To one side, a dresser, all the drawers open; tees, thermals and boxer briefs dangling out the drawers.
On the opposite wall, a battered countertop covered in boxes of cereal, crackers, jars of protein powder and piled dishes. A sink that was piled with dirty dishes. There was a fridge to one side of the counter that long ago should have been put out of its misery, and a crusty, old range at the other end that might actually be a health hazard.
In front of the scary kitchen, there was an old, chrome sided Formica-topped table with two chairs, their black vinyl seats torn, padding coming out. The top of the table had a laptop and papers, with more papers scattered on the floor.
There was a big, locked trunk against the back wall with a stenciling on the side that read “Cpl. Miller, R”. In the corner by it, a weight bench and a rack of weights surrounded by a mess of dumbbells on the floor that looked the size only Hercules would work out with.
And last, there was an old, faded plaid easy chair with a rickety standing lamp beside it and an even ricketier spindly table that also was covered to overflowing with paperbacks.
The whole thing screamed Beverly Hillbillies before they struck oil.
The only hints at décor were an alarming number of shotgun racks on the walls, three of them. Two were empty, one had two guns in the slots and boxes of ammo on the shelf under them. I was no gun expert, but they didn’t look like shotguns. More like fancy rifles.
And the other piece of decoration was a framed eight by ten photo on the dresser. The space was huge and the picture was far away, but I could see it was a mess of men, some holding guns, all wearing smiles and desert fatigues, probably because a bleak desert landscape could be seen behind them.
Raiden’s unit.
The unit that was mostly lost.
Nearly all of the men in that picture were gone.
Holy Moses.
I narrowed my eyes on the picture, like doing this would engage superpower vision I did not have and would make it come into better focus just as I heard the shower turn off.
I twisted to look at a rough plank paneled room that jutted out in the far corner. A room that looked like it had been added in a hurry, the work done by five year olds.
The bathroom.
I couldn’t believe Raiden lived here, but he obviously did. I recognized some of the cargo pants on the floor from the days I was crazy, creepy stalking him.
Actually, I couldn’t believe anyone could live here.
He didn’t need a housecleaner.
He needed a house.
On this thought, hinges screamed in agony. A section of the wood paneling swung open and Raiden strolled out, wet hair slicked back, droplets of water on his broad shoulders, a towel around his hips and the rest of his lusciousness on display.
The second and third time last night, I got to see (and explore) Raiden’s body.
It was amazing in clothes.
It was way, way better without them.
His eyes came to me. They grew warm and he appeared to be heading to the kitchen-ish area, but switched directions, walking to the bed.
He didn’t enter it or put a knee in it. He didn’t say hi.
He bent and hooked me around the back of the neck with his hand in a way that I had no choice but to go up, which I did. Once partially up, his other arm closed around me, and when I was crushed to him his head came down and he took my mouth in a good morning kiss that made my toes and my fingers curl, the latter of which did it in the hard muscle of his shoulders.
When my hands slid up into his wet hair, he lifted his head, caught my fluttering eyes and said, “Mornin’, honey.”
“Good morning,” I breathed.
He grinned then pulled me out of bed, incidentally pulling the afghan with me as it was squashed between our bodies, and he put me on my feet.
“Get dressed, babe, runnin’ late. We gotta get you to your house. You gotta do whatever you do to get cute then we gotta get your grandmother and get to church,” he gave his order and after issuing it, he let me go and sauntered toward the end of the bed.
I hurriedly wrapped the afghan around me and watched him go.
Then I froze because now I had his back and I could see marks on his skin. Three of them; red, and in sections the skin was broken.
Scratch marks.
From my nails.
Oh my God.
“Did I do that to your back?” I whispered.
Raiden stopped, turned to me and smiled a smile I felt right at the heat of me.
“Oh yeah,” he answered in a voice that ratcheted up the heat so significantly it was a wonder I didn’t burst into flames.
He liked that.
A lot.
Wow.
Then it hit me he said we had to get Grams and get to church.
“Uh…” I mumbled then got lost in watching his lateral muscles shift and undulate as he bent and gathered my jeans, top and underwear from the floor and tossed them on the mattress.
I came out of my stupor when he moved to the wardrobe and the entire thing swayed dangerously as he opened the closed door. I fought the urge to rush across the room and put both hands on the side to brace it before it settled. Then Raiden reached in and yanked some clothes off hangers. Repeat the swaying and me fighting the urge to rescue his wardrobe before he turned, tossed the clothes on the back of a chair and moved to the dresser.
I found my voice and asked, “Are you going to church with Grams and me?”
“Yep,” he replied, digging in a drawer.
I looked down at my clothes on the mattress then reached to grab my panties, finding I was totally okay with that.
I had on panties and bra and was pulling up my jeans when I spoke again.
“Can I ask you question?”
“You can quit askin’ if you can ask and just ask,” Raiden replied, a smile in his voice, his eyes coming to me. Then he yanked off his towel.
My mouth went dry.
He was perfect everywhere.
Everywhere.
This made me suddenly aware that I was not.
