Home Sweet Home Ch. 01

This will be the start of a new series while I'm working on the next Criminal Affair story. There is no erotic scene in this chapter, but there will be in later chapters. I'd like to thank Lastman416 for giving it a once over and some helpful notes.

The next Criminal Affair story might take a few months because I'm traveling for work. Rest assured, I'm nearly 100 pages into it, so it is being written.

--

Riley was stirred aware by the baritone voice of the judge. For an unknown amount of time his attention had faded from the proceedings happening around him. He could hear his lawyer Michael Scarlatti speak, but he was not focused on the words. The judge was likewise muted, until Riley sensed he was being spoken to directly.

"Mr. Blake...Mr. Blake!" the judge said, and Riley's eyes shifted up. "Do you understand?" Riley rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth to moisten it enough to speak. It took too long so Michael spoke on his behalf.

"I will review the offer with my client, and we will submit our approval or counteroffer this time next week," Michael said. The judge stared across the room at Riley, waiting for him to say something. After he did not speak for nearly ten seconds, the judge agreed, and ordered the hearing to be continued later before retiring to his chambers.

Michael placed his hand on Riley's shoulder to comfort him, but Riley deeply sighed from exhaustion. He refused to move until he watched Kelly leave from the corner of his eye. Once Kelly departed with her lawyer, Riley pushed his chair away from the table.

"Divorce isn't easy Riley," Michael said as Riley politely tucked his chair back under the table. He then walked to the opposite table and did the same. Kelly always forgot to put things back the way she found them. Shoes. Dishes. Everything.

"I don't care," Riley said, regarding the deal he had not heard.

"You should. You may not care right now, but a year. Five years. You'll care then. Half of your paperback royalties? She did not write them. You were not even married when you wrote over half of them. The Netflix deal? Sucking every dick, but yours, does not qualify her to anything."

"Even you said that doesn't change alimony," Riley said.

"It can change the calculus and give me ammunition for a temporary or rehabilitative alimony. You take one hard hit on your current liquidity, but she cannot touch future earnings," Michael explained. Riley still seemed indifferent. "Do you trust me?"

"I hired you because Kelly consulted fifteen lawyers first. She did not leave me with many options," Riley said dismissively.

"And you want to play on that woman's terms?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Fine," Riley said. He was not in the mood to fight his own lawyer. "You have carte blanche."

"Thank you," Michael said, and left the courtroom a step ahead of his client. He held the door open for Riley who stepped through and saw Kelly waiting for him. Riley exhaled audibly and turned down the hall.

"Riley," Kelly said, and started walking after him.

"Don't you got a cock to suck somewhere?" Riley asked without turning to her.

"You hired a PI to spy on me," Kelly said in a self-righteous tone that irritated Riley.

"Don't even try playing the victim," Riley said, reaching the door to the stairs. He pressed the bar to open it and could hear Kelly behind him.

"That is such an evasion of my privacy..."

"...are you fucking serious!" Riley shouted, punching the concrete wall next to him. "Aren't you the woman who read my emails and put software on my phone to read my messages? What did you find? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing!"

"So you hire a PI..."

"...you know what they call someone who bitches about others, while doing the exact same thing?" Riley asked.

"A hypocrite, I'm not stupid," Kelly replied. "It isn't the same thing."

"You're right, it isn't. I never did anything, while you were caught with your hand in the dick jar," Riley said, and stomped down the stairs.

"Just take the offer. Half of the paperback royalties is fair. I just want this over."

"Do you want it over? Or do you want half of the paperback royalties?" Riley asked. Kelly grunted in frustration and swung her purse on the bannister of the stairwell. "We can do a normal no fault, right now. What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours."

"I have been running a house while you were traveling for book tours..."

"...sucking the dick off half of Cook county is not running my house," Riley retorted.

"Can you get off the dick sucking for five seconds?"

"I will when you can," Riley said, then pulled the door open at the bottom of the stairs. He heard the door shut, but no footsteps, and continued toward security.

