Chloe And Cy Pt 02

Cy

Fuck! Hell! Fuck! Jesus Christ, Cy! FUCK!

Chloe beat a hasty retreat up the stairs, not saying a word but looking wholly terrified.

I retreated to the laundry room. I don't know why and don't ask me why. But the laundry room, for some reason, seemed the place to be--a place for cleanliness and the smell of fresh linen and the fighting of stains.

Stains.

I realized then that my shirt was sticking to me, and I pulled it taught and saw where the massive gobs of my cum were seeping through the fabric.

"Shit," I said, stripping off the shirt and using it as a makeshift towel to wipe away the evidence.

I tossed it in the wash along with a tide pod and the rest of the clothes in the hamper.

Cock in her mouth, Cy! Chloe's mouth! You were in your daughter's mouth.

There wasn't enough for a whole load of laundry, but I didn't want to leave that cum-soaked mess to set overnight.

You remember Chloe, right?

I realized there were also cum stains on my jeans, so I peeled out of them and tossed them in as well. I found a pair of exercise pants and suddenly thought that I needed to work this out. Thirty minutes in the garage. Sweat it out. Burn up the frustration. Center.

You bought her her first pair of roller skates, and she used to teach you the right way to color Disney princesses.

FUCK!

And what was it I'd managed to say? What was my great response?

When my cock flopped out of her 23-year-old mouth, and she briefly looked like a kid who'd dropped her ice cream in the dirt, I managed only the most clichéd fatherly phrase imaginable.

"Go to your room!"

What's next? No T.V. for a month? Extra chores until you don't taste my cock on your lips? A spanking?

Oh, please don't think about spankings right now, Cy.

It's okay. It's all okay. I put a stop to it. She's upstairs in her room. I'm in control of the situation, and everything is cool.

But can we just admit for a moment that... it felt amazing!

I had been dreaming. I thought somehow Christine had come home and found me on the sofa and taken pity on me. It had been so long since she'd felt like giving me a blow job, and sweet God, her mouth felt amazing!

But it wasn't Chrissy when you opened your eyes, Cy.

FUCK!

Chloe

He hates me, and he's going to hate me for the rest of my life.

I was on my old twin bed looking up into the face of Liam from One Direction. I had never really cared for the band's music, but I did kind of have a crush on Liam for a hot minute in High School.

A hot minute.

What a phrase that was. Lightning,

For a hot minute, I had given in to an insane and irrational impulse. That stupid schoolgirl fantasy I had been trying to suppress had grappled control of my body away from my higher brain functions. Now I had ruined everything.

I bet Cy never speaks to me again after this.

I put my wrist over my eyes, fighting back a sudden urge to scream.

Wait a minute. What am I doing?

I sat up and looked around.

I'm 23. I am a grown-ass woman! Why did I just let that asshole send me to my room?

I stood up from the bed, and I was suddenly, pacing the room in a fury.

Who does he think he is? I mean, it's not like he's my birth father. I mean, sure, it's his house and his rules, but come on!

I should march down there and stick my finger under his nose and tell him what he can do with himself! So he got a blow job he wasn't expecting. Big deal!

Cy

I found an old Blues Traveler t-shirt in a plastic storage tub in the garage.

I sure as shit wasn't going upstairs for a clean shirt.

The concert-t was from a tour in 1997.

How old had Chloe been in 1997? Oh, right, she wasn't born yet.

I couldn't be in the house. That was too close. So I was now in the last best man cave available.

The garage light glared over the old Roadrunner and my old Boston P.D. Bike.

It's a three-car garage, but it's deep, designed by the original owner as a workshop.

In front of where Chrissy usually parked her Mercedes, I had a small weight bench and a dummy bag.

I resealed the tub of my old clothes and moved over to the bench on which I'd left my wraps and heavy bag gloves. Even with the storm brewing outside, the garage was pretty much a hotbox. I checked the thermometer on the wall, and it read almost 90 degrees.

I looked maliciously at the rubber boxing dummy in the corner and figured. Where better to vent one's pent-up sexual frustration?

I hooked my phone up to the speaker in the garage and realized the first song cued was from the Playlist I'd downloaded earlier.

I hit play.

"It's just a little red wine. I'll be fine. Not like I wanna do this every night..."

I nodded, moving to wrap my knuckles and strap them into the padded gloves. I took up my stance and started simply with a couple of 1-2 combination shots to the head.

"Twisted reality, hopeless insanity. I told you I was okay, but I was lying. I was dancing with the devil, out of control...."

