Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (8 page)

Despite these imperfections—or maybe because of them—he was still a good-looking man. He knew this because of the way women looked at him, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he wasn’t above accepting their offers and invitations. His heart had died ten years ago, gasping and bleeding to death on a rock in the middle of the Shenandoah River, but his body could still feel and give pleasure. There was only one woman he’d ever loved, and when he was having sex, if he clenched his eyes tightly and blocked out the smell and voice of the woman beneath him, he could almost trick his mind into believing it was her. And for just a moment, for a split second, he could swear that she was returned to him.

Gemma had learned to shower first and shut up in his bed, not because he’d ever told her anything about his past, but because his commitment to her pleasure was unmatched when she came to him clean and quiet. The problem was, lately, that Gemma, whom Seth had been fucking for several months, kept talking about moving into his one-bedroom apartment. That he was considering her request was so fucked-up he could barely get his head around it.

His thoughts were sidetracked by the two portable stadium lights that suddenly flashed bright white, plugged into a generator on the bed of one of the trucks. They instantly lit up the empty square surrounded by hay bales. He sighed. He had about five minutes.

Listening to the words of the song, his heart raced with anticipation as he loosened the strong, high, rigid barriers around his memories. His breath caught, and his fingers trembled as he leaned his head against the back of the seat, closed his eyes, and let himself find her face, the only sliver of light in the dark, murky depths of his mind.

I could hold you for a million years to make you feel my love.

***

Gris made life bearable.

So bearable that, while Holden lived in constant fear of beatings, there were some days he thought he’d die if he was ever separated from her, even if it meant his freedom.

He knew that part of him should hate her for getting in the goddamned truck, and for a little while—for the first few weeks—he had. He’d refused to speak to her, despite her efforts to reach out to him. He’d purposely gotten her in trouble a couple of times, watching with terror and guilt as she was beaten in front of him. He’d shunned her attempts at friendship, listening as she cried in the darkness on the other side of the paneled wall.

But over time, faced with the reality of his life, he’d warmed up to her. She lived in the darker half of the basement, accessible only through a padlocked door or broken wall panel, and sometimes when the Man forgot to bring down two porridge bowls, Holden heard her crying softly from hunger.

Gradually he came to realize that it wasn’t her fault that he was here—he’d followed her into the cab of the truck of his own free will, after all—and his heart gravitated toward her bit by bit, until a solid friendship formed between them. And lately, a few weeks after his twelfth birthday, his feelings for her had blossomed into something deeper entirely. Trapped together in a life of hard work; erratic food, drink, and sleep; regular beatings; and no comforts, they’d forged a tight bond, and Holden knew—beyond any shadow of doubt—Gris kept him alive.

When they were out in the garden together under the hot sun, after the Man had finally dozed off in the shade, she’d whisper long, made-up stories, her lips sometimes tilting up just a little as she got to “the good part.” When her blue eyes lit on him, bright and soft, it made things happen to him that he couldn’t explain.

It made him feel strong and weak, happy and terrified, excited and guilty. It made strange and new things happen to his body that felt good, but wrong, somehow, even though he couldn’t help them. It made him try harder to remember his parents. It made him desperate to review what little he knew about men and women being together. It made him want to learn more about those things with her.

He’d lived with her for twenty months now, and she was as much a part of him as his family had been long ago. More, even. Gris was his whole world.

The lock clicked shut at the top of the stairs, and his heart raced with anticipation, knowing that his favorite part of the day was coming. He was a prisoner in a filthy, dark, dank cellar, and yet when the basement door clicked shut and he heard the panel slide to the side as she crawled out from her black hole, his heart hammered with nothing but love for her.

“Holden?”

“Yeah?”

“You still up?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get in bed with you?”

Goose bumps rose across his skin, and his breathing hitched. For almost as long as they’d lived in the Man’s basement, Gris had crawled into bed with him at night, lying beside him until it was time for them to separate to sleep. Asking his permission was new. And it made him feel different. It made their relationship feel different somehow—in a good way, in an exciting way—like she acknowledged the subtle changes he was noticing too.

“’C-c-course,” he whispered, moving closer to the wall, as his body flushed with heat and he folded his sweaty palms over his pounding chest.

The mattress depressed just a little as she lay down beside him. And suddenly, he could feel the warmth of her, the softness of her bare arm pressed against his.

