Prodigal Slave

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Prodigal Slave Page 13

by Roxy Harte


  “There is no other for me. I am François’s and I am yours.”

  “My daughters—”

  “Are little girls who do not interest me. Is that what you fear? That I will compare you to their youth?”

  I nod.

  “If anything, I will compare them, but I will be thinking what beautiful women they are to become as they grow-up, more and more resembling you.”

  “How is it a Frenchman always knows exactly what to say?”

  He smiles, bending his head to kiss me soundly. “Relax. Everything will be fine.”

  As we leave the pantry, I hope dinner goes as well as he promises, but as the night progresses I know there isn’t a chance in hell it will.

  My daughters are very vivacious, persuasive young women, well skilled in the art of dinner conversation, barely letting anyone else say anything at all, except each other, and both ladling complement upon praise directed at Pierre-Louis. He laughs at their jokes, he panders to their vanity. He is a typical man surrounded by beautiful women and soaking in their adoration.

  I kick him beneath the table, hoping it bruises.

  By the time dinner is over and everyone has retired to their bedrooms, my nerves are shot, and I want nothing but to be left alone.

  The greenhouse seems the perfect place to escape to. The damp heat of the day, collected and condensed in the greenhouse is a small comfort. The scent of earth and exotic flora permeates my senses, soothing my soul … until Pierre-Louis walks in.

  “You flirted with my daughters!” I accuse, knowing he did no such thing and if anything was the perfect gentleman, deflecting the compliments back to them … which to a teen girl I knew would seem like flirting…

  He defends, “I didn’t.”

  “I know you tried not to, but they are both still hot for you.”

  “That I did not encourage!” He bristles, bellowing like a true Frenchman can.

  “I know,” I shout back, shouting only because he is … and because I am so frustrated. I bury my face in my hands. “They are infatuated with you.”

  “Oui,” he admits to noticing.

  I shake my head. “I can’t do this!”

  “Do what?”

  “This. Us.” I gesture frantically between us. “Keep having sex with you!”

  “Sex?” he huffs.

  “Yes, sex, knowing both of my daughters want to have sex with you, too. It makes me feel—perverted.”

  He turns away hurt, pouting.

  I frown, not meaning to make him feel bad but unable to change the way I feel. I beg, “Do not pull the pouting Frenchman act on me.”

  “This is not an act, for you, maybe, because for you, it was just sex; but for me? We were beginning a relationship. I thought what we were sharing meant something to you as well.” He storms from the orangerie and Frankie walks in through the door before it slams closed, announcing, “That went well.”

  “Don’t start on me! I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “No?”

  “No!” I say, pacing. The fronds of a palm tickle my cheek as I pass and I brush it away angrily. I insist, “I was happy. My life was fine before you showed back up.”

  “Was it, really?” He asks sarcastically, keeping his distance. Smart man. I want to punch something, a wall perhaps, but the walls here are all glass and the thought of stitches doesn’t appeal. Hitting him on the other hand might make me feel much better.

  I admit, “No. It wasn’t and you know it wasn’t. You talked with Paulette, I’m sure she told you everything: how miserable I was, how lonely.”

  “She only told me you had grown old. Resigned to the life you were living. She believed your spirit was dying.”

  I march up to him and poke him in his chest, “And you thought you would arrive like a knight in shining armor and rescue me? Doesn’t that make me sound pathetic? Yes, my life was different, I was trying to survive a bout of empty nest depression, but I would have figured it out.”

  “Oui, you would have; I never said that you were not a strong woman. You didn’t need me; but I wanted you; and that makes me selfish. Perhaps I should have left you alone.”

  I watch as Frankie turns and starts to walk away from me. I let out a sob I wasn’t aware I was holding. “No, you shouldn’t have. I’ve missed you and I’ve loved being back … this just won’t work. There is no way to make this work.”

  “Honesty would make it work.”

  “You want me to tell my daughters the truth about our relationship?”

  “Perhaps not all of the details, but the important ones: how you feel about me, how you feel about Pierre-Louis.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Why not?” He shrugs, nonchalantly as only a Frenchman can do when they are demanding the impossible. “Are you afraid you will offend their fine moral upbringing?”

