t be a follower, dude. Be a leader. And when you’re in the woods, you have to keep your eyes and ears open for hidden dangers.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mimi, when is dinner going to be ready? All the running from the snake made me hungry.”

  Mimi and I look at each other for a second, then I say, “Hey, wait a minute. As I recall, I’m the one who did all the running.”

  “Yeah, Honey Bear, but my fingers are extra tired ’cuz they had to work hard to hang on to you.” He’s still upset. I hear it in the slight trembling of his voice.

  “Ahh, I see. You’re hungry because your fingers worked so hard,” I say.

  His head bobs up and down so fast it makes me dizzy watching it.

  “I need some of Mimi’s potatoes to make them untired.”

  “Mimi? Did you make potatoes today?” I ask.

  “You know it. Let’s go eat.”

  The rest of our day is spent in peace and quiet. We watch The Lion King and then I give the little guy a bath and put him to bed before heading home.

  When I leave, I remind Mimi of our plan. “You know what to do if anything happens.”

  “Call 911 first. Then you. Then head into the root cellar.”

  “Yep, and set the house alarm and the one on the drive that leads to the house after I leave.”

  “I always do. You worry too much. It’s been three years. Something would’ve happened by now.”

  “We don’t know that. All we know is what she did cost her, and I don’t want him to have to pay too.”

  As I walk out the front door, Mimi says, “I wish you’d get a car. That thingamajig you ride worries me to death. It’s dangerous.”

  “It’s fast and safe and gets me where I need to go. Love you, Mimi. I’ll text you when I get home.” Blowing her a kiss, I hop on the Vespa and drive off. Several times during the drive home I get the feeling I’m being followed, but then the headlights turn off. It’s probably my overactive imagination. Keeping Cody safe is a full-time job that’s turned me into a worrywart. But I’ll do it to protect him and for the memory of Sasha.

  5

  Weston

  Monday seems to last a week. Satiny black hair that curtains an unforgettable face takes up my brain space, not to mention lips that are sweeter than Southern tea. It’s annoying as hell for two reasons. One, she wouldn’t give me the time of day if I begged her, and two, because I’m supposed to be making a case to defend my position with my father sometime today. Unconsciously my fingertips rub together, wondering what it would feel like for that hair to slide between them. Hopefully the blueprints staring at me from my dual monitors will calm my fucking boner down. Having a stiffie in jeans is one thing, but sporting one in dress pants at work is not appropriate, especially when I have a meeting with my asshole father.

  Shaking my head, I bring myself back in the moment. Meeting Dad will be a huge waste of time. I’m not even sure why I’m bothering. The devil on my shoulder is saying fuck him, fuck him, while my conscience is telling me to do the right thing. And that’s my problem. Where he’s concerned I always do what’s right, and the only thing it gets me is a swift kick in the ass. But he’s not just my father. He’s Weston Wyndham the fourth, and he always gets what he wants. His demands are that I follow in his footsteps—to fill his shoes and do business the same way he’s done it for years. But that’s not my thing. For two years now I’ve tried, and it’s simply not what I want out of life. To be blunt, it just doesn’t get my dick hard. I interned in the business during high school and college. I even fast-tracked a six-year dual degree program that led to a Bachelor of Science in Architectural Engineering and a Master of Science in Architecture in only five years. Busted my ass for it too. But all Dad said was, “Now you finally get to go to work, son.” Like what I was doing the past five years was nothing but fun and games.

  Studying blueprints and schematics for a building we’re working on, I double-check to make sure everything matches before beginning the structural checks. The building is a high-rise multi-use business residential center that will be built downtown. If I can approve these plans and get the rest of the engineering team to give their okay, we can begin the acquisition process.

  It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. I do. Once I start working, I get lost in the process. What I don’t like is working in this environment. This realization came when I volunteered during college at Habitat for Humanity and learned carpentry. Surprisingly, I had a knack for it. Soon it turned into a hobby and then a passion. But what I love most is helping people. That isn’t going to happen working for Wyndham and Sons.

  “Quinn, what you got on those plans?” Dad asks me, using my nickname.

  I let my father know I’m busy by lifting a finger, indicating I’ll be with him in a minute. When I complete the final check of the fourth story, I answer him. “So far so good, Dad. But I’m only on number four.”

  “Can I have the first four?”

  “Yeah, hang on.” Finishing up the work, I give my stamp of approval in the CAD program and then print them for my dad. His grabby hands are practically on them before I barely have a chance to give them to him.

