My Fair Lacey

Chapter 12

Bashin' Mailboxes

Standing with her back to a bookcase in his library, Lacey caught her breath. Dressed in a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and dark blue jeans, his demeanor was full-bore sex-on-a-stick.

And he was coming for her.

She wasn't sure if she should turn aside and run away from him or if she should just drop her panties right there between Jane Austin and Jack Kerouac. She seriously considered hopping up on the pool table and offering herself up to the man.

"This experiment," he began. "What is it you're actually trying to do?"

"I just have to try to get you to act pleasantly around other people, without being rude to them, or offending them."

"So, a complete personality change, huh?"

She nodded, "Yes, I guess so."

"And what do you get out of this?" he asked.

"Your mother will owe me a favor."

He sucked in his breath. "That could be nice." He was standing very close to her. "And you get to live here and enjoy Ms. Pott's excellent cooking."

"There's that."

"What do I get out of it?"

"Huh?" He was standing too close. She was having difficulties concentrating.

"What do I get out of it?" he repeated his question softly. "It's not like I want to be able to go to work in a ladies' dress shop."

"Uh . . . I guess you get the satisfaction of being a decent human being," she suggested.

He shook his head. "Not enough."

"Well, what do you want?"

He brushed her hair away from her shoulders. He traced the back of his hand down her face. "You should know, especially if you're thinking about moving back here, that . . . I . . . I have carnal thoughts where you are concerned. Unlike Jones, who only desired you for the weekend, however, I want you twenty-four/seven."

"Do you?" she asked, her voice nearly squeaking.

His hand, warm and strong, traced down her arm. "I would very much like for you to shower with me. And I would like to share my bed with you. I think I would enjoy making you scream with pleasure."

She had no response for this, not daring to look at him.

"But," he continued, and she could feel his breath, sweet and hot on her neck, "I also want you sitting across from me at breakfast, finishing up the puzzle page when I get stuck. I want to hear you share about whatever books you're reading. I want you to take me into sketchy un-starred restaurants and get me to eat food that comes out of a jar." He hesitated, "I . . . I want to watch you tuck our child into bed after you've read him a story. I want to share an ordinary life with you – an extraordinary woman."

Lacey had no words. She found herself wiping away tears.

"I'm going to give you time . . . and space. If ever you're ready . . . whenever you're ready," he told her. And again, with the forehead kiss.

Uncomfortable Conversations

Lacey somehow found the strength to settle back into her own bedroom, fetching her capsule wardrobe from Jefferson's and hanging her things back up between the Prada and Versace clothing that she had left behind. She ate a quiet supper sitting across from the man, grateful that he was comfortable with her silence. Only when they had gotten to a piece of Ms. Potts' excellent caramel crumb cake did he speak up.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked her.

"It just feels different," she told him.

He nodded. "Somewhat. Yes, yes it does," he agreed and then shrugged. "This is what happens when you start talking about feelings. I never understood why women always want to talk about feelings and 'how was your day?' and all that nonsense." He stopped a moment, "But . . . I guess I'm starting to enjoy parts of that." Again, he gave her that gentle, sweet, slightly crooked smile and she found herself smiling back at him.

The morning of the next day, her father dropped by. "I hear'd you living' here agin an' not wid those two faggots."

"Viktor and Jefferson prefer to be called gay, Father," Lacey told him.

"Yeah, whatever," her father shrugged her off. "I wanted ye t' know, I'm gonna be marryin' Miss Lily on Sa'urday an' I really would like it if you wuz there."

"What?! You are really going to marry that . . . that woman?!" Lacey stood up.

"Well, yeah. We gotta a common law marriage as it is an' we'd jus' thought we'd make it official," he told her. "Now that I gots money an' I'm all respec-tible."

Lacey glared at him, "Tell me, is she going to be wearing a tube top for the ceremony?"

"Nah, but it'd be okay if that's whut you wanta wear. We're not bein' formal 'bout any o' this."

"Right," Lacey replied.

"An' Professor Gold, you be invited too," Moe French turned to his daughter's teacher-now-student.

"I'd be delighted," Gold told the man. He was enjoying himself immensely.

He listened to Lacey rant after her father had left.

"I can't believe he is actually going to marry that woman. I went to high school with her."

