Knox County Ch. 02

She started groaning. "I want it hard," she moaned. "Fast and hard."

He pulled all the way out and she sucked in her breath at the sudden emptiness. Still his thumb was circling her clit, which was getting sensitive and chafed. It hurt, but somehow her discomfort added to her arousal. She felt his engorged head brush against her soaking lips and she squirmed on the rough table top, her hips seeking him out.

She saw a determined smile spread over her face. "Louder," he said. "Tell me what you want."

She squirmed, needing him back in her. "Please," she said, "fuck me hard."

He pressed against her wetness, his head spreading her lips and hovering at her opening. "Louder."

"Fuck me harder!" she screamed, and he plunged into her hard and fast, all the way to the hilt. The force of his assault drove her breath from her lungs as her head tilted back. Just as quickly, he fully withdrew before pistoning back in again, slamming her down the table, over the leaves, then pulling her back forcefully into him.

She was screaming now, shouting to all who could hear. Her mind was blank, focused solely on the punishing invasions deep within her.

Then she was empty, and she felt him push her over, and she rolled with it. Her feet on the ground now, her legs spread, her breasts bent over and pressed into her arms on the table top.

Then he plunged in again, deeper than before, faster. "You ruined by life," she heard him saying, and she felt a smack on her ass. Then another, and another, and they stung.

"I'm sorry," she said, sobbing with the violence of his assault. And he kept slapping her ass and pummeling into her, saying it over and over again.

She was exposed to him, to the world, and he was using her shamelessly. She needed to be used shamelessly, she realized, to expiate the guilt she felt for bringing his world crashing down around him. And she needed the contact, any contact. Tim all but ignored her, and she craved the desire she felt pounding into her.

She heard screaming, and she realized it was her own voice crying out. She was begging him, pleading with him to pound her harder. The warm breeze tickled her anus and cooled the juices that were running down her inner thighs, but she barely noticed through his angry onslaught. Her orgasm hit without warning, sending shock waves through her muscles. Her legs and ass clenched, locking in place against his slamming cock, and the slapping stung that much more. Her upper body was convulsing, her chest heaving into her arms, and her breath moaning out in one long, low groan. She was sobbing, tears streaming down her face with the force of her orgasm and the stinging slapping on her ass.

The slapping stopped and she felt him pull her back against him. Then she felt ropes of cum stream into her, heard his long, low groan over each pulsating throb into her womb.

When he finished, she felt him push her forward, staying hard and in her as she slid up the table and he followed her. When they were fully across the length of the table, he rolled to his side, his hand on her hip keeping them joined.

His breath tickled her ear and she heard him whisper. "I'm sorry."

She turned, looking over her shoulder at him. His hazel eyes were sparkling now, full of life. But his lips were pursed, his face tense, apparently afraid of what her reaction would be. She just smiled lazily, turned her head back and lay it on his arm beneath her, wriggling her hips back against him.

She wasn't sure how long they laid there like that, but she didn't want it to end. Neither spoke. Instead, he held her against him while the warm breeze cooled their bodies before the noon sun could burn them through the foliage.

* * *

Cynthia walked through the doorway and froze at the sight before her. Suitcases. Three of them. A note was taped to the top of the biggest bag. 'I want you to move out while I try to sort this through. I have put $2500 in the middle bag for you to get an apartment. Love (?) David.'

She knew this was coming. They hadn't spoken a word to each other in the six days since he'd confronted her. Still, it came as a shock. No argument, no confrontation, just a simple note. Bags packed for her, money put up to get her out. Typical David, she thought, unfailingly polite to the bitter end.

She knew where this was leading. Three days ago he'd left a copy of their pre-nuptial agreement laying on the kitchen table, flipped to the section entitled "Property Settlement In Cases of Adultery." Why the fuck did I sign that thing? she thought. Because you were young, in love, and were never going to cheat on each other, she answered herself.

She stalked through the house, searching each room for David, calling out to him. But the house was empty, silent. David was going to miss this scene, thank you.

She phoned Alexis, the only person she'd ever told about Tim. And about David finding out. She needed to stay calm, work through this, get Alexis's input. She had no skills, she realized. It was not like she could go out and get a job at the drop of a hat. She'd done nothing since graduating college and marrying David shortly thereafter.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming," Alexis said. Not scolding, mind you, but stating the obvious.

