Fate's Dark Shadows: A stand-alone age gap small-town romance Page 3

  She’s so young, and this is so wrong.

  Turning on the shower, I aim to clean every trace of her from me. Cleanse myself of any memory of someone I crave but shouldn’t have. I won’t allow myself to take advantage of a caring, curious youth thing, simply because my brain feels better when she’s close by.

  Silently cursing, I turn the shower off, the voice in my head screaming. You’re nothing. What have you to show for yourself!? You’re just like your lazy father who never did a day’s work in his life!

  I’m so pent up; it won’t hurt to just…take care of that area. Maybe it will help.

  I’m fully aware that I’m pumping myself with the same hand that touched Maya’s plump arm, that still smells like her. None of the facts of the situation are lost on me.

  I close my eyes and grip the shower rod above me with the other hand, losing myself in the memory of her. Picturing her soft face, wide eyes, curvy legs pedaling her ridiculously sunny bicycle. What would she say if she saw this? Maybe then she’d leave me alone.

  I’ll finish her off in my fantasies, and no one will get hurt. That will at least get her out of my head.

  Chapter Four

  Maya

  Ruby texts me as I walk glumly back to my bike. “I’ll cover your shift. You’ve had quite the drama. You go home and rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I could argue with her that I need the money, and I’m happy to finish out my shift, and fine if she needs to dock my tips for walking away mid-shift. But on the other hand, she’s right. I do need to go home and rest.

  Not that I have a home to go to.

  So I guess it’s back to the oak bench in the creepy marble hallway of the abandoned courthouse, again. It’ll have to do until I save enough money to rent something small. I’d given my mom’s address in Gold Hill as my residence on the job application I gave to Ruby, but I’m not going back there. Not until Doug is out of my mom’s life.

  Still, I can’t shake my conscience that tells me to check on Silent Doyle. He was really hurt. If he falls asleep, that’s bad. Isn’t it?

  A part of me knows I should stay away. I should flag down literally anyone else in this town who knows this man to help keep an eye on him. But the shadowy creature in my heart turns green with jealousy at even the thought of anyone else sitting at Doyle’s bedside. I’ll just have to set my feelings aside. This man’s not well.

  Good thing for him, he didn’t lock the door.

  I push in and look around in the dim entryway. Shining wood archways separate the spaces; to my left is a room with a rich-looking rug, a piano, and a grandfather clock. To my right, a stately dining room filled with an old-fashioned carved table, twelve chairs with lush silk cushions, and a massive crystal chandelier. Quite fussier than what I would have imagined, but then I barely know the man. The place looks fitting enough, though, like a haunted house in the movies. Or a movie vampire’s castle. It’s deathly quiet, impersonal, and beautiful, like a museum.

  What really catches my eye is the vast, carpeted staircase on the opposite side of the entry. The matching banisters end with hand-carved twin lions that stare menacingly at the foyer as if meant to scare off visitors. The only inviting feature is the landing above me, bathed in light from an enormous Tiffany stained-glass window. I’m charmed and mesmerized by it as I mount the stairs, looking around and listening for any sign of Doyle. I think to call out to him. But then again, not like he’s going to answer me.

  On the landing, I hear a soft thump in the distance. Following the noise, I find myself creeping down a long hallway, with a light at the end, where a door stands ajar. That must be where he is. I keep going. I need to make sure he didn’t fall and hit his head again.

  Enormous gilt-framed works of art line the hallway, full of strange, unsettling images. They look old, full of mythological depictions of primarily naked people writhing around with creatures with horns. They remind me of something from the Renaissance room at the museum I went to once, for a school trip. I felt disturbed in that place, Too.

  I walk right up to the open doorway at the end of the hall, and I realize too late that it’s actually a bathroom. A mirror on the wall to the left reflects a shower stall.