"Is she that objectionable?"

Lacey rolled her eyes. "He picked her up in a convenience store. He was buying lard to fry up some catfish, and she made some . . . uh . . . suggestive comments about what all else he could do with that can of lard. Then he lit her cigarette and she showed him her bra and, well, one thing led to another. The most positive thing I can say about her is that she has managed to maintain steady employment. She wears an orange vest on her job and her best shoes are steel-toed Redwings."

"Now Lacey. You are sounding like a bit of a snob," he told her.

Lacey stopped and glowered at him. Then . . . she relented. "Yes, I guess I am. It's just hard for me, you know. He never got around to marrying my mother and she . . . I always felt that my mom deserved better."

"If she was anything like you, I'm sure she did," Gold told her gently. "So, what am I to expect at this wedding?"

"It's two o'clock at a bowling alley, the Starlight. That's the only one that hasn't blacklisted my father."

"Afternoon wedding then. So, you'll be wearing your black Prada?" he asked smiling.

"More like a black tank top from Old Navy and a blue jeans skirt," she answered. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much so," he admitted. "Should I rent us a pickup truck or steal a bulldozer to get us there?"

She rubbed her forehead. "You're no help. I don't know how I'm going to make it through this."

"I'm old-school, so I'd suggest prodigious amounts of alcohol. I would think that Jefferson might be able to scrounge up any number of other things that could give you a buzz and make the entire event seem unreal."

"You think I'm blowing this out of proportion," she accused him.

He shrugged.

"We'll see how you feel when you're eating barbequed Spam on a saltine cracker."

The Wedding

Lacey and he had stayed on the sidelines of the sideshow that was her father's wedding.

The ceremony had been . . . well, interesting was one word for it. He had observed that many of the attendees wore white socks and tee-shirts, many with their cigarette packs folded up in their sleeves. There was a variety of dentition deficits, hairstyles in danger of getting caught in ceiling fans, and, yes, there were tube tops. He was hit on by any number of the women Lacey told him it was because of how he was dressed – he looked like he had a salaried job.

He perused the buffet beginning at the end opposite the chocolate fountain. Lacey was there to help him with the unfamiliar items. She pointed out the barbequed spam on the saltines. She also pointed out the little sausages – "Here, it's pronounced Vy-ee-ner, not Vienna sausages. They've classied them up by putting them on toothpicks," she explained. "And before the evening is over, they'll be dipping them in the chocolate fountain."

He suppressed a shudder. "And what is that?" he pointed to an odd-looking dish. "And that?" he pointed to something else he didn't recognize.

"Oh, that first tray is patatas bravas," she told him. "They've made it with tater tots and Old El Paso Picante sauce." She looked at the other tray. "And those are chitlins."

"Which are . . . ?"

"Fried pig intestines," she answered. "They like them doused in habanero hot sauce, so beware."

"Indeed," was all he could say. "Now, is there a wedding cake?"

"Not exactly. My daddy always preferred pie over cake, so they've got an array of wedding pies, including some pecan pie and some sweet potato pie all served with a healthy dose of Cool Whip."

He sampled judiciously. He also purposely remained sober so that Lacey could drink herself silly and he would be available to drive. Plus, sober, he could walk through the large crowd of attendees and eavesdrop on various snatches of conversations.

"Fur th' longest time, I thought Moe wuz a detective. Th' cops kept bringin' him home."

"Well, you know she went to school with Belle. They wuz in the same graduatin' class, 'ceptin she didn't grad-u-ate."

"Well, I heard that when she let Moe clean fish in th' livin' room, that clinched it fur him. She wuz th' one."

Good lord, Lacey had come from this . . . and she still managed to turn out . . . well, as Lacey.

Gold acknowledged he was a snob, but, if he compared these people to some of his mother's pretentious friends, there was probably more honesty and there was a certain clarity in their values.

It was at the reception that they both noticed Lacey previous employer in attendance – the same fellow that Gold had thrashed outside of his apartment.

Keith must have been drunk at that time as he didn't seem to have any clear memories of that event. Here, he greeted Lacey eagerly, ignoring Gold, and promptly propositioned her.

