Dreamspinner Press Year Seven Greatest Hits Page 51
“Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I feel like he’s watching me, even though I’m probably imaging it. He has to have given up by now.”
“Shit.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “What?”
He shook his head, a new understanding his eyes. “You’re afraid he’ll find out about your mother and track you down here. That’s why you want to clear out and leave as soon as possible.”
I didn’t deny it. He exhaled hard through his nose.
“I want to start over,” I said when he went silent. “I want to forget my parents and their illness and their disgusting lifestyle. I want to forget about Martin and the things I let him do. I want to have a clean slate in a place where no one knows me.”
“You can’t start over unless you let go of the past, Cole.”
“This whole cleanup and auction is about letting go of the past.”
“Not Franklin. I mean Martin. You called what he did to you in the shower an accident. You just said ‘the things I let him do’, like it was your fault he beat the crap out of you.”
“I don’t need another fucking therapist, Jeremy. I’ve been to three.”
“It’s called being a friend. Maybe we’ve known each other less than a week, but I do care about you.”
My annoyance level rose. I didn’t want him to care about me. It would only complicate my leaving and make it harder. “Was the sex really that good?” I asked with a cruel sneer.
He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t be an asshole. Us having sex last night has nothing to do with this conversation. This is about you, and about breaking the hold Martin still has over you, so you can stop living your life jumping at shadows. You are a victim, Cole.”
“I let him hurt me.”
“You’re a victim.”
“I never said no or fought back.”
“It’s not your fault.”
His steadfast calm didn’t pique my anger as I expected. Instead, a bubble of panic burst up from deep inside, the product of years of pain and regret. Years of bottling up my emotions and accepting everything Martin dished out because I never believed I was worth more, and he knew it. He saw my desperation for love, for attention, and he trained me well to take the crumbs he offered between the punches and the rough sex.
But I didn’t want to tell Jeremy he was right. I didn’t want to say the words, because saying them made them true. Saying them would also put the blame squarely where it belonged, which was on Martin’s head—not mine.
My vision blurred, and when I blinked, warm wetness rolled down my cheeks. Jeremy came toward me, one slow step at a time, and I let him. I was shaking when he wrapped his arms around me. I pressed my face into his neck, held onto his waist, and let him hold me. Let him be strong for me for a while as the wrenching panic worked its way up and out.
Let him hold me while I cried.
Chapter Eight
“HE TRIED to kill me.”
I said the words completely out of the blue three hours after my brief meltdown in Jeremy’s kitchen. I’d calmed down, and we’d cut the pizza, put my laundry in the dryer, sat down to eat, and ended up watching some bizarre movie on the SyFy Channel that looked like a cheap copy of something that had been in theaters six months ago. We sat close together on the couch, our feet on the coffee table, existing in a comfortable silence broken only by occasional cracks about the movie.
After the end credits rolled, I said it.
Jeremy angled to face me with an encouraging not-quite smile. “Have you ever said that out loud before?”
“No. I wouldn’t admit it. I didn’t want to give Martin any more power over my life, or admit that I let things go that far.”
“Do you think you have, just now? Given him power?”
I leaned my head back against the sofa cushion and held his calm, curious gaze. “No, I don’t. Actually, I kind of feel… freer.”
Not-quite became a full-on smile. “Good. I was a little afraid I’d made it worse by pushing you so hard.”
“I’m glad you did. No one has, not like that. I needed the push from someone who wasn’t afraid to piss me off.”
“To be honest, I was a little afraid of pissing you off. But I was even more afraid of letting you suffer in silence without at least trying to help. I’ve lost a lot of people I care about in my life, and I’ve always had someone there to help me out when I needed it most. It was my turn to pay it forward.”
“Thank you for thinking I was worth the effort.”
“You’re welcome, and you are worth it. One day you’ll stop doubting that.”
We grinned at each other silently for a while. I studied the shadows on his cheeks, the product of a day’s worth of stubble. Fine lines beneath his eyes betrayed his experience, despite being only a few years older than me. He had a pleasant face, easy to look at, brilliant while smiling like he was at that moment. And beneath his jeans and sweater, he had a hell of a great body—all hard lines and tan muscles, built from years of physical labor in his chosen field. A field I knew little about, but the more I learned, I was fascinated by.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Your store.”
“Oh?” He sounded slightly disappointed.
“I’d like to see it tomorrow.”
“Why not right now?”
“Now?”
“Sure. It’s downstairs, and it just so happens that I know the owner.”
I laughed. “Do you? Think he’ll let us sneak in and look around?”
“I think I can arrange it. You wanna?”
“Okay.”
We hauled ourselves off the sofa and tramped downstairs to the mud room. Jeremy took his keys out of his coat and unlocked the door tucked in past the dryer that still held my long-dried clothes. He flipped a switch inside the door and a few rows of overhead florescent tubes buzzed to life.
“I’ve only got about half the lights on,” he said as he led the way inside.
