Title: whose fleece was white as snow
Summary: Why does the Lamb love?
Author's Note: I really don't know about this piece, but I also can't bear to leave it to wither for another ten months and eventually die on my computer. So here you go — Don Lamb, everybody.
Obviously, title and summary belong to "Mary Had A Little Lamb."
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Don Lamb loses his virginity at fifteen to a girl he met in his father's courtroom.
The girl is clearly guilty. Robbed a gas station with a fake pistol. There were cameras there, recording her every move.
Lamb commits his first coverup at fifteen. Goes to the gas station and tells the pimply kid behind the counter that his father needs the tapes to show the jury. It only takes twenty bucks to make the kid promise he'll never tell anyone about it.
The girl still goes to juvie because Donald Lamb is a storyteller with a law degree and an Armani suit and this is Neptune, after all, and the girl is the daughter of a PCHer who mewls like a kitten under Don's heavy hands.
Donald Lamb wipes the sweat off his forehead when he gets home. Undoes his belt and lays it on the back of his chair, shrugs off his Armani suit jacket, asks Don to make him some coffee. He likes it black. No sugar. Served in the best Yankee mug — the one without a chip.
"Good job, son," Donald says, taking a gulp of burning liquid.
"Shouldn't I be saying that to you, Dad?" Don jokes, heartbeat accelerating underneath his shirt.
Donald smirks, "You should. But I believe congrats is in order for you as well." He claps his son on the back, once, twice, and then returns his hand to his mug. "Working without those tapes was a challenge, but we got the verdict we wanted in the end."
Don's mouth gets dry, "I…"
His father looks at him with a raised eyebrow, "I mean it. What did you get out of it? Did you fuck her?"
Don flushes, red all over his neck. When he was younger, kids used to scream, "fleece as white as snow" at him when he'd turn red.
Donald takes this as affirmation and whistles, "Fine piece of ass."
Her name was Melinda and she kissed his neck and apologized when she dug her nails into his back and left indents.
Donald picks up his belt, first, and Don contains his instinct to wince. His father picks up his jacket and walks into his room.
He turns when he reaches the door, "Son?"
Don winces this time.
"If you cross me again, I can't promise a congratulations."
The whip doesn't crack, but Don still hears it when he falls asleep. He digs his nails in his back and wishes for justice.
It never comes. He never wishes for it again.