CHAPTER TWO
BRANSON
Testosterone doesn't make you dumb, but it sure can make you do dumb things. Add some adrenaline and you have an emotional Molotov cocktail that can blow up in your face. In my case, I'd barely avoided jail. I remembered that much. Everything since then was fuzzy, though, including why I was alone in a strange bed in a pitch-black room.
Lightning flashed outside, big flares, barging into my room like some kind of SWAT team. That wasn't what woke me up, though. Something else had. Something I couldn't remember. The lightning and the thunder just finished the job.
My head still buzzed with the dream I'd been yanked out of—something crazy about hairy goat men and very tall women who lived inside trees. They looked sort of human but were taller and more willowy. And, hotter. Way hotter. They had high, angled cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. The color of their hair, eyes, skin—whatever—came from the trees around them.
But, where the crap was I?
My head felt fuzzy but not bad—almost like my body wanted to have a hangover, but somehow hadn't managed it. Ironic. That was one of the only things I'd never failed at before.
A high, quivery moan cut right through the darkness.
Oh yeah. That's what yanked me out of my tree woman dream.
"Hello?"
No answer.
The storm rumbled again, and the wind whipped itself up into a pretty good moan. Maybe that's what I heard?
I stumbled out of bed and tripped on something, face-planting on uneven wooden floorboards. Who left my gym bag next to the bed? Falling hurt. A lot. My un-hungover head felt okay, but for some reason my whole body ached. Like I'd done a hard workout I wasn't ready for, and then done it again. And then got beat up. Twice.
Lightning. Then more moans came, high-pitched and fluttery, louder now.
After another round of lightning strikes, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Enough to see some curtains hanging against the wall like dead bodies. I forced my aching body up, and then walked over and pulled them open. The thick fabric sent clouds of dust into my face as the thunderstorm exploded outside in all its glory. With the curtains open, the lightning lit up the room enough for me to see the peeling floral wallpaper.
The lightning took a break between sets, but I didn't need it anymore. I knew right where the light switch was now. I walked over and flicked it on. Yep. Yellow stains on the ceiling, old rag rug over the uneven floorboards. Holy crap. I was back in my old room. But how? How had I come back to Hilltop Farm?
It took a lot of effort to squeeze even a few memories out of my fuzzy head. I'd been driving from New York to Aunt Judith's and stopped in Nashville for gas. I met a hot girl who invited me to a party.
More lightning flashed and without any warning thirteen years disappeared. In my mind I was four years old again, sitting up in bed in this room during a storm, screaming out for Mama and Granddaddy. Screaming because the guilt and fear and anxiety overpowered my words. Screaming because closing my eyes brought the flames back.
From a long way away, I felt my hands clench the curtains, trying to keep myself upright as the world spun and flipped—like my stomach.
Not much had changed; I'd gotten bigger. So had the guilt and pain. Instead of screaming, I'd found other ways to cope. Big-boy ways to smother the pain: high doses of adrenaline, 180 proof testosterone, and anything that got the two of them pumping.
Something about being back in this room stripped away the shell I'd developed over the years, leaving me feeling naked and cheap. Cheap. That word gouged down inside of me. It was the worst thing Granddaddy could call someone.
"Trashy people do cheap things," he'd say with a frown. "A hound dog in a ball gown is still gonna scratch for fleas."
That seemed funny as a kid. Now, not so much. Because I had a whole lot of fleas. The thought of Granddaddy always brought crushing guilt and—
Stop!
I closed my eyes and shoved everything down deep inside me: the memories, the ache, the guilt. Everything. I'd gotten good at this over the years, shoving more and more down. That part of me was like a suitcase crammed so full it could barely close.
The storm got louder, shaking the house.
The moans came back, loud enough to make me jump. I reached down and grabbed some sweats from my athletic bag. I staggered into the sweats—why was I so sore? And why did I have on different underwear than yesterday? That suggested some intriguing possibilities, hopefully with someone hot. I liked physical nakedness a lot better than the emotional kind.
The moans kept going. I stumbled to the door.
"Hello?"
