tagRomanceGonna Sell The Bitch's Car Ch. 03

Gonna Sell The Bitch's Car Ch. 03


A short letter to my readers.

First, I need to apologize. Real life got in the way of this story. First my wife had a life threatening accident. Then a sibling collapsed and was on a death watch for a while. He's better now, but not out of the woods yet. Then my wife had another accident, not life threatening but very painful. Happily, she's on the road to a full recovery.

And the dog ate my homework.

Seriously, when you spend as much time in emergency rooms and intensive care unit waiting rooms as I did, you think about a lot of things. I started writing as a goof, telling my wife I could do a better story than some I had read. She urged me to go ahead, I might like it. And I did. The better part is still up for debate.

I don't have a laptop, so as I sat in those rooms I wrote in spiral bound notebooks. I bought three seventy page single notebooks, thinking that would last. I filled thirteen.

"I Thought She Made You Up" consumed six of the notebooks. Three more stories took the rest, but I'm not posting them until I finish this series.

Looking over the way I had finished this story, I found it lacking. Justice was not done to Wiley, and he's such a complex character I didn't want to short change him. I threw every thing out and started over. Starting with this installment, look for another chapter every four to seven days until I'm done, and I envision at least three more if I get the continuity right. Go back and read the first two, its been a while.

I changed categories, the poor boy is nowhere near ready for marriage, so I'll give you the details of his romance. Not much romance in this one, but I'll get to it.

Once again, thanks for reading and especially your comments and votes.



I did something I never do.

I turned off the radio, disconnected the Ipod, and listened to the sound of silence.

Music was and is my life. We all have a personal soundtrack to our lives. We're almost always within listening distance of a radio, CD, Ipod, some guy in the park with a slightly out of tune guitar, or a live band.

A song will start playing and you think, "That's what was playing at my sisters' wedding, my uncles' funeral, while I lost my virginity, or when she dumped me, when I found out I was going to be a father, etc." Music and memories are so intertwined we take them for granted. We don't have to watch, or read, or focus on anything. All we have to do is let the music wash over us.

And just this minute, I wanted to be one of the unwashed masses.

I didn't want to remember any song that would remind me of Sandy's betrayal. Too much respect for the music.


I learned how women could betray you at an early age, and my mother taught the lesson.

I was thirteen, had been playing the guitar for two years, and had a habit of sneaking into my parents' room when they weren't around to listen to their records. They had a killer stereo, and excellent headphones. I would kick off my shoes, pick the albums, load the turntable and lie back. I would carefully straighten the bed and put everything back exactly, but I think they knew.

It was a Saturday morning in June. I was listening to the Beatles, "In My Life", off the Rubber Soul album I think, when my grandmother burst into the room, yelling at the top of her lungs.She had been calling for me but I didn't hear her because of the headphones. She was crying.

I knew something was wrong. She was a strong woman, the only time I saw her cry was when my grandfather died, so I scrambled up.

"Wiley, why didn't you answer the phone? Never mind, come with me right now."

"Gram what's wrong? Why are you crying? Is something wrong with Dad?"

I assumed it was my dad. He worked in a factory with a lot of machinery and was always talking about someone getting careless and being injured. My Mom stayed at home, so he worked a lot of Saturdays for the overtime. It was worth it to him so Mom could stay home with my little brother Chip. He was four, and the plan was for her to return to work when he entered school.

"No, child. It's your Mom, she and Chip were in an accident. I don't know all the details, but your Dad wants you at the hospital."

Dad was already there when we got there. I could see the tracks of tears but he was composed by then.

"How's Mom? How's Chip?" Gram and I pretty much said in unison.

He looked me in the eye. I had always admired his directness, but not today. He took me by my hand, something he almost never did. I never knew if it was shyness or upbringing, but he didn't touch much. Mom had to virtually sit on his lap to get attention. There was no doubt he loved us, he told us often.

"Son, you're mother is dying. They were hit over by the high school, a big rig lost his brakes on Simpson Hill and ran through the red light. You need to go in and see her now. She's unconscious, but maybe she'll hear you say goodbye."

