Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (20 page)

“He was mean. Billy. He was so mean,” said Griselda, flashing back to Mrs. Fillman’s adoring glances at Billy in the rearview mirror of the station wagon, and feeling sick.

“The worst of it, Gris? I was glad. I was so fucking g-grateful it was him and not me. How fucked-up is that?”

“No,” she said, squeezing his hand and stepping closer to him. “No, that’s not fair. You were a little kid. You didn’t wish anything bad on Billy. You just wanted to be left alone.”

Holden dropped her eyes, looking down at the floor.

“All those years together, and you never told me,” she said softly.

“I kn-knew you were scared about Caleb,” he said. “You know, doing that to us. I didn’t want to give you more reason to be, uh, worried.”

He had protected her from it. Just as he’d protected her with his body time and again, taking whippings meant for her. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she let the basket fall from her fingers and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him against her. His arms came around her easily, strong and warm, clasping her lightly to his chest as he buried his face in her hair. She could feel his heart hammering against hers, and whether it was a result of terrible memories or the rush from holding each other, she couldn’t be sure. But an embrace whose original motive had been comfort quickly shifted for Griselda as her body leaned into his, alert and aroused in the space of an instant.

Her breathing shallow, she locked her fingers on the hot skin of his neck, the ends of his silky dark-blond hair curling over her hands. She arched her back a little, pressing her body closer to his as she rested her cheek on his shoulder, her warm breath fanning his neck.

“Nobody ever took care of me like you,” she whispered close to his ear.

***

Holden trembled, her words sending tendrils of pleasure from his brain, spreading warmth throughout his body. His heart throbbed against her chest, and he clenched his eyes shut, fighting against the waves of paralyzing emotion and reckless desire.

It scared him to feel so much after so long of feeling nothing. It scared him to want her so badly when he had no idea if she would be receptive to an advance. He longed to love her. He longed to kiss her. But neither were safe choices, because, poorly timed, either could lead to her loss.

He tried to take a deep breath, but it sounded shaky and ragged in his ears. Her hair smelled like sunshine and soap, and her sweet curves felt like heaven. She’d arched her back before whispering, her breasts pushing against his chest, and his hypersensitive, over-aroused body was just about at its breaking point.

Opening his eyes, he pulled away from her, knowing that his skin was flushed and his eyes probably close to black. His arms dropped to his sides, and his chest heaved up and down.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to go get some bandages and such,” he panted. “M-meet you at the checkout?”

She flinched almost imperceptibly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as her wide blue eyes searched his face. He read her expression perfectly: she was confused by his abrupt withdrawal and shaken up by what was happening between them. His skin was hot and ready for her touch, but the tally marks on his arm itched like a reminder, and he dropped her eyes, stepping away.

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah. Sure,” she said, sounding bewildered.

He looked up to catch her pulling that bottom lip into her mouth like an unintentional dare. Before he changed his mind, hauled her up against him like a caveman and had his way with her right smack in the middle of Target, he pivoted and walked quickly away.

The reality was that Holden hadn’t had to use much self-control where women were concerned. If he liked the way a woman looked and she liked the way he looked, he fucked her. Hard, fast, slow, easy. In a men’s room. Against a wall. In a strange apartment. In the back of his truck. His technique varied based on his mood, but his patience didn’t. He didn’t have much. He didn’t need much. He was hard-bodied and good-looking, and more than anything, he simply didn’t give a shit about any of them, which was apparently the biggest turn-on of all.

Keeping Gris at arm’s length was a test of will for Holden. It was forcing him to develop a skill set he didn’t have: the patience to wait for a woman he actually cared about. Hell, for a woman he practically worshipped.

He threw one look back toward women’s clothing, glad to see that she wasn’t staring after him looking hurt, and detoured through office supplies to get to the pharmacy. Suddenly something caught his attention: the words
Writer’s Journal
in black and white on a red background. Plucking the notebook off the shelf, he flipped through it, looking at the blank, crisp pages and wondering if she ever wrote down her fairy tales. Tucking it under his arm, he browsed through the pens, finding a couple that looked nicer and fancier than the others and were a little more expensive. Holding the notebook and pens, he turned back toward first aid supplies, his chest and hip aching for the first time in an hour. Walking around the store was likely overdoing it.

