9
Austin
I can’t sleep as thoughts of her haunt my mind.When we assumed that it was Emaline kidnapped and bundled into the back of the white van, that freaked me out. I wanted nothing bad to happen to her, but I was surprised at how relieved I was when we discovered it wasn’t her in the van.
I roll over in my bed, eyes wide open, sleep is a million miles away even though I’ve been awake all night. It’s just after 5 AM, and the boys haven’t arrived home yet. A message from Xave says they’re still at the hospital. My finger hovers over my phone screen, eager to ask if Emaline is okay, but I talk myself out of it. I don’t want to come across as caring or anything.
There’s no point staying in bed, so I throw the blankets off and get up to take a shower. I have a morning rise as usual because she is permanently tattooed on my brain. That cute little waddle when she walks, ass cheeks moving like a dream, the sweet shy expression on her face. She’s easy to miss compared to many women, but once that image burns into every cell of your body, you don’t want to remove it.
As I stroke my straight, stiff cock thinking of her soft, warm pussy that I haven’t touched yet, and the strawberry taste of her mouth when I kissed her that time and hungry to kiss her again. I whack it hard in an attempt to shove her back into the dark crevices of my mind, to wipe her from my thoughts.
Instead, that Velma Dinkley nerdy face floats behind my eyes, and I must work my biceps to rub more rapidly. The build-up emerges quickly, and the pressure feels good, but I don’t want to cum yet. I immediately brush thoughts of her aside in my mind, and the pressure subsides, which is not what I want.
“Alright,” I resign, “you win.” Imagining her body before me, naked and dripping wet, yet weirdly, in my mind, she still has her glasses on, slightly fogged up by the hot water. Okay, this is starting to become a kink, a fetish for chicks with glasses. No. Wrong. A fetish for her, specifically, Velma Dinkley, bookhugger, nerd poet, innocent princess. Although I’m sure if I called her a princess to her face, she’d view it as an insult.
I’m smiling as the pressure builds up again, and I know it will be a big one. The head of my cock dilates as I keep rubbing, and now, in my imagination, she kneels, and those lips purse before she opens her mouth to cover the head of my penis. Boom. I release grunting as I squirt my cum all over the shower walls.
I grab the soap and start washing my body as strange discontent comes over me. It’s one thing to imagine her here and another to touch and taste for real. My brothers have had her, but I hold off because I want her to accept my offer and come to me pleading, begging. I’m not too proud to pay her to fuck her on the Butcher’s Block, especially since her family is in desperate need to get out of debt. I can be her savior and last resort. She needs the money, and I have plenty stashed in my bank account that I have no plans for, so it can work out for both of us.
I use my hand to wash my load off the walls, then rinse the shampoo from my hair as that unwelcome sense of emptiness grips me inside.
As I grab a clean towel from the cupboard, walk into my bedroom to dry myself, and slip on sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a blue hoody, she’s permeated my thoughts again. I hear the click of the front door, followed by heavy footsteps and the familiar voices of my brothers. Again, I suppress the urge to stick my head out to ask them if Emaline is okay; instead, I wait for the sounds of their bedroom doors shut before I emerge.
I don’t want to hear them talk about Emaline and how easy it is for them to show her how much they like her. The affection and caring gene was blocked when I was in the womb with my brother, but at least he got a dose. I, on the other hand, struggle with open language. Besides, being cold and callous is easier, so I don’t disappoint anyone.
When I hear the sweet sound of silence, which indicates that my brothers are asleep, I sneak down the hall, grab my helmet, Honda, and apartment key, and close the door quietly behind me.
I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is that I need to get out of the city and inhale some fresh country air. As I head toward Landers’ Silo, thoughts of the crash shuffle through my mind, and the scent of the kidnapper’s blood permeates my senses. They want to silence her, which means she did something to poke the hornet’s nest.
Although, the more I think about it, the more I wonder why they kidnapped her. If they genuinely wanted to silence her, they could’ve killed her as soon as they found her, which means that they needed her for something. Holding Brielle for ransom won’t work if her family has no money, so I’ve ruled that out.
