Ephemeral (The Countenance) (31 page)

“Why should I keep Wes with me at all times?” I don’t bother hiding my newfound intrigue. “Is he zombie repellant?” It was either anger or sarcasm, and I went for both.

“On occasion.” Jones pulls his lips into a line, leans back into the chair and glares into him. “On occasion Wes is just that.”

Something tells me he’s not.

After an awkward day of familial bonding or lack thereof, Jen insists we embark on the next torture session on her list, otherwise known as our double date.

Blaine drives us out in his gleaming black SUV that’s still clinging for dear life to the new car scent. I bet, once the expensive aroma of decomposing leather fully dissipates, he’ll simply roll into the dealership and pick up new model. Back home Wes drove an old beat-up Ford pickup with the fender cockeyed from a formal introduction with a telephone pole.

My thoughts drift back to the family—the new father in his argyle sweater over a dress shirt and tie, the gold, glittering broach on my new mother’s scarf.  I’m not sure what great mind thought it was a brilliant idea to make me wealthy beyond imagination and not give me Mom or my sisters. I shake my head at the fatal oversight. Then again, if the prerequisite is to die a horrible death, I’d rather they never come, at least, not for a good long while.

“Laken’s pledging this week.” Wes glances at me with a glimmer of pride.

“Already?” Jen smirks as if I were markedly late to the demonic party.

“On Tuesday?” Blaine ticks his head toward the driver’s window as though it were a twitch.

“Tuesday’s New Moon,” Jen says. “So, it’s obviously Tuesday.”

“God help us all, adding another Anderson to the roster. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Blaine glances in the rear view mirror and narrows his eyes in on mine. There’s something there, something nefarious, dark, something a little more sinister than a girl named Jax. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say. “I’m glad you’ll be there.” More like, thank God Wes will be there. He’d better be there. I’m adopting a new motto, no Wes, no go.

“I’ll be there.” Wes brings my hand to his lips and seals a kiss over my knuckles.

Blaine glances back and leers into Wes as he holds me. I really don’t care if Jen doesn’t allow him to kiss her hand because I plan on being on Jen’s side when the dissolution hits the fan.

“You missed the turnoff.” Jen groans for added effect.

“Wes wanted to go to the Lodge.”

“I don’t want to go to the Lodge.” Jen rolls out the words with a whine. “There’s nothing to do at the Lodge. They’re closed. And by the way, it’s freezing out there.”

“We’ll just have to get creative and find a way to keep warm.” He flirts. “And yes, they’re closed. That’s the point.”

Jen settles her arms tight cross her chest. She looks back and slits my throat with her pissed-off expression. Something tells me it’s going to be a very long night for the oversexed fox and the dove of holy virtue.

And if the Spectators and Fems have their way, it’ll be a very long night for Wes and me, too.

31

Love on the Lake

We ditch Blaine and Jen while they argue themselves into an impasse on whether to go left and break into the pool hall or go right for a hike. I can’t really picture Jen breaking and entering any more than I can picture her trotting off into the wilderness for a midnight expedition. I bet we find them embroiled in the same heated argument when we get back.

“Why is he still with her?” I ask, amazed at her ability to browbeat him at every turn. “I’ve seen girls back home dumped for far less offenses.”

Wes takes a moment before relaxing into me. “He’s irrevocably committed.”

“And she returns the favor by being irrevocably impossible,” I say, listening to the sound of oak leaves crushing beneath my feet. This sound, the crisp sound of nature bending to our will, is the music that once comprised the symphony of our love back home.

Wes pulls me in by the waist and gazes into me as though he were seeing my thoughts play out like a movie by simply looking at me.

“Laken, I hope this doesn’t offend you.” He whispers it out in a puff of velum. “But I really think you should get out of the habit of saying the words, ‘back home.’”

My mouth opens involuntarily. A twinge of grief spirals through me when he says it. It’s as though he jammed a stopper down my throat, and now Mom and Lacey, and the real Jen are trapped, pushing up against his invisible cork with a steady stream of pressure.

“Okay,” I whisper, but I’m not making any promises.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid for you.” The reserve of moonlight filters through the pines and glazes his hair a wash of powder blue. “I don’t want you to stop talking about it.” He glances down. “And I don’t want you to stop talking about the family you believe you’ve left behind. I just think it might be healthier to come at it from a different angle. How about something along the lines of, ‘when I had that dream?’”

“Sure,” I whisper in defeat. I suppress all thoughts of Cooper and his hyper willingness to accept my beliefs. Trying to keep Cooper down is far more difficult than submerging my family. It’s like trying to bury a pocket of air in the deepest part of the ocean—impossible, irresponsible on some level.

“So where we going?” I take in a jagged breath that mimics a cry. “Left, right?” I try to mock Jen and Blaine, but it comes out pathetic.

“I thought maybe we’d try straight.” He points to a lake in front of us and leads us toward the edge. “The grounds keeper stores a small boat nearby just in case some poor sucker gets thrown in and doesn’t know how to swim,” he says, lifting a plastic tarp hidden behind a row of tall reeds. He turns the aluminum craft over, then pushes it into the water. Wes helps me in and steadies the boat until I’m safely seated on a wood plank near the center.

As much as I hate to admit it, Jen’s right. It’s cold enough to solidify out here.

A depressive mist stretches over the sky. It covers the hint of a barely there moon and masks a thousand stars with its precipitous sorrow. A milky haze rolls in thick and low along the waterline, leaving it impossible to see three feet out.

