My First Book--Scene Sixteen

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Sixteen. It picks up immediately after scene fifteen leaves off. In fact, it's a continuation of the previous scene.

*******
“I’m afraid I cannot let it end that way, Chloe. I won’t.” His void, like his eyes, held no passion, no emotion whatsoever. The possibilities that introduced terrified me more than his presence. The clove oil in his pomade invaded my nostrils, and my eyes watered.

I took two giant steps back and sent up a silent prayer in thanksgiving that, under Lela’s supervision, Ruth was playing with Waylon Carl for the afternoon; I also lifted up a prayer for Max’s immediate removal. Only the first one seemed to hold, though.

He took off his jacket and draped it across a chair. Then, he methodically rolled up his sleeves, taking exquisite care to ensure unwrinkled, equal, and even cuffs on both. “I’ve thought about you every day since I first laid eyes on you. I’ve dreamed about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.” An air of dispassion pervaded all his actions, as though what was transpiring was simply a necessary occurrence—like brushing one’s teeth at bedtime or washing dishes after a meal.

“Max, what are you doing? You’re scaring me.” Try as I might, I could no longer keep my emotions completely in check. My eyes filled with tears, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Why couldn’t I hold myself together any better than this?

He took a step forward and stroked my hair. “My sweet, I didn’t want that. The last thing I ever wanted was to scare you,” he said.

I shuddered, his touch completely revolting. “Max, we hardly know each other. How can you be so sure you have such strong feelings for me?”

He smiled finally, but the smile held no warmth. The chill in the room could not be laid solely at the feet of early February temperatures and a poorly tended fire in the fireplace. “Would you have any coffee? It’s so cold out, and I could really use something to warm me up,” he said.

I nodded weakly and walked into the kitchen, my mind racing with ideas of how to escape and wondering where Waylon could possibly be—I expected him any minute to come fix my leaky kitchen faucet. Where the hell was he? I stalled as long as thought safe, knocking around in the kitchen, opening and closing doors and drawers, before I poured the coffee and took it to him.

“On the contrary,” he said, talking over my noises. “With all the conversations I’ve had with Jake, I feel I know you quite well. I’ve known you for so much longer than just one month. Meeting you in Clayton was my idea, you see. Jake had told me that you visited there about once a month, and he even told me that you’d be there that very weekend.” He took the coffee without a word of thanks, gulping it greedily. “He had no idea, mind you, of what I was thinking, but I already knew I must see you in person. That time we shared only confirmed what I already knew.”

Max reached out and took my head in his hands. Maybe he meant it to be a tender gesture. Under other circumstances, it might have been. He cradled the base of my skull in his palms. I struggled to move away, wanting desperately to be anywhere but here, but he would not release me. He tightened his grasp slowly, inexorably. He meant for me to know my place. “You’re finally mine,” he whispered as he leaned in and kissed me.

Simple fear and pleading be damned. Fire blazed. “I am not yours, Max. You can’t just claim me like a piece of property.” I jerked away from his grasp and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

“No, of course you’re not property,” he said, grabbing me by the arm, “but I let you get away once. I won’t let that happen again.”

I had to buy time. With no idea whether or not I could escape from him, I needed time. If only Waylon would hurry and come to fix the leaky kitchen faucet. If I could stall Max, maybe Waylon could force him to leave. “We can still write to each other. I didn’t mean that.” My eyes darted around the room, and I desperately wished for someone to help me.

“Chloe, letters aren’t enough for me.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me against him. The fingers of his other hand, rough and calloused, wound through my hair and balled into a fist. I cried out in pain as a giant clump of hair felt as though it was about to completely detach from my scalp. “Very soon, we will be one, my love. You cannot leave me then.”

“Oh, God, please no!” I screamed, writhing in vain to escape.

His fingers closed tighter in my hair, and our noses nearly touched. I saw no life, no soul in his eyes. “Do NOT take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” he screamed and threw me onto the couch.

“Max, please don’t. Max!” I pleaded.

“Chloe, I don’t want it to be like this. I love you. I don’t want to fight you,” he said. The same deadness lurked in his eyes, but his voice sounded as though he meant to be tender. Tender but firm. “I don’t want to fight you, but I cannot share you with another.” He toyed with the top button of my dress. “We will be one,” he said and ripped my dress open.

As the fabric of my dress rent in two, my heart dropped to somewhere south of my stomach. “Please don’t, Max.” Maybe if I made some sort of connection, found some way to talk him down from this, then maybe I would be able to escape. “Max,” I said, taking a deep breath and hopefully sounding more confident than I felt, “Max, you asked me not to take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry I did that. Shouldn’t we wait, though, to…” I couldn’t even bring myself to say it without the bile rising in the back of my throat, “…to become one. Shouldn’t we be married first? In a church?”

Obviously, I had no intention of marrying him. God willing, I never intended to lay eyes on him after tonight if God delivered me from this situation. If I could just get him to—

“No. God wants us to be together, Chloe. Together, we will travel the—” His voice trailed off as his eyes, still showing no light or life fixated on my bared breasts. Was he drooling? I punched and kicked at him, desperate to escape.

He straddled me on the couch as I heard a knock at the door. “Chloe? You there? Lela reminded me ‘bout your faucet,” Waylon said.

Max leaned down and kissed me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and trying to keep me from talking.

“Chloe?” Waylon called again.

“Help me!” I screamed, jerking my head away from Max. For this, he backhanded me. A jet of blood splattered from my lip and I cried out in pain. “Please help!” I didn’t care if he hit me again. I wanted out.

In the same instant, the front door flew open and the jamb splintered around the strike plate with the force of Waylon’s foot as he kicked it in. His eyes crazed in rage, Waylon lumbered into the room. He wielded his pipe wrench as a club, waving it over his head as he approached the couch.

Max may have raised an arm in defense, or he might have even turned to strike at Waylon. Since I buried my head in the nearest cushion, I don’t really know for sure. All I know is that I heard a sickening crunch as Waylon’s pipe wrench connected with some part of Max’s face, quickly followed by a thud. Suddenly, his weight was off me, and I was free.