13

The Prick Next Door

Naked and covered in the blanket, we sit together and stare at the view. Annabelle's back is flush against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder while my bent knees and arms cradle her body. I don't know what the best moment of my life is supposed to feel like, but this comes pretty close.

My hands sneak beneath her arms to cup her breasts. "If I wasn't leaving, would this have happened?"

"Yes," she says. "I needed to know that life could be more than what others put in front of me. That I can find out. And only you can give me that." She twists her head to nuzzle my face. "This always would have happened."

I take her chin and press our lips together. This position reminds me of the first time I tasted her.

I make her come for a third time when my hand disappears between her legs and stirs two fingers into her. She reaches back to clasp my neck. Her arousal blooms and pools over my palm. I groan just listening to her smolder.

Between getting dressed and getting on the bike, we prolong our stay. We touch. We kiss. Her mouth is deliciously swollen because of me. Her gray eyes radiate with life.

As I drive us back, her hands grip my thighs, moving close to my groin and caressing me through my jeans. If she keeps this up, she's going to get us into an accident. It could be a combination of a few things: the afterglow, the bike thundering beneath us, time ticking by. Really, I don't give a shit what it is. Annabelle has become unleashed. And it's sexy as hell.

As soon as I park the bike near the farm and cut the engine, she scrambles off the seat and climbs onto my lap, straddling me and claiming my mouth. I respond immediately. My hands cradle her sweet ass and crush her to me, the rocking friction causing her to moan against my tongue. The kiss is delirious, punctuated by furious intakes of breaths.

The bike wobbles because I haven't had time to kick it upright. I plant my feet on the ground to keep us from toppling over. Annabelle releases this hot half-giggle, half-pant.

I'm still reeling over what she gave to me. Only me. The old Cassius is smitten and does cartwheels in his head. The new Cassius debates on taking her once more, hard and fast, on top of the bike. I’m addicted to her pussy. To her. I don't want to let her go.

But I also don't have another fucking condom. Plus, there's not much time left—minutes maybe—before her family wakes up. I love and despise this morning.

I try to pull away, but she hums my name and drills her fingers through my hair. Her compact body grinds against my cock.

Fuck it. I thoroughly devour her mouth and tongue with my own until my legs give out because I can't balance both her and the bike any longer. We break apart on a heated gasp. The chilly air does the rest of the work to calm us down.

"You're going to get me in trouble," I joke.

She kisses the tattoo on my wrist. "If that happens, I'll protect you."

My heart clenches. I want to take back that stupid ass promise we uttered after making love. I hated saying it. I hated denying the Real, in favor of the Not Real.

I don't love you.

I feel the total opposite of those words. I know she does, too. I know she does. Those Not Real words were a sham. Saying them isn't protecting me. It isn't making me feel safer or in less pain.

The problem is, if I take back the Not Real, she might do the same. She might utter the Real words, and if she does, I won't be capable of leaving this farm in one piece.

We make our way through the woods. With each step, her mood disintegrates. It's killing me, but I try to keep it light. As we near the cabin, I grab her waist from behind, just below the ribcage.

That's when I learn Annabelle is ticklish. The walk is disjointed and clumsy as I tease her mercilessly while pecking up and down the side of her neck, and it does the trick, because she's laughing and begging me to spare her

Then she's stops. Annabelle stops so fast that I almost trip over her. My hands are still on her waist when I look up. And see her father.

Mr. Chaste stands outside the cabin door, leveling us with a look of betrayal, shock, and anger. He must have noticed Annabelle wasn't home and assumed she was bringing me breakfast. When she didn't return, he must have suspected something and come here. He must have gone inside, because the door is open.

His eyes narrow in our direction, sizing us up. His daughter's loose hair. The missing headdress, which is still in her coat pocket. Her flush face. The gap in her blouse. And James Gunner's deviant, non-Catholic son, with his hands planted on his daughter's body. Whose fingers had been tickling her and whose lips had been preying on her neck a second ago. Whose cock had been…

Oh. Shit.

Annabelle grips my hand. The gesture blows me away. I would have thought she'd jump as far from me as possible.

Whenever my mother was about to release pent-up frustration on my brothers and me, she'd start by prowling toward us. When Mr. Chaste heads my way, I tense up the same way I would at home.

He seems to notice and halts, though his features don't relax. Because he knows. He damn well knows what happened this morning. He knows we've been blind sighting him.

He encouraged us to hang out. He wanted us to become friends. But that doesn't mean he wanted us to become lovers.

"Papa..." Annabelle whispers.

"Go back to the house, Annabelle," he orders.

"Papa, I—"

"Now!"

She stumbles against me. My arm wraps around her stomach, securing her. But I know it'll only make things worse if she doesn't listen. So I pull back and say, "Go."

She turns and shakes her head like mad. My throat bunches. This is not the way it's supposed to end.

I rest my hands on her cheeks. "Go."

She probes my gaze, then sets her chin—that's my girl—and hurries off. Dead leaves crack beneath her feet.