It’s too early to drink, and I’m not in the mood to get high as the cool winter breeze prickles my skin, and the sky is ablaze with orange and pink as the sun bursts over the horizon. I turn into the field where the silo stands tall and brake my bike when it occurs that I don’t want to be here. I can’t think of anywhere I want to be except the bone gallery, but it’s too early to go there as the alarms will be set.
I drive around for a while, sometimes through undulating grassy fields, other times across dirt roads. I find myself in the middle of an empty field that stretches to the foot of a hill, covered in bushes and trees. The sun has risen, casting a sharp glow over the neighboring field, whereas the field I stand in is cast in shadows.
Tiny white fairy lights dot the neighboring field, and out of curiosity, I ride to the fence to inspect the display. I turn the engine off and take off my helmet to find the fairy lights are an ocean of small snowdrop flowers caught by the blazing morning sun.
I breathe in the fresh, icy air, and as it strikes my throat and lungs, I receive a hit of invigorating energy. Combing my wet hair back, I place my helmet on the seat of my bike and walk to the fence, easily jumping over. I pick one of the flowers, notice dewdrops on the white petals, and bend down to pick another. Before I knew it, I had a bunch in my hand, so I walked back to my bike and tucked them into my bag. Starting my engine, I fit my helmet over my head and ride back to the dirt road that leads to the main road.
I find myself down the bottom of her drive and assume everyone is either at the hospital or asleep in bed like my brothers are. I turn the engine off, climb off my bike, walk up the drive with my helmet still on, and place the flowers on her doorstep. No note because I don’t want her to know they were from me. It’s a small gesture from a stranger for a family going through a tough time. They don’t need to know who left them.
Walking away after placing the snowdrops on the step, I hear a muffled voice chime, “Hello? Can I help you?” My helmet blocks much noise for hearing protection, and even when I hear noises, sometimes it’s hard to gauge where it’s coming from. So, I keep walking until, “Excuse me?”
I look back to the front of Emaline’s house and find a chubby old lady bent down, picking up the flowers I left. “Snowdrops,” she says, keeping her narrowed eyes on me as I probably look intimidating. “Who should I say left them?”
“Ah,” I shake my helmeted head. “No one.”
She nods and steps backward into her house, and I turn to claim my bike so I can flee from this uncomfortable moment. As I fling a leg over my bike, I sense movement and glance up to find she’s right by my side.
“You’re one of them, ain’t ya?” she asks, and I don’t reply because I’m unsure who she’s talking about. “You came here last night with your brothers after the accident. You’re a Leroux boy.”
I choose to stay silent.
“She’s not here,” she offers. “Emaline, I’m guessing that’s who these are for. She’s not here. We’re taking shifts, so Brielle is never alone.”
I nod my helmet, hoping she’d leave me alone. If she were anyone else, I would’ve ignored her and rudely fled without a goodbye. But since she’s Emaline’s grandmother, I have an urge to show respect and behave.
“Look, why don’t you come in for a hot cup of coffee or cocoa, whatever you prefer, and we can talk…or not talk if you want,” she suggests.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I have to get to work.”
“Oh? Where do you work?” she asks, and I groan inside. I’m not interested in having a conversation with her.
“At the gallery under vet school,” I reply, “at uni.”
“Gallery? Art gallery? You don’t seem like a budding artist,” she says, still talking as I try to assess the best moment to cut this irritating chatter short.
“No, it’s the bone gallery. Well…that’s what I call it. It contains the skeletons of instinct species with a living species next to it to compare. Like a mammoth skeleton next to an elephant skeleton.”
She falls quiet, and I take my cue to leave, but I catch a distant look in her eyes and recognize it instantly. Loneliness. She’s an old, lonely lady, probably worried about her granddaughter, who has been missing for weeks and almost died in a car accident. “How interesting.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I’m not great company,” I tell her.
“Me neither,” she replies. “We don’t have to talk.”
I hesitate before removing my helmet and following her to her open front door, where a small dog yaps aggressively at me.
“Don’t worry about him,” the old lady assures me, “more bark than bite.”
