Boss Lady & Daughter

Call it harmonic convergence. Call it luck of the Irish. Or just call it the right place at the right time. The middle of the baseball season and the sport's two top teams are going to war again on Barry's television on a day he has off from work. Not only that, but his regular every other day phone call from his former boss now relocated to North Carolina won't be until well after the game has concluded.

But Barry missed Marjorie a lot and if she had called during the game he would have put the mute button on. She had been gone a little over eight months. The ache of her absence had only been bearable in that they talked almost four times a week, emailed as much and had yet to twitter their relationship.

He wadded up the deli delivery bag and fired it at the waste basket as he remembered Marjorie's words. "I still love my husband. What I can do is, for now." Would she ever look at him as more than a physical fling, or a very close friend with benefits? She had given him a world class blowjob then taught her paramedic daughter how to do the same on him. But all of that paled by comparison beside the fact that she understood the Oedipus thing in his head.

It hadn't scared Marjorie Whitcomb off. She almost seemed to embrace it. It was only one benchmark of his love for her. He needed to tell her face to face, not make her choose, because that was way too risky. Yet Barry realized that for his own peace of mind he had to look into Marjorie's crystal clear blue eyes and tell her that he loved her, not just for now, but for ever. His pleadings to Saint Anthony bore fruit and the remote control appeared in the folds of his recliner just in time to click up the game and the national anthem.

Before him sat a feast fit for a king. Their signature roast beef hero with mayo, pickles the size of a Louisville Slugger, and a cold six-pack of root beer all awaited his attention. The radio was on to get the home team broadcast, even though they were in enemy territory. His mouth started to water as the sandwich headed toward his teeth.

Then his apartment door bell rang. And rang and rang. "Sonuvagun!" he said and plodded slowly to the door with one eye on the screen. Warm up pitches were in process. He looked out the peephole in the door and saw nothing, but the door across the hall. "Stupid brats," he muttered, thinking it was a weekend with no parents watching the kids visiting the grandparents in the building and the little brats thinking it is fun to ring doorbells on the old people and run.

Barry had just lowered himself back into the recliner when the door bell rang again and again. Fists started to bang on the door. He bolted from the chair and didn't bother to use the peephole as he wanted to catch the little rugrats in the act. Barry jerked the door open and a full grown woman in shag cut black hair and a petite maid's outfit which left no doubt as to what she was serving ran by him into the apartment foyer.

"Close the door. He's following me!" said the woman. Her legs, in fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, had the contour of a thoroughbred. "You've got to hide me."

"Hide you? From what? I don't even know you," said the slightly shell shocked man, stealing a quick glance past the maid toward the TV where the top of the first had commenced.

"You don't know me?" she said, racing toward hysterics. "That's a fine how do you do after my mom told me that I could come to you with my problems."

"Jeannie? But you've got black hair," said Barry, who now started to see the resemblance to the paramedic daughter of his paramour.

She tugged the black wig from her head releasing her brunette locks. "It's a wig, brainiac! And no, I haven't quit the paramedics to be a maid. This is just a, well. You've got to hide me."

"From who?" The answer came with a thunderous pounding upon his door.

"Get out here, Mistress Eve! I'm not through with you yet!" said the man, screaming and pounding in concert.

"Who the hell is that?" asked Barry.

"Well, remember the lessons that you and Mom imparted unto me?" began Jeannie, clearly frightened and trembling. Even her very ample bosom was peppered with goosebumps.

"I started to practice them and picked up a few more tips along the way. Then I let my imagination run away with me and found this maid's outfit and I liked how men reacted and."

"And you got in over your head?" finished Barry. The pounding was now both hands interspersed with a kick or two at the wooden door. "Okay, I'll get rid of him. What's his name?"

"Jojo, but you don't understand."

"Nothing to understand. You go hide in the bedroom. I'll take care of this. Go! Hide in the bedroom."

"Where's the bedroom?" she asked.

"Right next to the bathroom."

She winced. "Where's the bathroom?"

He pointed down the hall. "Turn left at the urinal." When she had gone, he sucked up a deep breath and opened the door to a well over six foot, sculpted and inked up piece of human flesh that Peter Parker would have needed to web up for. A bare chest surrounded by a tight leather vest over leather stovepipe pants and a huge Harley Davidson anniversary belt buckle you could surf the big one at Big Sur with, if you ever had a death wish. His brows formed a V between eyes that looked like ping pong balls soaked in gasoline. Barry was afraid he was ready to huff and puff and, well, you know the rest.