"I know," Cynthia replied. "Still, leaves me in a bit of a pickle."

"Do you need help packing?"

"No," she said, looking at the luggage. "He did that for me."

"Come on over then. We'll sit down and try to figure this out together."

So Cynthia lugged the baggage to her car, throwing two in the trunk and one in the passenger seat. She wheeled out of the garage and tore off down the street, watching the police car swing in behind her and flip on the cherries.

When she pulled over, she watched Tim approach.

"Not now," she said to him.

"What's wrong?"

She glared at him. "David found out. That's what's wrong."

His eyes opened wide, his mouth hanging open. "He's thrown me out," she continued. "So now I have no place to fucking stay. Understand?"

He nodded.

"So back off and leave me alone," she said, flipping the transmission back into drive and pulling away. She watched from the rear view mirror as he stood rooted to the street until she was out of view.

When she knocked on Alexis's door, she was greeted with a grinning Alexis, paper clutched in hand. "I think I've solved your problem," she said, pushing the paper into Cynthia's hand.

"You've convinced David to take me back?"

Alexis frowned. "No." Then her face lit up with a smile again–Cynthia was convinced she had severe Attention Deficit Disorder, her moods changed so quickly. "But I think I found you a job," she said, "and a place to live."

Cynthia raised her eyebrows and looked down at the newspaper, saw the ad circled. 'WANTED Full-time live-in housekeeper. Cooking and cleaning, light outside work. Interested phone. . . .'

"Where is it?"

Alexis shrugged. "I don't know."

"What does it pay?"

Alexis shrugged again.

Cynthia pursed her lips and flipped open her cell phone, dialing the number in the ad.

"Emily Cuthbert," a voice said.

"Ms. Cuthbert," Cynthia said, trying to sound calm and professional, "I'm phoning about the ad. The housekeeper position."

"Oh really?" She heard a click. "You're on speaker phone. Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good," the voice chirped again. "I'm here with Roger Hollister."

"What's your name?" a male's voice asked.

"Cynthia Holloway," she said, then added, "sir."

"Can you cook and clean?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "It's all I've done for the past thirteen years."

"Very good," he said. "When can you start." Cynthia hesitated, and he repeated the question.

"Well, sir, before I answer that I really need to know a little bit more about the job."

"Like what?" he said, his voice growing impatient.

"Well, sir, like where is it. And how much does it pay. You know, are there children to take care of, that kind of thing."

She heard him sigh before answering. "Where are you phoning from?"

"Armitage."

"Then it's about twelve miles outside your quaint little town. He's an artist, and he needs someone to make sure he eats and has clean underwear every day."

"It's just him," she heard Ms. Cuthbert chirp in. "He's just suffered a terrible loss. His wife died. And he– "

"She doesn't need to know that," the Mr. Hollister interrupted.

"Yes she does," Ms. Cuthbert insisted. "And Ms. Holloway–Cynthia, do you mind if I call you Cynthia?–he really needs someone to take care of him right now."

"Five hundred a week," Mr. Hollister said over her. "That's what it pays. Plus room and board, of course. Do you have any other questions?"

"No," Cynthia said.

"Then when can you start?" he asked again.

"Right now I guess," she said.

"Good," he said. "Get a pen and paper. I'll give you the address. Meet me there in, shall we say, three hours? It'll take me that long to get out there."

She looked at her watch. Three hours would be four thirty. She said that would be fine and he hung up without further pleasantry.

Alexis was gleeful, like a little girl, almost jumping with joy. "You got it?"

"Looks like it," she said.

* * *

Elizabeth's phone rang and she looked at the caller identification. HSC. She flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"It's clean," Will said. "Same day service, and it's clean."

She sighed in relief. "Thank you." She pursed her lips. "How did you get this number?"

"Caller ID."

Should've used a pay phone. No wonder he hadn't pressed for the number. "Can you mail it to me?"

"You don't trust me?" "Listen Will, I really just need to see it, okay?" AIDS was her biggest fear, always hovering in the background whenever she was with a client. She had to see the proof.

"Then how about I deliver it. Personally."

She knew this was going to happen. She needed to avoid it. In the past ten months, two other clients had tried to take it beyond a simple business relationship and things got sticky. The last thing she needed was a stalker.

