What My Brother Left Me Ch. 01

"How does your husband fit into all of this?" I want to know.

"It is that bastards fault!" she spits out with venom. "That greedy stupid bastard is the reason I have...had to sleep with...John...all those others and now you."

"Claudia that is over," I assure her. "I don't want to force you to have sex and I don't want your money. My Dad died long ago, Mom passed away three years ago and John and I have both done well so all of that wealth is now mine...I think. I can't figure out why John was even blackmailing you."

"Because I'm old?" she complicates the issue.

"Ah -- no," I say, "he normally goes for women with bra sizes bigger than their IQ, long blonde hair with the capacity to laugh at almost anything he said. I guess that's 'went for' instead of 'goes for' now."

Claudia is rendered speechless for some time.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I break the silence. "For some freaky reason John has some wines and champagne along with his normal bourbons, whiskeys and beers." She shakes her head as she tries to concentrate.

"Does he have anything for a martini?" she finally manages.

"I have never made a martini in my entire life but I think that is vermouth and vodka, right? He's got those," I inform her.

"Point the way," she commands as she stands up. I walk her to the 'Man Cave' and use my brother's -- I guess it is mine now -- remote and trigger the bar to swing open from the wall. I remember him sending me daily photo updates while he built this thing; it was a labor of love.

"This place is filthy," Claudia notes. She's right.

"I think he cancelled the maid service months ago," I joke and for the first time Claudia shows a tinges of mirth; a moment when she isn't furious with existence. She walks over to the bar and starts working up a vodka martini. I step up and look over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she becomes all frosty again.

"I've never seen a martini made before. I thought I could learn something," I confess.

"Oh...you are not like your brother," Claudia relates as she measures out her version of what this alcoholic beverage should be.

"He was my step-brother; different mothers and I was seven years younger," I inform her. "He was always nice, watching out for me -- more of a Dad than my actual Dad."

"Well, he was an utter bastard here," Claudia is getting snooty. "He had loud parties at all hours; he built additions to the house without clearing it with the Homeowners' Association, and had always presented a low-class image." I have to think about that.

"You mean his cars?" I wonder.

"Yes, those junk piles," Claudia clarifies.

"John restored vintage cars, Claudia," I enlighten her. "He probably brought them by before he could get garage space to work on them. He was always doing things like that -- picking up wrecks and rebuilding them."

"That is no reason to dirty up the neighborhood," she insists.

"I agree; he was insensitive -- he could be like that from time to time," I concur mainly to keep things calm. She finishes the martini and pours one for each of us.

"Here you go," she hands me a cocktail glass. I wisely watch her take the first sip as I have no idea if you sip, drink, or chug the thing.

"How is it?" she politely inquires. I have the sudden desire to discuss who will take the regatta this year, municipal tax bonds and floral patterns. Claudia has that kind of aura draped around her.

"I have nothing to compare it to, but I like it," I say. "Thank you...for the drink and showing me how to make a martini next time a lady requests one."

"You are welcome, but I hope you will keep the partying to a minimum. What are you going to do when you find the...information?" she sneaks into the conversation.

"I'll erase and over-write the hard drive, burn any CD's, DVD's, and tapes, and shred any papers or photos," I explain. "I could give it to you to destroy if you prefer."

"How do we know you won't keep copies," Claudia grills me.

"You don't," I shrug. "I'm telling you I won't and I don't have a reason to keep copies but it is up to you to decide whether you can trust a guy you've known only two hours."

"Aren't you worried I killed your brother?" she questions.

"What does your husband do for a living?" I counter. Claudia hesitates for thirty seconds which lets me know that this is a significant sliver of information.

"He's lead accountant at a Fortune 500 company," she admits. I infer he's an embezzler. I don't say that but that's the key. That's why it is an 'us' and not 'me' or 'him' when she talks about what's gone wrong. Her standard of living comes from her husband's wrong-doings.

I am in finance after all and I know if you are not careful your accountant can rob you blind. Criminal charges have a short statute of limitations but corporations can come after you until the end of time with civil litigation.

"Was your husband involved with John?" I blurt out. Claudia looks shocked then bitter.

"Not in that way, if that's what you mean," she sneers. As far as I know my brother wasn't gay or even bi-sexual but then I didn't know he was blackmailing housewives either. "He made Edgar do...other things. Things like..." she mutters.

"This is the point where I stop asking," I interrupt. "I'm sorry I asked this much; so please let's not talk about what happened anymore."

Now Claudia softens enough to look wickedly amused with my discomfort.

"When can I expect this information?" she revisits the question.