“Holden?”

“Yeah, Gris?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry we’re here. I’m so dang sorry I took that ride.”

This was a familiar refrain, and no matter how often he told her she could stop apologizing, she still did. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I kn-kn-know.”

“Do you still hate me? Ever? Even a little?”

“N-n-not anymore. You know that.”

“But you did? You hated me?” She rolled onto her side, facing him.

He clenched his jaw, staring up at the darkness. He loved her too much now to admit how much he’d hated her then. He wanted to forget he’d ever felt anything but love for her. Shifting to his side to mirror her, he placed a trembling hand on her hip and pressed his forehead gently against hers.

“Don’t ever hate me again,” she whispered, her warm breath fanning his lips. “Promise.”

He swallowed, his heart bursting with love for her, his soul swearing that he would never, ever love anyone as deeply as he loved her.

“I won’t ever hate you again. I p-p-promise, Gris.”

***

Go to the ends of the earth for you . . . to make you feel my love.

Seth reached forward and turned off the CD player.

He yanked up the sleeve of his unbuttoned flannel shirt and stared at the tattoo on his forearm for a long, hard minute before jerking the shirt back down.

It was time to hurt someone.

Griselda

The very last thing Griselda wanted to do was attend a fistfight. She was emotionally exhausted, both from revisiting the place where she’d known so much heartache, but also from her earlier scrape with Jonah. And the way Quint had stared at her, almost insisting that he knew her, had really creeped her out. All she wanted to do was head back to the cabin, wrap herself up in blankets, and escape into sleep and dreams.

That said, sitting in the back of Shawn’s SUV with Jonah’s arm protectively around her shoulders, leaning into the solid warmth of his body, she couldn’t force herself to put up a fight. It was just too comfortable, and she was just too weak.

“Hey, Zel,” said Tina, turning in her seat to catch Griselda’s eyes as Jonah and Shawn trash-talked about who would lose more money tonight, “I meant what I said before. I don’t like blood either. Let’s find a comfy place to sit down and pretend we’re at a barbecue or something.” She reached down, then shot Griselda a smile as she showed her a bottle of Wild Vines Tropical Fruit Chardonnay. “Picked it up at the gas station next to the restaurant.”

Griselda couldn’t help rewarding that sort of ingenuity with a grin. “Cheap and sweet?”

“Just like me, honey,” said Tina, giggling.

“You ain’t cheap,” argued Shawn, reaching over to place his hand on her thigh. “But you are sweet.”

“Eyes on the road,” said Tina.

“Later?” asked Shawn, grinning at her hopefully.

“Oh, you know it, baby.”

Jonah squeezed Griselda’s shoulder, holding an empty Coke bottle over her head and spitting into it so it almost looked like he was filling it back up with soda.

“How come you never talk to me like that?”

Griselda snuggled deeper into his chest, breathing in the familiar smell of tobacco and soap.

“Guess I like playing hard to get.”

“Well, I hate to tell you, but I already got you, baby. You’re mine.”

Her body wanted to stiffen on instinct, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to stay limber.
I’m not yours.

He must have decided to drop it, because he kicked Shawn’s seat as they turned down a country road and started bouncing along.

“Shawn, you cocksucker, you gonna loan me a Benjamin?”

“Whaddaya, think, dickhead?”

“I think I’m betting on that dude Seth. He sounds badass.”

Though she’d already convinced herself that she had no connection to the Seth who was fighting tonight, a shiver went down her spine to hear the name spill from Jonah’s mouth. It wasn’t the sacrilege of him taunting her with the name Holden, as he had earlier, but she still didn’t like it.

Shawn was still following Quint’s truck when they jostled into an open field at the end of the dirt road. The sound of heavy metal music grew louder and louder the closer they got to the center of the field.

A good fifty trucks were parked in neatish rows, with small groups of men hanging out by the tailgates, drinking beer, smoking, and spitting. Two large, tall, stadium lights suddenly lit up the entire field as Shawn parked the SUV, and they piled out of the car.

Holding Jonah’s hand as they picked their way through the maze of trucks, Griselda didn’t notice many other women, but here and there she caught the eyes of another girl, mostly leaning up against her man, smoking cigarettes, and narrowing her eyes as Griselda and Tina passed by.

