Driven, page 2
“Don’t you have a name?” the grumpier of the two women asked.
Oliver flushed a bit when he realized he had never even introduced himself to the women who graciously invited him in for dinner.
“S-sorry!” he stuttered, unused to having these kinds of encounters anymore. “I’m Oliver. Oliver Sutton.”
“Lovely to meet you, Oliver,” Pastel said with a warm smile. “You know Tude, and you may call me Vera.”
“Vera? That’s a nice name,” Oliver replied, enjoying the old-fashioned names.
“Bah. Her name is Guinevere, but since I had a nickname, she wanted one too,” Tude said, rolling her eyes.
“Gertrude and Guinevere?”
“Westling,” Vera said. “Gertrude and Guinevere Westling.”
Oliver gave them a genuine smile. “Nice to meet you both. Thank you for dinner. It’s… it’s probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Ever?” questioned Tude.
Oliver flashed back to a memory of a Christmas dinner years ago, remembering the juicy turkey and homemade cranberry sauce. It was one of the few good memories that hadn’t been wiped away.
“Well, maybe not ever, but it’s definitely made the top three.”
Both women beamed at him as if he’d handed them the Nobel Peace Prize.
Oliver patted his distended stomach and hoped all the food he ate would stay down. He shouldn’t have gorged himself, but not knowing when his next good meal would be, he couldn’t help it.
As the food settled in his stomach, a great exhaustion fell over him. Oliver blinked rapidly, trying to keep from falling into a carb-induced coma. He attempted to push up off the overstuffed couch the women had led him to and suddenly found his face full of soft fuzzy fabric. Batting at it, he realized it was a velour blanket. Tude grinned at him while Vera held a pillow in her hands. Oliver cocked his head to the side, wondering what was going through their heads.
“I don’t need this,” Oliver said, his voice quiet as he started to fold the blanket.
“It gets cool in here at night,” Tude told him while nudging her sister to hand over the pillow.
“Yes, quite drafty. We wouldn’t want you catching your death,” Vera chimed in after placing the pillow at the end of the couch.
Oliver shook his head and held the blanket out to them. “I don’t need this because I’m not staying.” His voice was no nonsense, his spine suddenly pin straight. He was grateful for the meal, but he wouldn’t intrude any further, and he certainly couldn’t stay the night. If they knew who he really was, what he had done, they wouldn’t want him there either.
Chapter Three
“OH, COME now. It’s dark. We couldn’t possibly let you go out into the night alone. What if it rains?” Tude said, shoving the blanket back toward Oliver’s stiff frame.
“It would be unchristian of us,” Vera added, folding her hands as if she were praying for Oliver to see the reasoning in their words.
The young man held back a monumental sigh. On one hand, it would be nice to sleep in a place where he wouldn’t have to worry for his safety. Getting a good night’s sleep was a fantasy he often longed for. On the other hand, if the women found out about his past, they would be upset and angry they had let him stay in their house. It would probably end up with them calling the cops on him, just what he didn’t need.
His body began to override his mind and make the decision for him, lids and limbs becoming heavy. Against his better judgment, Oliver took the soft blanket from Tude’s outstretched arms and mumbled a thank-you.
The little old ladies beamed at him, and Oliver had to push the guilt down far enough to keep him from booking out the door. They switched on a couple of odd-shaped nightlights and reminded him where the bathroom was before saying good night.
Oliver cautiously lay out on the couch, trying not to compare it to the hard park benches and threadbare cots in the shelter that were typically his resting places. He almost wished the couch was uncomfortable with springs sticking up through scratchy cushions, but instead he felt like the Princess and the Pea… sans the pea. The cushions were just firm enough to support his body without the hard sharp corners and cold metal bolts the park benches had for him. The blanket reminded him of the lawn he loved to ruffle after his dad had shorn it. The pillow, a true luxury, seemed freshly plumped and lying on it was what he assumed lying on a cloud would feel like. A guy could get used to that kind of indulgence.