  “Do not make fun of my life.”

  “On the contrary, I commend you. Your children are amazing, intelligent women. On the other hand, do you believe them fools that they cannot see that you are in love with both of us?”

  “Love?” I snort, thinking how ridiculous this moment is. “I cannot tell my daughters I am in love with two men.”

  From behind me, Pierre-Louis whispers, “Is it true you do?”

  I jump and turn toward him. I hadn’t realized he’d come back into the greenhouse. He stalks toward me, grabbing my face between his palms before pulling me toward him, our lips colliding. Frankie is there, immediately, behind me, molded to my back as Pierre-Louis is molded to my front; he kisses the back of my neck, alternating painful nibbles with teasingly soft kisses. This isn’t fair. Really it isn’t. Especially when they trade, pivoting me between them so that Frankie is suddenly kissing my mouth and Pierre-Louis is dropping kisses over the back of my neck.

  Lightning goes up and down my spine, need speeds through my veins. It doesn’t matter how often they hold me between them like this. I do not think I will ever get used to the increased sensation of both of them at the same time.

  Frankie pulls away, leaving me gasping, dizzy around the edges. “You didn’t answer the question,” Frankie whispers, catching and holding my gaze, demanding honesty. I don’t look away.

  “Yes, I have fallen in love with Pierre-Louis, and I have always loved you. That is the truth.”

  His eyes glisten. “I could have asked for nothing more. And nothing less.”

  I turn to face Pierre-Louis when I feel the pressure of his hands on my waist to do so. Our gazes lock and I can see the emotion filling his eyes. His voice is thick when he demands, “Tell me.”

  I smile and release the breath I’ve been holding. “I love you, Pierre-Louis. Je t’aime.”

  We end up in a sandwich hug, me between two men and I couldn’t be happier, but our quiet moment is ripped apart by Bree and Ellie shrieking at each other. The last time I saw them they were both going into their bedrooms, so I can’t imagine what happened between then and now. With them, I can only imagine. I hurry outside to silence the commotion if not resolve their differences.

  Finding them poolside, I demand, “What is going on? You aren’t at home. You are guests here. You don’t act this way.” I realize they are dressed to go out. Both of them wearing beaded, spaghetti strapped dresses. I point at chairs. “Sit down.”

  They are silent and sulky but at least they obey.

  I sit too, shaking, hating that I just sounded like a mother of toddlers instead of grown women. Looking at them both, I demand, “Now just what is going on? And where in the hell do you think you are going this time of night.”

  “We came out here to find Pierre-Louis because we want to go clubbing but then we got in a fight about which one of us has dibs.” They look at each accusingly then their expressions twist. It is like watching a mirror as their faces go soft around the edges. I think I know what this is about but don’t really want to acknowledge the possibility. I turn my head to look behind me, seeing Pierre-Louis. He is wea
ring his swimming trunks and muscles stretching, he dives. Great. A moonlit swim. Now?

  “Dibs?” I gasp, then laugh almost hysterically. “Are you serious?”

  “I wanted him first!”

  “I’m oldest.”

  “You already had a fling with the writer.”

  I stand, irritated. “Enough. Neither one of you can have him.”

  “Mom,” Bree whines, “He isn’t too old.”

  “No,” I agree, pacing beside the pool. My eyes are drawn to Pierre-Louis’s powerful strokes. I see Frankie has joined us poolside and is sitting with his pants rolled up and feet dangling in the pool. When did my life become a sideshow? I pace back to face my girls, admitting, “And he isn’t too young.”

  I pull a chair closer and sit between them. “There’s something you need to know.”

  They look at me with wide eyes, waiting. It takes me a moment to build up my courage, even though I had all night to worry about it and run possible scenarios and conversations through my head. I decide they are adults now, and I might as well treat them like they are, but it seemed so much easier when it was just an idea in my head. A brave plan. I finally admit, “We’re lovers. Since you are both obviously old enough to be fighting over which one of you gets to have sex with him, you are old enough to know I have already claimed him as my own.”

  Their jaws drop and then they look from me to him.