Don't ask me why, but lately, I'd imagined the marriage counselor Chrissy had found in place of the dummy.

"What's troubling you, Leroy?" I imagined the dummy asking in that pinched smarmy voice of the marriage counselor.

"Well, first off, Dr. Fuller. You keep calling me Leroy instead of Cy. We've been to four sessions costing me $300 each. You think you'd at least get my goddamn name right."

I did a minute of High-Intensity free-style on the dummy, knocking it back hard with my last haymaker punch.

"I understand your frustration, Leroy. But this isn't about me, is it? Care to talk out your problems instead of sublimating them and venting them as aggression?"

"I fucking hate when he psycho-babbles."

"Fine," the dummy sighed. "The first step would be defining the problem. What's the problem, Leroy?"

I did a few change-up combos while I thought about it.

That Lovato girl sang over my rage, my frustration, and the sound of my knuckles sinking deep into the dummy ribs and solar plexus. "Playing with the enemy, gambling with my soul, it's so hard to say no when you're dancing with the devil."

"My marriage is over," I said out loud when I finally had to stop to catch my breath. "Fuck! if it wasn't over already this afternoon, it would be the moment Christine comes home and finds out her daughter was sucking my--."

I couldn't say that part out loud, not even to myself. I shut off the music. The lyrics were definitely messing with my head.

I felt the dummy staring at me. "You've been doing everything in your power to save your marriage, Leroy?"

"Of course! I love Christine. Been nuts about her since she flashed those hazel eyes at me after blowing through a redlight doing 50 in a school zone with a kid in the car."

That kid isn't a kid anymore, Cy.

I wheeled and clocked the dummy hard.

"That wasn't me. That was you," the dummy seemed to smile. "It's all you, but shall we discuss the part of you that is still thinking about her lips around your cock?"

I went a full five minutes with nothing but the sound of the rain splattering the roof above me. My fists cracked into the dummy with enough force to walk it back against the garage wall.

Against the ropes, murder in my veins. Foreman and Ali. Tyson and Hollifield. If the damn dummy had had real bones and muscles, they would have been pulp by the time I was breathless and panting. Rivers of sweat dripped down onto the oil-resistant garage floor.

"Are you punishing me or yourself, Cy?"

I looked up at the dummy and unstrapped my gloves. "Well, I can't punish Chrissy, can I?"

"For what? Outgrowing your marriage?"

"I sorta suspected she was secretly screwing you," I said to the dummy.

"Not me," he said. "I'm just a dummy bag. And now that you've bruised your knuckles nice and blue, how are you going to deal with this Chloe situation?"

"There is no situation with Chloe," I said. "As far as everyone is concerned, it never happened. Okay?"

"That sounds about as healthy as talking to yourself," the dummy said, rolling its eyes at me.

I wiped the sweat from my brow on the hem of my t-shirt.

I went to the phone and scrolled through the lyrics of the song I'd been listening to.

"She's right. These are pretty good lyrics," I admitted.

...it's just a little white line. I'll be fine.

"I need a shower."

Chloe

"And another thing,'' I said, holding my finger up to my reflection in the mirror on my closet door.

I had my earbuds in. Bad Girls by M.I.A. was blaring in my skull.

"Get back, get down. Pull me closer if you think you can hang. Hands up, hands tied

Don't go screaming if I blow you with a bang...."

"You will not treat me like I am some dumb child whom you can boss around and order to bed. I am pre-med at U-MASS, asshole. Harvard and Columbia are both scouting me! I am not letting some small-town flat-footed bumpkin-assed police chief treat me like--"

A knock sounded loud enough on my bedroom door that I jumped, pulling out my earbuds.

"Chloe?" Cy said softly from the other side of the door.

Oh, shit. Did he hear me? I wasn't really going to say any of that.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

"Chloe," he said again. "Listen, I'm going to go take a shower and then go to bed, okay?"

"Okay," I called.

"In the morning, we'll just. We'll pretend it didn't happen. Agreed?"

What do I say? Do I need to say anything?

"Well," he said. I imagined him on the other side of the door, his hand on the knob. It wasn't locked, but he had never been the type to invade my private space. "Goodnight, Kid."

I flopped back on the bed. I spun through my playlists and selected a song.

"I'm going under, and this time, I fear there's no one to save me

This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy...."

The rain was falling in earnest now. Thunder rumbled. I tensed, able to hear it over Lewis Capaldi and his sad piano.

