Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  At some point, she realized with some surprise that she was not uncomfortable at all anymore. Her body had re-formed itself around him. He was easing in and out of her, in slow, maddening thrusts, with a skillful swivel and slide that stroked every wonderful throbbing hot spot inside her. She jerked and shuddered with each plunge.

  He was so attentive, so sensitive. Feeling his way. His passionate attention unlocked every closed, fearful place inside her and sparked an endless string of delicious explosions. They were fused, a single moving, surging glow. She could not stop the shimmer of tears in her eyes, slipping out, tickling her face. He kept tirelessly kissing them away.

  It took her a lazily long and delicious forever to convince him to let himself come, too. To persuade him that he would not hurt her or scare her if he picked up the pace. She finally clawed him into action, inciting, demanding. Sinking her nails into his butt, pulling him deeper.

  He finally gathered her up tightly against him, and gave it to her harder than she would ever have dreamed she would want it, but she did want it. She was transformed. No walls inside her to painfully slam against. He’d gotten past her walls. She was all softness, eagerness.

  He could do as he wanted with her. She loved it all, his fierceness, his strength, his vigor, his size, jarring her, ramming into her, energy gathering, and his hoarse shout, that hot blaze of energy, pumping…

  She loved…him.

  The terrifying thought reverberated through her as the blast wave of their mutual climax wiped them out. When she opened her eyes, they lay side by side, limp and damp and spent. Arms and legs entwined.

  He gazed into her face, touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. “I can’t believe how soft your skin is,” he said quietly.

  She grabbed his hand, and kissed it impulsively, her realization shining inside her. Part pleasure, part a keen, stabbing pain.

  It wanted so badly to be shared. But she couldn’t.

  She snuggled up to him, hiding her face against his chest, and they stayed that way until the rays of the afternoon sun began to lengthen and turn warm gold. Finally, he brushed her hair off her face.

  “Want to go and plant that Eranthis hyemalis with me?” he asked.

  She was taken aback. “Right now?”

  “I don’t know how much of a chance they have to root now, but we could give it a shot,” he said. “What the hell, right? I’d hate to see them just wither away without even giving it a try. Doesn’t seem right.”

  She thought about that for a moment. What an ironic choice of words. And he had no clue. She could tell from his face. He was just talking about flowers. His mind was hardwired that way. Completely straightforward. Calling a flower a flower.

  She didn’t know how much of a chance the two of them had to root. Not much, maybe. But she was going to give it a shot, by God.

  She sat up. “Yes,” she said, reaching for her skirt. “Let’s go plant those little guys right this very minute. They deserve a shot.”

  This thing of theirs was not going to wither away for lack of trying. It was just too damn beautiful and rare for such a sad and stupid end.

  Chapter

  7

  Jack patted the earth down after setting out the last seedling and rose to his feet. “There you go,” he said. “Now we just watch, and hope.”

  Vivi’s smile made him feel so strange and good. Charged with energy that crackled and glowed like a bonfire.

  “Would you show me your other flowers?” she asked, hesitantly. “Margaret told me they were beautiful.”

  “Sure.” He brushed earth off his hands, looked at them. He wanted to hold her hand, but it didn’t seem right, with all that dirt.

  She resolved his dilemma by grabbing his hand herself.

  They set out toward the river, through a clearing on the hillside that glowed with wildflowers lit from the side by the setting sun so that they glowed, dancing and flickering like flames. She hardly seemed real, wafting next to him, in that floating skirt. Something from a dream. So pretty, she hurt his eyes, bright hair streaming, cheeks so pink, lips so red. Eyes that glowing gray. Already, he felt the hot tingle of a brand-new boner coming on.

  They hadn’t bothered to shower, just pulled on the minimum of clothing. Vivi seemed urgent about planting, as if something bad would happen if they lost any time. He’d seen no reason not to indulge her.

  He kept looking at her, ogling, marveling. It was official. His brain had melted. He’d never even dreamed of sex like that.