I had great legs, this I’d already noted. I had an ample chest, which sometimes worked for me, sometimes was annoying when blouses gaped at my breasts. I also had a tiny waist, which made buying jeans a pain in the patoot, but looked good in dresses.
I also had a little pouch at my belly that no amount of cycling and snowboarding got rid of, mainly because I did crunches and pushups about twice a week rather than what I told myself I’d do (four times). I also liked hot fudge sundaes, Grams’s biscuits smothered in apple butter and a variety of other things that weren’t real good for me, so it was a battle I had no hope of winning.
Raiden had an eight pack (yes, eight), noticeably limited body fat and hip muscles so significantly cut you could lose yourself in those valleys for days.
Therefore, I decided no more hot fudge sundaes, definitely five days a week of crunches, pushups and I was adding planks. I was also cutting out sandwiches and eating salads for lunch, just in case the rest didn’t take.
“Baby, you stare at my dick any longer, Miss Mildred’s gonna have to send out a search party.”
My body jolted and my eyes shot to his to see the creases at the corners standing out in amusement.
“I was staring at your hip muscles,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” he muttered, his lips now smiling too, then louder, “just sayin’, anything in that vicinity, your eyes on it, it’ll get thoughts on its own.”
“So noted,” I mumbled and shrugged on my top.
“You had a question,” Raiden prompted, stepping into some boxer briefs.
I decided to stop watching so I could concentrate on buttoning my blouse, so I tipped my chin down to watch my fingers do just that as I asked, “What is this place?”
“Dad’s hunting lodge,” he answered and I looked at him again.
He was moving back to the chair and I was shocked at his words.
His sister Rachel
le and I were only acquaintances, but friendly ones who had known each other our whole lives. We talked, gossiped, shared news and pleasantries, and if time allowed, sometimes this could go deep, but she’d never mentioned her Dad. The same, but obviously less, due to age differences, with Raiden’s Mom, Mrs. Miller.
What I knew was Mr. Miller took off and was persona non grata in town. He even once tried to come to one of Raiden’s football games and some of the men not so cordially invited him to march back to his car, and when he didn’t they escorted him there.
He never came again.
I looked back down at my buttons and said carefully, “Your Dad?”
“Yep,” Raiden replied, and I again looked at him to see he had a pair of suit pants up, zipped but unbuttoned and was shrugging on an attractive, moss green dress shirt.
Surprisingly, he also kept talking.
“When I was sixteen, tracked him down, told him to deed it over to Rachelle and me, seein’ as he paid child support when he wanted, which meant never, and Mom was havin’ troubles makin’ ends meet. It wasn’t a surprise, because he’s a massive dick, that he wasn’t feelin’ generous, though his words were that Mom could go fuck herself and I could too. So I drove to his house every night, let myself in and shared my thoughts with my fists. And when he got smart and started to talk his bitches into lettin’ him spend the night at their places so he could avoid me, I found ways to track him down and let myself in, shared he was a massive dick who didn’t pay child support and when he was at home and had a steady woman, he knocked her around. He suddenly found his choice of beds was dryin’ up, so he got smart and deeded it over.”
His words slicing through me like a dozen razor blades, I stood absolutely still and stared.
Raiden seemed not to notice my immobility. He went to the wardrobe, slid a belt off a hanger, turned to me and kept speaking as he did up his pants and added the belt.
“Meant we got the monthly money from rentin’ out the bottom half where Mr. Lean kept his old tractors and whatever we could get from hunters who don’t give a shit where they sleep and cross country skiers on a budget. Didn’t help a lot, but did mean we didn’t lose our house.”
“You nearly lost your house?” I asked quietly, and he smiled at me.
“Seems you didn’t pay that much attention to me.”
I did.
Still.
“I know you—” I started.
Raiden interrupted me, “Worked nights and weekends. Reason Rachelle is such a great cook is because she did the same at the nursing home, junior nurse’s aide. She loved downhome cooking and she pumped old folks for recipes. She’s got about eight card files full of ‘em.”
That explained that.
Now the hard part.
“Your Dad knocked your Mom around?”
“Yeah, babe, why do you think I set his ass out?” Raiden answered, and I went back to staring.
“You set him out?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“But weren’t you only fourteen?”
“You can fuck someone up, Hanna, you get a good boot in his crotch. He’s so busy dealin’ with the pain, can’t defend himself when you land a fist repeatedly in his face or a boot to his ribs.”
I couldn’t believe this, and more, I couldn’t believe Raiden was so matter-of-fact about it.
My heart hurt and my stomach was clutching, but I forced my mouth to say, “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
Then I focused my attention on finding my flip-flops, mostly because I didn’t know what to do with all the feelings I was having, none of them good, and I had to focus on something.
“Hanna,” he called as I found my flip-flops and was shifting them with my toes so I could slide my feet in. I looked back at Raiden. “A long time ago and better with him gone. It was worth it. That shit didn’t mark me. He was gone, instant happy for all of us, even if things were tight.”
I nodded, not feeling mollified even slightly and looked back to my shoes.
“Honey,” he called again and my eyes went to him. “Not bullshitting you. Rache, Mom and me, we’re close. Him gone, we were happy.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“You say okay, but your face says something else.”
