For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (42 page)

“About what?”

“Your mother.” I whispered.

Beauregard glanced away from me, tugging on his perfectly knotted tie until it loosened. He licked his lips and it seemed as if he was about to speak. I expected him to tell me about Loretta, his mother. Maybe an insight or two into his childhood. But he didn’t. “This was the first time,” he said hoarsely. His voice was so low I had to inch further to hear him properly.

So, I’d been right. “I’m…” I’m what? Sorry. I honestly didn’t know what to say

“I’ve never…
taken care
of someone I knew. It was…messy.” He cleared his throat. “This isn’t news to you, but Clayton was a bastard. Always makin’ waves, a hot head. I never liked working with him. And every time I did, I had to clean up after his mess. So I don’t know why this is so damn…difficult.” He brought the glass to his forehead, smearing the condensation on his skin. Then, downed the rest of his drink.

“I’m sorry.” And then I stared at the splotch of blood on his wrist again. My husband’s blood. What kind of screwed up life did I lead? Sitting here commiserating with my husband’s murderer. I wish I’d never clapped eyes on Clayton. My life had gone to hell since I met him. The only thing I couldn’t bring myself to regret was Sam.

He laughed without much humor. “I’m sure it won’t be the last time. And at least it wasn’t someone I liked.”

Because I couldn’t stand it anymore, I grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen and dampened it with water and a small amount of soap. Before I could stop myself, I placed a hand on his forearm and wiped the blood off his wrist. When it came away bloody, he gasped. “I’m usually more…careful.” He seized my lighter and lit the dry end of the paper towel. Patiently relighting it until all if the evidence had burned away.

Just like it’d never happened.

Without thinking about it, I grasped his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you,” I murmured. “Not for…I mean for bringing me this,” I said, tapping the envelope.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, a small half smile on his face. And then he sobered. “Seriously. Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t,” I said. Then I gripped his forearm and squeezed. “But I mean it. Thank you. You saved Sam and me.”

He chuckled, his voice rusty. “That’s another first.”

Beauregard locked eyes with me and then the atmosphere shifted in the room.

I bit my lower lip and his gaze followed the motion. Beauregard leaned forward slowly. I knew without being told, he was giving me the time and space to object. All I had to do was say no, place my hand against his chest and push him away, but somehow I didn’t have the ability.

But I did have one desire.

I closed the distance between us and pressed my mouth against his. He tasted like bourbon and a hint of cinnamon. He was only the third man I’d ever kissed. The second being my husband and the first my prom date in high school. This was wrong on every level, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

Beauregard pulled back and cupped my cheek. “I need you, Dolly. I need this,” he said gruffly.

“I need it, too.” Clayton and I hadn’t made love in months. Sex with Clayton had been a selfish affair, one I’d come to dread. I’d been glad when he started seeing other women, grateful it’d kept him out of my bed. But now my body was hungry, as if it’d just flared to life once more. Even if my mind told me this was a very bad idea.

He sighed. “But it doesn’t…it can’t…”

“Mean anything,” I said, finishing the thought for him. “I know. And I feel the same. Tomorrow morning, Sam and I are running away.”

“Go further away this time,” Beauregard said. “You have to start a brand new life in another state. That means you can’t contact your family or any of your friends. You have to get new identities, the works. Trust me, they’ve been looking for you. Because you left your husband, you’re a liability to the organization. A loose end and they always tie those off. But you got lucky. I’m the one who found you and I’m not saying a fucking word about it.”

“Why?” I was still genuinely perplexed. “Why would you help me? Help us?”

Beauregard sighed. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes.” He’d saved Sam and me, putting himself at risk in the process. I needed to make sense of this.

“I noticed
you
. You aren’t the only one who notices people. I watched you hold your son once.” He sighed. “I was waiting for Clayton. We were going out on a job and I was biding my time in your living room. You were rocking Sam on the porch outside. I could see you through the window. It was a warm summer evening, fireflies floating around both of you. And you were singing some little song to him. And you had this look on your face, like you were happy. As if he were the most important thing in your world….and it just…struck me.” After he said, he shook his head. Then, stared at the carpet as if he found it fascinating all of a sudden.

