"No, because we're just friends." Jack figured Allen would want to hear otherwise. If he was hooking up with Lucy, it would absolve him of all guilt for the remainder of the summer. Even now, it was all about him.
"I don't get you, Markle," Allen said. "I don't get Lucy either, but she's not here so let's focus on you. You've got this chick pining after you for years. She wants you. You. The world's deepest introvert. The football team wants her. The basketball team. The theater dorks. Every semester she's got hoards of admirers...for some reason. And yet, she's hung up on Jack Markle. The guy with no interest. And why might that be? Because freckles are a turn off?"
"What?" Lucy's body was dusted with light freckles, but they didn't detract from her natural beauty: her cherub's face, bright green eyes, or rock-hard figure. Allen clung to this criticism because, in his mind, it reduced Jack to his level of shallowness.
"Eh, doesn't matter. I just want to make sure we're cool. So, are we?"
"Definitely." Jack's answer was half-hearted, but so was Allen's apology.
"Excellent. So how 'bout those Bronson flicks tonight."
"Sure."
***
He watched her run for the door, that tight little ass wiggling with desperation as she moved. Her resistance provoked him, and he followed close behind, licking his lips and wiping away the drool.
She got there first, faster than he'd realized, and flung it open. A startling amount of sunlight spilled into the hall. Even though he'd just driven home, he had managed to forget it was day.
He couldn't say what type of hours he was keeping lately. Everything blended together. Minutes, hours, days and weeks—what month was this?
She was at her car. He watched her retreat from the doorway. She pressed a hand to her top fiercely, obscuring any visible cleavage, as if that mattered now.
He squinted through the blinding light of Wednesday morning and wished the nights lasted longer. Perhaps the New England winter would be more to his liking now, but shorter days were a few months away. Until then, there was no choice but to adjust to this fucking glare.
He needed sleep but fought against it. Didn't matter that he hadn't had any rest in forever, only that fatigue settled into his muscles. Parts of him ached for the first time ever. Bones and muscles he had never felt.
These things were going to take some getting used to.
Who can sleep, he thought while watching her fumble for her car keys. He wanted to go after her. To grab her and take her then and there. With force. His fists clenched, his teeth gnashed and his heart skidded.
Figuring that the neighbors would have something to say about that, he realized he required more patience.
Repulsion dripped from her like sweat. He smelled it from here. Short breath and wracked snobs completed the stimulating assault on his senses, and an appreciative smile brushed across his face. His head lolled as if appreciating the grand finale of a symphony. Finding her here had been the smooth and buttery icing on an already sweet cake.
At last, she tore the door open and dropped into the driver's seat. She was driving off before he had time to blow her a kiss.
Fucking cocktease...
He rejected the sun’s rays with a forceful slam of the front door before retreating back into the house. The hallway was rife with her scent. Enough that he got hard again.
This was wrong. A tiny part of him protested. The same part that told him fathers did not lust after their daughters. He didn't care, though, thinking instead of all the times she'd paraded around the house in cluelessly revealing clothing. All the times he stole glimpses of her forbidden areas.
It used to be that he ignored those thoughts. They were unwelcome and had no part occupying the head of a decent and dedicated family man.
Hadn't I been that once?
Lately, the urges were too strong. He had tried hiding them in the beginning but that gave them more credence. His efforts to kill them only made them stronger.
He was beyond it now.
So far beyond that this morning was a welcome surprise. He no longer cared that there was no coming back from it. They had stopped being a family long ago.
He dropped his pants and fell into his favorite chair, taking himself in his hand. Through gritted teeth, he choked out her name amidst a series of grunts and growls that sounded barely human, even to him.
The outskirts of his nostrils detected traces of her scent. More than just her body wash, he smelled her essence.
That wasn't enough. The fantasy was nothing now. He reached for his phone and dialed a number. It rang only once before a familiar voice picked up.
"You're early," she said.
"I want to see you."
"So soon?"
"Right now," he grunted.
"It's not even lunch time."
"I'm coming over."
"And I'm serious...don't...”
"I wasn't asking, whore."
The line fell silent and two voices mumbled back and forth inaudibly. "Fine," she said. "I'm ready for you."
"And I want it like last time."
"Of course you do."
Was that a sigh?
He was in the car in less than a minute. Speeding toward that voice and ready to explode.
The drive was less than eight miles, but felt like a goddamn eternity. He wound around bend after bend, traveling the sparsest areas of Greifsfield. The late morning sun poked through the endless trees as he turned onto Adams Street and slowed down.
"Which house was it?"
It should've been familiar to him, considering the number of times he'd been here. Everything looked the same out this way, though. The homes were hopped up on steroids.
His place was nothing to scoff at, but this was old money. Most of the East Coast's big business trekked out to Connecticut or Long Island to hang their hats, but the Greifsfield hills displayed just as much wealth and luxury. It was just harder to find anything out this way considering the forests around the town were so damn dense.
His eyes scanned the homes, looking for number 56. It was the one dwelling on Adams Street that hadn't been for sale. Greifsfield's Historical Society wanted it preserved, giving it landmark status.