Wesley rows us over the glossy slick as if Olympic gold depended on him.

“How big is the lake?” My voice sounds hollow. The mist settles over my palette, buttery, thick as oil.

“Quarter mile in diameter.” He spikes an oar into the water and navigates us toward an overgrowth of brush on the north side. “How’s that for privacy?” Wes suppresses a grin, his entire face lights up with the seductive implications.

I like this side of Wes, the naughty boy emerging from years of servitude in the land of please and thank you. Wes is ready to bark out orders of the on-your-knees, and would-you-like-another variety, I can tell. Of course I’d be more than willing to oblige him. I’d start each day bowing down to him—hell, in an assortment of positions if he wanted me to.

“Why would we need privacy, Wes?” I say it playful while crawling into his lap.

His dimples invert as he settles a kiss on my lips.

Wes gives a bashful half-smile as he pulls us farther into the lake with strong smooth strokes.

For a second, my thoughts revert back to Jones and the very real possibility of him shoving me into the Flanders’s resort for the mentally lame.

“You really think Jones won’t lock me away?” Why do I get the feeling I’ll be sporting a complete set of leather bracelets by morning—the kind you need a key to remove. I need more of Wesley’s kisses to release me from this grim line of thinking.

“Nope. Besides, you’re getting better. You’re far more relaxed around everyone, I can tell.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty convinced Jen or Carter aren’t going to morph into overgrown parasites anytime soon. And, believe me, I’m not following anyone into the forest ever again. Not willingly anyway. They can be on fire, and I could be holding the last bucket of water—still not going.”

“Good.” His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh.

The moon dusts over his features and blesses his smile with an iridescent glow. I’m shocked at how well he’s cultivated his charm, how his features have sharpened to perfection. It’s a miracle Kresley isn’t chasing me out of town with an ax.

“So why didn’t you tell Jones we saw the Spectators at Charity Lake?” Apparently, Wes has his limits on what he’ll share with my newfound uncle. I can’t blame him, even if it was me who let the Spectator out of the bag. But let the record show, Wesley drove me to it. He was the one who was willing to sacrifice my questionable sanity in front of Jones in the name of my wellbeing. I think I deserve an answer.

“Because I knew he’d be insane with worry.” The whites of his eyes glint out over the water. “The body shop called. The frame is cracked. Looks like it’s time for a new car.” He sinks into me with a penetrative stare. “I don’t want to talk about that stuff anymore,” he whispers.

“What do you want to talk about?” Now that cars and the walking dead are off the table, I can’t imagine where the conversation will go.

I hold his gaze and try to pretend it’s old Wesley, the one who didn’t have a car and loved me, then loved me the same when he took possession of his grandpa’s rundown truck after that.

“I made something for you,” he says it low, secretive, as if not even the wind should be clued in on what was about to happen.

“You did?” I squeal with delight over the thought. Wes could fashion a miracle with his bare hands.

“Yup.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something flat, round as his hand. It holds a waxy orange luster in this dull light. “Technically I didn’t make this for you, nature did. But, I embellished it to the best of my abilities.”

He settles a leaf in the span between us, and everything in me enlivens.

Old Wes. He’s still in there.

“You mentioned”—he starts in slow as the fog expels from his mouth like a pool of white clouds—“that, in that dream, you used to write poetry for me on the back of leaves. I found this perfect maple, and I couldn’t help but think of you.” He takes a breath. “Truth is, ever since you’ve been at Ephemeral, there’s not a whole lot more I can think about.” Wes presses into me with an unwavering stare. There’s an earnestness hovering behind those emerald lenses that says so much more. He leans in and dusts my lips with a quick kiss. “I wrote something for you on the back.”

I take the leaf and turn it over. It’s too dark to properly discern what it might say.

“I cut myself collecting it.” Wes dots me with another kiss. “I didn’t set out to write it in blood. Anyway, if you see a drop or two, it’s from yours truly. You’re worth the pint I lost in the process.” A dry laugh hums through him. “I’d bleed for you every day, Laken.” He says it serious. “It’s stupid.” He shakes the idea away as if he were embarrassed by the sentiment, as if he didn’t fully comprehend how he could go there— feel so strongly all at once.

“No, it’s beautiful.” I interlace our fingers and bring his hand to my lips. “What does it say?”

“My love burns bright for you. It’s from a poem. I can’t remember which one, but, I didn’t think you’d mind.” He lets those last few words sink out slow.

My love burns bright for you
are the words he inscribed on the leathery leaf of a rubber tree—last one he gave me. My heart seizes with both pleasure and pain.

“I don’t mind. I absolutely love this.” I hold it to my chest before tucking it beneath a threadbare rope for safekeeping. “I’m going to keep it forever.” I wrap my arms around him tight.

“I’m going to keep you forever.” His eyes glaze over with lust before he crashes his lips against mine.

We fall into a season of achingly slow kisses. Wesley indulges in the warmth of my mouth, devouring me with all of his lingual affection.

Wesley is the very best part of me. He makes me feel whole—familiar. I run my hands beneath his sweater and warm my fingers against his searing flesh. I love it like this with Wes, just the two of us—the pale eye of God watching from above.

His oven-hot hands roam down the back of my jeans and cover my bottom while we exchange a powerhouse of kisses. The boat rocks slightly and it all feels like a dream, one bliss-filled night that I never want to end. I run my fingers down to the lip of his jeans and fiddle with the button—slip down over his boxers until I hit his warm thighs.