Family

Saturday

Billie

Waiting for those two to get up took all the patience I had. Didn't want to be a nuisance, but they could sure spend a lot of time bonking.

I guess I'm better with that now. I'd been raised to never speak of sex, never even hint about it in polite company. Pretend people didn't fuck at all.

But these two, they were at it all the time. Completely, totally hangup-free, to the point of over-sharing. I'm sure they'd be doing it all over the condo if I wasn't here. Pretty considerate of them to keep it in their room, I appreciate that.

I'd thought I was a brassy foul-mouthed woman-of-the-world but now I knew better. Jillian and the ladies could out-swear and out-embarrass anybody I'd ever known. I spent half of supper the other night blushing. Listening and blushing.

Greg, he was more like me, turned red if anybody mentioned skin. Not a prude; not the way those two went at it. But just... shy, respectful. Probably thought of it as being a gentleman. I could get behind that.

Gonna take me a while to get to even that point, but I was trying. Plenty of unwanted prudish thoughts in my head, I'd squash whenever they popped up which was still too often.

So much to un-stick. I'll get there.

They were actually pretty quiet this morning. Made sense; all bonked-out last night, I'd been kept up until nearly midnight waiting for the squeaks and thuds to quiet down.

Ultimately Jillian appeared first, sleepy-face and bed-hair, in a bathrobe, probably his because it was twice too big for her. And ugly.

"Big guy gonna show this morning? I want a ride to a client. I can take my bike in the back, ride home after."

A barn out in the county, I'd called last night and arranged to meet this morning. Didn't want to show on a bike, made a better impression in the truck, professional.

She nodded, not quite conscious yet, didn't hear anything I said, fumbling with the coffee gear. Staring at the switches like it was a NASA control panel, just holding the empty pot in one hand.

I took it from her gently, filled it, poured it in the top, sat it on the burner. Dumped some grounds from the bag into a filter, shut all the flaps, pressed Brew!

She gave me a weak smile, went around the counter, flopped on a barstool.

Greg was banging around, doing something in his closet, getting something out or putting something away I guess.

This was taking too long.

"GREG!" Jillian winced, too loud! I moderated.

"I Gotta Get To A.... client." This much quieter, he'd emerged now, dressed but holding some dark leather shoes. Dress shoes. Oh! They were going out tomorrow night.

"Are these gonna work with my new linen shirt? That cotton jacket?" He was really asking, I figure he's a fashion-cripple, lucky he has Jillian to dress him in the morning.

The coffee was burbling, starting to drool vile brown poison into the pot. Jillian was fixated on it, didn't respond. Greg looked helpless, turned to me.

"What color? The jacket."

He thought. "Blue. Light blue. Onyx buttons."

I shook my head. "Brown shoes are out. You want black."

He nodded, turned to go back.

"Can I get a ride?"

That stopped him. He considered. "Sure, if it's not too far? We want to head out in an hour."

Didn't argue, question me about why I needed the truck, we were partners, he just believed me, accepted my need and ran with it. Sometimes I think Greg isn't real, this is some dream I'm having.

"Just ten miles past the trailer park? Should be fifteen minutes out, drop me and my bike, you can head back."

He nodded, sure! and disappeared into his bedroom.

While he banged around, Jillian had become alert enough to realize she needed a cup. Was opening and slamming cupboard doors, all the wrong ones, over and over, getting frustrated.

"Let me!" I squeezed past her, got a coffee cup from the drainer, filled it from the pot. Snagged the sugar shaker, set it down where she could get at it.

She focused in on the coffee, put in far too much sugar, found a spoon first try, stirred to get the sludge off the bottom, get it dissolved. Stirred and stirred, mesmerized by the murky black surface, mind in neutral.

Greg came out, black shoes in hand, a shoe-shine kit I guess, anyway some chamois cloth and a tin of something.

"Let's do it!" He sat the shoes on the counter; I took them off, put them on the floor by the stuffed chair. He'd thank me later.

Snagged my notebook and we were out the door, leaving Jillian to her stirring.

Getting into the passenger seat I suggested "Make sense for me to get a license?"

He started the engine, got us going with a minimum of scraping and gear-clashing.

"I guess. Long road, in this state? Gotta take the test, which means taking a class. Gotta be old enough, 16 for a permit, and then 50 hours driving with another licensed driver."

Too much bother. Couldn't even get started until next year! Then driving with Greg or Jill or Nick for months. They hardly went anywhere, fifty hours might take another year!