Rolling on his side, he sighed, wondering what he was doing there. Sure he helped the old lady home, but he knew better than to get too involved. It inevitably led to questions he didn’t want to answer.
As he was contemplating his situation, sleep snuck in and overtook him, bringing him to a beautiful dreamland he hadn’t visited in years.
BRIGHT SUN streaming through the crack in the heavy drapes slanted across Oliver’s face, giving him a rude kind of awakening. He took his time sitting up, the soft blanket sliding down his chest and creating a luxurious puddle in his lap. In the distance he could hear the almost forgotten sound of clanking pots and pans. The strong smell of coffee lingered in the air, beckoning him from his evening resting place.
Arms overhead, Oliver stretched, astonished at how refreshed he felt. It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do for one’s mind and body. Content was a feeling he had long forgotten.
The sound of sizzling bacon made its way to where Oliver was sitting. Although he didn’t feel hungry, his stomach let out a grumble to remind him that he didn’t know where his next meal would be coming from. Eyeing the door, he contemplated if he should sneak out before the sisters came to check on him, or if he should get in one last meal while he could. Just thinking of that hot, greasy bacon hitting his tongue made his mouth water. Would he savor the memory of the delicious pork or kick himself when he wanted more with no way to get it while on the streets?
Sighing, Oliver decided it was best to get out while he could, without questions or disappointed looks. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds of breakfast. There was no direct line of sight from the living room to the kitchen, so he stood swiftly, blanket in hand. Oliver took the time to fold the soft fabric into a neat square. Placing it on the end of the couch, he put the soft, fluffy pillow on top. It looked like a cherry on the most delicious hot-fudge sundae. Unconsciously, his hand stretched out to touch the velour blanket. Slowly, sadly, he trailed his fingers along the fuzzy fabric, trying to file away the sensation into his good memories, the ones he only allowed himself to think of on the cold, dark, lonely nights.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he hoped the women wouldn’t be too upset with his disappearance. Maybe they’d realize how unsafe it was to let a stranger into their home. Hopefully they wouldn’t invite more homeless people into their lives. Oliver knew from experience they all weren’t as polite or repentant as he was.
Placing his hand on the cool brass doorknob, Oliver contemplated jotting them a quick thank-you note, an action his father would have greatly approved of. Glancing around, there was nothing but little white tags for him to write on. Sighing, he moved to turn the knob only to find it already turning in his grasp. Before he could process what was happening, the door swung in, the edge clocking him square in the forehead. Oliver let out a small grunt and stumbled back a bit. His hand rose slowly to find a patch of hot skin, a lump already forming.
“Oh no, are you okay?” A deep voice full of concern wrapped around Oliver, assaulting his senses in ways he had forgotten existed.
“Oh, sure, I didn’t need that part of my brain.” After two years of incarceration and living on the streets, sarcasm was typically an automatic response.
A warm, large hand grasped his wrist. “Shit, let me help you si—”
Oliver forcefully pulled himself out of the grasp. “Don’t touch me,” he spat out, taking another wobbly step back. Looking up, he saw a guy in grease-covered, khaki-colored cargo pants and a dingy white ribbed tank top that highlighted certain aspects of his fine physique. There was a golden tan to match caramel-colored hair, and hazel eyes narrowed as he took in Oliver’s bedraggled form. Heat rose to gaunt cheeks as the guy made the very obvious visual journey from Oliver’s head to his toes.
“Is everything okay, dear?” Vera’s disembodied voice floated into the entry way.
Moments later the two sisters were standing by Oliver’s side, fussing over the bump on his head. He struggled not to lash out at the women the way he had at the mystery boy. Giving in, he allowed them to lead him back to the couch where his blanket and pillow sat, still warm from his body heat. Mystery Boy frowned even more as he saw the bedding, obviously putting the pieces together.
“Do you make it a habit to take in wayward teens?” Oliver asked, gesturing halfheartedly to the boy.
“Wayward?” the guy asked, his expression growing even fiercer.
