The Morbid and Sultry Tales of Genevieve Clare (22 page)

He leaned back and took a huge drink from the bottle and handed it to me. I did the same, and after two more turns each, the bottle was empty. Half a bottle of wine each. I knew we were both feeling it, and I felt uninhibited enough to say, “Fuck me hard and dirty.”

The other straps were immediately pulled off the other shoulder, and his face was between my tits, pushing them together, sucking one nipple into his mouth then onto the other and back again. It was fevered, it was fabulous, and it was about to get filthy.

He pulled me to the edge of the chair by the waistband of my shorts, and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I worried if we were going to make a mess on the nice, new, comfy chairs. “Should we get a towel or something?”

“No one will ever stay here but us,” he returned and yanked my shorts down so hard, I heard a rip in the fabric.

“These are the only shorts I own,” I panted.

“No.” He threw them across the room, along with my panties. “Rocky bought you five pairs.”

Then his hands were under my ass, pulling me to his face as he knelt on the floor. The second his mouth hit me, I whimpered… I was that worked up.

“Not yet, baby.” He pulled his face away from me and replaced it with a finger sliding inside. He crooked it in a way, like he knew exactly what he was searching for, and pulled me, one finger hooked inside, his thumb circling over my aching clit, as his mouth hit mine.

It was carnal, so freaking rough it was almost painful, but I loved every second of it. The desperate grabbing of my breast, his shoulders tense as he held himself at my entrance, my fingernails digging into his ass, urging him inside.

“Tell me how you want it again,” he breathed heavily against my mouth.

“Hard…and dirty.” I shuddered beneath him with anticipation, and then he drove into me, pounding so hard, the chair edged backward.

Hours later, after another bottle of wine, he made love to me.

****

I’d been going through requests on my website and came across one I could not say no to.

“Hey,” I said to Ahren as he made us breakfast in the newly beautified kitchen.

“Something interesting?” he asked, frying up bacon in an iron skillet, all old-school and manly in cargo shorts and nothing else.

“This woman said she needs someone to clean up her toybox.” I waited for him to ask me for more information.

“A grown woman? With a toybox?” He cracked an egg in the frying pan.

I took a sip of coffee. “As in, she doesn’t want her family to know about her dildos and anal beads kind of toybox.”

He lifted his head, turned to me, and said, “I think you’re going to need help with that particular job,” then grinned. Big.

“I’m not even sure how to write up a contract for that. I mean, normally, the nursing home calls me, or the funeral home or a family member. How is a family member going to…?” An idea popped into my head. “I got it. I’m good. I’m totally going to do this. Can you imagine what kind of service this provides to people? I mean, if my parents were still living and they had to go through the suitcase under my bed—”

“Wait, what? What suit case?” His eyebrows knitted together. He almost looked pissed. “How do I not know about a suitcase under your—”

I grinned playfully. “I thought you could read me like a book?”

He turned back to the pan and lifted an egg to each peacock-green dinner plate; each already had a pile of bacon and white toast. With real butter.

He sat down, setting my plate in front of me first, and before he took his first bite, he informed me, “We better go shopping for a suitcase. And shopping for things to put into said suitcase.”

I laughed and tucked into my meal when he asked, “How are you gonna do it?”

“If the family is cool, it could be as easy as her telling them I’m going to come by and pick up a few things, or that I’ll be helping with the clean-up of the room. I’ll have to work on an idea, but I’m gonna guess she’s already thought of that.”

I finished my grand breakfast as Ahren told me more about Adim and his grandfather. Adim was the same age as Ahren. He thought it was crazy they’d never met before, but he felt that Adim
could become a friend, something Ahren was short on, I’d noticed.

So I asked him, “Why don’t you have any friends?”

He sat back in his chair and held his coffee mug as he explained. He didn’t even have to think about it.

“When I lost my mom, the friends I had in high school had no idea what to say. As it was, I was always helping my dad, so I didn’t socialize all that much. Then in college, I had a girlfriend who did her best to be a controlling bitch. My work isn’t really social work. I think my closest male friend in the last thirty-eight years is my cab driver, Jimmy.”

