His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas Page 22

  “I weigh a lot more than that,” Colin shot back as he went to pick his Urkel glasses up out of the grass. They were, like the violin, bent at an awkward angle, but he jammed them back on his face anyway.

  And that made me feel sorry for him all over again.

  Because the truth was, if I hadn’t intervened, Mike would have kicked his ass. Probably would have broken a few fingers, too, just because.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, letting some apology creep into my voice. “I thought I was helping.”

  “You didn’t help me,” Colin spat out. “You just gave him something else to lord over me. So thank you for that, Beaumont girl.”

  “Colin, I was only trying to—”

  “Get out of here,” he said, voice vicious as a thunderstorm. “I’m sick of looking at your idiot face.”

  As insults went, it wasn’t the worst I’d had flung at me. I had been playing guitar in mostly white establishments since the age of eight, after all. But something about his dismissal cut me deep, digging into old wounds that had never properly healed. At that point, I’d been getting dismissed all my life. By my father, by club owners, by my mother, by school teachers who’d told me I’d never amount to anything because I was more interested in coming up with new song lyrics than learning what they had to teach. Hell, this whole summer with Mike had felt like a dismissal.

  But at that moment, I just couldn’t take getting dismissed by Colin, too.

  “I’m not your servant,” I informed him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  “Get out of here,” he said, advancing on me.

  I tried to shove him back, and was shocked to find he’d been telling the truth. He wasn’t nearly as skinny as he appeared. He didn’t even stumble.

  He, on the other hand, had no problem getting me to move. He pushed me toward the white picket fence. “Get out of here!”

  I stumbled, but came back with a “No!” and stood strong.

  Another push toward the fence. “I said get out of here, Beaumont girl!”

  The insult of him referring to me once again by the name of my neighborhood made me erupt like a volcano. The next thing I knew, I was kicking at him and shoving him away from me, yelling, “No! No! Get your hands off of me!”

  My endgame? I had no idea. Still don’t. In that moment, I just knew I wasn’t going to let him push me away or throw me off the Lancers’ property like a bag of trash.

  At first he just kept on trying to corral me toward the gate. But for every little push he gave me, I shoved him, as hard as I could. Putting all my body weight into it, and swiping at him like a cat when he tried to advance on me again.

  “I said git, Beaumont!” he yelled at me.

  “And I said no!” I yelled right back.

  He let out a low growl, and the next thing I knew, my back slammed into the wall beside the stairs, a hand manacling around my wrists, pinning them above my head before I could fight back, much less shove him away.

  I tried to move, but he was stronger than he looked. He easily kept me pinned against the side of the Lancers’ mansion, his thin chest pressed into my soft one… and something else that wasn’t so thin pressed into my stomach.

  That was when things got weird.

  We’d just fought. Like, physically fought. And now he had my back to the wall, with what felt like a raging hard on inside his jeans.

  I was scared. I’d only really gone through puberty that year, and despite what my newly big chest and wide hips might have led others to believe, I didn’t have much experience with boys yet. Mostly with Mike, I’d just lain there and taken it.

  But there was no mistaking what was happening to me in this position. I could feel heat pooling between my legs as my breasts became incredibly tight, their nipples pebbling behind my thin cotton bra.

  “It’s time for you to go.” His voice was barely above a feral whisper at that point.

  He was right. I should go. I should run. But something inside of me still couldn’t give in.

  “No!” I practically spat back at him. “You can’t make me.”

  Something flashed across his face then, a look so mean, it made my heart go into free fall, and my mouth open to take back what I’d just said.

  But then he kissed me. And the kiss was somehow scarier than him pinning me against the wall or the mean look that came before it.

  It felt like I’d been unexpectedly pushed into a boiling kettle, and my whole body was instantly consumed by heat. I could feel him. Not just his lips, and hands, and thin body, but the stuff on the inside, too. All his rage and anger. All his sadness, as he dragged his lips over mine.

