Hiding in Closets and Lofts - 1. Chapter 1

Dillon stared out the car window as they merged off the highway. The blur of green fields slowed into shapes—tall corn stalks, farms, and trees. Flat land. The occasional horse or a few cows.

“We’re almost there!” Dillon’s mother, Joann, exclaimed and pointed at the fast approaching green and white sign.

Gretna, Nebraska.

Doom of all dooms. What right-minded family moved to Gretna, Nebraska? Dillon’s parents had moved away just before he was born, and seventeen years later they were moving back.

Why? Because Joann’s parents weren’t getting any younger, yet refused to retire from their farmland and house. Joann had convinced her husband, John, to move back out and help them.

John was the… third or fourth living “John” in the family. His dad was also named John, as were two cousins. Not including all the “John’s” in the family that were no longer alive.

Dillon was glad to be a Dillon.

He watched out the window, dark brown eyes following buildings as they passed through Gretna. It was decent sized, just on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. Being so close to the city allowed for most of Gretna to seem fairly normal, with the addition of an occasional Feed & Tack or Western Wear store.

There was, of course, a church every few blocks as well… probably more churches than Dillon had ever seen, combined.

As they passed the high school, Joann pointed it out. “You’ll start there in August,” she said, that was still a month away.

Surprisingly, the school looked normal. He’d never paid attention to it before. It was about as big as his previous school, holding about 2000 students. The student car lot was abandoned for mid-summer, though.

Since school was a ways off, they would be staying at the family farmhouse. It was forty-five minutes outside Gretna to the north. Most of the drive was on a dirt road, loud and bumpy.

Wind rolled over the flat lands, turning the fields of high corn stalks into a rolling sea of dark and light greens.

The white farmhouse was hidden from the road and fields by large trees, clustered around only the house. Most were taller than the two-story white building and two-floor barn. The only structure taller than the trees were the silo bins, tall and silver off in the distance of the corn fields.

The house was taller than it was wide, with a wrap around porch. The barn was also white, instead of red. He property was at least 100 years old by now and had been in the family just as long.

The car pulled up in front, with the U-Haul trailer in tow. Dillon took his time getting out, while Joann hopped from the car and up to the front door. Soon there was a greeting of hugs and kisses, and Dillon tried to keep a distance.

“Oh you’ve grown!” His Grandma squealed, though it had only been a year. “You’re starting to look more and more like your Grandfather did every day!” Dillon had gotten his height from his mother’s side. His Grandpa was around six feet and two inches, and Dillon was about even with him.

They even had the same broad shoulders and chest—his Grandpa’s from growing up on a farm, and Dillon from his time in playing football. Once upon a time, Dillon’s Grandpa had been blond, though now his hair was thin and white. Dillon inherited the light blond hair, but gotten his brown eyes from his father.

John was a plain man with brown hair, brown eyes, and the pasty skin of an office worker. Joann had a lighter color of hair, somewhere between light brown and dirty blond. The height gene had skipped over her though, as she barely reached Dillon’s shoulder.

“Is that a U-Haul truck?” Dillon’s Grandpa asked suspiciously. “Why do you have a U-Haul truck?”

“We’re moving out here, dad,” Joann answered simply. “To help on the farm. We can live here till the summer ends then move in town for school and work.”

“We don’t need help,” Grandpa scoffed, running a hand over his head.

“Oh dad.” Joann frowned. “Dillon can help, and John. The land is big and you’re in your sixties… besides, you had that pacemaker put in a few years ago!”

“Doesn’t mean I’m invalid,” Grandpa huffed, waving her off with a hand. “I’m goin’ into town. I need some things from the tack store.”

“Dillon, go with him!” Joann whipped her head around to her son. “Help him lift.”

“Mom,” Dillon pleaded. “He doesn’t need my help!”

“Damn right!” Grandpa added, already heading for the door.

“John!” Dillon’s Grandma finally spoke up.

Dillon’s dad and Grandpa both responded to the name.

“You take Dillon with you!” She added sternly, and turned to Joann. “Oh dear, I’m so happy you’re moving back! Your sister moved to Washington and your brother…”

Dillon rolled his eyes, not looking forward to another car ride. He followed his Grandpa out to their truck, parked out by the barn. His Grandpa was grumbling along the whole time, and Dillon shared the feeling. Maybe he could hide in the cornfield? No, the burrs would stick to his shoes and he was wearing shorts…

Sighing, Dillon turned his head outside the window. Neither he nor his Grandpa spoke on the ride, which was fine.

