101 In the Shade Pt. 02

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activities are at least eighteen years of age.


Chapter 8

Clay looked at the footlockers he’d dug from the attic. The top footlocker, which in the attic had been the bottom footlocker, held some faded photographs. Judging from the clothing the people were wearing, Clay would have guess that the photographs had been taken at a wedding held in the 1920s.

“Holy shit!” he said, seeing a strong resemblance between the stout middle aged man and his father. “Bet that’s Grandpa Early!”

“And that’s got to be Aunt Polly and Aunt Molly so that would be Uncle Sam, oh wow,” Clay said, resolving to have the eight by ten photograph framed.

Of even more importance, though, were the leather binder and underneath that, a diary.

The leather binder, Clay realized, was Grandpa Early’s notes on how to make whiskey.

And in the diary, a random page Clay flipped to, gave him the key he’d been searching for.

‘…me and Molly had to clean the sugar maple barrels good. They was bugs in it…’

“No shit,” Clay breathed. “No fucking shit. Sugar maple barrels.”

Again, Clay was dressed, bed made, driven home, showered, shaved, breakfast eaten, dressed and back at the house before either girl stirred.

Both girls were wearing their robes when the smell of coffee roused them to come downstairs. Clay noticed that the money was still on the table, untouched. He did not broach the subject; he figured Collette or Colleen would get over their reluctance the moment they ran out of food.

Colleen reached in to get her cereal; and again, Clay was treated to the sight of skimpy panties attempting to conceal a plump pubic mound and juicy rear end.

Collette again had on lace panties and a few blonde tendrils peeked out when she bent to get her cereal.

“Y’all going to church?” Clay asked, seeing that the services for the Church Of The Risen And Living Messiah would be starting in just thirty minutes.

Colleen let her small self-conscious smile play across her lips as she dragged a cereal bowl down. Collette looked guilty.

“I uh, we uh, no, uh, we’re going to just stay home today,” Collette finally responded.

“That’s fine,” Clay agreed.

After he finished drinking his coffee, he again cleaned everything, put everything away, and marched back up the stairs.

He chuckled; the jar was back on the nightstand. If the jar truly offended either girl as much as they liked to screech and squeal, they would have thrown it away.

Clay did a quick search on his cell phone, located and ordered two forty ounce jars of the lubricant, paid for it and had it shipped to 1815 Morning Drive.

Grandpa Early’s binder was a true find. The man left nothing to chance; gave exact temperatures and gauge readings, precise measurements. And had Clay not found the clue in Aunt Polly’s diary, he would have found it in Grandpa Early’s binder.

Ten gallon sugar maple barrels. And Polly and Molly had cleaned the barrels out with a half-gallon of Early’s Sweet. The girls poured the whiskey in, sealed the barrels tight, and then rolled the barrels around. Then, after ten minutes of rolling the barrels around, shrieking with laughter as they terrified some of the piglets with the rolling barrel, the two girls dumped the whiskey out, into the hogs’ trough, and then pumped cold water into the barrels to the brim. This was also dumped into the hogs’ trough.

There had been five barrels; the hogs were quite drunk by the time Clay’s great-great aunts had finished with the barrels.

“Mystery solved,” Clay said when Anita answered her phone.

“Dr. Chopin, please tell me you are not at your lab,” Anita said.

“Huh? No, no, I’m at home,” Clay said and told her what he had found.

He hung up and prepared to open the next footlocker.

“This is your home?” Colleen asked from the doorway, blue eyes looking at him hopefully.

“Huh?” Clay asked, looking at her.

She was again dressed in her nearly translucent camisole and panty set, fuzzy robe hanging loosely. With the overhead light on, Clay could just make out one large light brown nipple.

“Whoever you were talking to, you said you were at home,” Colleen said. “This is your home?”

“Yeah, yeah, for now, I guess,” Clay admitted.

“Oh!” Colleen gasped happily then scampered away.

Roughly an hour later, Collette stuck her head into the bedroom.

“You eating lunch?” she asked softly.

“Huh? Oh, no, no not here, got a bunch of stuff back at my apartment,” Clay said. “Need to quit this though.”

His eye was burning and itching and watering; the dust and mothballs in the trunks had aggravated it.

“Clay, you can’t drive like that,” Collette said.

“Don’t!” he snapped angrily. Don’t you ever… Don’t you ever tell me what I can and can’t do, bitch!”

“I’m sorry,” Collette sniffed back a tear.