The energy was wired and angry, and Griselda huddled next to Jonah as Quint led them closer to the ring of bales, where the crowd got thicker. She noticed, however, that several men moved aside to allow Quint to pass, greeting him by name, with a semblance of respect, like he was someone. As it turned out, he was. He and his son, Clinton, were the bookies of the event.

“What took you so long, Pop?” asked a sandy-haired, younger version of Quint, who was flush against the hay bales, in what could be considered the first row of viewing. He held a notebook in his hand and was furiously writing down bets.

“Met up with these college boys at Rosie’s.”

Clinton flashed his eyes at Jonah and Shawn, taking in their polo shirts and cargo shorts with a look just short of disdain. “College boys, huh? I see you brought your women. Did you bring your wallets?”

Neither Jonah nor Shawn had attended college, but working at the cable company in D.C. allowed them both a lifestyle that would have seemed luxurious to a lot of the folks on this field, thought Griselda, taking in Clinton’s ripped, too-tight Metallica T-shirt and worn-out work boots. As she checked out the tattoo of a daisy between his thumb and forefinger, she felt his eyes land on her and linger.

“Hey,” he said. “Where do I know you from?”

“Aw, fuck,” said Jonah. “Here we go again.”

Shawn snickered, taking the bottle of Wild Vines out of Tina’s hand and taking a swig.

“She’s real familiar-lookin’, huh?” asked Quint, looking at his son, then back at Griselda.

“Yeah,” said Clinton, softly, thoughtfully, like he was working hard to place her. “You from around here?”

“No,” said Griselda, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

Clinton narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to her, but Jonah reached out and placed a palm on the other man’s chest. “Close enough, dude.”

Clinton’s eyes changed course, looking down at Jonah’s hand lazily before shifting his glance back up to Jonah’s face. “I ain’t as big as Seth or Eli, but if you don’t remove your fucking hand from my person, I will remove it for you.”

Jonah searched Clinton’s face for a second before grinning and dropping his hand. “Man’s got a right to protect his woman.”

“Which is why you ain’t on the ground,” said Clinton, looking back at Griselda for a moment before shaking his head like he just didn’t have the mind power to figure out the mystery of his connection to her.

Griselda was disgusted by Jonah’s dick measuring and creeped-out again by Quint and his son. Damn, but why did these men seem to know her? She racked her brain, trying to remember if Caleb Foster had ever taken photos of her and Holden, but she couldn’t remember any such occurrence. Then she remembered something else, and her mouth dropped open as she looked down at the ground in shame.

Of course.

All along the country road where she and Holden had been taken, there had been missing children signs posted by the local police. She’d seen one on a bulletin board at the Charles Town sheriff’s office when she finally showed up there. If this father and son had lived in this area all their lives, they’d likely seen a picture of Griselda as a ten-year-old child, posted at the local post office, in a bar or bank, at the Laundromat. Everywhere. It was why she looked familiar, but they weren’t able to place her. It was why they kept narrowing their eyes, wanting to see her slightly differently and, though they didn’t realize it, slightly younger. It made her belly turn over.

She took a deep breath to settle her stomach, but the close smells of chaw, smoke, booze, and men’s sweat infused her nostrils. Clapping her hand over her lips, she threw up into her mouth, hunching over in case a little escaped. Desperate not to embarrass herself, she swallowed the regurgitated fries and beer, and looked up at Tina just in time for the other woman to understand what was about to happen. She grabbed Griselda’s arm, pulling her away from Jonah.

“What the hell?” said Jonah, grabbing her other arm and yanking her back against him.

“She’s about to get sick, Jonah! Jesus! Let go!”

Griselda looked up at Jonah just as her stomach lurched again, and he cringed as her shoulders hunched and cheeks filled. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. Can you help her out, Tina? I think the fight’s about to start.”

“What do you think I was trying to do?”

It was the angriest Griselda had seen good-natured Tina yet, but she was grateful as Tina led her away from Jonah and Shawn, back through the crowd. She stumbled over the uneven ground, but if she could just get away from the crowd, away from Quint and Clinton, and get a few deep, clean breaths, she’d be okay. She was sure of it.

Tina dropped Griselda’s wrist and put her arm around her shoulder, leading her toward a solo hay bale on a little hill, almost hidden in shadow, about twenty feet from the parking area. From here they had a partial view of the ring if they stayed seated, but if they stood up, they could make out most of the fight area. At any rate, they could rest here and rejoin Jonah and Shawn as soon as the fight was over. When Griselda was seated, Tina shoved the bottle of fruity wine onto her lap.

