Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  After we eat, Dylan stays to peruse the aisles with me, carrying the basket that is growing extremely heavy with all the items he thinks I must have.

  “You have me mistaken for someone who cooks.” I look at the homemade sausages and eggplants he has put in the basket. “I’m good with apples and instant ramen noodles.”

  “Don’t let Harvey hear you say that. He doesn’t stock ramen or instant anything.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to cook eggplant.”

  “I do. These are from local farms. It’s the best produce. We also have a local couple that makes artisanal sausages and cheeses. You’re from the city; I thought you’d have refined tastes.”

  “I was raised on Ding Dongs and baloney sandwiches. Don’t get me wrong, my parents eat out constantly at all the best places, but at home, they wouldn’t know how to work an Easy Bake Oven. I know that because I actually received an Easy Bake Oven for one of my birthdays and my mother had no clue how to operate it.”

  “You’re cute.” Dylan laughs and shoves more items into the basket. “I’m going to cook for you.”

  “What makes you such a good cook?”

  “No parents, but I had nice women who offered to feed us. I watched them cook and picked up a few skills.” His face doesn’t register any grief or the wish to expand on his comment. I regret asking something that would bring up his sad childhood; however, it doesn’t seem to bother Dylan.

  He takes my hand and leads me back to the front register. When I reach for my credit card, he stops my hand. “I’ve got this.”

  “Why? It’s my food.”

  “I’ve overloaded your basket. I’m cooking for you.”

  Dylan collects the three burlap shopping bags that Harvey packs my groceries in. Yes, The General Store is eco-friendly and makes you purchase and carry re-useable bags, unless you bring your own. I’m racking up my commitments to Hera after less than a week.

  He puts everything on the floor on my passenger side and then comes back to my side of the car and leans in the driver’s side window. Dylan is so tall that he has to bend really far over to face me in the window of the small car.

  “Tonight,” he says. “What’s a good time for you? Five? Six?”

  “Six is fine,” I say a little excited. I may have some doubts about the Blackard brothers, but this insistent one knows how to turn the dial up to thrill.

  He kisses me slowly and I reciprocate. It’s too easy to respond the way he wants. After a minute, we end it, though Dylan brushes his lips against the side of my face.

  “Does everyone know about us?” I ask.

  “I hope so.” He looks as delighted as ever with our public kiss. “I’ve been making it a point to tell everyone about you.”

  I have no doubt that he has been referring to me in a possessive way with every resident in Hera he knows. Plus, knowing Dylan, he’s probably on a first name basis with all nine hundred eighty-four residents.

  Fourteen

  When I return to the house, the big, black monster truck is in my driveway. Carson. I had no idea he’d be back today to work on one of his projects for Aunt Virginia, or, now me. He didn’t bother to say hello to me at the shop, so I figured he’d had enough of me. I drive on the other side of his vehicle and park in front of the garage so I can unload my groceries. As I walk around to the passenger side and open the door, Carson is already taking long strides to my car with Bert jogging alongside him.

  “Let me help.” He grabs all three burlap bags in one hand and closes the door with his free hand.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here today,” I say, following him back to the house.

  “I’m fixing the kitchen pipe. I noticed it leaking the other day. I brought a replacement. It will only take a few minutes to fix and then I’ll be out of your way.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m going to be in the library working for the rest of the day.”

  In the kitchen I put away the groceries while Carson gets back to work. He wedges his big frame under the kitchen sink and takes a wrench to the leaky pipe.

  “Shit!” Carson slides out from under the sink with the decayed pipe in one hand and wet, black gunk splattered across his chest. He puts the broken pipe on a paper towel spread on the floor then he takes off his T-shirt to remove the offending grime.

  I am completely captivated by his splendidly buff physique. His muscles and rippling abs up close cause me to lose my voice and any rational thought. I fold and re-fold the burlap bags, trying to play it cool as if I’m used to handymen stripping down in front of me. This always happens to single chicks in New York.

