Cider House Fools, page 13
Her head cranes back to me. “He called? How did he have your number?”
I blink at her. “Don’t they all have the number here?” She presses her lips together, ducking to hide her face in the spicy hot chocolate. “Why don’t you tell me about your adventures after we left the lawyer’s office yesterday?” I inquire as casually as I can.
I wait for her to gather her thoughts. “Smith picked me up. He took me out for Mexican food.”
“That sounds nice,” I reply calmly, careful not to look at her.
The couch dips as she draws up her knees and plants her feet on the edge. “Then we went to the lake,” she whispers.
An intense wave of jealousy pounds through me. I wrap my other hand around my mug as the spiked cocoa in my mug ripples again. “What happened at the lake Bennie?” I ask, keeping my face forward. She’s trembling. One wrong look or gesture, one ill-formed question or discordant tone and she’ll shut down.
She draws in on herself, glancing at me. I know a bomb is about to be dropped when she exhales completely before speaking. “I rode him like Secretariat in the front seat of his truck. He drove me home. I took a shower. But I didn’t want to be home alone, so I called Balthasar to come pick me up.”
“I see. Then what happened?” I tip my mug too far and end up coughing and hacking as a mouthful of scalding hot beverage splashes against the back of my throat.
“Then I…we…he ate.” She sips her drink, hiding behind it as her brows lift, her eyes flaring wide over pink cheeks and bated breath as she waits for my reaction.
“Dinner or dessert?” I ask, trying not to snarl.
The blush deepens, staining her delicate neck, her face, even the tip of her almost upturned nose. “I’d say breakfast, lunch, and dinner, two snacks, and a dessert.”
“Let me guess,” I say flatly. “A la crème?”
“Gallons et gallons,” she says dreamily in French.
“Jesus Ben. You don’t have to get graphic,” I mutter, looking away. It if wasn’t two degrees out with a windchill of negative ten I could walk to the Ryerson farm and—
“Franklin!” Her mug plunks down on the end table. She twists back towards me and grabs my arm. Hot coffee sloshes down my chest and slops on my jeans, burning me through the fabric. “Why do you look so pissed?”
I leap off the couch, swearing. “Damn it!” I cry, looking around for a place to set my mug as I pull the shirt away from my skin. I step in front of her and set my mug down beside hers. “I’m not mad,” I mutter unconvincingly. “I gotta change my shirt.”
I head for the stairs. The patter of feet behind me tells me she’s following me.
“Bennett, don’t follow me.” Pitter. Patter. “Go back downstairs. I’m just changing my shirt.” I reach the top of the steps and whip open the door to my room. I hustle in and turn, ready to slam the door in her face. My anger is outrageously disproportionate and completely irrational for some spilled coffee. I’m in a rage because they touched her. I know my reaction isn’t right or appropriate, but I can’t contain my feelings with her in my presence.
I start to slam the door, but I stop halfway and abandon it to storm into my room. “Franklin, please, tell me why you’re mad. You know I called it quits with Weston. You’re not actually judging me right now, are you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, rolling in her shoulders as she grips her forearms. She bites her lip, her eyebrows drawing in as her face tenses.
That expression has to hurt, pulling on her wound like that.
I am such a dick. My anger immediately deflates, leaving plenty of room for the guilt sweeping in. I clutch the bathroom door, dizzy with the realization of why I’m burning up with the need to beat Balthasar and his hulking brother to a bloody pulp. I wet my dry lips, swallowing hard. “I just need to change my shirt, Bennie. I’ll be down in a minute. I’m not mad at you. Promise.”
“Are you sick?” her voice rises, filled with concern as she pushes past me into my room. “You look positively ill Frankie. What’s going on? I won’t get upset, I swear.”
Why is she pushing this so hard?
My face twists into a yeah, okay expression and we both burst out laughing. “I’m sorry Ben, but you’re in no shape to making promises that require emotional stability.”
