Olivia

by Donna Sturgeon

  “Oh.”

  “It would drive anybody crazy,” Clete said.

  “Yeah. Especially my dad.” Olivia nodded absentmindedly. “What were you in the hospital for?”

  “Nothing.” He looked past Olivia and said, “It was a long time ago and not a big deal.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A few years.”

  “If it was a long stay then it was a big deal. Were you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Car accident?”

  “No.”

  “You get shot or something?”

  When Clete didn’t answer she let out an “Oh!” of horror. Man, she felt like an idiot for suggesting he take a bullet for her. She wished she had a filter that could stop every moronic thing that popped into her head from spewing out of her mouth like diarrhea.

  “What happened?”

  “I took a bullet for some crazy girl.” He’d said it with a joking tone, but Olivia could tell he didn’t find it funny, and neither did she.

  “What really happened?” she asked.

  He shook his head a bit and shifted his eyes to look at her.

  “We got a call about a domestic disturbance, and when we got there, this guy was tweaking on meth, holding his sister hostage in their parents’ basement. Both of them were just kids. Teenagers. The parents weren’t home. There were about seven other teenagers down there, half of them high, but the brother was completely out of it, incoherent, screaming and ranting, waving a gun around. The girl was about fourteen years old, scared to death, cowering back deep in the corner. I tried to talk the guy down, tried to keep him distracted while my partner worked his way around the room to the girl. It all happened so fast… Shots were fired. I got hit. So did one of the other kids down in the basement. My partner lunged for the girl, and the brother turned the gun on himself… Two kids died that night. I got lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t call getting shot lucky.”

  “I’m not dead,” Clete said simply.

  Olivia placed her hand on top of Clete’s. She wanted to lean over the table and give him a hug, but he looked like even her touching his hand was too much, so she didn’t. But she didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull it away.

  “How could you stand to go back to work?” she asked. It was crazy because she barely knew the guy, but she worried about him. A lot. The idea of him out on the street, intentionally chasing down the evil that comprised her nightmares awakened a maternal instinct deep down inside her soul that she never knew she possessed. The guy was stout and strong, and could probably bench-press a rhinoceros, but she had this overwhelming desire to wrap him up in bubble wrap and cradle him safe against her breast. “Weren’t you scared?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “It was hard, but I love my job.”

  “But what about Allie?” Olivia asked.

  Clete ripped his hand away. “What about her?”

  Wow. She’d pushed a huge button with him on that one. “Don’t you worry how your job affects her?”

  “I do what I do because of Allie.”

  “But—”

  “End of discussion.”

  Clete pushed his chair back and wandered over to the jukebox to ensure the conversation ended, but Olivia wasn’t easily deterred. If she gave up every time someone wanted her to stop talking, she’d never utter another word again. She followed him and tried a different approach, one that she hoped would net the same result—that he would see the foolhardiness of his ways and find a safer, saner way to make a living.

  “Is your job the reason you and your wife got divorced?” she asked. It seemed like an obvious ‘yes’ to her. Batman was single for a reason, and Olivia was pretty certain it had to do with the danger-level of his job and not his skills in the bedroom. But, then again, he couldn’t dance worth a crap…

  “No,” he answered in a short bark and turned away from her.

  “Oh.” And here she’d thought she’d had him figured out.

  He looked at the clock on the wall and then toward the front door with longing. With a sigh, he turned to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

  “Seriously?”

  He shrugged.

  “I thought you didn’t want to dance with me.”

  “Not that crazy club dancing you and George were doing. Real dancing… like a grownup.”

  Olivia huffed. “George and I dance like grownups.”

  Clete simply smiled—a real smile this time—and slid a quarter into the jukebox. The song he selected was a slower, country song that Olivia didn’t recognize. He held out his hand and asked, “Olivia Hanson, may I have the honor of this dance with you?”

  “Uh… Ok?”

