Holly Ch. 01

Room For Rent

"Bedroom with attached bath and balcony. New house in woodland setting. Cable/internet available. Shared use of washer/dryer and full kitchen. Looking for a clean and quietish person. Reasonable rent in exchange for occasional light assistance to disabled homeowner. No caregiving. Call for appointment..."

Holly's bright eyes flick over the mysterious ad a third time. He picks up the coffee-ringed newsprint to check the date. If it's more than a couple of days old, there's no point in calling. This part of rural New York is a paradise for city folk seeking a luxury vacation rental, but it's nearly impossible for local working people to find a place to rest their heads nights. Still, needs must. He has to try, so purposefully rises and strides around to the side of the garage to make the call outside.

He pulls his puffy coat tighter around his throat so that his voice will sound steady and confident. It's not just that it's a witch's tit on this November day, but he's not great on the phone. He's not great with most people in general. He draws an icy breath and remembers what Mama used to tell him. One: Never try to be someone you're not because it never works out the way you want. Two: Honesty is usually the best policy.

Even if this place is still available, he's almost sure he's not the one they'll choose. Holly only sees himself through the eyes of others, or so he thinks, and has come to expect either inexplicable attraction or suspicion, neither of which puts him at ease socially.

The brief call is like an out-of-body experience. Somehow he has an appointment to view the place after work. He spends the rest of the afternoon trying to concentrate on the bike he's rebuilding, concerned the thing will fly apart on the highway because he was focused on keeping his hopes down. "That's not ready 'til tomorrow!" he calls to his boss, who raises his eyebrows that he's rushing out on time for once. It's a Friday evening and Damian no doubt hopes he's got a date.

Holly stops by what passes for "home" until he gets evicted. He resides in a badly converted barn. His landlords are two young professionals who decided to quit their lucrative jobs and try their hands at organic farming. It's a pretty place, like everywhere in this valley, but when Holly first visited, he knew this wouldn't last too long. He saw a lovely hobby farm with a little of this, a little of that, nothing that could turn a profit. Sure enough, he was about to find himself roughing it at the worst time of year.

Well, roughing it even more than he was currently over-paying to. It's a landlord's market and they all seem to know it. That didn't even soften the tone of the notice he should fuck off. The coldness of betas never quite ceased to startle him.

He changes into his nicer going out clothes. He combs his too-long hair out of his face and considers a shave, but finds the pipes to be frozen. Oh, well. He's been told he's cute scruffy. Most alphas are. They use it to mask their features that provoke a strong reaction in the predominantly beta society. Positive or negative, Holly doesn't care for either. He's satisfied with the important people in his life, like Damian, and just wants to be left alone otherwise.

He drives his pickup along the country roads out to the address the woman gave him on the phone. Like she said he would, he drives past the turn and has to double back to the dirt road through the trees. The conversation is coming back to him now. She sounded serene, sane, and normal. Whatever the disability was, it didn't seem mental. He did have his misgivings, not because he had any problem with disabled people, but, at 42, he knows his nature and he could end up feeling responsible for someone who leaned on him, as people tend to do. He doesn't want anything close to that at this point in his life.

He carefully steers down the private road that seems gratuitously twisty. Snow is lightly falling to add to the crisp covering from more than a day ago. When the house comes into view, he can't help but smile. "So, she's a little eccentric," he mumbles. There's an antique mermaid figurehead affixed to one of the front porch beams. To one side of the house, there's a small room that sticks out like a big toe with a railing around the roof. 'Maybe that's the balcony from the ad,' he thinks before scolding himself not to get ahead himself. It's hard not to because he's feeling a bit desperate and the wooden house looks so welcoming in the near-darkness. The tall pines and oaks look as though they feel protective of it, like parents of a young child.

Holly parks in the square clearing between the drive and the house. "Just be yourself," he whispers sardonically. He climbs the three steps to the front door and knocks in the center of a fresh wreath of pine boughs. The scent soothes him like a gentle voice. He's not left waiting too long before his sharp hearing picks up the footsteps of someone light with a limp fast approaching.

The door opens to reveal a petite, large-eyed woman wrapped in a robe-like fuzzy sweater. "Hi! You must be... I actually couldn't make out your name on the phone so I figured I'd just ask when I saw you. You're right on time."

