Chapter Ten -- Sandpaper box

Last night I dreamt about the roses. They spoke-- warning me.  I tried to recall what they said as I transplanted the mum seedlings. Sweat streamed in salty rivers down my bare chest and back. The greenhouse roof vents were flung wide open, and the large inset wall fans roared, blasting over the flats of recent cutting and seedlings I'd toiled over. A hundred plus trays of them, all lined up on the clay topped benches. Still it must be 100 plus degrees in this hothouse-- and the closed-in space where I labored, made it all the hotter for me cramped in the very last isle of the very last greenhouse. Heat and humid dead air. I only had a few feet between the potting bench and the glass, and I carefully stretched back stopping my hand within an inch of the glass greenhouse wall.  

Not even ten o'clock, and it was stifling. I wiped a bead of sweat off the end of my nose with the back of my hand. I filled another flat with the white beads of Pearlite, compost and peat mix piled high on the old cement and oak potting bench. I leveled the mix off with a swipe from the back of my arm. The potting mix stuck to my sweat and hairs. I brushed off the dirt and sweat on the leg of my jeans. 

I thought about Sid.

I clicked off reasons why I shouldn't tell him how I feel, but finally I admitted to myself that it was one part concern for his safety and one part self preservation. After last night, I knew what I feel for Sid is real, lust and all. I knew I loved the honest, selfless person he was. That realization was as scary as the shit I'd been through the last weeks. 

As Sid smoothed my hair and huddled tight against my chest last night, I almost told him how I felt. My mouth couldn't untangle the reasons knotted inside my jumbled head. Reflecting back, I realized that I was afraid for him and afraid of him. I looked into his solemn hazel eyes-- afraid he'd say he loved me, or even more afraid he wouldn't. 

I finished another flat of mums and turned to get the next when I had one of those instinctive 'someone is watching me' creeped-out sensations. Last night's warning dream flooded back, and there he stood at the end of the isle... the man who shot at Sid in the parking lot. 

In one flash, I knew. I was being crushed from the inside out. Lights, emotion, texture and utter helplessness. Not one morsel of control. I clutched the bench, hyperventilating. Every detail from the hypnosis--I suddenly recalled. I even heard Dr. Deal counting backward-- three, two, one. 

And I remembered this time.

The comprehension was agony. Each detail a prism cutting through me. No longer words in Sidney's notebook but an occurrence. A living experience. I knew that man in front of me from the fog clearing in my brain. He was the sharp edge. He stepped closer, blocking the narrow isle as I remembered him blocking another doorway. 

The minister--  Camden's assailant. 

The stalker-- The shooter in the parking lot.

All the same. 

I cursed his name. "Shackleton!" 

He picked up a handful of potting soil then let it sift through his thick fingers, eyes burning through me. 

"What is it like to be buried alive?" he asked, voice like breaking glass. 

The overload of stimuli fired my fight or flight instinct. I'm cornered. No way out. I rejected the desire to run through the glass side wall. I don't like to fight, but I can take care of myself if have to-- I've been forced to brawl with drunks in bars. I quickly measured him up-- he was larger than me by at least a head, and built hard like most of the bouncers I've seen who kick men's asses twice my size one-handed. 

My scrawny self won't stand a chance unless I distracted him and got in the first shot and scrambled over him fast. Even then I'd need luck on my side. 

"Get away from me," I choked out, stepping back again. 

"Get away from me," he mocked. Taking another handful of the dirt and rubbing it in his hand, he laughed. "Being planted cold in the ground turned Lancaster old. Yes, our Dr. Lancaster was young before I shoveled the sandy soil on top of him. What aged him? I wonder. Was it the dirt or the oppressive cold darkness six feet under? I must ask him some time. Sad really. It was months before his sister Emma  found the spot in the woods where I buried him. I wonder what it was like for Camden?  Imagine-- but you don't have to imagine, do you?"

"Reliving experiences. The notes were very concise and fairly accurate," he said.

He knew I'd been hypnotized. 

"You've been in our house." The thought terrified me-- this man inside, rummaging through  Sid's desk by the computer. 

He inched closer to me. I had to get around him some how.