No answer, of course, but the moans got stronger and more regular. Creepy, but not ugly, almost like a song that had been broken then put back together and sung by ghosts.
I checked the room next to mine. Nothing there, so I walked down to the study at the end of the hall and opened the door. A warm, musty smell hit me. Years of memories rushed back even before I turned the light on. I flicked the light switch, and my breath caught in my chest. I'd forgotten about the walls.
The whole study had been paneled in solid oak, almost every inch carved with detailed scenes of strange creatures. I used to spend hours making up stories to go with the carvings, especially when it rained. I'd stay in here all day, or at least until Aunt Judith kicked me out so she could work in her ledger.
It was the desk that really caught my attention, though. When I was a kid, it had seemed massive, big enough to be whatever I imagined: a pirate ship, a castle, a treasure cave, a jungle fortress—anything. It looked smaller now, but still had the same smooth feel, the same oily furniture polish and chemical-lemon smell.
Lots of memories here, but nothing that was moaning. I left and walked to the big staircase. The floorboards squeaked under the thin, ratty carpet. The squeaking sounded like the music from Psycho right before the chick gets stabbed. That felt appropriate somehow. I grabbed the banister, but it wobbled, and I was afraid I'd tear it off.
When I was a kid, Hilltop Farm had been nice. Not comfortable or homey, but fancy. Intimidating. It was the King family's way of telling the whole county to suck it since we were richer than all of them put together.
Now everything looked worn-out and ragged, like the whole place had a terminal illness. Slightly creepy and seriously shabby. If that Downton Abbey show had been a horror movie, it would look like Hilltop Farm.
I came to the second floor landing—a long, dark hallway with lots of doors and a big grandfather clock that swore it was five in the morning. The moans definitely got louder here. I closed my eyes and listened, following the sound to the first door. Aunt Judith's door.
"Look, girls! Jack's back!"
I jumped as a thin, shaky voice fluttered from the darkness at the end of the hall. An old woman with wild eyes and dirty white hair came next, sort of flitting out of the shadows. She pushed her face right into mine. Her smile got so big I worried it might split her pale, wrinkled skin. "Everything will be just fine now." She looked down at three old dolls she carried in a headlock in her right arm. "He'll fix everything!" Even with a smile, she seemed haunted.
It took me a few seconds to recognize her. "Aunt Dorothy?"
Great-Aunt Dorothy—or what was left of her—kissed my cheek with cold, waxy lips. I flinched a little. It wasn't exactly appealing; she smelled weird too. Thirteen years had been even harder on her than the house.
"Oh, Jack, we've missed you so!" Her gentle Southern accent smoothed out her quivery voice. "I always knew you'd come back! I kept every photo and letter you ever sent." She waved a brown leather photo album, jerking the dolls in her other arm up and down.
"Aunt Dorothy?" I used my most soothing voice—which was a little hard with the storm outside. "I'm not Jack. That's your brother. My granddad." Even after all these years, thinking of Granddaddy was like putting a big fist in my chest. "I'm Branson. Bran-son."
I don't think she even heard me. The haunted look on her face got worse. "Jack, I'm sorry about Fiaunna. I didn't know!" Aunt Dorothy was more confused than a meth head waking up in a crack house. Grandma's name was Marguerite.
Speaking of confused, I still had no idea how I'd gotten here. Or who had been moaning. Must have been Aunt Dorothy.
She grabbed my hand and squeezed harder each time she shrieked about Jack and Fiaunna. Her dolls and photo album hit the floor then bounced down the stairs. Aunt Dorothy cried out, and then let go of me to run after her book and dolls.
"Now, Dorothy, you just calm yourself down." A deep voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Lightning flashed above the skylight in the entryway, turning heavy shadows into a broad-shouldered figure.
Abraham!
Another flash came. As the lightning lit him up, a big smile creased the dark skin of his face. Looking at that smile, I felt like Christmas had come.
Aunt Dorothy's shrieks faded to ragged whimpers. I realized the moans had stopped. Must have been her. Abraham turned the light on, and she ran down to him. "Jack's back!"