  I could also feel his long length pulsating at my core, despite the layers separating our actual flesh. Feel it and want it like I’d never wanted any other boy’s thing inside of me before.

  I suddenly found myself wishing my hands were free. I wanted to feel it for real. Wanted to feel him for real. I rolled my hips underneath his kiss, trying to get to the part of him I wanted inside of me. My new body had gotten so hot, so fast I couldn’t even remember to play it cool like you’re supposed to when it comes to boys.

  I just wanted to. I just wanted him. I just wanted to with him…

  “Dammit, Beaumont,” Colin said, his hand squeezing my wrists where he still had them pinned above my head. “This is crazy. We’ve got to stop.”

  I tried to ignore him. Tried to catch his lips again. He wanted me. I knew he did, knew this couldn’t possibly be a one-sided thing.

  But he ripped his lips away from mine.

  “You’re one of Mike’s girls,” he reminded me. “And you’re from Beaumont. You don’t have any business being here, doing what you’ve been doing with Mike—what you almost did with me.”

  “My mom needs this job, so this house is my prison.” He shook his head, and it was hard to tell if he was still talking to me or himself when he said, “But I’ve only got a year left on my sentence before I can go away to college. It ain’t worth it.”

  Colin released my hands and drew back, looking at me like I was a pile of trash that had just walked out of a dumpster and tried to convince him to do it with her.

  “You ain’t worth it.”

  Those words, more than any he’d said before, cut me bad. So bad, I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think of anything to say in my defense.

  Then he drove the knife in even deeper, pointing at me, as he said, “You need to git.”

  This time, he didn’t wait for me to say no again. Just wiped his hands on his threadbare jeans and headed up the stairs. Leaving me to stand there on that wall, still shaken to my very core by our kiss, still cut raw by his words, as I watched his stork-like body disappear.

  The sound of his receding footsteps was soon followed by the slam of the back door. And I was left with no doubt whatsoever in my mind that I wouldn’t ever see the housekeeper’s son again.

  But I was wrong about that.

  I did see him again. Just a couple of years later, on my grandma’s 35” TV.

  Turned on CMT one day, and there he was. At least, I was halfway sure it was him. The guy singing on my grandma’s TV looked like a suped up version of the one who’d kissed me on that hot Alabama summer night. His hair was no longer stringy, but fell in gorgeous waves that shone like spun gold underneath the studio lights. He’d put on quite a bit of muscle. I mean, he wasn’t muscle bound like Beau Prescott, but he definitely wasn’t a bag of sticks anymore either. I could see how well defined his body was under the long-sleeved Charlie Daniels Band varsity t-shirt he wore. He also still had those pretty blue eyes, and that good ol’ southern boy smile, both of which he unleashed on the audience as he sang.

  Colin, the housekeeper’s son, was, I realized as I watched him singing on my grandma’s TV, drop dead gorgeous. The nerdy air he’d carried with him had completely disappeared, right along with his glasses.

  And the song he was singing wasn’t bad either.

  His
voice, I figured, was just a little better than okay, but I had to give it to him for his lyrics. They were excellent. And for somebody who used to be in the Alabama Youth Symphony, he knew how to play one hell of a country guitar. But apparently he hadn’t completely abandoned his violin. Halfway through the song, he put down the guitar and performed the fiddle solo himself, which was not something a lot of country singers did. In fact, that’s what made Charlie Daniels a legend.

  But Colin did it, and I watched him do it, my mouth hanging open because I could barely believe it was really him. Really Colin Fairgood. Maybe I was mistaken…? But no, after he was finished, the host confirmed we’d just heard the first song off of Colin Fairgood’s debut album. Then he chatted with Colin for a little bit before inviting him to play another tune, which he did—though he didn’t bother with the fiddle on the next one. Guess he didn’t want the world to think he was a one-trick pony.