"You could feel what Camden went through. What did it feel like Wes? Lungs burning, weight of the earth crushing. Camden couldn't feel the pain, but you could. Yes. Tell me, the mental torture, was that worse?  What was it like Wesley?"  

I am Wesley, I struggled, assuring myself. I bit my lip, tasting blood. My blood, I thought. Who the fuck am I? Camden? Lancaster? All mixed together, but the same. I couldn't breath, couldn't speak. And who was this man? He can't be real. I counted mentally backward, hoping I was under hypnosis again and would wake up from it all.

"Get the fuck away from me," I said, finding my voice. "What are you? You're not fucking human. You can't be alive."

"I'm alive. And just like Lancaster, I don't feel pain. Not physical pain. It's sad not to feel. Life is flat. That's why I like watching pain so much. Can I watch it now?" He was quick, grabbing my wrist before I had a chance to get away. He twisted it. The pain was nothing. That I could stand. What I couldn't stand was his evil seeping into my pores; I thought I would vomit from its stench.

"Let go of me," I yelled, struggling. Fuck, I thought, shut up-- they'll hear; they'll come. Shit, Alan and Mr. K were in the front. If they helped me, what would this sick fuck do to them? Sure, he could hurt me, but I'd heal. Maybe a scar, but my friends would suffer death. 

Adrenaline pumping through me, I swung my fist, aiming for his mouth. My knuckles burned when they hit his teeth. His head snapped back. I spun and twisted in an effort to get around him and free.

 His hand wrenched my wrist around, popping joints. He spat out his blood on my chest while I struggled, twisting around. 

"I could bury you," he hissed, "but I know what happens. An experiment loses its appeal after a time. It becomes boring. I need something new. What should I do to you?"

How do you get away from someone who feels no pain? I slugged him again-- this time I aimed for his nose. I felt a sickening crack as my fist landed. My hand throbbed. He laughed, ratcheting me closer. My head reeled from recalling another time when Shackleton pushed himself into Camden. I tried the same trick Camden used many years ago. I swept  my leg around the back of his ankle and threw him off balance in an effort to trip him. He buckled and recovered. Then I jerked my knee into his groin as hard as I could. Fuck, the sick bastard's dick was hard. My stomach turned. He smiled, twisting my arm harder, pinning me back onto the cold cement of the potting bench. 

"Your scars are almost gone," he rasped into my ear, tracing a finger down my bare chest. "Your eyes and body lived through Camden, can you live through another and feel their pain? What about your friend? He makes you squeal. Maybe I could make him squeal."

"You leave him the fuck alone, or I'll cut off your head," I spat.

"You could try. I could cut off yours, but it's such a pretty head," I recoiled as he touched my cheek. He smiled and licked my ear. "Or better, I could take you now, but I'd rather you came to me, to us, on your own. In the end, you'll have no choice." He shoved his cock against me. I swallowed back bile as he ground his erection into my hip bone. Then he let me go of my arm.

He turned and walked away from me. After I caught my breath, I  stepped around the corner of the potting bench, watching over the isles of bedding plants as he left out the side door of the greenhouse, limping. I was shivering cold, then burning hot. I ran out the door after him, but he was gone. 

Then I bent over and threw up. Odd though that he limped.

I wondered why some one like me had a gimp. 

---------------------

I wiped my mouth. My hands shook as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and pushed my arms through. I put my head between my knees and stayed that way for a good fifteen minutes before I  felt composed enough to go up to the front room and see Alan and Mr. K. I could stay in the greenhouse, but it was too fucking hot and too much of a reminder of that sick bastard. 

Then there was Sid.

I didn't tell Alan, but I wouldn't have any choice but to call Sid.  Not telling him would put him at more risk. That psychopath was already in the house. Sid already put himself at risk going after him. If he knows what Shackleton is, Sid'll be more cautious. My biggest concern was that Shackleton would go after Sid to get to me. I was glad Sid was up at the university around people today. 