  Without another word, he’s gone. I’m refocused on work when my admin, Leslie, plunks a sandwich on my desk and leaves. It goes untouched as I’m immersed in checking those plans. I’m on a deadline for Dad and if I don’t meet it, he’ll be on my ass. Six floors later, I check the time to see it’s after five. I stand, stretch, and then decide to get rid of the tie that’s choking my neck. Just one more reminder of Dad’s offi
ce rules. I get back to work, hoping to review and approve two more floors before the day’s end. By the time I finish, it’s around six thirty just in time to hear the steady click of my father’s heels on the marble floor approaching my office. Never one for respecting my privacy, he marches in and asks for a progress report.

  “Six more. Here.” I hand them to him as they spit out of the printer.

  He doesn’t take them. Instead, his eyes narrow. “Where’s your tie?” His tone is clipped.

  “It’s after hours.” I point to my chair where the damn thing hangs.

  “You know the rules about dress in the office.”

  “I do. But like I said, it’s after hours.”

  “Son, I don’t give a goddamn what time of day it is. When you come into this office, you wear a tie. I don’t want to have to tell you again. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” My molars grind as I reach for the fucking tie and put it back on. Not only do I have to wear a tie here, but also when I visit a worksite, which is ridiculously dangerous. I’ve argued this point, but he won’t relent.

  After he sees that I’m properly attired, he leaves without another word. I wrap up my work, shut down the computer, and head to his office. It’s massive. Unlike him, I have to request to enter with a knock. The door is open. He’s on the phone and beckons with his hand. Then he points to a chair in front of his desk. It’s one of those fancy leather wing-backed ones. The rest of the offices are modern and contemporary, with sleek clean lines and lots of glass. Not Dad’s. He’s old-fashioned. He likes dark wood and leather. It’s stodgy as hell. The chair’s leather gives an annoying squeak when I sit and it grates on my nerves. If it weren’t in Dad’s office, I probably wouldn’t give it a second thought but everything about this room makes my skin prickle, like when I got my last tattoo. Except that experience gave me immeasurable pleasure. The tattoo is a series of three birds flying free. It’s how I imagine my life someday, when I break loose of the damn family chains I’m bound in.

  Dad hangs up the phone and scowls. For once I’d like to see a smile on his face. It would improve his appearance. Not that he’s an unattractive guy, but the ever-present frown, downturned mouth, and shock of white hair age him at least a dozen or more years, making him appear in his sixties. He’s only fifty. My friends’ parents are all older than him yet look like they could be his younger siblings. Sad, if you ask me. I hope I don’t look like that when I turn fifty.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Did you get a look at them?”

  “Yep. Sent them to the engineers.” That’s it. No good job, I love your work, you’re spot on, or you suck. Nothing.

  “Good. Were they to your satisfaction?”

  “If they weren’t, you would’ve known. See you in the morning,” he dismisses me before turning back to a stack of papers in front of him. But I don’t move. He finally lifts his head. “Is there something else?” He knows damn well there’s something else.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. You said we would discuss my proposal today.”

  He flicks his hand, saying, “Oh, that. You can’t be serious about that, Quinn.” He always calls me that. It’s easier, I suppose since I’m the fifth Weston Michael Clayton Wyndham.

  “I am. Very much so.”

  Leaning back in his monstrous chair, the one I was never allowed to sit in as a kid, he takes his glasses off and glares at me. “I don’t get you.”

  This comes as no surprise. He’s never bothered to get to know me.

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  His head oscillates, most likely in disgust, as his sneer indicates. “You have the architectural world literally at your fingertips here at Wyndham and Sons. You are a brilliant architectural engineer.”

  Wow. That’s the first compliment he’s ever paid me in my entire life. I’m taken aback.

  “Why in the fuck would you want to throw it away?” he spits out the word fuck. My dad swears, but fuck is rarely part of his vocabulary. He’s super pissed, more than the customary pissed-off state he survives in.

  “I’m not looking at it in the same light as you are,” I say.

  “You’re not using the brain God gave you. Elucidate for me.” A vein throbs on his temple. I hope the man doesn’t stroke out on me. And that’s not a joke. His red face tells me his blood pressure must be sky high.

  “I can still work here, but three days a week. The other two days, I would like to do carpentry for Habitat for Humanity. Building homes. They need someone with my architectural and carpentry skills on job sites.”

  The slamming of his palms on the desk has me nearly jumping out of the chair. “I paid for that dual degree so you could what? Become some damn volunteer somewhere?”

  “I can pay you back for the three years if you’d like, sir.”

