Author's Note: This is a sizeable chunk of text that, while I consider it erotic, could be categorized as "all foreplay, no fucking." If you're looking for a quick fix, you might want to look for chapter 1 of Touch Therapy, and then come back to this introduction if the story interests you.
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Greg stood silently at the bus stop, waiting for number 114 to lurch around the corner, deliberately facing away from the bench and doing his best to pretend that Rachel didn't exist—wasn't sitting right behind him.
This had to be the worst damn year of his life. Losing Mom had been bad. Real bad. But this. . . he squashed that line of thought and concentrated on his breathing, on the tawny sweep of browned late summer leaves spattered across dusty asphalt, the heat distortions rippling over the roofs of neighborhood cars.
At least Elaine wasn't so bad, he thought. And Greg was happy his father had found someone to breathe some life back into him. In fact, Greg liked Elaine too. She was no wicked stepmother, and she made his father laugh, breaking the tension of two long, grim years that Greg had begun to believe were the new outlines of his life.
Short and buxom, with wild red hair, startling green eyes and a frequently sunburnt nose, Elaine was a software engineer. Perhaps that was why she insisted on so much free time outside, frequently dragging the whole family on daytrips to the ocean, or into the mountains for kayaking or camping.
And they were becoming a family, Greg thought. New, and a little shaky, but real. And it was Elaine that was making it happen, every day, with an unconscious, effortless grace. He'd hated her a little at first, but she had accepted it, and him, with a calm kindness that was irresistible.
A naturally 'touchy' person, she would randomly squeeze his shoulder in passing, pat down a cowlick, or, as he was working on his algebra at the kitchen table, she would kiss the top of his head, mumbling "hey there, kiddo" into his hair.
Greg knew this was at least partially because she felt a bit sorry for him. Pitied him a little. And should he mind? Didn't he deserve some sympathy? He couldn't think of her as his mother without feeling like he was betraying his real mom, but he was starting to think of her as a favorite aunt. The best aunt ever.
With quite possibly the bitchiest daughter ever. Rachel was nothing like her mother. Where her mother was loud, cheerful and sympathetic, Rachel was withdrawn, sullen, angry and judgmental. At nineteen, some of that might be residual teenage growing pains, but Rachel projected a ferocious disdain, exuding contempt for everything and everyone within range. Only her mother and her teachers were exempted from her wrath. So stuck up, Greg thought, that she'd drown in a heavy rain. And wouldn't that be a shame, he thought, smiling to himself.
"What?" said Rachel, from behind him.
Christ! Was the bitch psychic now? What gave him away? Somehow, she had detected the tension from the morning's incident falling away, and she had immediately challenged him, causing him to tense again. Greg saw the bus rounding the corner.
"Finally," he said, turning toward Rachel. "Look, I'll stay here until you're on, but I'm not riding with you today."
Rachel glared at him as she jammed her paperback into her bookbag. "That's not what you're supposed to do," she said, tightly. "You're supposed to stay with me until we're all the way to school. You're supposed to stay with me until I've got my books and I'm to my first class. Mom says I'm responsible for you, and I have to look out for you. You can't go by yourself."
Greg shook his head in disgust. "That's such bullshit." He took two steps away as the bus rumbled closer. "Technically, we're both adults, and I sure as hell don't need you to hold my hand. There's no way I'm sitting next to you today. Not a chance in hell. I'd rather walk."
Rachel paused for a second, considering. "Ok. It's only twelve blocks or so. I'll walk with you."
"Screw that. If I run, I could ditch you in seconds. I don't want to be anywhere near you right now, so you can believe you're getting on that bus by yourself."
"Think about it, hero," Rachel sneered. "What do you think your dad's going to do if he finds out you ditched me again?"
"Fine," Greg reluctantly conceded, as the bus thumped to a stop and the doors hissed open. "I'll get on the bus."
Rachel seemed to relax a bit as Greg got on the bus, and found an open seat for them, patiently waiting for her slip in first, so that he could take the aisle seat and she could take the window.
He was to sit with her, his father had explained to him, and if he couldn't find an open seat, he was to find one as close as possible, and sit where she could see him. Like a child, Greg thought. Fat chance I'll be able to get my license now. Fat chance I'll see any freedom until I get out of high school and out of the house. It was better when dad and I were on our own.
It seemed unbelievable to Greg that his father had so rapidly lost faith in him. For a long time, Robert had been a complete wreck. Greg had shopped, cooked and cleaned. He'd made sure his father's laundry was at least semi-presentable, and tied the recycling bags closed before he put them in the bins, so the neighbors wouldn't see just how many empty bottles of bourbon were in those bags. For almost a year and a half, Greg had been the adult in the house.
