19. Stetson
NINETEEN
STETSON
April 13th, 2024
“Let me cook,” Gus grumbles as I return to the fridge for the third time. I’ll admit, I’m a little scatterbrained having had him in my space all day. And that conversation earlier still hangs between us like a thick fog.
It doesn’t help that I’m drunk.
I swat at his outstretched hand, my fingers barely brushing his, but a bolt of electricity shoots up my arm all the same.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he hisses, his scowl deepening.
Oh, please, if anyone is dying around here, it’s me.
“You look perfectly fine to me.” I run water over the broccoli, ice cold, trying to clean the plant and cool my nerves. It doesn’t fucking work.
“Demoted from nice and hot to fine?” he mocks, his scowl lessening a fraction, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
“Gah, you guys are adorable. I almost feel bad for being here. Actually, on that note, pretend I’m not. I’ve always wanted to attend a live-action porno.” Dale’s teasing voice cuts through the tension between Gus and me like a bucket of ice water .
“Do you ever filter what you say?” Gus snaps toward Dale, and I bristle. It might be the alcohol or best friend territorial-ness, but he is not allowed to snap at her.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
“Or what?” His dark eyebrows raise near his hairline, challenging me. I gulp.
Or what, Stetson? What the fuck are you going to do?
“Or I will kick you out.”
He laughs, the sound dark and not the least bit entertained. Dale cackles with him, and I fight a grin of my own.
“This is better than sex. Well, not quite, but close. It will be when the porn action begins. I think I saw one just like this the other night while I was browsing,” Dale says, pointing the butt of her beer bottle between us. “I definitely got off.”
Gus and I groan in unison and then shoot each other dirty looks. We will not be those people that do shit at the same time. Too fucking cliche.
I am going to kill him before this is all over or be killed by him. Or the stalker is going to kill us both. Or Gus will kill the stalker then me.
I blow a raspberry, shutting my eyes.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
I’m spiraling, and I know it. I just have no idea how to stop myself. Especially with him leaning against the counter in faded jeans, a plain green T-shirt, his head and feet bare. Normally, I wouldn’t think a guy’s bare feet could be attractive, but it’s the fact that he looks so relaxed, so at home, that is sending my hormones into overdrive. His elbows propped against the counter, forearms and biceps straining with the effort of holding his body still.
Again with the fucking relaxed facade.
Except I wonder if he isn’t pretending right now. He looks too relaxed to be faking it. Scowling and bantering with Dale like old friends, barefooted and offering to help me cook. Like he fits here, and he knows it. Or at least wants to.
Fucking get it together, Stetson. He does not want this simple life. He does not want you, not really.
“I like to cook. I’m, urm… horrible with expressing any kind of emotion. Years of trauma will do that to you.” The room goes quiet around me, as if both Gus and Dale are afraid to breathe and stop me from sharing my confession. I hate that I make everyone so anxious—like they think I’m breakable. I’m not. I’m the farthest thing from breakable. I bite my lip nervously and continue chopping. “But cooking, that’s something I can do. So, let me do it.”
I hear Gus huff and then stand up, shuffling away. I don’t want their pity; I hate pity. I just want them to understand.
“Horrible at expressing your emotions, huh?” I want to punch Dale for sticking her finger in my vulnerability. I know it’s teasing, but honestly? Read the room. I’m not breakable, but I am insecure.
“Even worse at asking for help,” Gus adds, and I nearly drop my knife.
“Oooh, terrible at taking advice.” I blink rapidly at Dale.
“Is this a Stetson roast?” I slam the blade of the knife harder onto the cutting board than necessary, but my skin is starting to itch.
“The worst at taking a joke.” Gus looks bored as he says the words, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me instantly deflate.
They got me on all points— fuck them.
“Good thing we love you, Stetson!” Dale takes another swig of her beer, her eyes zeroing in on the side of Gus’s face. “Don’t we, Gus?”
I stare into his unblinking eyes, and I have the faintest feeling of being peeled open—like he is seeing clear to my dark soul. I want to fold my arms across my chest and hide, but I’m frozen.
“That we do.” Three little words and my world erupts into fireworks, my stomach somersaulting so violently I fear I might throw up. I remain frozen, staring into his eyes, hoping that I may see beneath his masks, the way he so effortlessly sees beneath mine.
Instead of letting me in, he blinks and shifts away, severing the live wire of tension between us. With his back turned, I pin Dale with a glare that I hope looks angrier than I feel, but she just smiles. She knows my stomach is a mess of butterflies right now.
Gus doesn’t actually love me; that would be madness. But it’s fun to pretend.
The kitchen is full of the noises of sizzling chicken breasts, boiling noodles, and steaming broccoli, the wails of some old country song, mixed with Dale singing along, and Gus asking her “Who sings this song?”
It’s chaos and madness, but also feels like one of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever had. It feels like how life is supposed to be, something I have rarely even glimpsed in my first twenty-eight years.
“I give up,” Gus huffs, leaning against the counter surprisingly close to me.
When had he gotten so close? He is annoyingly sneaky.