Just as he made it to the Band-Aid aisle, his phone buzzed in his back pocket. With his free hand, he pulled it out, looking at the screen and grimacing. His phone must have just gotten a strong signal, and it was a series of texts from Gemma coming in one after the other, and they were not happy.

FUCKING COCKSUCKER!

You left town without even telling me, Seth?

With your fucking foster sister?

You better call me right the fuck now and explain what the hell is going on.

We NEED to talk.

I am not playing.

Holden sighed, looking down at the phone again before turning it off and shoving it back into his pocket.

He didn’t want to care, but being around Griselda was already changing him, and he had to admit he felt a little bad. It had been cowardly to leave Charles Town without talking to Gemma. He should have stopped by the DQ to break things off clean and let her know that things were over between them.

Honestly Holden had no idea why he’d let Gemma hang around so long. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even really like her all that much. She’d been Clinton’s high school girlfriend for a year or two, but things hadn’t worked out for them, and she’d moved away after high school. When she moved back home a few months ago, around Christmas, she’d set her sights on Holden. At first, Holden kept his distance out of respect for his friend, but Clinton swore that they were ancient history and he didn’t care if Holden spent time with her. Plus, she’d been relentless. And smart. She’d figured out quick that if she cleaned up and shut up during sex, she was ten times more likely to come.

But Holden and Gemma were not a match—they had almost nothing in common. They both liked getting drunk on a Friday night and sleeping in late on Saturday morning. They had friends in common, like Clinton and some of his other high school buddies, and they both lived the same marginal, shit-job, uninspired life. But Gemma didn’t know that deep inside Holden preferred sketching and reading to tractors and fights. She didn’t know that he was content with quiet and didn’t require loud country music at all times to fill up the silence. She didn’t know that he despised the incessant chatter of reality shows. And she didn’t know that he couldn’t give two shits about her hair, nails, or clothing. Frankly he really just didn’t give much of a shit about her at all. If she called him—right this minute—and told him she’d taken up with someone new? All Holden would feel is relief.

And the minute he broke things off, she would see all this in his eyes, be hurt, make a scene. She’d show up at the Poke and Duck for the next few months telling anyone who would listen what a selfish cocksucker Seth West turned out to be. And, well? What man walked into that shit show willingly? Was he a coward when it came to the wrath of Gemma Hendricks? Absolutely. He’d just as soon avoid her.

Unless Gris wanted him.

Unless Gris wanted him all to herself.

And then he’d say what he needed to say to Gemma, and to hell with what she said or thought for the rest of his life. If Gris belonged to him, the rest of the world could go to the devil and he wouldn’t even notice.

Picking up some Advil, bandages, tape, antiseptic ointment, and small scissors, he balanced everything on the writer’s notebook and headed to the checkout area, looking for Griselda.

Didn’t take long to spot her.

It was as if his heart, his body, his very soul, was so finely tuned to her, if she was within a hundred-mile radius, he’d know. He’d just know, and everything in him would gravitate to the smallest particle of her.

She gave him a cautious smile, which made him feel a little bad, and he reminded himself that even if he never got to touch her, kiss her, or make love to her, just being around Griselda was better than any of that with any other woman. And it was true. Holy shit, he thought, his grin answering hers, it was fucking true.

“I think I got everything,” she said, swinging her basket, and his glance darted down, widening when he realized there was a rainbow of colorful bras on top of the T-shirts and shorts. Hot-pink satin, black lace, aqua blue, and white. White with a little pink bow in the center and—
fuck
—matching panties.

He clenched his jaw, looking up to smile politely at her as his dick swelled in his jeans.

“What’d you get?” she asked, stepping forward in line, unaware of the chemical reaction taking over his body.

Holden glanced down at the medical supplies hiding the notebook. Suddenly he felt a little embarrassed about the gift, like a twelve-year-old with a crush on a pretty girl. And that made him instantly remember that once upon a time, he
had
been a twelve-year-old with a crush on a pretty girl.
This
girl.

“Nothing much. Few things.”

“Mysterious,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Remember, I’m paying you back.”

No, you’re not
, he thought, but anxious not to be at odds with her, he just nodded

She offered him her basket. “You mind if I use the bathroom real quick?”

“Go ahead.”

