Failing to Hold On

Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

*.*.*.*

"What? We're just friends. Nothing is going to happen. It's just, I mean, really, like you'd ever be able afford staying in the French Quarter, huh?" Chelsea Adams wheedled.

That last declaration stung. Chelsea knew that Farnsworth was experiencing a bit of a slow-down at the moment. Pops and Bobby kept assuring everyone that this was just temporary, just a little set-back after the holiday rush.

Chelsea's attitude also irked Ford Udell. True, he could not afford to rent a week-long stay at a French Quarter apartment. And certainly not during the height of the Mardi Gras season in New Orleans.

"You must, you must think I've lost my ever loving mind here," Ford said, shaking his head in bewilderment. "If you really expect me to believe, either that, or you've lost yours."

"What. Ever," Chelsea said flippantly, the matter decided as far as she was concerned.

"And you're telling me, Mattie O'Brien's okay with this?" Ford called out at Chelsea's retreating form.

"Of course. See? Even she knows nothing's going happen between Steve and me. It's just us going see the parades, cut loose a little," Chelsea said, delighted with being able to point out that Mattie, Steve O'Brien's insanely jealous wife was okay with Steve and Chelsea going to the French Quarter, sharing a small apartment for a week, Wednesday to Wednesday.

"Mattie O'Brien, who jumped up and punched that old woman at Tabitha's wedding because the old woman patted Steve on his rear end? Is okay with the two of you running off to New Orleans, huh?" Ford said, not believing it for a moment.

"Yes," Chelsea said smugly. "She knows Steve will be sleeping on the sofa bed and I'll be sleeping in the bedroom. See?"

"Doesn't matter," Ford said. "Just because she's lost her mind doesn't mean I have to lose mine. I'm telling you no. No, you're not going." You are not going with Steve O'Brien, your old high school boyfriend."

"What? You don't own me," Chelsea snarled bitterly. "And I am not a child; you can't tell me what I can and can't do."

"Right. And wrong. Right, I don't own you. And wrong. I can tell you, I won't be putting up with you just running off whenever you feel like it," Ford said.

Chelsea Adams was beautiful. Gorgeous. She was five feet, ten inches tall and weighed one hundred and thirty two pounds, despite having three children. Her waist length blonde hair was so light it almost appeared white and her perpetual tan made it appear lighter in color. Her large brown eyes were deep, soulful eyes separated by her perfect nose. Her lips were plump, pouting, kissable lips. Her jaw and chin were strong, square shaped, making her present scowl look quite fierce.

Ford nearly recoiled, shrank back from the twenty three year old woman's hateful glare. He was the father of her three children. The Logistics Planner made a good salary, provided for Chelsea and her three children very well, even with the slight set-back at Farnsworth.

Ford Udell's bland expression infuriated Chelsea Adams; Ford actually believed he could tell her what to do.

Ford could tell that Chelsea had not taken his initial response very seriously. Ford did wonder if she might try to manipulate him with sex. He did love sex with her; she had a body that was built for it. And she did seem to enjoy sex a great deal.

But apparently, sex would not be used to persuade Ford. Chelsea decided to withhold sex instead.

Two days later, two very chilly days later, a box was dropped off at the house. Chelsea did not recognize the store's label, and it was addressed to Ford, not her. Ford had once opened a package addressed to her and Chelsea had gone on a two hour screaming tirade over that invasion of her privacy.

Not wishing to give Ford any ammunition, any reason to throw her tirade in her face, Chelsea resisted the temptation to peek inside the well taped box. Ford was already walking in the door before Chelsea had thought of possibly researching the store's label on the computer.

When Ford stepped up to the breakfast counter, he looked at the box and smiled. Chelsea asked him, syrup sweetness dripping from her lips what was in the box.

"Hmm? Oh, its DNA tests for our children," Ford said casually.

"It's what?" Chelsea screamed.

"Uh huh. See, your willingness just run off to the Big Easy with the big sleazy, your boyfriend? Makes me wonder if this might not be first time you flopped in someone else's bed," Ford said easily.

"You mother fucker," Chelsea snarled bitterly. "How dare you?"

"How dare I? How dare I? No, Chelsea, how dare you? How dare you think its okay go on a trip with Steve O'Brien? How dare you think I'd be okay with that?" Ford snapped.

"Well, you are not taking any blood from any of my children," Chelsea spat.

"Doesn't require blood," Ford said. "Just a little swab of the inside of their mouths."

"Well, you're not doing that either," Chelsea snarled, big brown eyes blazing furiously.

"Thought so," Ford smiled tightly. "Apparently someone's afraid of what I'll find out."