She bends over carefully and rifles through my bag, tossing a shirt at me as she stands. “I am not,” she agrees, not the least bit perturbed at my honesty. She steps up to me, lifting up her hands as if she were surrendering, before laying them on my chest. Her touch is light, barely there, but it races across my skin like lightning in a desert sky.
She undoes the first button of my shirt. “Why are you breathing like this?” Her fingers slide down, her knuckles pushing into me as she slides the next button through. “Your pulse is about to jump right out of your neck.”
I turn my head slightly, pursing my lips to exhale, trying desperately to avoid looking at her. I refuse to lie to her. My only option right now is to chill, to hope whatever these feelings I’m having pass, to pray she doesn’t see my face and figure out what’s going on. Her fingers trail down the placket of my button-up, slowly undoing the buttons. When she undoes the last one, her hands glide back up my chest and push the shirt off my shoulders. She stares at my bare chest. I’m a pretty confident guy, but now that I know she’s intimately familiar with the smooth leanness of Balthasar and the bulging, hard physique of a man like Smith I can’t help trying to suck in in the layer of padding I have over my musculature.
Inhale. Exhale. I have this under control. She doesn’t notice my abdomen move. She’s staring at my chest like she’s never seen it before. Is she comparing it to one of theirs? The thought of her sitting naked and flushed on Smith’s cock sends another flood of rage through me, until the image flips to her sprawled out on a bed, with Balthasar stalking her pretty pink pussy across satin sheets. My cock rises, pressing against the now cold coffee that doused my jeans. Nope. I’ve got nothing under control. She licks her lower lip and rolls it in, working it between her teeth before she lets it pop back out her mouth. I lean down, just a little, looking for the indent of her lower lip a little closer.
Her face tilts, lifting her mouth closer to mine. My phone vibrates in my pocket, buzzing hard against my ass. I step back. Her hands fall off my arms. Hastily I yank it out of my pocket and slide my finger across the screen. “Yeah? I mean, Franklin speaking.”
“I’ve dined at our investment for the last three days and I’ve been told each day that my both of my business partners are unavailable.”
Bennett interrupts, unable to stand not knowing who is on the other end of the line. “Who is it?”
“You didn’t steal my girl and run off did you Frank? Ope, that’s right. She doesn’t have the right equipment for you, does she big guy?” Weston laughs, entirely too pleased with his crass comment.
I’m so off kilter, I lower myself to his level without a thought. “You sure about that asshole? Not that it matters, since what you have hardly qualifies as equipment.”
“Where the fuck are you two?” Silverware rattles against ceramic as his fist pounds against one of the solid walnut tabletops in our restaurant. “Who is running this restaurant? I want my money Patterson, and I’ll find a way to get it, even if I have to burn this place to the ground and collect the insurance check.”
I hang up the phone. Bennett has backed away from me. “Was that Weston? Don’t tell him where I’m at. I can’t deal with him right now.”
I toss the phone on the bed and hand her the clean shirt I still have clutched in my hand. She holds it while I finish sliding out of the stained one, then hands it back to me. I pull the cotton T over my head and then pull her close. “If that asshole comes within a half mile of you, he’ll have a whole lot more than just me to deal with.”
At least Weston’s call served on purpose. Speaking to that piece of shit has my dick soft enough to pull her close for a hug. “I don’t know what I ‘d do without you Frankie. I don’t have the right words to tell you how much it means to me that you’re here. I’m so grateful you’re my best friend. I love you.”
I hold her close. “I love you too Bennie,” I murmur into her hair. Is it my imagination, or do her soft tresses smell more like apples and cinnamon than of her usual tropically scented shampoo? My eyes clench tight, trying to rid my mind of the images that stir up all the confusing feelings I’m having for my best friend.
It doesn’t matter how much I think I might want Bennett. I can’t explore those feeling right now. Not when she’s grieving the loss of her grandmother, and not when she’s exploring her past. “Franklin, will you sleep with me tonight?”
“Of course I will sweets.” Inside I groan. It’s going to be a long night.
The next morning Bennett is out of bed before me.
