Driven, page 6
He stood abruptly, knocking the stool over in the process of reaching for his shirt to cover up, his eyes never leaving Simon’s imposing figure. The other boy raised an eyebrow at the actions.
“Don’t cover up on my account. I was almost enjoying the scenery,” Simon said.
Oliver flushed but couldn’t help asking, “Almost?”
Simon shrugged his broad shoulders. “Yeah… just that dirt and I don’t agree….”
Oliver saw red. His shirt dropped to the floor as he drew his fist back. It had been nice while it lasted, he thought, but he knew better than most that all good things come to an end. This journey would be no different.
Chapter Twelve
“WHOA, WAIT!” Simon’s eyes had grown wide, and he threw his hands up in defense. “Bad choice of words. I was talking about the paint!”
Oliver stopped, fist still raised, and looked down at himself. In his work-induced haze he had splattered paint all over his freshly showered chest and his new pants. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach.
“Shit. These were new,” he said to himself, ignoring Simon’s presence.
“I’m sure Vera can get them clean. She does wonders with all my grease-covered clothes.” Oliver looked up and saw an apologetic Simon. “Sorry about before. I was trying to be funny, but… uh, I guess I fail at comedy. No harm meant.”
Oliver looked him over. He seemed genuinely sorry for his comment.
“I, umm, guess I’m a little sensitive too,” he admitted to the neighbor.
Simon gave a sheepish grin. “I guess we’re even, then.”
Oliver gave a quick nod of agreement before looking down at his pants again.
“You should probably get out of those,” Simon said, his voice sounding odd.
“Right.” Oliver unbuttoned the pants and stuck his thumbs in the waistband, all set to drop trou when he looked up and noticed a flushed Simon watching intently. He felt the heat rise to his own cheeks and removed his hands. “Maybe I should go do this in the bathroom.”
Simon shook his head, tousling his hair in the process. “No, no. I’ll leave. Sorry.” He turned to go, but Oliver called out to him.
“Is there a reason you came up here in the first place?”
Simon looked over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, dinner is ready.” Oliver raised an eyebrow. “I was invited since my folks are out of town. When I came over, they sent me to fetch you.”
“Gotcha.”
“I’ll tell them you’ll be down in a few.” He headed off leaving Oliver to change, yet again.
THEY WERE all waiting in the luxurious dining room when Oliver finally joined them, dirty pants in hand. Vera wordlessly put her hand out for them, no questions asked.
“Sorry,” Oliver said, feeling awful.
“Don’t you worry your little head over it. We should have thought enough to get you a smock of some sort,” she replied.
“That’s not necessary. You’ve done so much already. I’ll just use my old clothes. No one will notice any additional paint on them.”
“We’ll work something out, dear. For now, have a seat before my poor sister starts eating the tablecloth. It’s a family heirloom. I’d hate to see it damaged.” She winked at him before disappearing into the kitchen with the paint-splattered pants.
Oliver mumbled another apology as he slid into the seat across from the grumpy twin, who glared at him. Simon was to his left and Vera would take the seat at the head of the table when she returned. The heavy crystal pitchers were back as well as the covered dishes. These chicks cooked like every day was Thanksgiving. Oliver’s stomach growled loudly in anticipation.
“Sorry!” he said, embarrassed by bodily functions he had no control over.
Vera glided back into the room and started removing covers. Tude was quick to help, wanting to dig into the feast. Grace was said and food was handed out in record time.
In between bites and mouthfuls, the questions started, bombarding Oliver from all sides.
“So how old are you?” Simon asked. Oliver wasn’t sure if he was truly curious or just trying to make polite small talk.
“Eighteen,” he replied after he swallowed a mouthful of butter drenched garlic bread.
“Oh, so a little younger than me. I pegged you for older,” Simon replied.
“Yeah, well… living on the streets can age a person.” If they knew half of what Oliver went through, they’d be surprised at how young he looked.
“I can only imagine…,” Simon said his voice soft.
“Why ain’t ya in school?” Tude wanted to know.
Oliver raised a brow. “Because I dropped out and then was in jail. I did get some tutoring while I was in, but not enough to take my GED. It’s kind of pointless now. Who’s going to hire me when I have a record?”
“Oh, I’m sure lots of people would hire a nice, strong, young man like yourself,” Vera said, putting her fork down before patting his hand.
“Don’t be so sure….” Oliver wasn’t anywhere as optimistic as she was.
“What about family?” Simon spoke up. “Isn’t there anyone we could… call for you?”
Oliver swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. He was quiet for a few moments, willing the rising emotions to settle down.
“No one who would care,” he finally said and then shoveled some food into his mouth hoping that they would get the hint to stop asking questions.
“They’re family, I’m sure they’re worried about you,” Vera said, not letting the subject drop.
Oliver brought his fist down on the wood tabletop. “I promise you, she’s not.”
“No need to dent our table,” Tude said, looking annoyed.
“Sorry,” Oliver said. He sure was apologizing a lot these days.
“So, uh, it seems you’re pretty good at that art thing,” Simon said, thankfully changing the subject.
