Saturday, March 12th
Ronan
“Fuck,” I moan quietly, unable to stop myself or regulate my heavy breathing.
It’s a good thing the shower’s running, the water’s spray masking my desperate groans as I chase my orgasm. I’m close, too; I can feel it swirling in my stomach. My body is wound tight, ready for release, my eyes fixed on my hand roughly stroking my hard cock. I grip the base of my dick tightly, then drag my hand all the way up my rock-hard shaft and over the already hypersensitive tip. My hips buck with the sensation—a perfect mix of pain and pleasure.
It's my Saturday off. I get one every other weekend. It’s a day when my grandparents don’t wake me before the sun rises, when I don’t spend the morning fixing fences or corralling cattle, when I don’t crash after eating lunch. It’s not that I don’t do anything on those days. I do. It’s just on my own terms.
I didn’t wake up until almost eleven this morning, only reluctantly emerging from the exquisite dream I had of Cat and me, and our bodies melting together. God, I swear I could feel her, smell her, taste her in my dream. I was about to sink into her, our bodies so damn close, when a loud whinnying in the pasture outside my bedroom window caused me to regain consciousness. I can’t even begin to explain how disappointed I was.
I’m desperate to have Cat back in my arms, see her, be with her, my mind and body absolutely craving her presence. And, good fucking god, I’m pent up.
I was harder than rock when I woke up, my erection straining against my boxer briefs, throbbing painfully. Things didn’t calm down even after a few minutes of staring at my ceiling, the images of Cat’s perfect, soft body so damn vivid. I finally marched into the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom, where I now stand under the shower, my soapy fist pumping my cock with greedy strokes.
I let my head fall forward, resting my forehead against the cool shower tile and next to my right hand. My eyes shut with the building pleasure, my breathing labored, and I’m back in Cat’s bedroom, that guestroom at Shane’s, my own bedroom. I recall the moments I got to feel Cat, when she trusted me, gave herself to me so completely it tore my heart and soul all the way open. Fuck, she turns me on so much. Those little moans, the way she breathes my name when she comes, how she smells and tastes, how damn tight she is… It’s an all-senses-on-deck kind of experience with Cat.
I tighten my fist still, my movements shallow and quick as I crest. I hold my breath, every fiber in my body coiling, my balls aching with pressure, and finally I fall into pleasure, hot cum pulsing onto my hand and jetting onto the tiled wall in front of me. My cock throbs with my orgasm, my skin hot, feverish as I thrust into my fist six or seven times before my body eventually stills. The last of the aftershocks seizes my muscles and I release a deep groan, relaxed and sated. At least temporarily.
I’m starving when I finally make it downstairs ten minutes later. My appetite returned in full force when I started being able to move properly again. My knee’s a thousand times better—not one hundred percent, but better—and since convincing my grandfather to convert the workshop into a gym a couple of months ago, I’ve been making use of it as new equipment arrives, which admittedly is slower than I’d like it to. It’s a constant effort to convince him that he needs more barbells, more weights, more machines to provide his guests with some variety, and I’ve been reasonably successful in my endeavors. I really don’t need much to get a good workout in, but it’s nice to have the access.
I think the real reason my grandfather gave in to me is because he sees how effective physical activity has been in terms of my rehabilitation, both physical and emotional. I’ve missed working out almost as much as I miss being with Cat.
“Good morning, baby boy,” my grandmother chirps when she sees me, a huge smile on her face. She’s always so happy to see me, her reaction to my presence so unlike my mother, who looked at me like the fact that I dared to breathe ruined her day. “Or, I guess I should say good afternoon,” she says with a look at the large clock on the wall. “You slept a long time,” she notes, already in the process of making me a plate of food.
“I was exhausted,” I say, and take a glass from the cupboard to fill with water.
“I’m glad you were able to get some rest.” She hands me my plate, then places her hand on my cheek, her skin soft against mine. “Go eat,” she says gently.
The phone rings, and she answers it. “Frankie!”
I place my plate on the table and stand, looking back at my grandmother as she talks to my dad.
