Kissed by the Sun Page 3

  “No underwear.” Dan repeated, lowering his head in his hands. He lifted his eyes to Dan. “No fucking underwear.” He shivered violently, easing his body onto a bench near the barbershop. “After all this time, I still have the same damned reaction to Carlee Davis.”

  Ben plunked down next to him on the bench. “I can't figure out what I want to do more.” He looked away, then back. “It's like I want to haul off and spank her, but at the same time, I want to screw her until we’re both spent.”

  For a few seconds, he watched the patrons and visitors of Montauk walk by on the busy main drag.

  Dan looked at him. “What happened with you and Marjorie?”

  Ben shook his head and picked at a thread on his jeans. “Nothing. It went nowhere.”

  Dan nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “What would you say, if I told you, I think I’ll always be hung up on Carlee?”

  Dan lifted his hands to his mouth, blowing air on them. He rubbed them together then stuck them back in his pockets. “I’d tell you, so am I.”

  “Well, she hates us. That’s obvious.” Ben rose and stood stiffly on the sidewalk, all trace of his smile gone. A passerby bumped into him, so he moved aside. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he replied. “Quite honestly, I don’t blame her.”

  Dan looked up at Ben. “I just kept picturing her the way she was. I-I couldn’t reconcile this new Carlee with the old Carlee.” He dropped his hands between his knees. “I should have never called her Ida’s clone. What in hell was I thinking?”

  “It was like being a kid all over again." Ben ran a hand through his hair. “I always knew Carlee was beautiful, but dressed the way she was today... wow!”

  Dan smiled. “With her hair all done up and that outfit. Wow.” He let go of a breath. “Wow.”

  “The summer we met her was the best time of my life.” Ben’s voice held wistful tones. “It made living in that hell-hole of a reservation seem like paradise.”

  “I don’t know how she kept it from her family—sneaking in all those times to see us.”

  Ben sat down on the bench again. “Her old man was still alive then.” He blew on his hands to warm them. “If he found out, he would have tanned her hide.” He shook his head. “Hell, if I was her old man, I would have done the same.”

  Dan gave Ben a sideways glance. “The last thing I feel for Carlee is anything…fatherly.”

  Ben smiled again. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “We could tell her.”

  Ben raised a brow. “What?”

  “The truth. That we tried to go our separate ways and be with other women, but it always comes back to her, to Carlee.”

  “Oh, yeah right.”

  “It’s better than living a lie. Sharing Carlee is what we both wanted ever since she snuck into the reservation that first time.” He sat up straight, turning to look at Ben.

  Ben rested the back of his head against the cold cement wall of the barbershop and shut his eyes. “She was a kid then. A wild, curious kid. That’s all.”

  Dan shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Carlee knew what she wanted.”

  “She’s changed.” Ben’s voice was tight. “And the last thing we need to be doing is fantasizing about a wealthy white woman like Carlee.”

  A man walked out of the barbershop.

  Ben rose to his feet; so did Dan.

  “Hello Running Bear.” Ben addressed the elderly man.

  Running Bear leaned on his cane, his long, gray hair trailing his shoulders. His tan suede jacket looked well worn, the fringed pieces curling and frayed at the ends. They hung down from stitching just below his shoulders. There was a stain on the pocket, but Running Bear stood proud, if a little stiff, his cane his only support.

  He squinted. “Oh, it’s you two.”

  Ben sighed. “We have names, Running Bear.”

  The elder Montauk Indian replied, his tone clipped.

  “It’s just too bad you don’t use them.”

  “We can’t expect people at our jobs to call us ‘Swift Wolf’ and ‘Strong Eagle.’” Dan replied.

  “That’s because you’ve assimilated too much.” Running Bear rapped his cane on the pavement. He jabbed his index finger at them. “You have no respect for the Montauks. You have no respect for yourselves.” Running Bear gave Ben a searching look. “Tell me something, when was the last time you visited the reservation?”

