Tag Archives: chapter seven part three

Plaster of Paris; chapter seven, part three

Besides, I need to wait for Mr. Jenson, as he’s on my list of people to interview.  I doubt very much I’ll get anything substantive from him as he’s a cagey man, but I owe it to Paris to try.  I have a hard time believing that he drove or flew from San Diego to the Bay Area to kill Paris for reasons unknown, but odder things have been known to happen.  I wonder about the Jensons financial situation, then wonder why I wonder.  Even if they are strapped for cash, it’s not as if Paris has much in the bank.  The money that Ursula claims she’s going to settle on him hasn’t happened yet, Mr. Jenson don’t know about it, anyway, and it’s not enough to kill your stepson over, is it?  Thinking about money leads me to ponder whether Paris has a will or not.  My guess is no, but he can be surprisingly pragmatic about things such as that.  If he does have a will, I’m fairly share that much of his earthly possessions will be split between Lyle and me.  I wonder if Inspector Robinson has looked into that.  I’m sure she has.  She’s a thorough inspector who always gets her man.  Or woman.

I sit at the table a bit longer, though I no longer want to eat.  I can’t bear to go back yet, so I sit.  It’s nice to be surrounded by others with similar stories, but not to be immersed in their pain.  In a strange way, we are a support group without ever having to say a word.  This is one place where you can assume for the most part that most people are not here for happy purposes—except, perhaps, to give birth.  I wonder how many tears the cafeteria has witnessed?  More than its fair share, I’m willing to wager.  It’s the one place that has a lock on grief.  After ten minutes of resting, I rise, dump my trash, and return to the waiting room.  I look around me with displeasure; I am starting to seriously loathe this place.

Lyle, my mother and Mrs. Jenson are each slumped in a chair, my mother sitting between the other two.  Mrs. Jenson has her head buried in her hands while Lyle is staring at the wall opposite.  My mother is leaning against the wall behind her with her eyes closed.  I can’t tell if she’s just resting her eyes or if she’s actually napping.  I sit in the seat across from them so we don’t look like a line of prisoners waiting for execution.  I close my eyes as well, suddenly exhausted.  I want desperately to go home and sleep in my own bed, but it’d be too lonely and desolate without Paris in the other room.  In the last couple months since the conclusion of the first murder case, Paris hasn’t stayed over at Lyle’s place very often because he’s been watching over me.  I don’t know if I can stay in an empty apartment with Paris unconscious in the hospital.  I wonder if I could persuade my mother to come home with me.

“Catherine!  I got here as soon as I could!”  Mr. Jenson is racing towards us, his face red.  He is a short man, around five-feet eight inches, but he carries himself with the erect posture of a military man.  He has a short, bristly flat top of white hair with a neat moustache of the same shade.  He is wearing a dark brown suit with a narrow black tie, which is appropriate attire for attending a funeral.  I shake that thought from my head.

“Douglas!”  Mrs. Jenson jumps up and hurries to her husband.  He wraps her in his arms and murmurs something into her hair.  It’s obvious that he loves his wife and would do anything to take the pain away from her.  It warms up my attitude towards him, but only marginally.  Mrs. Jenson ushers him over to our little group and introduces him to my mother who has never met him.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” Mr. Jenson says gravely, shaking my mother’s hand.  “It’s most unfortunate it has to be under such duress.  How is Paris?”  He looks from one to another, studiously avoiding looking at Lyle.  Mrs. Jenson fills him in on the developments.  The five of us do a little shuffle so my mother, Mr. and Mrs. Jenson are sitting in a row with Lyle and I across from them.  My mother quickly falls back asleep.

“Would you like to see him?”  Mrs. Jenson ask softly, her eyes focusing on her husband’s.  He hesitates, and for a minute, I’m sure he’s going to say no.

“Of course, Catherine.”  He comes through like a trooper.  The two of them stand up, and Mrs. Jenson leads him by the hand.

“Did you see the way he hesitated?”  Lyle hisses as soon as the two are out of sight—and hopefully earshot.  “He doesn’t give a damn about Paris.”

“Lyle, please,” I say wearily.  I am too tired to hear another harangue about the evilness of the Jensons.  While I may not agree with their ideology, I have to respect that they are being true to what they believe.  Besides, obsessing about it isn’t going to do anything but give Lyle an ulcer.

“Oh, I know.  I’m sorry,” Lyle says contritely.  “It’s just that they remind me so much of my parents.  And about a zillion other parents of queer folk.  How did you get to be so lucky?”

