by Kade, Teagan
“When my grandparents passed, it finally felt like my life was in order, you know? I wanted to burn that house down, forget the past, but Dean and Deric convinced me it would be smarter to go through their things first and then sell it given it’s my only inheritance, that I more than deserve it for all they put me through.”
The silence is deafening when I finish. I’ve never told anyone these things. This is a first on more than one level, but I’m so comfortable with Lexi. It’s like it’s Dean or Deric sitting beside me… albeit with breasts and a tight ass instead of a big, goofy, shit-eating grin. I thought if I ever told anyone about my life I’d feel open and exposed, and I do, but there’s freedom in it too, a release that’s close to euphoric.
“I can’t believe I’ve been talking about myself for the last ten minutes,” I confess.
“I like it,” says Lexi. “I like the sound of your voice.”
I look back up to the stars and swear I’ve never felt this secure or satisfied before.
Fucking beautiful.
*
The house is painfully quiet when Lexi leaves. I don’t know how I stood it before.
I’ve got no tours booked today and no reason to be down at the Den. Lexi’s got a meeting at lunch, so the usual midday quickie is out. After talking with her last night, I decide to head back over to my grandparents’ place and continue going through their things. There’s no point holding off, no good reason to draw it out.
It’s still dusty inside, beams of sunlight channeling through the interior of the house. I start on the boxes in the master bedroom, but there’s nothing of value—just the prized knick-knacks my grandparents seemed to love so dearly and which mean fuck all now they’re gone.
I open the closest and drag out the first box I find. I cut it open and reach inside. I pull out the first of a stack of books, blowing dust off the cover to reveal a single word in gold script.
Journal.
I open to the first page and stop. My mother’s name is written there, a date.
It can’t be, I think, but it is.
I read through each journal quickly, the morning shifting to afternoon outside, the shadows in the room shortening and lengthening, a whole world moving on outside. It’s all here—everything I’ve ever wanted to know, my mother penning down her every thought and dream, hopes and regrets. I never took her for a writer, but there’s an eloquence to her words so at contrast to the mother I knew that I have to check the front of the journal once more to make sure it is actually hers.
The letter was one thing, but the journal goes deeper. There are still no names or details, but her heart is laid bare.
I move onto the second and third volumes. I don’t stop to eat or move from the spot, spellbound by what I’ve found. The more I read, the more my anger towards her fades, because she didn’t lead an easy life but instead one of deep guilt and misunderstanding. With each entry her despair becomes more and more prevalent, her handwriting falling apart until it’s barely legible.
A new insight into her life starts to emerge, because this is not the mother I knew at all.
*
Later, at Lexi’s, I can’t get Mom’s words out of my head.
Lexi senses my distance, throwing a leg over the top of my chest, the warm bulge of her sex against my hip. “What are you thinking about? It’s me, isn’t it? Schoolgirl? Because I could definitely do schoolgirl if that’s what you’re into.”
I laugh, raking my fingers through her hair and admiring the post-sexual flush of her face. “I found some journals of my mother’s at my grandparents’ place today.”
She’s all interest. “Really? What did they say?”
I stare back up at the ceiling enjoying the feel of her warm body against mine. “A lot. She wrote about running away from home when she was sixteen, wanting to be a ‘scene kid,’ as she put it. Surprise, surprise, she says her parents were strict, overly controlling.”
“So a typical sixteen-year-old’s diary then.”
“No, it was more than that. She talks about how much she loved art and literature. She was actually a beautiful writer. It was like I was reading the journal of a different person entirely before the drugs stripped her down to the walking dead.”
“Did she mention anything about your brother?”
My throat tightens. “Not really. As it went on her writing became harder to read, her thoughts jumbled and mixed up. It didn’t make much sense. What it did help me understand, however, was the mental health struggles she went through later in life. I don’t forgive her per se, but at least now I can appreciate what was going through her head, the ‘why.’ And you know what? I don’t feel angry at her anymore.”
Lexi nods with understanding, but her eyebrows are pulled together and there’s a tight tension to her face I haven’t seen before. “You okay? You seem a bit, I don’t know, stressed out. They’re not working you too hard at the Ranger’s station, are they? Because I can have a word with Ja—”
“No,” she says, cutting me off, “it’s nothing.”
“Tell me,” I press. “Maybe I can help.”
She shakes her head smiling.
“Come on,” I tease, “let me in.”
But she clams up instead, looking away. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to talk about it, and that in itself has me worried.
I fight the frustration, about to push her again when she changes the subject.
“I’d like to read them, your mother’s journals. You know, given I can’t meet her,” she adds.
I’m surprised. “You would?”
“Sure,” Lexi smiles, tucking in even tighter to my side. “I want to know everything about your life, your family,” she taps my head, “what goes on up here in this big, goofy head of yours.”
I pull her on top of me, my cock caught between the swollen lips of her pussy. “You might not like what you find.”
“And what would that be?” she purrs, running a finger between my abs.
“Probably a pile of rocks,” I laugh.