I thought of just taking off. Packing it all up and leaving. But if I left, I wouldn't be taking Sid out of harm. Maybe I didn't have a choice. But until I knew what that sick fuck was up to, I wasn't going any where with Shackleton. I knew what he did to Camden. However, in the end if I had to go with him to keep Sid or anyone else I cared for safe, I'd do it. But I wasn't walking into Hell with Shackleton unless there was no other way.

Alan stared at me when I walked up the back steps.

"You look like shit," Alan said.

"Heat exhaustion-- I just threw up out the side door of house four." 

Alan's eye twitched as he scrutinized me. "Superman pukes," he said. "That's a new one."

"I think I'll go sit down in the office for a while," and I walked back, closed the door and flopped down into Mr. K's old oak captain's chair. It wasn't two minutes later when Mr. K poked his head inside the door then walked up to his desk and sat down on top of it, facing me.

"There's plenty you're not telling me," he started. I opened my mouth to begin to speak, but he placed his finger to my lips, hushing me. "Plenty of it I've heard around. In this business, you hear people talk. I don't understand any of what's going on with you, but what ever trouble you're in, know that you can talk to me. If you don't want to now, that's fine too. Know I'm here and that I care, son." He leaned over to me and hugged me tight. 

I started to cry. What a fuckin' baby. Mr. K didn't mind me getting his shirt all wet, he just hugged me tighter. Alan walked in with a wet towel, and I'm bawling. Shit, Alan'll never let me live this one down, but instead of making fun of me, he placed the towel on my forehead and kissed my cheek. 

"If you don't mind, I think I'll rest here a few minutes," I said. They both left quietly and shut the door, leaving me to think about what happened. 

What ever this group that Shackleton was in bed with wanted, it wasn't just to experiment with me. I was sure they wanted to know what made me different and why. This was all a puzzle. One giant jigsaw, and no one was sharing the pieces. I wondered why Camden/Lancaster aged. Being buried alive, that was piece of the puzzle, too. A grain of sand. Camden was buried in the earth-- near Lake Michigan. Sandy soil. And the soil in the rose garden, it was sandy.  It was hard to solve a puzzle with six feet of earth haunting you. Being buried alive was almost as bad as feeling that sick bastard pressed up against me. 

Pressure built up in the back of my brain and in another time, I am Camden, and I'm laughing. 

Camden and Lancaster are the same person. I was pretty sure now that Emma and Glenda are the same person, too. It would make sense. I wondered about Les-- he had to be like us. He must be. He's related to Lancaster. I had a few questions for him tonight. 

I wasn't missing band practice again.

What fucking got to me was how I could be part of this mess. All the past questions came back to me. The questions that I'd pushed from my mind over the years. Details I'd known the answer to but didn't want to face. Questions I'd asked my parents, but they always evaded. 

My mind struggled to understand how two people who loved me so much could lie to me my whole life. They had many opportunities to tell me the truth. Or maybe it was just I didn't want to know. Deep inside I always knew I was adopted. 

I could deny it no longer. I must face it if I'm going to help myself-- and help anyone who is unfortunate enough to be close to me. If I don't-- Shit. 

I was in third grade when I asked Mom the first time. It was my birthday. I brought chocolate cupcakes and vanilla ice cream for my class after lunch. The party was fun. Then came last recess. Carol Arnette, a big hairy man-girl whose mother was the principal's secretary, enjoyed picking on other kids. Today I was her new target. She pushed me, saying that the man and woman that I lived with weren't my parents. She said she knew because her mom told her-- she'd read it in my student records.

"No," she said, "you don't live with your real parents because they didn't want you." I called her a liar. It's so fucking degrading even in the third grade to have your ass kicked by a girl. She clobbered me in the face, giving me a bloody nose. I couldn't hit her back-- maybe she didn't look like a girl, but she still was one-- so instead I pushed her down in the mud, messing her brand new red and white polka-dot dress. 

We both ended up in the principal's office. When Mom came to pick me up, I told her what Carol Arnette said. Mom got quiet and said, "Sometimes people say things because they don't feel good about themselves. They say mean things because they hurt so much inside." She went inside Principal Moore's office and quietly shut the door. 

That was Mrs. Arnette's last day as secretary for the school.

