Folsom

by Tarryn Fisher

  He pulls his hand away quickly and looks out the window like he didn’t hear me.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking. But, I’m learning, aren’t I? I know that he tries not to feel anything. His only armor is the unfeeling way he moves through life. He thinks I don’t understand, and maybe I don’t, but I want to. If he’d just let me carry some of his burden.

  I’m discharged and put on bed rest for the next week. That means no coming in to work. No keeping an eye on Laticus and Charity. Sera is waiting at the car for us; she smiles when she sees me, nodding her head in greeting. We’ve been on the road for no more than five minutes when I notice she’s going in the wrong direction.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To the compound.”

  I look at Folsom curiously as he stares straight ahead. Am I imagining it or is he avoiding my eyes?

  “Why?”

  “Because your mother and sister have left your childhood home and moved in with Petite. I don’t want you to be alone, and I don’t want you at the Governor’s Mansion. Neither is safe.”

  “Since when are you in charge of my safety?”

  “Since I saw your sister smile when she thought you were having a miscarriage. Since Petite threatened you. Since you made that dumbass speech on the news with all twelve Regions watching you.”

  I blink at him. “Oh.”

  My sister, yes, I’d almost forgotten about that. A sick feeling takes root in my stomach when I think about Sophia. I tap my fingers on my knee, a dozen emotions competing for first place. Even Folsom noticed the look on Sophia’s face. And did he really think I was a…dumbass? It’s hard to tell if Folsom is angry or teasing. His facial expression hardly ever changes; the only way to know is to see his eyes, which are currently turned away from me.

  “Where will I stay though?” I finally ask.

  “With me,” Folsom says simply. My eyes grow large.

  “But, the Society…what if they find out you have me there? Are you…can I—?”

  “I can entertain whomever I want. They encourage it.”

  “Right, but that applies to women who aren’t already pregnant.”

  He looks at me then and his light eyes seem to be laughing. I look away when the butterflies come, ashamed at how quickly my body and mind team up against me. I reach for his hand. To my relief, he twines his fingers through mine and squeezes reassuringly.

  When we pull into the compound, there are people milling about. A woman smiles at me knowingly and introduces herself as Folsom’s stylist, Krystal. She is tall and long-limbed, her body a grid of lean muscle and feminine curves. I remember a detail he told me when we first met. “Does she help you design your clothes?”

  “I give her the sketches,” he tells me. “And she takes care of the rest.” I look at him now, noticing the unusual cut and drape of his shirt. The long suede trench that looks like oil.

  “I don’t have any clothes here,” I say.

  “We’ll have some made for you then.” He holds the door open for me and I step past him. I want to shut the door quickly, block out all of the eyes watching us: stylists, and massage therapists, and bodyguards. They all look at me the same, with pity in their eyes. I’m falling in love with Folsom and soon he’ll move on…with them…and I’ll be left behind.

  I feel an irrational spurt of jealousy toward Folsom’s stylist. A woman who gets to travel with him, see him daily.

  “I should be your stylist,” I say as he leads me into the living room. Folsom raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Oh, you should?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Then I can travel with you. Be with you.”

  “And what would you dress me in?”

  “Well, I prefer you naked, but I’m sure I could whip some things up for you.”

  “Why this sudden interest in fashion?” He sits down on the sofa and I scoot next to him on my knees, my legs tucked under me.

  “I’m jealous.”

  “Of?”

  “Everyone who gets to be with you all the time.”

  “You’re jealous of the women I don’t have sex with?” He leans his head back and rubs his forehead in confusion.

  “I’m jealous of everyone who gets to be with you when I’m not.”

  “But when I’m with them, I want to be with you,” he says.

  I’m so pleased I can’t do anything but stare at him. Folsom, who doesn’t seem to realize the effect his words have on me, gets up to go to the kitchen. When he comes back a few minutes later, he has a Silverbook in his hand.

