HICKEY Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  HICKEY

  By Cora Brent

  © 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  COPYRIGHT

  Please respect the work of this author. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any similarities to events or situations is also coincidental.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks and locations mentioned in this book. Trademarks and locations are not sponsored or endorsed by trademark owners.

  Parts of HICKEY by Cora Brent were previously published as a novella in a multi-author anthology entitled Possess, which is now out of publication.

  © 2017 by Cora Brent

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: © Pink Ink Designs

  Cover Photo: Cassy Roop

  Models: Adam Spahn

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Branson

  I still can’t stand remembering that fucking fire.

  Since that night seven years ago I’ve visited a variety of hellholes.

  I’ve seen things much more horrific than a burning building.

  The memory of that night tears me up anyway.

  Every single time.

  It was the noise that jolted me awake, a choir of damn sirens that penetrated the haze of sleep and hard liquor. Instinctively, my hand stretched out to touch my wife but there was nothing there. That’s because earlier I’d taken my bottle and my misery to the couch instead of the bed where she slept.

  “Oh my god,” she said as she stepped into view. In the chalky moonlight I saw that she was wearing the stretched out gray t-shirt I always used to yank over my head after senior year football practice.

  Cecily didn’t glance my way. Instead she went straight to the front window and peeled back the papery shade like she was afraid. The sirens grew louder, closer.

  I rubbed my eyes and sat up, trying to get my bearings. I hadn’t a clue what time it was, how long I’d been passed out. We’d fought earlier, I remembered that. I’d gotten in just after midnight, intending to crawl into bed beside her, but things went sour. That happened a lot lately.

  “You should know better!”

  “Fuck you for saying that.”

  So I left her alone in there, shutting the curtain that separated the closet-sized bedroom from the rest of the apartment and planted myself on the ancient sofa in the tiny living room. Before I sat down I grabbed a whiskey bottle. It belonged to my father but he wouldn’t notice it was gone and even if he did he wouldn’t ask me about it. Over the last week I’d been slowly draining it, one shot at a time.

  As I brooded alone in the darkness I didn’t bother with a stupid shot glass. I swallowed scorching mouthfuls until my vision started to blur. When I woke up there was a lot of noise and my young bride was staring fearfully at something out the window.

  “What is it?” I croaked.

  My throat was as dry as desert sand. The only thing in arm’s reach was the nearly empty bottle. I seized it and let a few drops of liquid fire roll over my tongue as sirens shrieked from all directions. The commotion surrounded us; a hysterical sound that warned something terrible was about to happen.

  Or, more likely, that something terrible had already happened.

  “There’s a fire,” Cecily said.

  She still wasn’t looking at me. Somehow it seemed like she hadn’t really looked at me in days. I missed the way she used to look at me constantly, how the awe and shy happiness in her eyes made me feel like I could wrestle a fucking bear to the dirt if she was cheering me on. It hadn’t been that long ago, not really. And it was already damn near untouchable.

  When I joined her at the window she didn’t move aside when our shoulders touched. I felt a shiver roll through her and I was tempted to wrap my arms around her body to keep her warm.

  Then I saw it, the fire. I flicked the shade open all the way and stared at the chaotic scene visible on the horizon.

  Cecily moved away and opened the door to the area we always jokingly referred to as ‘the balcony’. The small square of space scarcely fit two standing adults and led to a rickety, steep staircase that stretched to the ground. My mother used to come up here all the time to the unfinished apartment over the garage where she’d play her old violin for hours on end. And then my older brother Caden hung out here a lot during his stormy final months, stomping up the steps and warning me not to follow after his latest screaming match with my parents. But I didn’t like to think about those days. Or the ones after it.

  When I trailed Cecily outside I accidentally kicked an empty clay pot down the stairs. I didn’t give a shit. I was too transfixed by the sight in front of me.

  The huge fire roared just beyond the northern border of town. At first glance it looked like a war zone. But wars never v
isited dying Ohio towns, at least not the kind of wars anyone wrote about or featured in movies.

  Our wars were quieter, waged mostly on one another.

  “It’s the factory,” I said. “The factory is burning.”

