Sunshine Bleeds A Black Edge (The Wild Things (standalone) Book 3)

by A. Wilding Wells

  My spoon falls onto my lap.

  She cheers. “I won!”

  I shrug and continue eating my tapioca. Mom loves winning. Everything is some form of competition, and she likes keeping score if she’s the one winning.

  She nods at my wrist, a quirky smile forming on her mouth. “How’s your wrist?”

  “It’s not my wrist that hurts.” And that’s the truth.

  I want to say those words to Rebel, but he’ll come out with something nasty and his big wall will close me out again. Hate is such an ugly thing. I know because I hated the Kline boys for ruining my life. Then I realized I wasn’t going to give those fucks power over my emotions. I needed every ounce of power to put myself together again. And, piece by piece, it’s happening.

  I may never be done building myself up, but I sure as shit won’t let what someone else did break me. What a great life lesson pain and healing provide. You sure do learn what you’re made of when the shit stick is shaken on you.

  “He’s got every right to be angry,” Mom says. “It might take him some time to invite you back into his heart. He loved you. Needed you.” She stares into my eyes with the most intense vibe. It’s part motherly, like she really feels for us as we figure this thing out.

  But her stare is also somewhat disapproving. What began as warm-fuzzies quickly nosedives into Mom’s arctic dip. And I know what’s coming next. The sock in the gut, her one hit.

  “I didn’t miss you. That’s what happens when you leave. Some people forget about you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “That’s a feel-good thing to hear.”

  Crazy as it sounds, I know there’s truth in what she’s said. “Some people forget about you.” Yeah, I’ve tried that. It’s a way to deal with who you really miss. You tell yourself to forget about them, you don’t need them. I’ll protect what matters most: my heart.

  Mom fidgets with her necklace, twisting it around on her fingers the way she does with her rosary. “You needed to leave.”

  Maybe I’m reading into things. Or maybe she’s hiding something. If only I could get all the pieces onto the table at once and see how they fit together.

  “And why’s that?” I ask.

  “Things.”

  I dip my spoon into my bowl, scoop another bite up, and ponder what “things” means as sweet tapioca pearls roll across my tongue. “Are you going to elaborate?”

  Mom saunters to a lone dust-covered photo of our family. It’s been hanging on the wall in the same spot since I was a kid. And, with her pinkie finger, she dusts Opal’s face off.

  “Ask me a stupid question.” She takes the photo off the wall, a bright patch of sky-blue paint left behind in a perfect rectangle.

  “Why did I leave, Mom?”

  “That was a stupid question.” She sits next to me and hugs the photo like it’s all that matters in the world. And, to her, the memories from that photo might hold more than I know.

  “Everything isn’t about you.” There she is again. Mom could clear a forest with her tongue.

  I wish she could distinguish between a pleasant mother-daughter exchange and judgment. I know there’s a tender part of her buried deep inside. But I haven’t had the honor of seeing it all that often.

  I thought age might soften her. But, in truth, at sixty-five, she’s more of who she was. Bitter with a side of snob-caked insecurity. But she’s my mom and I love her. I’ve just always wanted something deeper that I’ll never get from her. She’s always wanted more too. Of other things. Namely, stuff. She was always a have-not who wanted more and wanted to be more.

  Mom presses a finger to my lips. “Echo takes a scrapbooking class at the center. Rocket’s his teacher. The gays are very crafty.” She waggles her eyebrows.

  “Etta, and she’s not gay, Ma. She’s as much a woman as you are.”

  “No.” She clears her throat three times and dusts off all the faces on the photo except mine. “No…he’s not.”

  We glare at each other for a few seconds. I want to push harder on this, but I can’t change her. Can’t make her softer or more understanding. Some people are stuck in one gear all their lives. They will never see the other side, and they will war with you to convince you they are right. All I can do is learn from her and hope I don’t become who she is. At least not the parts I find offensive.

  “He’s not a woman, and just because you think you’re something special—” She pauses, putting a hand to her ear. “Lenny doesn’t want to talk about it, either. Says it’s time for Jeopardy and his beer. It’s after six ya know.”