Oh my God.

Jimmy.

I quickly wiped my face. “Ahren! We haven’t invited Jimmy. We have to invite him and his wife! How could we have forgotten Jimmy?”

“Gen?” Ahren reached out for my hand to calm me. “He knows, and he’s already said yes. I’ve got you covered.”

And he totally did. Invitations, getting the house ready, Rocky and Cosmo’s wedding, it was all coming together, just like us, just like our future.

The summer months had gone quickly, but the hot weather lingered. Suddenly, it was late October, and Rocky, Guava, and I sat in the back of Brewster’s. Our table was covered in plates with little slices of cake and three jumbo mugs of Joe. Meanwhile, the delighted townspeople of Greer’s Rest were pointing, whispering, and smiling with pure, unguarded delight.

“Tell me why we’re doing this again?” Guava asked, which I thought was a silly question.

“Never question free cake, Mom.” This was from Rocky, who turned to me and asked, “What was the one with that almondy stuff?”

“That’s Bing cherry cake with marzipan frosting and almond, cherry, and buttercream filling.” This was Brewster’s, and if I had been born twenty years earlier, I would have challenged Betty Brewster to a duel for her husband, just for free cake.

“Rochelle?” Using her full name meant Guava had reached her limit on all things baked, all things sugar, all things cakes, dresses, hats, gowns, mother-of-the-bride duties, and purple roses in October. Except for pumpkins. I was in charge of pumpkins.

Normally, Guava was about the most relaxed, Zen person you’d ever meet.

Rocky’s eyes moved slowly to her mother and seared her. “You have one child, me, and I’m getting the distinct impression you’re not enjoying yourself…Mom.” Her sarcasm was felt and heard by the entire room.

“Rochelle,” she said quietly with her fingers pressed into her temples. “We have been here for two hours. Two. I’m buzzing from sugar and caffeine, not to mention I have a list, provided by my daughter, that I need to get through. You have eaten the cakes here since you were a child, Rochelle. You do not need a tasting for goodness’ sake. It’s just a waste of time!”

I decided to step in and save the mother/daughter team from descending into pre-wedding hell. “I’ll take it from here, Guava. Just give me a call. I have a meet in an hour, but I’m free late afternoon to do whatever you need. ‘K?”

She gave my hand a squeeze, glared at her daughter then walked out the door.

“God, thank you! Now I can eat cake in peace.” Rocky stabbed her slice of cake with murderous intent.

“Dude?” I asked carefully.

“Ugh.” She dropped her fork and pushed back from the table. “My teeth hurt, damn it.” Something was wrong with the bride, and it was my job to figure out what that was.

“We’ve consumed seventy-five pounds of refined sugar in all its manifestations, Rock. Now, what’s going on?”

She looked at the cheesecake—the cake tasting wild card—picked up a fork then threw in down with the words, “She wants my dad to walk me down the aisle.”

“Huh?”

As far as I knew, and I’m pretty sure Rocky knew as well, the identity of her father was unknown. Guava was an earth-mother hippie-type from way back. She’d had a wild weekend when Rocky was conceived, the details of which she shared when she’d hit the bong, then the wine, much to Rocky’s horror.

“He’s this perfectly normal guy, and dude, we know him. You know him, I know him, the entire town knows him.”

“And he would be… ” I prompted.

She leaned in and whispered to me, “Frank Healy.”

I started laughing, quietly at first, then loudly, because I just could not contain it. “You do realize that if Chad Healy had asked me out, we’d be sisters, right?”

Chad Healy was a policeman in our town. He was hot, even Rocky thought so. But she did say he wasn’t her type…and thank God for that. Chad, apparently, had always liked me, but never asked me out. Everyone knew there was only one guy for me. But I would never forget he was the one who carried me away from the scene of my family’s car accident.