When Elaine had pulled his father out of his funk, and they'd first moved into her place, Greg had told himself that this could be a good thing. He hadn't minded not having his own room, and sleeping on the futon in the den. Rachel couldn't be expected to give up her room for him. And while the house was small, the back yard was large, with a garden and a swimming pool.
It was a fair trade, he'd thought. But the longer they'd stayed, the more rules there'd been for him to follow, the more restrictive those rules became, and the more and more they seemed to revolve around him being 'supervised' by Rachel.
And Rachel hated him. Greg knew it. He felt the icy waves of it, as clearly as he could feel a glow of warmth and sympathy from Elaine. For his father's sake he had tried to remain indifferent to it. He had even tried to be friendly, thinking that Rachel might lighten up a bit if he could get her talking.
But Rachel had made it clear that his presence was unwanted, and that she was only 'looking after him' because she was a dutiful daughter. She was always reading, and on the rare occasions when Greg managed to elicit genuine conversation, she unfailingly used the opportunity to articulate just how lumpen and stupid she found him.
It frustrated and infuriated him, then, that every attempt to disengage, to go his own way, to remove from her the colossal burden of "looking after him," was met with immovable resistance. Every time, she dug in her heels. Sometimes, she seemed downright panicky at the prospect. Always, she threatened to tell. And this morning, she had.
Greg's father was generally easy going, which Greg had always counted as a blessing. Robert was not tall, or imposing, but he was thick through the shoulders and forearms, and was frighteningly volatile on the rare occasions when he lost his temper. As he had this morning.
At the breakfast table, Rachel had bluntly revealed that Greg had ditched her the night before, abandoning her at the library so he could grab a burger and drop a few quarters at the arcade. She had stared at Greg across the table, her face impassive, as she had ratted him out, as if studying him for a reaction. Greg had been startled, and then enraged. As his father had begun to speak to him in quiet and serious tones, Greg had met Rachel's stony gaze across the table and blurted out, "you're such a bitch!"
Shocked silence was broken by a sudden blur of motion. Greg saw anger and profound disappointment in his father's eyes as the man's hand had suddenly shot across the table, his fingers locking around his son's face and jaw.
"Apologize," his father had hissed, giving Greg's jaw a terse shake. "Right now. Right fucking now."
Elaine had come out of her chair, horrified, and laid her hands gently on their shoulders, pushing the two of them slightly apart. "Robert," she had admonished, "Robert, let him go." She had turned to Greg, both sympathy and a hint of pain in her eyes, saying, "I'm sure he didn't mean it, right, Greg?"
"Yes," he had slurred, his lips mashed into his teeth by his father's iron grip, "yeah. I didn't mean it." He hadn't been able to move his head, but his eyes had slid to the right, meeting Rachel's shocked stare, as he gritted out, "I'm very sorry."
Rachel, he'd noticed, looked guilty as hell. Ashamed even. And as Greg had felt his father's grip loosen and fall away, he'd seen a significant glance pass between Robert and Elaine. There was something going on there. Some subtext that was escaping him.
Robert had turned back to his son, saying "Families take care of each other Greg. Rachel's looking after you because we asked her to, and it's pretty damn ungrateful of you to speak to her like that. We talked about this before. You may legally be an adult, but if you're living in our house, you live under our rules. If you have a problem with those rules, you take it up with me. You understand?"
Greg had dropped his eyes, red with impotent anger and frustration. "Yes sir," he'd husked out. "I understand. May I please be excused?"
He had bolted from the table without waiting for a response, not wanting his tears of anger and frustration to spill out in front of the rest of them. In the den, tidying the blankets on the couch where he slept, and packing his bags for school, he had heard Rachel go upstairs.
In the kitchen, he'd heard his father and Elaine speaking in low tones. Occasional snatches of conversation drifted to him as their voices rose.
. . . pretty fragile, but she's OK around him for some reason. She trusts him. . . pretty cruel. . . he's a tough kid, and it's only a matter of time before she. . . a little nicer. . . really unfair to him. . . doesn't understand. . . can't tell him without . . . privacy. . . hope things get better with time. . . she is getting better. . . big part of it. . . Dr. Griggs said . . . takes patience
Their voices had dropped off as Rachel had come back downstairs, and Greg had heard the clatter of dishes, and then louder, cheerful, slightly brittle conversation.
Rachel had walked past the kitchen to where he sat on the futon in the den, and stood stiffly in the threshold, holding her bookbag in front of her. Greg had stared at her, wishing, not for the first time, that the den had a door.