  After they’d gotten past the scary stuff, of course. His free hand clenched at the thought of her evil ex. How a man could hurt any woman was beyond him, let alone one like Vivi. So beautiful and scrappy and strong. She’d probably scared the shit out of the bastard. Given him a huge inferiority complex so that the dickhead felt compelled to use the one pathetic advantage he had—his greater size. Classic. Not that it was an excuse. He would pay. Jack intended to see to the matter personally.

  Vivi stared up at the trees, the rays of sunlight slanting through them. Jack gazed at the perfect curve of her arched neck, the angle of her jaw. Then they stepped out of the pine thicket, into another world.

  The floor of the little valley was covered with spires, buds, blossoms of wildly contrasting colors. Edna yelped and readied herself to plunge into a bank of Kniphofia. Vivi caught her collar and held her fast. “No, girl. You stay right here. Sit!”

  A branch snapped in the forest, and Edna twisted out of Vivi’s grasp and bounded off into the woods to investigate.

  “Come out into the field,” he offered. “I’ll show you around.”

  He led her out into the field, between the beds, and pointed. “These are Kniphofia, otherwise known as red hot pokers. The Lilium auratum on the other side are almost ready. Down there are Oriental poppies, and Anthoxanthum odoratum, which is a type of ornamental grass. There’s some Centaurea cyanus and Stachys byzantina on that rise over there. Bachelor’s buttons and lamb’s ears, in common English. And see those white and blue ones? Campanula aurita. Bellflowers. And columbine, at the far end.”

  She looked enchanted. “Who taught you to grow flowers?”

  He hesitated. “My uncle Freddy,” he admitted. “I lived with him for a while. Until I was fourteen. He was heavy into organic gardening.”

  “He grew flowers, too?”

  “You could say that,” he answered.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean? He did or he didn’t.”

  “Uncle Freddy specialized in cannabis. Various strains of specialty marijuana. Very profitable for him, for a while. It was a different era.”

  “Oh,” Vivi said. She looked startled, but not unduly so.

  “The principles are the same,” he said. “He loved plants. He knew how to give them what they needed.”

  “Oh,” she said again.

  “I prefer flowers,” he went on, blandly. “More color. Less stress.”

  “Is your uncle still…um, never mind.”

  “It’s okay. I doubt if he’s still in business. It’s more dangerous these days. And he had to leave the country one night twenty-some years ago. Haven’t seen him since. Don’t even know if he’s still alive. He’d be pushing seventy by now.” He kept his gaze averted and stroked a Campanula aurita bud. They were gearing up to bloom at any minute.

  “That was when you were fourteen, you say?”

  “I’m thirty-seven now. That would make it twenty-three years ago.”

  “Were you there when he ran away? Was it a drug bust?”

  His discomfort surged up, turning into irritation. “Yeah.”

  “How awful,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  He walked into the fluttering poppies. “Nothing happened to me.”

  “Did he just vanish?” she persisted, following him.

  “I’m fine now,” he said tightly. “Let’s leave it.”

  “Excuse me,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

  Fuck. He felt like
shit, but he did not want to talk about it. He was a dick-for-brains for bringing it up. Ruining their excellent mood.

  A distressed yelping came from the trees. Vivi picked her way hastily through the flower beds toward the pine thicket. He caught up with her as she plunged into the trees. Her dog was whining and pawing at her muzzle.

  Vivi grabbed her collar and knelt down, holding the trembling dog still. “Easy, girl,” she soothed. “Oh, God.”

  Porcupine quills stuck out of Edna’s nose and jaw, like long, crazy whiskers. Jack crouched down and took the dog’s shivering head in his hands, examining it. “Only twelve,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”

  Vivi bit her lip, searching through Edna’s coat for more quills.

  “Let’s go to the house,” he suggested. “I’ve got scissors. Pliers.”

  “I don’t want to bother you with this,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve got pliers in my jewelry toolbox. I’ll deal with it.”

  He gave her a look. “Get real.”