She lifts up and reaches between us, slowly sinking down on my member. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
I breathe out and let her work me, thoughts of my mother and her journals drifting away until they’re little but pinpricks in my mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LEXI
“What’s this thing for?” I enquire, holding the offending object up to the light.
Geena laughs. “That, my dear, is a breast pump.”
I place it down carefully. “Looks like something you’d use to service your car.” I scan around the nursery. “I had no idea there was so much stuff you need for a baby.”
Geena smiles from the corner, busy applying the last coat of paint. “And I’m pretty sure we’ll barely use half of it, but as they say, better to be prepared.”
I promised I’d help Geena finish off the nursery today. It’s actually a beautiful space she’s created here, with plenty of light, a soft, pastel color palette, and framed pictures of family.
Geena kicks a box across to me. “These can go up on the shelf. Poor kid’s never going to run out of plush toys, that’s for sure.”
I pick up a plush bunny out of the box. It’s wearing a tiny suit and cornflower bowtie, a faux Peter Rabbit. For a moment I wonder what it would have been like to have this kind of life growing up, one with loving parents and new toys, mac-and-cheese Mondays and a bike in the garage with my name on a number plate.
Do you want me to hit you? He smiles at me, half of his teeth yellow from the nicotine, his breath heavy with alcohol. You do, you little bitch, don’t you?
I flinch at the memory, the abuse I’ve tried so hard to suppress all these years. The physical stuff I could take, but it’s the words that cut deep, the constant, never-ending stream of insults and put-downs. I got good at giving it back later on, which only led to more trouble.
I tried to run. It was a pattern—six months in a new home until I couldn’t take a second m
ore and bundled up my meager belongings, escaping any way I could and making for the nearest bus shelter or parking lot hoping someone would whisk me away to a better, brighter life. Inevitably, the local police would be called and I’d be tossed into the back of a cruiser like a common criminal kicking and screaming, CPS arriving to take me away to another home exactly the same only in a different shade of gloom.
Geena notices me staring at the bunny. “You expecting him to come to life or something?”
I place the bunny on the shelf, stroke his ears. “You’re going to be such a great mom.”
Geena stops brushing. “You think so?”
I turn to face her. “I know so.”
She returns to her painting. “Check in with me again when my darling dearest has projectile poo’d across the room.”
“Now that,” I laugh, “is all yours. I’ll just be here for the cuddles.”
“’Aunty Lex’,” says Geena. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
I reach out and place my hand on the crib, empty now but soon to be filled with new life and all the expectations that come with it. But try as I might, I can’t imagine having a kid of my own. I’m not cut out for motherhood. “It does,” I reply. “It sure does.”
*
After spending all day with Geena in the nursery, my apartment is like a tomb. Just like my apartment in New York, there’s no real furniture here, nothing to suggest it’s a home. There are no pictures of family or friends, no tacky souvenirs from senseless vacations. Heck, I don’t even have a welcome mat.
I wonder if Dex has noticed. He probably thinks I’m a minimalist, that this undecorated, plain look is all the rage, but that’s not the truth. The truth is I’ve never felt settled enough to call anywhere home, always ready to pack up and move on whenever the call comes, a transient, purposeless existence, and for what? To buy fancy new clothes? To bulk up my bank account?
Worry starts to permeate my thoughts. Dex is well past being a mark now. I’m sure he’s revealed things to me he’s never told anyone else. I can’t betray that trust.
You have to.
I open the fridge and reach for the bottle of Finlandia at the back, mixing it with OJ and downing it far quicker than I should given it’s only mid-afternoon.
I examine the empty glass, the way light refracts and bounces around its interior. It’s as fragmented as I am in there, see-through.
Ian didn’t respond when I tried to call last night and he hasn’t gotten back to me, which is highly unusual and doesn’t bode well at all. There’s no happily ever after here. I know it. I feel it deep in my twisted gut where that worry and anxiety continues to churn. It’s going to come undone sooner or later, blow up in my face… and there’s nothing I can really do except to cling to what I can before it all goes to hell.
My cell dings.
I take it out.
Speak of the devil.
Ian’s message is short.
He’ll be here tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DEX
As far as supplies go, Riley’s Thriftway is pretty damn skimpy, but it’s the best we’ve got in Tamanass and the Den is in need.
I stop in the middle aisle and take out my cell, texting Lexi on a whim to see if she’d be open to me cooking dinner tonight. I’m smiling to myself like an idiot because, unlike Dean and Deric, I’ve actually got cooking chops up my sleeve thanks to my grandparents basically forcing me to cook dinner every night. I hated it back then, but I’ve kind of come to enjoy it now, the simple, mindfulness of it after a hard day on the river.
But I know it’s more than dinner and the resulting dessert to follow I’m interested in. I want to talk to Lexi about what this really is, because I don’t think either of us really knows, or wants to admit. I definitely haven’t told anyone about us, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t either, but I suspect it’s more than a simple hook-up for the both of us. I suspect it’s the reason she’s been so distracted lately. She probably wants something more. Don’t all women?
Fuck it. Maybe I do too.
