The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

Thursday, July 16, 2020

Citronelle, California

"I thought we were gonna keep this relationship a secret between us. No one else was supposed to know." Donald Stanlick inclined his head and rubbed at the uneven scruff on his neck as he slogged outside, behind The Fireside Country Store, and gazed at Lucy. "I see you've told your friends. That's okay, little girl. I don't mind."

Donald set the stainless-steel bowl down and filled it to the rim. When he stood and winced, favoring his surgically reconstructed left knee, the bowl was immediately surrounded by not one, not two, not three, but six cats. Word must've spread in the local alleyways that Donald was a sucker when it came to feeding strays.

"Aww, that's beautiful. All you kitties eat up, now, and I'll see you again at the start of my shift Saturday afternoon. Lucy, you tell any other friends you have that they're welcome to come too." Sweat beaded around his hairline. "Jesus, it still feels like it's a hundred-and-seven out here. I don't see how you all survive in this heat. Try to find a cool spot to sleep tonight, too, will you?"

If it were up to him, Donald would usher all those felines inside so they could relax in the air conditioning twenty-four/seven, but it wasn't up to him. He was just an employee here, as the business belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Winston, and they didn't want their merchandise to be clawed at and chewed on overnight (among other things). I can understand that.

Lifting his gaze, Donald returned inside, and locked the back door behind him.

"Donald, honey, why don't you do a trash sweep, and check the restrooms are clean as well? We'll be closing up shop here in forty minutes." Along with her husband, A.J., sixty-six-year-old Eleanor Winston had devoted almost five decades to the family business, this southern-style general store on the corner of Juniper Street and Clover Avenue in lovely downtown Citronelle, California. A local institution, The Fireside Country Store sold toys representative of the 1950s and 1960s, country music CDs, DVDs of early classic television, puzzles, woodcrafts, cookbooks, baking mixes, and kitchen novelty items. The establishment included a shrine to Citronelle's history and was decorated with antique household tools, old wall calendars and advertising posters, and black and white photographs.

A small assortment of food and other grocery items had allowed it to remain open through the pandemic.

"Yeah, Mrs. Winston. Don't worry, I'll take care of it." Donald plucked at his facemask - I wish I didn't have to wear this thing - as he trudged off to the cleaning closet in search of garbage bags. Another day wasted, another dollar earned. Once arriving, he leaned forward, rested his forearm on the doorframe, and sighed.

Though he'd undergone ACL surgery seven months ago, there were still many instances when Donald's left knee felt unstable and proved too painful to bear any weight. That's because you're fat, you're out of shape, and won't listen to what the doctors tell you. Despair and self-loathing burned in his gut. You refuse to take care of yourself. Sure, the original recovery time was slated for nine months, but Donald found himself behind schedule as there were certain days when he chose to stay home and play video games instead of attending physical therapy. What does it matter? It's not gonna make any difference in the long run. All the pain and suffering, and the depression and anxiety that stemmed from that one freakish moment had drained Donald's motivation to keep trying and make things better.

One of the two ligaments that cross the knee and help connect the thighbone (femur) to the shinbone (tibia), Donald suffered a grade three tear of the anterior cruciate ligament on Thanksgiving Day, 2019, in a single-car accident while driving home from Nevada. The roads were still slick and icy following a blizzard which occurred the previous day. That snowbank all but totaled my little car. Things had been in a downward spiral ever since.

"You okay, Donald? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you needed something for a hangover."

I need something for a lifeover. Tears streamed down his cheeks, though he attempted to conceal any visual evidence of that from Mrs. Winston. "Nah, I'm good." He sniffed his nose and raised his left foot, finding a temporary reprieve from the pain. "Just tired, I guess, and sore. Glad I got tomorrow off." At least I have the raid with my guild at ten o'clock tonight to look forward to. Donald had been an avid player of the online RPG World of Warcraft for nearly three-quarters of his life. With any luck, we can finally defeat that dumb boss tonight, and move on to the next one.

"Oh, my sweet boy." Mrs. Winston materialized like a fairy godmother and tucked a wayward clump of red hair behind Donald's ear. "I know life has been a struggle and you're not feeling well." She latched onto his wrist. "Why don't you go out and have some fun for a change? You're always such a homebody. Go to Palm Springs or Los Angeles, maybe San Diego, and just ... let loose. Go enjoy yourself." Her compassionate gaze tugged at his heartstrings. "You deserve it."

Donald drew back and wiped his eyes.

"My God, you're twenty years old, and in the prime of your life. I may be out of line for saying this and I'm sorry if I am, but you've worked with us for three years now, and I hate how you constantly beat yourself up. I care about you and want you to be happy. So does Mr. Winston. You're a good young man, Donald, but won't let others see it." She reached for his opposite hand and squeezed. "I think what you really need is to meet a nice girl your age, and for you and her to fall in love. It would solve all your problems."