  She tentatively placed her hand into his, and then followed as he led her to the center of the room. She slipped into his arms and held him close, but he gently pushed her away and placed one of her hands on his shoulder and held her other hand in his.

  “This time, you follow my lead.”

  He danced her forward and backward, and side to side. He dipped her and spun her, smooth and sweet, in time to the music, without their bodies pressed together. He had rhythm. He had style and grace. Although she tripped over her own two feet and felt like a clumsy fool at first, midway through the song she learned the steps and was surprised to realize she was having a really good time. Clete was an amazing dancer.

  She had never willingly handed the lead over to someone else before, but with Clete it felt right to let him have control and just follow wherever he wanted to take her. He wasn’t aggressive about it, he didn’t demand it, and she had a feeling he would have handed the lead over to her if she wanted it, but she didn’t want it. He made her feel comfortable in his arms, secure in the same way George always made her feel.

  Clete kept his eyes on hers as they danced. The way he looked at her felt intimate and made her tummy flip a bit, but at the same time there was a detachment to it, as though he was looking through her to someone else who wasn’t there. It made her wonder who he was really dancing with—her or a memory. The longer they danced, the more Olivia had a feeling that whoever Clete’s memory-person was, she had experienced a side of him that he didn’t share with just anyone.

  She wanted to know the intimate Clete, the one he saved for that special someone. The way he held her, the way he elicited her trust in the gentle yet confident way he guided her across the floor, the artistic way his body moved with the music, the way he held her eyes and almost dared her to look away from him, all of it combined was all she needed to know he would make an exceptional, confident lover.

  She closed her eyes and focused on sensations. As she did, she felt the heat between them rise up through her body. They danced an inch or so apart, yet she could feel his hips moving with hers as tangibly as she would have had they been nestled together. The muscles in his shoulder were solid yet flexed fluid as he moved. She slipped her hand a bit further down his back so she could feel a little touch more of him. She wanted to keep going, fully explore the fluidity of his muscles in motion beneath her fingertips, but she didn’t dare. He wanted to keep the space between them, and that space was so beautifully, vibrantly, sexually charged she didn’t want to disturb it, for fear of erasing it from existence.

  When the song ended, he let her go and gave her a little bow and actually thanked her for the dance. She blushed from his formality and blushed from the experience, and blushed even deeper when George clapped. She’d had no idea he had been watching them from the hallway. It was crazy, but it felt like George had walked in on Olivia and Clete doing something a hell of a lot more intimate than dancing, and it made her blush deeper yet.

  “That was wonderful, Clete,” George said. “I didn’t know anyone would ever be able to get Olivia to dance like a normal person. Heaven knows I’ve tried.”

  “You have?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I gave up long ago.”

  “Why?” Olivia asked.

  “Because you’re too stu
bborn for one, and because I really like the way you dance,” George said with a wink.

  Olivia smiled. “You do, huh?”

  George smiled with the kind of smile that made her blush again. Good-ness! If she didn’t stop blushing soon her cheeks were gonna catch on fire!

  “Clete doesn’t like the way I dance,” Olivia teased.

  “It’s not for everybody,” George said. He turned to Clete. “You looked real good dancing with Olivia. You guys should dance another one.”

  “Maybe some other time,” Clete said quietly.

  He glanced over at George and looked away quickly in embarrassment. There was a sudden tension in the room that hadn’t been there before, and it perked up Olivia’s little antennae. She glanced at George to see if he picked up on it too, but he seemed oblivious.

  “Who’s hungry?” George asked and Olivia immediately raised her hand.

  “I should get going,” Clete said and made a dive for the door, but Olivia was faster and grabbed him before he could get away.

  “Stay for dinner. George is an exceptional cook.”

  “We could all go back to my place and I’ll make my famous spicy-chicken burritos and red beans and rice,” George offered.

  “I don’t know…” Clete wavered.

  “Or I could grill some stuffed Husker chops,” George said.