I continue walking around the shop waiting for her reply, but it never comes. I call instead, but again, nothing.
I stare at the cell in my hand like it’s suddenly turned traitorous. She normally replies right away. What the hell’s going?
I reach for a packet of bandages, tossing them into the basket.
One last time, I tell myself, but there’s still no reply.
I finish up and head out to the truck, dumping the stuff in the back and swinging into the driver’s seat unsure what to do but definitely frustrated.
I shake my head and turn the ignition, making for Gracie’s.
*
There’s a game on, NFL. I watch it eating my usual Big Burger and fries combo. I don’t know how Dean and Deric can stomach the infamous fucking Elk Burger. Cursed thing’s got the consistency of a hockey puck.
I silently consider how I’ve done a full three-sixty here, alone again at the bar with my burger and beer. It’s fucking sad.
I dab my mouth with a napkin and throw back the last of my beer, the final quarter playing out on the screen. I’m about to grab my jacket and head off when I see Lexi enter the bar from the far door. It’s busy in here tonight. She hasn’t seen me yet.
I bring my hands up to cup my mouth and call her over when I notice her making a detour for one of the booths by the wall. She heads straight there with blinders on, completely oblivious to anything else.
I watch her swing into a corner booth where a guy in a slick-ass suit is waiting. I noticed him on my way to the restroom earlier. He stood out like a sore thumb here in this sea of denim and flannel. I figured he was on his way through, a lawyer or developer maybe. I didn’t think much of him then, but he’s sure as fuck got my attention now.
This Wall Street wanker pats the vinyl seat. Lexi sits beside him and he nods, starting to speak.
The. Fuck?
I let myself sink back onto the stool and watch, trying to fight down the sudden and all-consuming rage that’s boiling up from below. I don’t recognize the jealous rage running through my blood, but I sure as fuck feel it.
Don’t react, I warn myself, but the strain’s pulling at my body, urging me into action.
Don’t fucking do it, man.
There’s probably a perfectly reasonable answer to why she’s sitting with this jerk-off, but I can’t see it through the blinding red clouding my brain.
I push myself up and start to walk slowly, forcing myself to remain calm and tempered as a storm continues to rage beneath my skin. I filter out the sound and noise, focused solely on that one booth. By the time I reach it I’m so taut and tight I fear the slightest provocation is going to drive me to do something I’ll regret.
I’m surprised at how measured my voice is as I stand at the end of the table. “Lexi.”
She looks up at me startled, her fingers splaying out on the tabletop, but it’s more than simple surprise. She looks nervous.
“Dex,” she responds, her face white.
Wall Street smiles at me with a smug grin, putting his arm around Lexi and pulling her into him. “I’m sorry. We haven’t met. You are?”
My fists clench, but I keep my cool. “Declan Franklin, and you?”
I’ve got no idea why I use my full name. I never use it. To sound more, what? Official?
Wall Street’s still smiling, holding Lexi tight. “I’m her fiancé.”
The air leaves my lungs. My heart seizes in my chest, his words bouncing around in my head.
It can’t be.
“No.” The word slips from my mouth.
The guy laughs. “Ah, yes, buddy. Can I help you with something?”
Lexi’s eyes are wide. She hasn’t said anything, which only makes this more damning. How could I have been so fucking stupid?
I focus on her. “Why?” I ask.
Her mouth opens, goes to move, but no sounds come out.
“Look, champ,” says Wa
ll Street, “maybe take a hike, yeah? We’re busy here.”
I fight the urge to break this guy and can’t help but feel there’s something familiar about his face, his eyes. I focus on Lexi as I reply. “I intend to, as far away as fucking possible from you.”
I walk to my truck ignoring someone calling my name from the bar.
I slam through the front door and reach the truck, punching the driver’s door hard enough to dent it inwards. “Fuck!” I shout, kneeing the same spot but knowing it’s not going to do a single ounce of good.
Because I’ve been played, reeled in like a fool—hook, line, and fucking sinker.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LEXI
I resist the urge to vomit in my mouth when Ian lies to Dex. The look of heartbreak on his face is almost too much to bear. This is the moment. This is where it ends.
A beat passes when Dex leaves. I go to stand and follow him, but Ian reaches for my wrist and pulls me back down into the booth, his grip firm and tight.
He leans close to my ear, his voice pure venom. “Do I need to remind you which brother it is you work for?” He licks his lips, the sound amplified in my ear. “Unless you want me to tell Dex what a double-crossing little whore you are, you will sit your slut ass down and listen very carefully to what I have to say.”
For the first time I’m actually shaking, genuinely scared of what might unfold here, but Ian has the trump card to play. He’s right. Dex can’t know the truth.
Still, an ember of anger suddenly burns up into a full-on wildfire. I shake out of Ian’s grip, facing him and setting my features stony and emotionless. “Do you know what you are?”
He throws one arm over the back of the booth, puffing his chest out. “Please, enlighten me.”
“You’re a vindictive asshole who wouldn’t know decency if it bit you on the dick. If, you know, you actually have one.”