"Where's Mistress Eve?" he growled, trying to look past Barry who was big enough to block most of his sight line.

"Nobody by that name here. I was just watching the game," Barry replied, nonchalantly pointing back to the TV set he was longing to see.

"Yeah? So what's the score?"

"Dammed if I know, I had to get up to answer the door. Now if you'll excuse me?" he said, and started to close the door. A hand slammed against it.

"I smell her perfume."

"No, the Sisters of the Poor were just here making their annual pitch. Got all gussied up too, perfume and the whole nine yards," Barry said, dancing as fast as he could. "I could see where you might make that mistake. Well, got to go. The game is on."

Jojo didn't move. "I know she's here and I am going to take a look."

Barry's ego took a direct hit. Bodily harm or not, this dipstick wasn't going to ruin the entire game for him. "Pardon the cliché, Jojo, but do you have a search warrant?"

"How did you know my name?"

Oops. "You look like a Jojo. Open the dictionary for a definition of Jojo and your picture will be there, once they take it from your most recent mug shot."

"Your picture will be on a milk carton if you don't step aside." Knowing it was a bad move, Barry Chambers still shook his head from side to side. He never got back to the third side because Jojo slammed a fist into the bridge of his nose. The hospital worker crumpled like origami in a whirlpool. The last thing he felt was his head ricocheting off the floor.

He had counted all of the constellations during his time seeing stars. His eyes focused on Jojo straddling him with a fist primed for splashdown onto Barry's face once again. Barry reasoned it was too late to say an entire rosary before he met St. Peter so he stuck to remembering the night that Marjorie Whitcomb satisfied him in her office with the lights out. A goofy smile came across his swelling face.

"What are you smiling about? Crazy jerk. Where is she? Last chance," said Jojo. Barry closed his eyes as best he could and prepared for that proverbial stairway to heaven. He hoped it was an escalator as he was very tired from all of this bleeding. However, instead of harp music, he heard the hammer of a revolver thumbed back and a familiar voice say, "Freeze scumbag. Ryan, NYPD retired. Get up slowly, or I'll put one in you just to hear it bounce around in that empty skull."

Through the haze, Barry wasn't sure if Jojo believed that Barry's across the hall neighbor was a former NYPD detective. All he could feel was the weight of his attacker being removed from his body. "You okay, Barry?"

"Yes, Joshua, thanks to you."

"Good, call the cops," said Joshua, with his snub nose revolver at Jojo's neck just below the thug's interlaced fingers. Jojo had danced this one before.

"No, Joshua. Just let him go. I'm all right. It was just a misunderstanding."The retired cop was having none of this.

"He must have rung your bell pretty good. I thought you said that you weren't going to call the cops."

"Sorry Joshua. No cops. Let him go," said Barry placing his hand over the gun and pointing it to the floor. "Jojo is a former baseball teammate. The last thing he needs, I'm sure, is a called third strike." The third strike reference got Jojo's attention.

"Yeah, but this isn't over," he said as he headed for the stairway.

"It had better be," said Barry, who thanked Joshua and refused an offer of a lift to the ER. "I've got my own personal paramedic." Once the door was closed, locked and chain locked, Barry called out. "He's gone. You can come out now." He proceeded to stagger to the kitchen where he dropped a tray of ice cubes into one of his new Xmas dish towels that looked great on the refrigerator door handle, it was time to see if they were useful as well.

"Did Jojo do that to you?" He looked at her like she was Medusa unchained and sat back on his recliner and tried to focus on the game now scoreless in the top of the fifth. "Let me see."

"No," he said through the ice filled towel. It came out like "Noff."

Jeannie came over in her maid's outfit, jiggling from top to bottom. Any other time it would be an appropriate consolation prize for Galahad-like qualities. But Galahad never had to breathe through his mouth. "Let-me-see." She gingerly removed the towel and examined the nose. "It doesn't appear broken, just mashed up against your face." Barry glared at her. "It's better than having it flattened like a bowling ball off a twenty-story building." Another glare. "Okay, maybe not. Keep the ice on it to reduce the swelling. I'll get you an aspirin. Where's the medicine cabinet? I know, in the bathroom. And yes, miracle of miracles, I know where the bathroom is. Be right back."