"Elizabeth," he said, reading her mind, "I'm not asking for anything more than a cup of coffee, maybe dinner. When we're done, you're free to leave."

She relented, seeing no way around it. She had to see the results, confirm she was clean before she could work again. "When?"

"How about now? I can get out of here in about a half hour."

"No," she said. "Tomorrow night. I need to get a babysitter, make arrangements on how to get there."

"Where are you coming in from?"

She ignored the question. "Let's say six. Jackson's on Adams Street."

"See you then." She could hear the giddy excitement in his voice when he rang off.

* * *

Cynthia drove to the address given her, getting lost once before turning around and finding Ferris Road. She'd lived in Armitage for fourteen years, yet she'd never traveled these roads in the far southeast corner of the county.

She didn't know what to expect. She was torn between a decrepit old widower with tufts of gray hair sprouting from his ears and nose and a fat, balding, middle-aged queer in kimonos playing the part of impresario and sophisticated gadfly. She didn't know which she'd prefer, but she wasn't looking forward to either.

She found the mailbox and pulled into a long gravel driveway cutting through dense woods. The drive curved and, nearly a quarter mile in, she saw the woods break to a sweeping expanse of lawn, a little more than an acre, with a sprawling Mediterranean-style ranch in the middle.

Pleasant surprise number one: At least it wasn't a drafty old farmhouse with tiny rooms and ancient plumbing. Unfortunately, this confirmed she was going to be housekeeping for a fat fellow in silk robes.

The dread was further confirmed when a tall, chunky man in a jacket and tie opened the front door as she got out of the car.

"Ms. Holloway?" He had an accent. Somewhere out East. Not New York, but maybe Boston. It was the voice on the phone.

"Mr. Hollister," she said, walking to him and shaking his hand. Limp handshake, clammy skin.

"Please come in," he said, stepping back and ushering her into an expansive great room.

The room was bright, tall windows with drapes diffusing the evening sun as it filtered through the trees. And it was a mess. Dirty plates, bowls, and cups on most of the flat surfaces, newspapers and magazines scattered on coffee table, chairs, and stacked on the floor.

She raised her eyebrows and looked at Hollister.

He saw the look and spoke. "You'll have your work cut out for you."

She said nothing, walking past him into the kitchen. More mess, the floors dirty with spilt milk and dusty shoe prints. If the rest of it looked like this, she'd be cleaning this place for a week.

"We're worried about him," a chirpy voice said behind her. She turned and saw a tiny woman, maybe forty-five, hair in a bun, black skirt, white bouse, black jacket.

"Ms. Cuthbert," Cynthia said. They shook hands, Emily's grip more firm than was Hollister's.

"Please, call me Emily." She turned and walked from the kitchen, speaking as she went. Cynthia followed. "This is the dining room," she said, waving her arm in as they passed. "Bathroom. Den. Sean's bedroom and bath." She was striding, pointing at doors as they passed. Most were closed, but she assumed they were as bad as the rest.

The house was huge, almost four thousand square feet, and they passed two more bedrooms and an open sitting room before they reached the far end. "This is the guest bedroom. Where you'll stay." Emily opened the door and stepped in, Cynthia following.

It was nice, nicer than her bedroom at home. David's bedroom now, she realized. There was a sitting area with two soft, padded chairs and ottomans in front of a fireplace, a king size bed, and a door leading to the bathroom. It was also clean, she noticed. The air smelled stale and there was a fine layer of dust on everything, indicating no one had been here in months. But that wouldn't take much time to air out and straighten up.

"It's very nice," Cynthia said, patting the comforter. It was thick, light, and luxuriant. Real down feathered comforter. Not cheap. She opened a window and drew back the drapes to let fresh air in the room.

Hollister stood in the doorway. "Probably time to introduce you to your charge," he said. She looked at him and said nothing, so he continued. "His name's Sean McMahon. Have you ever heard of him?" She shook her head, to which he pursed his lips. "Not surprising out here, I suppose." He turned and walked back the way they came, talking loudly as he went.

"Sean is one of the preeminent artists alive. Probably in the top five. His works fetch hundreds of thousands, which is rare for living artists."

They were reaching the other end of the house and she heard muffled music from behind the door at the end. Rolling Stones?

