I had four rough and tumble boys who seemed determined to break the world record for daily brawls over blocks and trucks and action figures.
I was an old hand at this mother thing.
Those perfect moms could kiss my battle-choosing ass.
I just barely resisted the urge to open up the cooler I brought with me for lunch since my plan was to stay at this park until their father was home to run them ragged until bed and bite into the sandwiches I'd brought with us, loaded up with deli meat.
"Your son is bleeding," Miss Perfect informed me, face pinched upward in disapproval that I hadn't noticed.
"Oh yeah? It must be Tuesday," I said, shrugging, giving it a long second before glancing toward my hoard of hellions to see who was bleeding and from where. A little knee scrape would likely not warrant me getting off this bench. He'd probably rub some dirt in it, taking his daddy's advice too literally, and get on with his day. But if something were gaping or hanging off, I'd have to take a trip to the hospital.
If you've ever had one child getting treatment and three others bored and insufferable, attempting to play with hospital equipment, you'd understand the pit of dread in my belly then.
What I saw was Mark lapping at a scrape on his arm like a cat cleaning its coat, then getting on with his play.
"You're not going to treat him?" Miss Perfect asked, eyes full of disgust.
"Like he's hurt when he isn't? I'm really not going to do that," I agreed, looking away again.
Aside from constantly having stained clothes from God-knew-what one of the boys rubbed on me, the only thing about motherhood I really didn't like was, well, a lot of my fellow mothers.
I had tried in the beginning to do the 'right' thing and make mommy connections, arrange playdates.
For about, say, three whole days before I decided they were the most judgmental group of people I had ever come across. I didn't use the right soaps, didn't nurse correctly, didn't get my baby on a schedule right away; the list went on and on. I figured I was better off on my own.
"Oh, no! Baby! Mommy's coming!" Miss Perfect yelled, making my head move toward the kids once again, finding Ryan rushing over to the little girl who had just fallen on her diapered butt off the jungle gym, staring up in unsure shock. He grabbed her under the pits, lifting her back onto her feet like he had done for his brothers countless times in the past.
She was starting to smile wobbly up at him when her mother came breaking into the scene, throwing her arms around the little girl who immediately started to cry, taking her cue from her over-protective mom.
Ryan looked over at me, giving me a shrug before running back off to his brothers who had seemed to find an old soccer ball somewhere, the sides torn and dirty. It might as well have been brand new with how excited they were about it.
"You're welcome," I said under my breath as Miss Perfect rushed off with her daughter. Likely to the local emergent care center.
"They look like you."
That was a voice I hadn't heard in a long time.
Years, actually.
Not since that motel room all those years ago.
Another life, it felt.
"Connor," I said, turning my head to look at him, finding him standing just a few feet off, still in his uniform blues, the years turning his boyish features into those of a man, handsome, sure of himself. "I don't see it," I added, looking over at my boys who, to me, were miniature Xerox copies of their father. "Not a single one got my eyes," I added, but without upset because I would much rather look at four sets of Charlie's eyes. "Maybe this one," he suggested, waving at my belly as he moved to sit down, but as far to the side as he could and still be on the same bench.
"How have you been, Connor?" I asked, finding I genuinely wanted to know.
"Good. Good. Lost Pops last year," he admitted, a bit of pain slipping into his voice.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," I told him, genuine sadness slipping into my voice as well as I reached over to give his hand a squeeze. "He was a good man."
"He was," Connor agreed.
"You got that from him," I added.
"I hope so," he agreed, nodding.
"I know for a fact."
"How is life, Helen?" he asked, glancing at the boys then back at me, gaze holding.
"Crazy. Chaotic. As you would expect when you are outnumbered by your children."
"How's Charlie?" he asked, voice a bit strained. Even after the years. I didn't, however, as I might have in the old days, assume the position of vanity, imagine the strain had anything to do with feelings for me. It was likely the way our lives were at odds with each other.
He was a cop, meant to enforce laws.
I was married to a loanshark who made his living breaking them.
"He's doing well too."
Better than well.
We'd sold our first home the year before, moving into a four bedroom with a yard. Work had picked up. Enough that he had eventually found an enforcer to add to the job, giving him more time with us.
"Can I perhaps give you a piece of advice?" he asked carefully.
"You can give it," I agreed, the inflection clear. But I may not accept it.
"He is starting to get noticed. By people you don't want him to get noticed by." Cops.
"That took a long time."
"Got a lot going on in this town lately," he told me, giving me a small smile, both of us knowing that the town we were calling home was complicated to say the least. There was an intricate web full of venomous spiders. Drug dealers. Mob. Arms dealers. The cops had their hands full with the bigger organizations. It was easy for Charlie to fall under the radar.
But no criminal avoided the law forever.
"The house, the cars," Connor went on. "Maybe it is time for Charlie to think about something legitimate to explain his ability to have these things."
Charlie had the money cleaned, always had.
But that was clearly no longer enough.
And since I was fully committed to being a wife and mother, there was genuinely no way for us to explain our income.