When she left, Barry tried to focus on the TV screen. Shadows were moving back and forth, but for all he could focus on, it might have been a dog food commercial or one where the old couple stand guard by the river in bath tubs. "Here's the aspirin. They were easy to find, right next to your little blue pills."

His reply, "I don't have any little blue pills," came out like "Idonhavlitbloopillls."

Jeannie laughed at him then sat on the floor next to his chair. She gently rested her chin on his hand which she held in both of hers. "Seriously though, it was a nice thing you did for me just now. Mom will be very pleased when I tell her."

The towel moved. "No. She doesn't need to know you were in any kind of trouble. Understand?"

The daughter laughed. "Are you forbidding me?"

"I'm just suggesting. Your Mom has enough to deal with in her new job and all. But it's your choice."

Jean Alyce Whitcomb became quiet. "All right. But you need to let me thank you."

"Not necessary."

"It is," she argued.

"Cook me dinner," Barry suggested.

"I can't cook. Can't sew either. Know what I can do? I've done it before," said Jeannie with a smile, and a very definite rub between his legs. Even bleeding like a rock on April 15th, Barry could feel the waves of ecstasy flow through his loins. He pushed her hands away.

"No, not that way," said Barry. "If you want to thank me, let me take a quick nap then I'll take you to dinner." Ego denied though it was, she agreed. He tilted his head back and she rested her cheek on his hand and stroked his fingers. Sleep was onrushing.

**

Upon returning from the land of Nod, Barry dropped Jeannie off at her place so she could dress for dinner. When she came out the transformation was electric to say the least. A light jacket over a black insert that almost reached to where her grey slacks began exposed a small area of her lower abdomen. Not six pack taut, but soft and inviting though foreboding at the same time. As much as Barry wanted the sensation of rubbing her soft flesh just for the tactile rush it would provide, he locked that thought away as being disloyal to Marjorie.

It was one thing to have the mother ask the daughter to suck you off while the mother is there. It was quite another to do it as your own original thought. Dinner was at a restaurant far enough on the outskirts of town where prying eyes were not on the menu. A booth in the back in candlelight. The maitre'd pulled the table out so they could slide in. Barry saw that his eyes were glued on Jeannie's low cut blouse. He had good taste. Menus were left and he toddled off.

"It's hot in here," said the daughter of the woman he was missing a lot right about now, especially since his hormones were on overload. She removed her light jacket and displayed very generous breasts beneath a sheer cotton based blouse that was so tight her braless mounds showcased every vein leading to her prominent nipples and areolas. The air escaped from Barry's lungs in a whoosh. He gulped. Jean Alyce smiled.

"Order what you want off the menu," she said. "I brought dessert." A hand brushed each nipple and her eyelids fluttered with pleasure. "Finger food at it's finest."

"Thanks but I'm on a diet," he said. The brunette frowned and ordered a glass of wine with dinner. The waiter carded her, Barry thought, to get her address more than compliance with the law. The meal was fine, the conversation strained as he knew she felt slighted that he wouldn't succumb to her physical charms. He let her pay the bill and they left the restaurant.

"It's such a nice night. Mind if we take a walk?" she asked. She snaked her hand into his and they headed across the street to a nearby skate park that was lit like they were expecting the Shuttle Discovery. Anybody watching them would think they were a living breathing Hallmark moment. "Can you tell me why you don't find me attractive?"

Barry sighed. "It's not that I don't find you attractive, it's that I love your mother."

"She's still married to my father you know."

"For now, I'm okay with that. What, don't think I'm right for your mom?" he asked.

She shrugged and gripped his hand tighter. She steered him to the nearest bench facing the skateboard obstacles that was the home away from home for a core group of six youths of the mixed gender group. For the longest time they were quiet. Jeannie traced circles on the backs of his hands as Barry tried to pretend his blood wasn't doing NASCAR laps between his legs.

Eventually, the breeze picked up and they headed back to Barry's car that had a surprise. Someone had smashed in each tail light and keyed the word revenge onto the paint on either side of the car. "Bet the warranty isn't going to cover that," he said.

From up the street, Barry and Jeannie heard a motorcycle roar to life. He hustled her into the car then jumped behind the wheel. "Buckle up!" He backed out of the parking spot and slammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires spun and smoke rose from their immobility as Barry jerked the stick shift into drive causing the sedan to lurch forward and grip the road like it was clawing its way up Mount Everest. Where was Jason Staithan when you needed him?