  “Or I could cook,” Olivia offered.

  “No!” George and Clete said in unison. What the hell?

  “I’ll have you know I’m a very good cook!” Olivia insisted, but George and Clete teamed up against her. Democracy ruled again, and she was out-voted. George would be cooking dinner.

  As the three of them made their way out of the bar, George threw his arm around Clete and buddied up to him, leaving Olivia to follow along behind them by herself, which was just fine with her. It gave her a chance to watch George’s ass… and Clete’s, too, for that matter. Hubba hubba.

  George drove Olivia to his place. Clete reluctantly followed in his cruiser. He didn’t seem to want to be there, but as the night wore on, the uncomfortable tension between the men seemed to dissolve, replaced by an easy-going camaraderie. Olivia stayed on the outside of their conversations, the quiet observer. She watched them talk and joke and laugh together, cook together and do dishes together. By the end of the evening, as she and George said goodnight to Clete and then closed the door and made their way to bed, she suddenly realized what had been percolating in the back of her brain since the very first day when she had met the police officer and he had refused her advances—Officer Cletus Wade was gay.

  Holy shit, Batman.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As much as she may have wanted to, Olivia didn’t have time to dwell on her discovery of Clete’s sexual orientation. The next two weeks were crazy-busy while she tried to figure out not only her life, but Eugene’s as well. The hospital wanted to keep him admitted until he was healthy enough to care for himself, but he kept escaping. After he ran away for the third time in as many days, they moved him to a long-term care facility with better security measures in place for containing wandering patients. But he kept wandering away from there as well. George offered to let him stay with Olivia at his apartment, but that lasted for all of ten minutes, and they only got as far as the parking lot.

  “Which one’s yours?” Eugene asked, craning his neck and looking up at the building through the windshield of George’s truck.

  George pointed and said, “Top floor, on the left.”

  Eugene re-buckled his seatbelt.

  “It’s a nice place, Eugene!” Olivia called out from the backseat. “It’s bright and clean and George has an extra bedroom.”

  Eugene said nothing as he reached into the pocket of his navy one-pocket tee and pulled out his pack of Camels. George sighed and rolled down his window and turned to Olivia.

  “Where now?”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia said in frustration.

  They tried sticking him with Izzie, tempting him with the added bonus that he would be reunited with Chester, but Melanie and her kids were still without Section Eight housing and running amuck throughout Izzie’s house. Ten minutes of constant noise and activity was too much for Eugene. They loaded him back into the truck before he had another heart attack, and drove around Juliette while they tried to figure out what to do.

  If not for Mitch, Olivia would have simply moved in with Eugene in his trailer and watched over him herself. She’d lived with him for the first nineteen years of her life, and she could do it again if she had to. But George refused to allow Olivia out of his sight until the police tracked Mitch down and hauled his ass off to jail. He offered to move into the trailer with them, but it was impossible.

  The trailer was small and stuffed to the gills with parts and bits and pieces of appliances and electronics. There was barely enough room for Eugene, let alone guests. Olivia’s old room was big enough for a twin bed, but pretty much nothing else. Although it sounded appealing to sleep on top of George every night, in reality it wasn’t something either of them would want to do. Some nights, like the ones where he snored or the ones where she ate something garlicky, his king-size bed wasn’t big enough for the both of them, and one of them ended up sleeping on the couch. There wasn’t a couch in Eugene’s house, just two chairs—one that reclined and one that didn’t—and the one that reclined smelled like Chester.

  Besides, Eugene was a man of consistency and routine. Any little change threw him out of whack and sent him walking. George moving in would be a change of ginormous proportions. Olivia was at her wit’s end and ready to let him try living on his own again, when they stopped at the Get ‘n Go. She left Eugene and George in the truck and ran inside to stock up on smokes for both herself and Eugene and stare longingly at the liquor aisle. She wanted it all, every last bottle.