He had been softening, or so it seemed. His angry response to her concern however, showed her that the softening diyarbakır seks hikayeleri had only been wishful thinking on her part.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that, your eye; it’s watering and…” she choked, and then scampered away.

Clay flushed his eye with tap water, wincing as the chlorine burned. Finally, his eye quit watering enough and he could see again.

The binder continued to provide valuable information and Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were very busy at work. He came in early and stayed late.

“He’s here!” Colleen happily called out from her bedroom as she saw Clay’s white pickup truck pull into the driveway.

Clay saw Colleen’s blonde head briefly then it disappeared from the window. He checked the Pelican; obviously, they had either figured out to check the mail or there had been no mail since Saturday.

“You got a box,” Collette informed him when he entered the foyer.

“Huh? Oh, oh yeah, that. Thanks,” Clay said and picked up the quite heavy box.

There were a few bills and some sales promotions, Clay did wonder about Candy receiving sales notices from both Abdul’s and Babbage’s, the two trendy department stores in the greater DeGarde area.

“You eating?” Collette asked as she checked the meatloaf in the oven.

“Don’t services start in what? Ten minutes?” Clay asked, noticing that it was seven fifty, according to the clock on the oven.

“What? No, no, that clock’s an hour fast,” Colleen said.

“And,” Collette said and hesitated.

“We’re not going anyway,” Colleen said, almost challenging.

“Oh, okay, Momma’s rolling in her grave, but okay,” Clay shrugged.

“You eating?” Collette asked again.

“Yeah,” Clay agreed and continued his trajectory up the stairs.

He hung the clothes he’d brought with him in the closet of the master bedroom. Then, with a check that both girls were still downstairs, he quickly opened the box and grabbed the two giant jars of lubricant.

A quick glance at the nightstand revealed that the original jar was still prominent on Candy’s nightstand.

Quickly, he put a jar on Colleen’s, then the second one on Collette’s nightstands and returned to his bedroom.

He opened the next trunk and found the personal items of Grandpa Early, Aunt Polly, and Aunt Molly. There was a badge that had obviously belonged to Uncle Sam, and there was a dent in it from a bullet.

There was, however, nothing more referring to Grandpa Early’s moonshining days in that trunk.

Dinner was quiet, which was fine with Clay. He did not have much in common with the two girls and could not imagine that they did much during their days that would interest him.

Colleen wanted to ask him about his time in the military, wanted to ask him what had happened; why did he wear an eye patch, did he have any medals?

Collette wanted to ask him, what could she do, how could she rid him of his anger, his hatred of her and her sister?

“I um, I saw you brought some clothes,” Colleen broached the subject. “You um, you staying tonight?”

“I’ve gave my apartment my thirty days’ notice; figure I’d move a few things, bits and pieces,” Clay agreed.

“We’re, how, you’re not kicking us out, are you?” Collette stammered, blue eyes wide with terror.

“Kicking…” Colleen gasped, having not even thought of that possibility.

She had been hiding in the safety of her room when Collette and Clay had their discussion about 1815 Morning Drive being Clay’s house, that Collette and Colleen had no claim to the home.

“No, damn it; where did that come from?” Clay barked at Collette. “Believe me, if I was kicking your fat asses out, you’d already be out.”

The ice in the freezer had gone from just a couple of puny chunks, to overflowing and Clay fought down the irritation as he showed both girls how to simply flip the lever up to stop it from making so much ice.

Then he fixed himself a drink and read through the contract that Jim Taylor and his group of buyers had provided to him.

He retreated to his father’s, now his office when Collette wanted to watch a television show she’d heard about but had never been able to watch because of being in services on Wednesday evenings.

“Hello Mr. Taylor? Clay Chopin here; hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” Clay said, using the house phone.

He agreed to a ninety-ten split, wanting to at least have some portion of the business. They agreed on a time to meet to make the changes and sign and notarize the sale and Clay hung up.

He had finished his evening shower, had slipped on his comfortable cotton shorts and loose tee shirt when he heard Colleen squeal. He almost raced out of the room to see what was wrong when he heard an indignant squeal from Collette, then two girls shriek with laughter.

“They’re even bigger!” Colleen squealed.

“O.M.G!” Collette laughed.

He did set the alarm clock, even though he knew he would not need it and slept.

In the morning, he was shaved showered, dressed, bed made and breakfast eaten and still there was no sound from upstairs.