He took the basket in his hand, and she smiled before walking over to a store employee to ask where the bathroom was. Her hips swayed gently as she changed direction, heading toward the little in-store café. He watched until he couldn’t see her anymore, his mouth dry and his pulse beating in his throat. He hated like hell to let her out of his sight.

“Sir? Sir, are you ready?” asked the red-smocked kid working the register.

Glancing up, Holden realized it was his turn and placed his things on the belt, then turned his attention to her basket. He removed her new underthings, trying not to be weird about handling them, but unable to suppress the images of them pressed against her sacred, hidden places. The aqua against her nipples, the little pink bow sitting under her belly button, the white cotton kissing her—

“Cash or credit?”

“Huh? Oh. Cash.”

“Eighty-six fifty.”

Holden took his wallet out of his back pocket, peeling out five twenties and handing them over as the cashier finished bagging their things.

“Your wife’s real pretty,” said the kid, holding out Holden’s change and gesturing with his chin to Griselda, who was making her way back to him.

“My . . .?” Holden asked, looking from Griselda back to the cashier in confusion.

“Your wife. She’s hot. Nice going.”

Holden chuckled softly, a surprised sound, holding out his hand as the kid poured the bills and change into his palm.

Your wife.

Your wife.

Your wife.

The words ricocheted in Holden’s head, and he stared, dumbfounded and grinning, at the cashier as Griselda slipped beside him, nudging him with her hip.

“We all good here?” she chirped, smiling at the beaming kid and taking the two plastic bags he offered her.

Holden turned to look at her, his heart spilling and tripping over itself. “Yeah. We’re great.”

“How long until we get there?” Griselda asked as she buckled herself back into the red truck.

“Forty minutes, give or take,” he said, wincing as he sat down.

“You’re in pain.”

“I’ll take another Advil. I can rest once we get there.”

“Want me to drive?” she asked, fishing the Advil out of the Target bag and opening it.

He shook his head, taking the two brown pills from her palm and swallowing them without water. “Naw. I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

He glanced at his seat belt, then back at the windshield, clenching his jaw and reaching forward to turn the key in the ignition.

“You’re not buckled,” she said, and it occurred to her that twisting his torso to grab the belt would likely hurt his side.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“No, you’re not. Let me help you,” she said, unbuckling her own seat belt and sliding across the seat until her hip was flush with his. As she looked down at their jean-clad thighs side by side, she heard his almost-soundless gasp, and it made her heart speed into a double-time beat. Her eyes slid up his chest to his face, which was set stone hard, staring straight ahead, his posture stiff and muscles rigid. His fingers were curled tightly around the steering wheel, the whites of his scabby knuckles stark and straining, like he was bracing for something.

Or some
one
.

My God
, she wondered.
Do I do this to him?

“Holden,” she whispered.

He didn’t turn to her. He swallowed deliberately, his nostrils flaring a little.

With her outside hand, she reached across his chest, turning into him, her breasts brushing his shirt, her ear close to his lips as she leaned around his body. She was close enough to hear a ragged breath drawn and held as she leaned over him. Close enough to catch the flutter of his eyelids out of the corner of her eye as her left nipple grazed his chest and hardened.

She pulled the belt over him, leaning back to buckle it. The echo of the loud click faded, but she stayed frozen in place. The entire space felt charged—electric and hot—like their T-shirts were the only thing preventing incineration, and if their skin happened to touch, they’d both go up in flames.

“Gris,” he said his voice low, his face tense. “If you don’t move over . . .”

“Oh,” she murmured, breathless with longing.

He finally bent his neck and looked down at her, his dark and stormy eyes close, so close, slamming directly into hers.

“Please,” he begged her.

Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. He closed his eyes, swallowing tightly.

“P-please, Gris,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking weak.”

The desperation in his tone moved her to action, and she quickly scooted back over to her seat, reaching for her belt and buckling it quickly, staring straight ahead as he started the truck and backed out of the parking lot without another word.

With the silence between them tense and brooding, Griselda rolled down her window to distract herself and rested her elbow on the windowsill as they left Martinsburg behind.

