A/N: I am finally back in the U.S.A. - wow it feels GREAT to be home!
A/N2: Still grateful to Persepholily for her assistance with everything, including her support of this story!
A/N3: Still forever indebted to my most amazing beta, the insanely talented Marina Black. She has posted a flash fiction piece to Tablo as part of a writing contest, and you should totally go read it and like it (it's called "Colorblind"). I have a piece up as well, called "Death and the Woman" and would also love to hear your comments and feedback on that (since it's NOT fanfiction).
A/N4: Obviously I'd also still love to hear your thoughts on this piece, too! :0)
Part 6
By now Dylan was so habituated to the drive between White Pine Bay and Portland it barely registered. If anything, it gave him time to think, which – on days like today – was both good and bad. First, of course, was the joy of retuning to Emma. She reminded him of those time-lapse videos from biology classes in high school, the way she seemed to grow a little stronger and a little more alive each time. Every visit made his heart swell with pride, a stupid reaction but uncontrollable.
Second, and much more distressing, was the persistent sensation of being stretched too thin. Chick's deadline was here and Dylan had no cash to offer. He'd kept his ear out for something fast and dangerous – the kind of work that would pay at least a bit of the debt – confident a show of good faith on his part and some fast talking could earn him another extension… but there was a shocking lack of criminal activity around town these days. He had no choice: he'd have to resort to the backup plan, offering Chick Hogan partnership in his tiny black market marijuana business. Chick would accept because who wouldn't, with such a big potential payout? …But the idea made Dylan's skin crawl. He wanted zero long-term relationship with his neighbor. A silent business partner who no doubt considered "silent" as more of an optional thing? Dylan would never be rid of the man.
And Romero would be livid. Dylan sighed and inched forward in line at a traffic light, turning his windshield wipers to intermittent to combat a sudden drizzle. The sheriff was up at the farm constantly now, poking around, asking about irrigation and harvesting and the difference between greenhouses and grow houses until even the easy-going Gunner rolled his eyes. There was nothing to be done: Romero had been burned by the feud between the Fords and the Wilsons, and had no interest in repeating those mistakes. The only reason he had let Dylan raid Jodi's barn for plants was because Dylan had agreed to a much more involved partnership. It was a bit like having Zane around again, though – a lot of interest in proving who had the biggest dick, but not enough knowledge to back it up. Well, that's not quite true, Dylan admitted as he flicked on his turn signal and passed a pristine Saab 900 and a kayak-laden Subaru, At least Romero is smart.
Unfortunately, the only real distraction facing the sheriff – the latest mysterious White Pine Bay death – was also keeping Dylan up at night. Police had pulled an old maroon sedan from the water, with East Coast tags and a decomposing body in the trunk. Thanks to the receptionist at the police station and her waitress girlfriend from the diner just outside of town, everyone knew the body was a woman, that the only way to identify her had been DNA, and that there had been no matches in the federal missing persons database yet. It was feeling more and more like a cold case, which had Romero in a very bad mood.
As for Dylan, he could barely look at Norman right now without wondering…maybe? But then he felt like a shitty brother. There had been no motel guests from that far away, and besides – the last time he'd suspected Norman of killing someone it had turned out the teen was helping Bradley Martin flee town. So... maybe Norman deserved the benefit of the doubt this time.
And an evaluation by a medical professional. Screw Norma and her paranoia over doctors, there had been too much stalling.
He pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, shook his head to clear it of all the grey clinging worry, and turned his thoughts back to Emma. At least he had this sanctuary. The orderlies and nurses smiled at him as he entered; he knew several of them by name at this point, and nodded quick greetings here and there. Jorge, one of the therapists who worked with Emma, stopped him as he rounded the last corner of the main hallway.
"Dylan? Que pasa, man?"
"I'm just visiting. Why? Is everything okay?" Jorge had a funny look to him. Dread exploded inside Dylan, a hard fast punch to the gut.
"Yeah, Emma's fine. She went home this morning. Didn't anyone tell you?"
Dylan swallowed. Refused to check his phone for the messages he knew weren't there, because checking would have looked fucking desperate. He half-nodded instead. Smiled.
"I guess I, uh… I got the day wrong. Sorry. Thanks, though."
He texted. No answer.
He called. Straight to voicemail.
...He stopped trying. It hurt less that way.
At least he could be more honest with Norma. When she asked about Emma a few days later and he snarled back that he didn't know, he wasn't her damn boyfriend, who gave a fuck… it was mostly true. True enough that Norma just raised her eyebrows and went back to sighing and dusting and talking half-to-herself about Norman's erratic behavior.
