Roar (22 page)

There’s a grocery bag on the counter with basic toiletry items and cleaning products. I grab the shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, and then wonder if we have towels. On the way back, I check the linen closet, thankfully there are a few items in storage bags. Another blessing from Nona, I suspect.

Opening the seal, I pull two towels out, leaving one behind. I find a face washer too, and tuck that under my arm. We’re going to have to do some restocking if she wants to stay here.

By the time I’m back to the bathroom, she’s in the bath, which is three quarters full. The room is foggy and warm, her eyes soft and pleading for me to hold her. I drop the towels and supplies on the basin and bring the shampoo, conditioner, body soap, and washer to the side of the bath, dumping them on the little tiled bench.

“Couldn’t wait for the bubbles?”

She shimmies forward for me to slide in behind her, “You took forever, but I see why. It’s a good thing one of us still has a functioning brain to think of towels.”

I chuckle, then grimace against the scorching water that brushes my toes. “Fuck, Charlie. It’s hot.”

This time she laughs and she looks over her shoulder, getting an eyeful of my cock as I have one foot on the floor and the other trying to dip in the bath. She has that look, the devilish kind, where she’s up to something. That look scares me; it’s gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past. Suddenly, she is reaching for my slackened cock and pulls. Her hand is hot and throws me off balance.

“Don’t be a pussy. Just get in here.”

I don’t just get in, I almost fall in. It’s hot and my body wants to pull the leg out, but her clasp around my old fella keeps me still.

“Fine,” I practically grunt, and she lets me go. I place my other foot in knowing what’s coming, and then slide down behind her, silently gasping against the water meeting the meat and veg department. It doesn’t take long before I’m used to the heat and begin to relax all the tight muscles, pulling Charlie back against me so we are mostly submerged in the cleansing, hot water.

It’s hot, sensual and fucking therapeutic on all the muscles I didn’t know were even sore until now. I take the body wash, pop the cap, and bring it to my nose. It smells like vanilla and something else. Then I read the name, Vanilla and Honey. Well at least it’s not coconut or jasmine, or some girly stuff I would reek of for days. I squirt some in my hand and devilishly bring it down on her tits.

Goosebumps spread across her flesh and her nipple peaks against my slick hands. It feels so damn good, and although it’s completely sexual, it’s also beautiful to be so comfortable with her like this. I don’t want her to think that all I want is her body, because I don’t. I want everything, all the things men want in life, the simple dream.

Sitting her up and urging her forward, I begin to knead her back and shoulders under the slick soap. That’s when I see things I will never be able to scrub from my mind, or the broken part of my soul that is filled with horrible heartbreak.

She has small scars; I know these scars, the shapes and textures. I’ve seen plenty in my time spent in state pen. They are cigarette burns,
old
cigarette burns. My fingers trace each one, disregarding her stiffened body. They are real small and definitely old; I dare say from when she was a teen. Their age has hidden them well, but not enough to fight back my anger and the sickness. I wouldn’t have noticed them if she were just wearing a bikini or something. Her skin has mended over the years, but I can just feel them under my fingers. This close, I can see their remnants, evidence of something horrid in her past.

Back then, she wrote me many letters, some I could tell she was having a rough time in foster care, but she would always try to assure me she was okay.

“You lied,” I breathe, obsessed with the marks I find. There are five all up and I can only imagine the abuse you can’t see under the skin. It’s those, the wounds beyond the skin you must fear of all others.

“When?” She tucks her legs into her arms, stretching her back over so I can finally see all. There are six, not five.

“In your letters.”

She takes a huge breath, and I suspect she still fights the rejection of me never replying. Now I wonder if I did, indeed, do the right thing. Maybe if we wrote back and forth she would have told me, and I could have told someone, I could have… rescued her long ago.

“What do you care? You never replied.”

And there it is; that hot knife into my heart, which I deserve. She was hurting; still is. I could have helped, but as usual, I made the wrong choices and everyone else is always paying the price for my poor decisions.

“What if I told you I didn’t reply because I was protecting you?”

She turns her head a little, though still doesn’t look at me or unlock her arms. “What if I said I was protecting
you
?”

Touché.

I sigh, resigned to the fact that protecting each other seems to keep us apart, and seems to hurt so much more. I reach around her and hold her locked body in mine until she begins to relax some. I kiss her shoulder and nuzzle into her hair. “Let me wash your hair.”

Silently, she unwraps herself. I guide her down enough so her hair is submerged. Her feet rest against the tiles above, and I begin the process that tugs at my heart. Who knew washing her hair could feel so good?

Massaging her scalp with the conditioner seems to melt all her muscles as she slowly slithers into me and the water. There is still something possessive about this innocent act that I have no problem making a routine in our lives. I will help her forget everyone who ever touched her, with good intentions or bad, she is free from all that to be mine, and I will fight for that freedom until my last day.

After we are washed and dried, I’m left with nothing clean to wear but my jeans, and she finds another shirt in storage. I remember it, because it’s one of mine. I feel a familiar tug when she comes out in a check shirt and floral cotton panties―I also remember the panties, of course; they were all hers.

“Why are you wearing your old clothes?” I ask when I see the bag by the trash in the kitchen. Grabbing the cold Chinese, I bring it to the table where she is sitting, staring at the stated item of her belongings.