"I have a few places I can start looking and when I get John's keys and Death Certificate I can go to the bank and see what gems he left for me there," I tell her. "In have no idea how long that will take."

She doesn't seem pleased so,

"You could help me with the legal difficulties as they come up," I offer.

"To get me over to your house?" she becomes very defensive.

"Hello...phone, e-mails, I could hand you over papers to your door, if you like," I point out.

"People would see," Claudia snaps. "You wouldn't know who was home when, and I can't have a strange young man loitering on my stoop."

"Fine," I shake my head, "Claudia, stay at home; do what you normally do and I'll contact you when I know something. I feel bad about what happened this afternoon and I've tried being civil. You want to be pissed at me, so be it. I'll be in touch."

Claudia looks ferociously angry but my memory tracks back to an earlier mood.

"The sex was mind-blowing," I swear. "My only regret is that I didn't start out explaining when you first came in. I took you under false pretenses and I hate that."

"As you should," she grumbles. "I'm still sore."

"I would like to say I'm sorry but," I gulp, "you were and are beautiful. I can't say I regret seeing..."

"Seeing me naked?" she accuses me. "That was a moment you never should have experienced."

"Yes, I know I will go to my grave never getting to see you like that again," I bow my head.

Claudia doesn't say anything for the longest time. She drains her martini and pours herself another one which she downs equally quickquickly. I look up at her. The third martini goes down the hatch.

"Of course you will never be gifted with that view again," she sniffs.

"Does it improve my chances if I buy a blindfold?" I say intently. Claudia spews her fourth martini all over the place.

"You are incorrigible," she snorts. "You are worse than your brother," and then she sneaks a smile my way. "You will get me every bit of evidence, right?"

"Absolutely," I promise. We put down our glasses and I take her to the door. "If you try to blackmail us, there will be hell to pay." Right before we get to the door she adds, "Don't bother my husband with this. I'll handle everything."

"Of course," I agree.

(Marisol)

My hand is inches from the doorknob when the doorbell rings. Claudia tenses up but I am unschooled in the arts of blackmail and deception...or even high society. I open the door and am gifted with the view of a gorgeous, vivacious woman I am to learn is of Cuban descent. She's holding a bottle of red wine and possessing a wicked smile.

"Marisol?" my current visitor gasps.

"Claudia?" the lady on the stoop replies.

"What are you doing here?" they simultaneously volley.

"I came over to greet John's brother who arrived only today," Claudia recovers first. Marisol blinks.

"So am I...here to greet John's friend who I now know is his cuter, younger brother," Marisol recovers quickly as well.

"I'll leave you to your business, Mr. Greene," Claudia directs to me. Greene is my family name. Claudia slips pass us both and, with chin held high, she saunters down the walkway.

"Ms. Riviera, I'm Charles and you are right; I'm his kid brother," I step aside and allow Marisol to enter. I'm thinking an early fortyish woman, with a nice, lush ass, plush hips, full waist and an expansive bust-line with a smooth neck line, no crow's feet, rich lips and flowing black locks that cascade down to the afore mentioned ass. This has to be M. Rivera on my brother's e-mail 'Most Wanted' list too since there is only one 'M'.

"Call me Marisol, please," she beams with a smile that must have put at least one of the dentist's children through college. Her hips beat out their own sultry rhythm as she makes her way to the kitchen. At the refrigerator, she makes an overtly seductive display of opening the door, bending over and looking for a place to stick the wine despite there being plenty of room. I'm definitely thinking of sticking something somewhere too...but that would be bad.

"How about we just drink it?" I offer.

"You are being awful bashful," she smiles down the length of her torso at me. "But you have nothing to be bashful about," her eyes focus on my crotch where my penis isn't pitching a tent; its aiming for Big Top status. Marisol salivating doesn't help my self-control one bit.

"We need to talk," I express as I backpedal for distance. If she bounces that ass or breasts off me, it is straight to sex on the hardwood kitchen floors and a mountain of regrets afterwards.

"Oh, that's never good," she sighs. "Is this why John isn't here?"

"Let's go to the living room," I suggest.

"We could always go to the bedroom," she grins.

"I stripped the bed but haven't put fresh sheets on yet," I explain.

"Man Cave," is her next suggestion.

"Deal," I huff happily. There are pieces of furniture I can put between us in case she gets furious and seeks vengeance. With that in mind, I retrieve a corkscrew; I might need it.

"I'll get the glasses," Marisol says. She hooks two wide-bodies wine glasses with practiced ease and sashays pass me. They could be Sherry glasses or Brandy Sniffers, but I've never seen either identified -- I am not from the Hamptons; I'm from Western Pennsylvania. We don't do garden parties, we shoot quail, turkey and deer.

