Cider House Fools, page 25
“My deepest apologies for not being more sympathetic,” he spits out false regret like anathema, his lip curling into a barely contained snarl. “But that’s your fault. You hid your family from me.” His gloved hand darts up and picks a piece of hay out of my hair. I didn’t think it was possible, but his sneer deepens. “And I can see why. Not only is this place a shithole, but the way you live here is disgusting. There are chickens everywhere! They shit Bennett! They leave feces on everything.”
I want to push him out of my personal space, but I’m loathe to touch him. There’s danger, wild edge to his movements, but I’m unable to curb my derision. “You eat chicken, you fucking hypocrite. We’re done. Get out of my barn and get off my property.” How dare he come onto my family’s property uninvited and insult our way of life. How fucking dare he talk derogatorily about farming when he eats food. My body feels filthy, inside and out, as I’m forced to breathe the same air and suffer his creepy vibes. I cannot believe I was fooled by him, that I ever let him come close enough to touch me.
The illusion of control he’s desperately grasping onto, along with his ridiculous discomfort diminish the power play he’s trying to make. My fear starts to evaporate as his physical presence shrinks before my eyes. He no longer looks trim, but weak. What used to look dashing and handsome now looks desperate and fake. With ice cold clarity I realize by letting Weston invest in Franklin’s and my restaurant I’ve tied myself to this prick for the long run. I’ve opened a door I have no way to close.
His hand snakes out, grabbing my chin, his hard eyes glassy from the freezing temperatures. The condensation his breath makes touches every plane of my face as he leans in and threatens me. “You will put aside your childhood toys and your misplaced affection for that freak of nature you call a partner and start behaving like you belong to me Bennett.”
Both of my hands flatten against his chest as I push against him. “Get your hands off me! We are done. Do you hear me? Get back in your car and get the fuck off my property. Get out of my town! I never want to see you again. If we need to talk about the restaurant, we can do it through lawyers.”
He steps back in a controlled movement, snatching my wrists. When I try to yank them back, he manages to pull me forward, off balance, until I fall against him. Immediately I start struggling. A loud thud rattles through the stall, followed by an ear-splitting whinny. Weston presses his cold nose to my cheek and inhales. His tongue snakes out, licking a trail of nasty saliva up my cheek right before he bites the side of my face. I stop struggling, cringing as he presses his cold wet lips into my ear. “You want the restaurant? You want this farm? Hmm? You can’t afford both and we both know it.” He picks me up, hefting me up his chest, in a display of strength I didn’t think he was capable of. He walks me forward until I’m slammed up against the stall wall, stuck between him and the rough timber. “While you’ve been here crying and fucking your childhood boyfriends, I’ve been pulling strings behind your back. Tow the line or lose it all Bennett.”
“Screw you Weston! You don’t have the money either.” Bile rises in my throat, threatening to spill down the front of my jacket at the feel of his mealy mouth on my skin. My entire body is crawling with revulsion as his weight presses against me without my consent. I can feel his unimpressive erection stabbing into the top of my thigh and it makes my vagina curdle in disgust.
Rosie’s head lifts over Weston’s shoulder, her eyes rolling, the whites flashing. She can smell my fear. “That may be true, but my father does. And he wants me to settle down. He’ll spend whatever it takes to bring me to heel. If I have to live under his thumb, I’m bringing you with me. I should get something out of it. I’ll buy your restaurant and this farm right out from under you. I’ll buy theirs too. I’ll make you watch their homes and yours burn on our wedding night. My gift to you.” I turn my head to the side, as spittle splatters my face. The move gives him the whole right side of my face to use as a canvas. He sticks out his short pulpy tongue and drags it up my other cheek. His saliva smells like burnt coffee and lies and leaves me gagging.
Another thud rings out, the wall rattling. “She’s going to hurt you soon Weston,” I whisper. Rage-filled, helpless tears balance on my lower lids, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him the pleasure.
