by CELENE CAREY
First HARDCORE EROTICA STORIES Printing July 2015
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure inventions of fiction.
Chapter One
Had she known this was how her day was going to end, she would have worn a much less expensive blouse. One, maybe not quite so revealing, considering she was nearly flashing the crowd which had gathered. As it was, the blouse was ruined. Looking down at the remaining tatters then across at her mother’s pleasant smiling-face, her wrinkled cheeks glowing with the hint of a flame-burn, Angelique started to laugh. If it was a bit hysterical, surely that was to be expected.
“Ma’am?” A fireman looked over his shoulder at her. His dark, bushy eyebrow rose. “Everything fine?”
Choking on her own spittle as she attempted to muffle her laughter, she bent over at the waist, pounding her chest. Her pencil skirt, already laying a bit higher up her thigh than normal office attire, but a favorite of her boss’s, rode even higher, displaying her toned thighs and long legs. In a second, the fireman was beside her, his beefy hand on her shoulder. His voice full of authority and concern as he attempted to help her.
If she’d been listening. She wasn’t. She was thinking back to how this whole night had begun. Her mother had called her out of the blue, in a tizzy over some amazing gossip. Having invited her daughter to visit her for dinner, her mother had immediately hung up the phone. It wasn’t the first time. Lately, her mother had been slowly showing more and more signs of dementia. Her abruptness, just one symptom.
Angelique hadn’t bothered to change out of her work clothes, driving right over to see her mother. In truth, she was eager to see how the old woman was getting on by herself. She refused to move in a nursing home, even with the risk of her falling… or setting fire to the house increasing daily. Angelique had offered to stay with her mom, as well, but that idea was soundly shot down by said mother--”I finally got you out on your own back in ‘05 and there ain’t no way I’m letting you back in”--and there was no more point in arguing. It was going to have to be a forced takeover or nothing. And Angelique wasn’t ready, yet, to push her mom out.
Though, tonight may be as good a night to get the rock rolling than any.
Once she’d arrived at her mother’s house, she’d been kindly ushered into the formal living room where her mother placed a steaming pot of fresh coffee and a smattering of shortbreads.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing, dear. I’m just happy you came over, that’s all. It’s been years since you’ve been in town.”
That should have been Angelique’s first clue tonight was not like the other times. She came by regular as clockwork every Wednesday evening and all day Saturday. Instead, she just brushed it off as an idiosyncrasy of growing old.
Next came the parade of “eligible bachelors” her mother had cut out from the grocery store tabloids and made into collages to show her daughter--beseeching her just to pick one, men were all the same after all, “downstairs,” and if she didn’t find one soon, they’d all be gone. This was met with Angelique’s tittering giggle and you-can’t-be-serious look of embarrassed-daughter scorn.
Scorn, which was greeted with a monologued listing of Angelique’s physical attributes--dark hair which hung like a dark curtain to the small of her back, a pale complexion, yet clear, bright hazel eyes, and an hourglass figure, all bosoms and hips--and the sad shaking of her mother’s head as she couldn’t quite recall the reason her daughter had yet to pin down a man. A reason Angelique had never given. She didn’t know herself.
Then, finally, the two of them settled back on the couch for some simple conversation--all about their days and what life was like back when Angelique was a child and her father was still alive. For once, it was a good reminiscence, not beset with the sense of loss her mother usually injected into the memory. In fact, tonight, it had been almost as if her father were still alive--the way her mother talked--and was expected home shortly. It had been nice.
However, that had all ended when the fire alarm had started beeping, then screaming. Angelique had raced into the kitchen, the sudden appearance of dark smoke and the bitter taste of ash on the back of her tongue, moving her to action. Her mother had barely noticed, sitting still on the couch, her eyes trained on the front door, unfocused and watery.
It was a full-blown conflagration. The entire stove was alight, flames leaping from around the ajar door and up through the ancient wire burners. Angelique may have yelled. She definitely reached to slam the oven door, knowing from some old elementary school lesson that fire would die away if denied oxygen, at which point, her blouse, a fine synthetic blend, had caught a stray ember and began to burn. No amount of smacking had worked, the fabric burning quite quickly. The scent of burning flesh curled her nose hairs. Was it her? She didn’t feel any pain. Perhaps it was the adrenaline? Maybe that’s what synthetic fibers smelled like when burnt. She had no idea and horror of her situation was making it even harder to pay attention and focus on the problem at hand. It had taken a drastic action--literally ripping the bottom of her blouse off and dropping the flaming swath to the tile floor--to feel safe again.
Grabbing her mother’s old wall phone, she’d quickly dialed 911, then retreated to the hall closet where her father used to leave an extinguisher. She only hoped it was still in working order.
The extinguisher was gone. Replaced at some point with a vase full of canes.
Crying now, the smoke filling the house and threatening them both with asphyxiation, she returned to the living room to retrieve her mother. The old woman was gone. Now, Angelique screamed.
“Right here, dear.” Her mother’s soft voice had answered.
She was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking bemusedly at the inferno. The whole wall of the kitchen was in flames now, dark black scorch marks climbing the wall and like a spider web radiating out across the ceiling. Yellow plastic from one cabinet had melted and was leaking from the bottom of the compartment, spreading across the tile.