  “We’re going there for Thanksgiving.” Ben replied.

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked when you visited last.”

  Ben’s face flushed, so did Dan’s.

  “At least you know enough to feel shame. I’ll give you that.” Running Bear replied, his tone harsh. “And you should be ashamed, because you haven’t been there in months.” He angled his head. “This Thanksgiving, be sure to bring food.”

  “Of course.”

  “And show up. Montauks need to stick together, particularly now.”

  “Why?” Dan asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What’s going on?”

  Running Bear rested both hands on top of his cane. “You would know if you came to the council meetings. We’re asking the United States government for financial help. To get it, we need to show that we are a strong, unified, tribe, with true Montauk blood in our veins.”

  “We can trace our roots back to Chief Wyandanch.” Ben answered proudly.

  “I don’t need a history lesson, boy; I just need you and Dan at the next council meeting.”

  Ben nodded. “All right.”

  “And visit the reservation more often.”

  “We will.”

  Running Bear lowered his voice. “I’m asking you to curtail your association with the white world.”

  Dan scowled. “How are we supposed to do that? We work with—”

  Ben elbowed Dan in the ribs. “We’ll do it.”

  Running Bear grunted. “You grow too far from your roots.”

  He walked away.

  Ben didn’t speak to Dan until Running Bear was out of sight.

  “I know, I know.” Dan held up a hand, palm-out. “You don’t have to say it.”

  “But we do.” Ben replied. “And maybe if we say it enough times, it’ll get through our thick skulls.”

  Dan sighed. “Stay away from Carlee.” His voice had a catch in it.

  “She’s off-limits. I won’t let Running Bear accuse us of screwing up all this financial help for the Montauk tribe.”

  Dan stalked away.

  Ben caught up to him. “It’s the only way, you know that.”

  “When are we going to stop paying for making our lives better, for leaving the reservation?”

  “When hell freezes over?” Ben retorted.

  Dan let go of a bitter laugh. He didn’t say another word.

  He didn’t have to.

  Chapter Five

  That evening, Carlee walked into the office at the poultry store. Shutting the door, she leaned against it and closed her eyes. She slipped out of her high heels, gingerly placing her feet on the tiled floor. The cool tiles felt heavenly against her burning, aching soles. She sighed, the sound filled with bliss.

  Bending down, she grabbed her shoes, and walked over to Ida’s desk. She sat in the high-backed leather chair and surveyed the pile of papers in front of her.

  She had no idea of where to start. Ida had her own filing system—she probably knew where everything was, even though it seemed like chaos.

  It was nine o’clock, the sun set long ago. Carlee switched on the desk lamp, the soft light shining down on the cluttered desk. She snatched an envelope from the top of one of the piles. It looked to be a bill. Then again, when she glanced through the rest of the stack, it appeared to be a hodgepodge of bills, letters and other correspondence.

  “Aunt Ida.” Carlee sighed. “What a mess you left me.”

  PING!

  Carlee snapped her brows together. Glancing down at the floor, she saw one of her errant bobby pins.
>
  PING! PING! PING!

  Several curls popped free of their restraint.

  Tired and disgusted, Carlee pulled every pin from her hair, tossing them on the desk. Her tresses fell around her shoulders, a mass of long, corkscrew curls. She unfastened the first three buttons of her blouse, and pulled out the uncomfortable falsies lining her bra.

  “Ahhhhhh,” she sighed with relief. She threw them in a nearby garbage can, a corner of her mouth lifting when she saw her pantyhose and thong still in there.

  She continued the task-at-hand, separating the tall pile of mail and bills. It soon became apparent that the money owed overshadowed anything else.

  She shut her eyes and leaned back in the chair, resting her head on the soft, well-used leather.

  “Tough day?”

  Her eyes popped open. Todd stood in front of her desk, a nasty smile on his face.

  “Do you really care?” She asked. “Or have you come to torture me some more?”