They went back into town, and stopped at one of the tack and feed stores on the outskirts. Grandpa climbed out of the truck after parking behind the store. “C’mon, might as well be useful,” he said.

Dillon groaned and slid out of the truck, following his Grandpa around to the front of the building. There was a boy about his age sitting in front on a barrel, gulping down a Gatorade. Dillon stared awkwardly, eyes fixed on the tanned and slightly muscled bare chest.

“Mark,” his Grandpa called out. The boy stopped and wiped his mouth, coughing slightly on his drink.

“Mr. Reed.” Mark grinned widely, eyes flickering over to Dillon for a brief moment. “I have your feed already stacked up in the back room.”

Oddly enough, Mark didn’t have any overdone accent. He sounded just normal, and Dillon relaxed at that. He didn’t think he could handle thick accented drawls.

“Good. I already parked out back,” Grandpa announced, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is my grandson, Dillon. He’s moving up here… I guess. About your age, Mark. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Mark answered and gave Dillon a slight wave.

Grandpa turned and set his eyes on Dillon. “And how old are you again?”

Obviously it was Grandma that sent the birthday cards. “Seventeen as well,” Dillon answered.

Grandpa grunted and stalked into the shop. Mark hopped off the barrel and followed inside, looking back briefly at Dillon. “Well, come on,” Mark said.

Dillon stumbled along. Mark’s shirt was hanging out the waist of his pants, where it did not belong. It should be on him. Granted it was hot outside, but…

“You play any sports?” Mark asked, ringing up a price on the register.

“Uh, yeah,” Dillon answered. “Football.”

“Same.” Mark smiled again.

“I need some more riding blankets,” Grandpa spoke up, taking off to the shelves of the shop. “For the horses.”

Dillon debated whether or not he should help with that, and decided no. “What position?” Dillon asked in turn.

“Running back,” Mark answered cockily. “On varsity for the high school.”

Dillon nodded. Mark was slightly on the small side for a football player. He wasn’t short, maybe just an inch or two shorter than Dillon, but was slimmer. Instead of being wide and bulky, his body was covered in tight, compact muscle. His pectorals were defined but not bulging, with only slight abs.

“What about you?” Mark tilted his head off, blond hair falling across his forehead. His hair was a darker shade of blond, a few shades too light to be called light brown. His tanned skin made his green pop out.

He was an attractive guy, Dillon mentally concluded, more attractive than himself.

“Offensive line,” Dillon mumbled, as he wasn’t the biggest guy on the team either. He wasn’t fit for defense.

“You should come to some of our morning practices.” Mark beamed happily. “I can talk to coach about it. We do a football camp every morning over the summer, seven to ten at the school. Kinda hard to make junior varsity or varsity without doing that extra work.”

“Uh, sure.” Dillon finally managed a meek smile back. “It’ll give me something to do till school starts.”

“Sweet.” Mark pulled out a pen and flipped over an old receipt. “Give me your number, and when I talk to coach tomorrow I’ll let you know if he wants you to come. A lot of our team graduated last year, and some of the underclassmen are on the small side for varsity and everything,” he explained.

Dillon gave his cell phone number, with the warning it might change to a Nebraska number soon. Grandpa came out carrying a stack of thick blankets in his arms at that time, panting his way along.

Dillon grabbed a few off the top and set them on the counter as Mark snapped back to work. He added the blankets to the charge of the feed, and offered to help load up.

Despite all his grumbling, Grandpa stood off to the side and watched Mark and Dillon load up bags of feed and the blankets into the truck bed.

“I’ll call you in a few days,” Mark said, closing the hatch on the truck.

Dillon nodded deftly and got into the cab with his Grandpa.

“What was that about?” Grandpa asked on the way back.

“Football,” Dillon said, looking out the window again.

His Grandpa just grunted. “Working on a farm back in my day got you more muscle than sports.” He pursed his lips sourly. “I helped with lifting since I was a kid, and look at me now.” He held his arm out. “I still have more muscle than you.”

Dillon snorted. “That all looks pretty flabby to me,” he commented.

“I’ve… lost my muscle tone!” His Grandpa stuttered.

Dillon chuckled to himself, and his Grandpa went into an offended silence.