  Elle responds first. “Shit!”

  Bree stays silent and I can’t tell if she is merely sullen, too shocked for words, or angry. She recovers enough to say. “Grandma said you were lovers with François. That you dated a long time ago.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “Well, your grandmother had no business saying anything at all, but since she did, yes we were.”

  I do not want to go any farther with this conversation. I cannot believe I just admitted what I did. Something about seeing them both look at Pierre-Louis with such obvious lust. “This really wasn’t supposed to come up in conversation. You’re only here another day.”

  If I thought to shift their focus I was wrong.

  “Isn’t François mad? I mean, isn’t he still interested?” Elle demands.

  I look away, embarrassed, and watch Pierre-Louis swim. His muscles bulge, glistening with water. God, he’s beautiful. Can I blame my daughters? He swims over to the pool edge and hangs from the side, talking softly with Frankie. Catching them both look at me, I blush and look down at my hands in my lap.

  “You’re seeing François, too!” Bree accuses. “Does he know? Isn’t he like in love with you? Don’t you even care that you are going to break his heart if he finds out? Didn’t having Daddy cheat on you teach you how horribly affairs end?”

  They both sit looking at me, one curious, one horrified.

  “You are too young for this conversation. Damn it, girls. I’m too young for this conversation.”

  “He knows?” Ellie guesses.

  I nod. “We have an arrangement—the three of us.”

  “Oh my god, you’re talking about a ménage,” Bree gasps. “I may puke.”

  “That is so French,” Ellie says. “Wait until I tell my friends.”

  “What? No!” I gasp. “What happens in this family—”

  “Mom, really. You are the coolest mom on the planet.” Ellie declares, standing and kissing me on top of the head. She turns to Bree. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

  Bree stands. I can’t read her expression and that bothers me. She shrugs at Ellie and asks, “Still want to go clubbing?”

  “No, wait,” I say, catching Bree’s hand. “I don’t want you to be mad at me, or hate me.”

  She screws up her face. “Why would you think that?”

  “You’re disgusted enough by what I told you that you want to puke.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Thinking about you having sex with either of them would make me want to puke. I mean … really … you’re my mother. I don’t want to think about that. I just didn’t want Ellie to be right.”

  “Right?” I ask, still confused.

  “About Pierre-Louis. She said you had to be sleeping with him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you all night and you were positively drooling through dinner, but I didn’t want to see that.”

  I hug her close, tears falling over my cheeks. “So we’re okay?”

  She hugs me back. “Yes. I love you, Mom.”

  They walk away, huddled close, whispering and giggling. I think I can officially have a nervous breakdown now. Pierre-Louis lifts himself out of the pool in a smooth move and pads over to me. He drips as he kneels. “Everything okay?”

  “No. I don’t think everything will ever be okay again. I just admitted to my daughters that I’m in a ménage with two men.”

  “Oui, a ménage is three. It makes sense there are two men.”

  I smack his wet shoulder. “I’m humiliated! What was I thinking?”

  “You were thinking honesty is the best policy. It keeps things from getting messy. Not that I would have, but they were obviously interested.” He shrugs and the mannerism is so male, so French, the nonchalance. “Relax. The cat is out of the bag now. You can loosen up now. You can be yourself again.”

  Frankie joins us, sitting in the chair Ellie vacated. “So, all is well again?”

  “They took the news remarkably well.” I lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek and have the worst thought. “Oh shit! My parents. They wouldn’t tell my parents, right?”

  Frankie shrugs.

  “That isn’t helpful,” I tell him tersely as I race after my girls to tell them the information I shared was completely confidential. His laughter follows me. I’m glad I’m entertaining someone.

  The End

  About the Author:

  Roxy Harte lives in a small town north of Cincinnati with her husband, teen daughter, two boisterous dogs and two independent cats. She can be found penning her next novel almost any day of the week. Writing for her is like breathing and sex, it is requirement for survival. Roxy's writing has been published at Liquid Silver Books, Loose-Id, and Lyrical Press. See what she's up to now at The Flog Blog www.roxyharte.blogspot.com or find her upcoming releases at www.roxyharte.com

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