Idle Hands Ch 01 2

Our story thus far...

Torn out of her body by a foolish mortal, Althea, daughter of Lilith, first among the succubi, has been forced to seek shelter in the mind of Rachel Wainwright. Rachel is a successful attorney, but is also a woman with her own troubles. To regain the power necessary to move back into her own body, Althea undertakes a seduction from within, gently guiding Rachel towards a more sexual lifestyle, and reminding her of the power and the glory to be found in her own forgotten sensuality. Rachel finds herself responding to Althea's subtle hints, still unaware of the immortal being who is now sharing her body.

After seducing her intern at work, Rachel calls her ex-husband, Joshua, and attempts a reconciliation. They admit they still have feelings for each other, despite the conflicts in their personalities. And after years of fruitless struggle, Rachel begins to think the time has come to consider acceding to her children's wishes that they be allowed to choose their own career paths.

We rejoin the story on Sunday evening, two nights after Rachel's conversation with Josh.

*****

It was quiet in the hospital. Too quiet.

Doctors walked along the cool, florescent-lit hallways on silent feet, speaking to each other in low voices. Nurses at their stations leaned close, their conversations all but unheard. Janitors and support staff swept and mopped, cooked and cleaned, moving noiselessly from one room to the next. Even visitors spoke in hushed whispers, as if sickness and disease were malignant demons who would cast their unwelcome attention on them if they talked too loudly.

In one room in the Intensive Care Unit, a woman lay in a sleep so deep and dreamless it was all but indistinguishable from death. An eternity seemed to last between each slow rise and fall of her chest. The monitor which registered her heartbeats paused mockingly between each harsh beep. In her dark, silent sleep, her face held an unearthly calm, as if it was beyond all trouble and care.

An unbiased observer, which Yasna was not, would say that despite scrapes and bruises, this woman was incredibly attractive. Her golden skin was clear and firm over the sculpted bones of her face, her lips red and full, her attractively tousled hair long and curling, reaching far past her shoulders. Tall for a woman, her body was sweetly curved, with deftly carved thighs, full hips, and breasts that were lush and ripe for a lover's touch.

Yasna Marafi stood at the bedside and silently begged the woman to open her eyes. Ever since she had been brought in, three days before, she had been obsessed with her and the mysterious malady which ailed her. Her fingers itched for the touch of her skin, her lips burned for the feel of her mouth. She knew, deep in her secret heart, that with her eyes open and her face alive with wit and humor, the woman who her chart identified as Althea Carpenter would be gloriously, incredibly, incandescently beautiful. A beauty to make men and women throw themselves in her path for one smile from her lips, one touch from her hand, one word from her mouth. Despite every professional scruple, she ached to take her in her arms, to peel away the unflattering hospital gown and revel in the wonders of her body.

A voice spoke at her elbow, making her jump. "No change, Doctor Marafi?"

"None, Doctor Webb," she replied with a sideways glance at her colleague, making her voice detached and clinical. "Heartbeat and respiration are very slow, but not life-threatening. No sign of any external trauma, except the cuts and bruises she got when she fell flat on her face on the sidewalk outside her home. The bloodwork is completely clean. No drugs, no unusual deficiencies.

"We gave her a CAT scan yesterday. The vertebrae at the base of her spine are unusually thick, but no other abnormalities." She clenched her hands in impotent anger. "No concussion, no aneurysms, no blood clots, no signs of a stroke or a heart attack. I've set her up with an IV drip, so she doesn't starve or die of thirst while we wait for her to wake up.

"So what the hell is

wrong

with her?" Yasna's voice was quietly furious. "If she wasn't lying here in front of me, I would say the tests showed an abnormally

healthy

woman, not one who should be in a coma. You've been in this business a long time, Mike," she said. "What do you think? Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

The older doctor frowned, his fingers drumming on his thigh. He shook his head and shrugged. "The human body is strange, Yasna," he said. "I've been practicing for nearly forty years, and I see things that surprise me every day. I've seen people who look to be on their deathbeds recover and walk out the door. And I've seen people who look completely healthy die from raging fevers in the blink of an eye.

