Nine
Dear Calla, I’m embarrassed to bring friends home to my house. My mom is the best, she’s always asking me to bring people around, but all of my friends come from the rich side of town. They’re used to big screen TV’s and manicured lawns, while my trailer park has small screen TV’s and putting greens for front yards. I hate feeling this way, but it’s embarrassing. ~Signed, Horrible Daughter
The lights from Interstate 695 fade in my rearview mirror as I pull off the exit ramp and drift into the emergency lane. Turning on my interior light, I lean over the console and open the glove compartment. Focusing on my periphery, I count the number of cars passing me, making sure all of them are accounted for before switching off both the interior and exterior lights. I canvas the area, looking for any cars that might be stopped along the overpass just up ahead, but only see the tail lights from the highway off in the distance.
Turning off my signal I check my rearview mirror one more time, making sure no one has pulled off onto the exit ramp behind me. I turn my steering wheel sharp right and accelerate fast enough that the tree line absorbs my brake lights from anyone driving by. Some people would hate dissolving into the dark, but I relish the anonymity of being just another silhouette in an area dense with shadows. I don’t mind the sound of gravel and dirt hitting my car’s undercarriage, or how my tires roll over the grooves and dips of the poorly maintained path. These familiar sounds finally feel like home to me.
After the first bend, I check my rearview mirror and scan the sparse tree line behind me. The trees are starting to thin and soon enough, the last of the leaves will fall. While I’ve always worried about an errant hunter ignoring the private property signs, I’ll soon have to worry about the cabin being seen from the highway. While the structure isn’t very large, all it would take is for someone curious to follow the tire tracks in the snow or see the smoke billowing up from the winter backdrop.
I shake those thoughts aside as my grandmother’s cabin comes into view. Although she passed away years ago, I always imagine her sitting on the porch in her old rocking chair like a picture in a photo album that never fades. Pulling in next to the abandoned chicken coop, I turn off the parking lights and let the motion sensors light up my property. Trees extend all around the small wooden building that my mother and father used to call a shack. Deserted flower boxes hang loosely from the front porch with a collection of weeds dangling over the edges. While I’ve never been a master gardener, I’m proud to say that I grow a nice crop of weeds.
I once looked up the collection of plants I unwittingly grew and learned that I’m particularly good at growing a weed called Hairy bittercress. The last time Mila visited, she suggested I write a How-to novel on growing the “hairy bitches”.
Throwing the weeds into the outer edge of the tree line that extends around the cabin, I pause at the collection of sticks Simba piles together in my grandmother’s old fire ring. Every day he retrieves the longest branch he can find and places it on top of the pile like he’s trying to build a vertical fence to protect us.
The wooden steps creak underneath my feet as I walk up to the front porch. Clearing my throat, I whistle as loudly as possible, knowing Simba stands on the other side of my front door with his hackles raised.
When I first brought him home, he reacted to everything. I couldn’t even clear my throat without him jumping to attention. Since then I’ve started whistling, especially when we’re hiking through the woods or doing something else he loves. He seems to associate whistling with me. Simba is a lot like me—always on guard, always trying to prepare for the next threat. He’s proven many times that he’s the type of dog to flash his fangs first and maybe ask forgiveness later.
By the time I put my key into the third lock, I hear him shaking out his entire body—releasing the stress he’d probably been holding since the minute he heard the car pull up.
I slowly push open the door and continue whistling while he inspects my body for any foreign scent. Closing the door behind me, I lock it on reflex and drop my purse on the countertop and wait until he’s sure I am who I claim to be. Once satisfied, he asks me all about my day with his deep barks as I bend down to envelop him into my arms. He cuddles into my legs, practically knocking me over, as I walk back over to the door.
“You want to go outside? Outside?” I ask in a voice no human should ever use.
I’m so distracted by Simba’s full-body wag that I don’t look through the peephole like I normally do. I don’t scan the tree line or put my hand on my Smith and Wesson .38. Instead, I open the front door and watch Simba’s excited posture immediately stiffen. Every muscle in his body engages as his lips curl back, and he inches forward with a low growl. The hairs on the back of his body stand at attention, and his tail shifts side to side in a nervous wag.
Without a second’s pause, I shift behind the door, grab my gun off the windowsill, and bring it up to eye level. Throwing the door wide open, I shift the angle of the barrel to line up with the bridge of my visitor’s nose. Only then do I release the strain around my eyes and focus on the man standing on the other side of my gun.
“Ash.” I snarl his name, though he may not have heard my voice considering how loud Simba growls below me.
