their disgust at the idea they’ve settled on as an explanation. The
repairman stops as if he is going to say something, then shakes his head and
keeps moving.
My son? What could
he…Oh my gosh. August!
I run into August’s
room to find him sitting in a chair with his feet up on the bed, a notebook in
his lap, writing furiously.
“ August!” I run over to him and wrap my arms around him, hugging
the author so tightly I feel his muscles contract beneath my grip. I brush the
wild white hair to the side and look at his eyes. They seem fine. Putting my
hand on his cheek, I attempt to connect with some part of him not swallowed by
addiction or obsession. “Are you alright?”
“ Silver hornet, Miss Carrie,” he smiles, his eyes down.
“ You are high,” I scold. “Oh, August, how could you? I’ve tried so
hard to watch over you and you sneak off and dope yourself up again. You’re
going to die and I’m going to lose a big piece of my heart when it happens.
Don’t you know that…”
“ I’m not high,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face so I can
get a better look in his eyes. They look fine to me, vibrant green and
piercing. “I’m working with my words. I went for a walk to clear the air and
some words came to me. I needed to pencil them. But those men were making so
much rackety rack the words were packing bags. I promise. I’m not high.”
“ I believe you,” I remark, hugging him a second time. He talks in
the same odd cadence he writes in, but only when he is writing. I’m sure he
wants me to leave him to his words as much as he wished the workmen away.
I fish my phone out of my purse, subconsciously checking the credit card, and
start to text Jim.
“ Please, Miss Carrie. Can I have ten minutes before the alarm? I
need ten more minutes with my words.”
“ Everyone is scared, August. We have all been looking for you. You
can write on Mr. Eliott’s private jet when we fly to Boston. But I have to tell
Dr. DeLong where you are. I can’t let him believe you’re still out there. It
would be like a lie.”
“ He’s the lie,” August looks down at the bruises DeLong’s shots
have left on his arms. “I shoot better than him when I’m riding the thunder
horse. 10 minutes. Please?”
Against my better
judgment, I pat him on the shoulder and leave him with his words. I change my
shoes and check my specialty pass for Marcus’ jet. Gently, I peer in to
see August still scribbling away. I go into the bathroom, closing the door but
listening for any hint of a sound revealing the young man is running away.
Safe and alone, I wrap my arm around my shoulders, then lean and kiss my
forearm gently, allowing my lips to rub against the skin.
“ Yes, Jordan,” I say in my moment of fantasy, squeezing my shoulder
and nuzzling my nose against my arm, kissing myself again and again, just like
I did in 7th grade before the big slumber party where Stephanie Jenkins
promised we would play “Spin the Bottle” and I practiced for that first kiss.
“I’ve wanted you for the longest time. I always knew you would be mine.”
I’m not sure how
much time goes by as I fantasize and French kiss my forearm, but eventually I
have to put a stop to this and get back on track. It’s so stupid, I tell
myself. I’ve got Marcus Eliott, media mogul, billionaire and darling of
the jet set eating out of my hands, and I’m going to toss him to the curb for
Jordan Davis — a man with much less money, few holdings and power only because
his websites guarantee it. I’m giving up “solid as a rock” for “floating in the
wind” and I can’t help myself.
One final arm kiss
and I bid fantasy Jordan goodbye and send the text to Jim that August is fine
and all will be well. Of course, no matter what the text said - the next half
hour of clomping bodyguard boots, Dr. DeLong’s protracted examination, and a
game of twenty questions was
repairman stops as if he is going to say something, then shakes his head and
keeps moving.
My son? What could
he…Oh my gosh. August!
I run into August’s
room to find him sitting in a chair with his feet up on the bed, a notebook in
his lap, writing furiously.
“ August!” I run over to him and wrap my arms around him, hugging
the author so tightly I feel his muscles contract beneath my grip. I brush the
wild white hair to the side and look at his eyes. They seem fine. Putting my
hand on his cheek, I attempt to connect with some part of him not swallowed by
addiction or obsession. “Are you alright?”
“ Silver hornet, Miss Carrie,” he smiles, his eyes down.
“ You are high,” I scold. “Oh, August, how could you? I’ve tried so
hard to watch over you and you sneak off and dope yourself up again. You’re
going to die and I’m going to lose a big piece of my heart when it happens.
Don’t you know that…”
“ I’m not high,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face so I can
get a better look in his eyes. They look fine to me, vibrant green and
piercing. “I’m working with my words. I went for a walk to clear the air and
some words came to me. I needed to pencil them. But those men were making so
much rackety rack the words were packing bags. I promise. I’m not high.”
“ I believe you,” I remark, hugging him a second time. He talks in
the same odd cadence he writes in, but only when he is writing. I’m sure he
wants me to leave him to his words as much as he wished the workmen away.
I fish my phone out of my purse, subconsciously checking the credit card, and
start to text Jim.
“ Please, Miss Carrie. Can I have ten minutes before the alarm? I
need ten more minutes with my words.”
“ Everyone is scared, August. We have all been looking for you. You
can write on Mr. Eliott’s private jet when we fly to Boston. But I have to tell
Dr. DeLong where you are. I can’t let him believe you’re still out there. It
would be like a lie.”
“ He’s the lie,” August looks down at the bruises DeLong’s shots
have left on his arms. “I shoot better than him when I’m riding the thunder
horse. 10 minutes. Please?”
Against my better
judgment, I pat him on the shoulder and leave him with his words. I change my
shoes and check my specialty pass for Marcus’ jet. Gently, I peer in to
see August still scribbling away. I go into the bathroom, closing the door but
listening for any hint of a sound revealing the young man is running away.
Safe and alone, I wrap my arm around my shoulders, then lean and kiss my
forearm gently, allowing my lips to rub against the skin.
“ Yes, Jordan,” I say in my moment of fantasy, squeezing my shoulder
and nuzzling my nose against my arm, kissing myself again and again, just like
I did in 7th grade before the big slumber party where Stephanie Jenkins
promised we would play “Spin the Bottle” and I practiced for that first kiss.
“I’ve wanted you for the longest time. I always knew you would be mine.”
I’m not sure how
much time goes by as I fantasize and French kiss my forearm, but eventually I
have to put a stop to this and get back on track. It’s so stupid, I tell
myself. I’ve got Marcus Eliott, media mogul, billionaire and darling of
the jet set eating out of my hands, and I’m going to toss him to the curb for
Jordan Davis — a man with much less money, few holdings and power only because
his websites guarantee it. I’m giving up “solid as a rock” for “floating in the
wind” and I can’t help myself.
One final arm kiss
and I bid fantasy Jordan goodbye and send the text to Jim that August is fine
and all will be well. Of course, no matter what the text said - the next half
hour of clomping bodyguard boots, Dr. DeLong’s protracted examination, and a
game of twenty questions was
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