"You, you mother fucker," she snarled venomously.

"Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea," Ford sighed. "You really need find other words if you're trying to insult me. Of course I'm a mother fucker. I've fucked you quite a few times in the past what? Four, five years?"

"What. Ever, you mother fucker," Chelsea spat.

"But, the question is, while I was fucking the mother, were you fucking the father?" Ford smirked.

Ford used her spittle to swab the first swab and sealed it into a bag. Then he calmly washed her spittle from his face.

(Inside, he was anything but calm. Inside, Ford was seething with the desire to actually strike Chelsea Adams.)

"And where are the little urchins?" Ford asked as he used the kitchen dishtowel to wipe his face.

"None of your fucking business," Chelsea shrilled.

"Wrong again, Chelsea. Supposedly, they're my children, therefore, it is my business where they are," Ford said, making sure he had the box as he side-stepped her.

"You are not, give me that box, you are not going, God damn it, Ford, give me that fucking box, you God damned mother fucker," Chelsea screamed, wrestling with Ford, grabbing for the box.

Ford twisted out of her grasp and bolted for the front door. He managed to get into his truck and locked the doors. For a few moments, Chelsea banged on the windows, screaming insults and threats.

"I hope you're happy," Chelsea said bitterly when Ford walked into the house ten minutes after Chelsea had ceased with her tirade.

Randy and Nicole, their four and three year old son and daughter were wailing, clinging onto their mother. Carrie Udell, the eight month old was in her crib, but her wails could be heard coming down the hall.

"Ecstatic," Ford said bluntly and went to the nursery.

Inside the nursery, Ford quickly swabbed the inside of Carrie's mouth. Then he changed her diaper. Ford patted Carrie, crooned lovingly to her and her cries stopped.

"You don't be mean to Mommy," Randy ordered from the doorway of the nursery.

"Okay, buddy, I won't," Ford said.

"Really, Chelsea?" he muttered bitterly. "Really? Use our children like that, you selfish bitch?"

While Chelsea was busy making their supper, Ford managed to swab the mouths of Randy and Nicole. Then, when she nastily refused to make sure there was enough food for his supper, Chelsea afforded Ford with the perfect excuse to leave the house.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll just go down to the Armada for one of their hamburgers," Ford said glibly. "Oh, and on the way back? I'll mail off the tests, okay?"

"You mother fucker!" Chelsea screamed, struggling to slide out of her chair.

The Armada was a 'gentlemen's club' that had a half pound of ground beef goodness. Onions were pounded into the patties and a goodly portion of grilled onions were layered on top of the seared meat. Ralph O'Reilly, the owner of the bar declared that 'a queer is someone don't want onions on their burger.'

After eating a burger, downing two beers, and ogling Birdie, a surprisingly flat chested girl wiggling and wobbling to insanely loud heavy metal, Ford re-read the instructions to his DNA kit. He wanted to make sure he'd dotted all 'I's and crossed all 'T's.

"And..." Ford said, swabbing his own mouth and dropping it into another plastic bag.

"Buddy mine got him one of them," Ralph said as Birdie walked around, trying to get more tips from the customers.

"Yeah?" Ford asked.

"Think, as fat as that girl is, she'd gotten some titties out the deal, huh?" Bingo whispered loudly to Ford.

"Yeah, but she's a cutie, huh?" Mark declared.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah, ain't nothing wrong with her face. And damn, she got her a cute butt, tell you that," Bingo agreed.

"Anyway, what my buddy done? Had his next door neighbor do the swab 'stead of him," Ralph said. "See, his neighbor? Black, black a coal. Knew weren't no way he could be daddy of his twins."

"Mm-hmm?" Ford said and slipped Birdie a five dollar bill. "Hey Sweetie? Next time? How 'bout a little country music huh? Damned heavy metal gives me a headache."

"I'll do it for you, Sugar," Birdie promised.

"And stay away from that one," Ford said, pointing to Mark. "Boy ain't nothing but a big old pervert."

"Ooh, really?" Birdie cooed, thrusting her nonexistent breasts toward Mark.

"Don't listen to him, Sweetie," Mark laughed. "And don't worry what I got them handcuffs and duct tape for, okay?"

"Hand... Well, Mr. Chevy here says stay away from you," Birdie said, patting Ford on his arm.

"Ford, damn it, Ford!" Ford laughed as Birdie shot him a playful smile.

"Bye, Mr. Dodge," Birdie called out as Donna, an emaciated looking girl with surgically enhanced breasts wiggled and wobbled to a blaring Carrie Underwood song.