Riley exited the building and began to walk west on W. Randolph. While the temperature was tolerable, the windchill of late November bit through Riley's jacket. The weather had not forecasted wind, so he did not feel the need to bring a thicker coat. For as long as he had lived in Chicago, he had not learned to never trust the forecast.

From W. Randolph, Riley took N. Clark north toward the river, until he was across the street from his building on W. Wacker. Riley walked past the front desk, giving a polite smile to the security before proceeding to the elevator. A key fob permitted him to select the eleventh floor.

The door to his apartment hit a box Riley had meant to move for weeks. Separated meant he needed to get a new place while Kelly kept the Lakeshore apartment. The one he was still paying two thousand a month for. On top of his current apartment and legal fees, he was paying nearly ten thousand a month. Realizing that, he was glad he gave Michael permission to go to war. At least he would get his money's worth.

Riley was still living out of boxes eight months after separating with Kelly. His back ached from the air mattress, but he refused to buy a mattress for a temporary living condition. The most he can do to retain his sanity was to limit the time he spent in the apartment. His sense of organization was disrupted to a point he had not written a word since the divorce started. There was less space than boxes it seemed.

Just as Riley was filling a plastic cup with water from the sink, his phone alerted him of a message. It was from Kelly. The message opened and showed the play button for a video and a black background. The text below it said "In case your PI didn't see this one." Riley pressed play and watched the video of a penis being rapidly inserted into a vagina from behind.

The wet slapping sound filled his apartment, as did the moans of the woman. It swelled into louder screams of pleasure, before the man started grunting as he neared completion. "Open your mouth, open your mouth." The man said. The woman loyally rolled over so the man could jerk himself onto her extended tongue. At which point, he saw the woman was Kelly.

Riley closed the video and found Michael's number.

"Fucking nuke her," Riley said, hung up, and tossed his phone into the boxes.

--

Four months later...

After months of waiting, the offer Riley made to the probate court for a house came through. No one in the family contacted the court to claim the estate for six months. The creditors wanted some money back, so put the house on the market significantly undervalued. Riley made them an offer, under market price, but not significantly under market price. Michael was back and forth with the judge, other lawyers, and potential buyers for weeks. Today, Riley was told the matter was settled. Twenty thousand under market value.

That was not the only matter that was settled in the interim. Riley and Kelly were officially divorced. The pressure Michael created with her flaunting her adultery, while immaterial in divorce court in Illinois, did not play well with the judge. Michael made a counteroffer; two thirds of the current liquidity, with six months of temporary alimony. Kelly took the offer and the divorce was finalized two weeks later. No royalties. No copyrights. He would much rather rip off a one-time four-million-dollar band-aid.

A moving truck arrived, and three men packed up his apartment. It did not take long considering he was already packed. After making sure the movers knew the address, Riley said he would meet them there. It was going to be about an hour drive to the suburban town of Ferry Grove, but it was still early enough to beat traffic out of the city. Riley had spent the day with his editor and publisher the previous afternoon so there would be nothing impeding his departure. He would come back in a few days for the final walk through of the apartment after the cleaners were done.

He stopped for coffee and then drove straight through. In one hour and seven minutes, he shut his car door and looked at his new home. A week ago, he did a walkthrough and the furniture was still inside. Riley assumed it was to stage the house.

The property had a gravel driveway in a half circle, creating two access points for the street. To the left of the house, was a detached garage. The house itself was an American Craftsman style with a long twenty-foot porch complete with a swing. White pillars held the ceiling of the porch, supported by red brick. Earthy bungalow colors, and three triangular points with windows for the three second-floor rooms. Two rooms on the first floor. Three and a half baths.

The house was on four acres. His nearest neighbors were two hundred feet away to the left and right. The properties were separated by a natural appearing drainage ditch flanked by trees and low foliage. From his porch, he could not see either neighbor.

When he arrived, the moving crew were not hauling any boxes inside. He gave them the spare key to start and was only ten minutes behind them.

