Chapter 38 Aston #2
Shoving me away, he says, “Seriously, what happened? Where did you go?”
I dip my chin. “Do you want the PG or X rated version?” I whisper conspiratorially.
He gives me a knowing look. “Do I actually have a choice?”
After spending a considerable amount of time gushing about my night to Eden—traumatizing and horrifying him in equal measure—I drag him downstairs to make frozen waffles that we take back up to my room to eat while we pick up where we left off with Gossip Girl.
Seeing as I was otherwise indisposed when all the good shows were still on-air, and Eden spent his pre-teens trying to flush out any interests or desires he didn’t deem manly enough…
We’ve been slowly making our way through the classics.
Stripping down to my baby blue cotton briefs, I throw on my favorite floral kimono that I’d scrounged from Grammy Gerty’s things, and climb into the unmade bed, urging Eden to do the same.
Not surprisingly, he keeps his clothes on underneath. But the fact he slips on the kimono—his kimono, though he refuses to take it with him every time I try to push it off on him—without any bullying from me, is huge.
After only a little bit of begging, I manage to get him under the covers with me.
He grumbles about it of course, acting like it’s some great sacrifice to snuggle with me. But I see right through my pouty little grump. He loves this. The fact he only bats my hands away twice when I start playing with his hair, before finally giving up, says as much.
We’ve come so far.
Sadly, after only two episodes, Eden’s whisked away. It’s his godmother’s birthday—his aunt, Walt’s sister—and they’re having a small family get together at her house one town over.
Tillie extends the invite to me, but I can tell by her tight smile she’s hoping I refuse.
Can’t say I blame her. Especially after last night, despite her promises and assurances that she never for a second thought I was the killer.
I wish I could believe that, I really do.
Either way, I fucked up by leaving Eden.
I don’t know what he told his parents regarding how he got the black eye, but I could tell she was more disappointed in me about that than the whole being suspected of murder thing.
Before they head out, she tells me Walt’s staying back too—a headache, so he claims, but going off of Tillie’s eye roll, I’m guessing that’s a lie.
If anything, this information has me itching to go with them. But all it takes is one look at Eden’s eye, and I’m biting back the words.
For the rest of the afternoon, left to my own devices, I try to keep busy. And not think about that pervasive loneliness I can never quite shake when left with nothing but my own thoughts to keep my company.
Sure, Walter’s here. But I’d rather rip my eyelashes out one by one than entertain that idea. Not to mention he’s holed up in his man cave, watching football and being lame, keeping scarce like he always does when it’s just the two of us.
I think I might scare him a little?
The rain eventually clears—as does my headache—allowing the sun to make an appearance.
Prompting me to take my restlessness outside to wander around the back part of the property where the creek runs through.
It’s too cold, too wet to work on my garden.
Not to mention how pointless it would be now, with winter right around the corner.
No, that will be a spring project.
Will I even make it that long?
Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention to a cluster of bushes, and some of my mood instantly lifts when I spot the fluttering orange wings of a butterfly. At first glance, it looks like a Monarch. But closer inspection reveals it’s in fact a Painted Lady.
“What are you still doing here?” I murmur, slowly approaching her.
This late into the year, it’s all but impossible to find any butterflies still hanging about. And this makes two in the span of a week. Most, by now, have migrated or found a dark, hidden place to spend the frosty, bitter months in chrysalis. A dormant state, similar to hibernation.
Her venturing out here is risky, not only is she alone, but it’s so late into the season.
Was she woken up? Did someone steal her safe spot? Did she forget?
She won’t survive the winter. She will freeze. If she doesn’t get eaten first, that is.
“I’ll keep you safe, pretty girl,” I say decidedly, before reaching for her.
Heading back to the house with my new friend in tow, I hum under my breath as I enter back through the kitchen, throwing the sliding patio door open before sealing it shut behind me.
Shoving my sunglasses up with my free hand, I blink a couple times till my eyes adjust and shoot a glance at the clock above the stove.
3:12.
Sigh. Why is it that time never flies when I need it to?
Toeing off my red Chucks, I head into the hallway, making a beeline for the stairs, bypassing the living room, powder room, and Walter’s study slash den off to the base of the steps.