I pretty much went into shock. Gram led me in. You almost couldn't recognize her with the bandages and tubes. She was on a ventilator, the machine keeping her alive. I held her hand and talked to her. To this day I don't remember what I said but it had Gram crying pretty hard. As soon as I left they turned the machines off, She just simply stopped breathing. They only left her as long as they did at my fathers' insistence.

Outside the room I saw my father talking to a doctor. He had him by the arm and wouldn't let go.

"If he needs blood my family will give it. Tell us what to do."

Chip was in a bad way. He had lost a lot of blood, and was still losing it as fast as they pumped it in him. they were running low, something about having a rare blood type, AB something.

The doctor agreed to take our blood if the types matched.

"Of course they'll match, we're his blood kin. and no, I don't remember our blood types."

He arranged for a quick test. A very odd expression was on his face when he came back.

"I'm sorry, none of you are a match. We've contacted the Red Cross and we're giving him plasma to hold him over. We're doing all we can, don't give up hope."

My Dad jumped up, indignant.

"That's not possible, one of us has to be a match. We're all related by blood. There has to be a mistake."

I understood later the doctor was trying to be diplomatic. He suggested Dad come back to the office so they could go over the typing. He agreed and got almost to the door when he realized what the doctor was trying to tell him. He went to his knees. Remembering the wail he let out makes my hair bristle even now.

He stayed on his knees sobbing for two or three minutes while two nurses and the doctor tried to get him inside the office. Shaking them off like flies, he rose slowly and looked them in the eye.

"He's still my son. What can you do?"

They assured him they were doing all they could and rushed back to the intensive care unit.

I was fourteen and found out my mother was dead and my brother may be dying. I was on emotional overload so none of what I witnessed made any sense until later.

Chip didn't recover, but he did last three weeks. I spent every minute they would let me with him. I brought my guitar and sang to him. I brought the ukelele I had given to him and put it on his bed. Through sheer determination, he had learned the notes to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and for about a month he would serenade Mom and Dad, while I backed him on guitar. I told him we would be in a band some day and be rich and famous. But, he never regained consciousness.

I would be at the hospital for hours. I would stay with Chip until I couldn't take it, then roam the halls. The nurses kind of adopted me, and one day they did something that altered my life. One of the older nurses heard me play, and asked if I had time to play for some of the other kids.

Those that could would gather in a common room, and I would play kids songs, funny songs, anything to make them forget they were sick. We made some silly songs up. I would read to the younger ones when I was tired of playing.

Some of the children were being treated for cancer, and a bald head or two was not uncommon. One girl, about eleven, became close to me. I wrote her a little song about a girl who was so pretty she didn't need hair. Just before Chip died she became so weak she couldn't come to the common room so I would go to her room and sing her a song or two every day.

I would stop outside the door and ask permission to enter Kara's Castle, introducing myself as a lowly minstrel passing through and would play for a meal. Our meal was two Hershey's dark chocolate kisses. just about the only candy she was allowed, and then only two pieces. So when I sang her a few songs, we would share the candy like it was a feast. I would bow to her and promise to be back when I was hungry.

Chip held out as long as his broken body allowed. Every day I would say "See you tomorrow", glance around to see if anyone was watching, and kiss his forehead. I guess it was a blessing he passed in the middle of the night. Gram and Dad handled the nights while I would stay during the day.

My Dad spent every minute he didn't have to work at his bedside. Gram spent as much time consoling Dad as she did watching Chip. He was buried beside my Mom.

We were devastated. Gram gave up her house and moved in with us, saying we needed a woman's touch. Dad became even quieter than before the accident. Gram filled the void left by my mother for me, but Dad remained lost, and I feared he would never fully return.

I was always independent minded even as a child, and spent more time with my Mom. When Chip came along he was overjoyed. As soon as he was able to walk he followed Dad everywhere. If you wanted Chip, see where Dad was at. That's how he got his nickname. Everyone said he was a chip off the old block.