  Carson balls up the dirty T-shirt and puts it on the floor. “Will you hand me the new piece there?” He points to the shiny, curved pipe on the counter near me.

  Speechless, I grab the pipe and hand it to him. Our eyes lock as we both grip the pipe at the same time. The seconds pass quicker than I want, but long enough for me to realize there’s an attraction between us. Either that or I’m an idiot. I decide I am indeed a delusional idiot.

  Carson ducks back under the sink and installs the new hardware while I watch the rise and fall of his chest and follow the path of his bare skin down to the top edge of his jeans which have inched below the rim of his underwear. I sigh a little too loudly as Carson climbs back out of the cupboard and he looks at me with amusement.

  “Kitchen plumbing exciting to watch?”

  “Huh, not at all. I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I mumble and head back upstairs to the library.

  After a couple hours of programming that includes finally finding and fixing the bug that was driving me and my team crazy, I take a breather and peruse the Internet. I do a search on Blackard Designs and find more than a dozen articles on Carson, the furniture, their retailers along with interviews in Dwell, Elle Décor and Architectural Digest. There are a few photos of Carson posing with some of the furniture and at work in the shop. He’s wearing jeans and T-shirts in all of them and in some he’s covered in sawdust or hasn’t removed his dirty work gloves.

  I like that he doesn’t primp and get cleaned up for the photo shoots. I can imagine him telling the photographer to get on with it and take his photo as is. Perhaps it’s his indifference to others’ opinions that I admire. I spent too many years worrying about fitting in, while Carson spent those years worrying about his brother and their general survival. I hear clomping on the stairs and quickly close the screen window on the image of Carson Blackard.

  I swivel around in my chair as Carson enters the room and drops onto the couch in a casual slouch. Damn, he has a new T-shirt on. He must keep extra clothing in his truck for these types of mishaps.

  Carson rests his arms across the back of the couch and stretches out his long legs, crossing his clunky work boots at the ankle. Bert comes in and jumps up on the couch, snuggling into Carson who picks up a magazine from the coffee table and flips through with disinterest.

  “May I help you?” I ask, observing his confidence at making himself comfortable in my new work place. “I thought you left a while ago.”

  “Nope. I figured that since you were up here, I could finish the kitchen measurements and then I ordered the new appliances. Nice, huh? I’m just waiting for dinner.”

  “Oh. Um. I’m not cooking. I mean, Dylan is coming over to make dinner for me.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much. I saw the eggplant and sausage.” Carson laughs. “That guy can cook and eat. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” This is a side of Carson I haven’t seen; cocky and taking great liberties. I assume this is to piss off Dylan. Whatever is going on between them, I’m being left in the dark, or rather, bounced around between them.

  “I don’t mind.” I really don’t mind, either. Carson’s sporadic coldness is somewhat attractive. Isn’t that the mistake women always make with men; they seek out the sexy, inattentive ones that are bound to be troubling disappointments? I could tell him that I plan to dine alone with Dylan, but I don’t and Carson seems to be comple
tely aware of this.

  Dylan’s reaction is evident. I’m at the end of the hall in the kitchen doorway when Carson answers the door and Dylan’s face drops. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Hi, brother,” Carson greets him with a smugness in his voice. “I was working on the kitchen and thought I’d stay for dinner. I see you’re making your eggplant parm. Wouldn’t want to miss that.” He holds the door open for Dylan who storms through with two bottles of wine in each hand.

  “Oh, fuck you,” Dylan snaps and head towards me. He kisses me on the cheek. “Hi. So we’ve got company.” He shakes his head at me.

  “Here, let me open the wine.” Carson squeezes between Dylan and me, grabbing the bottles. “You cook. Jess and I will drink this fine vino you’ve brought us.”

  “I didn’t bring it for you,” Dylan counters.

  Carson studies the wine label and raises his eyebrows. “You’ve dropped an impressive little bundle on these two gems. Can’t wait to drink it.”