"I would say to look for signs of some sort of viral or bacterial infection. See if you can find if she's been out of the country. She might have picked up a disease we're not familiar with. And she does have an elevated temperature," he said, glancing at her chart.

Yasna waved a dismissive hand. "A piddling two degrees. Nothing that would explain this. And if she had an infection of some sort, you would see other signs. Clammy skin, unusually high perspiration. A high white blood cell count, or...or

something,

" she argued.

Dr. Webb spread his hands helplessly. "You're probably right. But you asked me. I'm giving you my professional opinion." He laid a sympathetic hand on her thin shoulder. "You know, Yasna, we're not perfect. We can't heal everybody." He smiled ruefully. "That's why we say we

practice

medicine."

Yasna snorted. "You old fraud," she said. "You can't fool me. You hurt as much as I do when we lose someone." She took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll do some more investigating and think about it on my rounds. Maybe I'll come up with an idea or two.

"Althea Carpenter," she muttered as she left the room. "What's wrong with you?"

*****

Rachel Wainwright sat in her home office, her eyes focused on her computer screen. It was Sunday night, and she was preparing for court the next day. For the past several weeks, she had been the lead counsel in a class-action lawsuit brought by several dozen families whose properties along the Kankakee River had been damaged by the illegal release of toxic chemicals into the watershed. Antioch Chemical had fought them tooth and nail, but she felt she was only days away from winning a punitive damages claim of staggering proportions.

She was finishing up her notes for her closing argument when a tap sounded at her door.

"Come in," she said, saving the file and closing her laptop.

Alex opened the door and poked his head in. "Are you busy, Mom? I can come back later. I know you've got a big day tomorrow."

Rachel shook her head. "It's all over but the shouting, really. I don't think Antioch and their lawyers ever thought we'd drag them all the way to trial. They tried to settle four different times before we got to the jury selection, and then again last week, after they couldn't break Mrs. Udall on the stand. I'm sure Kincaid thought he could bully that little old lady into recanting her previous testimony." She snorted, her eyes glinting at the memory. "She ate his lunch when he put her back up there. By the end,

she

was attacking

him.

"

Her son sat in a chair opposite her desk. "You really love what you do, don't you?"

She smiled. "I do. God, I do. I mean, the hours are long, and you have to deal with so much paperwork and boring details it sometimes makes you want to scream. But when you get a case like this, where you can nail a bunch of corporate sleazebags right to the wall...I love it. I really do. I wouldn't trade that feeling for anything in the wide green world."

Alex studied his hands, his face pensive. A faint frown marred the clean lines of his forehead. "How did you know?" he asked. "That you wanted to be a lawyer?"

Rachel laughed. "Oh, God, it was all those TV shows and movies I watched when I was a kid, I think. 'Law and Order' came on around 1990, when I was about fifteen. And there were others. One I really liked was 'Reasonable Doubts'. It had Marlee Matlin as a deaf lawyer. And Mark Harmon as her translator." She grinned. "Of course, I might have been a little bit influenced by Mr. Harmon. I thought he was hot as hell. That was before I met your father, of course," she said piously, but her eyes held a wicked twinkle.

"And there were movies, too. 'A Few Good Men,' and 'Presumed Innocent.' And I loved 'Amistad.' The movie about slave-trading that Spielberg directed. I wanted, just once, to give the sort of...of

thundering

speech you saw in those movies. Something that would be remembered." She broke off as she saw a grin flit across her son's face. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said, pressing his lips tight.

"So why do you ask?" She paused as a thought struck her. "Is this about acting?"

"A bit," he said. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, his bare feet crossed at the ankle. "I just wish there was some magic way you could know if what you want to do is the right thing for you to do."

Rachel smiled fondly at her son. "There's no way to be certain. Your father and I were lucky. We both chose fields we've been successful in. But I know people I went to law school with who burned out in a few years. Most of them are happy at what they do now.

"Nothing is permanent, Alex," she said, unbending slightly. "You know I'm not a huge fan of this acting business. It's risky. And you and I and your father are going to talk about it when he gets here on Friday.

"But nothing in life that is worth doing is without risk," she continued. "Sure, with my connections I could help you find a safe little job somewhere. But would you respect yourself when you knew you had your job only due to whose son you were? Probably not."