“No one can hurt me,” he boasts, grabbing my chin. He hefts my body up again, jumping a little. My jacket catches on the roughhewn lumber, choking me as the jolt pushing me up the stall digs my skull into the boards. “Which one of those shit stains hit you? Does one of them not appreciate your mouth either? Maybe I’ll let that one keep his property.” His eyes rove over the fading, green stained, wound above my eyes. The laceration is almost healed, and the swelling is gone. All that’s left is the final remains of the bruise. I’m hoping it’s completely gone by Gran’s service.
He reaches up, his fingers curling in, his index finger pointing out like a gun. Then he pokes me hard, right over my laceration. I try to swallow the yelp that erupts at the flash of pain, but I’m so surprised I can’t stop it.
Everything happens so fast. Weston is jerked back as Rosie bites his shoulder. He lets go of me as she shakes her head, tossing him to the side of the stall. A shrill, high scream comes from the horse as two kicks in quick succession hit the back wall. The door is yanked open. I stumble forward, weak with relief that Weston is no longer touching me. “Out now Bennett.” I hustle out, not looking back once at the slimeball crumped in a ball on the stall floor. Franklin reaches in and drags him out just a Rosie explodes, bucking and kicking in her stall.
Franklin closes the Dutch door shut, murmuring apologies to the angry mare. Weston scrambles to his feet, his face twisted in rage, cradling his right arm against his heaving chest. “When this farm is mine the first thing I’ll do is put that psychotic beast down,” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth. Franklin ignores him to fuss over me, until he determines I’m okay. Then he turns, zeroing in on my ex.
“Get off this property and don’t come back,” Franklin growls, the animalistic sound implying what will happen to Weston.
Weston backs up. “Or what? You going to sick some of your boys on me? You and Bennett’s gang of sissies going to try to take me down? I’m a Holbrook!” He screams. A thick chunk of over-pomaded hair falls over his pasty forehead. Random pieces of straw are stuck to his wool jacket. It might be my imagination, but I can see the indents of Rosie’s teeth around his shoulder. “I’m half tempted to leave this worthless slut to you, but,” he lifts his left arm up from his side, letting it fall with a slap against his leg as he speaks, “I’ll be damned if I let any of you get what you want.” He laughs, and this time it’s brittle. “Look at you Bennett. Slinking off to the sticks to snivel over a woman you haven’t seen in years. Leaving your business to fall apart just so you can take the opportunity to whore around your hometown one more time. You’re a disgusting nothing. You don’t tell me when we’re done. I tell you.” He backs out of the aisle to the door and disappears.
“Are you alright?” Franklin pulls me to him, searching my face before crushing me against his chest. “I’m going to murder that bastard.”
I let him stroke my hair a few more times while I get myself under control then I untangle myself from his arms. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie, girl,” I coo, stepping into the stall, speaking low and slow to soothe the riled-up horse. She nickers, reaching out to my hand, snuffling and huffing her warm, hay sweetened breath on my hand. “You good now girl? Wanna go outside?” The cadence of her hooves against the cement aisle is familiar, and it helps tamp down the adrenalin flooding my system after my encounter with Weston.
“Bennie, you can’t avoid this. He followed you here, and now he’s threatening you. He’s obviously obsessed with you and wants to involve you in whatever scheme he has going. He’s dangerous. His father sounds even more dangerous. We have to tell the others what is going on.” He follows us, walking around Rosie, running his hand across her back as he steps around her to open the gate.
I sigh gustily as she sways off into the pasture. Franklin shuts the gate. “I know I do. But they are already doing so much. I don’t have any delusions about who they are doing it for. They don’t have the time to get mixed up in my personal problems.”
Franklin snorts in disbelief. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? Open your eyes, Bennett. All three of them have been waiting for you. Don’t ruin what you can have with them by hiding this and pretending you can deal with this on your own. Don’t keep more secrets from them. Let them in. Let them be there for you. Let me be there for you.”
