Here For You

by J. P. Oliver

  Then Uncle Jerry snored, his loudest snore yet, and it startled him awake. It was weird seeing him weak, confused. He’d always been a titan in my eyes, but now he was just a tired old man.

  He lifted his head slowly and spent a long time looking at me. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t.

  Eventually he rose, walking past me. A moment later I heard him pissing. He grunted while he did it, like it hurt. He flushed. I didn’t hear him wash his hands.

  As he walked past the bed again, he mussed my hair. “Pretty boy,” he said, voice thick. I squeezed my eyes closed.

  He was gone for a minute or two. When he came back to sit in his chair, he had a bottle of beer and a can of chili, open, with a fork sticking out of it.

  I watched him watch me while he ate. Neither of us spoke.

  When he was done, he set the can on the floor and finished his beer. He belched.

  “You called on me, boy, didn’t you?”

  I stayed silent.

  “Answer me, boy! You the one called on me? About my movies?”

  Silence.

  He snorted. “You don’t got to talk. I know it was you.” He laughed, low and raspy, but his eyes were murder. “You got me good, boy. That fussy bitch Gilly tried to get me locked up a time or two, couldn’t never manage it. But you, boy…you finally did something right.”

  I was itching in my day-old clothes on the filthy mattress. It was a weird thing to notice, but I concentrated on that so I wouldn’t have to focus on him.

  “Almost died in prison, boy. You’d’ve liked that, huh? But my fancy little lawyer got me out, since I’ll be dead soon anyway. Got me out, and found my sweet little nephew to make sure I wasn’t alone in my last minutes.” He stood. It looked difficult, but he managed.

  “Always wanted to fuck you, Beck. You know that, right? Came mighty close a couple of times, but it didn’t seem right, being family.” He shrugged. “There were others.”

  I tried to focus on the itch, on the headache, on the hunger, but I flinched when he touched my cheek.

  “But now, little boy, the end is nigh. No point in waiting, ’specially since Lind told me you’ve been spoiled. Used up like old gum.” He was touching me there now, grabbing me and rubbing hard at me through my pants. Itch. Headache. Hunger. “So, Beckie-boy. I’m going to fuck you. If you feel as good as I think you will, I’ll fuck you twice. And then I’m gonna shoot you, then I’m gonna shoot myself.” His hand was inside my pants now, gripping my skin. “You took everything from me. I’m gonna return the favor, then make my exit before my kidneys crap out completely.”

  He slid his hand out of my pants, then jerked my feet off the bed, arching my back painfully. He gripped my ankle like a vice. I added that to my stockpile of discomforts, and tried to drown in it.

  My left ankle was untied. He hoisted it higher, and it came to rest on his shoulder. He started fiddling with the rope around my right.

  “Don’t think I’m gonna loose you too much, boy. Just making it so I can get you nice and spread.” He undid the rope. It slid from my leg and whickered to the floor. “But we’ll keep those wrists done up tight. Go on and struggle a bit if you want to. I like it when they squirm for me.” He laughed, the rasp of joyless leather, and relaxed his grip on my right ankle.

  I kicked him. In the face.

  As soon as his grip relaxed, I made good on my promise to escape or make him kill me. I pulled my left leg in, then hammered out blindly behind me, hoping for the best.

  It connected with a crunch and a howl of furious pain. He let go and thudded to the floor.

  I flailed, struggling to my feet. Hunger made me dizzy, and my bound arms didn’t help my balance. I fell back, sitting down hard on the bed. Blood coated my uncle’s face, and he pressed a gnarled hand over his mouth, but he was scooting along the floor toward the armchair, toward his rifle.

  If he reached it, he’d shoot me, but if I let him, he’d beat me and fuck me first. Fear launched me from the bed. I couldn’t get to the gun without stepping over him, so I settled for stomping down, right on his stupid pervert nuts.

  He howled. Just like a little stupid baby sissy-boy.

  He swung for me, but I stumbled back, almost falling again. Barely upright, I ran. I ran as fast as someone as dizzy as I was, as sore as I was, who couldn’t use his arms, could.