  “Genome Y has released a statement saying both you and the baby are fine,” he says.

  I nod. I expected as much. The news picked up the story of me being rushed from Langley’s party in an ambulance and my Silverbook hasn’t stopped vibrating since.

  He sets his Silverbook down and looks at me with an odd expression.

  “What?”

  “I have something to show you. Do you feel okay?”

  I crinkle my face at him. “I’m fine. What is it?”

  “It’s in the back room…I’m the only one allowed in there,” he says pointedly.

  He pulls me up and we walk past his bedroom to one of two closed doors. He opens the door and turns on the light. There are boots everywhere: some finished, some waiting to be stained, some in the beginning stages…and on the workbench sits the most intricate, stunning pair I’ve ever seen.

  I move toward them and touch the soft, supple material. “I love them,” I whisper. My eyes fill and I look at him. “You made boots for me.”

  “I started making them for you the night we met,” he says.

  “I can’t believe you did.”

  “It wasn’t all me,” he admits. “While I was in the hospital Krystal worked on them.”

  He picks them up and hands them to me. “Do you need a pair in every color?”

  “Yes! Yes, I do.”

  He laughs and pulls out the chair for me to sit and try them on. They slide on easily and he bends down to secure the clasps and tie the laces.

  “Like they were made for me.” I bite my lower lip, beaming. I tap the boots together and look up at him. “Thank you, Folsom. I love them.”

  “Your smile…” He taps his chest. I want to hear the rest of what he was about to say, but he bends down and kisses me instead.

  When it quickly gets heated, he backs away and grins.

  I’m about to suggest lunch when I remember he has to make up his morning appointments.

  “You have to go soon, right?” There’s a dread that follows those words, images of him with other women fill my mind. I hide my hands from him so he can’t see them shake.

  “Yes,” he says simply.

  Before he leaves, he sets me up on the sofa with snacks, drinks, books, and old movies playing on the Silverbook. I feel like a child being tucked into bed. But there’s something about being taken care of by a large, unemotional man that touches me, and so I mutely accept. Robin comes to check on me during the day while he’s gone, a stiff smile on her face. I want to ask her questions about him, but I know that Robin isn’t Folsom’s friend, she’s his handler, the Society pimp.

  I wait all day for Folsom to get home so we can have dinner together. Sometimes he brings food from somewhere: fried chicken from the lower end, biscuits that melt on your tongue like butter—and sometimes he cooks. Since I have never cooked anything in my life, it fascinates me to watch him. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, he handles cookware with the same grace that I imagine he handles a woman’s body. I grow jealous when he flips things in a frying pan. I inwardly seethe when the muscles in his forearms flex as he stirs. Everything is tainted. My jealousy is ridiculous, thickly cloying, and I acknowledge this. Folsom is not mine. We are not in a relationship. But I want to be and so I’m sick with insecurity. After a week of sitting, sitting, sitting, I am bored and restless. One afternoon, I’m tired of waiting for Folsom to get home. I search the house for the Silverbook and carry it back t
o my place on the sofa, my intention to read the news, but as soon as the headlines pop up, I freeze.

  END MEN CRUSADER HOSPITALIZED AFTER PREGNANCY SCARE

  WHERE DOES THE RED REGION GO FROM HERE?

  GWEN ALLISON AND THE RED REGION’S SON

  LATICUS DONAHUE TO SAVE THE REGIONS

  The last headline catches my attention. My hands grow clammy as the article opens in front of me. I shake them out, already knowing that what I’m about to read is not going to be good.

  Laticus Donahue, the fifteen-year-old son of the renowned End Man, Folsom Donahue, has spent the last two months in the Red Region, being tested at Genome Y. As Folsom’s firstborn male, Laticus is the next eligible male who will join the End Men. The group, started seventeen years ago by late philanthropist Earl Oppenheimer, has become the Region’s last hope, its sole purpose being to repopulate. Genome Y released a statement today.