“I’m okay, I suppose,” Oliver said, suddenly bashful. He had a hard time handling compliments of any sort.
“I might not know a lot about art, but that painting looked pretty good to me. My friend works at a coffee shop, and he might be able to talk to his boss about displaying it.”
“Ollie doesn’t want anything to do with that coffee shop,” Tude interrupted.
“Ollie?” The only people who had ever called him Ollie had been his dad and Officer Richards.
“We all have nicknames, so should you,” Tude said, crossing her frail arms as if daring him to deny her.
Oliver just sighed. Some things weren’t worth fighting over. “Why wouldn’t I want anything to do with the coffee shop?” he asked instead.
“Because that’s the one that ran us out!” Tude replied, fire in her eyes.
“Oh. I see,” Oliver said. “Then you’re right, I don’t want anything to do with it.” He flashed Simon an apologetic smile.
“Smart boy,” Tude said before grabbing the bowl of vegetables and shoving it toward him. “Now eat up. You’re too skinny.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice.
Chapter Thirteen
THE DAYS took on a familiar rhythm. There were always chores waiting for him in the morning, but his afternoons were free. He spent much of that time painting. By the time his trial period was over, he’d have enough for a gallery show. He laughed at the thought of someone offering him such a thing. His best bet would probably be to hang them up in some alley and get the hookers to say they were pretty pictures.
He saw Simon on occasion, but they never exchanged more than a few words. Things seemed less stressed between them since dinner. Oliver didn’t know if it was because Simon had gotten to know him a little better or because the old women had told him to leave Oliver alone.
On his way home from mailing a package for the twins, he spotted Simon in his driveway, working on that old car again. He stopped for a moment to admire the shape the other boy’s body made as he bent over the front bumper, tinkering with the engine.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Simon’s voice rang loud and clear from under the hood.
Oliver let out an embarrassed chuckle while rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Simon said as he straightened up, wrench in hand.
“I was… uh, just wondering what you were doing. Is that thing ever going to run?”
Simon’s brows rose. He rolled his shoulders, making a soft groaning noise in the process. “Of course it’s going to run. Someday it’ll be the most beautiful ’Stang for miles around.” He patted the hood lovingly.
“All righty, then,” Oliver said before he started off toward his temporary home.
“Ollie, wait. Do you think you can help me with something real quick?”
Oliver turned; the sound of his name from Simon’s mouth sent a special kind of heat flowing through his body. “Depends on what it is,” he said, shifting his weight, hoping to hide the fact that his pants were growing tight.
“I just need you to sit in the car and tell me if a light goes on or not.”
His heart started to race as he looked over the busted car. Could he do it? He had only been in a car a handful of times since the accident. Each time left him in a cold sweat, shaking like a scared dog, gasping for air.
“Never mind, it’s not a big deal.” Simon gave him a small smile. He must have seen Oliver’s panic.
“No, I can do it.” He didn’t know what prompted him to agree. Maybe it was the dim light of disappointment in Simon’s eyes or maybe he was ready to try and face some of his fears. Either way, it was too late to back out. “Is it okay if I don’t sit in the driver’s seat?”
Simon gave him a quizzical look but said that’d be fine.
Oliver rounded the car, carefully skirting the rusted back bumper. Taking a deep breath, he reached out for the door. It seemed like he was moving in slow motion, but Simon said nothing to hurry him along, patiently waiting for Oliver.
A surge of panic ran through him when he came into contact with the handle. It was warm to the touch, having been basking in the afternoon sun. He fought against the anxiety and grabbed the handle, now in a hurry to get the door open. In his haste, he pulled too hard and the edge of the door clipped his shin, causing him to hiss in pain. Out the corner of his eye he saw Simon step toward him, concern written all over his face. Oliver was quick to shake his head, warning the other boy off. He had to follow through or Simon would realize how weak he really was.
He stepped back, allowing the door to fully open. Ducking down, he climbed into the passenger seat, trying to ignore the sounds of the creaking leather. He sat with his feet hanging out the side, allowing him for a quick getaway. His breath was coming in short pants and his head started to swim, but when he heard Simon ask if he was ready, he stuck his arm out, thumb up, to let the other boy know he was good to go.
The seconds ticked by like hours as Oliver waited for something to happen. His legs twitched, ready to take him far away from the metal and leather death trap. He could hear Simon cursing, trying to get things to work. His body shook, and he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. If he didn’t want to pass out, he’d have to get out of the car ASAP….
A bright orange light caught his eye. Success! He called out that it was on while simultaneously climbing out of the car. He stood gulping fresh air, willing his body to stop shaking. It may not seem like a huge accomplishment to most, but Oliver was strangely proud of himself.
Simon had quietly come around from under the hood and lounged against the side of the car, arms crossed over his chest. Oliver was grateful the other boy wasn’t hounding him with questions, but he was sure Simon was curious. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and his body calmed.
“Okay?” Simon asked, arms still folded, legs crossed at the ankles.
“Yeah… sorry,” Oliver said, unsure what else to say.
“Nothing to be sorry about. Everyone has issues.”
