Author's Note
Hello and welcome to my first story! Something I've had in my head for a while. Hubby suggested I write and publish my story last year, but of course I didn't do it until a fanfic friend suggested it a few weeks ago. Hehehe, what can I say? Thank you to angelmoo and jaylee for their reviews and opinions of my first chapter or so and title/summary help!
Wish I knew how to make picture links so I can show you guys what I see in my head for the story. Little details like that make it so much better, more real I think. But alas…I am technologically challenged.
Remember, the story has Dixon language and will have smut. It is a slow burn so the smut won't happen ASAP.
Any reviews or suggestions would be much loved and appreciated!
Chapter 1-Madison, GA
"Hey, Dixon! Pass me that wrench, will ya?"
Daryl huffed, stopped what he was doing, and wordlessly tossed a wrench to his co-worker, Clinton. This time, he had remembered that he was bent under the hood of a broken-down Chevy and had cautiously extricated himself first. He had learned his lesson earlier, when Clinton asked for an extra rag, glaring at the hood, as if it got him on purpose. Damn near split ma head open. He turned back around and returned to his project. Daryl kept quiet while he worked, keeping a good pace. The others were used to him by now, having met him about six months ago when he started at the garage. His gruff demeanor and curt responses didn't really win him any new friends, but Daryl was not fazed by that at all. In fact, that was the way he preferred it. He didn't need anyone. He learned a long time ago that people were not trustworthy. He only depended on himself.
He moved out of his hometown in Clayton, to get away from his past. Daryl wanted a fresh start, a new beginning. In Clayton, the Dixons were considered to be no better than the dog shit people scraped off the bottom of their shoes. Everyone in town knew of Will Dixon and his penchant for booze, easy women, and worst of all, for beating on his kids, Daryl and his brother Merle. Teachers and kind strangers tried to intervene, but the children were too fearful of their father to implicate him in their abuse, and Will truly did cut an intimidating figure. Not only did he have a large, hulking frame, but he was also mean as a snake and extremely aggressive. So, as a result, people just turned and looked the other way.
As the years passed, Merle grew into a young version of Will, getting into booze and drugs, and spending time in and out of jail. When he wasn't in jail, he dove between the legs of any woman he could find. Daryl was ashamed of his family, his background, and most of all, himself. Somehow, it was his fault that his father beat him. He must have deserved it.
Growing up in poverty, Daryl never had much. As soon as he was able, he and Merle scraped together what little money they had and hightailed it out of Clayton, moving from town to town over the years, and then ended up in the town of Madison. Although Merle wasn't the best brother a person could have, Daryl just couldn't leave Merle behind. He was family. Blood was blood. Daryl eventually realized he couldn't escape who he was. No matter which town they drifted into, he was still Daryl Dixon. A redneck asshole with an even bigger asshole for a brother. And said bigger asshole got himself thrown in jail. AGAIN.
As Daryl worked, his ears picked up part of a conversation Clinton was having with another co-worker, George. "Yeah, my liddol brother is goin' off ta college now. He's gonna make somethin' of himself," Clinton replied proudly. "Wouldn't Old Lady Sullivan need a new farmhand when he's gone?" George asked. Daryl's interest had piqued when they stopped talking about their wives and began this new topic of conversation.
He had wanted to supplement his income since his garage job was only part-time, but he had no idea where to look. This job sounded like he had the skills for it. Daryl was not adverse to hard work. Dropping out of high school, he knew he was meant to toil with his hands. He wasn't smart enough for school. His father always said so. Merle also added in his opinion as well. Over the years, he heard how Dixons were too dumb to keep up with the other students and how they shouldn't waste their time being cooped up in school.
Daryl discreetly wandered closer to where the other two men were gossiping. He nonchalantly inquired about the farmhand position. "Old Lady Sullivan hirin'?" Daryl murmured. Both men immediately stopped talking and turned to look at Daryl, slack-jawed. In the whole time since Daryl started there, they never saw him actively initiating a conversation. Hell, never mind initiating. He didn't even participate. Mostly the man just kept to himself, shrugging or grunting at them in reply to a question. Chewing on his thumbnail, while looking at the ground, Daryl continued, "Imma lookin' fer some part-time work."
Clinton recovered quickly from his surprise. "Yeah, ma brother Patrick is leavin' for college in two weeks. He's been Mrs. Sullivan's farmhand fer 'bout four years. She only needs someone ta help her part-time, pay is pretty good, and while ya there workin', she feeds ya. Shit, her cookin' is well-known 'round these parts, 'specially the pies and cakes she makes for the church bake sales. Always fetches the highest prices," he added with a grin. Clinton offered to give Daryl her phone number so that he could ask about the job position. Daryl gave a quick, appreciative nod.