"Bye Bunny," Ford agreed, stepping out of The Armada into the chilly evening.

"It's Birdie!" Birdie yelled, laughing.

"Uh huh," Ford said, zipping up his jacket.

The mailbox in front of the Pack 'N Sak convenience store gave a 'thump' when Ford dropped the padded envelope into it. Ford then debated with himself if he should return home, or possibly even go into the office. Pops and Bobby were talking about cutting two more trucks from the fleet.

Ford mentally flipped the coin and decided to go home. He regretted that decision when he entered.

Chelsea Adams had been a beautiful girl. She'd been Conway High School's Homecoming Queen and had been Lowenburg's Summer Festival Queen three years in a row.

Following Steve to Missouri River State, Chelsea had entered into and had won the Miss Missouri River State pageant. She had not even been a finalist in the Miss Missouri Pageant, though. She had not represented that state in that year's Miss America Beauty Pageant. She had not been selected to represent Missouri in the Miss USA beauty Pageant either.

Shortly after arriving to Missouri River State University, Steve O'Brien had dumped Chelsea, had started dating Mathilda Jeanine Jenecki. The short red headed Mattie did not hesitated in striking anyone that paid just a little too much attention to her man and old girlfriends from Steve's hometown were no exception.

Chelsea took both the rejection of the Missouri Pageants and the dumping by Steve O'Brien quite hard. She dropped out of Missouri River State University and transferred her three earned credits to Myndee University in Myndee, Arkansas. There, Chelsea won the Miss Myndee Beauty Pageant. And again, she failed to be a finalist in the Miss Arkansas pageant. She did not represent Arkansas in the Miss America, or the Miss USA pageants.

Defeated, humiliated, Chelsea Adams returned home to Lowenburg and latched onto Ford Udell.

"Behind every beautiful woman is a man that's tired of fucking her," Ford thought as he was greeted by a screaming banshee upon his return from the Armada.

"Oh, sure. Leave them screaming and crying and just when I finally get them calmed down you come waltzing in here like ain't shit wrong, huh?" the beautiful woman shrieked.

"Well, keep screaming. That'll get them all worked up again," Ford said calmly.

His calm response earned him a punch to the eye. A second punch would not be coming; Chelsea had her hand in her other hand and was hopping around, exclaiming 'ow, ow, ow!'

"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" the operator asked.

"Yes, my live in girlfriend just struck me in the eye," Ford said, closing and locking the bathroom door.

"Open this fucking door, mother fucker, open this, my hand hurts, fucking ass hole, open this mother fucking door, God damn it," Chelsea screamed, kicking at the flimsy door.

"Sir, I'm sending help right now," the operator said, Chelsea's tirade being heard and recorded by the operator.

Ford did not hesitate; when Officer Bennington asked him if he wanted to press charges, Ford said 'yes.' His left eye was swelling fast and he could tell he would have a beautiful shiner in the morning.

"Don't handcuff me! My fucking hand hurts! God damned mother fucker, my hand hurts!" Chelsea screamed at the other officer, even kicking out at him.

"Hmm," was Officer Bennington's only response as his partner struggled with Chelsea Adams.

"And I would like a copy of that report, please," Ford quietly asked as Chelsea was wrestled into the rear of the police car.

"Your uh, your wife on any medications?" Officer Bennington asked.

"Needs to be, but no, she's not," Ford said. "And, she's not my wife."

"Heart, diabetes, psychotropic," Officer Bennington continued.

"Nope, nope, and nope," Ford said.

"She drink? Use drugs?" Officer Bennington continued, scribbling.

"'Know how many calories are in one sip of beer?'" Ford screeched in an imitation of Chelsea. "No, wish she would. Might help, huh?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Officer Bennington agreed. "Might want put some ice on that eye, Mr. Udell."

Loretta Adams, Chelsea's mother bailed her daughter out the next morning. Returning to the small home that she and Ford lived in, Chelsea found the bubble brained next door neighbor had been hired by Ford to care for their children while he was at work.

Myra Silverstein was a sweet woman of sixty three. But because Myra didn't care about fashion, or the latest reality television show or the other things that Chelsea cared about, Chelsea believed the woman to be bubble brained.

"What? Where's Ford?" Chelsea demanded.

"Work, I believe," Myra said calmly. "You know, place of employment? How he pays for all the crap you just got to have?"

"Baby's crying," Chelsea said tersely.

"Then might want go see why," Myra said, getting to her feet. "Mr. Udell asked me watch them until either you or he got home. Didn't say anything about me changing diapers or feeding them."

"Fine, fine," Chelsea snapped.

"Uh?" Myra said, hand outstretched.