  Edna slunk between them, tail down, through the woods. Their camaraderie, that perfect elusive glow of joy, gone. Such a fucking mystery. He wished he knew how to hang on to it.

  When they got back to the house, he led her and her dog into his front room, and got the scissors and the pliers out. He knelt down beside them on the floor. “Hold her,” he said.

  Vivi held her dog firmly as he snipped off the ends of the quills. Edna made high-pitched whining noises in the back of her throat.

  “Why are you doing that?” she asked.

  “I’ve been told that if you trim the end of the quills, the vacuum inside collapses and the barbs should let go more easily,” he explained. “Theoretically.”

  Vivi blinked, and swallowed, hard. “Oh,” she whispered.

  They clenched their teeth and powered through the unpleasant job. It didn’t take all that long to pull out the quills, but it felt like forever. Vivi winced with each shrill yelp and jerk, although her low voice never stopped murmuring low encouragement.

  Jack tried to be brisk, but by the time he was done, Jesus. He sagged back against the side of his sofa, limp as a wet rag. Inflicting pain on an innocent animal was fucking horrible, whether it was for the animal’s own good or not. Thank God he worked with plants.

  Edna curled up in Vivi’s lap, still trembling. Vivi was bent over her, her face hidden against the dog’s silky golden shoulder.

  Leaving him all alone, with memories that were coming back, weirdly sharp and clear. Taking over his whole goddamn mind.

  That June night when a wild-eyed Uncle Freddy had slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, kid. I’ve got to run. They got Pete, and Pete’s such an airhead, he’ll give me up for sure. I gotta leave the country.”

  Jack’s stomach heaved. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not going to tell you where. It’s safer that way. Here.” He thrust a handful of limp, grimy bills into Jack’s nerveless hand. “Take this. I wish it was more, but it’s all I can spare.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “I wish you could, Jackie, but you don’t have a passport. Shit, I don’t even think you have a birth certificate. I’ll be an outlaw, see? I can’t have a kid. Keep your head low and your mouth shut, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said bitterly, pocketing the money.

  “We shoulda drilled for this, but it was going so well. I got sloppy.” Freddy gripped Jack’s skinny shoulders in his big, work-stained hands. “Lemme give you some advice. Don’t mix it up with the police, the social workers. Hit the road, go out and seek your fortune. You can do better for yourself outside the system.”

  “Like you did?” Jack muttered.

  “Hey, don’t hold this against me. Come on, chin up. You’re, what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ll be fine. You’ll land on your feet.”

  “Fourteen,” Jack corrected, in a toneless voice.

  “Fourteen? Jeez, kid. I thought you were older.” Freddy tugged on his beard, looking annoyed that Jack was not older. “Tavia’s number is on the fridge. And your mom—where is your mom, anyway?”

  “The ashram. In India,” Jack reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah. The ashram. Damn. I guess Tavia is your best bet, kid. Oh, hey. You could always call Mrs. Margaret Moffat. Your mom and Tavia and I stayed with her one summer when we were kids, in Silverfish. Dad was working the carnival, and Mom had to go into the TB hospital, so she took us in for a couple of months. Nice lady. Baked great cookies. Call her, if you get in a tight spot. But try Tavia first.”

  Jack stared at his feet, mouth trembling. Uncle Freddy tousled his hair. “Sorry, Jackie. But you know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. He knew how it was. Better than anyone.

  And after a flurry of packing and a rough, sweaty hug, Jack stood in the driveway and watched Freddy’s taillights disappear into the dark.

  He tried calling Aunt Tavia in L.A. A guy answered, and said she hadn’t lived there in four months, and no, he didn’t know where she was. He’d heard somebody say she’d gone to Baja. But it might have been Boulder. Or Bali. Then the guy told Jack that he seemed stressed, and should practice “letting go.” “Hanging on” caused all the suffering in life. In fact, if Jack would tell him the date and hour of his birth, he would be happy to provide Jack, for a small fee, with a mantra calibrated to attain the serenity of nonattachment, and also—

  Jack hung up on him. He took the tattered envelope off the fridge, and dialed the long string of numbers written on it for the ashram.