“This is a nice surprise. A Saturday call. Your boy is here…” She listens intently to whatever my dad is saying on the other end. She’s silent a minute or two, her face slowly darkening. “Why is she doing this?” she asks and falls silent again. By the way my grandmother’s eyes keep flitting to me, I know they’re talking about my mother. “Really? Oh no, Frankie,” she says, shaking her head.
Anxious restlessness seizes me. I abandon my breakfast and walk back into the kitchen where I hold my hand out to my grandma—a silent request to talk to my dad so I can find out what the hell is going on.
She stares at me for a few seconds, apparently calculating whether it’s safe to let me talk to my dad. “Frankie… here’s Ran.”
“Dad? What’s going on?”
“Hey Ran,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this to you today, or really at all. I got a call yesterday from the D.A., Darren. He let me know that Rica’s not taking a plea deal like we had hoped. She’s going to force a trial. She’s going to make you testify about… everything.”
“Okay,” I say, defeated. I didn’t really anticipate my mother taking a plea, but I won’t lie, I had hoped that she would, that she’d find it within herself to spare me having to relive every painful memory.
“There’s more,” my dad sighs. “Rica’s attorney is going to offer evidence at the trial about the abuse Rica suffered when she was a child, and… they’re going to argue it caused her to do the same to you.”
“What?” I’m stunned. This is the first time I’ve ever heard anything about my mother’s childhood or any kind of violence she was subjected to.
“Ran… god… I let you down so badly. I knew Rica’s father was an abusive asshole to her and her brother. Her brother was four years older than her, and he got out of that house before I even met your mom. But… Ran, apparently the things Rica’s dad did to her mirror what she did to you. And bud, I know what she did to you, at least during the last year. I’ve been watching the surveillance footage and—”
Panic rises in my chest. “There’s surveillance footage?” I knew there were cameras in the house, but I always just thought they were dummy cameras meant to deter any would-be burglars. I had no idea they were actually recording. I don’t have even the slightest clue what the fuck they captured.
“There is,” he says with a heavy tone. “I have a year’s worth of footage from before Rica was arrested. The cops took a copy of everything, and I’ve been going through it, too.”
No, no, no! “Why?”
“Because I owe it to you to know what you’ve been through.”
I shake my head, my eyes shut tightly. “No, you don’t.” This can’t be happening.
“Yes, I do, Ronan,” he says in a way that lets me know not to argue with him. Every cell in my body hates the idea of there being video of the shit my mother did to me, and that my dad is watching every hit, every kick, every punch, every injury she inflicted on me. Shit, that probably also means the D.A. will want to play the footage at the trial, which means I will have to see it, hear it. Relive it. My heartrate spikes to an ungodly level, causing a low hum in my ears. “Rica’s attorney is going to offer Rica’s own abuse as a defense. Darren just informed me that Rica was psychologically evaluated and diagnosed with severe bipolar disorder and PTSD. He thinks it could be a powerful defense even with the damning footage.”
And there it is. “So, she might get away with hurting me all my life.” It’s not a question. It’s a foregone conclusion. I can feel my grandmother watching me carefully as I lean against the kitchen counter, feeling dizzy.
“Darren said there’s a chance; he thinks it’s more likely she’ll get a reduced sentence instead. Rica’s lawyer is certain he can get her a better deal at trial than the D.A. is offering if she takes a plea. It… Ran, your testimony will be vital.”
“Okay,” I say again, the weight on my shoulders multiplying with each word. It’s crushing.
“I’m sorry, Ran. I just… I’m so sorry… for everything. I wish I could change your past for you. I wish—”
“I know, Dad. Me, too,” I say sincerely. There’s a lot I wish had happened differently, but I’m not going to get into it with him. “When’s the trial?”
“Last I checked it was still on the docket for mid-April, but Darren says these things tend to be moving targets. As soon as I know for sure, I’m bringing you home.”