"Uh?" Chelsea asked.

"Uh, think I do this for free?" Myra asked.

"Oh my God, will this shit never end? How much?" Chelsea snapped.

"Been here two hours. Hmm, twenty ought cut it," Myra said.

"God damn! And don't feed them or change diapers?" Chelsea spat.

Myra added Chelsea's ten and two fives to the twenty dollars Ford had already paid her. She would have been happy with the twenty dollars from Ford, but Chelsea Adams irked Myra badly enough for Myra to demand extra money.

While Chelsea was changing Carrie's filthy diaper, Ford Udell was trying to plan how to ship the same amount of goods with three less trucks, three less drivers. Pops and Bobby Farnsworth, the office manager pointed to the rising prices of fuel, the rising prices of insurance, the rising prices of maintenance.

Ford could see the writing on the wall; in less than twelve months, they'd need to shut the doors. Unless one of them won the lottery, they'd soon be out of cash. Unless they could start paying more, they'd soon be out of drivers. As it was, a few of the men were grumbling.

Coming home wasn't a relief from the stresses of his job. No sooner had he opened the door of his home than Ford was greeted by a snarling Chelsea.

"And thanks to you? Got to go to court on the eight," Chelsea said. "Going need a lawyer for that. Oh, and you owe my momma five hundred bucks."

"Hi Sweetheart. How was my day? Rough, hear me? It was rough. Had let three rigs go. But get this, get this, they want us do the same amount of shipping with three less trucks. Yeah, I sure could use a hug, a loving kiss. And how was your day?" Ford asked.

"Fuck you, you mother fucker," Chelsea snarled.

"A fuck? Yeah, that would take the edge off of a shitty day. Sure, why not? Let's fuck. And, uh, why do I owe your momma five hundred bucks?" Ford asked.

"My bail, ass hole. And it'll be a cold day in Hell before I fuck you again," Chelsea said.

"But, golly gosh, Sweetheart, I didn't ask your mother to bail your ass out. You did. So, YOU owe her five hundred bucks," Ford said.

"You, you would have just left me? In jail?" Chelsea asked, truly surprised.

"Uh, Honey? See my eye?" Ford snapped. "God damned fucking right I would have left your ass in jail. Have you even said you're sorry? No, you have not. God damned right I had it my way, you'd still be in jail. YOU owe your momma, YOU. Not me, you."

More screaming, more harsh words, Chelsea turning Randy and Nicole against their father and Ford again went to Armada for another artery clogging burger and ice cold beer.

"Mr. Cadillac! What happened to your eye?" Birdie asked, actually placing a gentle hand on his face.

"Walked into a door," Ford mumbled, feigning embarrassment.

"Door didn't do that, Mr. Ford," Birdie said softly.

"She says she's sorry; it won't happen again," Ford continued with the charade.

"They always do, then it always, always happens again. And it gets worse," Birdie said, peering into his good eye. "Mr. Ford, you need get out of there now before something really bad happens, hear?"

"And how you know this?" Ford asked, genuinely interested.

"I seen it, over and over with my momma," Birdie said, a single tear forming. "And, don't matter how much mother fucker promises he'll change, it won't happen again, he'd be lost without her, hot water heater breaks, he slaps her. Suit wasn't picked up from the dry-cleaners? He breaks couple ribs."

Abruptly, she turned and walked to the backstage area. A few moments later, heavy metal music started blaring and Birdie came out, dancing. She smiled sadly and blew Ford a kiss when Ford dropped a ten into her tip jar.

"Bye, Mr. Plymouth," she called out when he left the building.

The weekend was a cold one in Ford's house. By Saturday afternoon, Ford had all he could take of Chelsea's tirades and the children's misery. He bundled the three children into his truck, securely buckled into their car seats, and drove them to the McDonald's. He held Carrie while Randy and Nicole played on the playground equipment. Then he took the children inside and bought two Happy Meals. He and Carrie shared a vanilla shake, which made Carrie giggle and blather in her attempt at words.

"Well, thanks a fucking lot, Ford, thanks a fucking lot," Chelsea snarled upon their return. "Ruin their appetite why don't you?"

"You are so welcome," Ford said glibly. "But if McDonald's wouldn't have ruined their appetites, I'm sure your cooking would have."

Sunday and Monday were repeats of Saturday. Ford did attempt to not antagonize Chelsea. He did not make comments about her lack of culinary skills, or her lack of house-cleaning abilities.

Tuesday night, Chelsea tried an insincere attempt to make peace. Ford did not turn down sex; Chelsea was a truly beautiful woman, with large breasts and tight ass.