  When I’m dead and in the grave, I will still be thinking of what I see in the mirror this day: Silent Doyle licking his right palm, a layer of muscles over his bruised ribcage rippling as his other hand grips the shower rod. He’s completely naked except for the white bandages covering the places where his face ate pavement. His backside reflected in the mirror resembles something from the Greek sculpture room at a museum. Heat blooms between my thighs. What is he doing?

  At least now you know he’s not a vampire. Vampires don’t have reflections. Also, they don’t exist, silly.

  I am frozen in place. He’s so beautiful. I watch as that wet hand goes down and slides up the bottom of his erection, flattening it against his lower stomach. Oh. That’s what he’s doing. Oh … my.

  He runs his hand up slowly and pinches the end, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t make a noise. I should go. It’s wrong for me to look, and I should leave him alone.

  Instead, I’m frozen in place.

  Doyle’s head rests on his outstretched bicep; his eyes are closed, his jaw ticking, his teeth bared. He looks like he’s in misery.

  Again, he slathers his palm with his spit and rubs himself up and down again. I look down, and his cock is red and throbbing. His shoulders glisten with sweat.

  Doyle is on the verge; his mouth is open, his brows drawn together. He looks like a man silently screaming, reaching the crest of this self-love that looks more like frustration than pleasure.

  The prominent cords along his Throat tighten as he strains; I fear they may burst. Same as the veins in his arms…and in the hand that squeezes and flattens and rubs. A pearl of precum leaks from the tip. Oh my gosh.

  Then, I hear a sound build from within his throat. His teeth gritted, he growls as his hand works over his cock.

  I’m so surprised to hear him make a noise—a low, rasping moan—that I gasp.

  Covering my mouth, I realize what I’ve done.

  I’ve caused him humiliation twice in one day.

  For a split second, he locks eyes with me in the mirror, and I’m flooded with regret and shame.

  Doyle’s gaze is wild and demonic. He’s a creature from one of the paintings that hang on the wall; he’s going to eat me alive.

  Run.

  I flee as fast as my feet will carry me, and I make it halfway down the hallway before he grabs me under my arm for the second time today.

  This time, instead of escorting me to the door, he’s whipping me around and caging me against the plastered wall.

  I blurt, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh!”

  Doyle’s hand is around my neck, pinning me to the cold hard surface. He shushes me, then carefully, slowly, closes his fingers around my wrists above my head. Across from where he has me trapped, I stare at a painting of a satyr resisting being dragged into a lake by a group of naked nymphs. Unlike the mythology I vaguely remember from school, I am empathizing with the Pan character at the moment.

  In the here and now, Silent Doyle’s lower body jerks upward against my groin. I gasp again, the pressure driving me harder against the wall. Warmth and appreciation for this rough touch flood my veins. Half of me knows this is dangerous; the other half is overjoyed that someone is handling me in the way my body wants it.

  Not just someone. This someone. This man who saw the devil inside.

  I feel it, the unyielding expanse of his penis against my lower abdomen. His face is pure evil; his lips are so close to my neck that if he had fangs, they’d already be sinking all the way home.

  I didn’t ask for this.

  But my body…likes this?

  No. Needs this.

  This feels so wrong; we barely know each other. Yet the more I tell myself it’s messed up, the more I want him to keep jabbing me until I let go of my
inhibitions. This friction has triggered something louder than the angel that sits on my shoulder. The reminder that hangs around my neck is just a metal trinket. It’s not going to actually protect me when this man is building a fire in my blood.

  Of course not, I remind myself. I’m not my sister, the good one. I may be inexperienced, but I’m not a girl; I’m a grown woman with needs.

  As this man continues to rut against me and my body rejoices, I come to the realization that the dark shadows inside me are neither demonic nor angelic. The shadows are simply a blank space. An emptiness like hunger but instead of a rumbling stomach, this need wets my sex. I need to be filled. My muscles down there tighten and release, tighten and release. I feel so overwhelmed that I want to…I want to touch him. Pull him closer.

