4

King of Pricks

I need to stay the fuck away from her. It's like I predicted my future when I spray-painted those stiffened features and penetrating eyes. Dylan told me he'd seen her when he came to the farm, but I thought he was just messing with me.

When I first got here and saw her standing on the walkway, I was glad the aviators masked my reaction. The face I'd blamed for ruining an important night turned out to be the flesh-and-blood icon of my incarceration. My thoughts stacked up in my head like weight rings.

She's real.

She's gorgeous.

She's from a fucking strict Catholic sect.

Annabelle Chaste. I could smell her judging me. I wanted so badly to pull on that stuck-up little braid. I wanted to unhinge that steel mouth, that prude body, see if she was human and capable of emotion.

That night, when she brought me dinner, I'd gotten my chance. It had been fun riling her up; even validating considering the crap I was in. My way of punishing her for metamorphosing in my head, and then dropping into my reality. Teasing her had felt good.

Until I pulled off that head cloth. I didn't mean to hurt her. Seeing her hurt sucked. I didn't expect to feel like shit, or protective for that matter, like I wanted to kick my own ass. I’ve never given a shit before. So why now?

It really got interesting when I suggested she retaliate. Any other girl would have just called me a prick. Instead, she went after the mural I painted on the wall—another thing I'd done to see how far I could go with these people. She attacked my art. A perceptive and clever move. Classy even.

So now I know. Annabelle is capable of hitting where it hurts without fighting dirty. And she has fire in her, after all. She's more unpredictable than she realizes. Usually, people don't know how to blast me, what to go after. With her, I'm not as confident.

As I stand in the middle of a horse stall, I recap the last few days on this farm. Avoidance should be a quick fix. The problem is, it's not sticking.

I'd been stacking firewood when it started. I'm not allowed to use my iPod while working, but I sneaked it in my pocket anyway and plugged my ears once Mr. Chaste left me to do my thing. With only a fleet of squirrels as my audience, monotony sunk its teeth into me and I began to flip the each log around like a sidewalk sign holder. I was feeling crafty, so I created an abstract sculpture out of the woodpile, making a mockery out of the family's originally lame pyramid stack.

I caught the younger daughter, Elsie, watching and giggling from the window of their house. Meanwhile, her less entertained counterpart peered at me from a different window.

Annabelle had zeroed-in on my ear buds in disapproval, then turned her attention to the woodpile, her gray eyes dilating. I thought my sculpture must have looked like a mistake to her. Since it didn't resemble anything remotely impressionistic or realist, I doubted she recognized the mass as art. The scene sucked the stability out of her, and I fed off it, making the pile crazier and more uneven, wondering how long it would take her to march outside with a pitchfork.

But to my surprise, she didn't move. She stayed past the point where her sister left. She kept flinching, torn between closing the curtains and keeping them open. Her face was a scale equally weighted down by her chores and the cliffhanger of what I'd do next. My handiwork didn't disturb her, not in the way I thought. Sure, it made her frown. But it also made her bite her lower lip attractively.

I keep warning myself to quit it, but it's in my DNA to turn her dial. She tries to be rigid, but I'm proving just how bendable she is. I've got to stop before she claims too much of my attention. It's frustrating to think how easily she can.

Damn girl. Damn beautiful face.

And that body. That innocent, pure, untouched body. I feel my cock swell just from the thought.

Fuck, the things I want to do to it… the things I want to do to her…

"How is the work so far?"

The voice slaps me back to the present. Mr. Chaste is watching me from the entrance to the horse stall. His question is an earnest one. How's the work? I'm shoveling pony shit. How the hell is it supposed to be going?

I shrug. "Fine."

He stares at me hopefully. I don't like it.

"The harvest time is coming up," he says. "Our fields will be mighty busy. I'll need you there."

I keep shoveling. The sound of our shoes crushing hay fills the room.

He takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and then puts it back on. "Cassius. I know this is a change for you, but surely it's better than your other options."

He's wrong. Being locked up is easier. People to fight and sport against. People like me. Sometimes, you make an ally or two. The rooms also have electricity. Here, I'm in total primitive hell. I have to use oil lamps. Instead of plumbing, the cabin has a water pump outside for drinking and washing, and a basin that I can fill for shaving. The wood stove has a top surface to heat a kettle, but I don't want tea. I want a fucking beer. The grill's a perk, and the family feeds me, and I can use their bathroom, but that's it. Other than a shower, I usually end up pissing in the woods anyway.

"Over the years, I've wondered so often about your father," he begins.

I stop shoveling and lock my jaw. He tried to talk to me about this on my first night. I'd shut him up fast by reminding him that my father's six feet under.

I don't trust Mr. Chaste or his family. I don't care if he shared some out-dated bond with my father. It irritates the fuck out of me that this stranger assumes he can ‘cure’ me just because he did it with Dad. If this man thinks I'll be just as easy, he's got another thing coming.

"My family experienced a loss, too. My wife seven years ago," he says. "We're not ignorant of your grief. And you still have your mother—"

I fling the shovel against the stall. "You don't know me, mister."

He straightens but doesn't seem surprised.

"You don't know my dad like I did," I say. "You don't know shit about us. Just because you spent a summer with him, it doesn't mean you know about my life, okay?"

"I was blessed to know your father."

"And guess what? I'm. Not. Him."