We work in silence as I think about how to answer him. My first instinct is to spout off about how I don’t need help. But the restaurant belongs to Franklin too. We’ve both staked everything on the success of Smoke and Mirrors and our plans to expand. I was the one who brought Weston in, and Franklin agreed, against his better judgement, for me. In my defense, Weston wasn’t a creep at the beginning of our relationship. He was sweet and supportive, and I believed him when he said he was proud of me.
“I know I misjudged Weston, that he completely fooled me, but doesn’t it seem like there is more to this than just him wanting to be a possessive jerk?” I inhale the familiar smell of molasses and grain as I refill the horses’ feeders in preparation for tonight.
“What do you mean?” Franklin asks as he pours fresh water into Rosie’s bucket.
“He’s desperate. Desperate and afraid. And he made references to buying the farm and the other property around here. Specifically, Whittaker’s and Balthasar’s. Why? What is a rich guy from Pennsylvania going to do with farm zoned property in a small town in Michigan?”
“Maybe you should ask Smith,” Franklin answers.
“Why Smith?”
“He’s a contractor, right? He must have connections with the realty community around here. He might know something we don’t. But he’ll want to know why you’re asking.” Franklin works at steady pace, keeping his tone even.
I press my lips together and raise an eyebrow, shooting him a full power glare through the stall bars. “I know what you’re doing,” I drop, pouring the last of the grain out. I step out into the hall and back into the insulated grain and tack room to put away the bucket and grain scoop. I inhale deeply, letting the scent of grain and saddle leather soothe my senses. I could breathe this in all day long and never tire of it. I reach in the bin and grab a handful, bringing it up to my nose.
“I can make you something whole grain for breakfast,” Franklin teases. He slides an arm around my waist, around my bulky coat, and pulls me against him. His beard tickles my ear as he leans over me and whispers, “That makes me hot, and gives me ideas for Smoke.”
I laugh. It always goes back to the food for Franklin and me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He spins me around and picks me up, plopping me on the lid of the feed bin. He steps into me, between my legs and takes my face tenderly in his hands. “Did he hurt you, Bennett? Because I already want to end him for having the balls to lay his beady fucking eyes on you.”
My breath puffs as I ogle my gorgeous partner. My person, whose first concern is always my safety and welfare. There is nothing sexier than a cinnamon roll who bakes them too. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as he waits. I tilt my head, my eyes drifting shut as his generous lips slant over mine. My hands grasp at his jacket as he kisses me, long and slow. When we break for a breath, my legs are wound his waist. He smiles against my mouth. “I’m hungry Bennett.”
“Liar,” I squeal. “You taste like crumb cake muffins.” His mouth trails over my jaw and onto my neck.
“Mmhmm.” His purr of pleasure rumbles through my thundering pulse and straight down to my core. “My second favorite muffin.”
“Second?” I mumble, my eyes rolling into the back of my head as he pulls my ass to the edge of the container, slamming my core against his erection.
“Second. The muffins you baked were delicious. But they’re not the kind I’m hungry for.” He scoops me up and swings me out of the grain room. We are out of the barn and in the house in a few strides of his long legs. He lays me down on the table and starts untying my boots. My legging are down around my ankles before his meaning soaks into my sex riddled brain.
“Oh! Your favorite is—”
“This,” he growls against my core, dragging his tongue up my center. His tongue works my clit so skillfully all I can do is grab on to the edge of the table and enjoy the ride. I writhe inside of my jacket, my shoulder blades digging into the thick fabric as I twist and moan and forget about creepy ex-boyfriends and funerals. His giant hand splays over my soft stomach, making me forget about restaurants and obligations and what a fucking mess my life is as I park my feet on his shoulders and let him show me exactly what his favorite flavor of muffin is. When he thrusts two fingers in my throbbing pussy and ORDERS me to come, I give him all the icing he could ever want.
Chapter twenty-three
Date December 5 Monday
Smith
The only time in my life I ever allowed myself to entertain indecisiveness was when I decided to leave Bennett behind. That decision wasn’t one hundred percent altruistic. I knew I couldn’t keep her when I had nothing to offer. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t playing a long game to end up with her.