I take off my boots and step inside in my socks, and the scent of fresh coffee and toast hits my senses. The house is homely and what would be described as rustic compared to our modern apartment. There are newspapers sprawled across a coffee table, faded flowery patterns on the sofas, framed family photographs hung on the walls, worn carpet, and a collection of salt and pepper shakers in an old glass cabinet. I step up to a framed photograph of two little girls – one with shocking blond hair and a large smile and the other cute thing with brown hair and glasses so large they almost engulf her entire face.
A smile worms across my face, and the old lady appears with a coffee mug in her hand. “Milk? Sugar?”
“A splash of milk,” I reply, “no sugar.”
“Do you know Brielle?” she asks, and I wonder if she thinks I’m here for her.
“No. Not well. I think we might share a class, but-”
“So, you’re here for Emaline?” she says, reappearing from the kitchen with my mug filled with hot coffee.
“Nah,” I lie, then backtrack, “the flowers are for the family, but Emaline has come into the bone gallery a couple of times. I found them in a field.”
“Lovely,” she smiles. “They’re my favorite winter bloom.”
The conversation is stagnant and awkward, so I take a couple of gulps to get rid of it faster and run out of there.
“They’re like night and day, those two,” she tells me, pointing to the framed photograph of the two little girls. “Em is the oldest, although you can’t tell by that picture as she’s a good half an inch shorter. Painfully shy, whereas Bri is the life of the party even at that age.”
“My brothers know them better than I do,” I reiterate in case she asks me questions I can’t answer.
I notice tears in her eyes, and I take another couple of gulps of my coffee. I have no experience with tears and don’t want anything to do with them now.
“I’m so glad,” her hand finds my arm, and I freeze a little at the affection, “that you and your brothers were there when Brielle…” She glances down at the small dog, sniffing my socks, “We’ve been worried sick.”
I nod in understanding.
“Toast? Cereal?” she asks.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll pick up something later,” I explain, burying my face in my mug again to take another awkward gulp. My mug is two-thirds empty. I’m doing well.
“You’d have to excuse Emaline’s grandfather; he suffers from chronic grumpiness,” she says, and I’m guessing she’s referring to when we came to their door last night.
“He has every right to be suspicious of us. Doesn’t being old give you the right to be grumpy,” I say, and her face creases into a smile, followed by an inquisitive expression.
“Which brother are you?” she asks, eyeing my messy dark hair.
“The less friendly brother,” I reply, “Austin.”
“Oh, so you weren’t there last night in the hospital?” she asks, piecing it together.
“No, that’s my twin, Xavier,” I answer, tensing up, knowing that she’ll figure out that I’m the one who was imprisoned for an assault. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” she replies, holding her chin up in pride. “If you were going to rob me, you would’ve done it by now.”
“With due respect, ma’am, you don’t have anything to steal, and I wasn’t arrested for theft. I mean…I’m not a thief,” I explain, even though thieves and liars tell people they’re not thieves and liars frequently. So, who will she believe?
“Yes, I heard about you,” she says coldly. I realize I’ve outstayed my welcome and am happy to leave.
I walk past her through the swing doors and place my empty mug on the bench. When I turn around, a pile of invoices catches my eye on the small table pushed against the wall. The top invoice has an aggressive red OVERDUE stamped on it. The overdue amount is over $9000. I mentally note the name and logo at the top of the invoice—Bauer. That brand looks familiar.
“I better go,” I tell her. “Ah, thanks for the coffee.”
She slowly nods now that she realizes I’m not the good Leroux twin, and I suspect she was just being nice by saying that I didn’t have to leave.
As I walked to the front door and rested my hand on the handle, she called after me, “You’ll look after her, won’t you? Our Emaline, you’ll look after her.”
A brick of guilt lands in my chest. Looking after Emaline Applegate was never my plan, but her words stirred something in me—discontent, restlessness, and falsehood in how I express myself when it comes to Emaline. I pretend not to care about her, yet as I walk away from her house, my mind is filled with thoughts of her as a shy little girl to now as an obstinate busybody with a cute nose and plump cheeks.
One thing is for sure…my life is better with her in it, even if I’m playing a minor role on the edge of her life, out of sight, but noticing everything.