  “Holy crap, Liv! I thought you fell off the face of the earth!”

  Olivia turned around from where she was standing at the registers and watched as Carla came up behind her, juggling three boxes of cheap wine and an overcooked hotdog from the rotating warmers in the corner of the store.

  “No, just feels that way,” Olivia said. She handed her money over to the cashier—correction—she handed over George’s money. Olivia had no money. Hers had run out the week before.

  “Where you been?” Carla asked.

  “Oh… around.” Olivia collected her change and waited as the cashier tossed two packs of Reds and six packs of Camels into the paper grocery bag that already contained two bags of Cheez Doodles and four twenty-ounce Cokes in it. It was enough to get Eugene through the night—wherever they ended up dumping him off at.

  “Sam’s fit to be tied.” Carla hefted her wine up onto the counter next to Olivia’s bag. She turned her attention to the cashier and said, “Give me ten ‘Lucky Sevens’ and a coupla’ those new ten dollar ones.”

  The majority of Carla’s weekly paycheck went to scratch-off lottery tickets. If she was feeling lucky, she’d go to Council Bluffs and blow it nickel-by-nickel in the slot machines. The rest of it went to Saturday-morning garage sales, boxed wine, and the occasional auction. With no kids and no husband to support, Carla should’ve been swimming in dough, but she was broke. Olivia should’ve been swimming, too, but whereas Carla’s drugs of choice were cheap wine, the lotto and other people’s crap, Olivia’s were nicotine, booze and iTunes cards. They were both hopeless.

  “Do I still have a job?” Olivia asked.

  “Yeah, but only because Stephie got promoted to the day shift up in the offices.”

  “How’d she manage that?”

  Carla shrugged. “From what I hear she started sleeping with Roy.”

  “Eww,” Olivia said with a wrinkle of her nose. Roy was sixty, fat, and tended to sweat profusely. He was as sleazy as a salesman could get, and so butt-ugly they only let him do inside-sales. He scared the customers whenever he met them face-to-face. But, even stuck in the office, he outperformed all the other salesmen combined.


  Roy had made the company so much money over the years Old Man Garretson had taken to calling him “Son.” Roy could weasel anything he wanted from the geezer. Stephie must have considered screwing Roy to get to the top easier and more appealing than screwing the old man himself, but Olivia didn't see how.

  “Is Yvette plotting my murder?” Olivia asked. Not that she cared.

  “Why would she?”

  “Because of me and George.”

  “What about you and George?” Carla left her wine on the counter and walked over to the machine that checks lottery tickets. She sorted them from low to high, and then started scanning the barcodes on the back without bothering to scratch the front. She didn't care about playing the games, just winning the money.

  “We’re together,” Olivia said.

  “So?”

  “So Yvette and George were still dating when me and George got together,” Olivia said. Duh.

  “What about you and Mitch?” Carla asked.

  “He burned my fucking trailer to the ground,” Olivia said. “And my car, too.”

  “Huh.” Carla checked another ticket. “That sucks.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Well, all I know is Yvette and Sam have been screwing in the warehouse for awhile now,” Carla said with a shrug. “I don't think she cares about monogamy.”

  “Monoga-who?” Olivia asked. Yvette and Sam? Will wonders never cease?

  “Monogamy. You know, dating one person at a time,” Carla said. She scanned the last of the tickets and threw the losers in the trash then headed back to the counter with the winners.

  Olivia tagged along. “Well, whatever. George never liked Yvette anyways.”

  “She didn’t like him, either. Said he was a terrible lay.”

  “No, he’s not!” George was a marvelous lay. Just thinking about how fabulous he was made her want to dump Eugene on the nearest street corner so she could rip off George’s clothes and have her way with him… Now there’s an idea! Maybe she could find Alma’s street corner and unload Eugene on her…

  “Well, that’s what Izzie said she said. She said Yvette said he couldn’t get it up.”