Dylan walked out on her mid-soliloquy. It was nothing new, so why listen? Instead he searched out his brother. The motel office felt haunted by Emma – by the absence of her – but Norman was there at his desk, balancing books or studying or something. He looked up at the intrusion, watching Dylan run his hands along the counter, fiddle with the bell, straighten some brochures…
"Hello, Dylan. How's the farm?" he finally asked, although he did not bother getting up.
"Fine. It's fine. The roof's done on the barn, which is good. We need to move the plants so we can get started fixing up the cabin." There had been a short, but very real, period in which he'd started to see potential in the place. A time when he'd been excited to turn it into an actual home, instead of just a shack where he let Gunner crash. Now he felt a distinct lack of motivation.
"You and Gunner are working on it alone?"
"Yeah, well, for now yes. But actually Remo's on his way back up from L.A. so…"
"That's good. You'll have a full house then."
"I guess." Dylan paused and looked up, finally paying attention to Norman's words. "I hadn't really thought about where to put everyone."
Norman shrugged, serious. "They could stay here at the motel, although you know Mother will expect them to pay. And she still hates what you do, legal or not."
"Thanks for that reminder. You know, it's not like I asked for all this, it just kind of… happened."
"I understand." Norman leaned back in his chair, picking up a pen and tapping it against the edge of his laptop as he contemplated Dylan. "May I… May I ask you a question?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"Have you ever been… you know, scared… of Mother?"
"Scared of her?" Dylan thought about that. He rested his elbows on the counter, clasped his hands together around the service bell, and watched Norman. He thought back as far as he could: to those first days of Sam Bates as a stepfather and the birth of a little brother and the subsequent discovery that love looked and felt a very specific way, and it was a way nobody had ever looked or felt toward him.
"No, I don't think 'scared' is a good word for it," he finally answered. "…Wait. Are you afraid of her?"
Norman was quick to justify himself. Too quick. "Not afraid exactly. More like… I… It's hard to explain."
"Okay, well now I'm curious. Did something happen?"
"I don't know. I think, maybe… I think she might have hurt someone. Badly." Norman stood up, pacing, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his cardigan.
Dylan tried to stay calm. "Who? Norman, what the hell are you talking about?"
"No. Never mind, forget I said anything. It's silly. I'm being ridiculous. I have to go." Norman rushed past Dylan and out the office door before Dylan could ask any more questions.
"Honey, I gotta cut you off," Liz Cultee announced gently to the good-looking drunk currently doing his best not to fall off his barstool. He grunted and apologized, and she grinned as she flicked her straight black hair over her shoulder while collecting shot glasses from near his elbow, tossing them into a bin to be washed later. She was pretty sure she was at least two decades older than her customer, but when the next-best-looking man in the place was Big Roy – whose daughter had just given birth to twins, and whose beard still had crumbs from dinner stuck in it – Liz was inclined to consider age just a number.
"Annie... Can I call you Annie? ...Annie, I may need to make a, a, a phone call."
"Well, my name's Liz. But you're the politest drunk I've seen in a long time, so… sure, you can call me whatever the hell you want." She paused, biting at her lip, uncertain. Ah, fuck it, she decided. Couldn't hurt to try... "Know what? You can call me whenever the hell you want, too." She slid a blank receipt toward him with her number scrawled on the back, and watched as he peered at the writing as if trying to make it stop dancing around on the paper.
"N-no. I… I have his number. I don't need more."
His. Figured he'd be gay. "Well, listen, if you ever get tired of boys, go ahead and give me a ring," Liz tried again. He was really damn cute. It was the eyes, she decided. Normally she preferred the dark eyes of her people, but these carried a kind of pain that tugged at her heart.
"No… 's not… not like that. Annie – can I call you Annie?" He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the sticky coolness of the bar. "…Damn."
"Oh, shit. I should have cut you off a long time ago, shouldn't I?" Quiet drunks were the worst, always so tough to gauge. They just sat there, not drawing attention until they passed out and hit their head on the way down… or until they hauled off and shot someone. Liz sighed and beckoned Jared over. The waiter agreed to watch things while she dealt with the kid, and she removed her black apron before slipping around the corner of the bar.
"What's your name, honey?" she asked as she draped his arm over her shoulders and headed for the door.
"Dylan."
