Victim Of Circumstance

by Freya Barker

  Mom had come back from New Jersey almost a month ago with a persistent cold she can’t seem to get rid of.

  “Goulash? Gosh, I could go for a bowl of that right now. I’m doing a little better. I ended up going to my book club with Betty last night. It was nice to get out for a bit.”

  Betty is Mom’s longtime friend, as well as a neighbor in their apartment building. She lost her husband young and when my dad died, she moved into a condo just three doors down from Mom to be closer to her. The two are thick as thieves, and it’s peace of mind for me to know Mom always has someone nearby in an emergency.

  “I’m glad you went. As for the goulash, I’m cooking a massive amount; I can easily freeze some for you. I’ll bring it down next week when we see Dr. Tracey.”

  “About that; Betty offered to take me if you’re busy.”

  My mother doesn’t drive. Never has. Betty does, so the two get their groceries together, but I’ve always driven down for any appointments Mom has.

  “Not at all. Unless you prefer I don’t come see you?” I tease her, eliciting the immediate protest I expected.

  “Oh, that’s not what I mean. I just hate to have you come down just for a regular physical.”

  “Not coming down just for that, Mom. I missed out on spending time with you at Paige’s because of that thing with Shirley. We’ll do something fun after the appointment. Maybe grab lunch and a movie?”

  I wedge the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I dump the mushrooms, onions, and peppers in my Dutch oven. I already fried up the cubed beef and scooped it out on a plate. I’ll combine it all, once the veggies are sautéed, and add some stock before it can simmer for a couple of hours.

  “That sounds like a plan. So…” She drags the single syllable and I just know she’s about to pry. “Cooking a massive amount, huh? Expecting guests?”

  I swear the woman has a sixth sense. Ever since Rick died, she’s been hopeful I’d get married again. I almost did, eight years ago, when Paige was still in high school. A local farmer, Andrew VanGuard, who’d also been relatively ‘new’ to Beaverton, had asked me after we’d casually dated for maybe a year. We clearly had different expectations. Casual was all I was in the market to offer, and I hated having to disappoint him.

  Mom had been heartbroken to see her dream for me thwarted, but Dad had still been alive and he’d jumped to my defense. Dad just wanted me happy and I think he suspected my marriage to Rick had not been as perfect as my mother always viewed it.

  That’s why I’m hesitant telling her about Gray, because I’m afraid she’ll build it up into something it isn’t. At least not at this point in time. Still, I find myself wanting to share.

  “I have a friend coming over for dinner.”

  “Oh?” She doesn’t even hide her excitement.

  “Mom—a friend,” I emphasize. “Actually, it’s a funny story…”

  I proceed to tell her how we bumped into each other at the memorial and I spotted him on the same flight out the next day. Then I told her about my Mazda breaking down, and of course she immediately offered money so I could buy a new one before I had a chance to mention I already had one.

  Thanks to the years Dad put in with General Motors, Mom is left with a decent pension and a good return on some of their investments. It doesn’t mean she has to spend it on me.

  It takes me ten minutes to convince her I’m fine, I purchased a good car with money I’d set aside for it. Then I mention how Gray had been instrumental in that, and how I’m thanking him with dinner.

  Sadly it does little to curb my mother’s romantic fantasies for me. In fact, I think it only encourages her.

  “Mom, I should get going,” I finally say. “I’ll pick you up next Wednesday at ten, okay?”

  “Yes, of course. You probably need to change. Put a nice dress on or something.” I roll my eyes and try to hold back the exasperated sigh, but it’s like she can hear me anyway. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to look pretty, Robin.”

  “I know, Mom. I promise I’ll brush my hair.”

  “Oh, I was going to mention that and I almost forgot; you may want to dye your hair, you’re getting quite gray I noticed.”

  My mother has a standing appointment at the hairdresser, every four weeks, when she gets her hair meticulously dyed the same chestnut color she’s had as long as I can remember. Not a single silver hair visible. She’s been on my case ever since my first gray, not understanding why I don’t want to hide them.

  “Mom, I don’t want to dye my hair. It is what it is and I actually quite like it.”

  “But you’re still so young.”

  “I know, Mom,” I give in. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever give up on this, and it’s useless arguing the same subject expecting a different outcome. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this topic, okay? I really have to go.”

  “Of course. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom. See you Wednesday.”

  After adding the beef back in the pot, topping it off with broth, and covering it with a lid, I slide it into the oven where it’ll simmer until soft. A quick peek at the clock shows it’s already after five when I’m done peeling the potatoes and I put them on the burner, before rushing to my bedroom to get cleaned up.

  I’m just running a brush through my hair when I hear the knock.

  He looks freshly showered and a little lost when I open my door and when he catches sight of me, his eyes widen in appreciation.

  I’m wearing the only dress I own.

  Mom would be happy.

  Gray

  I thought I may have gone overboard bringing a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine—and I sure felt scrutinized carrying both to the cashier on my way here.