  It was true. The sprawling, old structure that was a recognizable landmark for miles was being rapidly engulfed. For seven decades the tile factory had thrived on the outskirts of Hickeyville, Ohio. The doors had shut for good five years ago and ever since then the town had been bleeding people like it was one big leaking wound. The factory itself remained; a ghostly, slowly crumbling reminder on the edge of town.

  My town.

  Hickeyville was part of me. The unsmiling ancestors captured in the tintypes hanging in my father’s study were among the Civil War era founders. At least that’s what the history books said.

  I turned my head because I didn’t want to see the fire anymore. It was ugly. Plus, there were the lights of the first response vehicles and the shapes of frantic residents who’d left their homes to find out what was burning on this frigid late February night. Some of them huddled in packs and others ran around like demented puppets. I stopped looking at them too.

  Instead I looked at Cecily. I could feel my dick rising as I stared at her. I wasn’t thinking about nice things, like the way she’d whistle faintly when she was sketching or how she’d press her cheek to my chest with a happy sigh for no reason.

  Instead I was staring at Cecily Barnett Hickey and thinking about how hard I’d like to fuck her. Right here on the unsteady balcony. And I was in no mood to be gentle, not like the first time I pushed inside of her months ago on our wedding night. I’d held back then, easing my way in all slow and tender, gritting my teeth to keep myself from pumping too hard before she was ready to handle it.

  Nope, I’d fuck her without a shred of mercy. I’d tear her panties and slam into her body as her nails raked my back. Afterwards I might be tender. I might lift her in my arms, carry her to our bed and put my mouth everywhere until she trembled. Then I’d hold her and say the words I’d been keeping to myself these days.

  I love you, Cess.

  I did. That was never a lie. We’d been reckless, the way we bolted to the next county and exchanged rings in a paneled basement that smelled of lacquer and pine. If the old pastor saw us for what we were – two ignorant teens trying to fill lost hopes with each other – he gave no hint. He yawned and wished us a long and happy marriage.

  Cecily’s arms were crossed over her body and she shivered again as she stared out at the mushrooming orange glow.

  Nothing had changed in my heart from the moment I gave her that pathetic department store ring and promised one day to do much better. Nothing had changed at all.

  Except everything had changed. I didn’t know how the hell people became such strangers in a matter of months. I’d watched that happen to my parents but it was slow and punctuated by something awful that made their eventual split a relief.

  Cecily didn’t deserve that. I couldn’t saddle her with a lot of terrible years as she wondered to herself whether she would have managed to make her dreams come true if we’d never gotten together. Soon it might occur to her that she’d be better off if she walked away.

  And as I watched the fire rage in the distance, I had just figured out that I should let her go. I should force the hand of fate if I had to.

  “Look at it,” she murmured as a pair of ambulances careened down Center Street. “I hope no one was hurt.”

  I squinted at the emergency vehicles. The property my father’s house was built on sat on a small incline. That didn’t mean much except right now it gave us a better view of the factory going up in smoke. Hopefully the place was empty. Sometimes vagrants broke in there in search of refuge from the winter air. Other times kids snuck in through broken windows to drink or fuck or do dumb shit like climb up the elevator shaft on a dare. I’d done all that and more on many occasions.

  “I’m sure there was no one in there,” I said, but I wasn’t sure at all. The thought made me sick. My stomach started to lurch around as if I was twisting on a roller coaster.

  A light came on at my father’s house next door. He would probably appear in a moment. They all would. My father. My stepmother. Her daughter. The noise and the lights would draw them out. They might even wave to us and then try to climb up here for a better view. The thought of us all crowding together in this small space, pretending to be a unified, honorable family as we watched the fire was too much. Bile rose into my throat and I leaned over the chipped wooden railing, retching violently.

  The whiskey felt like acid as it came back up and I kept heaving. I thought the flood wouldn’t end, not until I was all hollowed out and splayed on the flagstones below like the disgusting contents of my stomach.

  “Bran?” said Cecily in a worried voice as her hand touched my naked back.

  “I’m okay.” I spit out the last of the bad taste and wiped my mouth on the back of my arm.

  The fire was growing by the second, powered by the wind. The big building that had been the heartbeat of Hickeyville for decades would be lost. No matter what anyone did, there was no stopping it.

