*Disclaimer: Any and all persons engaging in sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age or older.
Chapter 5
Cris ignored the 'Thank You' card that Hank sent, thanking him for the flowers. He had not sent any flowers and figured the man was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to make him feel guilty for the omission.
He remembered the quite cheap floral arrangement Hank and Sophia had sent to his parents' funeral. The man was a millionaire and certainly could have afforded to fill the small funeral home with flowers, but instead sent a very cheap, almost gaudy arrangement. But Cris had bit back his anger and sent the man a 'Thank You' card. There had been no acknowledgement of that card, but Cris had not expected one.
He tossed Hank's card into the wastebasket and continued to pore through the mail that Sandra had stacked on his desk.
****
Nicole breathed a sigh of relief; her period had come.
The first few times she and Tom had made love, he wore a condom.
"You know what?" he whispered into her ear. "I hope your mother does catch us; I hope she does find out about our love for each other."
She groaned as he drove his cock in and out of her; the thought of Mom coming up the stairs and bursting into her room was so exciting.
"I bet if you got pregnant, she'd have to see it, I bet she couldn't ignore it then," Tom whispered into her ear.
"Do it," she groaned and he quickly pulled out of her tight pussy and pulled the condom off.
"O fuck yeah," he laughed as he drove himself back into her tight pussy.
But, thankfully, she was not pregnant. She saw now that Tom had not loved her, or loved her mother. He had used them, and used Grandpa and Grandma.
She stuck a tampon in, washed her hands and left the bathroom. Her mother, her poor mother looked so haggard, so beaten.
Ann Marie looked up as Nicole entered the room and tried to force a smile to her face. Then a contraction hit and she gasped.
Father and daughter comforted Ann Marie as they drove to University Medical Center. UMC, the same building that her mother had died in.
She had not wanted to give birth in the charity hospital, had planned on giving birth at Women's and Children's Hospital, the same hospital that Nicole and Mikey had been born in and Tom had promised her that.
When he skipped out on her, when the full extent of his deception had been revealed, she took the jewelry he'd given her and pawned it all.
The two and a half carat ring had turned out to be nothing but glass, however. The metal itself wasn't even gold. She discovered that when she took it to the jeweler's whose box it had been in.
"Yeah, we sell them boxes all the time," the man smiled sympathetically. "But that's not our ring; it's not even real gold."
"But it didn't turn my finger," she had argued with the jeweler.
"Uh huh," he shrugged and showed her the traces of clear fingernail polish.
Sophia Marie Campion was a beautiful little blonde, six pounds, nine ounces. Later on, she would develop her father's wicked little smile.
****
Cris stood in line at the After-Hours registration at the University of Louisiana at DeGarde. Obviously there were several people interested in learning to cook authentic Cajun dishes. He knew most of the basics; years of watching his mother cook had given him that. But there were some dishes she used to cook that he hadn't had since her death. Plus that, it would be a good way to get out, meet women.
It had been a while since Sherri had stopped by; she was experiencing some complications in her pregnancy so her mobility was limited. From some of the sidelong glances he was getting, he would not have any problem finding a replacement for Sherri.
Another table caught his attention; there was no one at the table at the moment and there was just a crudely hand printed sign taped to the wall behind the table to give any indication of what class was being offered.
"Motorcycle Maintenance."
He had wanted a motorcycle when he was younger; his older cousin Terry had bought one. But Terry had been careless and reckless and had been killed when he tried to beat a semi to an intersection. His mother and father used that as justification to deny him the coveted motorcycle.
Then when he got older, marriage and parenthood had denied him the motorcycle again and he had completely forgotten about it.
As he stood, looking at the few brochures on the table, a young woman sauntered over and took the seat behind the table. She wore tight blue jeans tucked into boots and a leather vest, unbuttoned; her smallish breasts threatening to slip into view. Cris saw a gold chain that dangled between her breasts, but did not see a gold chain around her neck. She actually sneered at him as he looked at her.
"Unless you can eat pussy as good as my girlfriend, fuck off, old man," she said.
"I got to eat your pussy to learn motorcycle maintenance?" Cris asked, unperturbed by her rudeness.
"Huh? Oh no, no, sorry, I'm just so used to old fuckers trying to pick me up," she apologized and scurried to get the sign-up sheet out.
"Well, don't advertise if it ain't for sale," Cris suggested, looking at the brochure.
"I got a fucking right dress any way I fucking want to," she spat at him.
"Uh huh, and I got a right to think it's for sale if there's a billboard out," he said.
"So what kind of bike you got?" she asked, remembering why she was there.
"None at this moment," he admitted.
"Going to be kind of hard to learn how to take care of it if you ain't got it, huh?" she sneered.
"But I am looking," he said.
"Oh, my old man's got one he's looking to sell; want to see it?" she asked.
The BMW roared to life and April smirked as he got on behind her. At five feet two inches, she was barely tall enough to pull the bike upright, but she did and stomped it into gear.
"Watch the hands, old man," she warned as he put his arms around her
The motorcycle was a 1949 Indian Chief, twelve hundred cubic centimeters of power. Cris looked at the grossly overweight man as he pushed his wheelchair out to where April and Cris stood.
"That there's a piece of American history," the bearded man said, pointing to the motorcycle.
"What you asking?" Cris asked.
"Fifteen thousand," the man said and lovingly touched the rubber grip of the throttle.
"It run?" Cris asked.
"Nah, but got them all original parts! Except the seat and the rubber." The man said, pointing to a box in the corner of the garage.
"Twelve five, cash," Cris said.
"Yeah, yeah, fine," the man grumbled then smiled wistfully. "Hadn't broken my neck you could kiss my pasty white ass you wanted to get this bike, for any price."
"How'd you break your neck?" Cris asked.
"Deer hunting fell out the deer stand, landed on my head, "the man said.
"Damn, that's rough," Cris said.
The man looked at Cris, nodded in appreciation of Cris not pretending the wheelchair was invisible or that he wasn't handicapped.
"Yeah, well, shit happens," the man said and shrugged. "Thank God I got this bitch taking care of me."
"Uh huh, quit calling me 'bitch,'" April said, no rancor in her voice.
"So what's your old man think of you and your girlfriend?" Cris asked when April brought him back to his automobile, an ugly nondescript company car.
"No girlfriend; I just say that shit scare off dumb asses trying to get in my pants," she admitted.