  My sensible self knows I should not encourage this, but I press my hips back against him. He feels me and looks down into my eyes. And stills, for just a few seconds. Languidly, he lets go of my wrists, brushing his hand down the inside of my arm, down my side. Doyle’s thumb grazes the side of my breast, sending new electricity arcing from my middle down to my toes.

  His hands resting on my hips, he thrusts against me again, this time slow and long, making sure I know he’s in control here. Not me.

  My eyes roll back in my head. The desire to speak his name out loud, ask questions, say anything, is barely contained. But what do I say? What does one say in a moment like this?

  His jaw ticking, he angles down. For a second, I think he might kiss me—oh gosh, I do need to be kissed. Will my first kiss be rough or sweet?

  Instead, Doyle sniffs my neck. He inhales the spot above my uniform collar. His lips feather my neck as he traces a line upward to the place right above my jaw, where my jaw meets my ear. His bare chest brushes against the buttons of my uniform, provoking a tightening in my nipples.

  I’m salivating. Just like at the diner, I have to swallow, or I might drool on this man.

  My legs want to climb him; I need more heat, more friction, and in different places. Intense desire overwhelms me, sending signals to my limbs to open up, clamor for purchase, and ride him.

  Another fervid growl fills the space between us, and I don’t know if it’s from him or from me.

  One more thrust, and the muscles in his face go slack, his silvery-blue eyes close gently, and his torso freeze. Warmth spreads over my middle, turning to wetness.

  I squeak in surprise and immediately clamp my mouth shut, looking down.

  Doyle has splashed himself onto me, and he’s not finished. Thick jets of his essence pulse out of him. I should be repulsed, but I’m not. He sighs, and I feel the tension leaving his muscles slowly. His breathing is heavy and hot against my hair as I watch the cum spurt everywhere.

  I am speechless and still, wondering what happens next.

  Will he kiss me? Drag me to his room? Shred my clothes?

  Please? Yes, to all of the above.

  “Are you… okay?” I ask dumbly. Why did I just say that? How am I expecting him to respond?

  Doyle’s breathing slows. He backs off, and I know I’m not in for a kiss. He doesn’t look sated or relieved in the least. He may have just finished himself off while I watched, but his face still looks like he could take a bite out of me with no remorse.

  I am a willing lamb to the slaughter.

  And then, Doyle turns away and stalks back to the bathroom.

  I came here to make sure he was okay, and I know now he’s definitely not. But whatever has damaged this man has nothing to do with the fight in the diner parking lot.

  Chapter Five

  Doyle

  She’s gone.

  I’d released my hold on her to go and fetch her a hot towel.

  But when I returned, she was gone.

  A hard slam of the door downstairs echoes through the empty house. I run to the window of my room overlooking the street just in time to see Maya hopping onto her yellow bicycle to pedal away.

  She sails down the street and around the corner.

  As I turn away, my eyes are caught by a mess on the hardwood floor, a collage of scattered green bills. I pick them up, examine them.

  Maya dropped all five hundred dollars that I tipped her.

  I have to return this money to her, but I don’t know where she’s gone; she cycled away in the wrong direction if she’s headed back to work.

  After I shower and dress, I step outside, prepared to walk all the way back to the diner.

  Ernestine Jenkins, the town’s busybody, is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs with a foil package and a seven-year-old girl that I believe to be her great-niece.

  To the girl, she says, “Bella, give Mr. Adams the banana bread we made.”

  I wait as the girl shyly hands me the package, wrapped with an orange ribbon and a folded note.

  In childlike handwriting is a message: “Could you please do Halloween again? We miss your decorations and the candy.”

  I stare down at the little girl who looks up at me with big, sad eyes. I give her a sideways glance, but I don’t answer.

  Something about looking at her stabs my heart. I can’t be what she needs me to be.

  I’ve wasted so much time pushing people away.

  Ernestine has this way of communicating with me through other people. I don’t know what she’s afraid of. Her life is full of love. Family, friends, community affairs.