  “Mom, listen.”

  Her lips form a thin line, her eyes filling. I have no idea what set her off. But the last thing I want is to be a reason for tears.

  “Don’t call her gay, okay?” I twist my body to face Mom, crossing my legs in my lap. “She’s a nice person and Rebel cares very much about her. Maybe try to appreciate your differences.”

  “I don’t mind different. But it’s a very unusual situation to understand.”

  “I know. Put yourself in her shoes.”

  Mom licks one finger and drags it under my eye then examines the black smudge on her fingertip. “I do put myself in his shoes, and I put him in my dresses. At least he looks proper once in a while. Most gays tend to have nicer taste. He’s an off one.”

  “She’s not off. She’s cool as fuck.”

  “That sounds violent. Most gays aren’t violent from what I’ve read. Do you think he’s safe around Echo?”

  I twist a loose thread dangling from my shorts around my finger. How do I tell her she’s horribly offensive without losing our relationship? I don’t think she understands that there are always two sides; that everyone has a story that matters. How do I tell her about the pain Etta went through to get where she is? Maybe she and Etta are more similar than not?

  It’s as if her insecurities blind her. Maybe something happened to her along the way. Something she’s never shared with anyone. Is her wall covering her pain too?

  “Ma, listen to me. I know you have a good heart, and you mean well. But please… Just…um, think before you judge her and let things fall out of your mouth. Imagine what she went through all those years living as a man when all she wanted was to feel like her true self.”

  “Fall out of my mouth? Hardly. God’s voice comes through me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I cover my face with one of the flimsy pillows separating us and release a silent scream. “You can’t take responsibility for what you say? That’s crap.”

  “Ruby. Let’s not get physical.”

  “What?”

  “You know… Apademics.”

  “You mean academics?”

  She shrugs and nods.

  “As in philosophical?”

  God help me. No, better yet…God help her. Now, please.

  Mom stands, her hands perched on her hips, the scowl on her face about to rain acid on me. “Traveling around the world did not make you better than us. I haven’t lived a fancy life like you. But I know enough. Philosophical, yes. That’s what I meant.”

  I nod and smile as she rubs her temples.

  She yanks a rosary out of her apron pocket and works the beads like she’s polishing silver. “I know plenty about philosophers. I took a class on them in college. Picasso and that other one with the sunflowers.”

  “Those are artists, Mom. Not philosophers.”

  Mom scowls. Then she yanks her wig off, tosses it on the couch, and scratches her head like it’s infected with lice. “Stop trying to confuse me. At least I have a college degree.”

  She’s derailing when she goes down the path of her special armor. The college degree. The last bastion of true intelligence, and her big one-up on me. She claims she hates that I ditched my full ride to Northwestern for world travel and a brainless career. Zero fucks right here.

  “I wasn’t trying to confuse you,” I tell her.

  “Don’t worry, Ruby. You don’t matter so much that something you
say could hurt me.”

  Mom storms out of the room after saying goodnight to the deads. But not to me.

  I kick my shoes off and finish my beer and the rest of the tapioca—lovely combo that it is. Then I bury my head in a pillow. Maybe I should have told her I understand, but really…I don’t. I don’t understand so much about so many things. Maybe I ought to ask some stupid questions of my own.

  Chapter 11

  Rebel

  She’s tough as nails, but that crack of hers is getting wider. She needs to fess up and clue me in on a whole shit-ton of things. The ring, the crosses… Hell, even the baseball I was questioned about. Especially considering I still have mine. Did she do it? Could my girl be a killer?

  After grabbing the mail, I drive up to the house, eager to check on Gilbert, my about-to-give-birth mutt I had fixed six years ago. The vet couldn’t explain it when he told me that she wasn’t overweight but rather pregnant.

  A whinny comes from the barn. I assume the pony that belongs to Bubble Valentine, Rifle’s girlfriend and the daughter of my friends Tully and Wolfgang.