Angelique was aghast. Her childhood home was disappearing, being eaten alive by the orange fire which seemed to cackle and taunt her. She grabbed her mother by the thin, bony arm, pulled her down the hallway--lined with family photos--and shoved her out the door.
They’d stood on the lawn, watching with horror as a few flames finally broke through the kitchen ceiling and were now climbing high into the deepening purple sky. Behind them, the sirens had arrived, the firemen racing with hoses toward the house, a man dressed in a simple polo shirt and slacks asking her about anyone else in the house. She’d answered automatically, her mind elsewhere. How many times had her mother made coffee on the stove a day? Had she ever forgotten to turn it off before? What if she hadn’t been here? What about her mother then?
The ramifications and realizations slammed into her, knocking her down.
She was breathing again, her throat a little more raw than before. Nodding up at the fireman, she waved him off.
“Mom?” Her mother was watching the firemen, nodding to herself and making comments Angelique couldn’t hear. She repeated, “Mom?” a little more urgently the second time. This time, her mother turned.
“Yes? Oh, hello, dear. Lookie here, see all these firemen?” She pointed around her. “You know, I’ve always thought they were the hottest of the civil servants. So hot!” She fanned her face with her hand, chuckling at her little joke.
Well, at least her mother didn’t seem hurt. Angelique smiled at her mom. That was something to be grateful for. Even if she’d have to definitely go into a home now.
“Yes, mom, I did.”
“Do you think any of them are single?” Her mother’s brow scrunched up as she squinted closer at each of the men’s ha
nds.
“What?” Angelique struggled to her feet, brushing grass and ash from her pants as she did. Walking closer to her mother, she wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into an embrace. Her mother melted under her.
“What’s this for?” she whispered at her daughter.
“Just needed a hug.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps we can get a fireman to hug you.” Her mother pulled free. “Go ahead, pick one!”
“Mom!” Angelique wrapped her back in her arms, although she did take a cursory sweep of the firemen moving in and out of the house. Closer was safer. Some of them were cute. They were big men, all of them. Barrel-chested men, with muscles. A few had facial hair. She would never tell Mr. Stone, but she liked a man with a bit of scruff. Scanning one particular specimen from head to toe, she sighed. She pulled her mother in tighter. Her mother was a genius; there was no saying what the woman would say next. “You can’t talk like that,” she chided.
“Heavens, why not?”
“It is not appropriate. These men are here to help us.”
“Of course. And they can help us find you a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes. You need a boyfriend. It has been far too long.” And way too perceptive. Angelique shook her head, trying to deny her mother’s knowing wink. She was right, it had been far too long. Years, even, since she’d had a man in her life. Well, one she should or could bring home. There had been a handful of one-night stands and there was, of course, currently Mr. Stone. Angelique was getting laid all right, her needs met, so to say, but as for a relationship… love. Not so much. “And I want grandchildren.”
“Mother!”
The old woman just lifted her chin, stared her daughter down, and said, very carefully, “It isn’t like I’m getting any younger.”
A million comebacks popped into Angelique’s head. She said not a one. Instead, she opted for a small giggle and, “That’s true, I suppose. But you’ve still got a few more years on you. I think we can let these firemen off the hook. No doubt, you’ve managed to scare a few of them with your talk of babies.” She looked up and over her mother’s head, catching one of the men’s eyes. Alas, not one with facial hair. This one was young, handsome in a nerdy way--glasses, baby cheeks--and looked terrified of coming any closer. Was probably a missionary man, maybe some doggy-style. He was otherwise too innocent looking.
“You understand?” She spoke slowly, looking back down at her mom, watching her eyes for a sense of comprehension. When she saw the spark and the careful nod, she knew her mother was back.
“There’s an EMT. Can he take a look at you?”
“Sure,” her mother whispered. “Stay with me?”
“I won’t leave you.” Waving at the young EMT, she scooted her mother around and with a hand on the small of her back, led her to the back of the lighted, but silent ambulance. He followed, speaking slowly and kindly to her mother, checking her vitals, then the 1st degree burns on her cheeks from standing so close to the raging fire. He did a cursory exam of Angelique’s stomach where the blouse had caught fire, claimed she was more or less in the same condition, then gave her the name of an over the counter salve.
“Don’t wrap it. Let the skin air dry as much as possible. Keep it clean.” He ran through his instructions and called over the fire chief to ask if they needed to do anything else. With the all-clear, both men excused the women with a reminder to try and get some rest and everything will be taken care of.
Angelique took her mother to her car, got her inside and situated, then drove them both to the corner pharmacy, bought the supplies they’d need for their burns and the night. Her mom was tired, suddenly appearing ten years older as her mind returned to sanity and what had happened. Her features were drawn, creased, and haggard, her eyes sunken and her cheeks sallow. Angelique frowned at the reflection in the rear-view mirror as she turned into a local hotel. After going inside to procure a room, she helped her mother from the car, grabbed their bag of sundries, and directed her to their room.
Once there, Angelique looked at the clock and groaned. It was after one in the morning. Time had flown by. No wonder her mother looked so exhausted. It was way past both their bedtimes.