  “After running extensive tests on the bright young man, we have found Laticus to be of extremely good health. His production of semen is high, and the Y chromosome is abundantly evident, more so than in any male currently living in the Regions. We have great hope in his future and the future of the Regions.”

  I throw the Silverbook before I can read any more and bury my face in my arms. This is strategic on their part: Genome Y, the Society…even the President. They are aiming for Regional support, getting the private citizens excited and on their side. If everyone sees Laticus as a hero instead of a victim, they can quell the small pockets of uprising we’re starting to see. They are also trying to strong-arm Folsom into allowing Laticus to join the End Men early. Good luck to them. If I have learned anything about Folsom thus far, it is that his will is unbending. And that’s what scares me most. What will they do in order to make him bend? I sit for a long time, my mind churning until I finally make a decision. Retrieving the Silverbook from the floor, I reposition myself on the couch and start writing.

  TWENTY-THREE

  FOLSOM

  If you were to ask me what I would remember most about Gwen ten years from now, I’d tell you that it’s not her wild-looking hair, or her exotic cat eyes, or her perfect breasts and their rosy nipples, which balance perfectly in my hands…it would be her reckless defiance, which she displays any time she’s angry. And though she doesn’t get angry often, when she does, there are always casualties.

  I am on my way back from my last appointment of the day. I showered while there so when I walk through the doors to Gwen I won’t smell like another woman’s pussy. I sip water in the backseat wishing it was bourbon as Sera navigates the car through the narrow streets. I want to be home, I want to see her, and touch her, and smell her. I scroll through the day’s headlines, trying to distract myself. First I see the article about Laticus and suddenly my craving for something strong to drink increases. I burn as I read the words, my breathing ragged. But the headline that pops up afterward takes my breath altogether.

  THE AGE OF WOMEN

  When I look to see who wrote the article, I tell Sera to drive faster. I left Gwen for just a few hours and she’s managed to trend online.

  I quickly scan the words, my heart galloping faster the longer I read. The last paragraph, in particular, makes me afraid for Gwen’s safety:

  We are, in essence, nothing more than pimps whoring these men out to fulfill our cravings. It’s one thing to ask adult men to sacrifice their lives…if it were really their choice…but is it? No. They have no say in who they see or when and where they will go next. And if we allow Laticus to start his “career” as an End Man, we will become a society who not only encourages but celebrates child prostitution. Would we do this to our daughters if the situation were reversed? Who are we? And what have we become?

  Holy shit.

  Robin is waiting inside with a pale-faced Gwen when I walk through the door. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the room, facing each other. The air between them is tight, filled with the things just said. Gwen won’t meet my eyes, but Robin stands up straight away when she sees me.

  “You have to talk sense into her,” Robin says, motioning to Gwen. “If you care about her at all, Folsom. I can’t seem to get through to her.”

  “And I don’t know how you can stand idly by and watch him suffer,” Gwen responds.

  Robin stands up in a flash, while Gwen jumps up and stares back with her hands on her hips. I put my hands on her waist and look back at Robin.

  “Do you mind giving us a few minutes?”

  Robin nods and leaves the room. I wait until I hear the front door open and close before turning back to Gwen.

  “Sit down,” I say. “I need you to hear me this time.”

  Gwen flushes and backs away from me, standing defiantly. I step forward and pull her against me. My fingers trace her upper lip and I bend down and lick it.

  “I’ve wanted to do that ever since I left you,” I whisper in her ear.

  She shivers and I spend a moment kissing her neck just to see what she’ll do.