I stepped into another world of antique and secondhand items that crowded shelves everywhere I turned. The basic shape of the house’s main floor was there, most of the walls still intact. This particular room sported mostly glassware of every size, shape and style imaginable—dishes, wine goblets, platters, pitchers, lamp globes, vases, and things I couldn’t even identify.
As we moved through, I spotted furniture from different decades, including a pair of shiny blue glass-top tables that looked like they were right out of the sixties. The furniture melted into tools, gas and oil advertising, and farming-related items. Three giant bookcases were filled with tomes new and old. Near the front door, the cash register stood on top of a long glass case sparkling with jewelry, baseball cards, and old coins. The sheer amount and variety of items was incredible. Everything was organized and tidy, no layers of dust or grime on anything. Even the glass case seemed fingerprint-free.
“Are your employees as meticulous as you about cleaning up?” I asked.
“They are if they want to keep their jobs,” he replied with a smile. “Just because something comes out of a filthy barn doesn’t mean it has to stay that way on the shelf. Sometimes age and patina adds to an item’s value, but dirt just makes it look cheap.”
“What’s the oldest thing in here, do you think?”
“That’s easy.”
He typed something into the register and the drawer popped open. He took out a key, then used it to open the back of one of the glass cabinets and removed a clear acrylic case with a book inside. The cover had a lot of wear, and the once-red ink had faded quite a bit.
“It’s a reader from 1814, the kind students used in classrooms or with tutors,” Jeremy said. “All of the pages are intact, but the spine on this one is wearing out. It’s in the box so it doesn’t get handled too much.”
“Two hundred years old, wow.” The book wasn’t priced, and I hesitated to ask. Not that I wanted to purchase it, but I had no clue as to the value of something like it.
“Have you ever had one of those?”
“Nope. I’m more about tools and advertising pieces than I am books.”
“And bicycles?”
He grinned as he put the book back into the case. “And bicycles.” After he replaced the key, we wandered a little more.
I took it all in while he followed, a proud owner showing off his baby. He impressed me with his variety of knowledge, and his ability to tell a story about almost any item I pointed out. Some items were on consignment for others, but most of the merchandise he’d purchased himself at auctions, yard sales, or estate sales. I even spotted a few things he’d dug out of my dad’s shed to sell for me.
“It can be exhausting some days,” Jeremy said, “but I love it. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“I’m glad you have something you enjoy.” And I was, only I couldn’t keep a hint of sadness out of my voice. For years I’d worked as a clerical assistant, sitting in a cubicle eight hours a day, staring at a computer in a financially sound job that I’d hated. I’d gone to college with an undeclared major, and even ten years later I didn’t know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The money I’d taken from the joint bank account was almost gone, and everything I earned from the house and property sale would help me start a new life.
I just had to figure out what I wanted, so the new life would be a good one. The right one.
“You’ll find your passion one day too,” Jeremy said.
“Maybe.”
We wandered a bit longer, then went back upstairs, all the way to his room on the third floor. He didn’t initiate anything, and neither did I. By some silent agreement, we simply skinned down and climbed into his bed together and went to sleep. I should have felt odd, sleeping in his bed, but I didn’t, and despite the difficult conversation we’d had earlier in the day, I didn’t dream.
I woke to bright sunlight on my face and squinted at the window across from the bed. It gave me a good view of blue sky and cottony clouds. My pillow shifted, and I realized I’d draped myself across Jeremy’s back at some point during the night, in kind of a half-spooning position. I froze, unsure if I should curl closer or gently pull away and give him some space.
Nature decided that one for me—I had to piss, and lingering in bed wouldn’t solve the issue. Jeremy didn’t move as I slipped out of bed and out of the room. In the bathroom, I peed and washed my hands, then splashed some cool water on my face.
I studied my reflection, trying to see what Jeremy saw when he looked at me. All I saw was a tense, flighty idiot with short hair, dark lines under his eyes, and too much gray for his age. I saw weakness. Only this morning I didn’t look quite as weak or quite as tense. I almost looked… normal. Maybe talking things out with Jeremy had actually helped—took power away from Martin, rather than giving him more. Maybe there was hope for me, after all.
Jeremy was awake and yawning when I came back into the bedroom. “Sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, actually. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Getting me to talk last night.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome. So can I interest you in sharing one of my favorite Sunday morning treats?”
He asked with a coy sincerity that got my dick interested in the conversation, and the slow tenting of my sweatpants wasn’t lost on Jeremy. He grinned, and I crawled back into his bed.
TURNED out the treat he actually meant was French toast, which we ate about an hour later—after we tumbled around in bed a while. Making out turned into a battle to see who could blow the other to orgasm first, and it ended up in an awkward sixty-nine. There was no race to completion, no burning need to go fast. Just a mutual desire to make the other feel good and get him off. And I really loved sucking Jeremy’s cock.
Jeremy, who pushed me to talk about things I’d rather leave unsaid. Who turned me onto my stomach and kissed the faded scars on the backs of my knees and calves. Who made me feel a little less broken than I had yesterday.