That morning, when she kissed his neck, she’d felt his erection straining against his jeans, but he’d made no move to kiss her, even though she was making a move on him. Embarrassed that she’d been so forward, she promised not to kiss him again, and he’d graciously laughed it off. But she couldn’t seem to stop reaching for him—while they were in Target, she’d wrapped her arms around him again, arching into him. She could tell that she physically affected him, but again, he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation. In fact, he’d pushed her away and left her alone to shop. And now, yet again, she could tell that his body responded to her closeness, but again he pushed her away, practically begging her to stop touching him.

Though she felt strongly that he cared for her and wanted to spend some time with her, she could see that he was holding himself back, almost painfully, from touching her. They’d slept next to each other, sure, but that was probably more a celebration of their reunion—a throwback to when they’d been kids together. He certainly hadn’t made a move on her, and heck, she’d been in his bed. He could have.

She sighed, thinking about the daisy on the kitchen table, and Gemma’s face flashed through her head.
He calls out your name in his sleep . . . His
girlfriend
. . . I been with him six months.

That must be it,
she thought.
He’s attracted to me, like he’s probably attracted to nine women in ten, but he’s
committed
to his girlfriend.

Then why is he going to a remote cabin to spend several weeks alone with you?
her hopeful heart demanded.

Because you’re childhood friends who endured a painful experience together,
reasoned her head
. Because he needs closure just as much as you do.

Friendship.

Closure.

Desperately she thought back on the past two days, but despite their attraction to each other, he hadn’t said or done anything to indicate that he would cross the line from a cherished friendship to . . . something more. He wanted to know what had happened to her, he wanted her to know what had happened to him, he wanted to know if she’d lived a happy life. But, no matter how much she wanted to add subtext to his words, in reality there probably wasn’t any.

He held her hand easily . . . as he always had.

He lay beside her easily . . . as he always had.

But, while she was foolishly hoping, deep in her heart, that he could see her and love her as a woman, the reality was that he was only seeing her and loving her as his resurrected foster sister, his dear childhood friend.

She clenched her eyes shut, wincing in embarrassment and disappointment.

Despite Gemma, he
is
attracted to you,
said the devil on her left shoulder.
You could push things. Over eighty tally marks says he’ll eventually fold.

But he won’t belong to you,
protested the angel on her right.
Besides,
if you care about him, you won’t do that to him. He has a girlfriend. He’s obviously trying to stay committed to her. If you truly care for him, you’ll support him. You’ll do everything you can to help him be good.

She glanced at his beautiful face, looking past the black-and blue, to find the boy she’d loved in the man sitting beside her. Maybe he couldn’t be
her
man, but he wanted to be her friend, and if that’s all he could offer, then that’s all she would take.

***

Holden turned down the access road, looking for the reflective lights that would indicate Quint’s hidden driveway. Relieved that the uncomfortable drive on the bumpy, unpaved dirt road was brief, he pulled in front of a log cabin set in the middle of a vast and quiet clearing bursting with wildflowers, and cut the engine.

The cabin itself was small, made of light wood logs and trimmed with green shutters. It had a covered porch, where two rocking chairs rocked idly in the midday breeze on either side of the green-painted front door.

Holden had been here a couple of times before, joining Quint and Clinton for hunting weekends, and he knew that inside there was a common room with a small kitchen, dining table, woodstove, futon, and two chairs. In the back of the cabin was a tiny bedroom with a full-size bed and a no-frills, utilitarian bathroom. A rustic ladder led from the common room to a loft, where there were two twin mattresses for extra company. Though the whole space was probably only 800 square feet, Quint occasionally rented it out for up to six guests, but Holden wasn’t sure how six people could move around in the snug space.

There were no electrical wires—the stove and fridge ran on propane, and a generator hardwired to the small dwelling provided enough power for a microwave, a few lights and a couple of outlets. It wasn’t a fancy spot, but Quint and Clinton kept it in good shape. Wondering what Griselda thought of it, he turned to look at her for the first time since she’d buckled his seat belt.

She was staring at the cabin through the windshield. “It’s like a doll’s house . . . or an enchanted cottage. I almost expected it to be made of candy.”

He couldn’t help grinning, because of course Griselda would romanticize an old hunting cabin into something charming and whimsical like an enchanted doll’s house.

Looking back through the windshield, he saw it through her eyes: small and charming, like something out of a fairy tale.

“I guess,” he said.

“I like it,” she said softly. She unbuckled her seat belt but stayed put.