He checked; Colleen’s bedroom was unoccupied. In Collette’s room, both Colleen and Collette were sleeping. Collette’s top had worked itself up and one delectable breast and large nipple was visible, as was her flat belly. Colleen was snuggled down under her blanket and slept facing Collette’s back.

It was Friday evening, almost dark by the time they saw Clay again.

“I already put dinner away but I can heat it up you want me to,” Collette offered when he walked in, more clothes in hand.

“No, no thanks; had dinner at the Dead End,” Clay said. “Shrimp Creole, almost more than I could eat.”

“Ew, that stripper bar?” Colleen looked disgusted.

Clay ignored her complaints and walked upstairs with the clothes.

A quick look into their rooms showed that the girls were learning. Their beds were made and there was no sign of clothing strewn about.

“See?” Collette said from behind him. “Now can we have our doors back?”

“It been five years yet?” Clay asked.

“Clay, that’s not right,” Collette argued. “We got no privacy.”

“Right now it’s just you and Colleen; what you need privacy for?” Clay asked, smirking as he saw that both girls still had the jars of lubricant on their nightstands.

His eyebrow went up; the seal on Colleen’s jar had been broken off.

“Well, I mean, you’re here right now and…” Collette faltered.

“I seem to remember two girls used to love trying to catch peeks at me,” Clay said.

“Of course,” Colleen agreed. “We loved you. But we also wanted to see what made a boy a boy.”

“And I’m sure you’ve found out,” Clay said, marching to his bedroom, the master bedroom. “A lot by now.”

Collette’s response was cut off by the closing door.

Clay opened the next trunk and found Candy’s few memories, along with some of Collette and Colleen’s childhood memorabilia. Colleen seemed to have twice as much little trinket and art work and other things than Collette did and Clay puzzled about this.

(Candy would have been happy to tell Clay, while snarling, that the reason was simple. Collette’s father, she was sure, was either Candy’s older brother or Candy’s fifty nine year old uncle. It had been the brother’s best friend that got Candy hooked on cocaine and after Collette’s birth, any money Candy earned by turning tricks, or posing for pornography went to magic powder, not fun little things like bronzed baby shoes, or toys, or baby photographs. Her uncle had been happy to pay for a boob job but actually complained about having to buy a thirty nine dollar tricycle for Collette. By the time Colleen was six months old, though, Candy had begun her rehabilitation, had found Jesus. )

Clay took out the two photographs Candy had of Collette as a baby and slipped them in front of the wedding picture and the Beach photograph frame got switched for a photograph of a laughing one year old Colleen.

He put a more recent photograph of Candy onto her old nightstand and found one of his father to put on the other nightstand.

Even as his father was smiling, Clay could see sadness in his father’s eyes. Candy’s smile did not reach above her upper lip; Clay thought it appropriate.

His eye was watering so Clay thought it would be a good time to check out the gin. Anita had been less than enthusiastic about the idea of a line of vodka for now, wanting to establish both beer and whiskey lines before investing in the next product.

“Hurry! Here he comes!” Collette ordered as she stood in front of Colleen’s doorway.

Clay smirked but turned his head to the side, to demonstrate that he would not peek in on Colleen.

Inside her bedroom, Colleen actually slowed down instead of hurrying. She sighed, disappointed when she heard Collette’s sigh of relief.

Then she stood in front of Collette’s door so Collette could change out of blue jeans and light sweater to her own sleepwear.

In the den, Clay found some of his father’s classical CDs and put on a Chopin piece. Both father and son had loved that they shared the same name of a famous composer. And in time, both had come to appreciate the man’s works.

“Clay?” Collette asked quietly as Clay sipped the gin and tonic. “I talk with you?”

“God, really?” Clay asked, perturbed. “I can’t even just sit for a minute?”

He turned to look; the doorway was on his left side, his blind side, but she was gone.

The piece finished playing, the gin and tonic coursed its way through him and he cleaned, dried, and put the glass away, then marched upstairs.

“My bedroom, now,” he said from Collette’s doorway.

“Clay, what, there anything, I’m tired of you hating me, hating us so much; I do anything?” Collette stammered, pulling the sash of her short robe tighter and tighter around herself as she rambled.

“Yeah there is,” he said. “Dig your mother up and bring her back to life so I can kill her.”

“Clay! I’m serious!” Collette said, tears beginning to form. “I’m just so…”

“Really? You really think a few tears and a few ‘I’m sorries’ are going to make up for the years and years of shit I had to put up with?” Clay snarled at her.

