Knox County Ch 03

Will was waiting for her at a table on the sidewalk. She turned the corner, a half block from the diner, and saw him looking around, his face lighting up when he saw her. He waved, but she kept her hands jammed in her pockets.

"Hi," he said, standing as she approached and holding a chair out for her. She sat and he pushed the chair in after her.

"Can I see it?" she said.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved an envelope, folded in half. He smoothed it out and slid it across. Northwestern Medical Center the envelope said. She tore it open and pulled out the piece of paper folded inside. A photocopy of his driver's license was on the front with his vital statistics and billing information. She saw the date of birth. He's thirty-one, she noticed, right around where she'd guessed. She scanned to the bottom. The results were clear: Negative for all sexually transmitted diseases, hepatitis, and HIV.

She folded the paper and slid it into her purse. "Thank you," she said. He nodded, smiling. She saw he was dressed much as before, light blue oxford dress shirt with heavy starch, red tie loosened at his neck with the top button undone, navy blue suit pants, and a matching navy blue jacket draped over his chair.

A waitress appeared, handed them menus, and took their drink orders. He ordered a bottle of Lite, Diet Pepsi for her. Then she turned back at him, raising her eyebrow but saying nothing.

He seemed embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he started. "You think I'm some kind of stalker or something. It's just that, well, you know. There was more there."

He was right, of course, but she could let him know that. She couldn't let this get any further.

"Are you going to say anything?"

"How much was the test?" she said.

He shook his head. "I don't care about the test. I want to know if I'm right. Was there something more?"

She sipped her soda, trying to dodge the issue. "Why don't you slow down a little," she suggested. "You don't even know me."

He took a swig of his beer before speaking. "Okay, you mentioned a babysitter. Do you have children?"

She smiled. "I have a little boy. Brandon. He's three now." He pursed his lips. "Scared yet?" she said. He shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just, well, I guess I never thought about it until you mentioned a babysitter. Didn't seem like. . . ."

"Like something a hooker would have?"

"You're not a hooker. You're. . . . I don't know. Different. But not a hooker."

"Just because I don't stand on the street in skimpy skirts, charging fifty bucks for a blowjob, that doesn't mean I'm not a hooker. I'm just an expensive one, which is the only kind I would be until I don't need to be one anymore."

He said nothing. The waitress came, took their order, and left. Still he didn't speak, so she spoke for him.

"I know you want to ask, so go ahead and ask." He looked at her, and she said, "Okay, I'll ask it for you. 'Why?' Right? That's what you want to know. How does a single girl with a little boy decide to do it."

He said nothing, but his eyes told her she was right.

"Because there's no other way for me to make money, pay for my school, and support my child. That's why."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I'm in the pharmacological program–the last year, thank God–at Wisconsin/Madison."

He raised his eyebrows. "A pharmacist? At Madison?" She nodded. "But that's three hours from here."

She nodded again. "Exactly. So my chances of ever running into a client are between slim and none."

"Then you live in Madison?"

She shook her head. "I'm not telling you that. Where I live." His face told her he was going to push the point, so she headed him off. "Listen Will, you're a great guy. Smart, handsome, sweet." She smiled. "Great lover. But we can't date. You don't want to date a hooker, okay?"

He shook his head. "No, you're wrong. You could give it up."

Her eyes flashed anger. "And do what? Feed my baby how? It's not that easy for all of us, Will. Sometimes you make choices, do things you never thought you'd do. But you do them because you have to. You have to so you can get a shot at something better. Something better for me. Something better for my boy." He reached over and placed his hand on hers, but she jerked it away. "No, don't. The problem's that when you make those choices, you give up certain things. You give up chances. Chances like coming here, to the Big City, and taking up a career. Chances like dating anyone because they'll get jealous and get in the way. Don't you see that?"

He shook his head. "But no one would know," he said.

She laughed. "Don't be naive," she said. "They already know. Can you imagine me going to some firm get together with you? Running into two or three clients? They'd laugh at me. Maybe not to my face, but they'd laugh. And they'd laugh at you, too. And that would probably be to your face. You'd be done."

He sat back, looking down at the table in front of him. His voice was low. "You're right."