I nodded at that. "Is there a timeframe for this?"
"I would suggest within the next year. There is some curiosity among a detective or two, but they have files stacked on their desks that need their attention more. But if he keeps rising, they will no longer be able to overlook him."
"Thank you," I said, words heavy with genuine gratitude. "Connor, can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why are you telling me this?"
His smile was sweet, almost a little dreamy. "For nostalgia's sake. Because I know that Charlie is a good man."
"How do you know that?" I asked, shaking my head.
"Because you love him," he told me, giving me another smile, casting one last glance at the boys, then walking away as suddenly as he had arrived.
"It's been on my mind too," Charlie told me later as the boys were in the backyard playing in a giant mud puddle that I didn't think to deny them since it was shower night anyway. "I mean, tax evasion was what brought down Al Capone after all the shit he got away with. If we want to survive, we need to have something legit."
"Can we afford it?" I asked, cringing a bit inwardly at asking such a question. It made me sound like one of those wives. The ones who let their husbands control everything, who had no idea what the financial situation was. I did, of course, know exactly what was in the bank account. And what was secured away in our shed, under a floorboard in the bathroom closet, in a pair of old rain boots in the basement.
I knew what we had to spend for life stuff.
But not so much what we had in the business. Because that number changed daily depending on who made good, or who needed a bigger loan. Charlie had a good mind for the numbers, for the weights and measures of it all. Me, it honestly made my head spin to try to work it all out.
"If we don't get too ambitious, yeah. Start small, build it up."
"Sounds like a good plan."
<
br /> I liked the idea of legit, of having another safety net. Of having less suspicion in our direction.
For Charlie.
For me.
But especially for the boys.
"Luckily, almost every building in town is for sale," I said, giving him a smile.
The main area of Navesink Bank was a bit of an eyesore still, most of the stores and restaurants closed years ago, and no one seemed to have the liquid cash to start something new.
It meant that shopping often took me a couple towns over to get everything I needed, which had always been a pain. But now, well, I was looking at it like a blessing. Rent would be ridiculously low, demand from locals would be high.
"Know what I was thinking?" Charlie asked, head ducked to the side slightly.
"Not a clue," I admitted, watching as he rose from his chair, always doing so with this rugged masculine grace that never ceased to get to me. Especially with pregnancy hormones making me all kinds of wanton.
"What about a bar?" he asked. "It was always my old man's dream. And you know the business inside and out. The town desperately needs a decent watering hole. Could be a good thing."
"No," I said, letting his face fall slightly before wrapping my arms around him. "It could be a great thing," I specified, watching his eyes light up before he pressed his forehead to mine sweetly, tickling my nose with his.
Then the screen door cracked against the wall just a split second before a little - but powerful - body slammed into us both from the side, wrapping arms around us to join in the hug. And smear mud on us from thigh-level and down.
A mess.
That was what our life often was.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Charlie - 7 years
We rarely had a night away from the kids.
Babysitters weren't hard to find per se, but it was rare you could find someone who was willing to take care of five soon-to-be juvenile delinquents.
So we didn't have one.
We had four teenage girls at our house wrangling the boys, just to have a couple hours away.
"You don't think it's too dark?" I asked, watching Helen walk around the space, heels clicking as she went.
Shane had just started sleeping through the night a couple weeks before, taking her out of her newborn-mama uniform of old sweats that never matched, pulled up hair, and the only adornment on her face being under eye circles to a woman who took thirty minutes to herself every morning to pamper while I sat with the boys over their breakfast.
I feel better when my hair and makeup is done, she'd informed me though I hadn't asked, figuring that whatever she did, she was entitled to if she handled the boys and the house all day every day without a single complaint.
I had to admit, she looked fucking good. I mean I thought she looked good with a goddamn spit-cloth over her shoulder and greasy hair, but there was something about this Helen that had my cock stirring inappropriately as I watched her. She wasn't even dressed up, in a simple pair of jeans and a tee. It wasn't about the look. It was about how she felt, her confidence drifting into the air around her as she ran her hand over the surface of the bar, heavily lacquered, just ready to host countless glasses of booze when we opened in a few months.
It hadn't been a hardship, all said and done. The liquor license itself having been a bigger investment than the rent or the renovations.
"Bars are supposed to be dark. No one is going to end up going home with someone if they see them in the harsh, real light," she told me, lips twitching.
"You're the expert," I told her, moving across the room, backing her up into the bar, liking it way too much when her eyes immediately went hooded.
"Oh, gee, I don't think you should be getting so close to me. The boss could walk in at any moment," she purred at me, eyes wicked.
"We had better be quick then," I suggested, turning her, pushing her forward over the bar, her ass sticking out toward me.
I knew her body as well as I knew my own.
Better, even.
And I knew by the way she was shifting so that her thighs were closer together that her pussy was already slick with need for me.
But that didn't mean I was going to give her what she wanted.
Not yet at least.
My body moved in behind her, my hips pressing into her ass, hard cock sliding against her cleft, but the thick material of our jeans making it impossible for her to get the contact she needed.