“Yeah, well… you’re not exactly looking like a clean-cut responsible citizen at the moment.” Oliver knew he should shut his mouth. He hated the way the guy was judging him by his appearance, so he figured he’d turn the tables so the guy could see how it felt.
Mystery Boy’s posture gave away his rising temper. His dirty hands curled into tight fists, and color rose up his neck. The biggest giveaway was the vein pulsing in his forehead. It was beating out an angry rhythm Oliver was sure he wouldn’t want to dance to.
“I was working on my car when I remembered I was supposed to be here mowing the lawn,” the greased-stained boy said through clenched teeth. Oliver raised an eyebrow, as if to say “likely story.” “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” the guy added, sneering.
“Likewise,” Oliver said, attempting to stand up. This kind of situation was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid. He should have left in the middle of the night. Damn that comfy couch.
Both Tude and Vera put a small hand on either shoulder. It’s not like he couldn’t overpower them and stand, but regardless of his recent life situation, he retained most of the manners instilled in him as a child.
“Oliver is our guest, and I won’t have bloodshed in here, Simon Green,” Vera said, tightening her grip on Oliver’s shoulder.
The boy, Simon, rolled his eyes and let out a pent-up breath. “I’m not looking to cause trouble, Miss Vera, I’m just worried about the two of you taking in some dirty stranger. He could be a rapist for all you know.”
Oliver saw red as he struggled to rise to defend himself. The two ladies were stronger than he would have thought, each keeping a firm hand on his shoulders.
“That was uncalled for,” Vera said to Simon, who had the grace to look away, embarrassed.
“He is our guest,” Tude reiterated, “and we trust him. We may be old, but that doesn’t mean we have cottage cheese for brains. We’ve been taking care of ourselves long before you were even a gleam in your daddy’s eye.”
“Sorry,” Simon muttered before looking back at Oliver, “but if I find you’re duping them somehow, stealing or otherwise causing trouble, I’m totally calling the cops.”
Oliver shrugged. The two soft hands slid off, allowing him to stand. He walked a few steps and snatched one of the empty white tags. He spied a pen on the end table and quickly jotted down a number he knew by heart. Without another word, he held it out to Simon.
“What’s this?” Simon asked, his expression puzzled as he took in the numbers on the small white rectangle.
“It’s the number for my parole officer. Feel free to call him if you suspect me of ‘otherwise causing trouble.’”
Chapter Four
SIMON DID a double-take, looking from the tag to Oliver and back. The phone number disappeared into his tight greasy fist.
The fuming boy spun on the twins. “This is exactly what I was worried about! You can’t be taking in garbage off the streets and expect them to just be a down-on-their-luck nice guy. Those people are felons and addicts. Give them a sandwich on the street corner if you need to do something, but for the love of God, don’t invite them into your home!” He was breathing heavy by the time he finished his spiel, brows meeting at an angry point above flashing eyes.
Tude moved to stand in front of Oliver. Vera came to stand by her side. They both had tiny fists planted firmly on hips. Even though Simon towered over them in height, the weight of their stares almost made him shrink before their eyes.
“I am disappointed in you,” Tude told him.
“Everyone has trouble,” Vera said. “If you don’t show them kindness, they will feel no need to repent.”
“But… he was in jail! He wouldn’t have a parole officer if he hadn’t been convicted,” Simon argued, but most of the anger had left his stance, replaced by exasperation.
“And now he’s not,” Tude said. “Meaning he’s served his time and they deemed him free to go. It’s our duty to help get him back on his feet.” Her sister agreed.
Simon rolled his eyes and shook his head, sending a lock of multifaceted brown hair in front of one eye. He carelessly swept it to the side. “Fine. You two are the most stubborn old bat—uh, ladies I know. I’m not happy with it, but obviously it’s your call to make.” He sighed deeply before turning his gaze on Oliver. The anger was back, flickering in the depths of his hazel eyes. “I’ve got my eye on you, kid. You so much as scratch your ass wrong, and I’ll have you out of here and back behind bars.”