While Ash has many expressions, his scared shitless look might be my favorite. His hazel eyes have deepened to a deep gray, like even his eyes are afraid to offend me. His lips are parted so wide, there’s no chance he’ll ruin the silence by saying something snarky or obnoxious. My favorite part of his reaction is the slow way he lifts his hands up in surrender. Most specifically, the way his blue pull-over strains against the muscles of his chest, leaving nothing to the imagination.
My eyes are so busy playing Connect the Lines of Muscles that I forget all about the gun still pointed at Ash’s nose.
Ash makes a low noise in his throat, and then says my name in a voice that makes my entire body warm. Shaking my head, I let out an exaggerated sigh and click the safety back on. I release my grip and then show him the side of the gun like I’m some Wild West cowgirl calling a truce.
“Relax. It’s not loaded.”
I move behind the door to put the gun back on the windowsill and use the moment to close my eyes. My reflexes may be quick, but so is my adrenal gland which releases adrenaline at the slightest provocation. Adrenaline now seeps through my body making it hard to breathe, and I lean my forehead against the back of the door trying to quiet some of the chaos in my shaking limbs.
Squatting down slowly, I run my palm down the length of Simba’s back. “Easy, babe. Easy.”
I wait until his lips relax, and his tail returns to a normal sway. “Easy, Simba. Easy, boy.”
Finally, he looks up at me with his tongue lolling out to the side—my cue that he’s relaxed enough to be comforted.
I wrap an arm around him and run my other hand down the length of his body, trying to calm the rest of his tense muscles. “Good boy, baby.” He nuzzles into my chest while I kiss him on his spine. “You’re such a good boy.”
Simba bows and stretches, as if trying to get out all the kinks in his back. He shakes out his body and then stands at the screen, wagging his tail.
I look up at Ash, arching my eyebrows slightly. “He has to go out.”
Ash is still standing with his hands up, but instead of staring down the gun, he’s staring down at my other weapon.
My lips curl into a tight smile as my voice takes on a snide tone. “This is Simba. Simba, this is Ash, and yes buddy, you’re right. He has no business being here.”
I open the screen door, and Ash jumps up onto my grandmother’s old rocking chair. In spite of how angry I am, I love how pale Ash looks when the chair tips him back and forth. I especially love his expression when Simba puts his front paws up on the chair and sniffs Ash’s jeans. Begrudgingly, I tell Simba to go play, but only because I don’t want Ash peeing on my dog. Simba hates baths.
I contemplate slamming the screen door in Ash’s face, but he’s Jacob’s friend and he was staring down the end of my gun. Even though it was unloaded, Ash probably didn’t know that. It would be rude to not at least ask whether he shit himself and needs a new set of pants. We’re not the same size, but maxi skirts transcend all waist lines.
Stepping down off the chair, Ash hurries into the house and slams the door behind him. He fidgets with the three locks and then turns and bends over at the waist. With his hands on his knees, he pulls in a long, shaky breath. While I have an entire laundry list of reasons to punch him in the face, I try to wait out his melodramatic performance but grow impatient.
I smack him on the shoulder. “You followed me?”
Ash looks up at me, and I fight down the urge to take a step back. He looks five shades past furious as he straightens. His voice is fierce and oddly sexy when he growls out the words he used in the parking garage, “I would’ve led, but I didn’t know where you lived.”
The low bass of his voice sounds both promising and threatening. My mind screams that I should move closer to the gun, but I’m too distracted by the surge of heat resettling between my legs to move at all.
Ash doesn’t seem to notice my inner-hatred when he steps forward, “You almost fucking shot me!”
I wave him off with a flippant hand but take a step back. “Impossible. No bullets. Even if I threw the gun at you, you would’ve only gotten a bump.”
Confusion deepens the dent between his eye brows. He shakes his head and holds his arms out to the side. “What. The. Fuck. Is. This?”
Following the direction of his outstretched arms, I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at his shirt. “Man boobs?”
Shock erases some of the hard lines of his expression. He steps back and points at his chest. “They’re called pecs. Short for pectoral muscles.”
I squint. “They’re called boobs. Short for breasts. For men, they’re called moobs. While this conversation is fun, I don’t think you came out here to talk about your aging body or your saggy skin. Why the hell are you here?”
I had hoped my question would put him on the defensive, but his pride must be stronger than I thought. He drags a hand through his auburn hair, and a small cowlick springs lose on the top of his head. “You live in a cabin, Calla.”
I purse my lips, feeling defensive anger rise to the surface of my mind. “You have a problem with small houses? HGTV has an entire series about tiny houses. How’s your ecological footprint, Sanders?”