“Do you want a bath?” she asked her mom.
“No, not tonight. Thank you.” Her mother crossed to a double bed and sat down daintily. “In the morning, though, I am going to need to take one. I smell like a barbeque.” She lifted an arm and sniffed her skin, wrinkling her nose.
“Okay. What about your face? The EMT suggested a cold soak and the salve. Think you can put up with that?”
Her mother shrugged. It was as close to a yes as she was going to get.
Angelique went to the bathroom, ran cold water in the sink, called her mother to join her and then grabbed a washcloth from the folded sets left behind. With patience and gentleness, she soaked the washcloth, applied it across her mother’s face, and let the water calm the tender skin. Three times, she treated her mother’s face to the treatment, the final time, carefully dabbing at a few spots of ash and dirt. Once clean, she used her fingertips to spread the salve across her mom’s skin.
“All set. Go on,” she urged her mother. “Get some sleep.” Her mom offered no fight, just stood and teetered back to the bed, climbed under the sheets in her clothes, and within minutes was snoring.
Angelique smiled at her reflection. She lifted the ragged hem of what remained of her blouse, sighed, then set about doing what she’d done to her mother’s face to her stomach. By two in the morning, she, too, was tucked under the covers of the hotel bed. Wide awake.
She could have lost her mother tonight.
She’d been unprepared for her father’s sudden death--brain cancer--and was hoping for many more years with her mom. The reality of us how little time she might have left, hit hard. Maybe her mother was right. She needed to get serious about finding a man and settling down. She would hate it if her mother died without getting a chance to see her own grandchild. It was the one thing she wanted more than anything.
“Ok, mother, I’ll try.” It was the best a promise she could make.
“Oh, shit, I’m late!” Angelique shouted to the room at large, stunned for a moment at the sunlight shining bright through the open, and strange, drapes. She rolled over in the foreign bed and saw her mother’s angelic face peacefully watching her. Blinking, she suddenly remembered where she was and why.
“If you need to go, I’ll be fine,” her mother said. She looked happy. Angelique understood. She was once again under the influence of time--no longer aware of herself or her surroundings, just as she’d been last night.
“No, no, mom. Let’s get you up and ready for the day. I’ll call in Rebecca and she’ll stay with you. Work can wait.”
She hoped. Whether she got fired or not, for being late, there was no way she was going to leave her mother here alone all day. Swinging her legs to the floor, she stood and walked around to her mother’s bed. She pulled back the covers and easily lifted her mom’s small frame into a sitting position, then to her feet. She held her elbow as she helped her walk to the bathroom, waiting outside the open door close enough to assist in an instant, but offering her mother a modicum of privacy.
“I need a bath,” her mom said as she flushed the toilet and stood over the sink.
“Ok. Come on out here and I’ll turn on the morning news, then draw your bath.”
Her mother walked out, smiling, “You could use one, too,” she added, scrunching up her nose as she passed by. “You smell like your father.” Considering her father had been an habitual smoker of the cheapest cigarettes he could find, it was not a compliment.
“Thank you.”
Patting her arm in a motherly gesture, she nodded at her daughter and went and sat, perched on the edge of the bed, as instructed. Angelique turned on the television, tuned it to her mother’s favorite morning news station, and then went a drew a bath.
She gathered everything she�
�d need, called to her mother once the tub had a good eight inches of water in it, and then helped the old woman undress and step in. There were no sticky pads on the bottom of this tub, so it was a bit tricky--one terrifying moment where both of them nearly lost their balance--getting her in and sitting on the bottom. But, finally, she succeeded.
Thirty minutes later, bathed and redressed in her clothes from last night, Angelique left her mom singing along to the Christian station as she retrieved her cell phone, called work to explain--they were not happy, but accepted her excuse--and then Rebecca--her mother’s part time maid and sometimes caretaker. She was busy with another client’s house, but promised to make it over to the hotel as soon as possible, and willing to stay as long as it took. She was a sweet, kind-hearted middle-aged black woman and right now, more than anything, Angelique was thrilled with her. Whether Rebecca would accept the raise or not, she was going to earn one for this alone. She was a God-send.
Taking the brief lull in disasters to take a quick shower herself, she also redressed in what remained of her blouse and yesterday’s skirt. She would have to stop by her house before work to change. Returning to the bedroom space, she was happy to note her mother chatting amiably and sanely on her cell phone.
“Is it Rebecca?”
Her mother nodded. Angelique waited for the conversation to break, then held out her hand for the phone.
“Rebecca?” she checked. The said woman’s voice greeted her. Passing on the room number, she hung up. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Angelique let the maid and friend inside.
“Hello, Mrs. Jacobson, how are you?” Rebecca passed by Angelique with a wink and knowing smile. Engaging her mother in small talk, occupying her mind, and taking charge of the situation, Angelique waved to catch Rebecca’s attention, then dropped a note on the table beside the door. In it, she left her work number, a list of medical emergency numbers, and a run-down of needs for the day. Payment would have to wait, though Angelique hated doing it to Rebecca. But her purse was back at the house. She was lucky she had her keys.