  I made it to the kitchen.

  The rifle went off. The shot whizzed past me. A chunk splintered off the doorframe, but by then I was too frightened to stop. I turned my back to the door Lind had used, fumbled blindly with the lock, the knob.

  “Get your ass in here, boy!” Uncle Jerry dragged himself into my sightline on his knees. He swayed drunkenly, face ghoulish. The rifle was unsteady in his hands, but he was lifting the butt to his shoulder.

  I’d rather die, I thought. I pushed the door open and stumbled backwards.

  Strong arms grabbed me, lifting me into the air and away from the open doorway. Other men, cops in uniform, stormed past us and into the house, and a chaos of shouts to Freeze, to Drop the gun, filled the air.

  “I’m here for you, mi tesoro,” cut through the noise, and the last thing I remember were brown eyes.

  ...

  I spent the night with Aunt Gillian in a motel outside of Hillsboro. She looked older than I remembered, but a little stronger. She was sitting over me when I woke and started crying and touching my face and apologizing even before I realized where I was.

  She told me I was safe. Uncle Jerry was dead. He hadn’t even made it to the hospital.

  And the green-eyed man, my uncle’s lawyer, Jamie’s ex, had been arrested at the airport. He’d had a police scanner in his rental and, hearing they were waiting for him, he’d parked near the departure gates and tried getting on a plane. They got him in security.

  Gillian ordered pizza. I ate three slices and drank as much water as I could hold.

  Then we talked. There were a lot of apologies for leaving me alone with Jerry. She’d known he was a bully, but not about…the other stuff. If she’d known about the pornography, she said, she would have died before leaving me. As it was, she’d fought, Uncle Jerry had connections and controlled the money. She’d gotten her divorce, but not custody.

  Nearly penniless, she’d gone back to England once she was free. Moved in with her parents. Started teaching. Tried to forget.

  “I thought of you all the time, though,” she said, stroking my hair. “I felt so guilty. I wanted to reach out when Jerry was arrested, but years had passed. I wasn’t even sure you’d remember me. But when I heard he’d been released—” She started crying again.

  I told her I forgave her, because I could tell she needed me to. She hugged me hard when I said it.

  I didn’t forgive her, though. Mostly because there was nothing to forgive. I remembered that house, and how my uncle had treated her. It was nice she’d come back to the States, but I didn’t feel close to her. Maybe that would change with time. For tonight, though, once I saw she felt better, I told her I was tired. We turned out the lights.

  She fell asleep quickly. I stared at the darkness and thought about Jamie and those pictures. I didn’t know what to make of those, but I did know he’d found me. He’d tried to be there for me, like he’d promised. And maybe, just maybe, he was the only thing that had saved me.

  ...

  With Jerry dead, there was no one to prosecute in Hillsboro. Since Noah Lind had kidnapped me in Harlan, Detective Mack was running that investigation. So the next morning, Gillian drove me home.

  It was a nice drive. Bright. Warm. Spring was starting to really come on. We talked a little, but mostly I just looked out the window and imagined a world without Uncle Jerry.

  Jamie was at the police station. I wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Gillian wanted to wait, but I told her not to. I was home now. Maybe, I said, we could have dinner in a few days, before she flew back home. Her new life.

  Jamie walked me to my
interview, but since he wasn’t with Harlan PD, he waited while Detective Mack spoke to me. When we were done, the detective told me I’d been a “bad-ass” for kicking “that sick motherfucker” in the face. I knew I wasn’t a bad-ass, not by a lot, but it made me smile.

  “Can I buy you lunch?” That was Jamie, the moment Detective Mack escorted me out of the interview room.

  “Okay,” I said. This was good. We needed to talk, but I wasn’t ready to be alone with him.

  It felt weird going into the Vista, right across the street from the Sit and Sip. I’d been gone less than two days, but it felt much longer.

  “I want to explain those pictures, Beck.”

  I nodded, looking at the table.