My hand tracked up her spine, feeling the little notches against my palm before my fingers found her hair, soft and free, almost falling to her ass. Gathering it, I wrapped it twice around my hand, using it to yank her back, her back arching up, her air hissing out of her in the pain/pleasure mix.
"Charlie, please," she begged, shamelessly grinding her ass back into me.
Didn't matter how many times I had heard that exact phrase, it never lost its edge, it never made it easier to try to control myself, take my time with her.
Especially on the rare occasions when we knew we wouldn't be interrupted.
There was no one here to be getting into brawls, to climb and then fall off the dining table, to bang on the door demanding his fifth snack of the evening.
The front door was locked.
There was no one inside.
We were completely alone without a care in the world.
I planned to take my time with her.
Drive her wild.
Enjoy her coming around my fingers, mouth, then finally, cock.
My free hand tracked down her back, snagging her jeans and panties at the waistband, and dragging them roughly down. Just over her ass, just giving me the access I needed.
"Charlie," she whimpered, arching her ass up toward me, begging me for fulfillment.
My hand moved over her hips, pulling back, then slapping down hard, the whack a sound that echoed across the empty space, as enticing as her hiss of pain and moan of pleasure as she wiggled slightly, silently begging for more.
I gave her another slap before thrusting two fingers unexpectedly inside her wet pussy, feeling her walls clench around me in surprised pleasure.
"Charlie, please," she whimpered, hands balled into fists on the smooth surface of the bar, head still arched back because of my fist in her hair.
"You want it, take it," I told her, keeping my fingers stubbornly still inside her.
So many years together, seeing each other at our best, worst, and everything in between had stripped her of the shyness she used to have regarding sex. She shamelessly rocked her hips, getting what little motion the position allowed of her, but enough. Enough that her walls started tightening around me, her breathing getting shallow and hitched, her whimpers turning into moans.
I gave her what she needed, curling my fingers inside her so that the next time she moved, they scraped against her G-spot, making her come with a choked cry, her walls spasming around my fingers, her legs sagging a little, her whole body held up by her abdomen being draped over the bar.
Recovering, she tried to pull against my hold, tried to get to me. Because Helen had always been a woman who gave as good as she got, and I knew her mind was on taking me in her mouth. It was a rare thing that I would turn down the chance to feel her mouth on me, but I had other plans this time, ones the meant I had to release her hair so I could lower myself down behind her, sucking her clit into my mouth before she could even think of taking advantage of her freedom.
Her palms slapped down on the bar as her inner thigh muscles shook, her clit already overly sensitive as I licked, sucked, and tormented her until her moans were something else entirely, something wild and primal and uncontrolled.
Then and only then did I press my tongue flat against her clit, feeling my lips curve up a little as another orgasm ripped through her body.
I moved to stand as she tried to come back down, unzipping my pants, stroking my cock a few times as I looked at her wetness coating her upper thighs, making a shiver of anticipation move throug
h me as I stepped forward, running the head between her lips, coating myself in her need.
Helen pushed herself up, palms flat on the bar, her hips rocking against me, inviting me in.
And, well, you didn't deny your woman your cock when she wanted it, did you?
I slammed in deep, hissing out a curse as her hot, wet pussy welcomed me.
It always felt like that. Even when it wasn't slow or sweet or loving. Even when it was hard, fast fucking. It felt like coming home to be inside her, like there was nothing more right than our bodies being together.
Helen wasn't giving me time to marvel at the sensation, though, as she ground back into me, demanded more.
"Greedy pussy," I rumbled at her, hand sinking into her hips to use them to press her away, then yank her back even as I thrust, making her take every inch of me, the movement rough, borderline brutal.
But this woman, my woman, all she did was beg for more.
So I gave her more.
Until both of our bodies were slick with sweat, until her walls were a vice grip around me, until her moans silenced to simple gasps of breath.
"No!" she cried when I pulled my cock out of her, feeling her walls start to shake, threaten an oblivion I didn't want her to have yet.
I fisted the base of my cock, watching as her wetness fucking dripped off of it as it was down her thighs, before sliding it up to her clit, then down, back, up, pressing the head against her ass, listening to her take a slow, deep breath as she was known to do right before I took her ass. As I did then, gliding in as her air rushed back out of her on a sigh as my cock settled deep.
"Fuck," she hissed, pushing against the bar as my hand slid around her belly, helping her to move upright, press her back against my chest, her face curved into the crook of my neck. "That feels good," she added, one arm moving above her head to wrap around my neck as the other hung limply at her side.
"About to get a whole lot better," I promised her, snagging her arm at the wrist, sliding it down her belly, pressing her fingers against her own clit, my fingers pushing down on hers until she started working it herself. "Good girl," I rumbled as the pressure inside became too much to ignore, dropping my hips, then rocking back inside her, the pace unhurried, but not exactly gentle. Helen didn't need gentle. She needed release. Her fingers worked her clit relentlessly, seeking an end to the need gripping her system.
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