  But fiddle or no fiddle, it was definitely him. I watched him play and I knew… true as if God had come down and told me himself: Colin Fairgood was no longer the Housekeeper’s Son. He’d done his time and gotten out of Alabama. And now he’d never have to worry about rich white boys like Mike Lancer again.

  Chapter 1

  I can’t help but think about Colin Fairgood a whole lot of years later as I’m driving to my new job. Not just because it’s in Brentwood, an affluent suburb of Nashville, the country music capital of the world. But also because his song comes on the radio, just as my BMW’s nav system tells me I’ve reached my destination… right in front of a gas station.

  I curse, knowing I’m going to be late on my first day, working for my new client, a multiple stroke victim in her late sixties. Which is stupid because I’ve been wanting a job in Nashville for a good long while now. Even going so far as to turn down live-in gigs in Memphis so I could leave myself available in case something opened up near where I really wanted to live—Nashville, a city where I’d finally have a chance to make my songwriting dream come true.

  But Nashville isn’t Memphis. I know Memphis like the back of my hand, which means I’d never really have to depend on the nav system, which I’m sure was considered top-of-the-line back in 2001 when the car was first made. But now it’s telling me this gas station is for sure the place I want to be, while Colin Fairgood and the now-retired pop singer, Roxxy RoxX, sing about a kid who goes to bed hungry, with “a ghost in his belly” every night.

  That song was supposed to be a country charity single, but it went on to become Colin’s first number one mainstream song, rocketing up the pop charts and introducing him to a much larger group of fans—all of who seemed just fine to roll along with him when he made the switch from thoughtful singer-songwriter songs that won music industry awards, to raucous country club thumpers that actually moved albums. I preferred his thoughtful singer-songwriter period a little better, but the last thing I needed to hear on my first day at the new job I was already late for was a song about not having enough to eat. I switch off the radio, cursing myself for agreeing to share a phone plan with my grandma.

  Working as a home health aide worker doesn’t require a college degree, but it also doesn’t pay much. Which is why I went with the cheapest data plan after my grandma used her entire Social Security check to buy us matching smartphones last Christmas. But that had been before I’d known what a data hog my grandmother would become, with her constant posting to social media sites, and her crack-like addiction to the Family Feud & Friends mobile game app. There’s never enough data left over at the end of the month to do simple stuff, like use the map app on my smartphone to figure out how to get to my new job. Not unless I want to pay some serious overage charges—which I don’t.

  I end up going into the gas station and poring over a hand-drawn map with a very helpful but hard to understand Pakistani gas station attendant for nearly fifteen more minutes.

  As it turns out, Rose Gaither, my newest client, lives in a recently constructed gated neighborhood with its own golf complex.

  “It is very nice place. Very nice,” the attendant tells me. “I do not know how to play the golf, but I hope to play it there maybe someday. This is my dream.”

  We all have dreams, I think as I leave the gas station. Plus, who am I to judge anybody else for having a crazy dream. I actually consider this job a dream come true. Working as Rose Gaither’s live-in aide will mean a steady paycheck and enough time to work on putting together some songs for a demo. Of course, I’ll have to save every extra penny in order to pay to record those songs to a demo, which I can then pass on to labels and producers looking for new songwriting talent. And before that, I’ll have to figure out how to get over my crippling fear of singing in front of people. But hey, one out of three ain’t bad. And at least I’ll finally be living in Nashville, the place where country music dreams come true.

  However those dreams soon start feeling like they’re slipping away when I finally make it into the gated community, filled with rolling hills, huge mansions, and as promised, an idyll golf course with lush green grass, sand pits, and even a sparkling lake. As pretty as the place is, it’s a total nightmare to navigate, and even with the little map the gas station attendant drew for me, I keep on getting turned around on roads that turn out to be unmarked cul-de-sacs or just don’t go through, because forget you, hapless home aide, we’re a gated community, we don’t have to make sense.

