Read Online Axis of Aaron by Johnny B. Truant and Sean Platt - Free Book Online
Authors: Johnny B. Truant and Sean Platt
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threatening to spill face-forward into the dust. He had to place his right foot to stop himself from falling. And then, with the right foot launched, the left followed, and he found himself walking again with barely a hitch.
He moved up Main Street, past the inn. There was a first-floor bar (it doubled as an appropriate-for-families greasy spoon before dark) and rooms above. Twentysomethings without cottages of their own always booked rooms at the inn. Big kids with credit cards and proper ID. The inn had always been a forbidden place for older people. The fact that those college kids were a decade his junior these days felt like a blurred funhouse mirror, too strange for reality.
An old man was on the deck, his face weathered like a sailor’s, hair almost gone but immaculately combed almost in defiance of its thinning. He was looking at Ebon in a very un-Aaron way. In the past, all faces had held wide, welcoming expressions of greeting. But this man’s was almost judgmental, as if he was keeping an eye on Ebon to make sure he didn’t try to cause trouble. It had to be his stutter step — almost stopping but then keeping on after the woman in red. He probably looked drunk. Intoxicated at 9 a.m., the man probably thought. Just like those fucking bitches at the liquor store .
Looking away from the old man’s hectoring face on the inn porch, Ebon realized with a shock that he’d lost the woman. His heart skittered; he felt a shock of raw panic for only a beat, the feeling replaced with a sense that he might be drunk, that somehow the two casual beers from his night with Aimee had hidden in his stomach, waited, and had now dumped into his bloodstream all at once. He felt a beer bong’s worth of absurdity — not stumbling drunk, but decidedly out of his head.
Why was he doing any of this?
Another red flash from ahead. Ebon exhaled. The woman had stopped for a moment, possibly to peek through a store window. She’d come out shopping (there was a plastic bag hanging from one pale arm; Ebon had a thought that bothered him for some reason: that she’d picked up something for a husband or boyfriend) and was taking in the island’s ambiance, looking through the quaint shop windows with her eye peeled for a later return. Perhaps with the husband or boyfriend.
Ebon was closer now, thanks to the woman’s dawdling and pausing. Close enough, in fact, that he could call out to her. He had no reason to, but he could pretend to think she was someone else — and really, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch. She seemed so familiar .
As Ebon shuffled hurriedly forward, he searched his Aaron memories for the woman’s identity. Was she a favorite shopkeeper his topmost memory had forgotten? Was she a girl he used to see on the beach? Her set of stimuli — bright-red hair, pale skin, wide, smooth curves that did nothing to make her look even a little obese (so far as he could see from a block back anyway), and a face that for some irrational reason Ebon felt certain would be blushed and beautiful — were unique enough that she’d be hard to confuse for anyone else.
Maybe she’d been a regular beach walker in the ‘90s, back when Oasis had been popular and he and Aimee had stolen away to Aaron’s Party together. Maybe she’d been a girl in her late teens or early twenties then, porcelain skin visible above, below, and between the halves of a two-piece swimsuit. She’d stayed on the island and he’d found her again, now feeling the same pull he’d felt in the Sweetums window. He could ask Aimee if she remembered a red-haired walker from their past — or, hell, a red-haired resident from the present. This wasn’t the kind of woman anyone could forget or mistake for another. But for some reason, Ebon didn’t want to say a word about the woman to Aimee. It felt wrong, like a secret betrayed.
The urge to yell out was growing stronger. If Ebon yelled, she’d turn, and he could see her face. The woman’s
He moved up Main Street, past the inn. There was a first-floor bar (it doubled as an appropriate-for-families greasy spoon before dark) and rooms above. Twentysomethings without cottages of their own always booked rooms at the inn. Big kids with credit cards and proper ID. The inn had always been a forbidden place for older people. The fact that those college kids were a decade his junior these days felt like a blurred funhouse mirror, too strange for reality.
An old man was on the deck, his face weathered like a sailor’s, hair almost gone but immaculately combed almost in defiance of its thinning. He was looking at Ebon in a very un-Aaron way. In the past, all faces had held wide, welcoming expressions of greeting. But this man’s was almost judgmental, as if he was keeping an eye on Ebon to make sure he didn’t try to cause trouble. It had to be his stutter step — almost stopping but then keeping on after the woman in red. He probably looked drunk. Intoxicated at 9 a.m., the man probably thought. Just like those fucking bitches at the liquor store .
Looking away from the old man’s hectoring face on the inn porch, Ebon realized with a shock that he’d lost the woman. His heart skittered; he felt a shock of raw panic for only a beat, the feeling replaced with a sense that he might be drunk, that somehow the two casual beers from his night with Aimee had hidden in his stomach, waited, and had now dumped into his bloodstream all at once. He felt a beer bong’s worth of absurdity — not stumbling drunk, but decidedly out of his head.
Why was he doing any of this?
Another red flash from ahead. Ebon exhaled. The woman had stopped for a moment, possibly to peek through a store window. She’d come out shopping (there was a plastic bag hanging from one pale arm; Ebon had a thought that bothered him for some reason: that she’d picked up something for a husband or boyfriend) and was taking in the island’s ambiance, looking through the quaint shop windows with her eye peeled for a later return. Perhaps with the husband or boyfriend.
Ebon was closer now, thanks to the woman’s dawdling and pausing. Close enough, in fact, that he could call out to her. He had no reason to, but he could pretend to think she was someone else — and really, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch. She seemed so familiar .
As Ebon shuffled hurriedly forward, he searched his Aaron memories for the woman’s identity. Was she a favorite shopkeeper his topmost memory had forgotten? Was she a girl he used to see on the beach? Her set of stimuli — bright-red hair, pale skin, wide, smooth curves that did nothing to make her look even a little obese (so far as he could see from a block back anyway), and a face that for some irrational reason Ebon felt certain would be blushed and beautiful — were unique enough that she’d be hard to confuse for anyone else.
Maybe she’d been a regular beach walker in the ‘90s, back when Oasis had been popular and he and Aimee had stolen away to Aaron’s Party together. Maybe she’d been a girl in her late teens or early twenties then, porcelain skin visible above, below, and between the halves of a two-piece swimsuit. She’d stayed on the island and he’d found her again, now feeling the same pull he’d felt in the Sweetums window. He could ask Aimee if she remembered a red-haired walker from their past — or, hell, a red-haired resident from the present. This wasn’t the kind of woman anyone could forget or mistake for another. But for some reason, Ebon didn’t want to say a word about the woman to Aimee. It felt wrong, like a secret betrayed.
The urge to yell out was growing stronger. If Ebon yelled, she’d turn, and he could see her face. The woman’s
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