Chasing Shade

There it was again. That small frown he’d seen earlier and then again when he’d offered to go buy beer. Before she could even attempt to speak, Archie held up a hand. ‘Never mind. Strike that question.’

She cocked an eyebrow at him and he saw that she twirled her long honey-toned hair around her finger when she was nervous. She was twirling it now. Making a tight twist of her hair and then letting it go before repeating the manoeuvre.

‘Why do you say that? Why take the question off the table?’

‘Because your expression says you don’t want to talk about it and I can respect that. I, for some bizarre reason, wanted to talk about life crap when we started talking.’

She chuckled. Ate a forkful of potatoes.

‘Oh, trust me,’ Archie said. ‘It shocked even me. But I did.’ His voice broke a little and he hated how vulnerable he sounded. ‘But I did and I’m grateful for it.’

She blushed and looked down at her plate, at the floor, at the kitchenette. Anywhere but at him. He realised she was a very good person who was very uncomfortable with anyone knowing it.

‘I’m glad I could listen. And maybe…’ She twirled her fork through her potatoes but didn’t eat them. ‘Maybe I’ll want to talk one day soon. To you. I think I will. But it’s hard for me – the talking part – I’m still not one hundred per cent with who I am. Better than I was once upon a time, but still, I think I could be better.’

Archie rubbed his eyes, unsure of what to say. What could he say to that? How someone as good as Betsey Smith could feel that way, think she could be better and in some huge way, judging by her tone and her expression, was beyond him. It hurt his head.

‘I doubt that.’

She patted his hand but quickly withdrew her fingers when he jumped slightly. Her touching him, it always affected him. ‘It’s true. Now about that shower. You’re all done with your dinner. I could make us some quick brownies while you take one. If you want. If not, I can loan you an old tablecloth to drape over your shower-curtain rod until we get you one.’

Until we get you one…

Why did that ‘we’ make him so utterly happy? It frightened Archie.

‘Sure. I’d love to shower in your shower. But it’s really the brownies I’m after,’ he said, clearing his plate.

‘Typical man,’ Betsey said and laughed.

Her laugh made something warm glow in his chest. He rubbed it and followed her directions to find the clean towels. And found himself whistling along the way.

Chapter 7 (#uf73d4060-9cff-515c-a40a-e3eb279dec68)

Standing naked in her shower wasn’t helping him. Archie became supremely aware of how affected he’d been by the off-and-on contact they’d had through the day. Her taking his hands, hugging him, how her lush body had felt pressed against him. He grabbed his cock roughly and gave it three good tugs before dropping it like it was a loaded gun. He chuckled darkly.

‘Probably a bit creepy to beat off in her shower while she bakes you brownies. Might want to save that until you get home.’

His cock throbbed and his chest ached with a physical need to bring his arousal to conclusion. But also to do something – anything – to act on the weird and sudden feelings he had for this woman who seemed to have fallen into his lap. It was as if after beating him up for months on end, over a year actually, the universe had decided to drop a good thing in his lap. A bright and shiny thing that made him feel happier than he had in a very long time.

‘Sappy, sappy,’ he sighed, scrubbing his hair. He stood there smelling like peaches and lavender of all things, looking at her loofah and her pink razor and the towel that had suns and moons all over, and decided to kiss her. Really kiss her. And tell her what he was feeling.

She seemed the kind of person he could confess to and she wouldn’t run away.

He’d go out there, have a brownie, plant one on her and confess. Then they could see how it went. If it went.

Problem solved.

Archie towelled off quickly, dressed in his old clothes but shoved his boxer briefs in his back pocket and marched out barefoot to spill it all to Betsey Smith.

The oven timer was going off and she was sound asleep. Curled on her brightly patterned sofa with his bomber jacket draped over her. She was snoring lightly.

It made him smile. ‘Damn,’ Archie said and turned off the oven after putting the brownies on the stove top to cool.

He got his boots on and cut a slab of brownies and put them, still burning hot, on a paper plate to take to his hovel. Then he wrote on a napkin:

THANKS FOR THE DINNER. AND THE JOB. AND THE FIRST GOOD DAY I’VE HAD IN A LONG TIME.

SLEEP WELL, BETSEY

A

His walk home was short but lonely. It was odd, Archie realised, how obvious Betsey’s absence was after less than a day of her presence. She had secrets. He could tell. But he found himself OK with that. He believed her when she said that one day she would tell him. He thought it was true.

He’d pulled his truck around to the trailer while they were cleaning. He made sure all his bags were inside and locked it up. ‘I love you,’ he said to it, ‘But I’m sure as hell glad I don’t have to live in you.’

Inside his new home, Betsey’s energy radiated everywhere. He could smell her. See her when he glanced at the sofa and the bed. The clean floor and the neatly stacked dishes reminded him of her. When he glanced in the bathroom he saw the toilet paper folded to a point at the end and found himself laughing.

It was easy then, being in his own little space, to lock the door, turn on the ancient TV set and flop on to the bed. He shucked his jeans and took his bare cock in hand and just a few strokes got him off thinking about her. About the way her hair smelled and her body felt and the warmth of her curve against his body and her laugh…God, her laugh. He fell asleep with the comforter pulled loosely over him and the late show’s laugh track sounding in his ears.

She could feel him coming but her legs wouldn’t move. The ancient Buick – faded black with scabby sections of paint peeling away – rolled towards her. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. Could feel it. She knew it was there and she knew it was transporting Denton Jackson Miller. A former mailman with a penchant for abducting and keeping young girls. The first three had been abducted along his route. It had brought him down, eventually – that connection.

She was to be the last. And here he came. His gasoline-powered beast huffing expectant breath behind her as she stood there, on her way to school, as always. She was frozen. Frozen in the headlights. It was an overcast November day. Cold and bitter and the wind blew right up her school skirt, bit through her knee socks, tossed her ponytails.

She tried to run. Betsey had been here before. Over and over again and she knew the sensation of her legs being nestled in wet, sticky molasses. Wanting to move – needing to move – and yet unable to.

‘Run,’ she said to herself and shivered. The car crept closer.

Here came his voice, a sickening, almost-pleading query. ‘Need a ride?’

She said no. ‘No.’ She always did. She had. And yet he continued to follow along in his car.

She was at the end of the road. No one was coming. He blocked her with his car. She could run off into the underbrush at the edge of the nearby park at the end of this cul de sac. She could. Why didn’t she? Because fear had locked her. Fear had buckled her down, muffled her instinct and clouded her judgment.

He got out of the car. Coming towards her. This is where she acted. This is where she ran. Made noise and ended this thing. But he reached for her with his short grubby fingers. Reached for her and took her wrists in his hand, his grip tight and unyielding. This time he had her. This time she wouldn’t get away. He was coming…

‘Jesus Christ, Betsey, wake up!’

She opened her eyes to find Archie over her. His blue eyes wide and wild and scared. ‘Archie?’

She was on her sofa, covered up, and for a second confusion overwhelmed her. ‘Did I fall asleep while you were showering?’ She was wrapped in his jacket so it couldn’t have been that long.

‘Hours and hours ago. I left you…I just came back because I heard you.’

She pushed the jacket away and sat up. Her head swam for a moment. ‘From your trailer?’

He dropped down next to her, putting his hand over his heart. He was pale. She’d scared him. It was then that Betsey realised her heart was pounding. ‘Jesus Christ, yes, from my trailer,’ he said, his breath short. ‘You scared the shit out of me. I thought someone was killing you.’

She shivered when he said that. Sobbed but then got herself under control. His expression one of concern, he reached for her but she waved him off. ‘Don’t. Please. Not yet.’