"What's up?" Riley asked the supervisor of the crew.

"The house is already full of stuff," he said. Riley walked past him, up the porch and into the house to see it was still furnished. The same furniture from the walkthrough in fact.

"What the hell?" Riley asked, and stepped out of the house while calling Michael. "Mike, why is the house full of shit?"

"Um? What?" Michael asked.

"The house is furnished. Like someone lives here," Riley said.

"You bought the estate. I got them to go down in price if we agreed to cover the costs of removing the furniture. That'll cost a few grand, and they dropped it nearly ten. Hell, you own it, you can just appraise and sell it."

"Mike, I'm moving in right now," Riley said, and paced on the porch.

"Riley, you've been living out of boxes for the last year. You have two sets of dishes, and an air mattress. You're like a college student," Michael said. Riley wanted to say something other than Michael having a point, so said nothing. "You might like the couch, you never know."

"Last favor?" Riley asked.

"I can get an appraiser out there in two days," Michael said, and they both hung up after a few words.

"What do you want us to do boss?" the supervisor asked.

"Do a walk through with me, and we'll figure out the least occupied room, and put the stuff down there."

Forty minutes later Riley was moved in. He put his boxes in the large office on the first floor. It was divided from the living room by a stained-glass door that looked magnificent when the sun shined through it at dawn. A simple design of roses and vines. The office still had a desk Riley decided then and there he would keep; A teak midcentury L-Shaped desk. He decided his library would go in here as well and was already approximating measurements for the shelves.

"That's the last box sir. Easy move," the supervisor said to Riley as he ran his hand over the desk. He loved the craftsmanship.

"Thanks guys," Riley said, and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He removed three twenty-dollar bills and handed it out to him. "Split it with them."

"We don't accept tips sir," the supervisor said.

"It's not a tip. Get some lunch," Riley said, and the supervisor hesitated. "I hauled boxes in high school, and I still have my license for welding. I didn't start here. I appreciate manual work more than most in my income bracket." The supervisor nodded and thanked him by accepting the money.

"I got some forms for you to sign. After that, we can get out of your hair."

With the forms signed, Riley was officially moved into his new home. The first thing he did was carry the three boxes of his clothes to the master bedroom on the first floor. Fully furnished with clothes still in the drawers and closet. Two other bedrooms were the same way. One was for the previous owner's daughter by the looks of it, and the other was a guest room. Another was full of musical instruments and sound equipment, and the last was a sewing room.

"I'm going to have to hire another moving crew," Riley said aloud to himself. Everything was left here. What about the fridge? Thankfully, someone fully cleaned that out, and the pantry. It was the only cleared portion in the entire house.

Taking the boxes from downstairs, he emptied out the drawers from the master bedroom and closet. He did his best to label them by gender. In the process, he noticed the pictures were still there. This home was abandoned to the state. Ripley estimated the most recent picture of the previous owners put them in their late fifties to early sixties. Not particularly old. Riley did not ask how they passed.

Mail left on the counter told him they were Lily and Cooper Aberdeen.

"Where the hell is their family?" Riley asked. "How does this happen?"

--

Within the week Riley did not remove as much of the furniture as he assumed he would. He liked the couch and entertainment system. It needed a new television, but that would be an easy replacement. His clothes were already in the dresser. The desk he loved, and it matched the teak dining room table large enough for eight chairs. Such a large table for a small family. He removed the clothes, plates, silverware, towels, sheets, pictures, and anything that looked personal in nature. The internet told him the pots and pans were high quality, so he kept those. The music and sewing rooms were emptied. The appraiser said the music equipment alone was worth thousands. The guest room and the girl's room he left as they were for now.

The second week of occupancy was devoted to purchasing new items. New sheets, new towels, new china, etc. On the drive back from several department stores, he stopped at a home improvement store. He had made the measurements for the bookshelf, and now needed the materials. At home again, he put everything in their places and started tracing the bookshelf on the wall with a pencil.

