Tag Archives: chapter eight part three

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter eight, part three

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“Bea?  Oh, I’m so glad I caught you,” she sobbed, making it difficult for me to understand her.  “Please, can you come over again?  I-I really need to talk to you.”

“I was just going to dinner,” I protested feebly, knowing that I’d cave in the end.  Something about an older person weeping on my phone did that to me.  I wasn’t going to go down without a fight, however.

“Please, I’ll order something in for you.  Do you like Thai?  I know of a marvelous place.”  She was begging me, and I couldn’t be that hardhearted.  I agreed to meet her in half an hour and let her know that Rafe would be coming with me.  She acquiesced.

“I take it there’s a change of plans,” Rafe said, watching my face.  I didn’t say anything but simply nodded.  He sighed as he led me to his car.  “Where to?”  He asked as we buckled up.  I told him and predictably, he wasn’t happy.  It seemed as if our lives were being taken over by this case.  We drove to Mrs. Rodriguez’s in silence, neither of us in the mood to talk.

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, opening the door at the first ring of the bell.  She must have been on the other side of the door just waiting for us to show up.  Her eyes were reddened and puffy, and it was hard to look at her without feeling like crying myself.  “Come in, come in.”  She ushered us into the living room again.

“I went over to Linda’s apartment today.  I-I had to clean out her things.  I found this.”  She held out a slim book which looked like a journal—which it was.  Since she was holding it out to me, I took it.  I flipped through it, feeling a pang at the sight of Lydia’s handwriting.  “Read the last entry,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, her voice tight.  I flipped to the last page, Rafe reading over my shoulder.  It was written a few days before Lydia died.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter eight, part three

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Lyle is captivated by the same idea that fascinates me—whether Rosie’s comments in group contributed to her demise.  If so, then someone in the group killed Ashley.  That is not something I want to think about, but it’s not something I can ignore, either.  If someone is a murderer in the group, then I need to know who it is.  I do not want to be part of a dangerous situation again.  I close my eyes, not wanting to deal for a moment.  Just as I am getting over the last murders, it’s starting again.  I am just beginning to sleep through the night—this could be a set-back for my progress.  I curse under my breath, but Lyle and Paris catch me.  They flash looks at each other before turning their focus on me.  Their sympathy is more than I can bear.

“Stop it, you guys,” I say crossly.  “Don’t start treating me like a child again.”  We finish our dinner, and I do the dishes while the guys go into the living room and turn on the news.  I can hear it through the door, and they boys are still watching when I join them.

“Sheldon, it’s been established that Rosalita Chavez was the housecleaner of Ashley Stevenson when she died.  She had been for more than a year.  The police are not saying whether that connection is the principle one, or if the fact that they both belong to the group was the principle connection.  Most of the people involved in the murders are willing to say off the record that the latter is more likely the case than the former.”  Dee-Dee Reynolds, another thin, blond anchor woman blinks vapidly at the camera.  It is clear that she is reading from cue cards and not very well.  She has to move her lips slightly before she actually says what she’s supposed to.  She lowers her voice before adding, “The board of A Ray of Hope is   seriously considering closing down the group because of the murders.  Carol Sayers, the group leader has this to say about it.”  Cut to Carol.  I can’t believe she’s talking about it again.

“Dee-Dee, I stood up to the board today.  I told them that this group is the last hope for some of these women who cannot afford to individual therapy.  I have nothing but admiration for the women who have gone through difficult times but are making it to the other side.  If there is one thing I want to get across to the public, it’s that these women are not victims but survivors.  I know that sounds trite, but it’s true.”  Carol is facing the camera with her serious face on.  She is dressed professionally in a skirt, heels, blouse and jacket.  “Many people wonder how I can work with posttraumatic women for so long without getting burnt-out, but they are my inspiration.  I challenge the public to imagine living through what some of these women have gone through and not crumbling under the pressure.”  I click off the television before the guys can protest.

