Page 34 of Family Affair
Chapter 8
Later that evening, shaving after the shower, Cade peered in the mirror and examined the deepening lines bracketing his mouth. More lines fanned around his eyes. And while on the subject of his eyes, he took note of how bloodshot they were, fitting right in with the dark circles that took permanent residence underneath.
He looked exhausted, like someone who put in twelve-hour shifts at a factory and sorely needed a vacation. Strange, as he hadn’t worked for almost a year since leaving the Army. At the same time, he couldn't remember when was the last time he had a good night’s sleep.
Maybe if he finally managed to get eight straight hours of snooze time, it would reverse some of the damage and make him more presentable.
And since when did he start having issues with his face?
Peeved at himself, he continued shaving in short, angry swipes of razor.
Who was he kidding? The thoughts about his appearance were prompted byher. Even disheveled and sweaty as she had been today, fretting over her diarrheal joke of a dog, Coco was… endearing. It took an effort not to follow her inside her house, to make sure she didn’t require any more assistance from him. Only the memory of her with Dan, watching the fireworks and holding hands, cooled his Good Samaritan impulse.
It did not prevent, however, the recurring thoughts about his brother’s girlfriend.
Christ, he had to stop. There was nothing more frustrating than an unwelcome and unreciprocated desire for a woman who was already attached.
There, he admitted it. He wanted her. He did.
Maybe all he really needed was to get laid. When did he get off the last time? He tried to remember and couldn’t.
He paused in the process of shaving, startled by the realization that not only did he forget when he had last had sex, but that he hadn’t thought about it between then and now. Should he be worried?
Memories surfaced, old, musty memories of his much younger self, pre-Sheffield Investments problems, pre-Army, pre-Frank’s death, pre-Stevie Stark fiasco. A life long gone with the wind. He had whored his way through dance troupes and cheerleader squads, and could charm his way into pretty much any girl’s panties. He remembered sweltering summer nights full of seeking hands, and moans, and the breathy laughter, with rivers of expensive alcohol and his tricked out sports car.
He shook his head, dispelling the memories and sending white foam splattering on the mirror. It was past time he found a willing partner and got his rocks off. He still knew how to sweet-talk a woman into bed, right? After all, the skill was kind of like riding a bicycle, once you learned it, it stayed with you for life. And the satisfaction would be sweet…
Thoughts about sex brought on the usual warm and vague feeling of anticipation, but didn’t stop there. Instead, the warmth grew and heated his blood, amplifying his hunger. A fuzzy picture of bare skin and entwined bodies formed in his brain. And then, as if a bubble popped in his head, the image burst out, sharp and graphic: he was on top of her, squeezing her smooth naked ass with both hands to hold her close. Her head was thrown back, arching her white neck, and he was biting her there, licking the silky skin.
Fire flared low in his belly. He nicked himself with the razor.
“Fuck.”
Disgusted, he threw the razor away and wiped the bloody foam from his chin.
He was too old for this shit. He needed to concentrate on more pressing issues, like, for example, dealing with Ward Williamson and his little schemes.
A distant knock on the door broke through his contemplations. Throwing a shirt on, he went to open it to reveal his mother standing on the threshold. The subdued light from the porch lamp bathed her in the soft glow, airbrushing her wrinkles and the dark circles under her eyes, making her look just like he remembered from years ago: a beautiful, cunning bitch.
“Mother?”
“May I come in for a minute?”
“By all means.” He opened the door wider to let her in. “Alex isn’t home, if you were looking for him.”
“I know. I came to see you,” she said.
His skin prickled in cold anticipation. As she sailed past him, he prepared for a bumpy ride. Difficult and bristly, he could deal with Sheffield males any day. Handling Maureen was a whole other ball game.
“Please, have a seat,” he offered.
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
As if acting out a Victorian period play, she lowered herself on the very edge of the sofa without bending her back, and folded her bony hands in her lap.
Up close, his mother didn't look her best, he observed with detachment. Granted, she was sixty-three, but Maureen didn’t look old so much as she looked unhealthy with puffy eyelids, pallid skin, and limp, rooty hair that she normally took such great care of. She was thinner, too, frail, with age spots standing out in dark splotches on her hands.
"Would you like a drink? Port? Sherry? Let me see what’s at the bar.” She liked sweet spirits, he knew.