"Hi. It's Holly. Well, Hollis, really, but people call me Holly all the time. It just sticks."

She gives him an upside-down smile and a thoughtful nod of her head. "Holly. That's nice for a boy. Please, come in out of the cold!"

He steps in and the house is so warm he instantly has the urge to curl up on the floor where he stands and sleep. It's been a long month. "I hate to ask," she continues, "but would you please take off your clothes?"

"I'm sorry?"

After a beat, she realizes her error. "Shoes! I meant shoes." She touches her forehead and turns rosier in her cheeks. "I get my words mixed up sometimes. If I say anything else that doesn't make sense, just stop me. It happens."

"Oh, okay. No problem." He sits on the bench in the foyer and complies with the reasonable request.

"It's just that I've never lived in a clean place before and I'm trying to keep it that way," she apologizes. As he takes off his boots, he notices her bare feet. One is pale and bony, the other is titanium, the sole of which is sleigh-shaped. He's seen these on soldiers back from combat and has always thought they look badass.

"You can hang your coat there, or keep it on if you need to warm up first." He's warm. "Come on through. I'll make us some tea."

Holly follows her through to the kitchen, which is massive and deluxe. "Whoa," he can't help but say aloud. She turns to him, looking pleased, before hurrying to respond to the whistle of the kettle. Her step is quite springy on the left side; if she had two of those she'd be like a superhero, he thinks. No, there is more to the disability than an amputation.

"I did go a little nuts with the kitchen when planning this place. The kitchen is the soul of a house, don't you think?"

"It's really... soulful," he replies, taking it in. It's a mix of sleek stainless steel and more homey touches, like a wood stove for heat next to a big table you'd see in a medieval tavern. The cabinets have glass fronts to display colorful ceramics.

"Do you like to cook?" she asks.

"Uh, I don't really know... I like to hunt," he offers, instantly regretting saying that to a stranger.

"Oh? Interesting. You know, we're on nearly nine acres here, so you won't have to go too far to find something to eat. You eat them, right?"

"Yeah, I don't shoot anything for the sake of hurting it."

Her thin shoulders show her sigh of relief. "That's good. I'm not vegetarian, so I can't get mad at hunters. One thing I might ask for help with is patrolling my land to make sure no one's setting traps. That I can't abide."

"I agree. That ain't hunting. It's just awful."

"It is. And they don't get a cool replacement leg like mine," she chuckles. "Do you prefer coffee, Holly? I can make that, too, it's no trouble."

"Whatever you're having is good for me, thank you."

She makes tea by measuring loose leaves into a metal gadget and pouring the kettle water into a second teapot, something foreign to Holly. He is a coffee drinker, though he doesn't need any at the moment. Nice as she is, his nerves are on medium-high alert. She arranges the teapot on a tray with two china cups, silver spoons, cream, sugar, and a plate of cookies he has a hunch are homemade. Before lifting the tray to carry it to the table, she appears to concentrate, then walks much more deliberately than before to deliver it without incident. "Please," she gestures and they sit across from one another.

Holly wonders if this is a manners test. "I've never actually drunk tea from a teacup before."

Her eyes light up. "Oh! Well before I pour, turn it over," she says with a grin. "Can you make that out?"

Of course, he can read the minuscule numerals. He's an alpha and he'll have abnormally keen eyesight until he's elderly. "1850? That's the year this was made?"

"Yep."

"Now I'm sure I'll manage to break it." Actually, it couldn't look safer than in his large, padded hands.

"I don't see how you'd manage that. I'd be weirdly impressed. A friend of mine left me those when she died. She'd want me to use them, so I do."

"I like that," he says. Holly realizes this is some kind of benign confidence game; she puts her trust in him so that he'll trust her and be more forthcoming. She pours the fragrant tea. It is much nicer than coffee, at least the sort to which he's accustomed. It's a little spicy from ginger, like the cookies and her hair, too. Again, she looks pleased at his reaction. Though he certainly doesn't have a gourmet palate, he has the overwhelming sense of taste and smell that is a double-edged sword for his kind. He wonders if she can tell yet or if it will ever even come up. He's prepared for the worst because the world is full of perfectly polite people who are completely awful when they learn what you are. Mama made sure to teach him that, too, in advance of him experiencing it for himself.