It was a pretty bleak summer.

When school started I gradually came out of my funk. Everything was going pretty good until about three weeks into my freshman biology class we began to examine genetics. The teacher did a class on blood types when the partially heard exchanges between my Dad and the doctors jelled in my head. I knew then Dad wasn't Chips' biological father. I became so ill Gram had to pick me up.

When we got home I told her why I had become ill. She hugged me gently and told me one day I would understand that life as an adult could be hard and confusing at times.

It seemed simple to me. You met someone. Fell in love. Spent the rest of your life together. Death do us part and all that. Apparently nothing is so cut and dried in the real world.


Gram told my Dad I had figured it out but he never discussed it with me. He stumbled on in a fog for almost two years.

All those years he told me how dangerous the machinery he worked with was came home to bite him. He slipped and was pulled into a machine, getting lacerations and a broken arm. He healed, but his arm required therapy.

His therapist was named Dorothy, but preferred Dottie. This woman alone restored my faith in females. She was a couple years older than my Dad, and they connected at once. I think it was because of her I went into physical therapy.

She was divorced. Health problems when she was younger made her unable to bear children. Her husband left shortly after. She told me once she had given up on love until she met Dad. They were married seven months after meeting.

Over the years I've looked at Dottie and understood why there were so many mean spirited in the world. God had accidentally given Dottie the love capacity of ten people. I never met a sweeter woman.

We started out slowly. Dottie had never been exposed to teen age boys and I had never had a stepmother. Enough time had gone by that I knew she wasn't a replacement for my mother, so I looked at her as a new experience with no baggage.

I wasn't cold to her, and we gradually warmed to each other. Her vast capacity to love found a willing recipient in a lonely teenage boy.

I never realized what I meant to her until one day about six months after she had moved in. My friends came by and wanted me to go to the mall. I still had about a month to go until I was sixteen and couldn't drive.

"Let me ask my Mom if I can go." I yelled to them. Turning around I saw Dottie looking at me with an odd expression.

I had never called her Mom before, even though I had been thinking in those terms for about a month.

"What about it, Mom? Can I go?"

She put her hands up to her mouth, burst into tears, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. I was freaked out.

Dad found me on the couch thirty minutes later. One look and he knew something was wrong.

"What's the matter?"

"It's Dottie, Dad. I said something and she started crying and ran into the bedroom. I don't know what I did to hurt her, honest."

He knocked on the door.

"Dottie, what's wrong hon? Did Wiley hurt your feelings?"

The door flew open and he was dragged into the bedroom. She was still crying, and it upset him.

"I'm gonna have a long talk to that boy, straighten him up, I promise."

She finally found her voice.

"YOU WILL NOT! He didn't say anything mean. He did something I thought no one would ever do. He called me MOM. He thinks of me as a mother. His mother. I never thought it would happen to me. I'm so happy I can't stop crying."

My father grinned, his life was just about perfect now. He looked at Dottie with pure love.

"Dottie, when you calm down, you better talk to your son. He thinks you're upset with him. He's sitting on the couch badly confused."

She immediately jumped up and ran into the living room and nearly suffocated me with her hug.

"I love you, honey, So much."

When I finally got her to let me breathe I made another error that sent her back into the bedroom.

"Geez, Mom. I love you too. What's the big deal?"

Dad just grinned at me and told me to get my ass in the truck. I was still confused when he dropped me off at the mall and gave me thirty bucks. If I didn't find my friends I was to call him to be picked up.

"I need to spend a little private time with your mother, and don't worry. You did a very good thing today."

When I got home there was a huge chocolate cake on the table. We destroyed it.

When I was seventeen and playing in bands for money, I scraped together enough to get Dottie a ring for Mothers Day. It had her birthstone, my birthstone, and Dads' birthstone in it. She treated it with the same reverence as her wedding ring.


When I got back to town I was pretty ill tempered for awhile. In fact, I was a first class asshole.

I went back to my old ways. Screwing every woman I could get my hands on, except the married ones. Probably did a few of those too, they were just smart enough to take their rings off. It made things a little tense in the band.