The work day dragged on and finally, it was time to close up shop. Clinton and George waved to one another and walked quickly to their own vehicles, while the boss, Dale, locked up the shop. Daryl grunted at the three other men and patted his shirt pocket, as he walked out to his truck, feeling the slip of paper with Mrs. Sullivan's contact information.
Once he got home, he showered, enjoying the feel of the hot water, and afterwards, changed into a clean pair of sleep pants and a wife beater. Even though he slept alone, he always kept a shirt on, to cover the scars that his father left him with. The old scars crisscrossed his back, as a permanent reminder of his degradation. Will always seemed to enjoy beating on Daryl, even more so after Merle left to join the army. He didn't tell anyone about his shame, not even Merle.
He was dead tired and glad he was off tomorrow, though days off never brought in money. Sucking in a breath, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed Mrs. Sullivan's number, while his stomach did a nervous flop. He really wanted that job. He really needed that job. It would help him build up his savings again. Daryl had a dream of getting his own motorcycle. He relished the freedom he had when he was cruising down the road with the wind blowing through his shaggy hair.
But that dream had constantly been placed on the backburner time and time again. He was doing all he could to support himself and his sorry-ass brother. Merle was always in-between jobs. And when he managed to find a job, he would screw up and land himself back in jail. It was up to Daryl to take responsibility for both of their livelihoods.
The phone picked up on the other end after about three rings. A soft voice with a southern drawl spoke, "Hello?" Daryl cleared his throat and asked, "Mrs. Sullivan? I'm Daryl. I work with Clinton, Patrick's older brother, at the garage and I'm callin' 'bout the farmhand job."
"Pleased to meet you, Daryl," she replied with a smile on her face, though Daryl couldn't see it. "Let me tell you what I'm looking for..."
The next day, after a meager breakfast of pickled pigs' feet and coffee, Daryl took his rusty truck out to the address he was given. Mrs. Sullivan wanted to meet him and talk to him in person. Daryl was kicking himself for being so anxious. He nibbled on a thumbnail as he went over in his head what he thought she would ask him and what he would say.
Shortly, he came to Fairbourne Road and turned right at the black mailbox that had 'Sullivan' written on the side. He looked around as he drove down the dirt road towards her farmhouse. Majestic oak trees lined both sides of the dirt road. Daryl couldn't help but admire the beauty that surrounded him. His favorite place to be was in the woods and these trees reminded him of that peaceful place. It always had a calming effect on him and he was starting to feel more at ease as he drove on. Lost in his thoughts, the two-mile drive was over rather quickly.
After a few minutes, Daryl parked his Ford and got out, closing the door behind him. The two-story farmhouse appeared to be clean and well-kept, though some areas of the soft yellow paint had weathered over the years. The house sat on a very massive piece of property, as far as he could see. A large, fragrant magnolia tree stood off to the left of the house, though his nose picked up the intoxicating scent of gardenias first. There were two good-sized trees, one on each side of the end of the walkway leading up the steps to the front porch.
When he got to the front of the house, he took a deep breath and rang the bell. The door opened a few seconds later and he found himself looking down, through the screen, into the soft, inquisitive blue eyes of Mrs. Sullivan. She smiled. "Hello Daryl. Won't you come in?" she invited, opening the screen door for him and stepping back, waving him in with a sweep of her arm.
While Mrs. Sullivan was closing both doors, Daryl took a quick look around. It looked like a typical grandmother's house. Everything looked neat and tidy and very clean. To the right, there was a comfortable-looking sofa and loveseat in the middle of the living room, a nice-sized kitchen on the left side, towards the back, and pictures of family everywhere. On his left, stood a grand dining table with matching chairs. It looked nothing like the tiny, dirty house he grew up in, with mismatched, secondhand furniture, empty beer bottles laying around, and bullet holes in the walls. Will loved to drink and parked himself on the beaten-up chair, shooting at various knickknacks around the house as target practice. Unfortunately, his aim was way off when he was drunk, which was quite frequently. Daryl wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a real family, not the fucked-up one he was dealt.
"Please, sit down," Mrs. Sullivan gestured to the plush sofa. Daryl sat, and his eyes wandered over the numerous photos that were on display on the end table closest to him. He noticed a photo of the old lady when she was much younger, posing with a man and a little girl and boy. Daryl's eyes picked up on a photo of a young man who sat on a vintage motorcycle. It looked like a vintage Harley, Daryl regarded with some envy.
Then he noticed pictures of three dark-haired little girls who appeared to be the same age. In another photo, a young lady and man were each holding babies in their arms; the woman with two while the man had one. His eyes hovered over a picture of the old lady surrounded by three beautiful girls who looked to be teenagers, and…..wait….shit….were they…?