Three years later I asked again. This time my science teacher, Mr. Williams, told the class about Gregor Mendel and his peas. Then he gave an example of how two blonde haired parents can't have a black haired child. I asked Mom, and her answer to that one was, "Is he a genetics specialist?" The next day, Mr. Williams told us he was mistaken-- two blonde parents could have a black haired child. My cheeks burned as he looked directly at me. 

I didn't ask again until high school. When I went to get my driver's license, there was a problem getting my birth certificate. I began to suspect something was wrong. I asked Dad this time. All he said to me was, "You're my son and always will be." Looking back, I see the answer as more of an admission than denial.  Still they did produce my birth certificate-- and I put it into a separate compartment in my mind. I didn't think of it again until three days after they died-- at the funeral. I always knew. But it didn't matter. They were my family no matter what. 

-------------------------------------

I didn't want to go back to the house-- not until I talked to Sid. He knew to look at me, something was up the moment I got in the car to pick me up. 

"Let's go for a ride," I said. I told him  I remembered every thing from Dr. Deal's hypnosis session. I told him about what happened in the greenhouse, who Shackleton was. I told Sid he'd been in Sid's home. I told him the threats. 

I told him I was adopted.

"I want you to be careful," I said. "No more chasing after the bad guys."

"I won't if you don't pull another stunt like going to the hospital or Lancaster's without me."

I wasn't sure I could promise that one. 

"I'll try not to," I answered.

"Then I'll try not to," he said. "Let's go home and get something to eat before you go to band practice tonight."  I nodded and let out a long strained breath. I hadn't realized until then just how long I'd been holding it.

I insisted that we check every window, every latch, when we got home. I didn't want to find Shackleton hiding in the house or any other surprises. My guess was that he just picked the lock on either the front or back door. If we kept the deadbolts on from the inside when home, he wouldn't be able to get in without breaking glass. Sid checked the basement windows, and I checked the attic. I called John to ask him to pick me up tonight. I didn't want Sid leaving the house open to another invasion. Just because you're paranoid, don't mean they're not after you...

We threw together some sandwiches and ate. I was fine until we picked up the plates, and Sid slipped behind me when I was putting away the dishes. John started pounding at the front door at the same time. I jumped.  I knew it wasn't Sid's touch, or John's knock, but the memory of Shackleton's hands on me that had my brain all fucked up. 

"It's me," Sid reassured me. 

I turned around, kissed his mouth and said, "I know. I'm just edgy." I picked up my guitar by the couch and kissed Sid goodbye again, pressing my body into his, hoping to collect some of his good Karma.

"Be sure to bolt the door the moment I leave. I'll call as soon as I get to practice and before I leave again."

"Don't forget." 

"I won't."

 I remembered Shackleton's limp as I got into the car.  

----------------------------------

We were all set up, and Les hadn't arrived. I was tuning my guitar to John's as Les pulled in, his car lights blinding every one of us. 

"Fucking ass wipe," Smith swore, tripping over his amp cord. "Turn off the fucking headlights, dumb ass! Hell's fucking kitchen, don't you have any sense?" He yelled as Les got out of his car.

"Sorry," Les said. "It won't happen again."

"Better fucking not happen again. I could have been a human shish-kabob on one of these rakes."

"You know, Smith," Jimbo said, "if you took all this shit and put it away, it'd be a lot safer to play in this garage."

"Then where the fuck would I store all this crap?" Smith asked, scratching his crotch with his guitar pick. "I use this stuff all the time. All of you god-damned pansy-asses can just play around a few sharp objects. Dangerous? You don't know dangerous. How the hell are we gonna play in a biker bar if we can't even jam with pruning sheers?"  

"So you're sayin' your garage is the band's warm up for a gig with the Hell's Angels?" Les asked, laughing.

"Oh shut the fuck up you stupid cock sucker and get me a beer," Smith ordered. "God damned newby needs to know his place."

I suddenly was getting a new appreciation for Smith's smart ass-isms. 

"Get me a beer too," I added.  

Les opened the rusty old dented fridge in the corner of the garage and reached in for the beer, asking, "Am I allowed one too?"