The French toast was amazing. He added maple syrup to the egg batter “for extra caramelization and sweetness.” I tucked that trick away for potential future use. While he did the dishes, I went downstairs to fetch my slightly wrinkled laundry from the dryer and fold it. I was nearly done and squatting down to get a sock stuck to the back of the machine when a lock jangled. The back door creaked open, which sent a cold splash of fear through my chest. My heart raced.
“Hey, Remy, did you—?” The familiar female voice stopped, as did her footsteps.
I stood up and turned fast enough to bang my elbow on the corner of the dryer. I hadn’t put a shirt on, but was glad to be back in my borrowed sweatpants, because Bethann was staring at me from the open door, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Freezing air swirled inside and bit my bare feet. It didn’t rise high enough to cool the blush heating my cheeks.
“Hi,” she said.
“There’s no Laundromat in town,” I said, as if it explained everything, even though it was nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Which raised two questions: what was she doing here so early, and why did she have a key?
He’s bi, maybe they were together. Or are together. You never asked if he was seeing anyone else, you idiot.
I felt suddenly very, very foolish.
“Is, uh, Rem—Jeremy upstairs?” she asked.
I nodded, my throat too tight and mouth too dry to speak. Remy.
Bethann trotted upstairs, her heeled boots clacking all the way. I turned my garbage bag inside out in case the dirty smells lingered on the plastic, kept a change of clothes out to wear, and then put the rest of my folded laundry into the bag. The paper sack with Friday night’s supplies was still on top of the dryer, and I gave it a petulant glare. Muffled voices drifted down the stairs, actual words lost to the distance and bad acoustics. I contemplated changing clothes right there in the mud room, but I wasn’t about to bolt away like a dirty secret. I was embarrassed as hell, but I hadn’t lied. Hell, I’d bared my soul last night. Time for a little reverse honesty.
Clean clothes in hand, I ascended the stairs. The voices got gradually louder, until a clear conversation emerged.
“—won’t take more than a few hours,” Jeremy said. “I can have them over there by noon, one at the latest.”
“Good, because I don’t want to have to tell Mrs. Pelzer that we don’t have cracker candy for tonight. She loves that stuff.”
Bethann and Jeremy stood facing each other in the kitchen, her back to me. Their postures weren’t defensive, but Jeremy didn’t look happy with the conversation.
“She’ll have her candy,” he said with a huff. “The party isn’t even until six.”
“It will take her that long just to arrange it on a plate.”
“True.” He spotted me lingering by the stairs. His expression softened, but he didn’t smile. “Hey, sorry about that. I totally forgot Bethann was stopping by this morning.”
With her own key.
She turned around and flashed me an apologetic smile. “Sorry if I scared you downstairs.”
“It’s fine,” I said with more snap than intended. To Jeremy, I said, “Thanks for the washer and dryer. I’m going to change.”
I fled upstairs before anyone could comment, changed in the bathroom, and left the sweatpants folded on top of the toilet seat. Like the wimp I was, I waited at the top of the third-floor stairs until the stairs leading to the first floor creaked, and then the house softly groaned and announced the shutting of the front door. I counted to three to steady my nerves before I went back down. Jeremy was frantically pulling ingredients out of the cupboard and piling them on the island: boxes of saltine crackers, sugar, bags of chocolate chips.
“Hey!” he said when I appeared. “Listen, I totally flaked on making food for t
he Christmas celebration at the Methodist church. That’s why Bethann stopped by. I said I’d make it last night, and I forgot.”
Guilt settled heavily in my guts, and I flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s not your fault.” He stopped moving around long enough to smile, genuine and bright. “Last night was worth an earful from Bethann. But I have to get this done, so while I’d hate to seem like I’m kicking you out, I can either take you to the farm now, or take you this afternoon when I drop off the candy at the church.”
I didn’t hesitate. I needed some room to think. “If now isn’t too much trouble?”
“Of course not.” If he was at all disappointed by my decision to not hang around while he made cracker candy (whatever that was), he didn’t show it.
A few minutes later we were in the van heading back to the property. I clutched my bag of clean laundry like it could stop the dozens of questions bulleting through my mind, desperate for answers. I didn’t want to be nosy, but I’d earned the right by spilling my guts last night, hadn’t I? Halfway to our destination, unable to stand the uncomfortable silence he was doing nothing to break, I finally opened my mouth.
“Why does Bethann have a key to your house?”
Jeremy cleared his throat softly, seeming unsurprised by the question. “Last year she needed a place to stay for a while, so I let her have the guest room. We’re good friends, and I never bothered asking for it back.”
“Good friends?” I hated the adolescent side of my brain that couldn’t just come out and ask what I wanted to know.
“We’ve never dated or anything, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’s practically my sister.”
Something in Jeremy’s voice when he said “sister” caught my attention. I studied his profile as he drove—the hard line of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eye. Sore subject for some reason. He glanced in my direction and some of the hardness in his face smoothed out.