  “Bran?” Cecily said again, but then her hand dropped from my back. I could feel her pulling away.

  Next door more lights clicked on, including the front porch and the room on the ground floor where my stepsister slept and schemed. My father exited the front door and I pitied him in his robe and his thinning hair.

  “Let’s leave,” I whispered but the words were smothered by another round of howling sirens approaching from the east.

  Maybe we could run away. We could scrape together what pennies we had and go somewhere else, somewhere that had no history for us, a place we could build a new life. I wondered why the hell I hadn’t thought of the idea before.

  Then I dismissed it almost as quickly. Running away together wouldn’t fix what was wrong with us. We’d just be struggling and fighting somewhere else. Cecily still wouldn’t be any closer to the artistic dreams that she’d abandoned.

  Her shoulder brushed my arm and I thought I heard her sigh as she turned away. I thought about telling her how I really felt about her, about us. But she was already so stiff, so closed off from me. That was probably for the best anyway.

  So I didn’t touch her and I didn’t talk to her. We didn’t kiss or fuck or whisper nice things and try to clutch at the vines of whatever had brought us together.

  The end was coming for us. I knew it as I watched the fire burn.

  Not long after that night I did something unforgivable and I did it on purpose.

  And Cecily did leave me, just like I planned.

  The last time I looked into her eyes I could see her hatred.

  She left town and I joined the Army and that was the end of our story.

  I was sure it was the right thing because it hurt so fucking much I could hardly breathe every time I thought of her.

  But then the years started stacking up and something funny happened; the things I was sure of when I was eighteen weren’t the same ones I understood by the time I turned twenty-five.

  By then I knew how wrong I had been.

  I also knew I’d never quit loving her, never stop wanting her.

  I knew I wanted a second chance.

  And I knew that nothing was ever going to go right in my life until I told Cecily the truth about what really happened seven years ago.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cecily

  A college dormitory is kind of like a zoo, only less organized and with different unpleasant odors.

  I thought I knew what I was getting into when I signed up to act as a Resident Advisor to a floor of freshmen. Since I was already up to my eyeballs in unsubsidized student loans and regularly dining on Ramen noodles with the occasional treat of boiled chicken thighs, two semesters of free room and board seemed like a godsend.

  However, within the last few days I’ve started wondering if I’m really up to the tas
k.

  A week ago I was excited for all of them, a pack of gawky eighteen-year-olds who tiptoed to their rooms all uncertain and gulping as their teary-eyed parents trailed close behind. They listened politely throughout the very first orientation meeting and even looked up from their phones long enough to squint at the Pyramid of College Success I’d spent two hours painstakingly detailing for them on the enormous white board in the lounge.

  They bought stacking crates at Target and constructed bedside tables that balanced soda pop cans, phone chargers, pens and tissue boxes. They thumbed little gumballs of blue poster putty to the walls and decorated their rooms with music posters and Disney cartoons and bullshit motivational sayings like ‘Be the best YOU that only YOU know YOU can be.’

  They were polite. They were eager. They were charming.

  But once the parents were gone and freedom was tasted, all hell broke loose.

  Now they swallowed gallons of Schnapps in their rooms, pounded on my window at 3 a.m. screaming “Boogie, boogie boogie!” and sucked on each other’s genitals in the study lounge in the middle of the night.

  One of them even defecated on the bottom step of the east stairwell. I hope that the offender was at least drunk at the time.

  “What the hell did I get myself into?” I muttered as I tried to scrub a crudely drawn four foot tall penis off my door.

  When I realized I’d need something stronger than hand soap and tap water to get the job done I gave up and retreated to my room, hoping anyone who passed by wouldn’t be too upset over the sight of gigantic genitalia. Later I’d visit the janitor’s closet and find something that would scrub away Sharpie marker. Right now I just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

  I sighed with relief as the door clicked shut. One significant perk of this arrangement was my own room and bathroom. During my first four semesters here at Central Arizona University I’d lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a questionable neighborhood a few miles away. With three party girl roommates there was rarely any privacy and the only relief I could count on were the thirty hours a week I worked at the university library.