Rocky put her head down in her hands. “She knew, Gen. She had a wild weekend, but she knew. And Frank really liked her, a lot. Then he got together with Missy, and you know how that ended. And Frank has always come into the shop, always said hello to me, asked how my mom was. He would come in and buy random things like long fancy matches for the fireplace, or a wind chime that cost eight bucks. He was trying to stay in my life without…”

Her tears hit then, and I knew it was time to go. “Rock, go with the white chocolate mud cake with the blueberry-coconut filling and white chocolate ganache. Betty will cover that thing in royal icing in various shades of purple, and it will look and taste incredible. Come on, we’ll talk in your mom’s shop. I’ll come back later and make the order with Betty, okay?”

She nodded and followed me out the door as I made the international hand symbol for “I’ll call you” to Mr. Brewster.

After some tears and a restock of beeswax candles at Mystic Moonstone, Rocky wanted nothing more than to have her dad give her away. Frank knew that Rocky knew about him, he was just waiting for her call. She explained her biggest problem was getting a suit ready for him.

“Five days, Gen. I have five freaking days!”

So we made a list, another list, I should say, and I told her I could easily accomplish everything on it. She had plenty of fabric, so that left her with three things: meet her dad, take his measurements, and make his suit so he could give her away.

Done.

****

I climbed a steep driveway off Broadway in San Francisco. The Victorian house was beautiful, not brightly done up like some of the “Painted Ladies” you saw in the city. I didn’t spend much time here. I had an irrational fear of earthquakes and bridges after the Loma Prieta quake years ago. It scared the crap out of me. I avoided crossing the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge and the Golden Gate. So, a day in San Francisco was an absolute treat.

I knocked once and waited when I was finally greeted by a beautiful cowgirl.

“Genevieve?” she asked.

“Yep.” I smiled affably.

“Won’t you come in?”

She led me into an impressive, magazine-worthy entry, the walls a light mocha color, the picture rails and crown moulding done in a bright white with gold leaf details. One wall was filled with black and white photos. The other had a little table with a marble top, a huge bouquet of white lilies, and a large oval mirror in a gilded frame.

“Your home is beautiful,” I gushed. It wasn’t my style, but it was grand nonetheless.

“Thanks, doll.” She led the way into her kitchen, which was sleek, modern, and apparently owned by a chef by the way it was kitted out. The style seemed utilitarian compared to the rest of the house. “I’m Gloria.”

“You’re…” Oh my good Lord. Gloria Rhodes, billion-hat chef, stood in front of me dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a leather vest, and a button down, collared shirt in a bright floral print. I only knew who she was because she was a guest chef on some competition cooking show. “You cook really good stuff.” And it’s an A-plus for Genevieve Clare in the compliment department and use of one syllable words. “Sorry, you’re the first celebrity I’ve ever met.”

“Hardly.” She waved her hand. “We’re having a theme night at my restaurant. Obviously, I’m a cowgirl.”

“Obviously,” I smiled.

“Shall we get down to business? I really need to be at the restaurant by three at the absolute latest.”

“So, I have this…” she twirled her fingers in circles on either side of her head, “…inoperable brain tumor thing. I’ve seen specialists. You name it, I’ve tried it. I’m getting to the point where driving probably isn’t a good idea. I’ve trained and delegated at work, so I’m not cooking and endangering other people’s lives…” She stopped talking and looked at her watch. “Come on, we’ll sit for a moment.”

I followed her into another room. There were tall windows covered in thick gold drapes and braided, cream-colored tie backs. A daybed sat beneath one window, and in the middle of the room were two white couches with huge pillows. She guided me to one and sat across from me in the other.

“You may or may not know I’m a lesbian.” She gestured toward a framed black and white photo hung prominently in the room, as if that was the sole purpose of the room itself. It featured two women. One was her, with her forehead pressed to another woman’s with long, blonde hair. Their chests were pressed together with their arms crossed, hands in the back jeans pockets of the other, their top half nude. It was beautiful, tender, personal.