"His wife, Holly, died a few weeks ago," he continued, stopping in front of the door. "It took a long time. Almost a year. And he cared for her night and day."

"But it was a blessing," Emily chipped in. Cynthia could tell she was always a bundle of energy, one of those who were always looking at the bright side. "She wasted away to nothing. Just skin and bones."

"And constant pain," Hollister added. "Sean was with her to the very end. Afraid he's taken it all rather hard. These types do, you know." He rapped hard on the door. There was no response, just Mick Jagger leering that women though him tasty.

Hollister continued. "He barely painted while she was ill. Seems he's making up for lost time now. He hasn't stopped since the funeral. Churning them out left and right. Maybe the best work he's ever done." He opened the door.

"Then what's the problem?" Cynthia said. "Why a live in?"

Hollister ignored her, rapping harder on the door as he opened it and stepping in. "Sean," he yelled over the music.

Cynthia followed him in. It was a brightly lit studio, high ceilings with plenty of natural light through open windows. In the middle, at an easel, stood a small man, staring intently at a canvas and dabbing paints, his head flipping back and forth between the canvas before him and a sketch pad laying on a stool beside him. He didn't seem to notice their presence.

She approached closer, seeing him better, her eyes growing wider as she looked at him. He wasn't small, but he wasn't large, either. Maybe five nine. He had wide cheekbones and firm jaw line drawing straight across to a rounded side of pointy chin. Dark brown curly hair–natural curls, she guessed by the rest of his appearance–swung low on his forehead and ears, stopping at the top of his collar, streaked here and there with gray. He was slim, painfully so, and the white button up shirt, cuffed at the collars, and faded jeans hung on him loosely. He obviously hadn't shaved in days, and his pale, almost translucent, skin told her he hadn't spent much time in the sun in months. He looked frail, like he'd break if squeezed, but intense at the same time. He could be anywhere from thirty to fifty, couldn't really tell until he was cleaned up. His body was burning energy into his work, and she could see the intensity in his focus and the movements of the brush.

"Mr. McMahon," she said, stepping closer and putting out her hand, "I'm Cynthia Holloway. I'm your new housekeeper."

He ignored her, his concentration remaining on the canvas.

She could smell him now. Pungent. He hadn't bathed in days. She dropped her hand and looked back at Emily and Hollister. The latter tipped his head to the door and they departed.

When they were back in the great room, Hollister spoke. "He's like that, I'm afraid. Not being unfriendly, mind you. Just in his own little world."

"That's why he needs you," Emily said, her voice going quiet for the first time. "He's not eating, not bathing. He's going to kill himself unless someone looks after him."

Cynthia said nothing, taking in the mess around her before turning back and staring at the studio door at the end of the hallway. So this is to be my life now, she thought. Trying to keep Pablo fucking Picasso alive long enough to keep the cash rolling in.

"So you'll do it then," Hollister said. Not a question, a statement. She thought she now detected concern in his voice as well.

Then she thought back to the collapsing bundle of energy behind that door. She couldn't do this. Hell, she couldn't take care of herself. She'd all but destroyed David. She didn't need this, didn't want it. Still, she felt her head nodding, and heard her voice saying clearly, "I'll take care of him."

Emily stepped in and hugged her tight. "Thank you."

Hollister seconded that, and they left. She stood alone in the great room, looking at the mess before her. Then she found the garage, dragged in a garbage can, and started cleaning.

* * *

Aimee stood behind the tree, the warm glow of the street lamps far behind her. They had no idea she was there, but she could see them clearly, backlit by the night lights of the school.

She was startled by a rustling behind her and she crouched lower.

"It's me," she heard him whisper. David Holloway approached, crouching low to the ground.

"What are you doing here?" she said. "How did you find this?"

"The school was in a couple of the pictures," he said. He was looking at the two cars, at the couple making out passionately about seventy-five feet away. He was mesmerized by the scene, his jaw tense.

"It's not her," Aimee said.

"Jesus," he said, "she's a child."

Aimee frowned. "Not exactly. Close, but not quite. She's about twenty, maybe twenty-one."

David looked at Aimee. "You know her?"

Aimee nodded. "Jenny Silverman."

"But I thought Tuesday nights were– "

"They are. They're usually your wife. But not this Tuesday. Jenny's usually Thursdays, sometimes Fridays, too."