  I have to ask three different gardeners, in broken Spanish, how to get to Telescope Road before I finally pull up to the place I’m supposed to be living until further notice—over half an hour after I was supposed to arrive. I’m cursing that dang Family Feud & Friends game for real as I get out of the car.

  Compared to the rest of the neighborhood’s showy mega-mansions, Rose Gaither’s house is cute as a button. A large, blue Cape cod with a covered porch and neat brick steps. I run up them and push on the doorbell, my heart still beating erratically in my chest from the Dora the Explorer episode that just getting here put me through.

  I wait, but no answer. I look at my watch. Now it’s thirty-two minutes past when I was supposed to be here.

  I curse again and lean on the doorbell. Still no answer, though. And the scar that runs down the entire left side of my face feels like it’s pulsing under the heavy makeup I’ve put on to cover it up. A sure sign I’m more stressed than I need to be at a first meeting with a new client.

  Where’s the night nurse? I wonder. She was supposed to meet me and take me through my duties before I started my first shift.

  Not knowing what else to do, I try the doorbell a third time.

  But still no answer.

  Okay, obviously I’m going to have to call the agency. But first I decide to try the doorknob, just in case…

  The handle depresses easily and the door swings open with barely a creak.

  Weird, I think, wondering if I should look for the client or go get my bags out of my car. I decide to look for the client, because the last thing a multiple stroke victim needs is to be shocked to death by the presence of a stranger in her house.

  I check downstairs first. The house is a little grander on the inside. Gleaming hardwood floors and a sweeping staircase are the first things I see when I walk in through the door. But I pass the stairs and search for the downstairs bedroom first. I don’t care how fancy you are. Nobody’s going to want to climb a marble staircase after going through a stroke.

  Turns out I’m right, and I find a post-it note from the absent night nurse on one of the first closed doors I come to.

  “Sorry, family emergency. Will try to call you later in the day with instructions.”

  I give the note some serious stank face. Maybe the night nurse really did have a family emergency, or maybe she just didn’t feel like sticking around to train the new home aide who was putting her out of a job. Either way, it’s not the best way to start off with a new client.

  Shake it off, I think, stuffing the post-it into the front pocket of my scrubs. I take a deep br
eath and give a little knock before pushing through the door with a bright smile on my face—

  —only to find Rose Gaither prone on the bed. Her eyes wide. One hand at her chest, wrapped fist tight around something I can only assume is a cross.

  She’s in distress, I realize right away. Another stroke—no a heart attack, I quickly correct myself, running over to the bed.

  I pull out my phone and call 9-1-1. Calmly I tell the answering operator what’s going on, then I give her the address, hoping like hell the ambulance has an easier time finding this place than I did. But I try not to worry too much about that. Ms. Gaither lives in a rich neighborhood. Ambulances, I know from experience, have a way of finding their way extra quick to the homes of the rich.

  “I’m fixing to begin life saving procedures now,” I inform the operator.

  This isn’t my first rodeo, and I’ve become good at attending to clients while talking on the phone with 9-1-1 at the same time. It’s one of those skills you wish you didn’t have, but of course get before too long as a home health aide. And I’ve been doing this job in some way or another ever since high school.

  But when I go to put my hands on her chest, the little old lady knocks them away with her bent arm, still clinging to her necklace. At first I think it’s involuntary, but then she frantically shakes her head at me and I remember…

  The short history file I’d received a few days ago on her. And the five words I’d been a little surprised to see. “Has a DNR on file.”

  I raise my hands and whisper, “I forgot you have a DNR.”

  Rose nods, her milky blue eyes somewhat terrified… but more determined than fearful, even as her heart gives out.

  “Did you say she has a DNR?” the operator asks over the line.

  My hands hover over her frail body, not sure what to do.

  I’ll admit most of my patients have been God-fearing black folks—not a crowd that has a lot of truck with DNRs. I’ve always known this could happen, but did I ever believe it would?