Page 18 of It All Began at Dixieland

“At first, yeah. Then it just stuck, even though mom does not speak to Jackie anymore.”

“Because of the name thing…and near homicide?”

“Uh...no.”

“Elaborate.”

“How about, instead, I stroke your cock and whisper filthy things in your ear?”

“Do you know any filthy things to whisper?”

I smirk, lean forward, squeezing my arms together to accentuate my cleavage and breathe against the shell of his ear, “Soap scum.”

A shiver rolls through his body. I rear back in shock, wondering what the fuck just happened. “Fuck, baby.”

“Did that…did that really do it for you?”

“Not the soap scum. But your voice. So close to my ear. Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

“Noted.”

He shakes his head back and forth, then clears his throat as he shifts in his seat. My eyes zero in on the hard-on visible in his jeans and my lips smack together, my mouth watering. Oh, wait, no, that’s my vagina. “Now, tell me why they don’t talk?”

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes. I’m driving and it’s unsafe to engage in sexual activities while operating a motor vehicle.”

“Can you be cited with a DWA?”

“DWA?”

“Driving While Aroused.” I tap my finger against my chin. “That’s going in a book. But I might need to workshop it a bit.”

“Efa Jo.” I like it when he says my name. It sounds much sexier coming out of his mouth than my parents. Not that it’s sexy at all when they say it…shut up. You know what I mean.

“Fine. But I warn you, it’s not pretty.” He motions for me to continue, waving his hand. “Ten and two, mister. You have precious cargo. If we can’t do sex things, you can’t do jazz hands.” I’m stalling. I know. He knows. And I know he knows. “Alright. So, about 15 years ago, I think, Jackie’s husband filed for divorce and full custody of their kids, Efa, Mario, and Connal.”

“Connal?”

“Just listen.” Glancing out the window, I take a deep breath. “Not sure how my uncle didn’t pick up on any of this for so long, but she would get haircuts like my mom, dress like her, named her kids obvious variations of my parent’s names. The last straw was…ugh…turns out, that Jackie liked to role-play. A lot. She called him Conner during…activities not suitable while driving. Wanted him to call her Maria.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Like, on a scale of how fucked up is fucked up; that’s fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Hmm.” He hums, thinking for about a mile. I let him, knowing that’s a lot to process. “When we role-play, no Maria or Conner.”

“Or Jackie!”

We’re comfortably quiet for a while. Both of us just happy to be with the other. We exchange sappy smiles, sing along to a few 80’s classics, and stop for a bite to eat and to get some gas. Pulling out of the parking lot, I spot a middle-aged man digging into a storage trailer on the back of his SUV. My stomach churns with nerves the longer I look at him and all of his things.

“Are you sure you want to just pack up your life and move somewhere new where you only know the mildly eccentric romance author you’ve impregnated and admittedly not all that well?”

Foster doesn’t answer right away. And I’m both appreciative that he’s taking the time to think through his response and why the fuck isn’t he answering right away with declarations of his undying love and devotion?

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