  “I’ve never had anyone defend me the way you have, and I’m begging you to stop. Another first—me begging.” I pull her by the hand and we sit on the couch facing each other. “I learned the hard way to not go against the Society. There was only one time I refused to comply with a scheduled appointment. It was a girl I grew up with, one of those cruel girls who mistreats everyone around her. I couldn’t stand her. I’d started my career as an End Man and her parents paid for my services. When I walked in her house and realized it was her I walked right back out and refused. I was forced to do eight appointments a day for three weeks as punishment.” I shake my head and grimace. “My dick was ready to fall off…”

  I check to make sure she’s listening. “There was a time in my early years of being an End Man that I wanted to see one of the children. I don’t know if it was curiosity, or if I needed to feel good about what I was doing, but I broke an appointment and went to her mother’s house. Her mother’s name was Ella, and she was kind, probably too kind. She should have said no, but she didn’t. She let me see Tessa, who was three by then. I gave her a doll and she loved it. I felt really good about going—Tessa was happy and Ella was a good mother. But the Society found out about it, and within a week, they’d taken Tessa from Ella and had her relocated to another Region…and another mother. They just took her child, handed her over to some stranger to raise. They have ways of making me pay, Gwen, even if it’s through someone else. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out that I care about you. And I’m afraid of what they’ll do.”

  “You think they’ll take my son?” Her eyes are big…watery.

  “I think they’ll do whatever they need to do to maintain control.”

  She swallows…nods…looks away.

  I think the case is closed and I’ve sufficiently scared her enough to move on from this, when she clears her throat softly and says: “They’ll take him anyway, just like they did to Laticus. And I’m not going to stand by and watch that happen.”

  “Focus on having a healthy baby. Finding a cure for this…this thing that’s happened to us. That’s what you can do to help.”

  Her face is hard when she says, “I’ll focus on whatever I want to focus on.”

  She stands up with an air of finality and moves to a different room. I feel dismissed, a chastised child. My anger flares and I want to follow after her and shake her, make her see sense. Instead, I sit calmly and pull in a breath. Gwen will have to be dealt with in another way.

  I move past her and go to the bedroom, taking off my clothes and lying on the bed. I have a couple of hours before I need to be ready for tonight’s party and I feel like shit.

  She comes in a few minutes later and I hear the sound of her zipper and material falling to the ground. She climbs on the bed beside me and lays her head on my chest, her leg wrapping around mine.

  “Are we fighting?” she asks.

  “I think maybe so.” My voice comes out gruff.

  “Time out for
a little while, okay?”

  She slides down my body and my cock stands to attention, the way it seems to now every time she’s near. I groan when she puts her mouth on me…lose my mind. My hands find her hair and I let her win this battle.

  I kiss her hard when I leave for the party. She’s lying on her back on the sofa, one leg stretched out in front of her, the other trailing the floor, reading a book. There is something about the casual way she occupies this space that gives me a rush of longing so intense I have to look away. What would it be like to always walk into a room and see her? I find such comfort at the sight of her long hair, half straight and half wavy like God couldn’t decide which to give her so he mixed it up. She’s wearing one of my shirts and it falls off her right shoulder, giving me access to her skin. I kiss her there, and then on her neck. When she leans into me moaning, I head for the door before I can make myself late. It’s a relief that she doesn’t want to go, not because I don’t want her with me, but because I think she’ll be safer if she keeps her face out of the news for a while. She’s full of things to say; I can see the opinions flashing across her eyes every time she looks at me. I can also see her bite them back, not wanting to be chastised for having them. In another world Gwen would be refreshing, in this world she is dangerous.

  Protesters are lined on either side of the gate outside the compound and even more are outside of the Council of Affairs, where tonight’s party is being held. Pictures of our faces are on their posters: I see one of Marcus and flinch. How long until the public finds out about what’s happened to him and they start to panic? Would it aid Gwen’s cause or harm it? Their demands for a replacement could place Laticus in danger.

  I remember the honor I felt, the adrenaline of being the most famous human in the Regions. But the elation hadn’t lasted. Year after year of meaningless interactions have left me dry on the inside. At first it felt as if I were cracking, the lack of life and warmth, and then it felt like nothing at all. I was relieved for the comfortable numbness, which was better than the alternative. And then a wild-haired girl asked if she could try on my boots and a crack appeared.