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Parental Deception; chapter eight, part three

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Predictably, I start getting antsy, but I don’t want to disturb our fragile détente. I breathe smoothly and slowly, trying to expel the tension from my body. I roll my neck around, which helps. My leg is falling asleep, but I don’t want to move it because it’ll disturb Onyx. Rembrandt’s breathing slows down, and when I peek at him, I notice that he’s fallen asleep. He and Ginger are snoring in a compatible rhythm, and I wish I could join him in la-la land. I put Onyx on Rembrandt’s lap next to Ginger and move Jet’s paws off my thighs and onto the couch. I ease away from Rembrandt without waking him, then go outside to smoke. I’m not pleased with the way our conversation went, even though Rembrandt was more gracious than I had any right to expect him to be. What I wanted was for him to say he was fine with us being open, but I knew that was unrealistic before I even brought up the subject. I also know he won’t be happy that I left the couch, but what does he expect? For me to sit around meekly waiting for him to wake up? I’m working myself into a snit, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it’s because I’m panicking at the commitment I’ve made to Rembrandt, as limited as it is.

“Hi, honey,” Rembrandt says, putting his arm around my waist. “It’s a bracing night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say leaning back against him. He puts his arms around me and holds me close. I can feel his heart beating against my back, and it’s strangely comforting. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I can feel the tension draining out of me as all the strawman arguments I had created in my brain melt away. Rembrandt is such a sweetheart, and any woman would be happy to have him doting on her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe I shouldn’t even be dating if I’m dithering this much about having a wonderful man care so much about me. I push the thoughts to the back of my mind and try to stay in the moment.

“Can I stay the night?” Rembrandt asks, his voice tentative. I can feel his cock digging into my ass, and my body responds accordingly.

“Yes.” I turn to face Rembrandt, kissing him hard on his lips. He grabs my head and kisses me in return. There’s a fierceness to his kiss, and I know I’m in for a night of raw sex, which is fine with me. Sometimes, I want slow and gentle loving, but other times, I just want to be fucked. That’s what I want now, and Rembrandt is more than willing to oblige. We race upstairs, tearing off each other’s clothes as we go. By the time we reach my bedroom and close the door on three inquisitive cat noses, we’re naked. We hit the bed with a thud, and there’s little conversation between us. We’re totally focused on the business at hand, and I’m more than ready to fuck him. Normally, I like a fair amount of foreplay, but not tonight. I want his cock in me as soon as possible, and I push on his arm to indicate it’s time. He rolls a condom down his erect cock and thrusts all the way into me in one go. I bite down on his shoulder, leaving a distinct bite mark. He returns the favor on the back of my neck, and I moan in pleasure. I turn us over so I’m on top. I’m in the mood to ride him, and ride him I do. I slam myself down on his cock, clenching around him with my muscles as I do. He has his hands on my hips, but he’s letting me set the pace. I lean forward and kiss him on the lips. He bites my lip, and I bite his in return. Then, he grabs one tit in his hand while sucking on the other nipple. I know I’m close, so I speed up. I need to come now, no delayed gratification for me. My orgasm hits me in an explosion, and Rembrandt isn’t far behind. I’m screaming something as I come, but I’m not sure what. Once I’m done, I collapse on him. I have no energy or strength, not even to roll off of him.

“Girl,” Rembrandt croaks, his voice hoarse. I don’t know why as he didn’t say much as we were fucking, but I dismiss it as not important. After a few seconds, I flop onto the bed, a silly grin on my face. I hear the cats meowing to be let in, but I can’t make my legs work. Rembrandt rolls himself off the bed, staggers to the door, and lets them in. They scold him as they jump onto the bed, smack dab in the middle. The three of them twine around each other and promptly fall asleep. Rembrandt laughs and lies next to them. They are between us, acting as a barrier. I want to cuddle, so I move them, one by one, to my other side. Predictably, they don’t approve of that, but they begrudgingly comply. I scootch over to Rembrandt. He puts his arm around me and falls asleep. I’m content to lie in his arm for several minutes before I need to move again. I slip out from under his arm and go to the bathroom. I take a quick shower to wash away the sex funk, and it feels good. As much as I like sex, I don’t like to wallow in the fluids. When I whisk back the curtain, I see my cats staring back at me. I assume Ginger is still with Rembrandt, which is fine by me. I go down to the living room to check on my blog. I’m still receiving comments on my post on families, and I know it’s time to write my next post. I decide it’s going to be on sex.