"Slow down, Barry."

"Can't. We're being followed," he said, and nodded toward the rear view mirror. Jeannie looked at it and saw the Harley ripping up the asphalt in pursuit. "That Neanderthal look familiar?"

"Jojo?" said Jeannie.

"And you didn't even have to buy a vowel," said Barry, running a rapidly changing yellow light that Jojo flew through on its red cycle. "Think he wants to apologize for this afternoon?" A side glance at his passenger saw a somewhat glazed look in her eyes. "Jeannie? Are you all right? Jeannie?"

Her hand snaked across his tensed thigh to the bulge between his legs. "This is so hot."

Barry slapped her hand away. "Only one stick shift at a time, Sweetie. Hang on." The girl leaned as far toward the driver as she could and flung her arms around his neck holding on for dear life. "I said hang on, not choke me." A gentle shove was required. The motorcycle was about a block and a half back. Barry was tired of this. Going Dirty Harry might not be the smartest move, but victim time was over. He sliced about ten feet off of the next corner he rumbled over and once again floored it, putting more distance between the hunted and the hunter.

Then he spotted what he had been looking for, a one-way street. Three blocks into it, Barry slammed on the brakes and came to a rubber burning halt. Throwing it into reverse, the car jumped backwards as the accelerator never had a chance to catch its breath. The red arrow flew past the numbers on the speedometer.

Barry abruptly pulled up the emergency brake and spun the wheel so the nose of the car was facing the onrushing motorcycle. Slamming the car back into drive, he pressed the pedal to the floor. "Want to play chicken?" he said, to no one in particular. A collision was only seconds away on the one-way street. At the last second, the car jumped the curb to the right and took out a mailbox and the last remaining phone booth on earth. The bike crashed into a row of overflowing blue recycle bins sending paper, plastic and shredded paper everywhere into the night, after the rider had to dump it to keep body and soul mostly together.

"Stay here!" Barry commanded Jeannie and started running toward the motorcycle and its rider just now getting groggily to his feet. Barry helped him upright. "Are you all right? Any broken bones? Breathing okay?" Jojo nodded in slow motion. "Good." A firm hand placed flat against Jojo's chest knocked him flat on his backside. "Glad I could be of service."

Jeannie had called 911 and deputies showed up in record time. Everything got sorted out and they were told they could leave. Jojo was going to be a guest of the county for the foreseeable future. As they headed for their car, mangled but running, another deputy showed up, the requisite six-foot plus model in a panther black uniform, sleek and intimidating with a Glock 9mm locked and loaded.

"Jeannie? Jeannie Whitcomb, is that you?"

"Hi Deputy Markham, how are you?" said the paramedic.

"Okay, was this your accident?"

"We were forced off the road by that maniac biker back there," she said. Barry was next to her.

"I'm glad you and your father are all right," he said. Jeannie giggled and Barry smiled as if sucking lemons first. They said their good-byes and he drove her home.

**

The next afternoon Barry as trying to decide if his black and blue face might look better in James Cameron's 3-D or in Woody Allen's black and white. Outside his apartment balcony was gray, overcast, alternating between monsoons and drizzle. Just the afternoon to line up Lionel Hampton, Buddy Rich, Allison Krauss, Natalie Cole and the Chairman of the Board.

He positioned himself near the balcony with his back to the stereo, a cool beverage and a bag of munchies. The sounds from the Dolby speakers enveloped him like early morning fog at Trafalgar Square. His eyelids descended. It felt like his own personal sensory deprivation tank. Barry allowed himself to drift along, explore his sub consciousness for clues to the future. He started doing the breaststroke in a sea of melancholy as he imagined Marjorie in North Carolina and he a few hundred miles away. The sight of her pulling her scrub pants up past her waist excited him from afar as he looked on covertly. The soft, but well defined curves of her backside always gave him his own stimulus package. Just above her waist band was the hollow of her back and the curves which he followed downward to her ass and those million dollar legs.

Her skin was smooth and sometimes a bit dry. He had rubbed lotion on those shoulders during one of their infrequent trips to the beach before she relocated for work. He missed her. That smile gleamed in the mind's eye. Her words sent through Dolby excellence reverberated like off stone tablets covered with mink. Barry had lost control of this journey. Hand in hand along the beach, she cuddled her blonde head into the crook of his arm, clutching at his chest as it suited her. It was a good thing she knew CPR.