Collette silently shook her head ‘no’ then left the room.

She plopped down on her bed and shrugged out of her terry cloth robe, even as she used the sleeve to dab at her eyes.

A moment later, a knock sounded at her doorjamb and Colleen sidled into her bedroom.

“No, Colleen, not tonight, huh? Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Collette barked.

She heard a small squeak and immediately felt horrible. She pulled her robe back on and went to Colleen’s bedroom.

“I’m sorry; clay just hurt my feelings,” Collette apologized.

“No, no, I need to grow up,” Colleen whispered.

“I think we both do,” Collette agreed and took some of the small Raggedy Ann dolls Colleen had on her bed and threw them on the floor.

Then she again shrugged out of her robe and slid under the covers with Colleen.

“What do you dream about?” Colleen asked a few moments later, her small voice even smaller in the darkness.

“What? What do you mean?” Collette asked, rolling over to face her sister.

“I mean, when you, you know, when you, when you’re…” Colleen said, and then moved closer to her sister.

“When you do THAT to yourself, you know,” Colleen said and patted Collette’s crotch softly. “What do you think about?”

“Colleen! I don’t!” Collette gasped.

“Oh,” Colleen sighed, disappointed.

“Why? What do YOU think about?” Collette asked.

“Clay,” Colleen responded immediately.

“Well, I don’t,” Collette denied. “Not the way he’s been…”

“I dream he grabs me and rips my panties off and then just sticks his um, his, his thing. Up my butt,” Colleen admitted.

“Up your… Colleen!” Collette fussed, and then whispered. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“How would I know?” Colleen asked. “Probably. I mean, it kind of feels weird when I stick my finger up there, and I’m sure his thing’s a lot bigger than my finger.”

“Colleen! You stick your…” Collette asked.

She heard Colleen grab the jar off her nightstand.

“I mean, I get my finger all wet with this…” Colleen confessed.

“Go to sleep, Colleen,” Collette ordered.

“…and then I work it…” Colleen went on.

“Go. To. Sleep,” Collette ordered and kissed her sister on her lips. “Now.”

A moment later, Colleen nudged her sister.

“So what do you dream about?” she asked again.

“Clay holding me and kissing me and telling me he loves me,” Collette admitted. “That he’s not mad at us anymore and he’s glad we’re his sisters and he loves us and…”

She broke down and sobbed. Colleen hugged her tightly.

Chapter 9

On Saturday, Clay made the girls move their cars out of the garage so he could look through the items and determine what they needed, and what could be thrown away.

“How did y’all get driver’s licenses anyway, and your own cars?” he asked when both girls again came into the garage, to stand and watch him.

“Got into Music Club and Cheerleading and Soccer and field hockey,” Collette answered. “Momma finally decided she didn’t want to have to drive us here and there and…”

Clay stared hard at them for a moment, and then nodded his head. He had buckled under, went to school, came home, sat in his room. If he had gotten involved in all the activities available to him as a student of Kimble Academy, he might have been able to get a car, get some freedom.

Instead, he learned how to drive in boot camp and basics, and in the treacherous neighborhoods of Iraq.

“Should have done that too,” Clay agreed and looked around the garage.

“Okay, there’s a service comes out, what, once a week? Once every two weeks, cuts the grass?” he asked, seeing a fairly new looking lawnmower, a gas powered weed eater and a leaf blower against one wall.

“Yeah; they wait until it’s real tall and…” Colleen agreed.

“Every two weeks,” Collette supplied.

“Ever think maybe one of you could do it, save the money?” Clay asked, pointing to the lawn equipment.

They looked at him, uncomprehending. He shook his head and decided he’d seen enough of the garage’s contents.

“We can wash our cars?” Colleen asked when Clay told them they could put their cars back.

“God, really?” Clay exploded. “I got to tell you when you can wipe your asses?”

Colleen’s eyes filled with tears.

“No, Clay,” Collette shrilled, hands forming claws. “She just wants to know if you’re going to need us for anything, or if we can wash them now, you ass hole!”

“No, no, you’re good,” Clay agreed.

He did feel a little bad for his response, but the whole situation really was disconcerting. They both seemed to be so clueless about everything, and they both followed him around like lost sheep.

In all his time back home, Clay had not walked into, or even looked into the back yard. He was very surprised to see a fairly new hot tub on the back porch.

Lifting a corner of the cover made Clay cough; he did not know how long the water had sat in the tub, but it was obviously time to drain, clean and refill the tub.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32