“You’d never win, anyway. No one has more stamina or experience at being annoying , the way she does.” I say it loud enough for Dale to hear, and to no one’s surprise, she wails louder, ignoring me, continuing to dance around the room in a cloud of black hair.
“What were your parents like?” I stop, caught off guard by his question. I look at him, his face devoid of emotion beyond curiosity.
“Well, shit, I don’t know. They sucked honestly. My mom was sweet but a doormat. And she let a lot of bad things happen to me. The porch swing—” The words sit like rocks in my throat, and his eyes remain unwavering on my face, not shying away. I swallow and forge on, feeling empowered by his attention. “It was one of the only places my mother and I shared happy memories. I can still see her sitting there sometimes.” I lick my lips and watch his face, expecting something— anything —but he continues to wait patiently. “And Gibson was the most evil kind of man. Violence like his was Hell on Earth. I’d wish him dead if he was still around to wish such a thing for, even if that makes me fucked up.”
He continues to stare at me, but gone is the gentle curiosity, replaced with forced nonchalance, his eyes glittering with anger. It’s not anger with me, that much I know. Even if I don’t understand it, hearing about Gibson sets him off. He cares. But about me, or about my sad story, I don’t know.
“Sorry. That’s pretty heavy for dinner. And for someone who doesn’t know me. I just don’t like lying.”
“You lie to me and yourself all the time.”
Not what I expected him to say. What the hell does he mean? I open my mouth to ask when he cuts in.
“My parents were the best. They were hard workers, provided us with the things we really wanted, and taught us the value of working hard for it. They laughed and played together like a couple of kids, and loved so fiercely that it was sometimes sickening to be around them. They were obsessed with each other.” Gus pauses, his eyes far off, but I don’t move—I don’t even breathe.
Is he letting me in?
“They died when I was fourteen, in a car crash. After that, I was raised by the devil himself. And nothing was ever that good again.” His eyes track back to mine, something akin to sorrow in them, before he blinks, and it’s gone, replaced with the bottomless black pits devoid of emotion he usually wears.
“Growing up, my mom had an old friend from high school who would watch me for weeks at a time, when things were especially bad. And when I turned eighteen, I moved to Colorado to live with them full time,” I venture on, trying to offer him another small piece, feeling like he gave so much.
Gus tilts his head, his black curls falling over his molten eyes, a quizzical look crossing his face. He looks like he wants to ask something, like he is waiting for me to draw some kind of conclusion to a problem I’m not looking at properly, but then he closes his eyes, thinking better of it.
“What did your dad do to you?” Gus asks. I hate talking about Gibson, hate thinking about him. But for some reason, I answer, anyway.
“Gibson. Not my dad.” I pause, but Gus makes no move to interrupt. “He beat us, horribly so. I know he forced himself on my mom more times than not.” I flail the spoon in my hand to emphasize the importance of my words. “Just because they were married didn’t mean the sex was consensual.” I always get defensive about that part. He nods, face grave, as if he agrees.
“He’d leave me locked in my room for days when he was on a bad bender. Partly so he could beat my mom without me trying to get in the middle, and partly because being hungry and alone and terrified of when it would be my turn was his favorite kind of torture. Because there was always my turn. It just was a matter of when. He liked to chase me, always letting me think I could escape my fate. And then he would, well…” I rub at the column of my throat, lost to the memories.
Gus growls next to me, tearing me from the trance. His face is no longer locked up or devoid of emotion. It’s murderous and dark. And terrifyingly sexy. His chest heaves as he sucks in deep breaths. I reach out a hand and then stop, my fingers suspended in midair.
“Where is he?” He says the words in a hushed, hate filled tone, and I step back, afraid of his sudden outburst of rage. I look at Dale for help, but she is busy watching Gus spiral, her mouth hanging obnoxiously open.
“Uh, what?”
He steps toward me, my still extended fingers brushing his chest and I hurriedly drop my hand.
“Gibson. What the fuck happened to him?”
My pulse quickens, feeling cornered by his attention and questions.
“I… Well, you know my mother died. He killed her. And he was never seen after that. That’s how I got this place.” I feel my racing heart crawl painfully up my throat, and I attempt to swallow it down. “He could be dead, for all I know.”
His skin quivers, but he just nods once, the dark curls bouncing, and then strides from the kitchen. With his exit, I feel the heat bleed from the room, an eerie silence replacing the once loud space. I place a shaky hand to my chest, trying to keep my heart from bursting.
He’s fucking crazy—a psychopath with multiple personalities that I can’t get a fucking read on. He’s angry and withdrawn one minute, and dominant and invasive the next. I feel like I’m suffocating with him around, and suffocating when he’s not. He makes me cold with fear, and hot with desire, my body, mind, and heart warring and confused .
Would he someday snap? Has he already? Will I survive him?
I look over at Dale again, hoping to find some semblance of calm or reassurance. Instead, I’m met with a dark smirk and twinkling mischievous eyes. She pops her hip, mouthing the words, “He loves you,” while drawing a heart in the air in front of her face.
I shake my head. That isn’t love; fucking toxic is what it is.
Then again, what the fuck do I know about love?