"Only if you suck my dick later," Smith said. Les gave him an odd look and pulled out three bottles, hanging on to their necks, clinking them together. 

Les handed Smith his beer, then handed me mine. I watched Les as he twisted off the top, waiting for him to take a swig. 

"He's serious, you know," I said. "And his dick is really big." 

Les sprayed a mouthful of Miller Lite into Smith's face. 

"After that, you damn well better be good at giving head," Smith said, wiping the beer off with the back of his hand.

Les kinda laughed and choked at the same time as Smith stuck his face into Les' space and gave one of his up-yours smirks, and said quietly, "I'm not joking." 

I couldn't help myself-- what a great opening. I began singing: 

I started a joke, which started the whole world crying. 

Oh if I'd only seen, that the joke was on me.

Jimbo and John picked up on it and began playing along, singing in harmony-- 

"Oh no--"

Smith, joining in:

I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing. 

Oh, if I'd only seen, that the joke was on me...

That's when it happened. Les sang-- his voice lazy and melodic with a slight quaver-- hauntingly beautiful. We all continued to play as he continued singing alone. As his last note faded, we fell silent, dumbfounded. 

He was good. Better than good. He was, Hell, better than me. Better than any of us. 

Smith cleared his throat. 

"Not bad," John said. "I like it. Needs more bass though." 

------------------------------

I called Sid as soon as practice got out. I decided to catch a ride home with Les-- I'd get a chance to corner him with a few questions. Not only that, but save him from Smith, who kept pointing at his dick and asking Les to stay for a while and help him out with his hard on.  

Not that I didn't enjoy watching Les getting embarrassed, but the joke was getting old. Plus I think Smith was half serious, especially after he heard Les sing. And the way Les blushed, I wondered if he was half interested in helping Smith out. We fucked each other over enough in this band with out literally fucking each other over.

But I had more important details on my mind. As we got into the car, I asked him.  

"Yes, I'm like you," he answered. "A lot more like you than you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Do you remember anything at all about the night of your accident?" 

"No, why? What should I remember?" I asked, fastening my seatbelt.  "Your family needs to stop playing with me and tell me what the hell is going on. I'm tired of guessing, and after today, it's getting too dangerous to be playing God Damned mind games."

"Why, what happened today?" He said, checking his rear view mirror.

"That sick son of a bitch Shackleton cornered me in the greenhouse, threatening to hurt  Sid."

"That's interesting, because he watched the whole practice from across the street, and now he's following my car." 

"Shit," I said, turning around in my seat to see. 

"Listen, I'd love to tell you everything I know, but my Uncle doesn't want me to. He wants you to remember it. But shit. This is getting too dangerous. At least I'm living with some protection, but you're really open to this man. He is seriously dangerous." I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel tight. He eyes darted watching me, the road and the rearview mirror as he pulled into our driveway.

"Maybe you better come in," I said. 

"No, he's not going to follow me home. He's going to sit outside and watch your place."

"You know who, and what he is then?" I asked, straining to see where he'd parked. 

"I know exactly what he is. Confession time. My Uncle and I followed Shackleton into Sid's house the other day. We sorta read the notes, and what was in the folder. Well, pretty much nosed around all through his place afterwards. Sorry."

"Fuck! Who are you to do that? This is crazy." I started to shout. 

"You should know that Shackleton's been in Sid's place before and yours. The night of the fire, too."

"What gives you the right to keep this from me? Tell me everything now." I swallowed and stared at him. I was living in a sandpaper box. I felt raw and exposed.

He didn't look at me, he stared at the sparkling constellations out his windshield, deciding. 

"I can't," he said, finally.

I got out of the car and slammed the door. That sandpaper box just closed in a bit more around me as I noticed Shackleton parked half way down the block under a street lamp. I rushed to the door, driven by fear and anger. My body and soul raw and chapped from the day's constant sanding. I wanted to jump into Sid's arms the moment he opened the door and saw his sunburned nose and fine white laugh lines crinkling up, glad to see me. He'd been standing waiting for me to come through, must have heard my voice. I didn't even need to knock.

Sid bolted it behind me as I made my way the couch and carelessly fell back, dropping my guitar case to the floor, taking Sid in. I told him about my conversation with Les, watching him chew at the inside of his cheek as he listened. 