They said nothing until the food arrived. "Come on," she whispered, "I'm starving. And I've got a train to catch."

He nodded, and they ate in silence. He walked her to the train station, and she let him hold her hand. But she turned a cheek to him when he leaned over to kiss her goodbye.

Watching the train pull out of the station, Will realized she'd never answered his question. Was there something more there?

* * *

David stood in the shower, playing through the whole scene again in his mind. He played it through in his mind, on the picnic table, exposed to the world, Aimee trying to comfort him, then allowing him to use her to channel his rage. She'd done that, all right. She'd gotten off on it, too. He was getting an erection at the thought.

She was beautiful, he realized. Fifteen or so years younger than him–mid-twenties tops–with short-cut red hair parted off-center and falling straight, fair skin with light freckles, and bright green eyes. She had an outstanding figure, too: Short, maybe five three, slim hips, and small breasts, pert and pokey with quarter-sized areolae. She looked so pure and innocent, young, not yet jaded. Yet he saw her last night, watching something that would send him purple with fury. He couldn't quite read her reaction. Was it curiosity? Sadness? Was she unconsciously turned on watching her husband fuck another woman? Probably a mixture, he figured.

Aimee was nothing like Cynthia, though. Sure, Cynthia was also beautiful, kept in shape, and had a great body, but she was different. His wife was older obviously, but still young enough to turn the heads of any post-pubescent male she passed. She was also more experienced, liked it rough sometimes, and was always ready with a devilish smile, a blazing look of desire that he knew only too well.

With that, his erection died. He missed her, and he wasn't particularly happy about that realization. Was some of this his fault? Maybe, he realized, he wasn't satisfying her the way he had. Maybe he was spending too much time at the office and not enough time with her. Still, he didn't want her back. He needed to move on, and he realized he could never do that with Cynthia back in his life.

But how? How the hell was he going to move on? He thought about it long and hard as he finished getting ready for work and drove to the office.

By the time he booted up his computer, he still had no answers. And before he knew it, he was again lost in his world of security codes and encryption.

* * *

By the time Aimee awoke, the sun was beginning to beat down. She wanted to close her eyes again, knowing that in only two weeks she'd be starting another school year when lazy mornings in bed would be restricted to weekends and holidays.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Tim said.

She rolled her head. He was on is side, hand propping the side of his head, staring at her and smiling. She smiled back.

"Mornin' Sweetie," she said.

Under the blankets she felt his hand reach over and brush her hip. He raised an eyebrow, stroking back to her ass and cupping a cheek in his hand.

What am I thinking? she thought, leaning over and brushing her lips against his. Morning breath and stale coffee wafted around her nose, which only aroused her further. His schedule made it difficult to make love during normal hours. As a result, when they managed to find the time to make love they did so in the morning, before either brushed their teeth or showered. This used to turn her off, but she barely noticed now. Instead, it triggered her body to what was coming.

He pushed her over and leaned in close, now stroking the flat of her belly. His lips lowered to her and kissed, his tongue darting out. "Frisky?" he whispered.

She only murmured in response. She ran her bare hands over his chest, tangling her fingers in the coarse, curly hair. He was muscular, his pecs ripping hard and his stomach washboard flat and toned, and she felt his hard physique through her fingertips.

His hand ran down her belly to the mound under her panties and pressed, his finger reaching out and rubbing her slit through the thin cotton. She felt her clit hardening and reached for him through his boxers.

He was already hard. He was always hard, she thought, her legs parting and hips rising to meet his finger as it ran the length of her. And he was always gentle, but apparently only with her. She heard his soft intake of breath as her fingers reached under the band of his boxers and grasped his cock. She squeezed, stroking him and feeling his hips pumping into her hand. Images started racing through her mind. He's bigger than David, she thought, but David was more forceful, more urgent than Tim had been almost since they first started dating in high school. She felt herself getting wetter and more aroused at the memory of David, and she wondered if there were marks on her bottom where he'd slapped her. She still felt tender there, but she knew she wanted it more rough.

She wanted it, she now knew, more like Tim gave it to all of them.

She pushed into him and broke their kiss. "I want you to fuck me hard," she said, looking into his eyes.

His smile vanished and was replaced by–what was it? Doubt? Surprise?