I shower quickly and get dressed. She’s plating an omelet and crispy brown potatoes O’Brien when I walk into the kitchen. She tosses her spatula in the pan and turns off the burner, quickly pulling out a chair and dropping the plate. “Bestie breakfast,” she babbles breathlessly.
I sink into the chair, turning to follow her as she buzzes over the sink cleaning up. “Bennett, put that down and bring your plate over here. Eat with me. Who knows when we’ll have a chance to spend this kind of time with each other again after this?”
“I didn’t make one for me.” She turns around, wring a dish towel between her wet hands. “I’m not hungry Frankie. I have to meet mom at the funeral home. We have to,” She closes her eyes and takes a slow breath. “We have to pick things out. We have to go…shopping so we can bury Gran.” She blinks rapidly, then sniffles, blowing out a long breath as she presses her index fingers into the corner of her eyes. “Geez I can’t stand myself like this. My emotions are all over the place when I don’t want them to be, and then they disappear when all I want to do is drown in my feelings.” She pulls out the chair next to me and slumps down. “I think I’m broken.”
I get up and open drawers until I find the silverware. I hand her a fork and push the plate between us. “Eat.” I cut a piece off and shovel it in. “You aren’t broken Bennie. Mm. This is perfection. Asparagus, prosciutto and Swiss? Marry me,” I tease, licking the savory taste of butter with a hint of garlic off my fingers. I pull them out of my mouth, my eyebrows drawing together when I catch the look on her face. She’s frozen, like a deer in the headlights.
“What? It’s perfect,” I defend my statement, confused at her reaction. She jolts up to a standing position, the chair screeching across the floor behind her. She wavers, grabbing the table, hissing from the pain in her forehead as she narrows her eyes at me.
She whirls and throws her fork into the sink. "Don’t say shit like that to me Franklin.” Her voice is low, trembling with anger. I’m genuinely mystified.
“What on earth? Bennett, it’s a great omelet,” I stab my fork into the expertly balanced composition of gooey cheese and egg, and saw off another piece, trying to tamp my irritation down. My best friend has never been what I would classify as cool and collected, but this reaction is so far outside of her bell curve it’s missed the whole graph.
I stab a huge chunk and stuff it in my mouth, tilting my head back and moaning. I ham it up, hoping to get a smile out of her. She reaches around her back, yanking at the apron strings tied around her waist. “This is low, even for you.” She grabs her jacket, violently stuffing her arms in the sleeves. She reaches back and pull her hair out of the jacket. It falls in soft, golden waves down the front of her. I stop chewing.
“What?” she snaps.
“Your hair. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so long. It looks really nice like that Bennie.” Heat suffuses my cheeks. I close my eyes, and my mouth, and concentrate on swallowing the huge lump of omelet in my mouth.
“I see you every day. How do you not know how long my hair is?” she yells.
“I…because it’s always tied back in a bun? Why are you so pissed at me right now?” I toss the fork down and glare at her as it clatters against the plate.
She stabs an arm through her purse strap. "Why am I so pissed at you right now? Are you fucking for real asking me that? Ugh! Men! I’m going to meet my mother at the funeral home. You can stay here and…and…choke on the rest of that omelet!” She storms out of the door slamming it so hard behind her it rattles. Then she opens it and slams it again. The truck roars to life a minute later, chugging hard in the bitter cold without a good warmup.
I finish the omelet, not wanting to let farm fresh eggs go to waste. Then I pick up the phone.
“Morning friend.” Balthasar answers on the second ring. “How is our pretty princess? Did she wake up a satisfied sloth or rabid raccoon?”
I snort. “She got up and cooked me breakfast, even though her eye is almost swelled shut and half of her face looks like fight club gone bad. Two bites in she decided she was mad at me. She just stormed out to meet Melanie at the funeral home.”
“Oh. It’s that day huh?”
“Yeah. She indicated she did not want me to go with her, so I’m at the house.” My throat tightens as I find myself not wanting to ask for the favor I called in the first place for. “You, ah, think you could meet her down there? I think she needs someone besides Melanie for this.”
“She does,” he agrees. “But it was Whittaker who spent the most time with Gran. I think he should go.”