Ecological what? I keep my face as neutral as possible while my stomach rolls in self-pity.
Luckily, he’s so stupefied, he doesn’t laugh outright. “Tell me you don’t live here by yourself.”
I snort and shake my head. “Of course not.”
Ash turns in a small circle, taking in the one large room. “Who do you live with?”
Rolling my eyes, I point to the front door. “Simba. Duh.”
Ash stands perfectly still as if my avoidance technique has left him incapable of speech. His eyes are just large pools of murky water, and his mouth hangs open.
I take it back. This is my favorite side of him. Silent.
He closes his lips and then runs his tongue over the seam. I don’t get the impression the move is a deliberate attempt to be sensual, but I can’t help but follow the path of his tongue. Gah! Focus, Calla!
Ash’s nostrils flare the littlest bit when he draws in a long breath and asks slowly, “Why do you live in the woods?”
I chew on the inside of my lip and point at the window above the kitchen sink. “I like to be one with nature.”
“Bullshit.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
He crosses his arms and separates his legs like he’s a bouncer challenging my fake ID. “You’re lying right through your teeth. You hate nature. You probably never even went camping before you moved here.”
“I went camping plenty of times.” When his brows rise in some sort of asshole dare, my pride stupidly accepts the challenge. “I did! There were woods, mosquitoes, porta-a-pots, and absolutely no electricity.” My pride slips a half of an inch, leaving just enough room for the truth to slither its way out. “I mean, I was on the other side of the campground in a camper with electric hook-up, but camp was definitely in the title of the resort.”
Ash doesn’t seem to appreciate my memory with my grandmother as much as I do. “How long have you lived here?”
“Are you a census taker?”
His eyebrows twitch again, and his voice drops even lower when he steps forward and leans forward. “You are not living here.”
His breath smells like Chinese food. The scent overwhelms my senses, drawing me back to the memories of my summers at the cabin with my grandmother. Every Friday she would bring home Chinese food, and we’d eat on the front porch with the take out containers on our laps. She’d always slip me her fortune cookie, insisting she didn’t like them, and would wait for me to read my fortune. No matter how many cookies I opened, I always held out hope for what was written on the paper. I always hoped that those fortunes would give me the answers to questions I was too young to be asking.
I shake off the memory, hating Ash even more for bringing the scent along with him.
“Calla, you are not living here.” He says again, as if repetition will change my mind.
“Except I am.”
He closes his eyes briefly and then pats the air like he’s trying to dull the charge in the room. “You live in the middle of nowhere. What if someone tried to break into your house? What if you had a heart attack? What if….?” He looks around the room as if searching for proof. Pointing down at my yellow shag carpet, he looks victorious. “The rug. It’s got to be what thirty? Fifty years old? We’re talking generation upon generation of spiders who were born, lived, and died in this rug. How many have crawled in your mouth while you slept? How many are listening to our conversation right now?”
He hops off the carpet as if he scared himself with the visual.
At that, everything inside of me powers off. The stillness is so complete that I can hear my pulse beating in my ears. As if drawing energy from every fiber in my being, I step forward, lower my chin, and glare at him with fire in my voice. “Don’t you fucking stand there and judge me. Some of us can’t afford to live behind palace walls, Your Highness. Some of us have to give up our flat screen televisions and custom stereo systems to live as far off the grid as possible. I’m sorry if my bungalow doesn’t meet your standards, but you were never invited in the first place. So get out. Now.”
Rage races through every vein in my body, but I feel strong, empowered by my speech. Every word was said with conviction. Every syllable must have found its mark as I verbally beat Ash down to within an inch of his life. In a second, he’ll be cowering, apologizing for being such a dipshit. I won’t forgive him, not tonight at least. People like him need to stew. They need to feel the guilt in every cell in their—
“You’re not staying here,” Ash whispers and wraps his fingers around my elbow.
Without hesitation, I yank my elbow out of his light grip. “Get your hands off of me.”
At first I think I’m growling, but then I realize the sound is coming from behind me.
A genuine smile spreads across my face as I unlock the front door to let Ash see Simba standing on the other side of the flimsy screen.
“Seems Simba there doesn’t appreciate you putting your hands on me.”
I wish I could bottle up the power I feel standing here, staring up at Ash as he looks between Simba and me. Ever since he walked through my front door, Ash hasn’t heard a word I said. With a threat looming just on the other side of the mesh, I finally have his attention, and I don’t plan on wasting the opportunity.