His hand stopped rubbing her, and she pushed her hips upward toward his hand. But he'd stopped and was staring at her.

"What did you say?"

She smiled. "You heard me," she said, licking her lips and pumping his cock faster. "I said I want you to fuck the shit out of me. Now. I don't want you to be gentle."

He was stunned. His mouth hung open, and his throbbing hardness started shrinking in her hand.

"What's wrong?" she said. She was taken aback. He was so forceful with all the others. She wanted that, wanted him to do the same thing to her, for her. She wanted him to ravish her and make her feel sexy and wanted. She didn't, she now realized, want the same old boring, gentle, tender lovemaking.

He only stared at her, and she felt her face going flush with anger. "What the fuck's wrong?"

"When did you become such a . . . a . . . . When did you start talking like that? What's come over you?"

She was flustered. She was worked up, wetter than she'd been since . . . well, since yesterday actually. But yesterday with David had been the best sex–the most exciting sex–she'd had in years. She knew she wanted that now. Maybe not always, but at least some of the time. And she wanted it with Tim.

She settled down and snuggled into him, trying to re-establish the intimacy. "Nothing's come over me, honey. I just, you know. It's just that we've been in a rut lately. Maybe not– " "A rut?" Anger seeped into his voice. "I'm not doing well enough for you? Is that what you're saying? You wanna try something different?"

She tried to interrupt him, but he was getting worked up now. "What the fuck do you wanna try? Maybe something you read in one of your little books? Something you saw on the internet?" He pushed himself off the bed and readjusted his boxers, glaring at her. "Something a boyfriend did for you?"

Her eyes went wide. "Fuck you!" she screamed. "Fuck you and fuck your whores!"

He froze, his eyes narrowing and his lips pressing together. "What did you say?"

She hopped from the other side of the bed, reaching for her bathrobe and tying the sash around her waist, her back to him.

"I said, what. Did. You. Say?"

Her shoulders sagged, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. She felt his footsteps around the bed, felt his hand grab her arm and squeeze.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he hissed into her ear.

Her anger returned and she turned her face to his. "You heard me. I said fuck you. And fuck your whores. Every goddamned one of them. That's what I said."

"What are you talking about," he said. He was still angry, which made her madder yet. How dare he be angry at her?

She looked down at his hand on her arm. He was squeezing harder. "Get your hand off me. Now."

He looked down and saw his hand, then he looked back into her eyes. She felt his hand loosen, then drop away from her arm. Her eyes stayed on his, locking them in, blazing with fury.

"I know about them, Tim," she said. She shoved him away from her. "All of them. So quit playing Mister Fucking Innocent." She walked past him and out of the room, his footsteps following her into the kitchen.

"Who?" he said behind her. "What are you talking about?"

She spun on him. "Who? Jesus, Tim, I've got pictures of you with them. Pictures going back the last four, five, six months." His face went pale. "Yeah, hotshot. Pictures of you fucking the chick with the red convertible. Fucking the mechanic's wife." She laughed. "Fucking little Jenny's ass last night."

His face turned from surprise to shock, so she decided to pour it on even further.

"Oh yeah, Romeo. All of them. In living color. In the dugout at the little league fields. Behind the Ford dealership. And, of course, in the parking lot at school." She laughed at him. "Brilliant, Einstein. The fucking school I work at."

She strode past him and back into the bedroom. When she reappeared a minute later, he was still frozen, his eyes following her return. Then he saw what was in her hand, and his expression turned from shock to horror, his jaw dropping.

She stopped in front of him and thrust the panties to his nose. "Smell familiar?" she said. She reached down and shoved them in the front of his boxers. "Maybe you should give them back to Miss Red Convertible," she yelled, pushing them hard against his balls and feeling him gulp with pain. "And maybe you shouldn't leave them in your fucking uniform for your wife to find, Einstein."

She stormed past him again and returned to the bedroom. She went to the closet and scooped out all the uniforms she could find. She carried them back out to the kitchen. He had the panties in one hand now, the other rubbing his crotch. She threw the uniforms at his feet.

"Now get the fuck out!"

Her tears came back, welling up in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. She ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. A few minutes later, she heard his footsteps outside the door, heard him knock softly.