"Cassius—"

"No one could ever be my father. No one, not even me, can ever come close. So whatever grand plans you have for 'saving me,' forget it. You think I need your help? You think I owe you for rescuing me from the chain gang? You did this for yourself and my dad, not me. You want to know what my life is like? My mother's a whack-job who likes to use her sons as punching bags. I'm separated from my brother. I'm separated from my friends. And I'm stuck in this backwater can, up to my ass in wheat and corn.

"You want to know how my work is? Flies are buzzing and snapping everywhere like turd groupies. I've got hay splinters in places they should never be. And what I don't need is for some suspender-wearing buzz-kill like you to tell me about my father while I'm mucking up crap balls larger than my fist. Just tell me what to do around here and then leave me the fuck alone!"

A shower of dirty water splatters onto my head from the bucket Mr. Chaste upends over me. He sets it down and wipes his hands. Hazily, I wonder what the fuck it is with this family and hurling goddamn water at things.

He steps right into my face with cool authority, forcing me to look at him. He does this without so much as laying a hand on me.

Not one hand.

Not one.

"I tolerated you the first night, young man, but I've been having a good night's sleep since then. Now, here me good." He waits a long moment. "I'm sorry I offended you."

It's not what I expect. Embittered, and taken off guard, my eyes divert to the tack wall behind him. I pretend I'm not listening.

His patient words are weapons I'm not used to fighting. "I may not know of your relationship with your father. Equally so, you don't know about my friendship with him. If you can't be grateful for this landslide of opportunity to correct your mistakes outside of a cell, then ask yourself questions only you can answer: How would your father want you treat others?"

My chest tightens. Dad used to talk about this man, always with affection. What would my father want me to do?

Every word Mr. Chaste says penetrates deep inside a place I rarely visit. I want to push him away, but I can't. The same as with his daughter, I've underestimated his power. His non-violent power.

"How would your father want you to behave?" he asks. "What would give him comfort, Cassius? What is it worth that your brother came here, humbly asking for my help? How much does his concern for you matter? Do you wish to show him ingratitude for his efforts?"

Dylan. My brother. My older brother.

I've left him alone. With Mom.

"This farm may not be your choice, Cassius. But it's honest work, it feeds people, it keeps us warm and housed, and it keeps us together. You wish to be heard? Next time, I'd suggest you learn how to deliver your thoughts in an honorable, and quiet, manner. The loudest men are usually the weakest." He turns and leaves me there, saying over his shoulder, "Keep shoveling."

My temper dissolves, replaced by pain. For the past year, no one has ordered me around without a slap across the face. No one has talked to me like this in...in a long time.

Wash your hands, Cassius.

Did you do your homework?

No talking back, young man.

Knead with concentration. That's my man.

Even at sixteen, my father still treated me like I was six. It used to embarrass me. I'd give anything for him to be alive, to embarrass me again.

My eyes follow Mr. Chaste's exit. The moment in the stall stays with me throughout the rest of the day. I catch glimpses of this man who lost his wife and isn't afraid of me. He works on the farm slowly but efficiently. He believes respect is earned. Meanwhile, I've been a giant prick twice since I got here.

After unwinding in the Chaste’s shower in the late afternoon, I return to my cabin and start to draw. This man doesn't need me to wave a white flag—he's solid enough—but I bet his daughter does, even if she doesn't want to admit it. I'm familiar with this impulse, but I keep working on the sketch anyway. I don't have anything to offer except this.

I'm finished by the time she brings me dinner. As usual, she doesn't knock, and I don't hear her approach, but I do hear the plate being set on the ground. I open the door.

Annabelle jumps back. She's glaring. She's blushing. She does both well. If she were any other girl, I'd make a comment. I'd flirt. I'd tease.

It's a shame she gets to me. Otherwise, I'd pursue.

I hold out the pencil sketch. She takes it without thinking, then releases a thin gasp when she sees that I've drawn her hands wringing the white head cloth between her fingers. I hope this is the right thing to do and I haven't broken some strict Catholic rule. Can she even own art?

"How 'bout a cease-fire?" I suggest. And when she traces the image on the paper, I explain, "Payment for pulling off your handkerchief."

"Headdress."

"Huh?"

"It's a head headdress." Then those gray eyes soften. "There's no need to atone. I have already forgiven you, Cassius Gunner. It's our way."

An apology and forgiveness from both Chastes in one day. I'm stumped. I'm worthless, just like Mom tells me.

Annabelle and I loiter. I think we're trying to decide who will end the conversation. If you can call it a conversation at all.

She considers her words and draws them out tentatively. "You speak through art."

My eyes narrow until I understand that she's not criticizing me. She sounds like a child that's been left out of a game.

I tell her, "I speak in whatever way feels right at the time. How do you speak?"

"By being useful," she replies.

That's not the whole answer. My expression says so, and she gets skeptical. "What else do I need?"

My voice hits a velvety, suggestive note. "Find out."

Her grip tightens on the drawing as she absorbs my words. The ties holding the cap on her head have loosened beneath her chin. I swipe at them and discover that she's cute when she swallows.

I murmur, "You should double knot that — I might rip it off again. You’re mighty damn sexy without it, babe."

He brow creases. “Why do you have to be so...?”

“A prick?”

She blushes, looks down at her feet. “Yes.”

“Don’t know. My mother said I was born that way. Either way, you’re still a sexy little thing.”

She huffs, and storms out.

God, why couldn’t I shut my goddamn mouth for one second?

I was a fucking prick.

I’d never change.