Darkheart

The Past: Law & Order

Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Mike was up in his business again, as usual; the stupid resort job was nothing but soul-sucking boredom; and those girls (Crystal and Jessica, at least he'd learned their names) thought he was a pervert. And maybe he was; that was the worst part of it--he didn't know. Was he? Was something wrong with him? Like, really, really wrong? The truth was, he didn't know what he felt toward that girl, that younger one with her fragile shape and features. He'd told himself it wasn't anything sexual; he'd hooked up with plenty of girls, ones his own age and even a little older sometimes, and whatever he felt about Jess was not the same as he'd felt with the others. There was something that beat strangely inside of him when he thought of her, something that flurried, caused actual discomfort. And there was a palpable urge to be near her, to see her. He sat around and wanted to be in her presence, felt sullen that he wasn't, even though the few times he'd been close enough to her, he'd made an idiot of himself.

What exactly did he want with her? To talk to her, alone.Yes, he thought he wanted that. If he could get rid of the sister, if he could just show Jess who he was in a way and place free of judgment. Wanting to talk with her didn't make him a pervert--talk with her and just . . . just tell her that he wanted her to trust him. That was part of it, definitely; he wanted her to know that he was there, that she could rely on him. He wanted her to rely on him, to need him. To want to need him. Oh, it was something like that. Like she was a bird that had fallen from a nest, and she needed someone to take care of her--he wanted her to know that he could do that, if she would let him. And he could just kind of hold her, and she would . . . she would like it. She would want him to. So it wasn't something gross. Not really. It was kind, good, even noble . . . something like that.

Whatever he attempted to tell himself, though, he couldn't escape the fact that something had stirred in him when her hand had touched his, that something had plummeted within, dropped through what felt like a straight tunnel from his throat to his groin. The contact, her fingers brushing his--it frightened him because of the unexpected sensation it had sparked. Exploring that sensation was a step he was sure he shouldn't take.

Still . . . no. It probably wasn't sexual . . . couldn't be . . . hopefully. And yet, it wasn't entirely innocent, either; he instinctively knew that, even if he couldn't actually admit it.

Why was this happening to him? This discrepancy between his brain and his body---the cognizance of what was wrong versus the anatomy's indifference to it--chilled him. He'd never been so at odds with himself. What did all of it mean?

If only he could get her alone.

Maybe he could find a way--

No, no. That train of thought was dangerous. And yet . . . thoughts themselves weren't actions. He could imagine having her alone, right? That didn't hurt anybody, no matter what thought-Kevin did to thought-Jess. And who would be any the wiser? Wouldn't it get him through some of the more boring hours at his job? Because really, five weeks in, Kevin was absolutely suffocating under the crushing ennui. People came in and out at random intervals all day, but even so, they hardly talked to him, saw him more as a piece of the display than as a person, and although Kevin had originally figured the less contact the better, the lack of interaction made the time seem twice as tedious.

It was Sunday, the Fourth of July, to be exact, and not that he had any special plans or anything, but he was glad they'd told him he could go home at two. He'd probably avoid his own house and go to Topher's dad's--the man always worked the town fireworks display and wouldn't be home all day, leaving his son to do as he wished. Most likely, they'd hang in the garage, smoke and drink, then head over to the Maritime Festival.