"Please, baby," he kept saying. "Please, can't we just talk about this?"

He did this for a half hour, but she wouldn't respond. She sat on the floor, her back against the tub, crying into her hands.

Ten minutes after he stopped and she heard the front door open and close, she went back out. Her tears had dried, but she was still sniffling. His uniforms were still sitting in a pile on the floor, the panties now on top.

She knew he wouldn't leave, so she went back into her bedroom and started throwing all of his clothes into garbage bags and piling the bags in the middle of the living room.

When she finished, she found a pen and paper and wrote him a note, taping it to the top garbage bag.

The note read, "Take your shit, get out, and stay out. If you come back, the photos go to Chief Lewis and the husbands and fathers of your whores."

* * *

Cynthia had stayed awake until nearly one in the morning her first day at Sean's house. She'd cleaned the kitchen and the living room thoroughly. The surfaces were dusted, trash disposed of, magazines stacked neatly on bookshelves, and floors swept, mopped, and area rugs vacuumed. She'd gone through the refrigerator and thrown away the spoiled foods, which was most of it, and done the dishes, wiped the counters clean, and mopped the floor. She was exhausted by the time she'd finished the kitchen went to bed, still fully dressed when she sank into the comforter and dozed off. The next morning, she awoke and wondered where she was. Then reality came flooding back and she looked at her wrist. It was nearly eight, and her eyes shot wide open as she sat upright and pushed herself off the bed.

When she entered the kitchen, Sean was standing at the refrigerator, staring in and rummaging around. He was dressed the same as when she'd seen him last night. My God, she thought, he hasn't been to bed.

He turned and looked at her briefly, then looked back into the refrigerator. "Where's the milk?" he said through the door. He had an accent. It wasn't heavy, but there was a lilt to his cadence and a slight rolling of the arrs.

She smoothed down her blouse and realized she must look like hell. "It was spoiled," she said, walking toward him.

His head peeked back up over the top of the door. "Who are you?"

His eyes were rimmed in red, his hair greasy and matted down, and big bags were under the eyes. His voice was calm, curious rather than inquisitive.

She smiled, trying to put him at ease. "I'm Cynthia Holloway," she said, stepping closer and holding her hand out. "We met yesterday. With Mr. Hollister and Ms. Cuthbert?"

"We did?" he said. He reached over and shook her hand. His hand was dry, his grip firm, and she thought she felt a tremble. She didn't know if it was fatigue or nervousness.

"I'm your new housekeeper?" she said, trying to jog his memory.

"Housekeeper?" He seemed lost. His voice and expression told her this didn't ring a bell.

She nodded. "Mr. Hollister said you need someone to take care of you for awhile."

"He did?"

"He did."

"Then does that mean you're going to go out and get some milk? For my tea?" She smiled. "I suppose that's exactly what that means."

"Now?"

"Do you need it now?"

He nodded.

"Then I'll get cleaned up and go into town and do some shopping." He seemed pleased with that. "And when I get back I'll make you some breakfast, if that's okay."

"Nonono," he said, "no need for all that bother. I'll just make some toast and jam."

"No you won't," she said. He was like a little boy, curious, eager to please, and she realized she was treating him as she had treated her little brothers all those years ago. "You'll let me make you a proper breakfast. And you'll eat it and like it, okay?"

"Yes, mum." He yawned, and she saw the exhaustion washing over his body and face.

She placed her hand behind his arm and guided him into the great room and to the couch. He allowed himself to be steered and sat on the couch. She placed her hand in the middle of his chest and led his back to the couch, feeling his sternum and ribs, the beating of his heart, through his shirt.

He said nothing, staring into her eyes the entire time. He allowed her to reach down and lift his legs and scoot him fully on the couch. "I want you to take a nap until I get back. Okay?" He said nothing in response. She pulled an afghan from the back of the couch and slid it over him, tucking him in. He snuggled into the blanket, and she ran a finger through his hair.

"Do you want me to bring you a pillow?" He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Then I'll try to hurry," she said.

She returned to her room, brushed her teeth, showered, and got dressed. When she returned to check on him, he was sleeping soundly on the couch. His lips were parted, and a light snore emitted with the gentle rise and fall in his chest.