A laugh sputtered free. "That's a lot easier said than done, Mrs. Winston." Especially when he preferred to spend the bulk of his time stowed away in his bedroom gaming. KiraMoonKnight may have a soft, friendly voice over Discord, but what if she was old enough to be Donald's mom in real life? You can't fall for any gamer you've never met. Period, end of story.

Mrs. Winston lifted Donald's chin, smiling warmly. "There's a girl out there for you, honey. The perfect girl. You just need to go out and find her."

He pulled his smartphone from his jeans pocket and glanced at its lock screen image for perhaps the thousandth time today. Or maybe the thousandth time in the past hour alone. It was a photograph of him and Lindsay Anastacio - a selfie - taken the evening prior to that fateful Thanksgiving Day nine months ago. The only visual reminder I have of us together. In it, they were cheek-to-cheek, smiling, and seemingly a young couple in love. "I already have found her, Mrs. Winston. I already have. ..."

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This chick had to start wearing a bra. It was the only solution.

As Kenzie stretched to reach for a plate in the cupboard, her short t-shirt slipped away from the black cotton shorts that hung loosely around her hips and ass, and Jim found himself leaning slightly to the side atop the kitchen stool. No way that shirt was going above her breasts - the shape of which he had permanently imprinted on his palms - no matter how high she reached, but hot damn, just the mere thought almost knocked him to his ass on the floor beside the breakfast bar.

That would have been difficult to explain off.

"Smells delicious in here," Jim said, trying to distract himself from the pronounced, rigid nipples that were poking against the pink words That's a horrible idea. What time? on the front of her shirt.

But if a girl wore something that outlandish, she had to expect people to look, right?

Kenzie glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Thanks."

"You cooked?"

"Chicken teriyaki, made strictly for you. Not me," Kenzie said as she turned to lay a piece of chocolate pie onto the plate. "And s'mores pie."

She set it in front of him, but before he could reach for it, she picked up a blowtorch. Granted, it was a kitchen-sized blowtorch, but a blowtorch all the same. Kenzie lit the end and touched it to the marshmallows on top, toasting them within seconds. Then she set a fork on its edge and pushed the plate toward Jim.

Unable to resist, he laughed and held both hands out. "Wow. Even dessert has a little something extra with you."

Kenzie shrugged. "I'm big on toppings."

Jim picked up the fork and tried to ignore the way his body stirred. After what he'd experienced in Kenzie's bedroom this afternoon, he wasn't sure there was anything she could do that wouldn't stir his body. Or his emotions.

"Toppings?"

"Oh, yeah."

Then she attempted, again, to induce him into cardiac arrest by leaning onto her elbows directly across the bar from where he was sitting. The neckline of her shirt gaped, and smooth, bronzed skin drew his eyes. A breast and nipple he spent so much time worshipping hours ago were right there. And Jim noticed the glitter. Great Scott! Kenzie had sprinkled her torso with glitter, too, one of her trademarks during their brothel days. Her skin glowed and yes, actually twinkled underneath the light of the kitchen.

"Toppings can make or break a dish. I mean, without those marshmallows, that's a plain old chocolate cake. I could have drizzled caramel on top and it would've changed it completely. And toppings or sauce can change a chicken breast from teriyaki or piccata just like that." She snapped her fingers. "I'm all about the embellishments."

For some reason, that seemed like one of the most honest things Jim had ever heard. Cierra Vazquez was an embellishment. She made everything about his life bigger and better. And yes, changed it immensely in recent times. It took eight years, but Kenzie - Cierra - finally agreed to let Jim bust out of the friend zone and date him. Oh, this had been a long time coming. Jim knew where he wanted it to lead - here comes the bride - but didn't possess a whole lot of patience, not with the thirty-year gap in their ages.

If it were up to him, they'd elope tonight.

"Try it," Kenzie said, motioning toward the plate.

Right. Pie. He was sitting here eating pie with Kenzie following the first and only time they'd ever had sex. Yet he'd seen Kenzie nude and listened to her get plowed thousands of times before. Not weird at all. Jim took a bite.

Good God. If he hadn't been crazy about her already, this would have sealed the deal. He swallowed half of it and perked up. "Damn, Cierra, this is amazing."

Her face lit up, and for a second, Jim stopped chewing and simply looked at her. The glitter had nothing on that sparkle in her eyes.

"You think so?"

He finished off the swallow. "Of course. How would anyone not think so?"

"You're so sweet." Her lips were nearly against his but they weren't kissing. Yet. "You always know how to make me feel better."

Just her warm breath against his mouth made Jim's lower half a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate. Again. Several lewd scenarios cycled through his brain with Kenzie's lips so close. But he shoved the indecencies aside for the time being because there was more with this girl.