"Okay Dylan, let's get you some fresh air." She settled him into one of the broken patio chairs on the small front porch, and handed him a bottle of water. Once he seemed less likely to vomit up those last three shots of tequila, she leaned against a nearby porch column with arms folded over her chest. "So, want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Really? Because in my experience, drinking like you were doing… That kind of drinking comes with a story."
"No."
"Well okay, but – "
"… It's my family. They're so fucked up." The words tumbled out but he seemed to hate himself for speaking, as though release and shame warred inside him. "And not, not like regular families, because I know all families are fucked up but I think my, my brother did something really bad. Like, terrible. But he said our mom did it and they're basically the same person... and they're both so damn twisted I don't know if one of them did it or not. And then there's this person I want to be with and I really thought it could work, but I guess I'm not good enough or whatever so fuck all of them, Annie. Just fuck them all."
Liz swallowed. "Yeah, that seems fair." She looked behind her at the empty street and quiet parking lot, and shivered. "How about we call your boyfriend to come get you now?"
"Boyfriend? No. Emma." He was fading again, fumbling stupidly for his phone. Liz prayed nobody would suddenly show up to catch her molesting patrons, and eased one hand into the back pocket of Dylan's jeans. She thanked the bright green neon of the bar's overhead sign for masking her blush.
"Emma, okay," she muttered, typing all zeroes in at the password prompt – why were men so damn predictable? – and unlocking the phone. "Wow, Emma. Got it." There were an awful lot of texts and phone calls to this chick, at least up until a few days ago… She held the phone to her ear as it rang, ready to apologize for the late night disruption.
"Dylan!" a young woman answered, breathless, "I am so sorry, my dad –"
Liz cut her off. "Is this Emma?"
"Uh, yes …Oh my god, who is this? Where's Dylan? Is he okay? D-did something happen? Oh my god!"
"Hey! Stop! Everything's fine. Well, mostly fine, I guess. I'm the owner of Arnold's, over in Williston? And your… uh… friend… He's drunk as a skunk. I really don't think he should drive."
"Shit. Okay. Shit. Um… Someone will come get him. What's the address?"
Liz gave directions, then listened briefly and handed the phone to Dylan. "She wants to talk to you." He looked up at her and within those pretty eyes a new battle raged: panic, need, and desperate hopelessness. Liz finally understood – he hadn't been asking her to call Emma. He was gone for this girl.
"Fuck, Annie. It's a bad fucking plan."
Possibly. "That's no excuse. Take the phone, hon." She popped back inside to check on Jared; when she returned Dylan was deep in conversation with the girl on the other end of the line.
" –cause she's a damn mess! Because she ruined Norman and that wasn't good enough for her and now she's got her claws in me and I… just... no!"
"…Yeah well, you try living with her. It's hell. Every day's hell. It's hell."
"…Uh-huh, but you're wrong, Will wouldn't – "
"…I don't believe that. He's a good man, Emma, he's done so much for you, you don't even know – "
"…No, look, I'm drunk as shit. I don't want you to see this."
"… That sucks. I didn't… I never knew that. I'm sorry Emma. I'm sorry you saw that. You're better than all my bullshit, I'm so damn sorry." He was crying now, slumped forward in the chair, cradling the phone to his ear with a desperation that broke Liz's heart.
"…Yeah, okay. Okay. Bye." He hung up successfully on the third try and leaned back, closing his eyes. Holding his shit together – if that's what you could call the half-conversation Liz had just witnessed – had taken all Dylan's energy. She sat with him until a bright orange VW Beetle pulled up and a boy so young he probably still slept in footsie pajamas jumped out.
"Dylan man, what the hell?"
"It's my fault," Liz interrupted. "I thought he could handle his booze."
"No, it's okay. Usually he can. Every now and then shit just catches up to him, you know? I'm Gunner, by the way." He held out his hand. Smiled charmingly.
"Liz."
Together they manhandled Dylan into the passenger seat. Liz grabbed a spare bucket from around the back of the bar and set in Dylan's lap – just in case – and with only a slight crunch from the gearbox the boys were on their way. Liz bit her lip, unable to shake an odd foreboding about the quiet man and the sadness haunting him.
Emma paced at the back door of the Decodys' little home, praying Gunner didn't ruin her transmission. She had considered going after Dylan herself, but she'd only been home a week, and even she could see it was a bad idea. Technically she wasn't supposed to drive yet, and a long trip to the next town over would be plain stupid. She'd settled for sneaking out, speeding to the farm, and haranguing a half-stoned Gunner into going instead. It was only after he'd dropped her back at her house that Emma wondered why she hadn't thought of calling Norman first.