She reaches for one of the cartons and chopsticks without looking at me, and says, “They were never really my clothes. They were his―his choice, his taste, his cloak to my bruises. I don’t want them.”

I glance at the bag and then her. She still refuses to look at me, or it, so I drop the last carton on the table and strode purposefully to the bag. I take it and head out the back door. I hear her at my heels and stop before I get to the trash can. I lift the lid and hold the bag out for her, silently asking if she would rather be the one to finally rid her life of it. I’m not an idiot to how she thinks. Having her past sit ominously in the kitchen isn’t enough; she needs that house to be clean of her old life, hence the terrible paint job.

She takes the bag from me and doesn’t hesitate when she shoves it in the can. She takes the lid from my other hand and slams it down.

“FUCK YOU!” she shouts at the bag and, theoretically, Paul. She then dives into my arms and I kiss her head, sweep her up and take her back to the house.

“Let’s eat before we fix what disaster you created in there.”

She gasps before I place her back on the ground. “You’re the one who knocked the paint onto the floor, not me.” She plops her butt down at the table again and attacks her carton of noodles.

“I was referring to the top quarter of the wall you haven’t painted.” I take a carton and chopsticks, grinning at her over the table.

“I couldn’t reach any higher. I didn’t think about a ladder or anything. I kinda figured you would get the high bits.”

I chuckle pretty hard, “I don’t think you have enough paint, babe.”

“Well I don’t
now
.”

I fill my mouth with soft beef and nod in agreement until I swallow. “I’ll get you some more in the morning. Don will deliver it for you while I go to work. I’ll also get him to deliver an extension roller, that way you can get as high as you like and get an even finish.”

“Ohhh, I never thought of that.”

“Uh-huh. Now, hand me those noodles.”

I thought I’d feel more cramped in her old single bed than this, but I understand why she refused to enter his room and use his. I made a mental note to order her a bigger bed today. The room stinks of fresh paint, despite the open window and fan. I told her it wasn’t good for us, but she was determined. I stretch out across the mattress, ignoring my creaking bones, and the threat of a cramp in my thigh, when I realize I’m alone. I shoot up straight. “
Charlie
?”

She was asleep in my arms when I let my body fall into the darkness, early this morning. I must have been so out of it, I didn’t feel her get up. I rush to the toilet hoping she needed to pee. She isn’t there, and I run to the lounge. Maybe I was too big to share a single bed with her, maybe I squished her in my sleep and she decided to sleep on the sofa … but the sofa is empty.

“
CHARLIE?
” I don’t think she’s there, but I head to the door we both ignored. Only now, my nudity feels uncomfortable, but I reach for the doorknob and push the door open, allowing it to bump the stopper against the wall. His room is empty, dark, and cold. The chill is more likely psychosomatic than physical. Either way, she’s not here.

It then hits me. I run to her room, grab my trunks, and jump into them. I pull them up as I run out the door, closing it behind me. I run across the cool, crunchy grass of her lawn to the softness of Nona’s. I take the steps fast, before compelling a steadying breath to clear my nerves. I try to be quiet, not wanting to freak Nona and Davey out. Climbing the stairs that lead up to my old room, I’m mindful of those that have squeaked all my life and in seconds I come to my door and actually pray she is behind it. If she isn’t here, she’s left me. It’s all too much for her, and she couldn’t handle it.

“Please,” I whisper, as I open the old door with my heart in my throat.

I think I could melt to the floor right now in relief. There, curled in my blanket, is the small frame of the love of my life. I don’t know why she left my arms to come to my childhood bed. Once upon a time, she used to come here every morning, but I thought it was to be with me … now, I’m not so sure. Something brings her here, so if here is where she needs to be, here is where I will follow until we work it out.

I know she’s keeping something from me, and as long as she does, I can’t help her. So, I’ll just be here for her until she’s ready. I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m going to sleep in my childhood bed, with my childhood girlfriend―not where I thought our new journey was going to bring us.

Sliding in behind her, she turns and wraps her arms around me, her breath tickling my chest.

“Nate,” she utters. I kiss her head and hush her, knowing I wouldn’t sleep now; I only have an hour before I have to be up again for work. I need to be there for the new inductions. I feel like we have two lives; the one that brings us together, and the one that endlessly throws us obstacles. Both are just as heavy and just as filled with heartache.

I’m sick of heartache and struggle. I want the life we share when it’s just us in our own cage, where the weight of our inherit demons are kept out. But then I remember she’s in my arms, in my old bed, and I realize that the cage won’t save us; not when she has the key to walk away.

I TELL NATE ALMOST
everything. I told him almost everything. Almost.

There is one thing, one scar that will never heal. It’s rotten and gaping, it’s a constant burning reminder of how damaged beyond repair I am.

Today, I awoke crying at the same time as I always have after Daddy took any love I had for him away.

I had that dream, where I walked across that yard and crept up the stairs to his room, that’s been void of his presence for four years. His bed has new sheets; Nona changes them every week for me. She never asks me why I come, she just accepts it. Then I wake up and realize I’m in my dorm, my roommate is sleeping soundly across the room, never aware of the darkness I face every morning before she even opens her eyes. She doesn’t know me―no one does―not the real me. Here, I am Charlotte. Orphan, quiet, and driven. That’s all they need to know and it’s all I ever will allow them to.