Jim loved just talking to Kenzie. He wanted to thank her for the impromptu dinner. With his tongue. But he also wanted to make her laugh and hear all her stories and take her to Red Rock Canyon and to a drive-in theater and to a million other seemingly boring, mundane things because he knew she would make them fun and new.

"You're captivating." Jim slid his fingers up her arm to the back of her neck and reeled her moist lips to his. "Completely fucking captivating."

She sighed - a soft, happy sound - and he felt her smile against his lips. "No one has ever used that word for me before."

"Good." Jim wanted Kenzie to feel appreciated and loved and cared for, but he, by God, wanted to be the one doing it. He wanted to be something new and different for her, too, something she deserved. Not a boozed-up monger with a foul mouth and dirty intentions. But instead of saying anything that may ruin the moment, he kissed her.

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Pushing a mop, Donald cursed under his breath as he heard the door swing open behind him. Why do customers think it's okay to show up two minutes before we close? Happens every night. Donald rubbed at the base of his neck and knew he had to put on a pleasant façade one more time before calling it quits. I just hope whoever this is doesn't track footprints everywhere. If so, he'd have to mop again.

"Hello and good evening. Welcome to The Fireside Country Store, but please watch your step as ..."

Once turning, Donald found a petite young lady at the entrance, wearing a cute pair of leggings and an oversized top. Her tousled mane bounced over her shoulders as she approached him, first slowly but then picking up speed, her arms extended for a hug. Donald stumbled backward in shock. The girl's cheeks were flushed, her eyes the most spellbinding shade of blue he'd ever witnessed, yet somehow achingly familiar at the same time.

Holy kamoly.

Donald's abdomen clenched with longing. She looked incredible, yet disoriented, and as her hand settled on his shoulder - the same hand he remembered all too well digging into his back when they made love that lone, magical night in November 2019 - he realized she also looked distraught.

Very distraught.

"Donnie!"

Lindsay Anastacio. The ghost from his past who had made sleep impossible. The tsunami that obliterated everything else in his world. The forbidden curse destined to remain forever trapped by his nostalgia. Donald's heart pumped at the memory of the first time he saw Lindsay, all the way back during Mrs. Napier's class in the first grade.

And even harder at memories of the last time he saw her.

"I'm sorry for being such a trainwreck, but I ... I'm in town ... and could really use a friend."

He held her gaze as they glanced at each other sidelong, still embracing, and felt stuck somewhere between the schoolboy he once was, ogling her yearbook photographs, a jealous ex-boyfriend, a lust-filled man, and a gravely concerned husband.

"Lindsay? What are ...? What are you ...?" Donald gritted his teeth for control. "You're in Citronelle!" His face remained a plank of wood, his amazement evident by the way he held his breath. "Why are you here? What's wrong?" He took a step back and studied her. "Did someone hurt you? Is ... is everything okay?"

Tears sprang to Lindsay's eyes as she crossed her arms over her stomach. "I tried going home to make peace with my family, but it ... it didn't go as planned." She turned and glanced elsewhere, blinking away the moisture, and wondering where and how she'd gone wrong.

Maybe certain fences could never be mended.

Maybe Lindsay would always be public enemy number one in Citronelle, its most infamous and defiled citizen, and everything her religious parents hated.

"Oh, Lindsay. Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

"On top of that, I've had a really shitty week, having made one bad decision after another." Quitting her job. Alienating Colt and Pamela by going against their wishes. Meeting up with a pair of guys in Salt Lake City she shouldn't have.

And coming home to Citronelle.

"I need someone I can trust; someone I can talk to." Spasms racked her muscles until it seemed her bones would snap. "Will you help me, Donnie? Please?"

"Of course." Without another word, he reached for Lindsay and enveloped her in an embrace that both of them very much needed. So many emotions raced around Donald's mind, born of love and sympathy. Lindsay was more than his lifelong crush. This girl took his virginity and had turned his heart inside out long before that. There had never been anyone but her, nor would there ever be anyone after her. Having Lindsay in his arms again and hearing her voice caused both his knees to buckle this time.

"I'm here for you, Lindsay. I told you that in Nevada, the last time we saw each other, and the few times we've spoken on the telephone since. I'll always be here for you."

"Well, what do we have here?" Mrs. Winston strolled over, brimming with curiosity, with a grin so big her bright, kind eyes crinkled at the corners. Almost like a proud, doting mother who'd just been informed that her son was engaged to be married. "Donald, who is this? Who is your friend?" She patted Lindsay's hand. "Oh, goodness gracious, you're a pretty one. Are you and Donald ..."

Suddenly, Mrs. Winston's forehead creased as her gaze turned ice cold. "Wait a minute. Aren't you ...?" A pause. "You're the Anastacio girl, aren't you? The one who ..."

Disgusting bile stung Lindsay's throat, so much so that she almost vomited in her mouth.

One heavy eyebrow slanted in strong disapproval. "Get out of my store. Your type isn't welcome here."