"It's not that. I know what I want to do. I just...I don't know if I'll be good enough to do it. I mean, to be such a pain in the ass, to push so hard for this career, then fail? What if I turn out to be a crappy actor? Or... or not good-looking enough to get good roles?"

This is your fault,

she thought guiltily.

If you had spent half as much time building him up as you did undermining his confidence, he wouldn't be so fragile right now. You better make it right.

"No son of mine," Rachel said severely, "or you father, for that matter, will ever have to worry about being handsome enough to be an actor. So let's not have any of that nonsense." She laughed as Alex smiled sheepishly. "So you don't look like Tom Hardy or Orlando Bloom or Matt Damon. So what? Not many people do. And there are hundreds of actors who make good livings without being conventionally attractive. What about Billy Bob Thornton? Or Steve Buscemi? Or John Turturro?"

And it was true, she thought proudly. Alex didn't really take after her, with her pale skin and coal-black hair. And he didn't much resemble his father, either. At over six feet, he was considerably taller than Joshua, for one thing. And his hair was a rich brown, rather than her husband's sandy blond. The only things they had in common were their dark blue eyes and the noses which dominated their faces.

Josh had apologized for that, she remembered fondly. It had been a few months after the wedding. They had been lying in bed in their apartment in Champaign, watching unborn Alex kick and push against the taut skin of Rachel's stomach.

"He's going to get my nose, poor kid," Josh said. "Trust me on this." He leaned back against the pillows and rubbed his own impressive beak. "Five generations of our family. All the way back to my great-great-grandmother. We all get the Naismith Nose."

Nearly twenty-two years later, that unexpected but dearly beloved boy-child sat in front of her. He was strong, healthy, generous, intelligent, and kind. The teenager he had been was slowly melting away, revealing the man he would become. A man with strong, even features, deep-set blue eyes, and an impressively masculine body.

"You're handsome enough for me," she finished softly, eying her son's long, lanky form. In the soft light of the lamps, his skin glowed with good health, his lean body almost bursting with energy.

~And me.~

The moment stretched. Just before it could become awkward, Alex blinked and climbed to his feet.

"So what's the deal with Dad coming up for a visit?" he asked. "I'll be glad to see him, but after the blowout you two had at Christmas, I didn't think you two would ever be in the same room again."

Rachel flushed with embarrassment, ashamed of her actions five months ago. Helped on by a little too much Christmas cheer in the form of red wine, she had taken Joshua to task over what she considered a needlessly provocative art exhibit. Rachel was happy to admit that she was cheerfully oblivious when it came to religion. Her parents had never dragged her off to church on Sunday mornings, having better things, they thought, to do with their time. But there was a point where 'pushing the envelope' became 'deliberately offensive.'

Joshua had flown past that point, probably giving it the finger and laughing gaily as it sailed by underneath him. Some of the pieces had been tacky, but amusing, such as the one where Santa's elves were looking up Mrs. Claus' dress. But others were sure to inflame even the most open mind. For instance, the one where the Virgin Mary had been giving Joseph a blow job in the stable, while a wide-eyed Baby Jesus looked on with apparent interest. Or the one where a group of naked carolers were invited into a house by a lecherously grinning man. Or the one where the Three Wise Men visited a whorehouse in Bethlehem.

She had refused to let the subject drop, complaining throughout Christmas dinner. Joshua, as he was prone to do, had simply stopped responding to her. But when the meal was over, he had put on his coat, shook Alex's hand, kissed Sarah goodbye, and walked out the door. In a short, terse voice-mail the next day, he had told Rachel exactly what he thought about a woman who treated her ex-husband that way in front of their children.

"I love your father, Alex," she said softly, her cheeks burning. "Even when I was angriest at him, I never stopped loving him. Luckily for me, he's quicker to forgive than I am. I can hold onto a grudge for years. With him, he either forgives you, or never speaks to you again. I got lucky at Christmas. But I'm not going to take that sort of risk a second time.

"Lately, I've been thinking. It might be possible," she said, smiling slightly, "that I am as stubborn and pig-headed as he is. Maybe it's time I admitted I made a mistake. Maybe the problem isn't your father's art, but me.