…Maybe because letting Dylan go back to Norma's tonight seemed like a really bad plan. As did sending him up to the farm.
So she'd made up a bed on the sofa for him, and found a sleeping bag for Gunner just in case, and had peeked in to make sure her dad was still asleep.
The Beetle's familiar grumble announced Gunner's return; Dylan had gotten sick on the way home (into a bucket, thankfully) and claimed he was feeling better. Even so, he looked too miserable for the sofa. Emma directed Gunner to put him in her room instead. They tiptoed through the dark house, determined not to wake Will. Emma would rather have that conversation in the morning, after a good night's sleep. She sent Gunner to the living room, crept to the bathroom for a spare toothbrush and the plastic trash can her father always used when someone had a stomach bug, and roused Dylan enough to get him cleaned up; it was on her way to the kitchen that she realized Gunner had commandeered the sofa and was already asleep, mouth half-open, arm dangling over the edge.
Emma smiled; a year ago, he was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her. Now, Dylan Massett was in her bedroom. In her bed. Sure, he was piss-drunk and fully clothed (and she looked like one of Frankenstein's monster brides with all her scars and stitches) but those were just details. Dylan was here. Dylan cared about her and hadn't been ignoring her like she feared, Dylan had mistaken her silence for indifference and been hurt, and in the morning when he was sober she would clear it all up and her father would have to stop meddling, and everything would be okay again.
Emma stepped back into her room and allowed herself to stare.
It had all happened so fast, the kiss and the surgery and then her father's bullshit excuses to keep them apart. They had never really had moments like this before, when he was the body at rest and she the one in motion. It felt good. For perhaps the second time since coming home, Emma found herself overwhelmed by the series of events that had led to her transplant… and the important role Dylan had played in convincing her to take the match in Portland. She quite literally owed him her life. It was the kind of thing to make any girl swoon.
Eventually she pulled herself together and laid down beside him, debating only a second before letting her fingers wander freely through his hair. With his back to her (and the trash can placed strategically on the floor just below his head) it was easier to bear the sudden lurch of reality, the almost-panic induced by this unplanned, but not unwelcome, intimacy. She couldn't pretend she was fine with the physical restrictions imposed upon them by her medical condition. She wasn't fine. Who would be? How long before he bored of waiting for her? It had been weeks since her surgery. Weeks of feather-soft kisses and cautious touches and those constant nagging questions hanging over them: Is it too much? Am I hurting you? Do you need to stop? She'd been sure that was what had caused his sudden distance. It was driving her crazy, and she was the one recovering from the transplant.
Dylan mumbled something unintelligible and Emma called his name softly, running her hand over his shoulder and down his back, marveling at the warmth of him.
"I'm sorry," she heard him murmur.
"Don't be. I've been drunk before, it's terrible."
"I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy," she tried, before realizing this was a decidedly one-sided conversation.
"I want to give you that. I want to be… to be the one that makes you happy."
She curled closer to Dylan and closed her eyes, the excitement of the night finally catching up to her. She could tell she'd be sore in the morning (and god only knew what her father would do) but for now she would enjoy this.
"Emma…" He breathed her name and in the silence of the room, she felt it curl over her, felt it twist down the length of her spine and fan out over her skin until she glowed with the heat of her name in his mouth. Dylan turned over clumsily, nuzzling into the cavity between her chin and shoulder. His breath tickled over her throat. Emma twisted until her lips whispered against his, grateful she'd had him brush his teeth.
"It's okay. We'll be okay," she promised him.
Even half-passed out, Dylan Massett kissed like nothing she'd experienced before. His beard was rough against her lower lip, his tongue soft against her upper one, and Emma melted into the safe cocoon of his chest and arms. She tried to remember herself but it was hard, when he felt so real and his skin called to her so persistently… her fingers slid under the hem of his shirt, caressed hipbones and stomach, traveled up his chest. There was a moment of indecision, a battle over whether or not to continue, but Dylan gripped her waist and his mouth sank over her breast and even through her t-shirt the feeling of falling into a warm dark bliss caused her to call his name… and he stopped.
He pulled away from her. "I hurt you."
"No, no no no…" Emma wanted to cry. "You didn't!"
"But if I had…" He sounded as miserable as she felt, for different reasons.
"But you didn't."
He shook his head. "Look, this is enough, Emma. You're enough." And he pulled her back into a soft hug that felt distinctly not enough.