“You ever been face to face with a guard dog? I don’t mean when they’re growling or on alert like Simba right now. I mean, when their owner gives the command? When their owner says the one word that turns them back to their primitive wolf state? You ever seen their fangs, heard the growl that comes from the back of the throat and promises that his bite is much larger than his bark? I don’t live here alone, Ash. I live with Simba, and he’s a bit of the jealous type. Don’t put your hands on me again.”
Ash’s eyes remain trained on Simba, but he wisely takes a step back. His voice is quieter when he says, “Calla. I want to help.”
Something about his voice slips past my shield, and I feel the beginning stages of defeat threatening to grow stronger. My stomach curls as I give Simba the command to “play” and watch him pick up a stick he had dropped on the welcome mat and put it in the pile in the front yard. He run off into the woods to probably find another stick. I stare after him for awhile, envious of his freedom.
Solitude has become my very best friend. Mila and Jacob are the only ones who know where I live. When the press started hounding me at my townhouse, I tried to find shelter at my parent’s house. When Mom and Daddy dearest kicked me out for interfering with their social calendar, my aunt suggested my grandmother’s bungalow. No matter how far from civilization I live, this small cottage is the one place where I have found the perfect balance of serenity and protection.
The fact that Ash has stolen that from me is a bitter pill I refuse to swallow. I stare out into the front yard, watching the shadows inch into the dim light of my front step. Feeling a slight chill, I pull down the glass partition of my door to cover the screen.
“Was there any part of you that knew you shouldn’t come tonight? Did you sit in your car, debating whether to follow me, or are you so far removed from your principles that you never even considered leaving me alone? You don’t even know me. I have made it clear that you will never know me. Isn’t that enough?”
His voice is low and strained when he whispers, “This isn’t about me, Calla.”
I laugh out loud and drag my fingers through my hair. Spinning around, I let my anger blur my eyes. “Everything is about you, isn’t it? You coming here ….Geezus. It never occurred to you that I didn’t want you here? In your crooked mind and self-absorbed life, you can’t imagine that anyone would turn you down? I’m sorry if that makes me more attractive, but going against my wishes makes you a thousand times less attractive to me.”
I turn back around with my fingers on the handle. I’m breathing so heavy that I’m fogging up the window. I’d conceal my emotions by stepping away from the door, but I can see Ash stepping up right behind me. Most of his contorted reflection is covered by the fog of my breath so I’ve no idea whether my words have finally hit their mark.
I have my answer the minute he leans forward and whispers into my ear, “Try again.”
His voice sounds so inviting that the banshee inside of me RSVP’s. “How about you try again?!” I spin around and push him, trying to ignore the tight muscles above where his moobs should be. He stumbles back, but his soft, open expression soon closes down, like he’s reflexively protecting himself.
“Why did you meet with Seder?”
Ash’s head flinches back. “What?”
“You heard me. Why the fuck did you meet with Seder and RJ?”
He shakes his head like he’s trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I told you. I was in a business meeting...”
Putting my hands on my hips, I frown. “You usually have business meetings in saunas?”
He runs his hand down his five o’clock shadow. Staring down at the floor, he shakes his head. “Last time I’ll do that sh…When you know you’re sitting on another man’s ball sweat…”
Ash pauses and glances at my open mouth. “Never mind,” he whispers and sits down on the bar stool behind him. “I wouldn’t even call it a meeting. I didn’t say more than a few words.”
“Which words?”
He tips his head to the side. “What’s that?”
I step forward and cross my arms, drawing out my question slowly. “What were your few words?”
He doesn’t let me see past his resigned expression, but simply nods his head once. “RJ said I knew you. Told Seder I met you at the night of the fundraiser.”
“That’s it?”
He glances up at the ceiling and then back down to me. I hate that I can’t tell whether he’s lying. “Pretty much. He was talking to someone on the phone about the videos when he first came in and then he and RJ discussed….his innocence.”
I lean against the back of the sofa, cross my arms over my Lake Tahoe sweatshirt, and look at a spot just above his eyebrows. I nod with a strange sort of detachment, letting the numbness shield me from Ash’s words. “Then you just happened to mention you met me.”
He shakes his head quickly like he can see the direction of my questioning. “No, RJ was the one who brought it up. He said I met you at the fundraiser.”
An angry blush warms my cheeks and neck, but I hide my emotions behind a mask of fury. “RJ wasn’t at the fundraiser. So how did he know we met?”
Ash slumps on the bar stool, staring at the floor. His brows arch up and down like he’s having a conversation inside of his mind. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
A hard smile cracks my façade. I squint and lean forward. “Know what does make sense? You and Seder are buds, fucking drinking buddies who made all this...”
