Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*.*.*
"What? We're just friends. Nothing is going to happen. It's just, I mean, really, like you'd ever be able afford staying in the French Quarter, huh?" Chelsea Adams wheedled.
That last declaration stung. Chelsea knew that Farnsworth was experiencing a bit of a slow-down at the moment. Pops and Bobby kept assuring everyone that this was just temporary, just a little set-back after the holiday rush.
Chelsea's attitude also irked Ford Udell. True, he could not afford to rent a week-long stay at a French Quarter apartment. And certainly not during the height of the Mardi Gras season in New Orleans.
"You must, you must think I've lost my ever loving mind here," Ford said, shaking his head in bewilderment. "If you really expect me to believe, either that, or you've lost yours."
"What. Ever," Chelsea said flippantly, the matter decided as far as she was concerned.
"And you're telling me, Mattie O'Brien's okay with this?" Ford called out at Chelsea's retreating form.
"Of course. See? Even she knows nothing's going happen between Steve and me. It's just us going see the parades, cut loose a little," Chelsea said, delighted with being able to point out that Mattie, Steve O'Brien's insanely jealous wife was okay with Steve and Chelsea going to the French Quarter, sharing a small apartment for a week, Wednesday to Wednesday.
"Mattie O'Brien, who jumped up and punched that old woman at Tabitha's wedding because the old woman patted Steve on his rear end? Is okay with the two of you running off to New Orleans, huh?" Ford said, not believing it for a moment.
"Yes," Chelsea said smugly. "She knows Steve will be sleeping on the sofa bed and I'll be sleeping in the bedroom. See?"
"Doesn't matter," Ford said. "Just because she's lost her mind doesn't mean I have to lose mine. I'm telling you no. No, you're not going." You are not going with Steve O'Brien, your old high school boyfriend."
"What? You don't own me," Chelsea snarled bitterly. "And I am not a child; you can't tell me what I can and can't do."
"Right. And wrong. Right, I don't own you. And wrong. I can tell you, I won't be putting up with you just running off whenever you feel like it," Ford said.
Chelsea Adams was beautiful. Gorgeous. She was five feet, ten inches tall and weighed one hundred and thirty two pounds, despite having three children. Her waist length blonde hair was so light it almost appeared white and her perpetual tan made it appear lighter in color. Her large brown eyes were deep, soulful eyes separated by her perfect nose. Her lips were plump, pouting, kissable lips. Her jaw and chin were strong, square shaped, making her present scowl look quite fierce.
Ford nearly recoiled, shrank back from the twenty three year old woman's hateful glare. He was the father of her three children. The Logistics Planner made a good salary, provided for Chelsea and her three children very well, even with the slight set-back at Farnsworth.
Ford Udell's bland expression infuriated Chelsea Adams; Ford actually believed he could tell her what to do.
Ford could tell that Chelsea had not taken his initial response very seriously. Ford did wonder if she might try to manipulate him with sex. He did love sex with her; she had a body that was built for it. And she did seem to enjoy sex a great deal.
But apparently, sex would not be used to persuade Ford. Chelsea decided to withhold sex instead.
Two days later, two very chilly days later, a box was dropped off at the house. Chelsea did not recognize the store's label, and it was addressed to Ford, not her. Ford had once opened a package addressed to her and Chelsea had gone on a two hour screaming tirade over that invasion of her privacy.
Not wishing to give Ford any ammunition, any reason to throw her tirade in her face, Chelsea resisted the temptation to peek inside the well taped box. Ford was already walking in the door before Chelsea had thought of possibly researching the store's label on the computer.
When Ford stepped up to the breakfast counter, he looked at the box and smiled. Chelsea asked him, syrup sweetness dripping from her lips what was in the box.
"Hmm? Oh, its DNA tests for our children," Ford said casually.
"It's what?" Chelsea screamed.
"Uh huh. See, your willingness just run off to the Big Easy with the big sleazy, your boyfriend? Makes me wonder if this might not be first time you flopped in someone else's bed," Ford said easily.
"You mother fucker," Chelsea snarled bitterly. "How dare you?"
"How dare I? How dare I? No, Chelsea, how dare you? How dare you think its okay go on a trip with Steve O'Brien? How dare you think I'd be okay with that?" Ford snapped.
"Well, you are not taking any blood from any of my children," Chelsea spat.
"Doesn't require blood," Ford said. "Just a little swab of the inside of their mouths."
"Well, you're not doing that either," Chelsea snarled, big brown eyes blazing furiously.
"Thought so," Ford smiled tightly. "Apparently someone's afraid of what I'll find out."
"You, you mother fucker," she snarled venomously.
"Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea," Ford sighed. "You really need find other words if you're trying to insult me. Of course I'm a mother fucker. I've fucked you quite a few times in the past what? Four, five years?"
"What. Ever, you mother fucker," Chelsea spat.
"But, the question is, while I was fucking the mother, were you fucking the father?" Ford smirked.
Ford used her spittle to swab the first swab and sealed it into a bag. Then he calmly washed her spittle from his face.
(Inside, he was anything but calm. Inside, Ford was seething with the desire to actually strike Chelsea Adams.)
"And where are the little urchins?" Ford asked as he used the kitchen dishtowel to wipe his face.
"None of your fucking business," Chelsea shrilled.
"Wrong again, Chelsea. Supposedly, they're my children, therefore, it is my business where they are," Ford said, making sure he had the box as he side-stepped her.
"You are not, give me that box, you are not going, God damn it, Ford, give me that fucking box, you God damned mother fucker," Chelsea screamed, wrestling with Ford, grabbing for the box.
Ford twisted out of her grasp and bolted for the front door. He managed to get into his truck and locked the doors. For a few moments, Chelsea banged on the windows, screaming insults and threats.
"I hope you're happy," Chelsea said bitterly when Ford walked into the house ten minutes after Chelsea had ceased with her tirade.
Randy and Nicole, their four and three year old son and daughter were wailing, clinging onto their mother. Carrie Udell, the eight month old was in her crib, but her wails could be heard coming down the hall.
"Ecstatic," Ford said bluntly and went to the nursery.