Oliver gave a weak chuckle. “That’s an understatement when it comes to me.” He expected Simon to laugh along but was surprised to see a stony face and angry eyebrows.
“Don’t belittle yourself. Fears, concerns, and struggles don’t necessarily make you a lesser person. It just means you have to work harder to pick yourself back up, and you know what? Once you do, you’ll probably be a better person than most. You’ll appreciate things while others take them for granted. You’ll be more kindhearted to others who are down and out because you’ve been in their shoes and know how hard it is.”
Oliver was quiet, taking in Simon’s surprising words. Most people he encountered told him he’d never amount to anything, that he was worthless. He even had people tell him he should just kill himself so he wouldn’t be a burden on society. Sadly, Oliver often agreed with them, even if they didn’t know the real reasons for his circumstances.
He suddenly found his hand engulfed by a warm, calloused counterpart. Simon gave his hand a strong squeeze.
“It doesn’t have to continue to be a downward spiral. You’ve been given an opportunity to get things back on track. Don’t throw it away by thinking poorly of yourself or that you’re not worthy of a better life. Everyone deserves a second chance and everyone needs someone who will cheer them along.”
Oliver blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to hold back the moisture that had been gathering there since Simon started talking. He hadn’t cried in so long he was surprised his body still knew how.
“I can shake some pom-poms for you… but I draw the line at wearing a skirt.”
A vivid image of Simon in a short, red, pleated skirt made Oliver almost cackle with glee. “But you have fabulous legs. You should want to show them off.”
Simon started laughing too. “Yeah, but they’re so hairy I’d be self-conscious. Maybe if I shaved them….”
“How about a wax? That always looks like soooo much fun,” Oliver said through tears of laughter.
“Oh God, no. Why do women torture themselves like that? Are they all masochists? I just don’t get it!”
“Seriously. I’m so glad I’m not a chick. All their primping and preparing seems painful. Who the hell thought an eyelash curler would be a good thing? Could you imagine if you sneezed while doing that? They’d probably pull out all their lashes at the same time.”
Simon doubled over with laughter. He kept trying to talk, but the giggles would re-erupt. He finally gained some composure, standing tall and using the back of his hand to wipe the tears off his cheeks.
“I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time,” he finally said.
Oliver got quiet, contemplating. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed at all.”
That silenced Simon as well. Finally he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’m glad I could be of assistance. A good laugh is like chicken soup for the soul.”
Oliver groaned. “Did you really just quote that ridiculous book series?”
Simon flushed. “My mom is a big fan….”
Oliver rolled his eyes but gave the other boy a small smile.
“Oh, and Ollie?”
“Yeah?”
Simon looked down at his feet and mumbled something Oliver couldn’t quite make out.
“What was that?” he asked, turning to face Simon.
Simon looked up, his cheeks bright red. “I said, I’m glad you’re not a girl too.”
Chapter Fourteen
AFTER DINNER Oliver excused himself to his room. He threw himself down on the bed, face-first, and replayed the afternoon’s scene with Simon. The other boy’s words had been comforting and encouraging. Oliver was beginning to think that just because someone didn’t lead the life he had, didn’t mean they couldn’t understand struggles or hardship. He could use a cheerleader in his corner… other than the twins and Officer Richards, that is. Simon was definitely a better-looking cheerleader, skirt or no skirt.
The hand-holding had been a surprise. Oliver remembered how well the two had fit together, and how nice it had felt, like Simon was the missing puzzle piece he had finally found. Simon’s admission that he was glad Oliver wasn’t a girl helped reassure him of the notion that the older boy was on the same side of the fence as himself. There had been some telltale signs over the course of their short time together, but Oliver thought perhaps he was so starved for attention that wasn’t negative, he may have been reading too much into things.
The real question was what should he do, now that he knew and it seemed like there could be something brewing between them. Deep down Oliver knew he wasn’t deserving of real happiness, regardless of what Simon thought. Simon had no idea what crimes Oliver had committed. Maybe they could have something on a more superficial level. Maybe Simon wasn’t looking for anything more than a physical relationship. Oliver could handle that. He’d have to try and feel Simon out and see if it were possible. Any more than that and Oliver would have to keep his distance. His fragile heart couldn’t take another break or even a fracture.
“Oliver, there’s someone at the door for you!” Vera’s sweet voice floated up the stairs to him. Who could be there for him? Maybe it was Simon. He hopped off the bed, stopping in front of the mirror to make sure he looked presentable. These days, his reflection kept surprising him. His hair was no longer stringy and dirty but clean and shiny. Vera had sat him down the other day and given him a trim. It was kind of glorious. His cheeks were no longer sunken in or gaunt. His skin had a nice color to it, and his eyes, dare he say it, had a bit of a twinkle rather than that dull, dead look he sported when he first helped Tude back to the house.
With quick strokes he pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck and double-checked that he hadn’t spilled any dinner on himself. When he was satisfied that he looked okay, he hurried down the stairs, a smile on his face.
His gait slowed as he got toward the bottom, stopping completely when he stepped into the foyer. It wasn’t Simon waiting for him at all. It was Officer Richards, decked out in full uniform, his bright smile shining as he chatted with the twins.
