Never What It's Supposed To Be Read online

dark, it would probably survive a stripping and refinishing, he offered. The price seemed steep to Sherri. Ed chuckled and handed over the full amount without thinking about it.

  All that in a flash; Ed wondered why he’d come in to an antique shop. An antique shop in a small town on a Goddamn lake, no less. Was he nuts?

  He was cursing himself for his stupidity when he heard the pleasant Texas drawl behind him, “Can I help you find something?”

  Ed turned and smiled. “No, sir, but thank you.”

  “I see you looking at the sleigh bed,” the clerk said. “I love that piece, myself. It needs some TLC, you know, but it would be a marvelous addition to any home.”

  Ed continued to smile. “I was just browsing. I enjoy antique shops, but I’m just passing through.”

  “I understand completely,” the clerk said. Then, he blinked. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but you do look awful familiar.”

  Ed nodded. “I’m guessing you can’t quite place where you saw the face, right?”

  “That’s right!” The clerk was nodding. “I’m so sorry, I feel so stupid-“

  “No need,” Ed said. “My name is Ed Dillon. I’m a writer.”

  “That’s it!” The clerk slapped his thigh. Right there in front of Ed, he just went and slapped his thigh. “I knew I’d seen it. I swear there was a time I wouldn’t read anything but your Side Winder series of books.”

  Ed was surprised to feel more than a little moved by the confession. “Well, thank you . . .”

  “Oh, how silly,” the man said, extending his hand. “Bart, Mr. Dillon. Barton Thomas.”

  Ed shook his hand. “Well, thank you, Mr. Thomas. I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “I can’t believe we have a bona fide celebrity here in Carson Cove,” Bart said.

  Ed laughed, a rare event over the previous several months. “I’d hardly call myself a celebrity, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Oh, please!” Bart said, waving his hand. “It’s Bart or nothing! Believe me, this is the biggest thing to happen to our sleepy little town in several lifetimes.”

  “That doesn’t say much for what appears to be a pleasant enough little place, Bart.”

  “It is pleasant, Mr. Dillon, but, you know,” Bart leaned in, whispering without an ounce of self-consciousness, “too quiet.”

  “Oh, I know what you mean,” Ed said. The man was very close. His smooth-shaved face didn’t look as young up close. There was a pleasant air about him, something fresh and clean. The man’s breath on his ear gave him the oddest feeling inside.

  Not again, Ed said to himself.

  “Now, I’ll ask you again,” Bart said. He’d backed away. Had he even been close? Ed wasn’t sure of much of anything at the moment. He felt light-headed, never a good sign. “What in the world are you doing down here in Carson Cove, TX?”

  “Just passing through,” Ed said.

  “Really,” Bart said.

  Ed smiled. “That’s right. I saw it on a map yesterday, thought the lake might be a nice place to stop. I have a room over in an Inn a few miles away.”

  “The Cozy Bend?”

  “That’s right,” Ed said, smiling. “I got in much too late last night to take in some of the sights, so I decided to spend an extra day doing some touristy things before I head out on the road tomorrow.”

  “And where would you be headed tomorrow?” Bart asked.

  Ed shrugged. “I was thinking of heading west on US 64, then maybe picking up 158.”

  “Oh, there’s another lake along that route!” Bart said.

  “Really,” Ed said.

  “It’s not nearly as wonderful as ours, but Lake EV Spence is quite nice. The town of Robert Lee is hard on the east shore, but if you follow the Farm to Market Rd out to the lake shore, there are several wonderful little Inns and, I think, a Bed & Breakfast or two.”

  “Thank you,” Ed said, not really wanting to spend another night by another lake.

  “Oh, I haven’t been to EV Spence in so long,” Bart said.

  “Well, I hope you make it over there soon,” Ed said. He turned to leave.

  “You know, I don’t have them with me, but I would love for you to sign a copy or two of your books,” Bart said. He smiled at Ed. “Maybe I could, you know, stop by your room at the Inn?”

  Ed was afraid the conversation was coming around to this. “That would be fine.”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble, I mean,” Bart said.

  “It’s no trouble, Bart,” Ed said, smiling. Damn damn damn damn.

  “Would seven be too early? Too late?”

  “Seven is fine,” Ed said. “I look forward to it.”