"He's out there. He followed us home," I said finally. "Maybe we should call the police."

Sid frowned and nodded. Reaching for the cordless phone, he punched the buttons as he walked toward the front picture window.

"Tell them the guy that took a shot at you and Trent is parked across the street,"  I directed Sid what to say. As he talked to dispatch, he squinted hard through the glass panes, his laugh lines deepening. 

"No, I can't see him from here." He hung up, snapping the blinds shut. "They're sending a car to drive by and look." 

Then I remembered. "He limped away."

"What?" He crossed the room and sat down. I welcomed the cushion's gentle shifting of his weight into mine. 

"When Shackleton walked away from me, he was limping. If he heals like me, why would Shackleton limp?" 

"Don't know. Could be an injury from before he was transformed. Maybe those don't heal."

"Something's not right. Maybe he isn't the same," I said. Sid's thigh brushed mine. I smiled, and his nose twitched. 

"Of course they're not the same. You're different; you're special. Especially to me." I snuggled in closer to him, laying my head on his shoulder.

I yawned. "Tired..." I whispered, covering my mouth. 

"Too tired?" His lips grazed my temple, humming sweetly against my skin.

"Mmm, no," I answered, nudging him down flat on the couch. My chaffed body, stung from the day, was healed by Sid's soft touch. He soothed the psychic hurt inside as his hands glided against my neck. 

I found my fingers unzipping his jeans. My breath quickened watching his pupils widen in anticipation. He raised his hips and helped me shimmy his jeans down past his knees. I slipped my thumb under the elastic of his briefs, coyly brushing the head of his dick. He shivered as I boldly reached in, pulling his cock out, bending my head down. His hands followed my head-- my lips faltering just a breath from him. My thumbs nervously pressed hard into his hip bones, leaving imprints.

I thought, how difficult could this be to do? I wanted Sid in every way he had me. I wanted to make him feel as good has he made me feel.

"I'm more hungry than tired," I whispered, knowing the effect my words would have on him. 

He moaned, "God, Wes. Please." And I bit my lip then bent in, kissing and licking the length of him, looking up at him, memorizing his color and lines. Damp locks clinging to his forehead. Watching Sid's face flush and eye lids flutter incensed me, and I teased him more. Blowing him made me feel both powerful and powerless. My tongue tasted salt and musk, darting on the head of his cock.  Grasping him, I slid him carefully into my mouth. His thick cock twitching, I flicked his corona with the tip of my tongue then slid my mouth up and down a little, infusing the texture of his penis into the contours of my mouth. Every ridge and bump, I loved. God, I wasn't prepared for how wonderful Sid would feel-- his pulse beating hot inside my mouth. Heat and light sparked through me as my I felt the stretch in my jaws, slipping him down deeper into my throat. His fingers found my hair and twisted and pulled. He felt so good-- quivering and straining, moaning my name. My cock was rock hard, rubbing into Sid's leg-- rubbing and moaning. 

He was watching me. 

I slowly slid him out of my mouth, meeting his eyes.  Tightening my jaw, I began a smooth, firm embrace. My lips and throat hugging his beautiful cock, floating up and down from the head to base. I clasped the base of his cock with my hand and swallowed. His thigh muscles tensed; he was so close. I slowed, and he gasped, "Don't stop."

I took him as deep into the back of my throat as I could, and he clutched my back and hair. He ground his hips, and I met his thrusts as he fucked my mouth, then he was lost; I was lost-- coming with such intensity that I thought I'd climax with him without his laying one hand on my cock. I swallowed him all, and the whole experience surprised me-- how much I wanted him, his seed, the most intimate part of Sid. He pulled my hair, willing me to his mouth. He kissed me greedily, tongue hard and urgent. I whimpered into his mouth, like a child who wants more candy.

His hand cupped my cock, my stomach did hand springs as he pressed the length of me--  God, I wanted out of these jeans. 

"Sid..." I murmured against his mouth, willing myself to say the words. "I..."

Four sharp raps on the front door cut me off and brought me out of my bliss.