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Trip on This: Chapter Eight (Part Three)

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Chapter Eight (Part Three)

Trip doesn’t like Blanche any better than she had the first time she laid eyes on the whore.  Blanche isn’t nearly as beautiful up close as she appears on stage because her pores are bigger, her lips are slightly too narrow, her nose a hair too long, and her eyes too close together.  Still, she struts into the place like she owns it, her ass swaying solely for Mowgli’s benefit.  She’s dressed in white jeans which are three sizes too small for her, a white tank top, and white stiletto heels.  Nothing is tackier than high heels and jeans, but somehow, Blanche carries it off.  She’s wearing enough makeup to feel right at home up on stage, and her eyes are a perfect blank.  Either she’s on something, or she’s very well trained not to give herself away.  She holds her head high, staring coldly at Trip before resting her eyes on Mowgli.  She favors him with a wide smile which shows more gum than teeth, but the smile never touches her eyes.

“Well, what can I do for you?”  Her eyes flick to Trip and back to Mowgli.  “I don’t do girls, though she can watch if she wants, I guess.”  Her tone is doubtful, but gains confidence as she flops on the couch.  “Two hundred an hour, no kinky stuff.  That’s extra.”  The straps of her tank top slide down her arms before either Mowgli or Trip can get a word in edgewise.  They both watch in amusement as Blanche wriggles her boobs for their benefit.  Obviously, Mowgli isn’t affected by the show but appreciates the effort whereas Trip doesn’t care for such artifice, her own current look notwithstanding.  “Well?”  Blanche says impatiently.  A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face as Mowgli makes no move towards her.  She flushes and pulls up the straps of her top, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  “Well?”  Her tone is belligerent to cover up her embarrassment.

“You’ve misunderstood, Ms. White,” Trip drawls, her eyes watching Blanche carefully.  “We are not in need of your…services, though we will surely pay you for your most valuable time.”  Even with the saccharine Trip ladles on her words, Blanche is quick to catch the undercurrent and flushes.

“I don’t have to take this,” she says angrily, standing up in a huff.

“Lucien Andretti,” Trip says softly.  Blanche turns as white as her name as the forbidden name is uttered.  She sways in place as her knees buckle, but she doesn’t leave.  “Caleb O’Reilly,” Trip adds, the magnolia gone from her tone.  She isn’t playing, and she wants to make sure that Blanche realizes it.  “Angelica Sylvian.”  Blanche is trembling as she listens to the names so Mowgli escorts her back to the couch where she sits down again.  Trip remains standing so she can retain the psychological advantage.

“What do you want from me?”  Blanche whispers, all traces of arrogance gone.  “I don’t have any money to pay you.”

“I don’t want your money,” Trip hisses, still using the Southern accent.  “We just need to have a little heart-to-heart you and me.  Girl talk.”  She looks at Mowgli, but he shakes his head.  As much as he loves Trip, he knows her too well to leave her alone with Blanche.

“What’s there to talk about?”  Blanche still hasn’t looked Trip in the eye, but steals a glance at Mowgli who smiles reassuringly at her.  She seems emboldened by it and straightens her spine.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Blanche,” Trip says, her tone cold.  “I know Angel is dead.  I know Andretti did it.  I know O’Reilly knows about it and is abetting, even if it’s after the fact.  What I don’t know is where you fit in.”  She stops, allowing Blanche the opportunity to talk.  Blanche, however, chooses to exercise her God-given right to remain silent.  Unfortunately for her, this is not a court of law, and Trip is no judge.  “Answer me!”  Trip’s voice lashes out, causing Blanche to flinch.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Blanche says in a little girl’s voice, keeping her eyes fastened to Mowgli’s comforting face.  He sits next to her and pats her knee in an avuncular fashion.  She leans into his touch which causes him to quickly pull his hand away.  Even in her fear, she can’t help but sexualize her interactions with Mowgli.

“Tough.”  Trip’s voice is uncompromising.  “Another girl died, Blanche.  Evelyn Sato.  Ever heard of her?”  Blanche silently shakes her head, but her face grows even whiter.  “She died because she knew something about Caleb O’Reilly.  Murdered, though they tried to make it look like suicide.  She told me some things, but held back.  She would have told me eventually, but now it’s too late for her.”  Trip pauses, letting the implication dangle.

“What did she know?”  Blanche asks, nervously clutching her hands together.

“Would you like something to drink?”  Mowgli breaks in, earning a scowl from Trip.  She hates having her flow interrupted, but Mowgli is concerned about Blanche’s pallor and doesn’t want her fainting on them.

“Yes, please,” Blanche answers, trying to smile.  “Gin and tonic if you have it.  I wouldn’t mind some food, either.”  Trip refrains from rolling her eyes, but how like a whore to take what she can get even before it’s offered to her.

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