AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Some of you might be wondering why this story is posting again. I accidentally submitted the unedited version of this chapter to Lit a few days ago. This is the EDITED version, the one that was supposed to have been posted the first time around. If you read the unedited chapter...I'm so sorry, LOL. Anyway, I apologize for this chapter's delay, and I hope y'all like the story so far. As always, this story copyrighted, and all feedback and comments are appreciated. Enjoy!
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When Peyton arrived at Creek Hollow, she reached for her cell as she slowly drove down the gravel road through the park. On either side of her were rows upon rows of RVs and mobile homes, the upkeep varying by yard. As she studied the last names on the row of mailboxes at the end of each gravel drive, Peyton searched for "Vaughn", but couldn't read a single one of the tiny stamped names. Braking briefly, she looked around and sighed before going forward again.
Just call him
, she chastised.
You don't know where you are.
Her fingers were hovering over the phone's touch pad when she saw a large white Ford pickup flushed against the side of a fairly clean golden yellow mobile home, Caleb's newly restored red Schwinn braided within the front grill.
Peyton parked her car behind the Ford, just briefly wondering if she should have brought her father's shotgun for protection.
She stepped out of the car and glanced around the neighborhood, finding the silence unnerving. All windows that she could see had the blinds drawn shut and every door was closed. The place was an absolute ghost town, like a seaside city boarded up before a hurricane.
Shaking off those thoughts, Peyton walked to the mobile home, her ears aware of every crunch of her feet on the gravel drive and how her heart was in her ears. A chill went down her spine when the mobile home's front door opened to the lightest touch and she took a step back, eyeballing the ground at her feet for a good size stick. She found a large rock instead -- better than nothing.
Following the concrete steps up, she ducked through the doorway and looked around at the mess, shaking her head. Overturned furniture, broken glasses and random cooking pans littered the space, making a trail of debris from the den on her right to the small kitchen and dining area to her left. Taking another step forward, her shoes crunched on a plate. The next thing she knew, a sweaty, bleeding pale body flung itself at her, strong arms gripping her tight in their hold.
"You came," a hot breath whispered at her ear, the following exhale a ragged sigh of relief. Recognizing the voice, Peyton pulled back and found a pair of ice green eyes gleaming down at her with unshed tears.
"You look terrible," Peyton whispered, her chest tightening at the sight of the new layer of bruises and scratches across Caleb's face and neck.
Caleb tangled his shaking fingers through her loose hair, a weak smile playing on his cut and bleeding lips. "Not for long. I never do," he sighed, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. Peyton swallowed hard at the sight of the cuts on his neck and arms where it looked like fingernails had clawed into his skin and the numerous rapidly darkening splotches on his jaw. Closing her eyes briefly, she told herself to put a barrier between her emotions and what had to be done, knowing she couldn't handle it any other way.
"Your ability to make a joke at a time like this worries me, but right now we have more pressing matters to deal with," Peyton responded as evenly as she could. "Get your stuff and park it in my front seat. Now where's your father?"
At the mention of his father, Caleb straightened and a cloudy expression crossed his face. His eyes went over her head and he pointed one finger in the direction of a hallway. "I put him in there. He has a pulse, but he isn't moving. Which is fine by me," he tagged on, his expression darkening into something that made Peyton shiver a little.
"What happens when he wakes up?" she pressed, a little torn between figuring out the problem and just getting Caleb the hell out of here. "If he was looking for you yesterday, he will come looking for you again."
Caleb's face hardened and his jaw muscles bunched. "I don't know, Peyton. All I know is that you were right yesterday. I can't stay in this fucking trailer."
"I didn't say that explicitly," she corrected automatically, shutting her mouth when his eyes turned back to hers.
Peyton's breath caught with an audible gasp in her throat as Caleb's fingertips brushed over the bruising at her neck. "You asked me to never raise a hand to someone," he said quietly, his eyes going distant. "I broke that promise."
"You did it in defense," she reminded him, placing her hand over his. Worry filled Peyton as his touch grew bolder. As much as she wanted it -- and him -- she didn't want him doing this for the wrong reasons. And as she stood in a destroyed kitchenette surrounded by pots, broken cups, and a shattered table set, she guessed idly that his physical touch was made for a many number of wrong reasons.
"I struck first," he countered, his rough thumb brushing over the dip of her throat. "I shoved him down the front steps. When he fell, he broke our birdbath."
Their eyes met and Peyton couldn't help but smile a little. "Let's get you out of here, please?" she pressed softly, catching his hands in her own before he could continue a torture he hadn't realized he had even elicited.
Caleb nodded once before taking her by the wrist and leading her down to the opposite end of the trailer. The farther they went away from the den, the cleaner the trailer seemed to smell. Peyton smothered a sigh and told herself screaming in frustration wouldn't help. She found herself recanting that thought when they reached his room.
Caleb's room was bare of anything apart from the four-drawer chest that had seen better days and a small cot shoved into the far right corner. No posters of his favorite bands or idols hung on the walls, there were no bookshelves or telescopes or anything of value in his entire room. It was as though no one had even been in this room, let alone lived here.
Caleb retrieved two navy blue duffel bags from his bed and turned to her, ready to go.
For a second, Peyton couldn't breathe. In her move from Los Angeles to Maine she had taken at least two large suitcases and a duffel carry-on alone, not coming anywhere remotely close to the rest of the clothes back at her apartment. But Caleb could fit his entire life, his entire eighteen years of existence, into two duffel bags.
Instantly, and without needing to rethink her actions, she crossed the space to squeeze him to her.
Caleb must've known where her thoughts had headed, because his hold on her back was gentle as he reciprocated the touch. He stroked his long fingers through her hair before resting a scruffy, battle-worn cheek on top of her head and inhaling deeply.
"Let me take you home, Caleb," she whispered against his stomach, trying to fight the sting of tears in her eyes.