"Now the day bleeds into nightfall, And you're not here to get me through it all. I let my guard down...."

Another bright flash and then a crash of thunder caused me to pop the buds out of my ears.

"You're a grown woman," I said to myself. "It's just weather, and you're not afraid of the weather."

I heard a sound from outside my bedroom door--a quick scrape-like noise. I stood and walked to the door cautiously.

I listened a moment and then opened the door.

Hanging from the outside doorknob were my silk blouses and my favorite little wraparound peacock print dress. All three of them were devoid of wrinkles and smelling vaguely of fresh steam.

I peered out into the hall just in time to see the door to Cy and mom's bedroom shut.

Had he steamed them for me?

I took the blouses and closed the door again, moving to the closet to hang them up.

"Chloe, Chloe," a soft baritone voice sighed in my head. "Wherefore art thou so beset with troubles?"

I lay down on the bed once more and rolled to look into the kind black button eyes of Benjamin Bear. He wore a poofy shirt like something right out of Shakespeare in the Park. I couldn't remember when he'd become my favorite bedtime bear.

"I messed up," I said to the bear.

"There, there," he said in his calm whiskey baritone voice. "There is no problem the will of man can set that the mind of man cannot solve."

I exhaled, reaching the bear over and kissing his little brown nose. "Completely hopeless," I said.

There was a sudden flash of lightning and an eruption of thunder, causing me to jump. The whole house shook.

"It's alright, little one," Benjamin Bear hushed. "We're safe inside."

Ever since I was little, I'd been afraid of lightning. Benjamin Bear had helped with that... when I was little.

I stood up, hugging him close and moving to the window to peer through the blinds at the storm. I set Benjamin close and hung my leather jacket off the back of my desk chair. I peeled out of my jeans, knowing the best option right now was to simply slip into bed with the book as I had planned to do before the incident with Cy.

I went to my backpack and found it was empty. I turned around to survey the room and saw my books stacked neatly on my nightstand. I had a sneaking suspicion and moved to the chest of drawers. I found my clothes neatly folded and put away. I sucked on my bottom lip. Cy had been in here, touching my clothes, putting them away like a good parent.

I took Benjamin Bear with me to the bed and realized what book was set on top of the stack.

I flushed a bit. It had been a gag gift at a sorority party one year, but I had to admit it had become a bit of a guilty pleasure read.

Another flash of lightning, and I slipped quickly under the sheets. I flipped on the bedside lamp just as the thunder clapped, and at that moment, I felt a sharp sting of electricity that caused me to yelp.

The lamp flickered and fell dark.

"Oh, no," I said. I tried the switch again, and nothing happened. I rose and went to flick the switch for the overhead lamp to the same effect.

"Don't panic," Benjamin Bear cooed from his place on the bed.

"Oh shit. Oh shit." I could handle storms so long as the lights stayed on. I went to my backpack and fished out a lighter. I realized if Cy had unpacked my things, he'd discovered my stash and-- oh, kill me, now-- my little pink vibrator shone in the glow of the light of the tiny flame of my lighter.

"Goddamn," I said. "Could it get any worse?"

Lightning flashed again with thunder cracking with a force that caused me to jump and shriek. I fished for the bag of weed and dug in, searching for the joint I kept ready just for such moments of anxiety.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!" Where was it?

"You're safe," Benjamin Bear kept repeating like a mantra. It had helped me to imagine his voice when I was little.

"Shut the fuck up, Benji!"

During bad storms when I was a kid, I had always chickened out and run down the hall to crawl into bed with--

Damn! I couldn't find the joint.

My eyes widened. Could Cy have taken it?

The sound of the rain intensified, and then, a sound like rocks on the house's old Copper roof.

Hail!

I felt my breathing shift gear from mildly anxious to full-on hyperventilation.

I paced the room, dropping the lighter when it burned my fingers. And then, another great flash and clap of thunder sent me running to my bedroom door.

I pried it open, running down the hall toward Cy and Mom's room. I burst through the door, finding the bed still made and no sign of Cy. Wait, I saw a shirt on the hardwood floor and a pair of exercise pants. From the bathroom, a gentle glow of candlelight and the sound of running water drew me in. I ran to the door and stepped inside.

I was dancing on my bare feet, realizing despite my panic that I was definitely being inappropriate.

"C-Cy?"

I pulled open the curtain that wrapped around the old cast-iron tub, hardly able to catch my breath. I was in my Wonder Woman panties and a Neon Trees T-shirt, and he was naked.