The French doors are shut, but I can see through perfectly. He’s in his recliner, facing away from me, watching football on a giant flat-screen that practically takes up the entirety of the far wall. Next to him, on the end table, he rests an arm, hand gripped around a brown beer bottle.
My stomach curdles at the sight, and I quickly hang my head and divert my gaze with a grimace.
I didn’t take Walt for a beer kind of guy. Usually when he drinks, which isn’t all that often, it’s a glass of wine at dinner, or a tumbler full of amber liquid sans ice after a long day of boring students with history facts.
Hand clenching the banister, I quickly clomp my way upstairs. Not bothering in the least to be quiet about it, because I’m nothing if not a temptress of fate.
Once inside my room, I kick the door shut behind me, not bothering with the lock, and stride for my desk.
“Crap,” I mutter, eyeing the crooked, orange wings I all but crushed with my fist. “Sorry, princess,” I murmur, carefully setting her down on my desk, petting and smoothing her wings out as best I can.
Shaking the lingering weirdness from my arms, I turn around and pull off the hoodie I threw on earlier. It’s Eden’s, but I know he won’t mind. Borrowing each other’s clothes is just what besties slash siblings do.
Balling it up, I toss it toward my hamper. I miss, but I don’t bother picking it up, or the other dirty laundry strewn across the floor that missed too. Including the sweatpants—Vale’s sweatpants—and socks I toe off next, punting them blindly in the same direction.
Left in nothing but my sky-blue briefs, I take a seat at my desk and dig out my secret journal from where I hid it in the bottom drawer.
Buried with it, a sharp butcher knife glints under a stream of sunlight pouring in from the window.
I take that out too, setting it atop my desk.
Lamenting once more over the loss of my butterfly knife.
The one I stupidly left in the field last night.
Yeah, and what would’ve happened had it been on you when the cops took you in?
I click my tongue at the reminder. Right…
Shaking my head at my carelessness, I open my journal, flipping through the stiff, wrinkled pages.
It’s one of those black, leather-bound kind—really nice, actually, even if it’s not as crisp and sleek as it once was.
It was a gift from Tillie several years ago.
In fact, she gave it to me right around the time I stumbled upon a book about metamorphosis with pretty colorful butterflies all over the cover in Ashwood’s library.
And by library, I mean two carts packed with books that had been donated because no one wanted them.
Fate has such a silly way of working out when you’re not so preoccupied by what you don’t have.
Reaching for my Walkman, I forgo setting the bulky headphones over my ears and instead let them hang around my neck.
I hit rewind on the Madonna cassette I’d been listening to the other day, starting it over from the beginning, and crank up the volume just enough so I can hear it as the orchestral intro to “Papa Don’t Preach” kicks on.
Biting my lip, I open my journal to where I last left off and grab the glue stick.
I mouth along to the song playing, smiling at the part where she sings about keeping her baby, as I write up today’s report with a sparkly pink gel pen, jotting down some quick notes in the margins surrounding my new little buddy.
Species: Vanessa virginiensis (AKA American painted lady)
Location: flitting about a shrub
Weather: partly cloudy, damp, cold
Mood:
Hmm…
I tap my chin with my pen, thinking. How do I feel, how do I feel…
At first, it’s an image of Walter’s hand clasping his beer that comes to mind. The rest of him hidden from sight by the back of his brown leather recliner.
But I quickly shove that image away, and all the grainy memories it conjures up.
Fortunately, a new image surges to mind almost immediately. Much more vivid and somewhat less confusing, it easily booty-bumps everything else back to the dark pit that is my past, deep, deep in the recesses of my mind.
Cold, hardened, nearly black eyes.
A flared nose.
That delightfully sinister sneer.
As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers come to my throat, skating down my flesh to press on the little bruises decorating my skin. Reigniting the ache, and making it feel like I’m reliving last night all over again.
Not just last night, but all our encounters.
They swirl into a montage in my head, as I recall all the dirty sweet-nothings he growled into my ear the night of the party.
Remember the way he called me “sugar” in that sexy-as-fuck deep timbre of his in the locker room, just seconds before splattering my face with his cum.