  Looking at Robin wearing a dress, I don’t feel as foolish anymore. Clearly I’m not the only one trying to make a good first impression. She looks gorgeous, her full curves on display in the retro dress. I try hard not to linger on her cleavage, where I’d love to bury my face.

  “Hey,” she says softly. “Come in.”

  “Hi.” I step inside and shove bottle and box unceremoniously in her hands.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she protests.

  “Yeah, I did. Haven’t had a proper home-cooked meal in almost two decades,” I find myself admitting to.

  Where the fuck did that come from? What is it about this woman that has me spilling my guts every chance I get? I almost turn on my heel and beeline it back out the door, but she firmly closes it, grabs my arm, and steers me into a small, but warm and cozy living room.

  “I’m glad you let me cook for you then,” she says simply. “Have a seat. I’ll check on dinner and grab us something to drink, what would you like?”

  “Water is fine.”

  “No wine?”

  “Better stick to water.”

  I barely keep myself from telling her I haven’t had a drink in as many years either. I sit down at the end of a dark gray sectional couch, and take in as much as I can of my surroundings without appearing like I’m scanning the place. A modest TV is hanging over the mantel, and a collection of framed pictures sits underneath. I’m curious and want to take a closer look but stay seated.

  The living room flows into the dining room toward the back of the house, and the kitchen opens up to that, forming an L-shaped living space. When I walked into the small entrance, I noted a hallway leading toward the back with what I assume are bedrooms and bathroom off to the other side.

  I see her walk into the dining room with two glasses and a pitcher of water, which she sets in the middle of the table.

  “It’ll just be a few minutes,” she says, smiling in my direction.

  I shoot to my feet as if only now remembering my manners.

  “Anything I can do?” I call out, having lost sight of her in the kitchen.

  “No, I’m just—Fuck! Ouch!” I hear her swear and I rush around the corner, seeing her bent over the sink.

  “What happened?
”

  I’m already crowding behind her, looking over her shoulder.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just clumsy.”

  I notice she’s holding one hand with the other and a pot of half-drained potatoes sitting in the sink. Reaching around her, I fish the pot from the sink, set it on the cutting board on the counter. Then I turn on the cold tap, take a firm hold of her hand, and guide it under the stream of water.

  She hisses sharply and I try not to notice how her back seems to fit effortlessly against my front. Too late I realize my dick—hard as a rock since she opened her door—is notably pressed against her soft ass. In addition my nose is almost touching her hair, I can smell what I assume is her shampoo, which isn’t helping my condition.

  “I think I’m okay now,” she finally says in a raspy voice, as she pulls her hand back. I immediately step out of the way.

  “Here, let me do this.” I take the pan she reaches for and finish draining it.

  “Thanks. I just need to get the goulash from the oven and then we can eat.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, I’ll get the food on the table,” I offer, easing her aside. “Smells amazing.”

  “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

  She’s pouring water in our glasses as I set the pots on the table.

  “Is this okay?” I ask her.

  “It’s fine. As long as you don’t mind eating from the pot.”

  I chuckle at that. If only she knew.

  “It’s the only way I know.”

  The food is amazing and I’m tempted to undo the button on my new jeans after I’ve cleaned my third helping. The conversation has safely circled around books again, and we’ve discovered neither of us are fans of movies based on books. We agree too much is lost in the transition from paper to screen, but then she asks a question that makes it personal.

  “Have you seen any of the movies based on the events of 9/11?” She notes my sudden silence and quickly adds. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

  “You’re not, and I haven’t. I avoid those.”

  “I understand. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  She immediately gets up and starts clearing the dishes.

  The mood seems to have shifted and it doesn’t sit well with me. What I like best about Robin is the fact she is what she is, no more and no less. It’s my fault she tenses up and tiptoes around me.

  “Robin…” I cover her hand with mine when she reaches to take my plate. When I look up at her I notice how close her face is to mine. “I lost my little sister that day.”

  Immediately her eyes well and her free hand lifts to my face in a gesture of comfort I haven’t felt in so long. I can’t help but lean into her touch and watch as her lips form words.

  “Oh, Gray, I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Eight

  Robin

  “She worked as a waitress at Windows on the World.”

  I sit down on the chair beside him, putting a hand on his leg and he covers it with his. His eyes are fixed on them.

  “What was her name?” I ask gently.

  “Reagan.” He opens his mouth, as if to say more, but then closes it again, studying our hands as he slides his fingers around my wrist.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” I offer gently, turning my palm against his and twining our fingers.

  “And you?” he asks.

  I know what he means, but I’m hesitant to give him the answer. I’m afraid the moment I tell him, he’ll shut down and I’ll have lost the tenuous bond we seem to be forging. I suddenly feel guilty for all the years I’ve gone to the memorial. While I spent time with others grieving over the collective loss, I silently celebrated my freedom. All those lives changed in devastating ways, while for me it meant a new beginning.

  It’s the reason I go back alone every year—keep distant from the crowds as much as I can. I come to remind myself to be grateful for the life I’ve made; yet the last thing I want is to offend those who continue to suffer with their loss.

  “You don’t need to—”

  “My husband. Paige’s father.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice deep and soothing as his thumb strokes the back of my hand.