“Okay,” I say for a third time, at a loss for words. He doesn’t really know what to say to me either, and my grandmother ends up taking the phone from me. I don’t return to the table to finally eat my lunch and instead march out of the house and to my truck, hightailing it to my favorite secluded spot by the lake.
***
I stand on the small wooden dock, staring at the water as ripples roll slowly across its otherwise smooth surface.
I’m not that surprised my mother rejected a plea deal and is insisting on a trial. What is hard for me to wrap my head around is that my mother suffered the same abuse she inflicted on me. She was just repeating the cycle, and she’s going to use her own suffering as an excuse for making me suffer in turn.
All kinds of thoughts and emotions run through my head. She’s going to make me relive every second of everything she has ever done to me, essentially forcing me to become a victim of her abuse once more. There’s no way to move on from this any time soon, no way for me to forget, no chance for me to heal when I’m about to be reinjured.
And then there’s something new, something even more devastating: a very real fear that I might one day become like my mom and grandfather. Who’s to say I’ll be successful in breaking the cycle of abuse? Who can guarantee that I won’t do to my family what my mother has done to me, what her dad has done to her? Aren’t there statistics about that sort of thing? I’ve lost control before, have found myself unable to suppress the sudden rage consuming me like an inferno. Maybe the violence and the inability to control it is part of my DNA. I can’t fucking risk that. I just can’t.
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK,” I say, my voice getting louder until I finally scream into the nothingness around me.
“Rony? What happened?” I hear Miranda’s voice from behind me and whirl around. I didn’t hear her, didn’t notice her truck approaching. “I saw you drive off the ranch, and your grandmother told me you had talked to your dad. I figured you’d be here,” she says, approaching me cautiously. I spot an unopened bottle of Jack in her hand.
She holds it up with a grin on her face. “Sounds like you could use some of this.”
I nod. “I could, in fact.” I’m so tense my neck hurts. I know I shouldn’t drink. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in months, I haven’t eaten today, and I’m in a weird mental state—all good reasons not to put the bottle of alcohol to my lips, but none of them good enough to stop me. Not today.
I take the bottle from her hand, unscrew the cap, and take two large gulps back-to-back. The liquor burns its way down my throat.
“Damn, Rony,” Miranda says when I follow my first two shots up with another two, knowing full well that I’m going to be trashed in no time if I keep this up. But I don’t care right now. I need to shut it all off.
I’m ready to take yet another shot when Miranda yanks the bottle out of my hand. “Leave some for me, would you?”
She copies me, taking long draws from the bottle, her head tipped back, throat working hard to force down the alcohol. “Good god, this stuff is harsh, but damn there’s nothing better to calm the nerves, right?” She studies me. “Talk, Rony. What the fuck happened? What did your dad say?”
I frown at her. She knows how reluctant I am to talk about anything that even remotely involves what happened to me.
“Here.” She urges the bottle back into my left hand. “Take another shot and then spill the damn beans.”
Maybe it’s the fact that I have no other outlet or that I feel trapped in my own head right now, but I do take another shot, and then one more. My thoughts have already slowed down significantly, and I sit down on the dock.
I close my eyes and tell Miranda all about what my dad divulged on the phone. I feel her lower herself next to me, though she remains quiet, letting me talk—or more like ramble—as we pass the Jack back and forth, taking shot after shot.
“Did you think there was a real chance your mom would plead guilty to hurting you?” Miranda finally asks, her speech drawn out, her eyes hooded and red.
“Nope,” I say without a second thought. “She’ll probably testify that I deserved everything she did to me because I’m a worthless piece of shit who can’t do as he’s told.” I take another drink from the bottle. I have no idea how much I’ve had by now, and even less of a clue about how I’m going to get back to the ranch.
Miranda laughs. “Fucking funny how your mom sounds just like my dad.” She takes the bottle from me. “The only difference is that I actually did turn out to be a piece of shit who can’t do anything right,” she says, chuckling.
I frown at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The fact that you and I are complete opposites. You’re a good boy and I’m the person who corrupts you, remember?”
“Stop, Randi. You know that’s not true.”