  Etta strolls out the screen door as I head up the porch steps. A long, colorful tail of something she’s crocheting hangs down from her hands as she arrives at my side. “Kids are in the barn.” She gestures to her left. “Been out there a while.”

  “I heard the pony,” I say, kneeling to scratch Gilbert’s belly, marveling at its fullness.

  “That Bubble sure is a pretty girl. Looks a little like Ruby did in high school.”

  “She is pretty. And sweet. Rifle might be in deep with that girl.”

  “Balls-deep,” Etta says. We chuckle as she continues to crochet.

  “She does kind of have that special flair about her like Ruby.”

  My Ruby was something else in high school. She’s even more now. How long will I be able to wait before I tell her that my hands want to hold her. That my lips want to kiss, devour, and drown in her taste. I want to shine light on her darkness. I want her back. Free and whole the way she was before she left. She told me not to follow. Told me not to wait. But she sent me vibes I couldn’t sidestep. That’s what united souls do. And every last one of them is locked inside me. That smoke turned into fire, and it’s been burning all these years. For Ruby—only for her.

  “Saw Ruby at the five-n-dime.” Etta sits on the top step, removes her heels, then rubs her bright-red-painted toes. “Nice work on the welcome home, slugger.”

  A stab of regret swims in my stomach. “It was an accident; a small break is all.”

  “Didn’t mean her wrist.” She looks up from her crocheting and smirks.

  I stand and flip through mail. “You going to give me relationship advice?”

  Etta grabs my wrist and pulls herself up. “Somebody needs to jump-start you.”

  I sling an arm over her shoulder and chuckle. “Sounds serious. Let me get a beer first. You want a sherry?”

  “Yes! We should celebrate your girl coming home. I always liked Ruby. Never seemed to mind what others thought of her.” She elbows me in the ribs then kisses my cheek. “My kind of woman!”

  “You and Ruby marching to your own bands.”

  People can judge Etta all they want. But, inside, they probably know she did what she had to do. There was no choice in her heart. Most people don’t have those kinds of guts. The average person cares too much what others think and makes their life choices around it. Living in safe bubbles where nothing changes. Making choices that don’t let them stand out.

  Being yourself is too much for most. Too much probable judgment. And, though Etta went for it and is living her truth, even she sometimes struggles with the snickers and the judgers.

  After I pop a beer open and pour Etta a sherry, we head to the porch and park ourselves in the old wicker rockers like we do most nights. Etta adjusts the collar on her top.

  “I haven’t seen you wear that before,” I say. “Did Mrs. Rose give it to you?”

  “Yes. It’s from France. Must be something Ruby bought for her. Nice that we wear almost the same size.” She grins. “Echo brought it today. You know Monday still calls me Rocket.”

  I place my hand on hers. “Does it bother you?”

  Etta shrugs then takes a slow sip of sherry. “I look the other way. Sometimes you should. Forgiveness is good for the heart.”

  “That sounds like it’s punching more meaning than surface talk.”

  “You could forgive her for leaving,” she says after a quiet minute.

  She’s right. I could drop everything and forgive Ruby, but the fire in my belly tells me I need answers first. But I also need to be cautious not to push so hard that she runs. “She has something to fess up to.”

  “Everything’s not black and white,” Etta says.

  “You got something more to say? Spit it out.” I tip my beer back for a long pull.

  “I think you’re punishing a woman who loves you. A woman you’ve missed. You deep down love her. Let it go, Rebel. Let her in.”

  I stand and stretch. Then I lean on the porch rail. “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is that simple. Let bygones be bygones and move on from your pain. She doesn’t deserve more punishment.”

  My gut twists into a knot as I turn to face Etta. “You think I punished her and made her leave? The fuck?”

  “What I meant was…” Her eyes fill, and her lips tremble. “She loves you. Needs you.”

  “How do you know all this, and why are you getting emotional over me and Ruby?”

  “Because I love you and I want to see you happy and in love with a good woman who also deserves happiness. You want her to stay?”

