Chapter #39The Life of Jessica Pearce by: Seuzz   "I don't do graveyards," you sniff. For almost the first time since you've put on Jessica's mask, you are pleased at being able to turn her personality to such exquisitely apt use.
Caleb gives you a dirty look. "The fuck is your problem?"
Joe laughs. "You heard the bitch," he says. "She doesn't have to help. Prescott's already got a golem."
"A golem I helped make," Caleb says. He turns on you. "I helped you dig all that shit for it!"
"Deal with it," Joe says. "We'll have, like, six guys helping out."
"I think he should do it himself," you say. You clasp your hands behind your back and lean in toward Caleb; he stiffens all over. "You're so big and strong, Seth," you moan softly. "Big muscles all over. And I bet you've got enough stamina to go for hours."
"Just give me a chance," he says through unmoving lips.
You stand on tiptoes so you can bring your lips close to his. Your warm breath mixes with his. You open your mouth and touch his. His lips part, and you feel his tongue tentatively touch yours. You touch it back, and tease, and while he's distracted you raise your right hand toward Joe and mime snapping a picture. A few seconds later you're rewarded with the sound of a click, and step back. "Take a breath mint, Johansson," you snap.
"What was that?" Caleb says, clearly confused. Patterson guffaws and waggles the phone at him. "The fuck?"
"Just a little blackmail between friends," you mutter over you shoulder at him. "Stop being so horny around me, or Cindy gets a copy."
He blanches. "Jesus, Will!"
Joe laughs again. "Oh, she got you. I like this girl."
Then he turns serious.
"Okay, enough fun. Here's the deal. Me and Prescott are moving out to Eastman," he tells Caleb. "You can get in touch with me at the number I called you from today. We're gonna take Lynch out there too. He'll still be going to school at Westside, but we'll work it so he completes his jobs at Eastman. That'll leave you and Gordon to run Westside."
"Me and—? Oh, fuck, no!" Caleb moans.
"Gordon'll probably say the same thing, but it makes sense. Two senior members at each school, overseeing a junior member. When the juniors are finished, we'll regroup. So get Tilley to finish his jobs. Don't do them for him, and don't help him. We'll have a meeting tomorrow at the usual place to finalize it all.
"As for tonight's plans—" He consults his watch. "We'll all meet here around nine-thirty and then head out." He looks back at the three golems—fake-Patterson, fake-Mansfield, and fake-Kirk. "You guys hang out here until then."
Fake-Patterson snorts.
* * * * *
Joe drops you off at Westside again so you can collect Jessica's car and return to her house. At least it's a nice house. (It is, in fact, only a few miles away from Kristy Carlson's house, halfway between the McMansion wannabes and the horse-and-bridle set.) And there's nothing very bad about home life. Except ...
Jessica lives with her grandparents, a "temporary" expedient now entering its fourth year as a result of an exceptionally bitter divorce between her parents. The house has two expansive wings off a central living room/courtyard area and is set back deeply from the street by a wide front yard shaded by two mighty oaks. You park on the semi-circular driveway in front (the garages are actually around back, but it's a pain to get into and out of) and stride grimly in through the front door. A grandfather clock by the door chimes the quarter hour.
"Is that you, dear?" a voice calls faintly from several rooms away. You cross the living room and the dining room and the serving hallway and finally come to the kitchen. Grams must have been watching the video monitor; no way she could have heard the front door open and close.
"Hi, Grams," you say, and kiss her on her dusty cheek. Evelyn Salter appears to be well into her evening cocktails as she sits in the dining nook and watches the two screens: one tuned to the security system and the other to ... an old 1960s gladiator movie? You shrug to yourself and cross to the refrigerator.
"Didn't you eat while you were out?" The question isn't waspish, exactly, but you flinch.
"They ate," you lie. "I didn't like where we went." You open an old cottage cheese container to find a little pile of green beans limply soaking in coagulated grease; the Salter family didn't get rich by spending money, and the sight is enough to kill your appetite. You glance back over at Grams, expecting a reply, but she's engrossed in the monitors.