Something to do with the maze of tunnels running beneath the mansion. Rumor was that Benjamin Sarandon had used them to smuggle slaves safely out into the Mount Greyrock forest en route to the New York coast. In recent years, the town had tried to remove that enduring stigma by asking local plumbers and engineers to sign off on the probability that the passageways were actually drainage pipes designed to carry basement water to the Greyrock slope.
It worked but it had also helped Rory wrestle the home out from underneath the historical society's grasp. Since there wasn't anything historical about drainage pipes, they begrudgingly agreed to sell it to a very high bidder.
Anton Fane.
He paid with more than money.
Hard to believe a year had gone by that quickly.
Number 56 was after the house with the gables; Rory noticed it over a stretch of hemlocks. The Sarandon house was conveniently obscured save for the wrought iron gate at the foot of its drive.
It was open; no need to stop and deal with the hassle of proving his identity to the guards. His was the only car in the driveway, too. A fantastic sign!
There'd be no audience this time.
He knocked at the door once, twice, three times. He knocked a fourth, just for good measure.
Open up, he thought, rapping against the wood with his elbow.
Finally, it opened.
His cock throbbed against his jeans.
She looked good. Perfect. Everything but that red wig, anyway. It wasn't quite right, but it'd work for now.
Besides, the rest of the package more than made up for it: She wore a dark mesh nightgown, open. He drank it in through greedy eyes: the way the lace hung over big tits, obscuring all but a tiny hint of nipple. Her athletic stomach was displayed in all its nakedness. The open gown gave
way to a perfectly bald cunt. Black, fuck-me pumps completed the picture, adding a few inches to her come hither stature.
He didn't let her speak because he didn't give a shit what she had to say. He seized her and pressed on her mouth. He licked her lips while her hands rubbed and squeezed.
"Not like this, daddy!"
The impression of his daughter was shit, but Rory Eastman wasn't going to let that stop him.
"I'm going to fuck you, Lucy. And you're not going to say anything to mommy. Not a thing. Are we clear?"
'Lucy' smiled. "Fuck me, daddy," she said without missing a beat.
"I've been waiting to hear you say that."
***
"I made myself look like a complete freakshow." Molly was only now experiencing total recall.
"Well, yeah, you did. But there's nothing you can do about it now."
"Lucy...how retarded do you think I am?"
Lucy was thankful for the bug-framed sunglasses that completely obscured her eyes. Molly would've caught one hell of an eye roll, otherwise. She offered her friend the sincerest smile she could muster. "I don't think you're retarded at all, kiddo. I think you're in love. Which, now that I think about it, is probably the same thing as being mentally challenged."
They lounged poolside, the two of them lathered in suntan lotion and wearing skimpy two-pieces. Their exposed flesh baked in the sweltering heat, and Lucy never felt more vulnerable.
This was the last place she wanted to be, but Molly's company, no matter how vapid it could occasionally be, was better than nothing. What's to be done after your father tries raping you for a second time? Sit somewhere and sulk? That was last weekend. There was the police, but what would that accomplish? He hadn't succeeded in doing anything, and it would just make him more cautious ahead of the next time he tried his luck.
"How old do you think she is?" Molly said.
"Allen's girl? Early forties, easy."
"I love you. But seriously...how old?"
"Dunno. Late twenties, maybe. Jack's age."
"Do you think she's all that?"
"Oh my God, no." That was a lie. Lucy hated to admit it, and would never do so to Jack or Allen, but that ho had her stuff together. It wasn't for the lack of looking: Lucy had put her under a microscope last night, hoping to find some flaws. She would've settled for just one by the end of the evening. No age lines or Botox, no chicken neck or toe thumbs. Nothing. Her damn boobs even jiggled the right way—same as hers.
Elisabeth would make some man very miserable one day, but she was all natural. Flawless. Molly didn't need to hear the truth in her fragile state. "She looks like a cheap escort."
"How come every guy around this pool can't keep his eyes off me, but Allen won't look twice?"
Lucy wasn't into gals, but Molly had a nice set of boobs herself, and nipple tape would've covered them more than her bathing suit did. Men have stared longer at a lot less. She shrugged and cursed herself for refusing to own a conservative bikini. There was no need for modesty if you had the goods—it'd been instrumental in boosting her confidence once she realized she could turn heads. Grade school 'freckle face' insults fell by the wayside as the boys who tormented her a few years earlier were suddenly vying for her number.
Lucy gazed down at her body, and stretched out on the pool chair. It was impossible to think of anything other than her father trying to touch her.
Somebody get me a robe.
She sat on her hands in an effort to stop shuddering. Her eyes were next, welling up behind the bug frames, relieved that she didn't choose glasses like bikinis. These puppies were huge. So large that she felt like she was behind a Halloween mask.
That suited the afternoon fine. No need to explain things to Molly. Bad enough she'd had a weak moment with Jack. He was in pity mode now, even concluding an earlier phone call with the obligatory, "Let me know if there's anything I can do." It was never going to stop. Mr. Markle was about to become her personal white knight.
The thought prompted a quiet laugh. What was Jack Markle going to do? His concern should've been warming but instead she felt like mocking it.
