KNOX COUNTY
This will be a long story set out over a series of chapters. There will be many characters, and not all of them will be getting some in every scene. Actually, as currently plotted, some of them won't be getting any for quite some time.
I hope you will give the story a go and let me know any suggestions you may have. The fun part about creating characters and maneuvering them through a story is allowing them to be themselves and, to a certain degree, be normal while still allowing for unusual and unexpected twists in the plot. And, of course, for steamy sex.
Thanks to all, and any and all comments, even negative comments, are greatly appreciated. But please don't just tell me the story sucks; tell me why you think it sucks. I'd also appreciate comments on which characters you like, dislike, are intrigued by, and so on. Thanks again!
CHAPTER ONE
Sean McMahon stood in the receiving line, murmuring and shaking hands. He no longer heard what they said; it was always the same. "Sean, I'm so sorry," or "It's a blessing, Sean," or "She's happier where she is, Sean." The words no longer mattered. They were a blur, and he only murmured in response to most of them and shook their hands, thanking them for coming and their kind thoughts.
Roger stood next to him, and he noticed Roger clapping backs and chatting amiably. Sean heard him tell more than a few mourners that he'd be fine, he'd pull through. But the words didn't register. His mind was getting hazy, and he only wanted the night to end.
Sean didn't get his focus back until the ride home. He was in the passenger seat of Roger's Jaguar, Emily scrunched up in the back amidst piles of documents and prints.
"You should take some time off, try to get past this," Roger said. Sean looked out the window at the dark landscape. The outlines of the trees caught his attention and he drew them in his mind. "Did you hear me?" Roger pressed.
Sean didn't look at him. "Yes, Roger," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"This has been a dreadful time for you," Emily chirped in from the backseat. "You should do what Roger says."
There were cows on the far end of the field now, a few standing, munching on grass, most of them laying in the pasture.
"Well?" Roger said.
Sean sighed. "I'll think about it," he offered.
"Then it's settled," Roger said. "I'll send Emily around with some brochures, some ideas for you. This weekend shall we say?"
Sean nodded.
When they pulled into his driveway, Sean left the car without a word and went into his home. House really, he thought. It wasn't a home anymore, not with Holly gone. It seemed empty, bare, devoid of life. Like Carlin said, just a place to put his stuff.
He went into his office, sat behind the desk, and reached down for a bottle of Jameson's stashed in the bottom drawer. He pulled it out and poured himself a solid glass of pure booze. Once done pouring, he tossed the whole glass down, tasting nothing, feeling the burn as it made its way down his throat into his stomach. He poured another and left the glass next to the bottle on the desk. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, he began to make out shapes. There, on the wall, a painting of Holly just after a long afternoon of gardening. On the table beneath it one of Holly's dried flower arrangements. The leather armchair in the corner, deep burgundy leather, picked out by Holly. He scanned the room and it was all Holly. All except his diploma, placed there by Holly in a frame picked out and purchased by Holly.
"Aw fuck," he said, sweeping his arm across the desk and sending it all crashing to the floor below. He sunk his head in his arms, crying. He reached out for the glass of whisky and, when he couldn't find it, slumped in the chair for a moment before getting up to clean the mess.
When he rounded the desk and looked down, his eyes were caught by how it had all fallen. The heavy tumbler had hit the corner of the desk and broken into six or seven pieces, the half-drained bottle resting in the remains of the bottom, liquid seeping into a couple of paperbacks and onto a desk calendar, pens and pencils scattered from their cup. And, in the middle of it all, a small picture of Holly on their wedding day, smiling out in sepia tones from the crazy angle at which the frame had come to rest against the desk.
Sean looked at it from all angles: top, floor level, each side, across the room. He turned on the desk lamp and repeated the process. No, he thought, not yet. He turned off the desk lamp and turned on the reading lamp next to the armchair. Better, he though, but not quite yet. He unplugged the desk lamp and placed it in the corner, next to the reading lamp, plugged it in, and turned them both on. That's it, he thought.
He left the room and hustled back in a few minutes later, charcoal pencils and erasers in one hand, a large sketching pad in the other. He laid on the floor, the shadows sweeping from left to right across the dark hardwood floor. His tears were dry, his eyes focused, and his hands started racing over the paper.
* * *
Cynthia Holloway cruised along Route 36, ignoring the speed sign when she entered Armitage, Pop. 8600. The top was down, the moon was up, and the winds were sweeping down the car and up into her short tennis skirt. She felt the excitement build as her eyes swept both sides of the road. It was a little after nine, and she was on her way home from the Club. Her regular Tuesday afternoon of tennis, Tuesday evening dinner with the girls accompanied by a few cocktails, her regular route home.
There was nothing else to do on Tuesday nights. David rarely came home before midnight on Tuesdays–hell, he was rarely home before eight any other day of the week. She figured–no, she knew–he was having an affair. She didn't know who with, but he was fucking someone else. There was no other way to figure it, no other reason for him to be there so late, so long after all of his employees had left. So fuck him, she'd do what she wanted. Consequences be damned.
A quarter mile in, just past the Tastee Freeze, she saw him pull out, the red lights spinning. Shit, she thought, must've been behind a truck in the lot. She flipped on her turn signal and turned left on Ashburn Street, a half block from John Glenn Middle School.
The cruiser slid in behind her and flipped off the dome lights. The street became darker, barely lit by the streetlights on each corner. The first thing Cynthia noticed was the breeze, the cool night breeze blowing across her skin, raising light goosebumps on her arms and the exposed tops of her breasts. The second thing she noticed was the officer getting out of the car and walking toward her.
He was tall, about six three, and well built. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow, his forearms muscular. She saw thick light brown hair peeking out from beneath his hat, and a wide grin across his face denting his cheeks with dimples. He was late twenties, maybe seven or eight years younger than her. And his walk told her that tonight he meant business. She sucked in her breath.
