Chapter 10: His Old Room

Frank drove us home in his truck at one in the morning, without a word.

At the front door he handed Caleb a flashlight and went down the hall to his own room.

The house smelled of pine cleaner and old coffee.

Caleb's bedroom was at the top of the stairs, the last door on the left.

He stood in front of it for a long time with his hand on the knob.

"Go on," I said.

He opened it.

A single bed with a plaid quilt stood under a slanted ceiling.

There was a desk with a school lamp and a shelf of science fair ribbons.

A poster of a rocket had gone yellow at the corners.

Everything was dusted.

Someone had been in here every week for twelve years, running a rag over a room nobody slept in.

"Mom," Caleb said, hoarse.

I shut the door and turned the lock.

"This bed is so small," I said.

"It was big enough when I was sixteen."

"You were not doing what I'm about to do when you were sixteen."

He barked a laugh and covered his mouth, because his father's room was thirty feet away.

"Quiet," he whispered.

"You first."

He backed me against the door and kissed me, slowly, with both hands in my hair.

He tasted like hospital coffee and tired.

I felt every inch of him pressed against me.

There was the cold canvas coat, then the heat of his chest through his shirt.

His cock was a stiff line against my belly.

I worked his belt open.

He caught my wrists in one hand and pinned them over my head against the wood.

"My turn," he said, very low.

"Caleb..."

"Shh. My old room. My rules."

He undressed me one-handed, kissing each new inch of skin.

Sweater.

Bra.

Jeans, dragged down to my ankles while he knelt in front of me on the rag rug.

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