It was only after completing measurements did Riley consider how he was going to cut the wood. He had sold all his tools when he married Kelly and moved to Chicago. This included his welding equipment from his previous life before his writing career took off. It would not take anything more than a hand saw and sandpaper. Riley decided that was a tomorrow problem and called it a night.

The next morning before he could begin work on the bookshelf, Riley received a phone call. Riley read it was his agent Debra and temporarily stopped buzzing the peach fuzz from his face.

"What do I owe the pleasure?" Riley asked.

"You settled in?" Debra asked, and waited for him to respond. "You there?"

"I'm here," Riley replied. "Getting there. Had to move the previous owner's stuff out first."

"You settled enough to leave for a day?"

"For what?" Riley asked, rubbing his fingers along his cheeks to feel for stray hairs.

"Horror panel in Chicago. Some liberal arts school."

"Don't we normally get over a month notice?"

"One of the panelists had to bow out. I need to reply within the hour," Debra explained.

"Is the publisher covering my rental?"

"You live an hour away."

"And put miles on my car?" Riley asked, feigning shock.

"Short notice, at best I can guarantee a mileage comp," Debra said, and Riley stopped pretending he cared. "You going?"

"Text me details," Riley said before ending the call.

--

Riley sat in a lounge chair on a stage to an audience of around one hundred students. It was twice as many people than he expected. He knew it was not for him because he was not scheduled to attend. The audience applause for his surprise arrival was near universal, and that certainly was an ego boost he needed after the last year.

The standard "where do you get your ideas?" questions came, and "what is your process?" followed. Riley had never been able to articulate where his ideas came from. They just appeared. He created concepts, and then created characters to live in that concept. His series The Order of the Shattered Cross, was born from a concept. A clandestine group of exorcists attempting to stop a living being without a soul. The creature could not be exorcised because it was not possessed and lacked any spiritual essence. Described by critics as a hybrid of atmospheric supernatural horror and a hard-boiled detective pulp. Focusing on a supernatural investigator named Timothy Augustine and his assigned exorcist Michelle Frost.

"This one is for Mr. Blake," the next student began.

"Riley's fine," he replied.

"Why do you think children have such a hard time reading? Like, wanting to read? Turning it into a hobby, instead of a chore?" the student asked.

"I actually blame public schools," Riley began, waiting to see the reaction from the crowd before he continued. They seemed patient. "Think back to what books you read, and the manner of which you were graded to prove you had in fact read the book. Let's be real. If you had homework for a book assignment, you read the questions first. You'd read the questions, answer the questions, stop reading, and move on." The crowd laughs a little in agreeance.

"Everyone can tell me that Tom Robinson is found guilty in To Kill a Mockingbird. Who can explain why the jury decision is not the point, but how long it took them to make it?" Riley asked, and the audience is quiet. "Harper Lee actually does write why it mattered. Atticus got them to think about it. To cause questions in a society that judges without question.

"But most schools you don't have a class discussion, or an essay for students to explore those meanings and explanations on their own. Instead you get five multiple choice questions regarding things that don't matter. Children view it as a chore because it isn't presented or taught as anything but a chore. Books are not read in the way the author intended them to be understood. In fact, if you did just read the book, to read it, you were likely behind the kids who read the questions first. You actually have an active incentive to not really read the book.

"Let's say you have questions for Harry Potter if your reading that for a class for some reason. For the sake of example Goblet of Fire. Your question to check if you have read the chapter, is something like 'what was the password to Dumbledore's office?' Any asshole can just skim that, find cockroach clusters, and move on. They could have a more engaging question like 'what does Dumbledore's choice of passwords suggest about his personality?' You'd have to know it's sweets to even answer it, and it also encourages real thinking. But they almost always take the easier, less engaging method of measuring student knowledge."

The audience considered the response for a few seconds, noticed he was done and clapped in approval. One of the other panelist said he agreed and added that this method makes children not like reading when they become adults. The discussion bounced to the other panelist, and the next question was ready.