Grandfather—whom Jessica avoids as much as possible—is probably in the "business wing" wrestling with tax problems, and you make the long return trip to the living room and then down the hall to your own room. More accurately, it should be "the room where you sleep," for except for the laptop there is very little in the room that suggests the occupancy of a teenage girl: chintzy coverlets on a queen-size bed; a huge mirror in an ornate frame standing over a cherry dresser and next to a matching wardrobe; glass shelves high along three walls holding fake potted plants and antique gewgaws; and heavy silver frames holding pictures of aunts and uncles and cousins and great-grand parents. Since your stay was only supposed to be temporary—and is theoretically expected to end at any moment once the various appeals and countersuits get settled—there was never any offer or insinuation that the room might be redecorated.
You close and lock the door and lay on the bed, knees drawn up.
This, you reflect to yourself, is why Jessica doesn't have friends, at least in part. She has never invited anyone over. Who would feel comfortable in this pile, decorated by an old lady and watched over suspiciously by her, and inhabited by her husband, who flirts shamelessly in restaurants with waitresses a third his age? Jessica has caught and silently—haughtily?—deflected all queries, veiled and naked, about her disinclination to entertain. You feel quite certain the girl herself understands how others would interpret her aloofness, and hold it against her, but how can a girl, even one as sexy as her, be popular when she holds herself apart for reasons she won't explain? And so she remains locked inside her impenetrable, self-imposed shell, for the very good reason that no one would find that shell any warmer on the inside than she does.
Speaking of warmth—
You find that you are feeling flushed and excited, even as you rehearse the girl's miseries to yourself. With a start you realize that you've been caressing yourself—arms, legs, hips—as though to ward off a chill. Your hands are now resting on your ample bosom. Oh, what the hell, you think, and lay back to redouble your energetic appreciation of Jessica Pearce's firm body. She has no boyfriend, either, to soothe the ache of raw, unstroked flesh.
But she's got you inside her, now, and you can give her the love. You arch your neck and bite on your lip and suck hard at it as you grip you a thigh in one hand and cradle a boob in the other. You move your hand down to the front of your shorts and rub hard. But it's still cold and hard, like unthawed meat, and even after working at it for a quarter hour—most of it on your front, face buried in a pillow, hunched up with both hands exploring—you can't bring yourself to more than a warm appreciation of what might be unlocked if only you got the right set of hands onto your pussy.
* * * * *
Morning comes, and you rise early and take a long, frigid jog around the neighborhood, passing all the old couples on their own early morning constitutionals. Back home, you shower and put yourself together. Jessica has had to teach herself all about makeup, and has settled for a conservative and rather severe look that doesn't take long to put together—not that she needs much work, you reflect as you sit in front of the bathroom mirror in a short robe and apply light blush and lipstick and a little eyeliner. The hair—a great, long bush whose basic brown lusters with a deep, deep red within—takes longer to pin back with cunningly hidden stays and fasteners. Then it's to dress in hip-hugging jogging shorts and a tight top (which you cover with an equally tight windbreaker zipped up to just below your tits) and ankle socks and pale blue running shoes. Breakfast, which you take alone—Grams is in the back yard tending to her flowers—consists of yogurt and fruit. Then you pack up your satchel and drive off for school.
Eastman is in the thick of the city, near to the somewhat dilapidated downtown, and traffic always coagulates near it when school is starting and letting out, which gives you plenty of time to narrowly eye the students walking along the perimeter. You're wearing sunglasses, which is probably why the few that look in your direction stare; when you're not so shaded, people generally look away.
Knots of students are moving through the parking lot, but you ignore them after locking your car. You should go hang out near the gym, where the boys will be practicing; Patterson will probably want to see you, if for no other reason than to leer. But that would be slightly out of character. Jessica usually keeps to herself by going into first period—Mr. Parker's AP English class—where the student teacher is at least moderately friendly. You might bump into Lawrence Farmer there.
Lawrence Farmer, the one other student whom Alyssa hates, and who, if not exactly friendly to you, will at least gleefully and cattily gossip.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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