  The guy who answered spoke only Hindi, and maybe German. Jack struggled with that for a while, and then hung up on that guy, too.

  He stared dully at the phone. Finally, he picked up the receiver, dialed information for Silverfish, and asked for Margaret Moffat.

  “I have an M. Moffat in Silverfish. Do you want the number?”

  “Sure.” He wrote it down, folded it, stuck it in his jeans.

  He had no idea what to do next. He wandered around the empty house. Night deepened. The quiet terrified him. He wondered when the police would come. What would happen to him if they found him there?

  At dawn, he filled his knapsack with as much stuff as he could carry, tied a rolled blanket onto the top, and headed out into the woods.

  “…okay?” He jolted out of his memories. Vivi’s face was close to his, her gray eyes wide with worry. She patted his shoulder.

  She tried again, louder. “Are you okay, Jack?”

  He focused on the faint pattern of freckles on her perfect, narrow little nose. Like a constellation of stars. “Uh, yeah,” he said dully. “Sorry. I was someplace else for a while.”

  She touched his cheek with her knuckles, a shy, tender stroke. “Noplace good. You had that look on your face.”

  He shook himself to alertness, embarrassed. “What look?”

  “Sad,” she said simply. “Can I make you some tea?”

  “Coffee,” he said, rousing himself. “Tea doesn’t do it for me. Sit down. Stay with your dog. I’ll make it.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” She pushed him back down. “The least I can do. Thanks for helping. It would have been that much more awful alone.”

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered.

  “Not to me and Edna it’s not.” Her smile was so warm and bright. He wanted to curl himself up around it. He followed her into the kitchen, just to stay close to her. Taking every sneaky opportunity to touch her, brush against her, sniff her scent as they put the coffee on together.

  When it was done and poured, they sat across the table from each other. Jack reached out and grabbed her hand. They’d hit another smooth patch, and he was going to ride it for as long as he could. “I’m sorry for what I said in the—”

  “Don’t,” Vivi broke in. “You apologized the last time you insulted me, and the time before that. Every time, I let down my guard and let you do it again. Let’s establish a rule. No insults. No apologies. Okay?”

  “You misunderstood.
I never insulted you,” he said.

  “No? Me, the itinerant sexpot neo-hippie?”

  He narrowly avoided spluttering his coffee. “That doesn’t count,” he protested. “You took me by surprise. In a wet T-shirt, no less.”

  “Oh?” She gazed at him over the rim of her mug, eyes sparkling.

  “Give me a fucking break! There you were, soaking wet in the forest, nipples poking through your shirt, looking like something out of a Penthouse centerfold—”

  “It’s not my fault it was raining! I looked like a freaking mudslide!”

  “Yeah, and it’s not my fault all the blood in my body got instantly rerouted to my dick! You expect me to be rational when a gorgeous woman tricked out like that waves a tire iron at me?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Did the tire iron turn you on, Jack?”

  “I’ll tell you what turns me on. A proud, beautiful, self-reliant woman who takes no shit off of anybody. That turns me on.”

  Her eyes fell, but she was smiling. “I never insulted you,” he went on. “I made a rational assessment of the situation based on the information I gathered. You read it as an insult, but I was not judging you.”

  “Wrong,” Vivi said. “Your assessment is faulty.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “Whoever you’ve been practicing on isn’t me. But let’s not talk about it, or we’ll just crash and burn all over again.”

  She tried to tug her hand back, but he hung on to it. “That wasn’t what I was apologizing for,” he confessed. “I meant when we were out in the field. You asked about my uncle. I got all uptight. Closed you off.” He blew out a careful, measured sigh, trying to relax his tense belly.

  Her eyes softened. She set down her coffee and reached across the table. “There’s a reason I was asking those questions about the bust.”

  “Yeah?” he asked warily. “What?”

  “I wondered if it was something we had in common,” she said. “I was in the middle in a big drug bust once, too. When I was a kid.”