  “I won’t deceive you, Beck. That was me in those pictures. Me and Noah. You know that, but I need to admit it to you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And I’ll admit I liked it, some of it. Noah showed me I enjoy being in control. Like when I make you make eye contact, or speak fuertemente. When I give you little assignments, like inviting your colleagues out. The way…”

  He glanced around, then leaned in close, whispering in a low rumble. “Do you remember that day in the stockroom? The day I made you come for me, only by kissing you? That was the most beautiful way of giving me control I can imagine. I didn’t demand; you just gave.” He smiled just enough to make his dimple appear. “I think about that a lot, Beck. Constantly.” He sat back in his seat, his eyes never leaving mine. “You give perfectly, Beck.”

  My face grew warm. I couldn’t speak. He’d given, too.

  “With Noah, I liked the control, and how much he liked what I did to him. His pleasure gave me pleasure, ¿comprendes? But the pain?” He shook his head. “Those pinches pictures, Beck—we took them on our last day together. When I saw what he wanted, and the lengths I could be capable of…it made me sick. I made myself sick.”

  JoAnne arrived with coffee for him and water for me. We sat silent until she left. Then Jamie leaned in again.

  “May I take your hand, mi tesoro?”

  I nodded, and he did.

  “I’ve told you before that I will never hurt you, and I mean it. I will take as much as you give me, Beck, but I will never push you farther than you want. And after this week, when I feared I lost you—”

  He was trying not to cry. I squeezed his hand.

  “I don’t know if you still trust me, Beck. But you need to hear I love you. I love you, mi tesoro. I want to be with you siempre. Forever.”

  I didn’t know what that meant. Not for real. It had been so long since someone cared about me. Then I’d come to Harlan, and, almost immediately, it had felt like home. I’d met Jay and Gavin. I’d found places where I felt safe sometimes. Then Jamie had walked into my life, and I’d fallen in love. But I was still learning what love was.

  I was sure, though, that I wanted to figure it out with him. I wanted him to be the one who was here for me.

  “I love you, too, Jamie.”

  I reached out, taking the hand that held mine.

  And I felt strong for the first time ever. Jamie had taught me how to be strong, but I had done it on my own. Jamie had been there to catch me when I fell, but I’d learned how to fight and when to run.

  I could be strong for him now. I could be fuerte.

  “Let’s get our food to go. I want you to take me home and undress me, and call me your tesoro, and show me you love me.”

  Jamie stood then, right there in the middle of the Vista Eatery, and pulled me to my feet. He kissed me. It was hard and sweet and long. It was very hot.

  “We have food at home, mi amor. Maybe we can go now?”

  So we went.

  Epilogue

  Jamie

  Six months later

  I checked my phone. Beck would be home soon. I had to hurry.

  I stole a minute, though, to smile to myself. It felt strange, but good, to wait for him. Since the trauma last winter, he’d built a busy life.

  On Mondays he went to therapy, and on Thursdays we went together. We’d shopped around a bit, and found Dr. Rose, a woman who put up with nobody’s nonsense, but whose aura of compassion reminded me exactly of my abuelita. She and Beck had fallen in love with each other instantly, and she was good for him. Good for us. We’d actually had our first argument shortly after he’d started seeing her—he was sick of finding my hairs in the sink after I’d shaved—and as soon as I got over my frustration, I realized how much fuerza that had taken. I’d kissed him all over that evening, and had wiped out the sink before leaving the bathroom ever since.

  But tonight, on Wednesdays, he had his writers’ group. He’d found it on Meetup over the summer and had come home glowing after his first meeting. A few weeks later, Gavin had asked him if the group would like to meet in the Sit and Sip. Now, on Wednesdays, Gavin closed the shop on schedule, but left the café open till 8:00. The group had proven so successful that he’d soon asked if Beck was interested in taking on more responsibility. Mi tesoro was now in charge of special events at the shop, planning Children’s Story Time on the weekends and inviting speakers and local authors from Denver and the suburbs.