"May I suggest, a scooter?"

That sounded like a better deal. "What license does that take?"

"None. Small enough engine, no license needed, no insurance either. And the gas would be real cheap, those things get crazy mileage."

That settled, I directed him up the hill, past the golf course, the trailer court, into the county on a blacktop road.

Apparently, he was familiar, knew all the turns I read out from my notebook. Less than ten minutes later I spotted the mailbox, the lane down to a house and barn half a mile off in a field.

"How you wanna play this?"

"Drive me up to the front door, I get out, get my bike out. Say something loud and professional when they answer the door, they know I'm part of a business, not some rando with a bike?"

That made sense to him. We tooled down the lane responsibly, just a few miles an hour, pulled into the barnyard, stopped by the front door.

I hopped out, got my bike, propped it against the garden shed. Knocked, when they answered he called out the open truck window "Call me if you need anything else, Ma'am!" and pulled away.

Laying it on pretty thick, but it's all about making a good impression. Good old Greg!

We make a great team!

...

Jillian

"I'm back!"

"Just a minute! Almost ready!"

Coffee drunk, shower and dressed for a day out - I had on shorty shorts, wife-beater shirt with a flannel over it, layers, who knows what the weather was going to do. Cute as fuck, if I do say so myself.

"You're wearing the hiking boots!"

I bent one leg, showed off my calf. "Mrs. Kumar said they were good for rough terrain. I didn't know where you might take me? Or where you might make me walk anyway."

He smiled his I Love You smile, pleased with my sexy double-talk.

"We don't have to go, you know? We could just stay here..."

He wrapped himself around me, cuddling. Tried to cup my breasts - smack!

"You'll spill the tea!" I was filling a thermos with a pot of Billie's black angry brew, for the road. Gotta ask her where she got it; smelled awesome.

"You tried the green stuff? Amazing. Mild, aromatic, fills the senses!"

I made a face. "I'm not so fond. Like a salad in a cup! You two are welcome to that stuff."

He let me go, poked at the coffee maker.

"How about coffee? You drank the whole pot!"

Not upset; just concerned for me. I'd become a caffeine addict. A cup before work, three or four on the job, at lunch. Tea at dinner. Hasn't spoiled my sleep yet; not too badly anyway. I figured I burned it off, doinking with my sweetie.

"Gotta keep up with you, Stallion!"

He'd found my lunchbox, a shoebox really, gotta get a proper picnic basket. He didn't have things like that, none of the graces of life. Just went around with plastic bags and repurposed cartons. Re-used bread-bag twisties for the trash bag. His frugality made me smile; spend a fortune on shoes for me, balked at buying trash can liners. My goof.

He was peeking under the lid, at the lunch.

"Croissants, tinned ham spread. Chicken salad from the deli. Those tasteless water crackers you like!"

Another hug, and a peck on the neck; he knew I loved him, I put up with his terrible food preferences.

"Remember the sunscreen!"

He nodded, glanced around, went to the utility room, pulled the bottle from behind the laundry soap. Handy having Mr. X-Ray Vision around, saved a lot of hunting for stuff.

And we were out the door. Locked up, Billie had her own key now.

"Let's drive downtown, do our walk over the North bridge and back, then we'll have a vehicle handy for your mystery tour?"

He'd hinted at some marvelous picnic spot he knew, things to see on the way. No details, said it would spoil the adventure.

I slid in the drivers' seat, I'd heard him pulling out this morning, wanted to save the ol' truck some wear and tear.

Took only a minute to get downtown, then two more finding a parking spot. Ended up in front of his bank. They wouldn't mind, he said, he knew the VP.

Before we could head off, he insisted I go in with him. No idea why. He found a teller, Renae by her nametag, got some papers, waved me over.

"Just sign here, and here, and here."

"What am I signing?"

"Joint ownership of Mr. Gregory's accounts, and authorization to make investments."

I looked at Greg, dumbfounded. "What's this about? You can't manage your own money?" I was annoyed; not that he trusted me, but he was pushing money on me again.

I still felt funny about that, about his inheritance. I didn't want to, but I did.

He did his sad-dog thing and my heart melted. I couldn't get mad at him for more than a second.

"We agreed, you'd do the shopping, select products, make sensible purchasing choices?

"My banker keeps needling me, put the money in better funds, in CDs, stuff like that. I try to read the paperwork, I do. But it makes my head hurt.

"I just thought you might be able to take this job too, to sort it out so it wasn't just sitting there making simple interest..."

