CHAPTER 3:
Disclaimer: You're the audience. Don't like the show? Change the channel, get a refund...
...
Phoebe stormed into her home, on the acreage adjacent to property of Jacob's uncle Martin Tavish. She swept through the common room of the four-bedroom ranch home, unerring toward her room. Her step-father, Dale, craned his neck to look over the back of the couch -- some talking-head news pundit spewing their garbage on the television.
"Supper's in the oven, baby." Dale called at her back, his eyes tracing down to her denim-covered lower half.
"Thanks, Dale." Something in Phoebe's voice caught his attention, told him something was up. As Phoebe's door closed heavily, Dale stood up from the couch and straightened. The news wasn't all that different today, anyway.
Turning the TV off, he scratched at his stomach through his stained tee-shirt, adjusted his crotch through his jeans, and stepped into the house shoes that his wife insisted that he wear. Seemed silly to him, but he wasn't about to argue with the woman... she put up with him and he'd never been happier than when she'd agreed to marry him. Sure, she could be bitchy from time to time, and their daughter was a hellacious pain-in-the-ass most days (especially now that she was going to the Junior College and staying out all hours)... but he wouldn't trade it for the beer-swilling, skirt-chasing idiocy he'd stumbled in for much of his twenties and thirties. He still did dumb shit, but he knew he meant well. Fuck everybody else if they couldn't deal with it. Sighing heavily, he walked into the back of the house, hefting up on his belt to settle his jeans just below his navel.
Knocking on Phoebe's door, Dale sucked on his teeth, rubbing a hand across his mouth as he tried to ready himself for whatever lay beyond.
"What?" came Phoebe's muffled reply. That was her
"it's ok to open the door"
answer, so Dale took a breath, nodded to himself, and opened the door.
"Heya, sweetie." Dale offered a smile, only to see that Phoebe was laying face-down on her bed. Her narrow frame was that of a dancer, with a pert, round ass fairly poured into her jeans. Her shirt had ridden up her back slightly, giving Dale a glimpse of the creamy skin of her back and the alluring curve of a red thong riding high on her hips. He ogled a moment, giving himself literally a
"one Mississippi"
in his mind, waiting for her to turn over before he politely coughed and looked down at the floor.
"Baby-girl, what's wrong?" Dale walked into the room, occasionally stealing glances at her ass and the narrow strip of her back that he could see.
Her long brown hair was splayed around her, hiding her face. She rolled onto her side, which pulled her shirt a little further up, giving him a sudden display of her flat stomach and the toned curve of her waist and the lowest outline of her ribs. Her eyes caught him looking and she scowled.
"I'm not twelve, Dale." She rolled her eyes, giving him the benefit of the doubt. "It's a girl thing, I'll wait for mom to get home."
"Right... sorry." Dale chewed his lip and backed away to the door. "Dinner's..."
"In the oven, thanks." Phoebe finished, turning back to lay on her stomach. "Shut my door, please."
"Sure thing, baby." Dale backed out and shut the door softly, embarrassed that she'd caught him staring at her ass... or her stomach... or...
Keys in the front door saved him from that train of thought, as Michele returned home.
"I'm home!" Michele called, and Dale all but ran to greet her.
Dale relished Michele's pant suit, the cut of her blouse, and the beckoning curve of her breasts -- slung perhaps a little higher than they would naturally sit in a very low-profile bra. He was looking very nearly at Phoebe in another twenty years. He smiled at Michele and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling their hips together to demonstrate his delight in her. Grinding his pelvis against her, Dale kissed her sloppily in welcome.
"Ugh, Dale..." Michele pushed back, smiling politely. "Could you shave, please? The stubble doesn't feel near as manly to me as you think."
"Sorry, baby." Dale ducked his head toward her shoulder and gave her a gentle bite. "You bring out the
Wolverine
in me."
Michele groaned, playfully mocking his juvenile machismo.
"Alright,
Logan
." She lifted his face to her and kissed him with more deliberateness. "Cut those whiskers, Samson, and we'll see if we can unleash the Beast, later."
"Different char-" Dale started to correct her.
"Excuse me?" Michele's hands found their way into his belt and down to his hardening prick. "You were saying something?"
"Nope." Dale shook his head briskly. "Not a damn thing, Ma'am... I'll see the barber right after supper."
"Mmm." Michele purred, stroking ever so slightly in the tight confines of his boxes. "Punctual and attentive. I like."
"You want a beer? I'ma have a beer." Dale glanced back toward the kitchen, then remembered Phoebe. "And... ah... you might wanna have a talk with Phoebe. Little bit's sure upset about something, but she don't wanna talk ta me."
"Behave yourself, young man." Michele squeezed his dick playfully. "And you can make it up to me, for dessert."
"Mhm." Dale pulled their hips together, causing Michele to wrench her hands free of his pants to steady herself against him. "Yes, ma'am, I'm a perfect gentleman."
He squeezed her plump ass, the luxurious, silken material of her suit sliding over her skin lewdly beneath his fingers. Michele gave an appreciative moan and pouted playfully.
"Make a plate for me, Dale?" Micheled looked toward the hall, and Phoebe's room further on. "I'd better go see what's the matter. What'd you make for dinner?"
"Pizza." Dale answered predictably. "The Hut's best for my best gals."
"Thank you, sweetie." Michele kissed him again and broke away. "See you... in a few."
"Uh-huh." Dale swatted her ass as she walked away.
Michele rolled her eyes as soon as her back was turned. Some boys never really grew up, no matter how many years passed. Stepping out of her high-heels, she scooped the impractical footwear into one hand and flexed her ankles as she made her way to Phoebe's door.
Knock knock.
"Yeah?" Phoebe's defacto response for
"don't come into my room."
"It's me, sweetheart." Michele said, nearly pressing her lips to the door. "Can I come in?"
"Sure." Phoebe's attempt to sound aloof was undercut by the sound her mother knew too well -- the tell-tale whine of her child in pain.
Michele admired Phoebe's wall art a moment as she walked in, her shoes forgotten in her hand as she moved toward the bed and sat next to her only child on the full-size bed. Michele liked some of the art, drooled over some of the far-too-young-for-her men whom she thought likely too old for her daughter -- even if they were probably around the same age -- and then noticed her daughter was scribbling her name over and over in her journal.
Except it wasn't her name... she'd appended a different surname than her father's... Michele remembered doing much the same when she was younger. The colorful, flowery, curling embellishments were hard to read at first, so Michele started with what she thought was a reasonably easy goal.
"Who's the lucky boy?" She ventured, remembering her first serious crush -- and the fleeting nature of such experiences after twenty or thirty years.
"Jacob." Phoebe's voice cracked, and she slammed the journal shut, rolling over and clutching the book to her chest. Her eyes were filled with tears yet to fall -- but they were ready at the nearest provocation.
Michele sucked in her breath slowly, having made out the surname "Tavish" on the page.
It's a coincidence. It's got to be a coincidence... or a distant relative...God, let it be