I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t get a chance to speak. “Just let me….” Beauregard leaned in closer and then his lips closed over mine.

And I wrapped my arms around him. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone, or I needed comfort, even if it did come from an unlikely source. Maybe I was afraid of what tomorrow would bring and I needed someone to hold on to, if only for the night.

“Here?” he asked, gasping as he pulled his mouth from mine.

“I only have one bedroom and Sam’s in it,” I confessed.

Beauregard kissed me hungrily. I hardly knew him and we didn’t have an emotional connection. This was sex. Sex and comfort. He kissed a path to my ear, nibbling on my jaw. Then mouthed a path down my neck, to cup my breasts, squeezing them. Beneath the satin nightie I wasn’t wearing panties. Nothing but bare skin. And my body was on fire for him.

“Please,” I whispered. “I need you now.”

The next thing I knew, I lay sprawled beneath him on the couch. He hadn’t even undressed, just undid his trousers, and rolled a condom over his cock. He hovered over me, bracing himself on his hands, our foreheads pressed together. Then, he thrust inside me. Relentlessly. I closed my eyes and my head fell back. Beauregard stroked my leg, occasionally leaned down and kissed my mouth, my cheeks.

It was sensual, if not intimate.

“Come for me,” he demanded. With a growl, he rubbed my clit and my head fell back. God, it felt so good. I hadn’t come in so long. I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from wailing. And Beauregard growled his release above me.

And before our bodies cooled, it was awkward.

Beauregard disposed of the condom and straightened his clothing while I pulled my nightgown down and wrapped the robe around my body. Like none of this had happened. And maybe it would be better for both of us if we pretended it hadn’t.

He stood up and smoothed his blond hair.

“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it. “Sam and I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing,” he said, shrugging off my gratitude. “Just make sure you’re never caught. I’d go north if I were you. Somewhere backwoods, with nothing but cows and corn. Maybe a few locals. And I gotta warn you, if they find you, I’ll be the one who’s forced to…take care of you.”

The blood chilled in my veins. “Next time you won’t be knocking on my door.”

Beauregard nodded.

And we stared at one another.

“I wanted to give you fair warning. So, my follow my advice.” He walked to the door and turned back to look at me. “Goodbye, Dolly.”

“Goodbye, Beauregard. I hope I never see you again.”

He smirked. “Me, too.” And then he was gone.

After he left, I locked the door and drifted down the hallway. I opened the bedroom door. Sam was still sound asleep. He was on his stomach, his stuffed dog, Bailey, in his little hand. I crawled in bed beside him, cradling him against my body. I brushed my fingers over the soft curls at the nape of his neck. I vowed that tomorrow morning, our lives would change for the better. We’d pack what little we had and get the hell out of Texas. I’d pick somewhere obscure, someplace where no one knew us. I’d keep Sam safe. I’d make sure of it.

And to think, we had the devil himself to thank for our new lives.

*     *     *

Want more of Cynthia Rayne? You can start reading the Four Horsemen MC series now. Find out if librarians and bikers mix in
Sweet Perdition
.

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CJ Roberts

K
ylee and me
have always shared the same space. We shared the most intimate space there is, a womb. Like any two beings cohabitating in a cramped area, we evolved to make compromises for one another. We shifted together and accepted one another’s increasing encroachment. Taking things further, fate had decided that she should be born blind and that I lose my hearing by age three. I cannot remember a time when I could hear. We share more than just space. We share every aspect of our lives. I am Kylee’s eyes. She is my ears. We are rarely apart if we can help it.

Our mother was young when she had us. The burden of raising two children with our father, who is also disabled, was too much for her and she left. It’s just us and our dad in our restrictive trailer. Everybody calls him
‘Defbobby’
, like it’s one word. I don’t know what it sounds like when they say it, in what Kylee calls a ‘kitschy Florida drawl’; but, the way she signs it is funny. My sister describes things to me in a bursting flurry of fingers, facial expressions, and exaggerated enunciation. Being blind, my sister makes up a lot of her own Sign, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been reading the shape of Kylee’s lips as far back as I can remember.