Well. Put it that way. I did have more patience with shopping, price comparisons, risk and reward.

"Ok." I found capitulation easy, when it was to please him. And it would be an interesting thing to do.

The sunshine came back to his face, I had to laugh.

"How did you ever manage before me?" I held his chin, gave him a nose-rub. Took the offered pen and signed on the dotted line.

Renae checked some boxes, put it all in a folder. "Any time you can spare Miss Jillian, I can go over some options, you can make some investment choices. At your convenience!" Renae was being efficient and businesslike.

"I'll come in Wednesday after lunch." I generally took Wednesday to cruise the boardwalk anyway. Not gonna find anybody, now the tourists were largely gone. Plenty of time to spare for Renae.

That done, we hit the sidewalk.

"Cross here, come back by the other bridge?"

I considered. "We've been this way too many times. Let's follow the river up, find that bridge, see new sights."

"Sure!" We turned north.

I don't think Greg really cared where we went, as long as he went there with me. That made me unreasonably happy.

We followed a trail that wandered close to the water, avoided traffic. The brush sometimes crowded in, made it challenging if a bike or dog-walker was coming. Twice we had to step aside into a gap in the bushes, let someone pass.

Greg always took this opportunity to feel me up. That time I'd screwed him up the creek by the shore, I'd unleashed a monster. Now he seemed ready to strip me and lay me down, any time, any place.

Just as he had me between two lilacs, one hand up my shirt fondling my left tit, snogging, two college-age girls passed us. Giggled like crazy, one of them turning red, the other shouting encouragement.

"Get a room! Succubus!" Smiling, not mean. And college-educated! In fact, the girls were holding hands, blushing-girl had smeared lipstick. Been up to some snogging of their own.

I pulled his hand out, put it on my hip. "Is this your mystery tour? Lovers' lane? Gonna need a blanket or something, or no deal."

Before Greg would have blushed, stammered something, apologized. But after-Greg just gave me a loving-horny look, fondled my butt, took my hand and led me back on the trail.

To distract him, give him something to do, let him show off, I asked my usual question.

"What do you see?"

He looked me over, leered. "I see you aren't wearing any underwear."

I grabbed his chin, turned his head the other way, toward the shore.

"In the river, lover boy."

He relented, got his looking-but-not-with-his-eyes expression.

"I see an old artillery cannon, civil war? The barrel blocked with lead. Wooden wagon wheels, the iron bands rusted nearly through. Dumped here, deep in the mud now, but why? Those usually sit in a park for decades, getting covered in bird shit.

"That storm drain, on the other bank, brick arch with the iron grate? It goes back, way back, several blocks before I lose it. Opens up under that empty lot. Maybe used to be a water pumping station? Anyway, the chamber is home to bats, thousands of bats. They come out at night, eat the bugs, keep the mosquitoes in check."

I shivered, leaned into him. Sure, I can appreciate our little bug-eating friends, but bats creeped me out. I've watched too many old monster movies.

He hesitated; I prompted him.

"What is it? Bodies? Evidence of old crimes? A torture chamber?" He was always telling me about gross things, until I'd made it clear I wasn't interested in that stuff.

"Nothing like that. It's just - private. I don't want to be a Peeping Tom."

"Ooooh! Sexy stuff! Tell! Tell! I can keep a secret!"

He seemed to think that was ok. After all we were a couple, no secrets between us. Pillow talk.

"Fucking. Saturday morning, everybody fucks. Every fourth or fifth house, in the bedroom, in the kitchen, the back yard!

"In that house, two couples. Mom and Dad in their bedroom, been going at it a while, she's pretty, um, covered.

"And in their daughter's room, a boyfriend, apparently came in the window, now cumming in her. Jesus! That's a lot. And some more. Not done yet...wow. Still going...still going...there. No! He's off again!"

He tore his gaze away from that one; still some decency in him, I haven't debauched him completely.

"A young lady giving a blowjob in the bathroom of that apartment, third floor, to an older gentleman. She's spent the night, but I don't think she lives there."

"A sleepover?"

"Um, ah. I service call, I think, judging from her clothes, her handbag."

"Oooh! A professional woman! Contracted for the whole night! She ok?"

"She was well paid, if that's what you mean. Two hundred in her purse, and a whole roll of condoms. At least a dozen spread around the apartment, used, who knew an old guy would have the stamina!"

That seemed too funny. I mean, why not? Good for him. He paid for it, getting his money's worth.