“No. Not him. He could barely look at her.”
“Franklin, I appreciate how protective you are of her, but I gather you don’t know much about our history with Bennett,” he says gently, trying to lessen the blow of his words. I frown, not wanting to accept or admit that his assumption is indeed correct.
“Maybe it’s time I learned,” I muse.
“I’m an open book.” The sound of his rich laugh does something to my insides, leaving me immediately confused. What the hell is wrong with me? Wasn’t I just pining for the woman I slapped back over the friend status line so many times the game was called a long time ago? Balthasar barges on, talking through my mental gymnastics. “Whittaker and Smith, they aren’t going to accept you with open arms. If Smith pulls his head out his ass and realizes how much he wants Bennett, he may decide he doesn’t want to share this time around. And Whittaker, he won’t admit it, but I know he still loves her.”
“Okay. Got it. I don’t agree with you Whittaker is the best choice, but for some odd reason, I trust you. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Is that because Bennett told you I devoured her perfect, pretty little cunt like it was my last supper?” I spit coffee across the table. I can literally hear him grin as I choke and cough. “I assume you’ve figured out she shares Franklin,” he purrs.
His smooth voice curls in and around my ears, caressing my neck and trailing down my spine like the warm hands of a lover. I shift my weight on the chair, uncomfortable with the battle of mixed feelings raging inside of me. My hardening cock rubs uncomfortably against my jeans. Great. I’d get up and readjust but Balthasar will probably hear me and have some kind of comment about it. The childish urge to get him back steals into me and I give in. “And I supposed that churlish asshole Whittaker is the one who scratches your itch for cock? Or did that come after Bennett?”
“Oh Franklin,” he sighs gustily, then clucks at me. “Go ahead, fix that monster handsome. I bet he’s hurting something fierce pinched between those tightly clenched thighs of yours.”
How the hell does he do that? I clear my throat as I stand. While I take his advice, I get to the other reason I called. “You know I’m a chef, right? What do you say all of you come over tonight for a dinner? We’ll keep the conversation light and relaxed, something to take Bennie’s mind off what she’s doing right now.”
“There’s a distinct possibility the night is not going to go as you are picturing it right now, but yes, I’ll send out a text. That’s an offer neither of those pricks will be able to refuse. Can I do anything to help?”
“Actually yes. I don’t have a vehicle. Bennett took the truck. Can you come take me grocery shopping?”
“It’s a date,” he responds quickly, sounding delighted. I hang up the phone and head to my bedroom to grab my pad. Nothing settles my mind like crafting a menu. Maybe while I work, I can figure out what the hell I did to annoy Bennett.
Chapter thirteen
November 30 Wednesday
Whittaker
White brick and black shutters stare at me through a windshield that hasn’t been cleaned since the last president was in office. The décor judges me silently, flaunting a strict moral code that many of its customers never succeed in practicing. The building has been an intermittent fixture in my life. Both of my parents and both Balthasar and Bennett’s fathers were mourned here.
Even the familiar environment of my truck doesn’t protect me from the reach of the building. The mere sight of the whitewashed brick triggers a visceral response. My nose is filled with the sickly-sweet scent of death blended with stale potpourri and musty carpet. The temperature is always just a little too cool, the absolute humidity too great. The over conditioned environment leaves a slick film on your skin. A phantom ectoplasmic emollient, a barrier to the ghostly touch of the loved one you lost.
I blink hard, my eyes cobwebbed by old memories. I’m not here to lose myself in the past. I’m here to support Bennett. But not because I have any desire to help her. I’m only here for Gran. Seeing Bennett in the flesh was an experience I swore I’d not repeat, and here I am, the very next morning at Balthasar’s behest, ready and willing expose myself to her poison.
My hand rubs over my left chest in a futile effort to ease the constant prick and burn of the toxin she breathed into me all of those years ago. She’s like a burr, a spiked calculi, tearing through my tender tissues as she travels the length and breadth of me; like a chronic wound causing acute pain I cannot outrun nor escape.