  Dylan ignores him and makes his way into the kitchen where he begins to pull items out of the fridge along with pots and pans from the cupboards. I’m caught in the middle of some brotherly dynamic that is foreign to me, so I stay out of it and keep quiet.

  Carson uncorks a bottle of wine with a switchblade he pulls out of his pocket. I don’t know whether to be unnerved or impressed that he carries a knife and knows how to open a bottle of wine with it. He makes one slice around the seal, thuds the base of the bottle against one of the vertical beams along the wall and then pulls the cork out with his teeth. I’ve never seen anything like it. He looks even sexier merely by doing that little move. His hands are full with the bottle in one hand and the knife and cork in the other, so he pulls a kitchen chair out with his foot.

  “Have a seat, milady, and join me in a glass of the grape,” he mimics a thick Scottish brogue.

  “Oh, please,” Dylan says over his shoulder as he slams pans on the range.

  I laugh and sit down. Carson smiles at me and pours a tiny amount of the wine into a juice glass for me. I take a little sip and nod approvingly. I know nothing about wine.

  “Mm,” Carson hums after a sip. “This is too good not to decant.”

  As he leaves the kitchen, Dylan turns to me. “You can ask him to leave.”

  “That would be rude, Dylan. Carson has been working all afternoon on my house.”

  Dylan shakes his head as he resumes his chopping and cooking. Carson returns with a wine decanter and crystal wine glasses. “Just so you know, Gin keeps these in the buffet in the dining room.”

  “I don’t even know how to use a decanter,” I answer.

  “It allows the wine to breathe.” He pours the wine into the decanter and then takes the chair right next to mine, which means Dylan will have to sit across the table from us. “This is fun,” Carson deadpans.

  “It’s interesting,” I comment.

  He fills a small amount into our wine glasses. “Cheers.”

  I gently tap my glass to his and we drink.

  “You need to pour a glass for Dylan,” I tell him.

  “Right, keep the cook happy.” Carson fills another wine glass and puts it on the counter for Dylan.

  The food is delicious, however, the company is tense. Carson is the most talkative I’ve ever seen him, telling me stories about his company and enjoying an audience. Dylan responds with terse comments when Carson engages him.

  “Dylan, your cooking is superb,” I compliment, noticing that Carson doesn’t thank him. “Thank you for taking me shopping and making this wonderful meal.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dylan says, “Milady.” He smiles at me from across the table.

  “Good grub, brother,” Carson interjects.

  Dylan grunts an acknowledgement from him.

  I am full from the rich food and cannot finish half the plate. Carson keeps refilling my wine glass so I’m woozy. I put my napkin on my plate and push it away. “I’m done,” I announce. “So are we going to talk about the elephant that’s sitting at this table with us?”

  Carson and Dylan both look at me. I turn to Carson who stares at me and settles back in his chair with his arm across the back of mine; a blatantly territorial move I would expect from Dylan, not Carson.

  “Oh, come on,” I say to Carson. “You’re going to play dumb now? What’s going on here? It’s obvious you’ve been taunting Dylan and you’re using me as the bait.”

  Carson doesn’t say anything, so I look at Dylan for a response. He says nothing also, simply keeps shoveling food—his third helping—into his mouth.

  “Okay, how about this? It’s my house, my rules. Tell me what the hell is going on between you two because it’s like watching a tennis match without a ball. You guys are lobbing jabs at each other and I want to know why.”

  “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, Jess,” Dylan says. “Brothers fight. It’s no big deal.”

  “No, she’s right,” Carson says. “I’ve decided that it’s time for me to stop hovering over Dylan. I’m not his parent.”

  “Then why are you here,” Dylan hisses.

  “I like hanging out with Jess.”

  “Hah!” I scoff. “Two can play at this game of sarcasm. You’re as believable as a…” I go blank. I’m usually good at rattling off comebacks, must be the wine.