Beside her, Molly continued to prattle: "I don't know why I'm freaking out, it's not as though Allen has ever been able to keep a relationship longer than a few weeks, right? He'll be done with her soon enough..."
"He kept you for longer," Lucy said, unable to mask the boredom in her voice. It pissed her off that Allen had been right about inviting her up for the summer.
Even an asshole tells time twice a day...isn't that the expression?
"Yup! So I guess that means we're going to get back together at some point. We're practically made for one another. He's never been able to make it work with anyone else."
Lucy considered appealing to Molly's last bastion of common sense, but decided against it. That skull was thicker than a phone book, and soaking up the June sun was a real drain on her motivation. Besides, Molly's Degrassi-ish problems couldn't have felt more trivial right now.
So she listened.
And heard.
Heard a lot more about Allen Taylor than she'd ever wanted to hear. Molly even saw fit to drudge up some old classics, such as the time she and Allen spent the night in the back of Lucy's Civic—not a wink of sleep between them, she was sure to include.
Every pining word, every nostalgic syllable filled Lucy with equal parts disgust and disdain. This stupid bitch was unrelenting!
Back off Luce...she doesn’t know. No way she'd be droning on and on about this if she knew what was bothering you.
That realization made her feel worse. "Molly," she said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I feel like shit. I'm gonna head back to my room to catch a nap."
"Is it the sun?"
"Yes."
"I'll sit out a while longer and work on my tan. Plus, look at that forty-five year old father over there. How bad does he want us?"
Yeah, we must be hot stuff if desperate dad is looking. "I'll see you later, okay?"
"Still on for clubbing tonight?"
"Call me, okay?"
Lucy wasn't outside the pool area when her lip began quivering. She bit the inside of her cheek and quickened her pace to the lobby, feeling dirty, cheap, and ugly while in the light of this morning's events.
Her eyes were wet and tears streaked down her face without control. She broke into a jog, eager to get back to her room.
Out of sight.
***
Allen headed back to his room after a wonderfully relaxing day on the links proved that he could still swing a golf club.
Stepping back onto the fairway had made him feel as though he'd never left. It had been just over a year since he'd last set foot on the green, and he wasn't sure that he could still tee off like he used to.
Golf skills weren't like riding a bike. You needed to continue working at your game in order to maintain it. This course was a par 72, and he'd come in two under for the day. Not a bad way to kill an afternoon. The magic was still there.
He took the long way back to the cabana, walking the darkened nature trails that wove throughout the resort's grounds. There was much less danger of running into a drunk and attention-starved Molly Perkins this way.
His phone rang.
"Elisabeth, what's up?"
"I need to see you tonight, Allen. Come to my place at nine-thirty." Her voice was a raised whisper, and she spoke with urgency.
"What happened? Shit, I've got your car don’t I? You need me to come and get you?"
"I'm fine. I do not mean for you to worry."
"Too late."
"Don't. Just meet me at nine-thirty."
"I'll be there."
He kept the receiver pressed to his ear until he was certain she'd hung up.
Why the mystery?
There had always been a twinge of that in Elisabeth, it was part of what made their relationship so exciting. But this sounded like trouble.
Allen was tense as he got back to the room. Jack wasn't g
oing to be happy that tonight's double feature was off the table, but there was nothing to be done. It wasn't like he owed his friend anything, and certainly not a night out on the town.
It would've been nice to spend an evening relaxing in the confines of a darkened theater with two cheeseball flicks, but Elisabeth had prominence. God, did she have it.
If Jack didn't like that, it was because he didn't understand, or was much too selfish to care. Funny how Elisabeth made everything else seem so unimportant.
Jack wasn't there. Allen considered this a stroke of luck. He grabbed his personal things like a cat burglar, taking only what was most valuable: mints, body spray and a handful of rubbers. Then he made a clean break.
Allen held his breath while dialing Jack's cell. The call landed in his voicemail, so he muttered some nonsense about some plans he’d forgotten he'd made.
My lucky night.
It wasn't yet nine-thirty, so he spent the next hour navigating Greifsfield's back roads while contemplating whatever bombshell Elisabeth was about to drop. He had always figured she was too perfect for this world, and that some dashing ex-lover had reappeared in her life just in time to complicate matters.
He hoped it was that and nothing more serious. A tough guy could be dealt with. He might even welcome something like that, because he wanted nothing more than to prove his mettle to the woman he loved.
What type of guy might Elisabeth go for?
Allen couldn’t answer that. It was easy to imagine her alongside some trendy artist or an upper-crust scholar, but he didn't think so. His mind formed a contrarian image—a big, burly goth sporting head-to-toe body ink: grim reapers, zombies, demons. Shit like that. Didn't want to rule out a pretentious coffee drinker, either.
Allen recognized the off chance that she'd settle down with some beret-wearing Greenwich Village sort who believed in every idealistic political cause that would never be achieved. Hopefully it was the latter, if only because it was easier to intimidate a beatnik than a biker.
He turned onto her street at twenty past nine. A little early, but he knew Greifsfield as well as his hometown at this point, and the waiting was torture. At the end of the quiet road, he banked a left and rolled up a dark and narrow driveway.
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