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter seven, part four

“Libby Liang,” she says briskly in a tone much different than the petulant tone she takes with me.

“Lib, it’s me.”  I pause as I feel the freeze emanating from the phone.  “Look, you didn’t give me a chance to respond.  You know I’m three hours behind you and I don’t get into work until eight-thirty or so.  I’m sorry that I haven’t gotten back to you, but you did say I had two weeks.”

“To put the order in!”  Libby snaps.  “Not to respond.”  That isn’t how I remember it, but I let it slide.  “What do you want?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’d be happy to be your bridesmaid if you still want me, but that I have some issues with some of your requests.”  That’s as diplomatic as I get, so I wait to see if she’ll accept it or not.

“Fine,” she says shortly.  “Tell me about it.”  Taking a deep breath, I read my list to her.  I am met with glacial silence.  “Out of the question,” she snaps.

“What is?”  I ask, a bit impatiently.

“All of it.”  Apparently, my sister has yet to learn the fine art of compromise.  “Rayne, this is my wedding.  I will not have you ruining it.”

“Let me ask you a question, Libby.  If I got married and you were my bridesmaid, would you do whatever I told you to do?”  I know the answer to that one before she says a word.

“We can cross that bridge if we ever get to it,” Libby says snidely.  “I don’t see that happening to you any time soon.  What’s the longest you’ve been with a guy?  Five months?  You seem to have a tiny problem with commitment that precludes getting married.”  She has neatly sidestepped the question by going on the offensive.  She doesn’t know that I’m bisexual and that my longest relationship of a year has been with a woman.  Somehow, I don’t think telling her that will help the situation.

“You’re being unreasonable,” I say softly.  “I’m willing to give in on most of your points, but you’re not willing to budge at all.”

“It’s my wedding!”  She’s beginning to sound like a broken record.  I can see how this is going to be her mantra for making people do outrageous things.  “You have to do as I say.”

“That’s not how it works, Libby.”  I am beginning to get angry myself.  “You can’t just order everybody around like they’re your minions.”

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade: chapter seven, part three

When I am through, I shut down my computer.  Ten o’clock.  Early to be going to bed, but it’s been a long day.  After getting ready for bed, I slip under the covers next to Paris.  I have a king-size bed because I like space as I sleep, but the bed feels small with Paris in it.  I am wearing a t-shirt and panties and still feel overdressed.  I turn on my side away from Paris so our butts are facing each other.  He turns over and snuggles up next to me.  We fit together well.  I listen to his even breathing as I drift along.  Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I feel his hand move from my waist down to my hip.  His fingers are curled over so they are brushing the crease that separates my thigh from my groin.  I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but he’s crossing the danger zone.  I pick up his hand and put it back on his own hip.  A minute later, it’s back on my thigh.  I turn around to face him.

“Paris Frantz, you stop that.”  I am fierce with him, knowing it’s the only way to nip this in the bud.  I have miscalculated, however, since turning around puts my face inches away from his.  Even in the dark, I can feel him looking at me before I sense him moving forward.  His lips meet mine squarely, and his tongue separates my lips.  A moan slips out of my throat as he continues to kiss me.  I know I should put a stop to this, but it feels too good.  His hand is on my other thigh and rubbing in slow circles.

“Rayne, I need this,” he whispers after breaking off the kiss.  I can taste the alcohol and the toothpaste, and it’s a strange combination.  I feel his breath on my cheek as his hand moves up my thigh, over my waist, under my shirt and settles on my breast.  It’s as if I’ve been branded with an iron.  Jolts of electricity shoot through me.  Our lips meet.  Suddenly, I am angry that he is putting me in this position yet again.  He knows that I lust over him.  He knows that while we have always been very good at this, it’s inadvisable for us to have sex.  He knows all this, and yet, he doesn’t care.  Even as my body responds to his touch, my mind is quietly fuming.

“Paris, you have to stop,” I whisper back, my voice ragged.  Paris rolls me onto my back and props himself up over me.  My thighs part out of their own volition and the fingers of his left hand are sliding under my panties while his right hand is still occupied with my breast.

“Shh, darling, don’t say anything.”  Paris covers my mouth with his.  I know this is wrong.  I know we shouldn’t be doing this, but I am past the point of stopping.  I finally submit, deciding to deal with the consequences after it is over.  He moves his right hand to my arm and starts the slow, steady stroking that drives me so wild.  He is poised over me when I realize what he’s about to do.