"Other people are sleeping in, making breakfast. Kids up early, playing video games before the parents make them do chores. Do kids still do chores on Saturday morning?"

I admitted I didn't know. I'd done chores all my life, just live-in help to most foster parents. Normal families, I had no idea.

One house, he stopped, looked quite a while. Big place, two stories, double lot. Two-car garage, I could see several cars in the drive, more on the street.

"Give."

He was quiet for a bit longer, until I elbowed him.

"Uh! That one, an orgy? Must have started Friday night, been going on all night, mostly over now.

"Sticky bodies all over the house, asleep on the couch, on mats, five people tangled on a big bed upstairs! A roomful of mattresses in the basement, wall to wall, a dozen women in there, only three guys, all naked. They must be exhausted!"

"Mostly over?"

"A couple still going at it, upstairs closet, doggedly, and I mean doggedly. She's asleep on her feet, on her knees anyway, on the rug, head between some coats, hands on the carpet, ready to keel over, swaying to some music I imagine.

"He's behind her, still hard, pumping away like a zombie, a bottle of something very alcoholic in one hand, a cigarette in the other, alternating.

"Sploogy condoms everywhere, and I mean everywhere. In the beds, trash cans, on the kitchen counter, all over the carpet, down the sofa cushions. In the garage, in the cars, on the lawn. One still inside a girl, must have come off when her guy pulled out!"

"Safe sex; good for them!"

"Oh, I don't know. Two of the women are pregnant, a couple months. Can't have been all that careful! Anyway, good luck to them.

"The sex room needs a good scrub, stains on every surface, even the back of the door! The ceiling! Some old ones; lots of new ones. Gotta smell like a locker room.

"High-heeled shoe, down behind the bar fridge, gonna be looking for that one a long time."

"We should leave a note! Shoes can be expensive."

He looked at me, surprised. Why? Because he'd never thought of doing that? Or because I was concerned about the poor girl that lost the shoe, less so about the pregnant ones.

Bitches got knocked up; that was life. But losing a good shoe, well, that was a tragedy.

We left the sex-party behind, continued upriver to our destination. The old North bridge, rebuilt from the wooden one build in the 1800's, Greg said the burned-off piers were still down there.

The new one was cement, jutting square lampposts built into the structure, cement rails with layered rectangular designs, squares within squares inset into the broad flat sides. Pure Art Deco.

Massive piers underneath, really stone and steel inside but faced in brick and then plastered. I knew more about construction being with Greg than I ever guessed I'd learn!

"Anything in the piers? Secret rooms?"

"Nope. Just steel, solid fill, brick, plaster. Oh, some tiny mammal skeletons. Mice and rats are always getting stuck in fresh cement, fall in at night, dig themselves deeper struggling, drown."

That wasn't so lovely; I put it out of my mind.

We were standing on the span now, halfway across, paused to look out over the water. I didn't need to ask; he started right in.

"A crate of railroad spikes, wood with iron bands, probably standard rail issue. Just tipped over the side of the bridge at some point, broke on impact, spikes spilled in a fan, buried in the mud. Never moved again; they're heavy, stuck there for good.

"A concentration of purses and pieces of purses - a purse snatcher ditching the evidence? No money in them, no coins in the mud. Looted and tossed. Lots of designs, going way back."

"Six grocery carts, two bicycles, a few license plates, some broken crockery and a Desoto hubcap from... 1955 I think."

"Sexy Civil War stuff?" I was remembering that safe, the postcards, the sex toys.

"Nope. Here, they dredged the channel when they rebuilt the bridge, early 1900's. So only more modern stuff."

I pouted; somehow the old-old stuff was more fun. To think people were just as randy and careless way back then, made history seem more real.

"Treasure?"

He nodded. "The usual coins-tossed-in-for-luck. Some votive offerings."

Lots of religions they tossed pictures, statuettes into the water as gifts to their gods, or for luck.

"Something... stony... I think it was a piece of jewelry. The metal corroded away, but the stones remain, shiny, colorful, embedded in mud, in a circular pattern. Large ones in the center, little ones around. Might've been valuable, who knows?"

"A jilted lover? A painful reminder?" We would never know.

"Any cool wildlife?" I don't know why I asked that.

He looked at me with new respect. "Yes! A turtle, a big one. Likes to cruise the bank underwater, snap up frogs, birds that get too close. Been here oh since I was a little guy, just learning this stuff. Probably been here since Jefferson was in office!