As if she knew what he was thinking, Mrs. Sullivan spoke. "Those girls are my granddaughters. They're triplets," she explained with a smile. "They are a little older now. That picture is from about 10 years ago. All three live out in California. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with them last year and the girls were just here last week for my birthday."
T'hell I say ta that? Daryl grunted out a reply, "That's nice."
Daryl was given a tour of the property and Mrs. Sullivan had gone over in greater detail what exactly was expected of the position. He would come in early, about 7 am and leave after supper. Mrs. Sullivan provided breakfast, lunch, and supper at the main house. There was a smaller house that was unoccupied towards the back of the property. His duties mainly consisted of heavy labor, things that she was unable to do, like chop firewood, repair the fence, paint, clean out the stable and henhouse, etc. Daryl was to help with the gardening and weeding as well. Even though it was a tiny garden, Mrs. Sullivan could use the help. It wasn't always easy for the 86-year-old woman to get up from the ground. Her land also had a few peach trees, a couple of lemon trees, and a small area where some pecan trees grew. She wouldn't be able to get up in the trees, but Daryl could.
When there was a plentiful harvest, Daryl would be delivering the extra food to her neighbors, who in turn, gave him their bounty in trade. Usually, there was more than what Mrs. Sullivan could use, so years ago, she arranged a pact with her neighbors. She would get cabbages, carrots, and broccoli from the Peters' Family down the road and they in turn would receive pecans, lemons, and peaches. Sometimes, when her hens produced a great quantity of eggs, she would give some to Mrs. Peters as well. What wasn't traded would have been canned and used up during the year. Nothing was ever wasted.
On their way to the stable, Daryl noticed they passed by a storage shed, but Mrs. Sullivan never mentioned anything about it, so he did not bother to ask. It probably wasn't anything important.
Finally, they came upon the last stop of the tour; the small stable where two horses were housed. Daryl would also be responsible for their care. The horses were too old for riding, so Daryl wouldn't need to ride them, which suited him just fine. Truth be told, he was a little wary of horses, though he appreciated their grace and form. Growing up poor, he really didn't get to experience riding and include that in his comfort zone.
Mrs. Sullivan studied the blue-eyed man before her. Daryl nibbled on his thumbnail, and growing increasingly uncomfortable with her scrutiny, began to shift his weight from foot to foot. Now, this here's where she sees she don't want me….thinkin' of how ta get rid of me. He stared at the ground, not wanting to see the old woman's rejection of him. His eyes narrowed and a scowl began to appear on his rugged face.
She saw something in Daryl she couldn't explain. He hadn't said much when he was here, hardly making eye contact, nodding and asking a question or two. Mrs. Sullivan had always been a great judge of character. Her gut was never wrong. She looked at the dirty man standing in front of her. This was a decent, honest man who had been through many hardships. He did not appear to be a warm person, but she saw a glimpse of the real man behind the barrier that he raised. It was his eyes. He rarely made eye contact with her, but when he did, she believed she saw into his very soul. In his eyes, she saw kindness and loyalty.
Daryl reminded her of a stray dog she came across one day, hiding under a bush, when she was leaving church. The tiny, pitiful thing was shaking so bad from fear, but he barked and snapped at her as if he were as fierce as a lion. The poor dog was trying to protect himself. After not being able to locate the owner, she kept the dog with her. Napolean became her best friend for nearly 15 years. He never left her side, except at the end, when he got sick. There was so much love he gave and she was grateful she got to share in it. Her friends told her what a wonderful person she was, to save a stray dog. But in actuality, she thought it was the other way around. That little dog saved her.
Mrs. Sullivan sensed the same kind of self-preservation in Daryl as was in her beloved friend. She decided to give him a chance.
"Do you hunt, Daryl?" she inquired.
"S'ma'am," he mumbled, wondering why the hell she wanted to know.
"This farm sits on about 20 acres of land, about 15 of it is covered in woods. You're welcome to hunt here if you'd like, when you're not working," she offered. "Two other farms sit on the border of a lake that we all share. There is plenty of fish too. My husband was the only one who was interested in hunting and fishing, but he's been long gone now," she added wistfully.
Daryl couldn't believe his ears. Did she want him to work for her? In addition to getting $600 for working 3 days a week and getting 3 meals each workday, he also had access to new hunting grounds. He could feel his trigger finger just itching to get the chance to hold his crossbow again. It had been awhile since he last hunted and even longer since he fished. His uncle Jess owned land, but it was about a 2-hour drive away, so he didn't go too often. Hunting trips were infrequent.
"So, when can you start?"