Finding Tears in the Rain Ch. 01

Prologue

"Pardon me, please. I'm looking for my sister. I called the police but they won't accept a missing person report on an adult until three days pass. I'm trying to see if she got into an accident or something and needs medical treatment. Can you help me?"

Tom was looking for Gen, but she sure as hell wasn't his sister and he hadn't called the police.

The twenty-something assistant across the intake desk at the hospital focused her attention on him and brightened her eyes. "Sure. What's your sister's name?"

"Genevieve Broussard. She goes by Gen."

"That's 'Broussard' with two S's?"

"Yes that's correct."

After typing in the name, the assistant squinted at the screen. "Sorry, nobody under that name. What does she look?"

"She's 5:8", blonde hair, she wears it long, blue eyes, about 170. She was wearing a sundress when she left. She's 22."

Shaking her head sympathetically as she viewed the search results, she said, "I'm sorry. No twenty-something blondes were admitted within the last 24 hours. But that's good news, right?"

Looking disappointed, he said, "I suppose." He turned to leave.

"Wait. Why don't you give me your number and I'll call if she comes in."

"Sure. That's a good idea. Got a pen and a piece of paper?" He began writing. When he handed the note back he said, "I'm leaving town this coming Sunday for a job starting on the first of June. After that, this number won't be any good."

When he got inside his car, he grasped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

I'll never find her. Not enough time and no real information. I've lived with her since last October and I know exactly shit about her past. How does that happen?

Chapter 01

Gen's eyes brimmed as she ran her fingers over the gold heart she wore on a chain. A few tears streaked down her cheeks. They came more frequently nowadays.

Oh, Gran. I miss you.

The heart was a high school graduation gift from her grandmother. The old woman had taken her in after Gen's mother abandoned her three years ago. "Get out, you little whore," was the last thing her mother said.

She wouldn't even look at me at Gran's funeral. Well, fuck her.

The service had been six weeks ago, just as the current semester started. Now she was a college drop-out with a job so lousy she wondered if she could really afford a pack of cigarettes. She scanned her tables. No customers in the large and nearly empty room needed any drinks at the moment. She sniffed, swiped her cheeks, approached the vending machine and counted out the necessary change. She pulled the handle for Winston's more roughly than necessary. She felt a hand pat her bottom.

"When you gettin' off tonight, so we can, you know, go get off again?" He guffawed at his own cleverness.

A surge of anger evaporated her tears. If the light had been better, the administrator of the pat might've seen her skin redden from her cleavage to her ears. She turned and glared at him. Having her butt patted never pleased her. It reminded her that her ass was wider than it should be and, instead of being round, was flat.

She knew that her sub-standard derriere contrasted sharply with her unmatched bosom. Large, perfectly round, firm and standing proudly out on her chest, her tits elicited envy from women and worship from men. Those luscious orbs captured and held most men's attention exclusively and this "handy" idiot was no exception. He failed to see the blue fire smoldering in her eyes.

I'll bet the stupid fucker doesn't know the color of my eyes.

She was on the heavy side of curvy. While not as magnificent as her breasts, her legs were also worthy of notice. They looked shapely because her ankles were trim. But even if she had been thinner, her short neck guaranteed her a double chin. She was far from plain but nobody would call her beautiful. Sexy was the word most typically used by others to describe her. Like the leering idiot now staring at her breasts.

This damn fool thinks I'm gonna be in his bed again. Two nights in a row? Fat chance.

"Keep your hands off me, Jimmy."

Only then did Jimmy's eyes rise from her tits to her face. He stood there dumbfounded by her reaction. "What the hell's wrong with you, girl?"

"I don't take to being man-handled. Especially in public and most especially while I'm at work. I didn't know you were that stupid. Fuck off." She started to turn away.

Confused, he asked, "But, what about last night?"

She faced him again. "What about it?"

"Well, I mean, didn't we have fun?"

"Sure we had fun. So what?"

More confused than ever, he asked, "Well, don't you wanna have another go? I sure do." His leer returned, indicating what he thought of Gen's skills in bed.

Disgusted, Gen sighed and said, "Look Jimmy, sure it was fun but it wasn't that much fun. Besides, I rarely ever fuck the same guy twice. So piss off." The light was dim, but she could see the band of white skin on his left ring finger. Pointing to it, she said, "Or do I need to call your wife?"

Backing off as if she'd burned him, Jimmy asked, "Who told you I'm married?"

Gen smirked, put her cigarettes in her small purse and said, "Why do you think I went with you in the first place? I never fuck anybody I know unless they're attached. Just in case they wanna make trouble later. Now, and for the last time, fuck the hell off, asshole."

Jimmy spat, "Bitch," at her back as she walked toward an occupied table.

"Only when required," she sang, putting her hand in the air and waving her fingers in dismissal. She had seen a customer signal for another round. She took his order and proceeded to the front bar.