But then I witnessed her with my own eyes living her dreams. She had a successful business, a partner, and a boyfriend. Her life was full. She was not only getting by day to day, she was turning her dream of getting out of Stayman and making something of herself a reality. It broke me, but I couldn’t jeopardize her happiness. The only option was to let her go. I turned my back on my own dreams and went back overseas.
It wasn’t my intention to come home with more money than I could spend in two lifetimes but that’s what happened. I started a company, fully expecting to be bankrupt within a year. I own a handful of growing investments, but I wanted to put my stamp on Stayman. I work from sunup until long past sundown six to seven days a week and now own a thriving construction company. I do my own paperwork and books, while putting in full days of manual labor next to my guys. The long days help keep the nightmares at bay, but they do nothing to fill the empty place that used to be Bennett’s.
No matter how unavailable I made myself, Balthasar wasn’t deterred. My little brother somehow found a way to spend time with me. He loves ignoring OSHA regulations and marching onto my job site with lunch. I wonder why he bothers when the only thing we have in common is a mother and a lost love, both of whom we haven’t seen in years. We are complete opposites. He’s well-dressed, charming, sexually fluid, and somehow manages to keep the farm afloat while exuding an image of zero effort. In direct contrast, I’ve got the manners and social skills of bridge dweller and haven’t pursued a woman in over a decade.
I spent a lot of time holding Balthasar responsible for the shitty relationship I had with his dad. Balthasar’s dad didn’t exactly throw himself into being the best stepdad, but he worshipped my mother and my brother. I could have tried harder instead of passively sitting out on the sidelines and growing progressively bitter about my place in the family. And there are certainly more appropriate people to aim my anger at than my brother. He was and is an innocent victim of the hard feelings between his father and me. He never encouraged the cold shoulder his father gave me, and actively worked to bring us together. He should have given up on me a long time ago. But he hasn’t. He still here, stubbornly referring to me as his brother, insisting on loving me when I’ve done nothing to deserve him.
Today is the day I try my hand at saying thank you. I’ve built him a multi-layered gift, albiet not an unselfish one. If my plan works, though, my little present will give Balthasar more than one of his heart’s desires. I consider the range of reactions he might have as I steer my truck down main street, under evergreen garlands stretching across the road from streetlight to streetlight. I hate that I had to build on the opposite side of town, but I wanted to keep the drive less than an hour from Riverton, which has the population to provide both the employees and customers if everything goes according to plan.
I’m not ready to do this. I wanted to be closer to finishing, but I realized I can’t give my brother his dreams without his input. I pull in and park, dropping my head to the steering wheel. If he tells me to fuck off I can sell. But if he says yes, it might be the answer we are all looking for. I must remain stoic. I won’t allow my wishes affect Balthasar’s decision. Or Bennett’s.
I close my eyes against a wash of nauseating anxiety as I hear Balthasar’s truck pull in next to mine. I turn my head, my forehead rotating across the steering wheel. My brother is sitting in his truck, staring at the large red building in front of him. Whittaker leans forward, staring at me, grinning like an idiot over Balthasar’s head.
His smile slips a little as my brows pinch.
This is it. All the planning, all the work. What if he takes this differently than I want him too? My legs are wooden, almost causing me to stumble when I get out of the truck. Balthasar and Whittaker follow. I gesture to Balthasar I want him to go in the building. He gives me a quizzical look but heads in.
I clap a hand on Whittaker’s shoulder. “I haven’t been this afraid since the first time Bennett took her shirt off in front of me.”
“I haven’t a single idea what she’s ever seen in you. You’re a crude pig,” he sighs as he comes to a stop and survey’s the building in the glinting afternoon sun. He lifts a hand to shade his eyes. “Until this. This is incredible. Have faith in Balthasar. Believe it or not, he’s got more emotional intelligence in his regularly manicured pinky nail than either one of us will ever have. He’ll understand what you are trying to say. He speaks extravagance fluently.”