  It’s a comfort I don’t deserve.

  Maybe that’s what has me blurt out the truth.

  “Don’t be. I’m not.”

  I see I’ve shocked him with my declaration. I automatically withdraw my hand from his, but he grabs on at the last second.

  “He beat you?” The words come out as a growl.

  I’m surprised he immediately goes there, it seems like quite a jump to make.

  “God no,” I clarify quickly. “That might’ve left marks.”

  I notice his flinch and I immediately press my lips shut. I can’t believe I’ve shared as much as I have. Most people know I lost Rick in the attacks on 9/11, but not even my mother knows what my life had been like leading up to that day.

  Shame burns itself on my cheeks and I abruptly stand up from the table, grabbing his plate and walking into the kitchen. I hear his footsteps behind me, but don’t stop rinsing the dishes in the sink. When I turn he’s only a step away, looking down on me.

  “I watched you,” he says, his eyes on my mouth, “from across the pond. You looked like light and hope, with your face lifted up to the sun. Something drew me to you and my feet were moving before I realized it.” He reaches his hand to my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “You have a very expressive face. It doesn’t lie.”

  “Gray…”

  His name slides out on a breath. I barely recognize my own voice, my own feelings. This man has me open up doors I’ve had locked tight for so many years. The light brush of his thumb on my skin does more for me than sex with any other man I’ve ever been intimate with. The need to open myself up, share my deepest, darkest secrets is as terrifying as it is liberating, but for now fear holds out.

  So I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his.

  This isn’t me—so forward and claiming—and yet it is.

  I feel him freeze under hands I slide up his chest and loop around his neck, pulling him farther down. I tilt my head slightly for a better fit and lick my tongue along the seam of his still lips. It’s as if his body jolts against mine and suddenly comes alive. An arm slips around my waist, his hand spreading over the small of my back, fingers pressing into the slope of my ass, as he pushes me into his hips. There is no mistaking the hard evidence of my effect on him pressing into my belly. His other hand slides up my spine and tangles almost painfully in my hair, grabbing a fistful as he slants his open mouth over mine.

  The kiss is that of a starving man; hungry and voracious as he feasts, stealing my will and my breath. I go limp in his arms at the overwhelming onslaught of emotion and sensation, but his bruising grip on me holds me in place.

  The next moment I’m suddenly released, panting as I reach for the counter behind me for stability when Gray takes a sudden step back, his hand running through his hair.

  “I’m…did I hurt you?”

  He sounds tortured and I instinctively reach for him, grabbing onto his arm.

  “No. No, not at all. You just…that was intense,” I ramble, much like my thoughts.

  “It’s just…” He seems to be no better off forming coherent sentences, which makes me feel a little better. Until I almost see a firm resolve slide into place as his features smooth into an impassive mask. “I should go. Dinner was wonderful. Thank you.”

  His back ramrod straight, he stalks in the direction of the front door and I scramble to keep up with him.

  “Gray…” I start when he’s already pulling the front door open.

  “Thanks again,” he says, before he slips outside and pulls the door firmly closed behind him.

  I’m not sure how long I’m standing there with my mouth open, wondering what the fuck just happened. Then I move, locking the door and turning off lights. I head straight for bed where I lie awake for hour
s, more than a little confused and—frankly—hurt.

  Gray

  “Late night?” Jimmy asks when he catches me yawning again.

  More like an early morning for the third time in a row, but who’s counting?

  Fuck, with every night since I almost mauled Robin in her kitchen my anxiety has gone up. I lost control, something I cannot afford to do. God, the feel of her soft body pressed up against me, willing and pliant. If I hadn’t pulled away when I did, she would’ve ended up on the floor with me ripping at her clothes.

  There’s a reason I haven’t looked for easy pussy since I got out a little over three months ago. A reason after eighteen years, with just my hand for company, that’s still the only way to relief I allow myself. The reason I landed in there was my out of control rage. It cost a life. Hell, it cost me most of my life.

  I’m afraid of the damage I could do if I’m unable to rein in my emotions. Afraid to hurt, and maybe be hurt.

  Something happens when you spend most of your days with pain, fears, needs, and regrets as your only company. You push them down and a thin layer of veneer forms, like a film of dust, growing as time passes. You welcome each layer of reinforcement until it becomes an impenetrable shield, protecting not just you, but everyone around you.

  Until I met Robin.

  From the first time I laid eyes on her, she managed to rub my resistance thin without even trying. Then when she kissed me, stroked her fingers through my hair as her tongue demanded entry, she broke right through.

  I can’t let that happen again.

  “Yeah,” I finally answer Jimmy. “Just restless.”

  “Mmm,” he hums, eyeing me carefully. “Maybe you need a little distraction? Snow is expected for next week so the guys and I are going for a ride up to Lake Huron Beach this weekend. Staying over for a night and then back home the next day.”

  I hung out with him and his biker buddies in Kalamazoo a couple of weeks ago. I like them. Pretty much straightforward guys I didn’t mind spending time with. There’s only one problem.

  “Bike’s not done.”