"Anyway, he'll be up on Friday. I'm not sure how long he'll be staying. A few days, at least. Maybe, hopefully, longer."

She stood up, joining her son. "I hope you'll help the two of us out any way you can. If you see me starting to make an ass of myself, let me know."

"No problem," Alex replied. He paused, stammered, then asked, "Would you mind if I cut class to watch you make your closing argument?"

Rachel felt her heart warm at the unexpected request. "Alex, that's the sweetest thing anyone's asked me in a long time." She hugged him, surprised by how well she fit into his arms. The top of her head barely reached his chin these days. "It'll probably be Tuesday afternoon. I'll send you a text and see if I can get some people from the firm to save you a seat." She squeezed him tightly one last time before letting him go, her cheek pressed against his firm chest, feeling the beat of his heart under his skin. As she released him, but before he could back away, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed his cheek with her lips, laughing as he made a production of wiping off the trace of moisture her mouth left behind.

Exiting the room, Alex excused himself to watch a ballgame on TV. Meanwhile, Rachel walked upstairs. She was barely halfway up when she remembered the vibrator she had bought at the adult store the previous day, when she had gone shopping for supplies in anticipation of her husband's return home.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was nearly running.

****

Later that night, Alex lay tossing and turning in bed. Despite the late hour and the unwelcome reminder of class the next morning, the events of the past few days robbed him of any desire to go to sleep. His mother's strangely conciliatory attitude regarding his acting career, combined with the return of his father, had his emotions at a fever pitch. Finally, he sat up, snapped on the bedside lamp and turned on his laptop. As the images came up, he shifted, one part of him aroused, the other ashamed.

Why,

he thought.

Why does this turn me on so much?

On the screen, a lovely redhead was dressed in nothing but a leather collar, her body somehow submissive and proud at the same time. A quick forward, and another woman, kneeling on the floor, her hands outstretched in an attitude of supplication. Another, a woman looking back over her shoulder, her arms bound behind her back by silk cord from her wrists to her elbows. He lowered his boxers and brushed the sensitive skin of his cock with the tip of his finger, drawing an inward breath at the pleasurable result.

He had researched his obsession with painstaking detail, but had no more idea on how to act on it than a dog had of operating a can opener. Tentative, carefully hidden searches on the internet had led him to the discovery of some local clubs that supposedly catered to his fetish. But the thought of applying to be a member made his blood run cold.

What do you do when you believe sex is an intensely private thing, but at the same time have desires that might strip away that very privacy?

It was his need for control, he knew. His mother loved both him and Maria dearly. But she set an impossible example. Wealthy, beautiful, ferociously intelligent, a partner in one of Chicago's most prestigious law firms, she dominated their lives with a careless power which would be frightening if she had not so obviously had their best interests at heart. Sometimes he wondered if he should go into therapy, just to see how much of his poor performance in school had been a result of him deliberately sabotaging himself. A silent rebellion against Rachel's authority.

His only release was the theater. On stage he was different. There, he was the center of attention, controlling the scene, holding the audience by the throat as he toyed with them. With a whisper or a glance, he could make them weep or howl in rage. He smiled inwardly as he thought of the way they would act when they saw his Iago. In his hands, the villainous, backstabbing fiend would have the audience ready to storm the stage and tear him to shreds.

But as confident as he was on the stage, his sexual desires seemed shameful and twisted. The first time he had seen a picture of a nude woman, lying on her back, her wrists bound to her ankles, he had thought he would explode. He had been very careful to give no hint about his clandestine urges, either to his girlfriends or to his family. Secretly, however, he had compiled a huge digital library of photos of beautiful women in submissive poses.

God, what I wouldn't give to meet a woman who matched me.

His cock was erect, his hand rapidly stroking, a tissue ready to catch his semen.

"Oh, God help me."

*****

Two days later, Alex slipped into a bench at the Cook County Courthouse, where the case of

Panzer, et al v. Antioch Chemical

was being heard. His mother had sent him a text a few hours before, telling him she would be giving her closing argument that afternoon. He had immediately left class, driving up the tollway to downtown Chicago.