“Oh, no? Who’d you lose your precious virginity to at fourteen? Me. Who introduced you to weed and pills? Me. Who made you sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to get drunk by the creek? Me. Who made you have sex in my dad’s church? Me.”
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
“What I really meant to say, Rony, is that we both have different ways of coping with our parents’ bullshit. You tried to be the perfect son, I tried hard to be a difficult daughter. We both succeeded, and in the end the outcome didn’t change for us—your mother still beat you to a pulp, my dad was… is an emotionally abusive dick,” she says in her usual unaffected manner. “But you have a real chance of making something out of your life. I mean, you’re going to Columbia, Rony. You’re so fucking smart. And… you’re hot,” she says with a sidelong glance at me. “You just need to heal. Me, on the other hand… my dad won’t talk to me unless it’s to tell me what a disappointment I am. I don’t have a college education, I have no real work experience. I just fuck hot good boys,” she says with another brief glance my way, “and travel the country trying to play some music.”
“You know how you always tell me I’m too hard on myself?” I ask her. “You’re doing the same thing right now. You’re so damn talented and such a go-getter. You set your mind on something, and you just fucking go for it. You’re so damn smart and such a badass, Randi. You don’t take any shit from anyone. You know how fucking envious I am of the fact that you had the guts to just up and leave the BS behind?”
She shakes her head, exhaling deeply. “You don’t have anything to be envious of.”
“No? Randi, you did the one thing I never could. You took control of your life. I’ve been stuck in that fucking hell house with my mom who took every opportunity to hurt me, but I was too much of a chicken shit to leave. I should have just done what you did,” I say, resting my head in my hands to keep my surroundings from spinning. “Sometimes I wish I had stayed in Montana with my grandparents. I should have fucking insisted…”
“You could stay now.” There’s a note of hopefulness in her voice.
I lift my head. “No, I can’t.”
“Why not? What, so you’re just going to go back to New York when your dad says you’re allowed to? And then what? You’ll be stuck in the same damn place where all the torture was inflicted on you, you still have to testify at that fucking trial. And worse, there’s a chance your mother will get away with it,” she says. My frown deepens. “You could always leave New York. You don’t have to stay there.” She turns to me.
“And do what, Randi? Work on the ranch for the rest of my life?”
“Come with me,” she says. “On the road. You and me.”
She shifts in front of me to sit on her heels facing me, her hand on my knee. She moves in closer.
“Randi, what are you doing?” I ask, taken aback. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, like it’s made of lead. I’m wasted. We both are. This isn’t good. I haven’t had this much to drink in a long time, and my body reacts way differently to the alcohol sloppily sloshing through my brain than it did before. I’m slow and foggy and really would love nothing more than to lie down and pass the fuck out.
Miranda leans into me, her mouth close to mine, so close I can feel her warm breath against my lips. Her right hand on my knee slowly glides up my leg, my thigh, traveling up and up. I grab her wrist, stopping her just as she’s about to reach for my dick through my jeans.
“I want you, Rony,” she breathes, her voice low, sensual. Her eyes are lidded and glued to my lips, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and lust.
“No, you don’t,” I say, willing my trashed brain to think straight and be sober. Why the fuck did I put myself in this situation?
“Yeah, I do.” She licks my bottom lip and before I can do anything to prevent it, she seals her mouth to mine. It’s so soft, so familiar, and so... fucking intrusive.
I scramble backward, getting up and stumbling in the process. I’m unsteady on my feet. How much Jack did I have? Eight, nine shots? More? Fuck, that damn bottle is almost empty. “No, Randi, you don’t want me. You just want someone—something—to fill the void, to distract you from your shitty life.” I can’t let this happen.
Miranda looks hurt, her blue eyes large, glassy, and bloodshot from the alcohol we pounded back, and I think her bottom lip is quivering. “You don’t know shit about what I want,” she says. “I want you. Now. Rony, please. Nobody needs to know.”