Once she's gone, Mr. Chaste approaches me with caution. He punishes me with that unyielding look of his, this time stained with disappointment. I've proven what I told him from the beginning: I'm not my father. I'm incurable.

The difference is that Dad would understand this thing between Annabelle and me. Holding onto that thought, I meet Mr. Chaste's gaze head on. I wait for him to tell me that I've broken his trust. That I've corrupted and ruined pure, innocent Annabelle. That even if I were Catholic Unity, I wouldn't be good enough.

All he says is, "You've made a fool of me, Cassius."

The he walks away. His shoes kick through the same trail of leaves as Annabelle's had. I recall everything he told me over the last two months, about strong men and patience and forgiveness.

I toss the guilt aside and set my jaw. I made a fool of him by lying, but is it that big of a crime to love his daughter?

It's fucking bullshit.

A half hour later, Mr. Chaste leaves the house with one of the men who work in the fields. I waste no time making my move. This has to be fast. I have about twenty minutes before Officer Cray comes to pick me up. Now that we've been caught, I'm worried that Annabelle has had enough time to reject the girl on the hill and return to the one who held me at arm's length during that hellish hiatus in our relationship.

I charge up to the house, but it's locked and there's no bell. When no one answers my knock, I rap on the door. When that doesn't work, I back up and yell, "Annabelle!"

When I don't get a response, I do it again, louder this time. "Annabelle!"

Elsie's head pokes out from a curtain on the second floor. She twists around to say something to someone.

Before I shout a third time, the door bursts open and Annabelle dashes out. She grabs my hand, and we run to the back of the house. We crash together, arms clinging, holding tight. I flatten her against the wall. She's shaking so hard I have to wrench her head up to look at me.

Her hair's braided. She's wearing her headdress again. She glances to the side and then at me. "He'll be back any minute—"

I grab her face. "Come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me," I say. "Come to the city with me. Be with me. Stay with me."

"Cassius." She dumps her head in her hands. "This is my home. I can't just go, just like that."

"I know this is fast—"

"Fast? We've known each other two months. I've known everyone else my whole life."

"Dammit, Annabelle, would you stop talking about them and talk about yourself for once?"

"There is no me without them."

"You fucking know that's not true!"

She rams a fist into her mouth. What am I doing? Why am I pushing her?

"I want you," I plead. "I want all of you. I want you every day. I won't stop wanting you. I want you to be whoever you want to be."

She releases her fist and whispers, "If that's true, then let me be Catholic. Let me be with my family. They’ll disown me…"

Groaning, my forehead falls against hers. Fine, so I'm a hypocrite, but I refuse to give up that easily. "Annabelle, it's okay to live for others, but it's not okay to lose yourself because of it. If you don't know who you really are in the first place, what good is your devotion to people? It's an empty gift. I know how you feel about archery. It's exactly how I feel about painting. And how I felt this morning when I made love to you."

She touches my face. "The memory has to be enough for us."

"No, it doesn't! Who gives a shit what other people think?"

"I do," she chokes. "People matter whether you like it or not. Community matters. Sharing matters."

"What good is that when you can't be yourself and love whoever you fucking want to love? What kind of people shut you out for that?"

"What kind of people burn their son on purpose?" she lashes out.

The force of her words sends me staggering backward. Her eyes widen. She presses herself against me and clasps my jaw. "Cassius, no...no, I...I only meant..."

My head twists away. I'm going to scream. The wind picks up, brushing the cold air against her skirt and my sleeves. I smell the soap she uses to wash her hands. She always has this same smell, mixed with the scent of soil from the fields.

Her voice is brittle. "Unfairness exists in both of our worlds, but that isn't enough to reject either one. If I leave, I can't come back here. I couldn't see my family again. You live recklessly. You're impulsive. If I go with you, can I trust you to stay with me? Can I give all this up to take that chance? What if you leave me—"

"No," I snap. "I may be impulsive. I may be reckless. I may break rules. But the one thing I don't do is abandon the people I love." My fingers catch her chin. "I won't walk out on you. I'm not that guy."

"Please don't ask me to make this choice," she begs.

"Then tell me to come back every night with my bike, to take you wherever you want to go. Tell me and I'll do it."

"I can't expect that from you. I can't expect you to tie yourself to me that way. You deserve a life. You deserve a girl you can be with."

"I don't want another girl! I'm in lo—"

"Annabelle!" Elsie comes rushing around the corner of the house, her face bloated with worry. "Papa's coming."

I wonder if she volunteered to keep watch or if Annabelle asked her to.

Annabelle grabs my wrist and kisses the tattoo. This is the last private moment we'll have together. I'm so overwhelmed that I go numb. I can't feel her lips.

She gives me one last look and untangles herself from me, darting around the corner with her sister, leaving me dazed. My back lands against the wall. I press my palms into my eyes. I bite down hard because now that she's gone, I begin to feel the ghost of those lips on my wrist. They burn worse than the day my mother held my arm over the stove.

They burn everything away.