  Seeing him grow so fast, so quickly, was the greatest gift Beck could give me, and well worth the price of coming home to a quiet house a few nights a week. We more than made up for it when we were together. Living together—officially and permanently—for four months hadn’t made it any easier for me to keep my hands off mi ángel, and the best part of my life was the hours we spent in bed, giving each other pleasure, then talking and laughing until we felt drunk with exhaustion, then sleeping, chest-to-back, our legs a tangle.

  I tried to live without regrets, but my life now made me wish I’d left Denver as soon as I’d met him. It had been hard to say good-bye to my job and my friends, and mi madre had acted like Harlan was on the dark side of the moon rather than an hour away, but once she’d met Beck, she’d fallen in love with him, too. Just like Dr. Rose and Gavin had. He was hard not to fall in love with, I knew.

  At the end of his first dinner with my family, an event Beck had been petrified about but had faced bravely, mamá was shoveling buñuelos con miel onto his plate and paying more attention to him than to all her biological children combined. Papá hadn’t said much, but after dinner he’d found me alone and said, “Amor con amor se paga. Make him happy, mijo.”

  With their blessings, and with a job finally coming through from Eli in mid-June, I’d packed up my life in Denver and started—really started—my new one with Beck.

  Our house, Ace’s old place, had been fine for a starter home, but I wanted somewhere Beck and I could make our own. With real estate in Harlan so much cheaper than in the city, we’d made an offer on a three-bedroom less than a mile from the Sit and Sip and the station. I’d bought Beck a bike so he could come and go as he pleased—at least when it was warm—and I’d promised to teach him how to drive a car in the spring.

  Beck had thought the house was too much. He’d wondered why we needed two spare bedrooms. I reminded him how big my family was and left it at that, but I had other plans.

  And this was where I labored now, alone, waiting for my man.

  I’d barely finished my preparations when I heard the door close downstairs.

  “¿Qué tranza, mi alma?” His clear voice echoed up the staircase. He’d asked me to teach him Spanish, and there was no better way to learn than pillow-talk. His accent wasn’t half bad.

  “I’m upstairs, mi tesoro. Ven aqui.” As I called to him, I stepped out of the former guestroom and pulled the door shut behind me.

  A moment later he trotted up the stairs. I folded him in my arms and lifted him, kissing him breathless. When I set him back on his feet, I noted the flush in his cheeks with pride.

  “What was that about?” he asked, just a little breathless.

  “I’m allowed to miss you, no?”

  He laughed. “Yes, Jamie. You’re allowed to miss me.” He touched my
cheek and I marveled, for the millionth time, at the softness of his skin.

  “How was writers’ group?”

  “Good,” he said, and walked past me to our bedroom, where he began changing out of his corduroys and sweater and into a hoodie and jammie pants. I sat at the foot of our bed and enjoyed the view while he talked about what they’d read and discussed, and who had made what jokes, and who he’d heard flirting with whom afterward. After he’d dressed, he finished his story lying on the bed, his head in my lap.

  “Remind me when they’re looking at your story?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Next week. I’ll do some revisions after we see Dr. Rose and email it out tomorrow night.”

  “Que bueno. I’m proud of you.”

  “Gracias, mi alma.” He was proud of himself, too. It showed in his eyes.

  “But I don’t want you working at the kitchen table anymore.”

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t want you working in the kitchen. It isn’t proper.”

  Confusion crossed his face, and then a little frustration. Again, I swelled with pride. The man I’d once known would have given in, but Beck looked ready to tussle. To spare myself his fury, I hoisted his head from my lap and stood, extending my hand to him. “A proper writer needs a room of his own, no? Ven, ven.”

  Still confused but momentarily mollified, he rose and followed me across the hall. With a flourish, I pushed open the door.

  His jaw dropped, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

  The room was small, but so was he. There’d been plenty of space for a comfortable armchair next to a reading lamp and a four-tiered bookshelf, which I’d taken the liberty of filling. Craft books and reference books, then classics—Gavin had told me what to buy—and then two shelves of romance, a genre he tore through with alarming speed.