“Why are you so quiet?”
Kylee taps out across my back. The feel of her hands and the way she moves her fingers across my body have evolved into a language only she and I can speak. More often than not, I can intuit what she wants to say. She pours out a trickle of warm water over my skin before picking up the washcloth again. Our father likes to conveniently forget to pay the utilities and after a long day of cleaning gutters and mowing lawns, I
needed
a shower. At times like this, Mr. Greene lets us borrow his hose so we can heat some water on our barbeque grill and shower in the dark. He’s a nice old man as long as you don’t ask too much of him. He ignores my bloody lip; my blue and purple skin. He does mention I’m a ‘good boy’ for looking after my sister who ‘gets
purtier
every time he sees her’. Kylee preens whenever someone compliments her sincerely and without perversion, a distinction she claims she can make without error due to her superior ears.
“Parker?”
Kylee’s touch is inquisitive, a firm yet delicate press of her palm on my shoulder.

“Sorry. I was thinking about what he’s going to say when he comes home.” Kylee has always insisted I speak aloud despite my reluctance to do so in front of others. She cannot see me, she says, and to deny her my voice is too much for her to bear. She says I speak very well but I can see in the eyes of those around us that my sister spares my feelings. She needn’t bother. Hers is the only opinion which has ever mattered to me. I don’t tell her how they look at us: the deaf boy and his blind twin sister.

Kylee’s lips press gently against my damp skin. She’s warm comfort at my back. I lean against her flesh, as familiar as my own. I crane my neck against her soothing kisses. I’m weary.
Defbobby
has steadily been getting worse. I remember when we were very young and our father having a job at the post office, sorting mail. We lived in a small HUD housing development and though our father drank, he’d at least waited until after dinner. But then he lost his job and couldn’t find another, or maybe he just took the excuse and drank himself into the bottle. Either way, me and Kylee were long ago deprived of anyone who passes for a parent. These days
Defbobby
wakes up drunk and does everything he can to keep the buzz going. This used to include holding down the occasional job to supplement our Disability benefits; but lately, he’s been drinking our ‘benefits’.
“Let’s go to bed early.”
Her fingers lull me.
“We’ll be okay.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” I tell her, quietly.

She turns her head slightly so that I can feel her stare even though she can’t see me. Her response is a brush of her fingertips over my bruises.

I was plenty sore from the beating I took the day before when, in a fit of rage over the lack of food in the house, we made the mistake of pouring out
Defbobby’s
whiskey. Per our agreement, Kylee stayed in our bedroom with the door locked and didn’t open it for anyone but me. I can’t protect myself if she’s in harm’s way. After our dad left in what Kylee described as a ‘thundering clatter of barking curses, slamming doors, and squealing tires’, she hefted my body across her lap and asked me to tell her a story while she stroked my hair and surreptitiously felt me over for injuries.

“Just a few more months, Kye,” I add. “Then we can leave him.” Kylee and I graduate high school in July and we can finally apply to be emancipated. We’ve been reading up on it for months and preparing. It’s given us a purpose, something to look forward to. Although the option of simply running away has always been there, sticking it out in the hopes of attaining a better future through education is more viable.

Kylee nudges my shoulder with her nose.
“Want me to do the front?”
She’s kidding and I laugh because it’s exactly the kind of thing people at school, everywhere really, think we do. Kylee places the washcloth into my hand. I rub it over my genitals while she pours out a little more water from the pitcher we heated. We don’t usually shower together. Dad put a stop to it once Kylee started growing breasts. He said she couldn’t see how beautiful she is, but we could. We fought it at first. I didn’t like the ‘silence’ in the shower. I felt ill at ease without her there to tell me if the fire alarm was going off, or if she needed me. But as our bodies entered deeper into puberty, time alone became a necessary thing. Being blind, Kylee cares very little about modesty. I, not being blind, cannot help but be curious from time to time. Still, the power is out, and I do not care to be deaf and blind on a slippery surface, not when Kylee navigates the dark with ears as good as any sonar and having her near is similar to gaining a superpower.