  I could have that if the voices stopped screaming. But I’m too fucked up, and I’ve hurt too many people.

  I walk away from them without responding to the note, and make my way back to the diner.

  “I sent her home, but I’ll make sure she gets her tip tomorrow.”

  Ruby has kindly texted me this message after giving her the heads up that I’m on my way back to the diner.

  I stop in my tracks. “Where does she live? I’ll bring it over.”

  It takes Ruby several seconds before the three dots appear and disappear three times.

  Finally, she responds. “Doyle, I know you’re a decent fella, but I’m so sorry. It would be wrong of me to give out an employee’s home address.”

  Inwardly cursing, I reply, “Understood. Keep an eye out for a grocery delivery for Maya, if you wouldn’t mind holding on to those for her.”

  Turning a 180, I head back in the direction I saw her go.

  I have no idea where Maya might live, but this town isn’t that big. Provided she doesn’t live out in the sticks, the stroll around the central part of the town itself should take no more than fifteen minutes.

  Hours later, as the long afternoon shadows creep in, I still haven’t spotted Maya or her bike.

  Finally, I see it. A yellow bike leans against a stone column behind the overgrown bushes along the side of the courthouse.

  Chapter Six

  Maya

  I feel the presence before I can see it.

  Unlike my oddball stepdad, this presence doesn’t linger in a doorway. Or try to disarm me with self-effacing comments. No, this man I already know does not try to be something he isn’t.

  Silent Doyle is here.

  Not only does the nickname apply to his stupid vow, but also because he has approached the place where I’m napping, like a stealth bomber. I didn’t hear a single footstep, and then he was there, in front of me. Watching me while I slept on the old wooden bench.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Doyle hands me an unlocked phone open to a notes app.

  Our hands brush Together, his rough against my smaller, softer one. He smells like the outside, like he’s just taken an hours-long walk and the autumn leaves and weeds all fought hard to brush against this beautiful man, leaving their scent behind.

  I look at the screen, where he’s typed, Looking for you. Instead of taking the phone back, which I extend toward him, he shoves a fistful of something crinkly at me. The five hundred dollars.

  In the dim light, I study his frame. He’s lean and muscular, with sharp hard angles I hadn’t no
ticed before. His jaw, his shoulders, cut shapes in the dark. Doyle’s hair needs cutting. The cropped style leaves room for waves, but they look in need of a trim. Long enough to lose my fingertips if I were to reach for him and draw him to me with a kiss goodnight before falling asleep in his arms.

  No, Maya. Bed-sharing is what you do with husbands. A nice man who will show you that lovemaking is sweet and wholesome and obliterate all those unsettling urges. This man in front of you may be kind, but you don’t know his motivation. You know Doyle is the kind of man who would slap your thick, cushiony skin, pound his body into you, fiercely kiss you until you can’t breathe, maybe even pull your hair.

  And you would cry with relief. Finally.

  I blow out a breath.

  I shake my head at the offer of money.

  He finally takes the phone and taps out another message. Please don’t ask why I’m sleeping here; I try to tell him telepathically. The last thing I need is to type out the words to my sad sack story.

  But that’s not what it says.

  I’m taking you home.

  My heart sinks. So he knows where I’m from and that I’ve run away. Shoving the phone back, I say, “As if I’m going to tell you the address. Besides, I’m an adult. I don’t have to go anywhere.”

  A frustrated exhale wafts between us.

  No. My home. You can’t sleep here.

  We continue this, handing the phone back and forth until there is an epic one-sided record of our bantering.

  “I can. I slept here fine last night.”

  It’s not sanitary or safe. Nor will you be left alone as you think. There might be ghosts. Wink emoji.

  I shake my head, refusing to laugh at this. “This town is full of something, and it’s not actually monsters of the week,” I tell him.

  And then Doyle makes an offer I can’t refuse.

  I have food, hot water, and your pick of real beds. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.