  “Oh, this is the most excitement I’ve had in I don’t know how long,” Bart said.

  Ed smiled. “Me, too.”

  At five minutes after seven, Ed was lounging on the king-size bed in the Inn. He was wearing only his boxers. His eyes were closed, and he was desperately trying to keep memories of his trip to Lake Geneva out of his mind. Or his stop in Lake George, NY. Or the one in Brunswick, VA. The night in Hattiesburg had been harrowing, to say the least. All these months, and he just couldn’t seem to outrun his memories. Sherri. Lake Geneva. The house in Bensenville, with its flowers all around it, the little vegetable patch out back, the big white oak out front. He’d been running to escape the memories for so long, but they seemed to keep pace with him. He was afraid tonight was going to be no different than any of the others.

  Someone was knocking on his door.

  He walked over and checked through the peep hole. Sure enough, it was Bart. He stood there, smiling. Ed wanted to pretend he wasn’t there; that wouldn’t do any good, because he’d given Bart his room number and the young clerk had seen his car, so he knew he was in.

  Ed sighed, flipped the lock, and opened the door.

  He smiled at Bart, who smiled back.

  “I’m sorry,” Bart said. “I can come back when you’re, you know, a little more decent.”

  “It’s fine,” Ed said, letting the younger man in. He closed the door, making sure it was locked.

  Bart set three bulky paper back books down on the small table in the room. “I hope you don’t mind, I brought these three. One of them still has the pseudonym printed on it”

  “That’s fine,” Ed said. He grabbed the copy of Side Winders Sleep and couldn’t help chuckling at the pretentiousness of his pen-name: Mark Stark. “I bet this should be worth something in a few years.”

  “Signed? Are you kidding me? I’ll be rich,” Bart said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “I doubt it,” Ed said. He really did.

  “You know, if you want to, you know, go put something on, I can wait out in the car,” Bart said.

  Ed turned. He smiled, because he saw the young man staring at the bulge in his boxers. “You know, I think a better idea would be for you to get a little more comfortable.”

  Bart swallowed. He didn’t look up to Ed’s eyes. “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ed said. Deep inside, a voice was screaming. He paid no attention to it as he put his hands on Bart’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. The younger man acted as if he were in a stupor. He smiled as Ed undressed him. When Ed stepped out of his boxers, Bart breathed in deep, muttered, “Jesus Christ”, and fell in to Ed’s arms, kissing him deeply.

  The next twenty minutes were a swirl in Ed’s mind. Ed tried desperately to stay in the moment with this poor, fumbling, obviously inexperienced man. Ed’s mind wanted to flash back over oh-so-many nights just like this. All the way back to that night, with Sherri. Their first night, in their new sleigh bed.

  It had taken the woodworker a couple weeks to get the work done right, but when it was delivered, it looked brand new. Ed and Sherri had put it together, and it was Sherri’s idea to “christen it”. They hadn’t slept together, even though they’d been together for nearly six years. It w
asn’t that Ed found her unattractive; quite the opposite. There were many nights he would return to his own house, his crotch an aching weight between his legs.

  With Sherri, it had been the cat. That damn cat. The two of them were naked, and her hand was wrapped around his erect penis, and she was kissing him deeply, and in that instant he remembered the cat.

  He was thirteen when he’d been startled while masturbating by the family cat who had wandered in. He’d been so close, and everything had been spoiled by the stupid cat. In a fury only the sexually frustrated might understand, he grabbed the cat around its throat and began to throttle it. With his other hand, he furiously stroked his penis, once again erect. As the cat spasmed its last, he exploded in an orgasm so powerful he almost passed out.

  Horrified by what he’d done, he had buried the cat deep in the back garden. His parents thought the animal had run away. For the ensuing few days, he consoled himself that it had been a momentary lapse of any moral sense brought on by a frustrated orgasm.

  Then, lying in bed one night, he was touching himself, thinking of one of his classmates. Nothing much happened until he could see, clear as day, his hands around her throat, squeezing ever harder, her face moving through red, then blue, to purple, her loosening bladder spilling urine all over his crotch as she died. This final fantastic moment had sent him over the edge, and he realized he could never – ever – be with a woman.

  That night, with Sherri, as she guided him in to her, that moment with the cat flashed through his mind. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherri was dead, his semen spilling out of her dead vagina. He’d driven