He turned, eyes wide. "Chloe!? What the--?"

"Storm," I said. "Bad S-Storm. Lights out."

He recognized the signs of a panic attack and shut off the water.

He grabbed both my hands and put them across my chest. "Okay, okay," he said. "Like when you were little. Just focus on deep breaths. In through your nose and out through your mouth."

He modeled the breathing, and in a moment, I matched his rhythm. We both breathed in deep through our noses for a few seconds and then out through our mouths.

"Now, the trick I taught you?" he prompted.

"G-Geroge Washington, John A-Adams, Thomas Jeff-Jeff--:

A lightning flash. A deafening thunderclap. I jumped and sobbed, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Jefferson, " he prompted.

I nodded. "James Madison. James Monroe. John Q-Quincy Adams, Andrew J-Jack-son.:

I continued the list. For a full minute, we stood there, trying to get my panic attack under control. By Zachary Taylor, I managed a few words in measured breaths. "Y-you were in my room?"

He nodded. "I unpacked your things. I thought--"

"My weed," I said. "Y-you took my emergency joint."

He blinked.

"I-I have a prescription," I continued. "I know you're a cop, b-b-but...."

"Shit, kid. I think I sent it through the wash with my jeans."

"Not helping. J-James Polk." I winced, my eyes closed.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Let me just get a towel, okay, baby?"

Baby.

Suddenly I flashed to a bad storm when I was about 10. We were still living in Cy's brownstone in Boston. I remembered snuggling against his chest, listening to him breathing while mom read to me.

He's naked. Don't.

Another great crack of thunder and I was suddenly pressed against him. "Just hold me, Cy, okay?"

Cy

I'd made it to her bedroom door and knocked. I'd told her everything would be alright in the morning if we pretended it never happened. I'd found her clothes in the hall bathroom and hung them off her door. Then, I'd gone into the master bedroom, stripped out of my sweaty clothes, and headed for the shower.

Chrissy had bought a bunch of aroma-therapy candles for her baths. Some of them-- I couldn't tell you which-- were supposed to help relieve stress and promote calm. I didn't know if they worked as well when one was showering as opposed to when one was luxuriating in a hot tub with lavender bath salts, but "couldn't hurt, right?"

I lit a bunch of them, about eight in all.

With the candles burning, the bathroom light seemed a bit redundant.

I shut it off, turning the shower on full and adjusting the temp to full-on cold.

Like that's going to help, Cy.

I synced my phone with the bathroom shower speaker.

I selected an acoustic cover of "Crazy Train."

I stepped into the stream, hearing an enormous crack of thunder as I did so. I seemed to recall reading an article about the dangers of showering during a thunderstorm. Quite frankly, as the cold water hit me, I realized electrocution in the old cast-iron tub would be an excellent way to go, given the circumstances.

"I've listened to preachers, I've listened to fools, I've watched all the dropouts, Who make their own rules...."

What was wrong with me?

"I'm going off the rails on the crazy train."

That's one theory.

My kid comes home from college, and she's in the house less than three hours before I'm taking cold showers and pretending what had happened hadn't happened.

It had happened. Not only that, she had done it to me! Wasn't I the victim here? Hadn't I been sexually assaulted?

I took the bar of pine tar soap from its dish and began working up a lather. After about a minute of the icy spray, I felt I'd punished myself enough. I flipped the shower over to warm.

Old wives tale.

She wanted it, Cy. She walked in and found you with your cock out covered in your cum, and she...

I flipped it back to cold.

The song changed.

"Just a castaway, an island lost at sea, oh. Another lonely day, with no one here but me, oh. More loneliness than any man could bear. Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh...."

I wanted to chug half a pint of whiskey. I tried to think about baseball and 90-year-old women in negligees.

And when a second clap of thunder shook the shower, I felt a twinge of concern. Chloe hated thunderstorms, and she had since before I'd ever started dating her mom.

Should I check on her?

You should definitely check on her. Just go to her room and crack the door and find her there in nothing but one of those skimpy thongs you were fiddling with earlier.

I shook my head, focusing on Sting talking about his Message in a Bottle.

"Sending out an S.O.S."

The shower curtain tore open.

The first thing I saw was sheer terror in her eyes. "S-Storm," she managed around shallow breaths. "Lights out!"

I fell into crisis-control mode. I shut off the water and gripped her thin wrists, crossing her arms over her chest. I kept eye contact the way the therapists had told us to do when she was nine. I modeled breathing, keeping her painfully crisp green eyes focused on my own.