  “I’m not being sarcastic and this isn’t a game.” Carson finishes his glass of wine. We’ve polished off two bottles between the three of us. I’m drunk and they’re sober as well as angry. “I forgot to mention, Lois is having a party in a couple of weeks and wanted me to invite you,” Carson continues, changing the subject. “She said she left a message on that antique answering machine over there, but you must have forgotten to check it.”

  “I did forget,” I admit.

  “I saw her before I came out here,” Carson says.

  Dylan watches Carson with hard, cold eyes.

  “That’s sounds like fun,” I say.

  “Good. You want to go with me?” Carson asks.

  Fifteen

  In a fury of flying limbs and dishes, Dylan overturns the table and slams against Carson. However, Carson is faster, stronger and more adept at combat maneuvers. He blocks Dylan’s swings and manages to flip him over, throwing him to the ground. Carson has Dylan pinned with his arms secured behind his back underneath Carson’s weight.

  I have never witnessed an actual fight, so I just stand there with the table and food upturned at my feet.

  “Do you want to rethink this one, Dylan?” Carson growls into his ear.

  “Get the fuck off me!” Dylan yells. Dylan’s pupils dilate. He looks angry and fearful at the same time.

  A panic rises in me and all I can think of doing is getting as far away from them as possible. How could these two nice people, brothers, be so violent with each other? I turn and run. I run down the hall and out the front door. I fly down the porch steps and turn towards the garage.

  Imogene told me the other day about Barron’s Creek—a nature walk people take—and the trail runs by my house. She said that if I went beyond the garage I would see the opening for the dirt trail. The sun hasn’t set completely, so there’s still enough light for me to see. Bert is at my heels, panting and trying to keep up. He stops abruptly when I find the opening to the trail where the grass ends and the forest begins.

  I turn to him. “If you’re coming with me, let’s go!” He sits and stays in place. “Fine. Stay with the lunatics.”

  I take the trail and keep running. The rubber flip-flops don’t provide any traction on the rocky path, so I slow to a jog and keep going, watching the trees break the light of the setting sun. After about ten minutes, I slow to a walk and breathe heavily. The panic hasn’t left me; I’m shaking as the mosquitoes now begin descending on my uncovered legs and arms. I swat them away and realize I’m fully alert, there’s no trace of the haziness left by the wine.

  The sound of a babbling brook becomes more distinct
and then I see the wooden footbridge Imogene told me to look for. It’s long. First it runs alongside the creek and then angles across the water to the other side. I step on the bridge when I hear my name being called.

  “Jessica!” It’s either Dylan or Carson, but from this distance I cannot decipher which man it belongs to.

  I walk to the center of the bridge and debate with continuing on the trail, yet I don’t know where it leads and I don’t want to get lost in these unknown woods at night. I lean over the railing and take long, slow, deep breaths. “Sixty Million, Forty Million, Seventy Million.” I repeat numbers over and over to myself. The water is about five feet below the bridge and runs shallow over rocks and tree limbs.

  “Jessica!” the voice shouts. He is at the entrance to the footbridge. I look up, trying to discern if it’s Carson or Dylan. I cannot tell, but the voice is deep, so I’m guessing it’s Carson. If I keep running in the other direction, I won’t know where to go and he’d only follow me, so I stay where I am as the figure jogs towards me. In the fog of twilight I see that it is, indeed, Carson. I feel the vibration from his boots pounding on the bridge and in a few long strides he is by my side.

  “Are you okay?” His concern and thoughtful expression seem sincere and far removed from the beast I saw in the kitchen.

  “Please leave me alone.” I keep my voice even.

  “I’d never hurt you.”

  “I don’t want to be a part of this. Whatever is going on between you and Dylan, it’s not for me.”

  He comes close enough to put one hand on the railing in front of me and his other hand on the back of my neck. I flinch away and he looks startled.

  “I didn’t hurt Dylan. Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t understand what that was all about,” I say angrily. “You knew Dylan and I were having dinner together and you showed up to goad him. You were cruel.”

  “You need to see Dylan for what he really is.”