I shake my head at her. “Not going to happen, Randi. I’m with Cat. I lo—”
“You love her, I know. But you haven’t seen her in months. Don’t tell me you’re not itching for a good fuck. I know I am. Remember how good it felt when we would—”
“Knock it off,” I say harshly, angry now. “I’m not going to fuck you, Randi. I’d regret it; you’d regret it. Trust me, you don’t want this.”
“Stop fucking telling me what I do and don’t want, Ronan! You have no fucking clue what goes on inside me.”
“But I do!” I shout back. “Because I’ve been there; I’m there right now! One moment you feel like the fucking pain inside you is going to rip you apart, and then the next moment you feel nothing at all, totally numb. So you look for a way to feel something, anything to make you stop hurting for a while. And sex is just convenient, and it’s a powerful fucking sedative. But that’s just it—it’s just a hookup. It feels good for maybe ten minutes, and then you feel like shit afterwards.”
“Is that what I was to you when we were together? A fucking sedative?” Miranda yells, on the verge of tears.
“Randi, please don’t do this!” I say. “Why are you so intent on fucking this up right now?”
“Answer my question, Ronan!”
“I was fourteen, Randi. Life was shit. It’s still shit. Why are you pushing this?” I have no idea what she’s trying to accomplish with this.
“Because I need you, Rony. I always needed you. You’re my person. You make me feel so safe, like you’d never let anything happen to me. And I’m so calm when you’re around. It’s like all the bad shit, all the crap with my dad doesn’t exist when you and I are together. None of it matters. It’s always been like that. You were the only one who made life better for me, and maybe I’m hoping it could be that way again,” she says, her voice clipped as tears stream down her face.
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. The way she describes her feelings for me mirrors exactly what I feel for Cat.
“It can’t.”
“Why? Didn’t you love me once?” Her normally soulful voice is pitchy, interrupted by shallow inhales as she talks through her tears.
“Randi…” I have no idea what to say, my head too foggy, too slow to process everything and form a sufficient response, one that doesn’t break her.
“Just answer, Ronan. Did you love me?”
“Fuck, Randi. I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. This… Why are you doing this?” I ask, pacing now. My hands are on my head, grabbing fistfuls of hair. I feel horrible.
Miranda becomes stock still, firmly rooted to her spot. “You don’t know if you ever loved me? Are you serious? We were together thirteen months, Rony. We had sex countless times; I spilled my heart out to you; you told me what your mom was doing to you—and you can’t tell me if you loved me? Fine, let me make this easy on you: did you ever feel for me what you feel for Cat now?” Her eyes are locked on me.
“Randi, just fucking stop it!” I know my answer will devastate her.
“I won’t stop until you answer me,” she yells even louder, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.
I stop my pacing and face her, suddenly feeling stone cold sober. “No,” I say. “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about Cat. And I don’t think I ever will again. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you, Randi. I did. I do. Very much.” I approach her cautiously.
She takes a step back from me, the pain clearly etched on her face.
“But I love you, Ronan. I love you, and I want you, and I need you,” she cries, working to get the words out. “When I heard you were back, when I saw you… it was like I was safe again. I’ve been so lost since you left for New York. Without you, I have no one. You’re everything to me; you always were. I love you. Please,” she says, her eyes huge.
My heart shatters in my chest as she stares at me, her blue eyes wide, watery, and desperate. Although I want nothing more than to pull her out of that deep, dark hole that consists only of fear and shame and pain inflicted by her dad—the one person whose responsibility it was to love her—I’m beginning to realize I can’t. I never could. Just like she could never save me.
“I can’t…” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “I can’t give you what you think you need, Randi. I can’t… I can’t even figure out what exactly it is that I need. Look, I get everything you’re saying. I fucking understand. But I’m not it for you. I promise, what you think you want… me… I’m not it.”
“You don’t know that Rony.” She steps closer to me again, reaching for me.
“Randi, please don’t do this!” I withdraw my hand as she moves to take it. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
A sob breaks from her heaving chest. “You’re already hurting me. You’re abandoning me.” She stops right in front of me. Her blue eyes are huge, glossy, her cheeks flushed and shimmering with the sunlight reflecting off her tears as she stares into my eyes for what feels like an eternity. Neither of us speak as her words pierce me like a knife.