Sugar of all things! The sap. From anyone else, it would sound grandmother-y at best. Creepy leering dude on the sidewalk whistling me down…at worst.
But coming from Vale? In that rumbly snarl he uses when he’s trying to convince himself he hates me?
Just trust. It works.
I’ve a feeling he can make anything sound sexy.
Okay, probably not anything. But you get the picture.
And then there’s last night…
A quiet little moan escapes me, eyes rolling back. I wiggle in my chair, my ass clenching with the echo of Vale’s hard girth stretching me out, pounding into me as if his life depended on it. As if he was chasing something only I could provide.
Who knew my not-so-little mouse has a wolf living inside him?
In the light of day, it’s all too easy to look back and laugh at how ridiculous I was for doubting it was him. For begging him to stop when it all became too much…
Like what the fuck was that?
Talk about being dick-drunk.
Brain cells, oh brain cells...yoo hoo! Hey, hi, hellooo. Where’d you run off to?
I don’t know what it says about me, knowing what I know now (allegedly) that I’m positively dying for round two—especially now, after he came to my rescue last night, eradicating any and all lingering doubts. Saving me from certain imprisonment.
But I’m not about to analyze it too closely. What happened in the fields last night was hot. No ifs, ands or buts about it.
Unless you’re talking about my butt.
He was very, very much about that.
Grinning, I straighten and lean forward, bringing my pen back to the paper.
Horny.
Nodding to myself, I think, Perfect-o.
The cassette has just switched over to track number two—“Open Your Heart”—when the doorbell rings, stilling my hand halfway through writing today’s date.
Ears perked up, I hit Stop on the tape player, and rush to lean across the desk to peek out the window. But it’s no use. Whoever it is is hidden beneath the sprawling tree.
Turning my head, I strain my ears, feeling my pulse quicken with a mix of hope, anticipation, and fear.
Did the cops change their minds? Find new evidence? Did Vale take back his statement?
A door opens faintly—Walter’s study, I presume. A couple seconds later, I can make out the sound of the front door whining as it’s pulled open.
I hold my breath so as not to drown out the muffled sounds of whoever it is paying us a visit.
“Is Aston home?”
My jaw drops.
Ohmygod, ohmygod.
My inhale is loud and shaky and telling as it punches the back of my throat, stretching my mouth into a cheek-splitting grin along the way.
And here I thought I’d have to wait alllll the way until tomorrow.
Gently closing my journal, I remove the headphones from around my neck and drop them on top. A glint of metal catches the corner of my eye, and I grab the handle of the knife, debating what to do with it as I slip out from behind the desk and look around.
Well, fuck me.
My room is a disaster. Do I even have any clean clothes?
Oh right…
I was supposed to do laundry today.
Oops.
You’d think after years spent being forced to maintain a clean and orderly room, I’d be a well-conditioned neat freak. But quite the opposite has happened since I earned my wings.
Oh well, I think with a shrug, rolling the knife handle between my palms. If he can’t love me at my worst, he’ll never love me at my best.
Thudthudthud.
The quick rap of knuckles against my door has me freezing, thoughts grinding to a halt. Too lost in my momentary panic, I must’ve missed the sound of him walking upstairs.
Stifling a squeal, I collect myself as quickly as I can, fighting the urge not to run for my bedroom door, throw it open, and maul him like a dog in heat.
“One second!” I yell.
Quickly tossing the knife on the bed, I throw a pillow over it and shake out my hands. Be cool, Aston. Be. Cool.
Sniffing my pit, I wrinkle my nose. Not cool.
I quickly slick on some deodorant and finger-comb my messy hair. My gaze snags on the Yankee Candle room spray I’d found in the linen closet last week, and I hastily spray it all around my room. Heck, I even do a twirl in the mist, so I too smell like a coconut.
Music! We need mood music.
Not bothering to check what CD’s currently in the boombox, I hit Play. Heart. Perfect. I crank up the volume just enough to add some ambiance.
Grabbing the kimono I was wearing earlier, I slide it over my shoulders, letting the thin, silky, floral material hang open at my sides.
Sparing a quick glance at the mirror, I leer at my reflection, flashing it a rogue smile.
Go time.