“Wish I could offer you a mint or some water, honey, but this is all I have.”

Griselda took the bottle gratefully, holding it between her thighs as she took several deep, shaky breaths. The smells of gasoline and smoke were strong here, but more palatable somehow, and she was finally able to fill her lungs and her stomach settled.

“Thanks,” she said, exhaling slowly. “I owe you one.”

“No problem,” said Tina, sitting down beside her. “Puke and sandals don’t mix.”

Griselda chuckled softly, nodding.

“You know?” Tina continued, taking a cigarette out of her purse and lighting it. “I try to see the good in everyone, but your boyfriend holds on a little tight, doesn’t he?”

Griselda shrugged, opened the bottle of Wild Vines, and touched the rim to her lips. It was obnoxiously sweet, but it was better than the almost-puke taste she was presently enjoying. She took a swig, hoping it would stay down, and feeling grateful when it did.

“But,” continued Tina, her cheerful voice back now, “maybe it was a stroke of luck, you feelin’ sick, because I was
not
excited to see those two fools beat each other’s faces in, and your tummy kinda set us free. So, thanks, upset tummy.”

She giggled, knocking her knee into Griselda’s.

Griselda was just about to offer Tina the bottle when the roar of the crowd suddenly distracted her. Standing up, the wine bottle bumping limply against her leg, she looked over the hundreds of heads, three men thick, around the ring, to see a lone figure walking down the far hill across the field from them. When he got to the bottom, he threw his flannel shirt to the ground and stepped into the ring.

***

Seth

Striding purposefully down the hill, he ignored the catcalls and heckling, focused intently on the brightly lit oval in front of him. Just before he got there, he pulled off his shirt and threw it down, giving a menacing look to the people crowded around the ring. They shuffled aside quickly, some of them slapping him on the back and wishing him luck as he stepped over the bales.

He scanned the ring for Quint and Clinton, his guard up, because the fight would start the second his opponent set foot in the fight area.

There were very few rules at fight club:

1. Once you’re both in the ring, the fight is on.
   
2. No weapons.
   
3. When you can’t get up, you’ve lost.
   

He finally found Clinton, standing ringside beside his father, who was talking with a couple of college boys Seth didn’t recognize. Fucking tourists? Looked like it. Probably came up to fish or hunt and somehow ended up here.

As Seth stalked the ring, the crowd quieted to an excited buzz. At the opposite end of the oval from where Seth had entered, the crowd parted so that Eli could jump over the bales, stirring up a cloud of dust as his bare feet landed in the ring.

Fuck, he’s big.

Seth was fairly certain that Eli had done nothing but weight train in the three months since he’d lost to Seth. His pecs bulged, and his arms were thick and solid as he pulled his T-shirt off and threw it back into the crowd.

But Seth had something Eli didn’t have: a god-awful fury that turned hatred into fuel.

Seth rushed his opponent, flying across the ring in a rage, imagining Caleb’s face staring back at him.

Girls like Ruth are evil . . .

Seth threw a two-punch combination, hitting Eli hard in the face then clocking him in the chin before Eli could get his bearings. His face whipped to the side and then up, causing him to stumble back, but he shook his head and roared to life, coming at Seth like a bull and slamming him in the stomach. Seth gasped from the pain, the air knocked out of his lungs, but he caught Eli’s neck in a headlock and twisted savagely until Eli jerked back, out of Seth’s grip.

The crowd was wild tonight, taunting and screaming, but Seth didn’t need their energy to feed his wrath—it was a living, breathing, fiery thing that demanded vengeance.

. . . and filthy creatures. Impure and deceitful . . .

Seth jabbed at Eli, then threw all his strength into a right hook that slammed into the side of Eli’s head, making him lurch backward. Seth swept his leg, pummeling Eli’s face as they fell to the ground together. Suddenly Eli rolled, flipping over on top of Seth. He took a fistful of Seth’s hair in his hand, lifting his face and smashing his fist into Seth’s nose . . . cheek . . . cheek again. Seth opened his mouth, and the next time Eli’s fist landed, he clamped down with his teeth, tearing a chunk of flesh from Eli’s hand and making him scream before recoiling.