  He walked over to the side of the desk and settled a hip against it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he replied. “I heard you almost fainted in the store today.”

  “You heard wrong,” she snapped, but a corner of her eye trembled. She massaged the delicate skin next to her eye.

  “What’s the matter? Twelve-hour days don’t appeal to you?” He angled his head. “You probably never worked so hard in your life.”

  “Look.” She placed both palms on top of the desk and rose to her feet. “I’ve got a lot of work here.” She pointed at the piles of correspondence on Ida’s desk. “So if—”

  Todd picked up an envelope, looked at it, then tossed it back on the desk. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, cousin.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck, hoping to quell the ache. “I do. And since you’re here, I need you to give me the pass codes to the accounts on the computer.”

  He laughed. “Yeah right.”

  Her temper snapped. “Damn it, Todd. Don’t make this difficult.”

  “What?” He raised a brow. “And spoil all the fun of watching you screw things up?”

  “From the looks of all this,” she pointed at the piles on the desk. “It seems you certainly didn’t care about it.”

  Dropping his arms from his chest, he replied. “For your information, cousin, I was taking care of my mother.”

  “Marlene took care of Ida. I’ve heard she never left her bedside.”

  His face darkened. “If you weren’t my family, I’d—”

  Her heart raced, but she wouldn’t back down. “Go on. Don’t let me stop your tirade.”

  Todd walked away, his body trembling. At the door, he said, “I’m not going to let you force me into saying things I’ll regret later.”

  “Then help me. This business belongs to the family, it—”

  “My mother cut me off without a dime.” His voice cracked. “And you expect me to help you?” He shook his head. “You’re some piece of work, Carlee.”

  “You’ll get an allowance; you know I wouldn’t let you go without money. How could you even think a thing like that?”

  She felt like crying.

  “An allowance?” He let go of a bitter laugh. “A fucking allowance?” He aimed a finger at her. “Go to hell.”

  “You’ll have to come with me to the bank; you’ll have to sign over permission for me to have access to the books.” His voice cracked

  “Fuck you, Carlee.”

  “I’ll get a lawyer. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “You fucking do that.”

  He slammed the door back against the wall, rattling the frame.

  She watched as Todd strode through the doorway, the door closing behind him.

  Frustration filled her. She swung the door open until it crashed against its hinges. Then she slammed it shut.

  CRASH!

  Carlee jumped, her skin prickling when she turned and saw the picture of the Davis sisters lying on the floor, the frame broken, the glass cracked.

  The split in the glass lined Ida’s face, her artificially enhanced features distorted.

  Oh, Ida, why does your son have to be a fucking prick? None of this is my fault…

  Or was it? Was her need to become a successful artist overshadowing everything else? She wanted that money Ida promised her, more than anything.

  She walked over and grabbed the picture, placing it on a table. Running her fingers over the Davis sisters’ faces, she let her hand linger over her mother’s.

  Her mother never understood her need for freedom. She was like a wild animal, her need to roam as important as eating and breathing.

  Ben and Dan understood it.

  Carlee’s hand traced the outline of Beatrice’s features. She and her mother died too young, but maybe, it was better that they had…

  No amount of money could save them from suffering. The Davis family curse—heart disease--got them in their prime. A corner of Carlee’s mouth lifted, her grin rueful, filled with irony. The very thing the Davis sisters loved—fried chicken and roasted turkey—had done them in. They could suck out the fat from their thighs, but not from their arteries.

  So when, Carlee wondered, did she become Ida’s favorite? All Ida ever did was lecture her…

  “You should tame that mess of hair. You shouldn’t wear those old jeans. Don’t you have something better in your closet?”

  Yet, Ida would slip Carlee her favorite cookies, and she was the only one to take her to the museum when Carlee exhausted her pleas on everyone else.

  She hung her head in her hands, trying to make sense of everything.

  She spent another hour sifting through the correspondence on Ida’s desk. Ida was, indeed, an enigma. While she appeared frugal on the surface, there was a huge pile of letters from charities—which she donated to regularly.