  “With interest?” he snarls.

  “If you want.”

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  The question derails me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He sweeps his arm in a broad gesture. “Look at you. That hair and those…those tattoos you have. What happened to you?” Disdain and disgust bleed from his words, but I refuse to allow him to make me feel unworthy of his respect any longer.

  I want to tell him somehow along the way I became a caring human being and not some freaky dictator asshole, but I refrain, keeping calm.

  Staring back at him, man to man, I respond, “Actually, as part of my degree, my internship included working for Habitat. I ended up volunteering after the internship ended. I became hooked and that’s when I learned carpentry. My tutor taught me all the tricks of the trade and said I had a real knack for it. It’s my stress reliever.”

  He gapes at me. Maybe I should’ve told him aliens moved in next door instead. He probably would have had an easier time believing that.

  “So, let me get this straight. You volunteered at Habitat, learned to use a saw, and because of that you’ve decided you only want to work part-time here so you can continue your volunteer efforts there.”

  “Not exactly, but I’ll accept that,” I answer.

  “Well, young man, I don’t accept any of it. At all. But you’d better accept this. You can work part-time here if you want. But if you do, it’ll be as a clerk making minimum wage. And if I were you, I’d rethink that. Because that trust fund of yours could change at any time. That Ferrari you love and your fancy condo? Without your monthly stipend, I very seriously doubt you could afford the lifestyle you’ve become accustomed to. So put that in your pipe and smoke it. Come to think of it. Maybe that’s your problem. Stay away from the marijuana, Quinn. It’s clouding your judgment. Now, if that’s all for today, I have work to do.”

  His dismissal has me rising to my feet. I give him a two-fingered salute, but I’d rather give him the middle finger one. Not another word is exchanged. I know better than to argue with him. It will only get me deeper into his pit of hell. It’s time for me to go home. When I make it to the parking garage and slide into my Ferrari, my brain synapses start to connect. My grandparents set up the trust fund and my grandfather is deceased. If I were to bet on it, that trust is irrevocable, meaning Dad can’t change it. Unless he can somehow change the age at which the fund is distributed, in which case I could be fucked. He’s dead-on with my expensive lifestyle. I give no thought to the cost of things, courtesy of my upbringing. Looks like I’m locked into this world for the foreseeable future.

  With a roar of the engine and squeal of the tires I leave this place. My destination? A warehouse only a couple of people know about. I call it my personal massage parlor because it’s the only place where my tension is relieved.

  I pull into the parking lot as the October sun is setting. To some the old, dark brown brick building may look gloomy and uninviting. To me, it’s anything but. I unlock the door, flip the light switch, and the whole place comes to life. The smell of wood invades my head like a drug. This is my nirvana. Tables of various sizes are set up with differe
nt kinds of saws sitting on them. All kind of wood is stacked to the side—new, old, reclaimed. I could spend weeks here and never tire of this place.

  In the rear of the building is a separate living space I had installed for nights like this. It contains a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and a small den. Nothing fancy, just serviceable. I keep the refrigerator stocked with a few essentials, so I go and grab a water and the ingredients to make a sandwich. After I eat, I go to work. Hours later, I realize it’s after ten. Time to quit. It’s never a good idea to operate a saw when you’re tired. Grabbing the clothes I changed out of when I got here, I lock up and head to my condo, which isn’t too far. By the time I get home, the girl with the dark hair and coffee eyes clouds my thoughts again.

  Here’s the thing. Women are a dime a dozen. I learned a long time ago, after one ripped me from stem to stern, they weren’t worth the trouble. They either wanted too much time or were more interested in my money than in me. I may spend a lot of time with them but don’t think about them much. Until Special. As I lie in bed, all I can see are her lips and face, and my fingers keep rubbing together, itching to get a feel of her silky hair.

  6

  Special

  Damn, this has been a long week. Business is great, but I’m killing myself. Jeb and I interviewed four potential waitresses, but not a single one worked out. No one wants to work. They say they do and they need the money. But you ask key questions, particularly ones about weekend hours, and without exception none want to work Fridays and Saturdays. This is a damn bar. What do they expect? Those are our busiest times. Speaking of, I’d better get a move on. I have three orders to fill, and since it’s Friday the place is filling up fast.

  Josie, the man-hunter, walks in the kitchen and says, “There’s someone out front asking for you.” I had a talk with her about her hooker clothing. She’s toned it down, but still likes to wear her stilettos. She shifts her hips on those stupid skyscraper shoes she wears. That girl will need new feet before she’s forty.