  “Fuck yeah. I want to marry her. But she lives in Paris, has a whole life there. Why the fuck would she want to live here?”

  “She’s getting older, maybe she wants to settle down. I’m sure she’s made plenty of money, could likely retire. She always did like the cherry farm as I recall. You ought to get on with the courting before another man snags her.”

  “You know damn well no man in this town will touch her. It would be a bloodbath.”

  Etta covers her mouth and gasps. “Rebel.”

  “What?” Sometimes I swear Etta knows something no one else does. She gets all fidgety over shit like this then clams up. “Christ. You think I could’ve killed ’em then taken Dick Kline’s millions? What the fuck would my motivation have been? Sure, they were idiots and always messing with Ruby, but she handled ’em.”

  “She?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  Etta stands, wringing her hands. “I hear the word bloodbath and I see that scene. Some scenes never leave your mind.”

  “I still don’t get why you were never questioned, since you’re the one who found them.”

  Her ghost-white skin sends a prickle across my scalp. She looks away and opens the screen door snail slow. The creaking metal sound of the spring camouflages her soft, low voice so much that I almost miss her words.

  “I have an alibi.” The door slams behind her.

  “What?” I yank the door open and follow her in. “Why have you never mentioned this?”

  “Doesn’t matter now.” With a trembling hand, she fills her sherry glass, lifts it to her mouth, and then empties it. “I will never speak of it again.”

  We don’t often talk about that summer. There was so much crazy wrapped into it. The kind of moments that, in time, you erase from your mind for fear they’ll haunt you. Looking back isn’t always the best route to the future. Hell, I’m not sure it’s a route to anywhere but grief. I say that and yet here I am, asking Ruby for a piece of the past. I have to know, because everything that happened that week was so out of character for her.

  “Hey.” I scoop Etta’s arm in mine.

  When our gazes meet, hers holds a terror-filled warning. One I’ve never seen.

  “I won’t bring it up again,” I tell her. “Promise.”

  She nods. “I’m going to read. Goodnight, son
.”

  “Turning in kind of early. What about dinner?”

  Etta says nothing as she saunters down the hall, enters her room, and closes the door behind her.

  What the hell was all that? Ruby Mae comes to town and shit gets weird. And damn, the can of worms hasn’t even begun to open. Maybe I ought to tell her what I did. Or maybe I’ll be patient and see if she’s still got the balls she once had to fess up. My guess is her balls are bigger than mine.

  I grab a second beer and walk to the barn in search of Rifle. Bubble’s pony spooks when I enter, her prance kicking up dust that dances in a stream of sunlight. Walking down the aisle, following a trail of clothes, I pick up a pink bra, lacy underwear, a tank top, and a skirt.

  “Rifle Field,” I say. It’s loud, certain to make the two of them jump as I knock on the tack room door. “Bubble Valentine. Get your naked asses dressed and out here. Clothes are outside the door. I’ll be on the porch.”

  After a few minutes, Rifle and Bubble stride toward the porch, both teens red-faced and hickey-kissed.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “I know you’re sixteen and horny as rabbits. I’ve been there. Just promise me you’re using protection.”

  “I’m um…on the pill,” Bubble says.

  “That’s good. Rifle, tell me you know better than to have sex without a condom regardless of how much you trust a woman? There are all kinds of diseases and shit that’ll make your dick fall off.”

  Rifle takes a giant step toward me, Bubble’s hand twined with his. “Dad, Jesus… Apologize to her.”

  I nod at Bubble, whose eyes are deer-in-headlights petrified and wide. “I meant no offense, Bubble. Do you understand the same goes for you? What if Rifle had some skank growing on his dick and now it’s in you?”

  Rifle clenches his teeth and scowls at me. “Dad? What the fuck?”

  I chuckle as I look them over. Fuck if it doesn’t take me back to high school. Me and Ruby messing around every quiet corner we could find.

  “Oh, you offended now too? Listen, son. If you’re man enough to have sex, you ought to be man enough to be honest with yourself and the woman you’re with.”