"So I bet you're wondering what my deal is. That's understandable. This was a workplace accident, you might say. I worked for many years as a stunt double for TV and film. One day, they planned (or didn't plan) a motorcycle stunt and it went very wrong. I think some directors think that stuntpeople are naturally indestructible... like you can do anything to us and we walk away with a bruise.

"I lost my leg, obviously, but I also have metal rods in my back that make certain things almost impossible. I have some brain damage, just a little, which you saw. The most disabling thing is that I'm sick, too. My rib broke and punctured my liver, so they had to remove some of it. Turns out, my liver was pretty shot to begin with, more than I knew, so I'm nauseated a lot of the time. I have a bunch of other symptoms I won't bore you with... the studio lawyers even tried to accuse me of being drunk and causing the accident when they got my medical info in discovery. Well, the jury didn't like that they pulled that one bit! Um, are you okay? You look a little flushed. Too hot by that stove?"

"No, I'm just angry," he says softly.

"Angry? What did I-"

"Not at you! Your story... it's like I've heard it too many times. Greedy bastards not takin' responsibility when they hurt someone, blaming the victim. They didn't wanna pay you?"

"They paid a fraction of my hospital bill and wanted to call it a day... but don't feel bad, Holly. They were forced to pay out way more than I ever wanted. And stuntpeople I didn't even know refused to work for them. Ha! Do you know how hard it is to make even a dumb rom-com without a stunt double? Somebody has to get punched in the face."

Holly smiles. "Yes, I suppose they do. That's the way of the world, right?"

"It sure seems like it. But it's not all bad for me. I got to build my dream house in the place I always wanted to live. Good people stood up for what's right-that does really happen. I can tell you, though, it is a special kind of feeling to realize at 40 that you could have one of those 'I've fallen and I can't get up' moments. Now, I don't need babysitting or anything special. If you live here, you can come and go as you please, spend nights away, go on vacation... it's just better if I'm not alone too long, just in case.

"And I don't drive anymore, so I'll need a ride to my appointments, but I can let you know in advance. You can even drop me early on your way to work and I can hang out with a book. I wouldn't use you as a chauffeur or anything like that. You know, basically, grab my pills when they roll under the couch, maybe climb a ladder once in a while, and when the snow thaws, help me look after my land. I'm like the Little Prince with my three volcanos, haha."

"Volcanos?"

"It's from a book... no big deal. I bought this property to do nothing with it, other than build a small house, look at the wildlife, maybe have a little garden or something. So one day, right after I move in and am still getting settled, this guy shows up on my porch, all corporate-"

"Oh, crap."

"I think you know this story, too. He's from a natural gas company and wants the right to frack on this property. I gave him a hard no, so he shoves some paperwork in my hand and tells me to look it over, that I will be pleasantly surprised by their offer, blah blah. He's said he'd be back in a couple of days and I told him that wouldn't be necessary. Like I'm going to move into this area and poison everyone's wells! He did have the nerve to come back."

"It's not nerve. Lack of conscience isn't nerve."

She nods vigorously. "You're right. That's a better way to put it. He was still all smiles, but I learned something."

Holly leans in. "What's that?"

She's a bit warm, too, and takes off her sweater unselfconsciously. She wears only a sheer tank top underneath. Holly is distracted for a moment by what he sees: Wasted arms covered in scars of varying sizes and types, ridges of bone across her chest, oddly miniaturized yet perfect tits, and when she straightens and stretches a little, he sees she doesn't shave under her arms ever. It's almost always an omega trait. Beta women wouldn't dream of being seen like that. Everything about her seems omega-like, save for the fact that he can't pick up a single pheromone off her and, not that he's vain, but most would be showing that they feel the effect of proximity to him by now. If she notices him working out her clues, she doesn't show that, either.

"What I learned is that, my whole life, I never knew how to spot a two-faced person. This guy was pure predator behind his smile, like I was in his way. I mean, I could tell a fake smile from a happy one, but this was something entirely new. God forgive me, but it was like a mask had slipped and I saw evil. We shouldn't say that about others, but...

"But you grew up right then."

"Oh, I'm still a big baby, but yes, I got wiser. I realized that he knew all about me, knew I'm not mobile enough to know what's happening on my own property and that they might just do it anyway and I'd never even know. Does that sound paranoid? Really, you can be honest with me."