Cray's car teeters up the walkway, clunky and ungainly as a remote-controlled toy. For some reason, the car seems smaller now. Not to mention Cray's head, which is as perfectly round as those donuts he likes to eat while interrogating detainees. His Pac-Man mouth can obliterate one pastry in two bites.

I wonder if that's how he gets people to confess. By forcing them to endure the gruesome sight of his flapping muzzle gluttonously covered in sugar sand to the point where they just want to get the questioning over with.

I stand beneath a tree, off to the side of the house, watching the scene. The Chastes line up in front of the porch, just like they did eight weeks ago. It's déjà vu. Except now I know my dad's past a little better, now I know that quiet men are strong, now I know what Annabelle's body feels like, smells like.

Cray gets out of the car and shakes Mr. Chaste's hand. Annabelle is not listening to their conversation. Her hands are folded in front of her, head high as she gazes at the cornfield.

Her back is stiff. Her profile is stiff. Her mouth is stiff. Stiff as a portrait. I imagine her hanging in a gallery somewhere, her likeness causing people who amble by to actually stop and ponder. Even in this vacant state, she is striking.

Her restraint falters when my personal motorcade rips across the landscape toward the house. She winces at the lion's roar of my bike and the purr of the Mustang as both vehicles halt behind the police car.

Bailey, who promised to retrieve the motorcycle from its hiding place today, hops off. Cray rolls his eyes. The Chastes stare openly at my friend.

He's dressed for the occasion. Beneath his open jacket, he's wearing his favorite ‘Spooning leads to forking’ t-shirt.

I shake my head and grin, then go still when Dylan steps out of the Mustang. I'm surprised Bailey allowed him to drive it, but I guess it's better than letting my wiry brother handle the motorcycle.

My brother. I missed my brother.

He's looking around for me, his cheeks thinner than I remember. His skin is pallid, as though his health reached its expiration date a long time ago.

My feet are moving in his direction before I realize it. But Bailey sees me first and stretches out his arms, a swagger in his step. "Well, if it isn't Little House on the Prairie." He pulls me into a bear hug. "You're a sight for sore eyes, baby."

From the corner of my eye, I notice Annabelle tense at the word baby.

I turn to regard Cray and his nicotine teeth and ‘grease lightning’ pompadour. "Still in one piece, man?" he asks. I'm used to him addressing me like I'm a Neanderthal, but I'm not used to staying quiet. My silence baffles the crap out of him. "Well," he stutters. "Finally. It looks like these people taught you how to shut up."

My tongue is itching for a verbal fight, but I hold it in.

"Whatever Cassius learned, he learned on his own," Mr. Chaste says, watching me so closely and soberly that it hurts.

"We'll see," Cray says, handing Mr. Chaste a sheet of paper. "The court will need you to sign this."

As Mr. Chaste reads through the contents, I steal a glance at Annabelle. The second our eyes meet, hers flit away.

The click of the pen grabs my attention again. Her father's fingers halt over the signature line. For an instant, I think he's going to hand back the document unsigned. Then his hand moves patiently, letter for letter, releasing me for good.

Cray strides away, grumbling that I can have a moment alone with the family. Elsie hugs me and tells me I'm cool and cute. I make her giggle by ruffling the side of her headdress.

Mr. Chaste pins me with that direct gaze he's spent his life mastering. I match it, hoping he understands that I'm sorry I lied, but I'm not sorry about my feelings. That I admire what he and my father had. That I never took advantage of Annabelle. That I would do anything she asked me to.

Finally, he nods. "You're your own man. Like James."

Despite the words, his tone has lost its fondness. I accept that it's the price I have to pay.

Annabelle has been staring at the field. I plant myself right in front of her and murmur, "Remember when I told you not to break eye contact with me?"

Her eyes find mine. In them, I see water hitting the mural on the cabin wall, the sketch of her fingers holding her headdress, us dancing, night rides into the city, falling asleep, our first kiss, sneaking around in the corn field, my attempt to seduce her by the wood pile, her standing at the kitchen window drinking a glass of water, the hill, our bodies, the hill, our sounds, the hill, our kisses. It's all there. And then gone.

She voids these things from her expression. She pulls down the blinders and holds out her hand. "Goodbye, Cassius Gunner," she whispers.

She's good at this. Better than I am.

I take her slim fingers and squeeze them. I've gone mute. I'm going to vomit. I walk away and manage two steps before I hear it. Maybe I'm the only one capable of hearing it. The barely audible whimper that coils from the back of her throat.

I whip back around and seize her by the waist. And I kiss her. In front of everyone.

Including Mr. Chaste.

I kiss the fuck out of her.

My mouth swallows her gasp. I feel the wool of her dress and her hands latching onto my neck as she kisses me back. A lock of hair comes loose from her braid and caresses my cheek.

Wrenching myself away, I stride toward the police car. I snatch the aviators dangling from my crewneck and ram them onto my face, so that on the way home no one will see, no one will know, no one will suspect.

I'm going to fucking cry.