I make a near fatal error in judgment; I decide that if Marisol walks in front of me I'm going to grab her ass; I just couldn't stop myself, so I go first. Marisol wraps her hand holding the two glass stems around my waist and rubs my very hard hard-on. I cough. I would cough and wiggle away but I don't want the glasses smashing to the floor. I'm still wearing socks after all.

"Whoever called you the 'little' brother was lying," she purrs into my ear, followed by her breath on my neck, her boobs pressing into my back and her teeth and tongue tantalizing my left ear.

"For the love of God, woman, give me two minutes and I guarantee you will want to leave," I squeak.

"If you insist," she mutters darkly. We enter the Man Cave, I go for the love seat and she goes for the sofa. Before I can speak, Marisol pats the seat next to her but I shake my head. She pats again; I refuse again so she gets up and comes over to me. She flows down to her knees like a gymnast with her legs spread wide.

Oh Hell No! I've been down this road just two hours before. My legs slam shut; no blowjob for me. I'd feel better in my moral victory if Marisol wasn't looking at me like a cat regarding a mouse-flavored treat.

"Fuck it..." I groan.

"That's been my desire for the past two nights since your brother stood me up," Marisol purrs.

"Wait Marisol," I fend her off, "John died in a car wreck two nights ago." Marisol may have been why he was speeding home -- shit. I'd have used a damn supped-up De Lorean with a time machine in back if I knew she was waiting on me and I was afraid I'd be late.

"Seriously?" she studies me. "This isn't some stupid stunt of his trying to blow me off?"

"No, he's dead alright, I swear to God," I plead.

"Well damn," she pouts as her treasured posterior comes to rest on her heels.

"You don't have to come over here anymore," I explain with some relief.

"You don't find me attractive?" she now seems curious and a little hurt.

"You are freaking gorgeous but I want you to know that you are not going to be blackmailed anymore," I cautiously smile. "The nightmare is over."

"Huh?" she's truly confused. "Wait, you think John was blackmailing me for sex?"

Oh blow me -- fuck a duck; what in the hell have I done?

"Isn't he? I mean, wasn't he?" I babble. She gives me a penetrating stare then laughs.

"He wasn't blackmailing me," she chuckles.

"He wasn't?" I blink. Oh thank God.

"No," she giggles at my distress. "He was blackmailing my husband. See, my husband is gay."

"That's a damn waste," I groan. She is leaning over and up; so I meet her lips half way.

"Thank you for that," she smiles. "I was beginning to think I was losing my appeal."

"What the hell is going on?" I mutter.

"My husband's family runs the largest alcohol distributorship in South Florida but the Cuban-American community isn't big on homosexuality. His brothers would force him out of the business if they found out, so he married me as camouflage. My problem is that while homosexuality is worse, being a cuckold is not much better," Marisol explains.

"A few years into the marriage he got tired of even pretending to sleep with me and a few years later toys became insufficient," she sighs. "It got so bad I was going to college swim meets just to get a glimpse of stiff man-meat." I am smart enough to not laugh. The corkscrew drops from my hand because I'm not likely to need it now; at least not for self-defense.

"Oh...in that case, if you missed it, I would really like to spend the night exploring your body in every possible manner," I relate.

"I'll make a deal with you," Marisol shuffles closer as my legs part and she rest her glorious orbs on my thighs while she looks up all innocent-like. "I'll let you fuck me each and every way you like if you agree to fuck me each and every which way I like; deal?"

"Ummm...wow...ummm...yes," I nod my head vigorously. "How about: Hell Yes!"

"Good," she growls hungrily. "I'll miss your brother but you look far more delicious."

"I should warn you I've only been with ten women my entire life," I confess.

"I've only been with two men; you'll be the third," she grins.

"How in the hell did that happen?" I gasp. "I'm inordinately proud that I haven't torn off you clothes in the five minutes I've known you." Marisol loses it. She falls back on the floor; she is laughing so uproariously; her mountainous breasts gripped by a steady body-quake.

"My Father and brothers are kinda/sorta part of organized crime down here," she adds to the mix.

"They aren't likely to feed my me legs-first into a wood chipper are they?" I inquire as I come out of the chair and lay my being on top of hers.

"No," Marisol grins with sexual triumph, "they place you in a wooden crate and dump poisonous snakes in with you -- it's their trademark."

"Promise me two things," I gasp between kisses. "After you answer my next request the conversation ends, the sex begins; I get to see you in a Catholic School Girl outfit before I die." She responded with arms around my waist and working off my shirt while her lips and tongue worked a Latin rhythm all over my lips, chin and neck.

(to be immediately continued)