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Trip on This: Chapter Seven (Part Three)

Chapter Seven (Part Three)

I’m bored.  Even though I like women, there is nothing sexy about Ebony’s movement.  I can tell by the glazed look in her eyes that she’s on something and feeling very little pain.  She’s moving her ass mechanically, the same way she’s probably moved it a hundred times before.  Whereas Blanche had seemed real and alive, Ebony is merely robotic.  There’s no denying her good looks, but there’s very little heart to go with the looks.  Not that I blame her for zoning out.  Ninety percent of the girls on the street were on something at any given time to get through the night.  Those who got a cut of their profits usually snorted that money right up their little noses.  I smoked cigarettes, but nothing more potent.  Well, OK, heroin every now and again, but not very often.  What money I made, I saved.  Even when I was working seven nights a week, I knew that I wasn’t going to be in that life forever, no fucking way.  Even if I had to kill someone to get out, I would.  I was going to get out, and I was going to stay out.  Well, I did.  And I have.  And I will.

Vandalia and Greeley are groping each other under the table.  Either they think I can’t see them, or they don’t care that I can.  Greeley is close to coming, and it’s amusing to watch him try to keep it under control.  Hell, I’m tempted to give his cock a squeeze myself just to cause a little mischief.  I want to see the boy squirt all over himself just because.  Somehow, I don’t think Vandalia would appreciate it if I lend her a hand, though.  She might even kick me out of her apartment, and then I’d be shit out of luck.  I can’t go back to my apartment, and I don’t want to stay with Mowgli who is too easily identifiable as my friend.  I wonder when—if—there is going to be a connection made between an ‘unidentified Asian woman’ and the dead girl.  Angel.  And what’s up with the lying?  Why is Melody saying that Angel is on vacation, that she’ll be back?  Even if they don’t want it known that Angel is dead, why doesn’t Melody say she’s been fired or let go or that she left out of her own volition?  Speak of the devil, she’s returning with our drinks.

“Here you go,” she chirps, setting each drink carefully down on the table.

“Melody, you’re an attractive girl,” I say enticingly, crossing and recrossing my legs.

“Thank you,” Melody says automatically, flashing her dimples at me.

“Why don’t you sit a minute?”  I pat Mowgli’s empty seat, discreetly placing a twenty dollar bill on the table.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Melody says, her eyes glued to the money.

“I’d really like you to,” I say, adding another twenty to the one already on the table.

“Just for a minute,” Melody agreed, sitting down.  The twenties disappear before her ass is even on the chair.

“How did you start working here?”  I ask curiously, inching closer to Melody.  I can see she’s uncomfortable with the attention, but I pay her no mind.  My goal is to make her think that I’m hitting on her so she won’t suspect deeper motives.  Vandalia and Greeley are openly making out which seems to add to Melody’s discomfort.

“Um, a friend of mine works here, too.  She told me about it.  Said I could make good money.  I want to go to State and study psychology.”  Melody has her arms crossed over her chest, but she drops them when she sees me staring.  She must have been told not to cover up her breasts which is a good policy if she wants to make money.

“How do you like it?”  I ask, letting my hand casually drop on her leg.  I idly trace a line up and down her thigh while appearing not to be looking at her.  She squirms minutely but remains still otherwise.  Someone has trained her well, though they should have told her not to give it away for so cheap.

“It’s OK.  It’s a lot harder work than I thought it would be.  But at least I’m not walking the streets.”  Melody pastes a smile on her lips as my hand inches further up her leg.  She has her legs slightly parted which is probably another dictum.

“Do the girls get along?”  I ask in my honeyed drawl, massaging her thigh firmly.  When she looks at me, I lick my lips—she quickly turns her head away.

“We’re one happy family,” Melody says brightly, pretending not to notice that my fingers are now at the edge of her shorts.

“Does Angel have any special friends?”  I ask, stroking Melody’s thigh in light, feathery strokes.  “I seem to remember being told that she and Blanche were really close.”  I can tell that Melody wants to close her legs, but she’s too well-trained to do so.

“Um, yes, they were pretty friendly,” Melody says, clutching the edge of her chair.  “They acted like sisters the way they were always giggling and gabbing.”

“Like sisters?  Not like lovers?  I’m just wondering if Blanche swings both ways.”  My hand is caressing her warm flesh at a greater frequency.  I teasingly stray further up her leg before returning to her thigh.  I don’t want to get her in trouble with the management which probably has a no-touch policy.  Of the merchandise, that is. Continue Reading