Beer. Fucking draft beer. And just one mug, not even a pitcher. The cheap bastard might leave me a quarter if I'm lucky.

As she stomped toward the double two-way doors that separated the back of the club from the front to place the piss ant order, she felt her face still burning. Ever since the steep decline in business, Bob, the owner, had closed the back except for Friday and Saturday and fired the back bartender and the other cocktail waitress. They weren't needed. But the lack of a bartender there required Gen to have her drink orders filled at the small bar in the front room. She didn't mind the distance as much as the wait. But what she saw standing at the front bar when she passed through the doors instantly put her in a better mood.

A guy was talking to Bob. He was average height, maybe 5'10", and weighed about 200, which made him a bit fat. But he had the Mediterranean looks (dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin) that she preferred. Men like that were rare in Forrestburg, Mississippi. It was a teeming metropolis of 41,000, counting the 10,000 students at SMP. It was only 80 miles north of the Gulf Coast, so you'd think a bit of that gorgeous creole flesh would find its way up there. But sandy hair and pale skin seemed to be the dominant local traits. No, she didn't mind this fellow's belly at all. She carried some fat of her own.

Eating all that starch in the cafeteria is hard on the waistline unless you exercise a lot. I don't and it looks like neither does cutie pie.

She felt the familiar tingle in her tummy that always indicated she'd spotted a likely target for her charms. Her face still felt hot but now for a different reason. But then she noticed his button-down shirt, khaki pants and penny loafers and nearly decided to pass him up.

I can't stand preppies. Rich kids who think sunshine beams out of their assholes.

"No, I don't need any help now. Why are you looking?" Bob asked the young man.

"Well, I've worked in grocery stores for the past seven nearly eight years and I'd like to try something new."

Ooo, that accent. He's from Beauchamp. I never heard of anybody from the coast being a true preppy. That type comes mostly from Jackson. And even a wannabe preppy who just wears the clothes wouldn't be caught dead working in a third rate country bar. Looks like he's headed to the back. Lucky me.

For the first time that night, she smiled as he held open the door to let her through ahead of him.

"Thanks, cutie," she purred. "What's your name?"

His eyes opened wider as he followed her through the door. Smiling a bit uncertainly, he answered, "Tom O'Neal. What's yours?"

"Genevieve Broussard. But everybody calls me Gen."

"Such a beautiful, musical name and they cut it off like that? What a shame."

She locked gazes with him.

My name's "musical"? Oh my God, that's romantic.

As she stared, he cocked his left eye brow and gave her a lop-sided grin of confidence. The grin made him look mischievous and playful, like a little boy in a man's body. More interesting, though, in the brighter light of the doorway, Gen could see a thin dark ring on the outside of his iris. The color inside the ring began with amber and gradually darkened toward the center.

An adrenalin surge increased her pulse and respiration as she continued her short examination. Dropping her stare slightly, she could see that his teeth weren't perfect; they were dull and a little crooked on one side, but she didn't mind.

It was "musical name" and fascinating eyes that decided her. After all, she was depressed. Whether the source of her depression was anger, grief, anxiety or all three together, she neither knew nor cared. Sex was her drug of choice to fight her down moods and she needed a fix. If a few words and a ten second examination could get her this excited, cutie pie here was certainly her choice for the evening.

She considered for a moment that picking up Tom for a frolic while last night's pigeon was still present could lead to trouble. But whenever impulse fought wisdom within Gen's mind, impulse always won.

She gave Tom a predatory leer and ran her free hand down his arm. "Let's find you a table, handsome."

His belly might be a little flabby, but the muscles in his arm are as hard as steel.

She sneaked a peak at his crotch, but his pants were pleated and designed to be baggy. Baggy pants might increase his comfort but they limited her vision.

Too bad. But it doesn't matter. I can get it plenty hard when I need it. Hell, Jimmy said last night I can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.

Her imagination began running wild as they walked. She envisioned him on top of her, driving himself into her while she wrapped her long legs around his back and stared into those dazzling eyes.

She sat him at a private table in the back. When he was seated, she stood close and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be back after I drop off this drink. Don't go anywhere, cutie, ya hear?"

Maintaining his boyish grin, Tom said, "Yes ma'am."

On the way back to his table she saw him watching her. But as she came closer, Gen could see that Tom's eyes had gone glassy, as if his mind were suddenly far away. He didn't seem to see her standing there.

"Whoa, now, where did you go?"

Tom snapped out of his reverie. Looking up he muttered, "Sorry."

"Happy memory or difficult problem?"

"A happy memory. Actually, several of them strung together."

"Oh my. Did something trigger them?"

"I believe you did."

"Ooo, good answer. Then I'll forgive you if you tell me about them."

"Well," he hesitated.

"What's the matter?"