Abraham winked at me then took Aunt Dorothy's hand in his. With his other hand, he reached up and touched her cheek. That calmed her down even more. Seeing such a gentle touch come from such big, rough hands surprised me a little. I needed to learn to caress women like that. They loved strong, gentle hands.
"This is Mr. Branson, your great-nephew. Mr. Jack's grandson. Remember? He's come to live with us for a while." His low voice never sounded loud, but somehow it rumbled above the storm.
Aunt Dorothy's eyelids fluttered. She looked at me with milky eyes that didn't show any recognition. Finally, she smiled and giggled like an old-school Southern belle. Seriously pathetic.
"Pleased to meet you, sir."
Poor lady. Not confused. Straight-up crazy.
She looked at the photo album and the dolls scattered on the stairs. "My girls!" she said. "Those poor, poor girls! They were moaning tonight. Did you hear them?"
"It's all right," Abraham said. "Your dolls are going to be just fine." He stepped forward, but he moved in slow motion. Even though he smiled, I saw pain in every movement. Thirteen years hadn't been good to him either.
"Let me get that." I went down to the stairs to get Aunt Dorothy's stuff. I was still really sore, but I didn't want Abraham to have to do it, so I grabbed the photo album and dolls—naked Barbie, decaying Raggedy Anne, and an ugly baby with uneven hacked-off hair.
"Here you go." I gave them to Aunt Dorothy, who clutched everything to her chest like someone might steal them.
"Don't tell Judith about the letters," she whispered. "She gets so mad at me."
"Now, Dorothy, why don't you head on into the kitchen," Abraham said. "I just got here and boiled you an egg—freshly laid from by my biggest hen since yours aren't doing much lately."
She nodded and flitted toward the kitchen.
"Sorry about that," Abraham said. "Dorothy must have startled you plenty."
"A little. What happened to her?" She'd always been a little flighty and different, but not like this.
Abraham sighed and shook his head. "Years ain't been good to her."
Uh, yeah. You could say that. I started to ask about the moaning, but Abraham smiled at me and opened his arms.
"Now, you come here for a proper welcome home."
I hesitated. Something stuck in me. Being around him reminded me just how far I'd gone away. Had Aunt Judith told him what I'd done and why I was coming back? My face grew hot with shame. He had to know—someone must have told him. For the first time in years, I blushed. Next to him, I felt so dirty. So cheap.
He pulled me into a big hug. Peace and security washed over me; all my doubts and worries got lost in soft flannel and the smell of Irish Spring and Old Spice. Those arms had sheltered me back when I was a brand-new orphan so scared I couldn't talk. He'd been my rock. All-knowing, all-powerful. Abraham could do everything and fix anything, including me. A hug had been his answer to everything. And it had usually been the right answer.
After not long enough, he stepped back and put his brown hands on my shoulders. His skin always reminded me of the rich, dark earth he liked to work in. "Let me see you now—all grown up and so handsome. I bet you broke about every heart in New York City!"
I looked away from his beaming eyes. Maybe he didn't know. Either way, Abraham wouldn't like my romantic history. I tended to break more rules than hearts. So I fake-smiled and shrugged. "Well, you know what Granddaddy said, 'Gentlemen never kiss and tell.'"
That triggered another little flash from last night. I went to the hot Nashville girl's party. I'm pretty sure black lace was involved at some point. And drinking. Lots of drinking.
"That's right." He nodded. "That's Mr. Jack all over. Real old-school Southern gentleman." Abraham's smile faded. "So, how you feeling today? Sheriff said you're lucky to be alive after last night."
Sheriff? That word hit me like a kick to the gut. After my last adventure a few weeks ago, I'd barely missed joining the fine young men at Riker's Island Juvenile Detention Facility. Luckily, I was a minor with an amazing lawyer, and since my teacher was a legal adult, the judge put most of the blame on her. So I got off with therapy, probation, and banishment to Aunt Judith's custody. But if I got in trouble again . . .
I wiped sweat away from my forehead; this room had gotten really hot. Forget about the moaning. "So, uh, what happened last night?"