We were about to fall apart anyway. Two guys were catching grief from the wives about the time they spent away from the family. Another was starting to miss practices and even missed a job. We had backup material and arrangements for four instead of five, but the contract called for five, and we had to take 20% less. It didn't hurt the ones who showed financially but it did damage our credibility. If you got the reputation of not delivering what you promised, you got fewer jobs. Normally, when things happened and one of us couldn't make it, we all knew enough guys floating around between bands or in semi retirement to fill the void.

It had been seven weeks since Sandy, and we hadn't been booked into Scooters', the club where Sandy had worked and Sammi still did work, so I hadn't been there.

One night we were playing at a place across town, and had just started a break when Sammi walked in. Walked isn't an adequate word. Strutted would be more apt. Instead of her trademark shorts, she had on a short clingy black dress that hugged her curves and exposed her long, sexy legs. Every man in the place watched her glide to the table reserved for band members and friends.

She spoke to all the band members pleasantly before turning her attention to me.

"HI, Wiley. Long time no see."

She leaned over and gave me a deep, long, sensuous kiss. Then she slapped me so hard I felt like my goatee was knocked sideways.

"Get over it. The bitch dumped you. You're better off."

Then she handed me a napkin with her number on it in case I had 'forgotten' it, blew me a kiss, and strutted right back out.

I called her the next day. We talked but made no plans. Three days later she called to tell me she was off the next day, and what would we be doing?

We went to dinner and a movie, her choice. I didn't want to be anywhere near a dance club or a bar. It went very well. We took the Mach 1.

I think she loved that car more than she ever loved me. She used every excuse she could think of to get into it.

It was four weeks before she got me into bed. She was sensual, flexible, firm. I don't think she had an ounce of fat on her. Her breasts were proportional to her body, but they were the firmest I had ever felt. And her nipples, long and slender and very sensitive. I learned quickly if she was stressed or irritated at me or anything all I had to do was get a nipple in my mouth and she instantly relaxed, at least for a little while.

The fact that she had done yoga for years and was double jointed, coupled with the fact I was a certified massage specialist, made for some interesting evenings. Downward facing dog met upward thrusting penis regularly.

I didn't know how ticklish she was until one night she showed up at the hotel we were playing at and joined me in my room. She had brought our toy box and I had her in light restraints. I had warmed some scented oil and was in the process of painting her whole body with a two inch paintbrush while she screamed at the top of her lungs. I swear, I thought the room was soundproof.

The night manager suggested I cease and desist or find another place to spend the night. I compromised and gagged her. She gurgled and cried, but I got her off three times with just the bristles of the brush against her clit. I think she may have even passed out at one time.

She got her revenge by bringing me to the edge four times in an hour before finally giving me release.

We slowly got comfortable with each other. While asserting her independence, she was a bit possessive and jealous about me. We had to compromise. We realized both our professions were prone to casual liaisons, and not to allow ourselves to be tempted. It worked, I never heard anything bad about her, and she got no negative reports about me. We were progressing nicely.

Several months went by and we grew closer. The roommate that replaced Sandy was kind of unreliable, and when the lease came up she left Sammi hanging.

"What am I gonna do, honey? No way I can afford the apartment by myself, and no one seems to want to share. I'm going to be homeless soon."

It seemed simple to me.

"Sammi, relax. Move in with me. You're here most of the time anyway, shit, most of your stuff is already here. Let's try, if it doesn't work out I won't evict you. You can take the other bedroom until you can find a place."

It took a little adjustment but we soon settled down into domestic semi-bliss. She didn't like it when we had to travel for the weekend, and I didn't like it when her schedule kept her away from me.

I gently tried to persuade her to get a regular job and go back to school. She looked around but couldn't find anything that paid enough to quit the bar.

The band had smoothed out. We replaced the guy with attendance problems. The lead guitarist split from his wife, nothing to do with the band. We were working steadily, life was good.

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byqhml1© 40 comments/ 70272 views/ 55 favorites

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