His head pops up and outrage creases his eyebrows again. “What? No! Calla!”
Trying to maintain a calm and cool exterior, I tilt my head to the side. “Then how did we wind up sitting next to each other?”
He shakes his head, a panicked look still creasing his features. “What?”
“Your table card. Saw that your original table number was replaced with my table number. Someone even used a damn crayon.”
Ash stands and steps forward. His expression looks so damn innocent that my mask of certainty wavers, leaving just enough room for doubt to slither in and mess with my resolve. “No, hey, wait a minute. That was my brother and, for the record, it was with a marker. It was a joke. He crossed out my number so that I’d be sitting with…”
His eyes flash with understanding before the word even tumbles out. He drops his arms and shakes his head as a slideshow of emotions slips across his face.
This one time I didn’t want to be right. I wanted Ash to laugh off my paranoia and show me how I let my imagination paint a threat that was never there. I would have taken the hit to my pride once he proved to me that our meeting was a pure coincidence and had nothing to do with a puppeteer pulling the strings of that night.
The familiar weight of defeat curves my shoulders forward, and I briefly close my eyes as if hiding the emotion. “That you’d be sitting with me. And this is the same brother who arranged the meeting with RJ.”
In a last ditch effort, Ash must find a last pocket of doubt to cling to. He puts his large hands on his hips and his elongated shadow practically fills the whole wall behind him. “You don’t know Cole. My brother would never....”
His defense his laughable as a crushing wave of anger steels my resolve. “You called me Sleeping Beauty.”
His eyes close for a brief second when he screws up his face. “Um, yeah, about that. Once I found about….the videos…that was a dick thing to say.” He drops his hands and throws them out to the side. “But I didn’t know. Not that moment. I just knew you were Cal, Calla, whoever you were. I was having a hard enough time understanding how you were so female and so….like this. Yeah, I was off my game. I mean, you were supposed to be all fatherly and shit, and you wind up looking like…looking nothing like my priest.” He says waving his hand in front of my body.
He takes advantage of my confusion and steps forward. “Calla. Listen to me. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear to you I don’t know Seder. I’d never even heard his name until after the fundraiser when I was reading about your—” He closes his eyes and groans. Opening them again, he peers down at me with every inch of his face pinched, “—situation. If you don’t trust me, trust Jacob. He wouldn’t be friends with a conniving asshole. Trust that at least.”
Over the past two years, I’ve seen through the deceptive masks that men wear and witnessed the monsters that lie underneath. I pride myself on seeing through the bullshit to distinguish the weak threats from the strong. But with Ash, I’m the one that feels weak. No matter how convincing the logic, my mind betrays me with tentative proof of his innocence. His friendship with Jacob, what he does for the community, even his presence here can be manipulated to prove he’s clueless. I use my body’s response to him as further evidence that he is not a threat to my personal safety. He’s more of a threat to my heart.
The silence feels thick, like the stagnant air is pushing in on all sides of my body. While I don’t sense the tell-tale signs of a panic attack, there is a knowing that feels like a visceral tear in the fabric of my resolution. The shredding of my defenses brings a burning sensation to the center of my chest that spreads up over my shoulders.
Pushing off the couch, I move past him and stare out into the small patch of grass outside my front door. “Don’t do this, Ash.”
As if sensing my inner conflict, he walks up behind me again, his step stopping right behind me. I close my eyes and hold my breath, not wanting to shift from the delicate ledge I’m standing on. He leans in close and breathes in like he’s drawing in my fear. I feel the warm breath of his exhale on the side of my neck. I tamp down the urge to shudder and put my hands up on both sides of the doorframe to steady myself from swaying.
He stands so close that I can hear his lips open when he whispers, “Calla. Please. Let me help you.”
My grip tightens on both sides of the door, refusing to succumb to the pull from his body. The force feels so powerful like falling back into his arms is what I’m meant to do. Like my body has already decided and all that’s left is for my mind to concede defeat. My breath comes out in short pants while Ash shifts even closer so that I feel the tip of his nose as it brushes against my ear. The low, steady sound of his breathing is hypnotizing as he waits for me to decide. I feel like I’m floating and drowning all in the same breath, terrified by the gravity of the man pulling me in.
In the suffocating silence I realize this has nothing to do with the videos anymore. This has to do with a woman fighting the demons she’s been running from. This has to do with taking a step into the uncertain instead of cowering behind the known.
He says my name again, but his tone is even softer than before, almost like he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Instead of letting his voice snap me back to my reality, I concede and let go. Relief feels as palpable as the wood grain underneath my fingertips.