She squares her shoulders. “I don’t think I should be around you right now,” she finally says when her eyes find my lips. She begins to move around me, to walk away from me.
I grab her wrist, forcing her to turn back around. “Where are you going?”
Her features are hard when she faces me. “Why the fuck do you care?” Her voice is cold now, hardened with anger.
“You can’t drive like this, Randi. You’re trashed.”
She yanks her arm away from me. “That’s never stopped me before,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
“Randi, please!”
“Ronan, I can’t be around you right now. I want… I want to kiss you, badly. I want to touch you. I want you to want me…” She shakes her head. “I need to go.” She marches to her truck, climbs in, and starts the engine without another look at me.
I watch her slowly drive away until she disappears in the thicket of trees, wondering what the fuck just happened, how the fuck we got here. It’s a question I’ve asked myself throughout my life, whenever I find myself in situations that get out of hand and spin out of control in the blink of an eye, leaving me reeling.
I can’t believe how wrong I was about Miranda’s feelings for me. I was convinced I was nothing more than a distraction, a way to temporarily escape her fucked-up life, just like she offered me reprieve from my mother’s abuse. I only ever thought that the sex, the sneaking out, the getting high was our way of rebelling against our parents, our way of taking some control over our lives. I never realized I was so much more to her than that. She thought I could save her, just like she thought she could save her dad.
But that’s the thing. Nobody can save Miranda’s dad but himself, and nobody can save Miranda but Miranda herself.
And nobody is going to be able to save me. Nobody is going to pull me out of my depression, nobody is going to stop the nightmares, nobody is going to take the stand for me, face my mother, and testify against her. Nobody but me.
I don’t know how long I stand on that dock before I finally start the walk back to the ranch. I’m in no condition to drive. It’s not so much that I worry I might get in a wreck—there’s no one within a ten-mile radius of this place other than my grandparents’ ranch. But if my grandparents found out I drove while severely intoxicated, they’d be more than disappointed in my judgment. Disappointing people is something I have—unsuccessfully—tried to avoid all my life. It’s one of the shittiest feelings, probably because it usually came with nasty consequences.
The walk back to the ranch takes me a good hour, during which I polish off what’s left of the Jack. I don’t bother hiding the empty bottle in my hand when I step back into the house. My grandparents are already waiting for me, worry in their eyes as they approach me from the kitchen.
“Baby boy?” my grandmother says. “Are you okay? You’ve been gone for hours!” She studies my face. I’m sure she notices my less-than-steady gait and my eyes, which likely exhibit all the signs of inebriation.
“Sorry, Morai. I’m wasted,” I slur, and hold out the empty bottle of Jack.
My grandfather gently takes it from my hand. He gives me a once-over, then glances at my grandmother, who is on the verge of tears.
“It’s okay,” she says softly.
It surprises me. The last time I was drunk in front of her, I was fourteen. I got caught drinking with Miranda and the sheriff took me home where my grandmother gave me a huge lecture. My mother inflicted her own punishment on me later that night, unbeknownst to everyone else.
“Why don’t you just go upstairs and lie down? I’ll bring you some water and you can sleep it off, okay?” She ushers me through the living room and to the stairs.
“Where’s the truck, Ran?” my grandfather calls after me.
“I left it by the lake,” I say slowly. “I didn’t drive it back.”
“Good boy,” he says, and the words, meant to be praise, feel like an insult. I know what I am—worthless, a fucking no-good piece of shit. I feel like crap for hurting Miranda, and even shittier that I allowed her to drive home. Wait. Where the fuck is she?
“Morai, have you seen Randi?” I call back as I slowly climb the stairs to my room.
“Yes, she just grabbed some food from the kitchen about fifteen minutes ago, why do you ask?”
I exhale in relief. “Just wondering.” I walk to my room where I belly flop onto my bed, praying my head will stop spinning soon.