Across the street was an unremarkable house; it stood two floors tall with clean white shutters decorating the windows, and weathered blue shingles that suggested a wet climate but not poor maintenance. The porch had a single rocking chair and an oak colored table beside it which Mrs. Smith had liked to make good use of every morning. Not particularly interesting, she seemed to have the useful skill of being invisible to the community around her while overhearing the range of community gossip from whispers to shouts. Perhaps it's because she was unassuming and plain, whether she knew your business or not, what could she really do? At least that's what people thought, and they took no care to mince their words in the driveway, threshold to the house, and in their dining rooms around the dinner table with windows open wide. In truth, 12 Hover Street, looked exactly like every other house in the cul de sac: blue, boring, and uneventful save for the occasional summer block party of incessant prattle, hair spray, and sunscreen. No one knew much of Mrs. Smith except that she was a widow who still wore her ring, and that on the rare chance she spoke to you it was of her son, Tristan.
She was proud of her young boy, she had him late in her 40's. Every conversation began with an achievement of his and how handsome he was, after all, he took after the late Mr. Smith whom during his years alive was a no-good cheat with a pretty smile, but in recent years memory served him kindly making him a saint. This was not how Hover Street remembered him, no, the shrieks and turmoil of house 12 had not been forgotten to those who lived there some years ago, but neighbors moved and began anew leaving Mrs. Smith a relic of the past.
In truth, the cookie cutter home before Mrs. Smith's view had new tenants. A family of five. Mr. and Mrs. Darrels, their daughter, Chloe, their son, Jonathan, and their German Shepard, Spot, remarked so for the spot right below his collar. They were an ordinary family of average means, disciplined children, and hard working parents. Nothing raised suspicion nor caused great intrigue other than their daughter, Chloe. She was truly beautiful. She a proper beauty with chestnut brown hair that fell to her shoulder blades, and angled face with emerald eyed, and a slim physique accentuated by carefully chosen clothes. Nothing could be said of her character thus far, she was only known by her comings and goings to and fro the home. Where she went, Mrs. Smith didn't know, nor did Chloe stop long enough to engage in conversation.
This friendly distance kept on for a number of seasons until one Spring day Mrs. Smith had the great misfortune of tumbling down her steps. She'd been remanded to being bed bound and needing the help of her attentive son, Tristan. So, it was decided until her full recovery, Mrs. Smith would have her son live with her and care for her every need.
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Tristan at face value seemed like a model son; kind, attentive, and ambitious. He certainly took after his father with a head of blond hair he kept slicked back. Sharp, intense steely blue eyes laid deep under furrowed brows, and his intense red lips curled themselves into a smile when he was directly addressed. His cheekbones sat high on his face, while a sharp and distinguished jaw wore a five o'clock shadow. His muscular frame was imposing albeit handsome, and often he wore a serious expression on his face that revealed little of his mood. He dressed plainly save for a ring his father gifted him, a gold band with a rotund ruby in the center on his middle finger. Much could not be gathered about the kind of man he was unless he told you.
This new arrangement worked well for Tristan for 12 Hover Street was located in a remote and rather inaccessible town almost bordering the edge of the forest. Questions about the direction of his business in the capital city were not asked as they did not matter, for Tristan, his first and foremost duty was to be a doting son to his ailing mother. Tristan also profited from another fact, which was his mother kept a strict schedule. Bedtime for her was at 8:30 pm sharp, and he was free to come and go as he pleased. The town of Reading had little to offer by way of a social life, and the local spot of amusement happened to be the Bar, Doty's, on Main Street. Friday's after Mrs. Smith had gone to bed, Tristan hoped in his pick up truck and drove to Doty's.
"Hey there! Welcome to Doty's!" A doe eyed waitress named Jane greeted a tall, handsome figure.
"Hello," he politely replied.
"Choose a seat wherever you like, Sir!" her expression was genial and bubbly, Tristan found it loathsome. He sat at the bar and ordered the beer on tap. Something in his chest stirred for mischief, no one here knew him well. A cocky grin grew on his lips as he nursed his beer. The girls were not exceptional but his throbbing cock needed desperate attention. After readjusting the bulge in his pants to hide the tenting, he ordered a second beer, and then a third, followed by a fourth.
"You're knew here, aren't you?" Jane asked. Her black Doty's tee shirt sat tucked into her blue jeans tightly hugging her perky breasts. The first few buttons undone to reveal her cleavage caught his gaze, and he shot her a mischievous smile. He rested his jaw in the crook of his fingers while an insidious thought of her perky, delicious ass bent over the bar with him railing her crept into the stage of his mind's eye.
"No, I'm not. I just left for school and stayed in the city for work. I'm home now to care for my mother. Sandra Smith on Hover Street." He said coolly not breaking eye contact with Jane.
"That's so interesting!" she said searching for words. She felt small under his gaze.
"Is that so?" he asked mockingly.
"It's so good of you to care for Mrs. Smith! I remember you now! You're Tristan! She talks of you all the time!" Jane felt more steady as she found a direction to lead the conversation in.