"I will be honest. It's not paranoid considering who you're up against. Look what a corporation and their lawyers nearly did to you. The way I see it, you got lucky. You had a jury of people with morals and, I'm guessing, pretty good lawyers yourself."

She beams. "'Crackerjack' is what people might call them on TV. Oh, that reminds me!" She rises to spring/limp to a wall calendar. "It's almost time to send that office something nice." She makes a note in a December box. "So, that's my story. What do you do, may I ask?"

"I almost hate to tell you. I work at Good Omen Motors. I repair motorcycles."

She laughs hard enough to wince and clutch her side. "Oh, that is a good omen, indeed. I don't blame motorcycles for this," she says, gesturing up and down her body without noticing it. "And I was a good rider! Nor do I blame the flatbed I crashed into. I blame the guy who didn't care if I lived or died because I'm a nobody. But I forgive him."

"Why? How?" Holly asks though a bite of another cookie. It was growing late and lunch was eons ago. He doesn't mind this interview at all.

"Because... I have my reasons. It takes practice. I'd be much sicker if I didn't. So, do you like your work?"

"No one's ever asked me that. Yeah, I really do. No bullshit in the shop. I'm treated fairly and the boss is good people. And the best part is that I get to test my work on all kinds of bikes I'd never get a chance to ride, otherwise. Of course, things are slow now, but we fix cars and farm equipment, too. That's just not as much fun."

"I still have three of my own. I can't ride them but haven't parted with them yet. Maybe you could tune them up so I could sell them? For a rent reduction, of course. Not for nothing."

"I'd be happy to!" he says, mentally kicking himself for letting on he'd be happy to do just about anything. To live in this room he has yet to see or for this woman, he's not sure. "Um, which do you like best?" he asks to recover a little dignity.

She leans on the table and lowers her chin, looks up at him through her eyelashes like she's telling him about her secret crush. "Well, there's an Indian..."

"You don't mean... A real one?"

She just lowers her gaze again, ashamed something like that is going neglected. "That okay with you?"

"Damn. First this cup, and now..."

"Maybe I can tell you have a penchant for old and fragile things."

Holly has nothing to say to that. She smiles like an angel. "So does this seem like a good situation for you? I can give you the tour, if you like. If not, it's been great to meet you, Holly. I'll be a customer at your shop."

"This is a good situation."

She shows him the back sun porch where smoking is allowed if he wants to. They return to the entryway and she points out the living room that is as cozy as the kitchen is cavernous. A tiny book-lined den is also something an omega would design for a living room.

They head up the steep stairs. "I bet you are wondering why I'd build a place with stairs," she says as she ascends in an ungainly but practiced method. "It's that if I didn't have them, I might lose the ability to climb stairs at all. It's a modicum of exercise. Plus, no one's dream house is all on one floor, I don't think."

Holly likes that this rich girl keeps using the phrase "dream house" to describe a home that's wonderful, but not that grand. It's got a rare vibration and if that's because it came from her dreams, he wants more than lack of homelessness. He can hear Mama now: "Careful now, son."

There is a door on either side of the narrow hallway and one at the end. The room available is on the right side and she shows him in. Holly gasps. It's spacious and smells like fresh paint and new carpet. "It's warm," he breathes out reverently.

"Your place doesn't have heat?" she asks, voice full of real concern.

Holly doesn't even want to talk about it and this she intuits. "Well, you can keep the thermostat up as you like. I've got solar panels, so it won't run up a bill. Go ahead and test the bathroom." She chuckles. "That tea is full of detox herbs for my liver, so you can pee. I won't charge you."

He hadn't even noticed, but yes it was time to pee. When he washes his hands, the water comes out hot. There is a bathtub, just for the occupant of this room. Amazing.

"This is fantastic, but I wonder if I can afford it. How much were you thinking?" he asks.

When his jaw drops, she looks taken aback. "It does include utilities and laundry and..."

"No, no! I meant, uh, don't you want more than that?"

"Not if you're willing to help me out in the ways I described. That's valuable to me. I don't really need the income, but I have to charge enough that someone will respect it. I learned that from a therapist who would charge ten bucks a session for poor people. He said he couldn't just make it free of charge or people wouldn't try to do their work. Not that you're poor, but you have better things to do with your earnings, I'd imagine. If you want to pay more I can suggest some worthy charities..."