Since she’d leaned over him to buckle his seat belt, and he’d warned her that he was on the brink of kissing her, she’d kept her distance. The way she’d scooted back across that seat like her ass was on fire told him something too: he was right about her not wanting to jump into anything with him, and he was right about practicing patience and self-control so he wouldn’t scare her away.

Still, a thread of hope wouldn’t be denied entirely. She had kissed his neck this morning, hadn’t she? Yes. And she had wrapped her arms around his neck in Target, pushing her body against his. She was attracted to him—of that he was certain. But she’d also told him that she was confused. And he didn’t want to add to her confusion. He wanted her to be comfortable with him. Time and patience, he reminded himself, reaching down to unbuckle his belt too.

He turned to her. “Well, I guess we should . . .”

“Yep. I’ll get the bags and groceries. Why don’t you just go rest a bit?”

“I can help—”

“Nope. I insist. Go rest. Get a nap. I’ll wake you up for hot dogs in an hour,” she said, offering him a little smile.

“You sure? I feel a little bad leaving you to do everything.”

“Do I look like I mind?” she teased.

You look beautiful. You look amazing. You look like the girl of my dreams.

“Nope,” he said. “You look as strong as that little girl who somehow made it across the Shenandoah.”

She flinched, sucking a deep breath into the back of her throat. Her eyes widened, stricken, and her lips parted with a gasp. “Holden—”

He realized his mistake immediately. They hadn’t talked about her escape yet, and he saw the immensity of her guilt change her face as he mentioned it so offhandedly. “I don’t mean that in any bad way, Gris. That’s just the last way I remember you.”

Her lip trembled. “I should have . . . I should have stayed. I should have turned back,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. Holden, I’m so damn sorry. I shouldn’t have run.”

“N-no,” he said, reaching for her shoulders and making her face him with a small jerk. “D-don’t you
ever
say that to me. Not ever again. You got away. Do you have any idea how grateful I am that you escaped? I am going to thank God every day for the rest of my life that you got away and lived and found me again.” Tears streamed down her face, and he felt his own eyes burning in communion with hers as his fingers curled into her shoulders. “I told you to run, and you ran. You ran, and I’m g-glad, Gris. I’m happy you made it. I’m n-n-not s-s-sorry and I’m n-n-not—”

“Breathe,” she said, tilting her head to the side until her cheek rested against the back of his left hand. She closed her eyes, letting go of the breath she’d been holding.

Holden watched her, savoring the touch of her soft cheek pressed against his skin. It took every last reserve of his strength not to run his hands down her arms and pull her against his chest. But he didn’t. He’d wait for her. He’d wait forever if that’s what it took for her to invite his touch, to want it.

Finally she opened her eyes, taking a deep breath and smiling at him. A relieved and happy laugh made her shoulders shake a little as she stared back at him like something magical had just happened, and Holden would swear that, from now until the end of his life, he’d never see anything more beautiful than Griselda smiling back at him in that moment.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her tears still streaming. “Thank you so much, Holden. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For forgiving me.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“There is,” she whispered, turning her face just a little to press her lips to the back of his hand.

“Gris,” he ground out, the sound painful and pleading.

She looked up, nodding at him, as though remembering herself, then righted her head as he quickly slipped his hands from her shoulders.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, she used her palms to wipe her face and turned to him. “Doll’s house?”

“Yeah,” he said, fishing the keys out of his jeans and handing them to her. “You go on in.”

She nodded, letting herself out of the truck. And Holden watched her go, begging God and every angel in heaven for more than just a month with her.

***

Holden was lying down in the back bedroom, so Griselda took her time placing their clothes on an empty shelf in the linen closet between the bedroom and bathroom, and unpacking the groceries. Quint had purchased a few luxuries for them—in addition to milk, mac and cheese, and a loaf of bread, he’d included a dozen eggs, some fresh berries, a package of chicken legs, and a box of frozen hamburgers. Rifling through the kitchen cabinets, Griselda also found some basics, like flour, sugar, cooking oil, and spices. She grinned, thinking that she could dip the chicken legs in beaten egg, then dredge them in flour, and fry them up. It wouldn’t be the fanciest feast, but it had to be better than hot dogs, and if memory served, Holden loved fried chicken.