“What does my face say?” I asked, but I knew. I never played poker because I didn’t know how and also because I’d suck at it, mostly because I had no clue how to keep my thoughts from showing, nor, until then, had I had any reason to.
“One of two things, can’t tell which. Either you’re pissed or you’re about ready to cry.”
I turned my full attention to him. “Both, I guess.”
“Right, then, like I said. No need for that emotion because it was and is all good.”
“I can sense that, considering the matter-of-fact way you’re discussing it, sweetheart,” I told him. “But I don’t like that you went through that or that things were tight for you guys or that you had to get in your Dad’s face to get him to do something to help take care of his own kids.”
“It happened, but it’s been done for nearly twenty years.”
“I still don’t like it.”
He grinned. “I’ll give you that ‘cause it’s cute, but you got until we get to your house to get over it.”
To that, I returned, “My Mom and Dad love each other and they loved me and Jeremy. My grandparents loved us until they died. My great-grandmother dotes on me. All of my life, I had love and safety. Life didn’t touch me until I decided to start living it, and the worst thing that’s ever happened to me was what Bodhi and Heather did, and that’s on them, not on me. I never had what you had. I don’t know what to do with knowing you had to deal with that. I don’t like knowing you had to deal with that. And I just learned about it so it may take longer than the next twenty minutes for me to get over wanting to reenact the boot to crotch maneuver on your Dad. Because you’re an awesome guy, Raiden Miller. Your Mom and sister love you because they have reason. You’re a gentleman. You’re a kind neighbor. You’re even a hero with the medals to prove it. And you deserve a Dad who taught you how to be that. Not a life that led you to being that despite having a massive dick for a Dad.”
I made my stupid speech and shut up.
Only then did I feel the room and fully take in the look on his face.
Both made me take a step back, because the former was pressing on me like a weight I instinctively felt I had to escape, and the latter was reeling me in on a lure so strong it was a wonder I didn’t fly across the room and into his arms.
The intensity of both scared the heck out of me.
“You need, right now, to walk down to your car, Hanna,” he told me.
That was so weird, I stammered, “I… sorry?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“But—”
The air in the room got heavier right before he ordered, “Go, Hanna. You don’t, we won’t. Do you understand me?”
I didn’t, not fully.
What I did understand was that I needed to walk down to my car.
So I gave him one long, last look, memorizing the look he was giving me and the way it made me feel: terrified, but at the same time warm and happy.
Then I walked across his crazy pad and unlocked the door, moved through it and descended the steps to get to my car.
* * * * *
Two hours later…
I woke up when my pillow started shaking.
When I did, I saw I was in church and had my head on the navy blue fabric of Raiden’s suit-jacketed shoulder.
A Raiden who was silently laughing.
I bolted straight.
“Sweet Jesus, forgive her,” Grams, who was sitting on the other side of me, murmured to the ceiling. “Pastor Wright’s sermon is far from inspiring, you hear that, Lord, but still. My precious girl’s got better manners.”
At this point Raiden’s body started shaking so hard the pew started shaking and people started staring.
I turned
to him and hissed under my breath, “Stop laughing,” to which he kept shaking but raised his brows at me.
I gave up on him and turned to Grams.
“We went to the double feature last night, Grams,” I explained on a semi-fib in a low voice, doing this out of the corner of my mouth.
“My recollection, it was a triple,” Raiden muttered. I turned to him and shouted, Shut up! But did it just with my eyes.
Raiden took this in, and of course it made him swallow down an audible grunt of hilarity.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and asked for forgiveness for a variety of things.
“Mm-hmm,” Grams mumbled noncommittally.
“Shh!” Mrs. McGuillicutty, sitting down from Raiden, shushed us.
Loudly.
So loudly, Pastor Wright’s eyes came to our pew and narrowed, though he didn’t miss a word of his sermon.
I looked at my hands that I was folding in my lap and felt about eight years old.
“Shush yourself, Margaret,” Grams shot back. A Grams, I’ll add, who often acted eight years old, and now was clearly going to be one of those times. “God likes laughter,” she finished.
“Grams, let it go,” I told my lap.
“Some of us are trying to listen,” Mrs. McGuillicutty snapped.
“Then listen and keep your nose outta other people’s business,” Grams returned.
I turned my head and bent into her. “Please, Grams, just let it go.”
Grams settled back on a wiggle, grumbling, “Shushing my granddaughter. Who does she think she is?”
Not one ever to leave the last word, or in all honesty to be nice most of the time, Margaret McGuillicutty didn’t let it go either.
“I’m a churchgoing woman who wants to listen to the sermon,” she retorted to Grams.
I was too exhausted and riding a high of being with Raiden to do anything about it, but I just knew when Grams chose that pew and Mrs. McGuillicutty was in it that we should have found an alternate seating arrangement.
I was right.
Grams leaned across me to say to Mrs. McGuillicutty, “No one’s stopping you but you.”
“And perhaps our choir can have all of your attention as they sing their next hymn,” Pastor Wright suggested into his microphone, but the comment was clearly directed at us since he was staring straight at us. I knew he loved Grams and me (Mrs. McGuillicutty was up for debate), but he didn’t look all that happy.