Struggling for words, he finally said, "I can't without divulging things said to me in confidence."

"So, you think it's more important to keep a confidence than to impress a girl?"

"I think that keeping your word is more important than anything. That's why I give mine so seldom."

"And that's why that naughty grin of yours has disappeared? Because you're afraid I'll press you to break that rule?"

"Maybe," he responded enigmatically.

"Very mysterious," she purred.

Her body language telegraphed her obvious carnal desire. The smoldering blue flame of her large eyes. The lowering of her head as she sharpened her gaze on him. The arching of her back that accentuated her breasts, offering them as if she would nurse him with her lust rather than her milk. The involuntary licking of her lips.

She was considering what to say next when she saw his eyes go glassy again.

After several moments, Gen exclaimed, "Damn. Where'd you go that time?"

Tom reached out and grasped her hand. When she didn't pull away, he flashed his grin and answered, "You could say, I consulted my oracle."

Lacking both the ability and the desire to withstand those dancing eyes, Gen asked, "And what did your oracle tell you?"

She would've sworn that she could feel electricity as he raked his eyes slowly down her body and back up. It thrilled her. It inflamed her desire. It blinded her to any fear of consequences.

Finally, he answered, "She told me to ask what time you can leave work."

Gen headed to the parking lot after telling Bob she had to go home early. As she left, she saw Jimmy hitting on the only unaccompanied female customer in the joint. Gen could see the woman's indifference and she smirked as she went through the door.

She waved off Tom's offer to open the passenger door for her, got in and said, "Drive. Before anybody follows me out."

...

Tom didn't mind driving the ten miles from the Corral Club to his place. It was such a pleasant night. The middle of October was rarely this cool, but 1980 was one of those cool and wet years that south Mississippi occasionally enjoyed. When he started the car, he asked, "Do you mind if we drive with the windows down?"

"Okay." She reached into her purse and got a clip to put her long blonde hair back into a ponytail.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked as they pulled out of the parking lot and turned north at the highway.

"Well, cutie, you're the one asked me if I could take off early. Don't you have any ideas?"

"We could go back to my place for drinks."

"I'd like that."

"So, do you go to school?"

"I did. I dropped out last week."

"Trouble?"

"Grades and motivation. I realized my give-a-shit is broke."

"A break might help."

"It might."

Oops. Touchy subject.

"How long you been working at that club?"

"Too damn long."

Shit, another touchy subject. I don't want to talk about myself. I'll do like Marilyn taught me; when conversation gets too uncertain, shut up and let the silence work for you.

Tom first met Marilyn while sitting in a bar just a block from the Beauchamp campus of the county junior college. The bar's location and cheap prices for draft beer made it the most popular student watering hole. Because the drinking age for beer in Mississippi at that time was eighteen, the place was usually busy on Saturday afternoons. Marilyn saw him sitting alone in a booth sipping a bottle of Dos Equis.

She was the public relations director for the campus. Some of the kids referred to her as the "pubic" relations director based on her penchant for hunting among the male students. She was at least 40 and looked it. She surprised Tom when she slid in next to him. He looked up and saw her staring into his eyes. As he tried to return her smile she asked, "What's your name?"

"Tom."

"I'm Marilyn. I don't have to tell you that you're cute, do I?"

It was late afternoon in early April, so there was plenty of sunlight filtering through the unshaded windows. He felt his face go hot and cast his gaze down. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "You are adorable. Let's go to my place."

"You mean your house?"

Cocking her eyebrow, Marilyn had said, "Of course," as she rose and held out her hand. "But hurry before anybody notices us. I don't want to get stuck in a conversation."

I don't remember actually deciding to go with her. I just found myself standing there holding her hand and the next thing I knew we were sitting on her couch.

She had stroked the side of his head in an intimate way and asked, "I don't make you too nervous, do I?"

"Well, maybe just a little."

"I've decided that I really like you, Tom."

"But you barely know my name. How can you know that you like me?"

"I can tell from your manner that you're kind and considerate but also confident. Confidence is sexy, but most young guys who are confident are also arrogant. You are an 'old soul' in a young body."

"I'm glad you like me. You seem very interesting."

She had smiled and said, "I don't think you're a game-player and neither am I, so I'll be blunt. I like sex and I like young guys. I get a special thrill out of training up guys like you for adult fun. Even then, I don't usually keep a guy for long, but I get the feeling that I'm going to want you for a while. What do you say?"

"I don't really know what you're asking me."

"I'm asking if you want to move in here with me for a while. Pay attention and you'll learn almost everything you can know about sex and women in general. It'll make you a king, of sorts."

She'd been as good as her word. I learned a lot about what women expect and what they like and what they think they need and how to provide it.

Glancing over at the long and voluptuous blonde in the passenger seat, he hoped he could effectively put it all into practice.