Oliver nodded his understanding. Knowing he wasn’t going to be staying anyway, he couldn’t help but rib the grease monkey. “You can stare at my ass all you want; I surely won’t mind.” He added a little wink and was surprised to see the other boy flush before turning on his heel to head out, mumbling about the lawn not mowing itself.
Running a hand over his face, Oliver sank back down on the couch that had been his luxurious place of slumber not so long ago. He was embarrassed and ashamed that the two sweet ladies had stood up for him. If they knew why he had been in jail, what drove him to that life, they would have known he didn’t deserve defending.
“Don’t let Simon get to you, dear,” Vera said, her hand back on Oliver’s shoulder.
“He doesn’t know how to control that slick tongue of his,” Tude added. “If you ask me, his daddy should have been more liberal with the rod. None of those sissy time-outs or no video machine punishments.”
Oliver held back an insane kind of giggle thinking about Simon and his slick tongue. It certainly wasn’t the time to be fantasizing about a guy who was looking to send him back to prison, even if the guy was the best-looking thing he’d seen in ages. Hot tempers had always been sexy to Oliver.
He heaved a deep sigh. “He’s right, though,” he told the women, his head still bowed. “You shouldn’t be bringing random people in off the street into your house. It’s not safe.”
“Are you saying you’re going to rob us now?” Tude asked. “Because I have a pistol tucked in my handbag.” Oliver’s head shot up, eyes wide as he tried to figure out if the woman was pulling one over on him again or not. The old lady laughed at his expression but the glint in her eye left Oliver wondering as she settled on a flower-covered high-back chair next to the couch.
“We don’t let everyone in,” Vera said, settling in an identical chair at the other end of the couch. “Just those we think can’t help themselves.”
Oliver couldn’t help but bristle. He had been through a lot and was still standing. That had to count for something. Sure he had to occasionally resort to… unsavory ways, but it was all in the name of survival.
“I don’t need your help,” he hissed, annoyed that they may have seen past his brusque exterior to the scared boy beneath. It was something he tried, desperately, to hide from everyone else. If people saw that side of him, he’d never survive. He’d end up used, abused, and dead in a gutter in days. You couldn’t be weak and make it on the streets. You had to hide away every soft part of you, and Oliver already took a risk with his art. It had hard lines and edges, but there was a definite bit of softness to be found—hope maybe—residing in his work.
Tude looked him in the eye, and Oliver tried not to shrink from the strange weight of her stare. She heaved a heavy sigh and leaned her frail frame forward. “Maybe you don’t need our help,” Tude admitted, “but wouldn’t it be nice to have all the same?”
Oliver’s eyes shifted from Tude to Vera, who nodded in agreement. It surprised him that they weren’t out and out pushing, that they admitted he could make it on his own. He wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge that of course he could use the help. Again, it would make him seem weak. Flashbacks of the previous night’s dinner and the best sleep he’d had in ages prompted him, against his better judgment, to ask what kind of help they had in mind.
“Room and board,” Vera said.
“In exchange for helping out around the house and running errands,” Tude was quick to add.
Vera’s white-capped head bobbed up and down. “We can’t get around like we used to. You saw that yesterday. It would be quite a big help to have you do those kinds of things for us.”
It seemed too easy to Oliver. To hammer some nails and walk into town for bread didn’t sound like an even exchange for giving him three squares a day and a roof over his head. He had to do more than that when he was in jail.
“There’s got to be more to it,” Oliver said, his thumbs twiddling restlessly in his lap. “Random drug tests? Curfews? Needing to know who I’m out with, where we’re going, and when I’m coming back?”
“Are you on drugs?” Tude inquired with a raised eyebrow. Oliver was quick to shake his head. “Then that’s certainly not a concern.”
“We’re not trying to be your mother, Oliver. We’re just trying to help so you can get back on your feet.”
Oliver’s saw red at the mention of his mother. “You couldn’t be less like my mother if you tried.” The sisters looked at each other but didn’t question him on his statement.