  Carlee read aloud from one of those letters. “Thank you for your past contributions. Can we count on you this year again?”

  She tossed it aside, shaking her head, glancing at the mountain of invoices for poultry feed, utility bills, catering supplies….

  If she paid off all that, she’d tackle the charities.

  If she didn’t have to battle Todd to do it.

  Her conversation with Marlene drifted through her mind. It was the first time Marlene had ever mentioned problems between her and Todd.

  Carlee glanced at the unopened bills.

  Money problems? Had Todd mishandled the poultry farm funds?

  No, Marlene looked impeccable—as always.

  She wore clothing well…

  Expensive clothing.

  Carlee never cared about what she wore, preferring the comfort of a pair of well-worn jeans.

  A corner of Carlee’s mouth lifted. No wonder Todd married Marlene. They fit together perfectly. Todd fussed with his appearance. He was always a lady’s man…

  Her eyes widened. Was he cheating on Marlene?

  She let go of the breath she’d been holding.

  Glancing at the mound of bills, she spied one with the return address of a local travel agent. She grabbed the metal letter-opener, and slit open the envelope.

  Again, she read aloud, “Eight thousand, three hundred and forty-two dollars…”

  It was the amount owed for a cruise.

  Ida had been too sick to travel.

  Did Todd book it?

  She narrowed her eyes and read some more.

  Why didn’t it say ‘Todd and Marlene Davis’ on the invoice? Why did it say ‘Mr. Todd Davis and Ms. Angela Graff?’

  The piece of paper slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the desk.

  She stared at it for a long time, not believing what she saw.

  No wonder Marlene was unhappy. She had loved Todd from the time they were kids.

  “Bastard,” Carlee hissed through clenched teeth.

  Anger bloomed inside her. She rose from her chair, disgusted, and pulled the chain on the desk lamp, shrouding the room in darkness.

  She made her
way out of Ida’s office, the only light coming from the moon outside the windows. Continuing her trek down the hall, she walked toward the front of the poultry store.

  Next time, she’d park her car in the back, closer to the office. She gave herself a mental shake. No, she’d never park it around back, because she’d have to see where they kept the live chickens, ducks and turkeys.

  Seeing them alive only reminded her of where they’d end up.

  When she entered the darkened store, she sniffed, her stomach rolling.

  The combined odors of fried chicken and roasted turkey drifted by her nose. She'd always hated those smells, ever since she was a kid. If she didn’t get out of there soon, she’d…

  Carlee stopped when she heard footsteps behind her.

  She turned, glancing at a tall, shadowy figure. “Todd!” She called out. “What are you doing back here?”

  No answer.

  The figure moved toward her, the face shrouded. Carlee’s eyes widened when she saw its raised arm, and a long, shiny object clenched in its hand.

  Sharp pain radiated through her head.

  Her body slid to the floor, directly under the sign that read, ‘Fresh Turkeys, All Sizes.”

  She heard footsteps, but couldn’t see anything, unable to focus her blurry eyes.

  Carlee didn’t know how long she sat on the floor, cradling her head. Nausea rolled in her belly. She attempted to stand, but her legs would not support her weight. Crawling on her hands and knees, she made her way to the front door. She rose up on her knees and felt for the security keypad.

  She pressed the panic button, then slid down, her bottom hitting the floor.

  Carlee sat there, her body shaking, her head throbbing.

  Then she heard the sound of a police siren in the distance.

  “You’re okay, y-you’re okay,” she repeated. “You’re okay.”

  She felt something warm and sticky trickle down her neck.

  Reaching up, she winced when pain shot through her head. Carlee wiped the wetness from her skin then glanced at the palm of her hand.

  She swallowed, hard.

  A dark red smear of blood stained her palm.

  “Y-you’re okay,” she whispered.

  Her voice wobbled, the corner of her eye twitching in response.