An interlude, In which I am oblivious
Jenny stared at the phone in her hand. "Well, shit," she said finally, after a moment of reflection. "If that's your girlfriend, Linnea, she's a raving bitch."
She'd felt bad about the baggie of hair because it clearly meant so much to Linnea, but that girl had just been too naive in some ways, and much too trusting. Jenny had already lost her heart to the blonde, but that didn't mean she was going to be a slut for just anybody.
Unfortunately, it sounded like her paranoia hadn't been misplaced. They'd had a good time thus far, but apparently Linnea had slipped up somehow.
Darryl shouted at her from the bar. "Jenny! Five minutes! Get your pretty little ass out here before these folks tear the place down, d'ya hear?"
Jenny tossed her phone back in her locker, and took a final gulp from her water glass. She hadn't finished her grilled chicken salad, but the call had pretty much killed her appetite. She didn't even know where Linnea lived, really, beyond her area code. That was just the first problem.
Still, the show had to go on... The brunette pulled on her white hat and headed for the arena, her excitement already growing at the thought of the spectators waiting for her.
Pierre Fontaine stared at the phone in his hand. It wasn't the first late-night call he'd received from Edward Richwell, or even that unusual. When you were an attorney for the obscenely rich (if not so famous), it was part of the job. The request was, however, unexpected -- and inconvenient.
"Why now?" he asked himself, setting the handset back on the cradle. He'd been so sure that the Richwells would never relent and reconcile with their wayward daughter, at least as long as Edward was alive.
If Pierre had been a betting man, he'd have gambled that those trusts -- now one trust, after Peter's death -- would sit, gathering dust, until the interested parties were all dead and the funds dispersed to charities. In fact, he had taken that wager and started transferring some of the money to his favorite charity -- himself.
Edward's sudden decision, just communicated, to re-establish Linnea's access to her trust fund put the attorney in an uncomfortable position. He wasn't a fool, and his tracks weren't obvious, but it suddenly was more likely that somebody curious might notice the dollars didn't add up.
Pierre thought again about the call. Edward had sounded... strange. Almost flustered. Perhaps, with a little careful urging, he'd reconsider. Yes, a return call in the morning might do the trick. Feeling better already, he returned to bed.
Xavier Norris stared at the phone in his hand. He hadn't heard from Michael in over a month, and now this. It had sounded like a cry for help, to somebody who could read between the lines.
No recovery program was easy, but the job Mind Controllers Anonymous entrusted to its sponsors was more difficult than most. A drunk could get behind the wheel and do untold damage, but a rogue adept could do far more -- and in a way that might not be discovered until the impact had spread exponentially.
Like anything else, it was impossible to help people who didn't want to be helped, and "convincing" them was morally and ethically indefensible. Nurture, yes; confine, if necessary; coerce, never. Sponsorship wasn't a job for wimps.
With a sigh, Xavier scrolled down his contacts list and made the first call of many. Whatever was going on, waiting never made things better. In addition to trying to make contact with Michael, he needed to get somebody working on tracking down everybody Michael had sponsored and making sure they were okay, too.
It was going to be a pain. Michael had been a popular guy before he'd dropped off the map. Xavier shook his head regretfully. "Hey, Kim, I think we have a problem..."
Chapter 11, In which I become stinking rich
"...and that's why I believe I would be the logical, and best, choice to manage my parents' conservatorship," I concluded the story -- and my presentation. Stacey nodded approvingly, and I fought to keep my hands properly clasped at the small of my back and not gasp at the wave of heat that raced through me.
The three-member panel assembled by the court looked less impressed. "Your contention is that, having used 'mind control' to bring about their present condition, your deep familiarity with the situation for which you are personally responsible makes you uniquely qualified to administer their personal and financial affairs?" Vasily, the grey-haired banker and chairman of the panel, sounded like he was chewing rocks as he spat out the words. I imagined he was upset at the thought of losing control of my parents' fortune.
At least he'd gotten past the whole "mind control" thing. I'd been shocked that Stacey had made me bring it up at all, and they'd been shocked that I'd made such a tasteless joke. Stacey had been forced to demonstrate, which I'd belated realized had been the point.
The sexist bastards had been surprised and embarrassed to find themselves masturbating uncontrollably in front of us -- and each other -- but they'd already forgotten they'd agreed to give us what we wanted. As soon as the meeting was over and they'd cum, they'd forget the mind control stuff, too. I hadn't heard what Stacey had said to the court recorder, but I doubted the transcript really matched what we were saying.
Stacey had gotten so
pushy
. I might have used "bitchy" or "controlling", but I loved her for who she was, warts and all. Perhaps my love and support had made her less sensitive, and she'd just come a little more out of her shell. Besides, this wasn't about Stacey, or even me. It was about my parents.
"'Present condition' sounds so cold and clinical," I objected. "They need the loving care and stability of a warm family environment." And round-the-clock supervision, I thought, but everybody in the conference room already knew that.
Daddy had always been stubborn, and I think he had as much trouble getting past my relationship with Stacey as he'd had with Michael and Peter. He'd gone ahead and revised my trust, but since he'd also become a compulsive masturbator, some doubters thought he might not have been of sound mind. He certainly wasn't now; all he did was stroke himself, especially if anybody asked him about it or he saw me and Stacey together.
He often had to be restrained to keep from rubbing himself literally raw, and the doctors mumbled under their breath about priapism and tried different medications, so far without effect.
Mom had become rather a free spirit, coming late to the sexual revolution and eager to make up for it. In times of stress, she tended to proposition women -- the younger, the better. Although she'd been banned from all of the local college campuses, we'd been able to keep it out of the papers. The first time Daddy had been restrained, she'd gone downstairs and asked to be driven to the nearest high school. Luckily the driver had called me instead.
"And are you in a position to provide this care?" asked Megan, breaking my train of thought. The lone woman on the panel, she seemed more sympathetic to us, but maybe it was just my imagination.