Lacey did her best to be pleasant to the lug, but he didn't seem to be taking her hints. It took Keith a moment to realize that Gold was the man blocking his action and, while Lacey set down her drink and excused herself to powder her nose, he offered Gold money to get some action-time with Lacey.

"You think I'm her pimp?" Gold asked him.

"Well yeah. Why else would she be hanging out with someone your age? – a hot little piece of ass like Lacey."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but Miss French is currently working as an instructor and is helping me with a little project," Gold explained.

"Whatever you want to call it, Jack. How about a thousand for the whole night?"

"Not interested," Gold said shortly.

"Half a night?"

Gold shook his head.

"Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes?! This isn't the Olympics, man. Trying coming in second, even third for a change," Gold advised him.

"Whut?" Keith didn't understand.

Gold looked at the man for a long moment and, somehow without Gold raising his hand, just by looking at him, Keith began to feel threatened and he took a step back.

"All right. All right. I'll try again another time. She'll get tired of you soon enough," Keith muttered.

Gold watched the man stumble away. "That's what I'm afraid of," Gold muttered to himself.

When she came back, Lacey looked around, worried. "Is he gone?"

"I think so," Gold picked up Lacey's drink and handed it back to her.

"I was afraid things would escalate and you might have punched him out."

"I thought about it," he admitted. "He was . . . offensive, but I didn't think you'd like it."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time that I've gone to a wedding that ended up in a fistfight, they're a lot like funerals that way, but . . . " she stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, "I am proud of you for restraining yourself."

"Still, I'm not sure that words have been sufficient to make this arsehole back off. He doesn't seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer and I'm concerned that he might try something."

It wasn't long after this, that Lacey shared she was feeling dizzy.

"I don't understand, I just had a little to drink," she told Gold. "I'm feeling really odd."

"Let's get you back home then," Gold told her. But he was concerned. This wasn't like Lacey. She hadn't drunk all that much. Had Keith slipped something into her drink?

He realized that, if Keith did have some nefarious plan in place, then escorting a stumbling Lacey out to his car could be dicey. Keith would likely try jumping him when he was focused on the woman and then just dragging a flailing Lacey off.

"Yo," he called out. "Maurice," he called out to Lacey's father. "Spare me a couple of minutes, would you?"

Maurice looked bewildered but agreed, stepping away from his new bride.

"I think Keith has some plan to kidnap Lacey and I need your help to get her to my car so I can get her back home safely."

"Whut?! That sonofabitch! I wudn't have invited him at-all, but Lily had wanted him t' come. I think she wanted him t' know that she wuz gettin' married an' he cud go fuck-off as fur as she wuz concerned."

Maurice proved to be the caring father, as Gold had hoped he might be, under all his bluster. Maurice called over several other men. They weren't very big, but there were at least seven of them and they all knew and liked Lacey. He learned during their brief time together that they all worked together and knew Moe (and Lacey) from the local bars. Together they gave Gold an escort to get the floundering Lacey back to his car. He asked them to make sure that Keith didn't leave the ceremony for at least a half hour and several of the men grinned. That shouldn't be a problem.

Gold drove her home and listened to her slur her words. She was acting silly and giddy and was certainly more clumsy than usual. He pulled into the garage. He looked around before getting out of the car. He just hoped those dwarves had been able to keep Keith busy. He didn't think she was just drunk. He debated if he needed to run her over to the ER.

"Are you all right?" he asked before he got her out of the car.

"Yeah, still funny feeling, like I might could puke," she admitted. She sighed, "I guess Lurline has come a waaaayssss since she wuz Prom Queen. She an' her boyfriend got arrested that night. He was . . . driving his pickup truck," Lacey started laughing, "an' she wuz bashin' in mailboxes wid a beer bottle."

"I understand you two went to school together," he began, taking her hand to give her some support as she struggled to get out of his car.

"Yeah, you musta heard that frum sum o' th' people there. Lurline wuz reeee-al popular . . . prob'bly 'cause she put out. I wuz . . . well, not so pop-pop-pop-u-lar 'cause I . . . I din't do dat stuff."

"You were waiting for the right man," he said quietly.

"Lurline's philosophy wuz there wuz no diff'rence 'tween Mr. Right an' Mr. Right Now." She stood a moment, wavering on her feet. "Do you wanna have sex with me . . . I mean, tonight?"

He carefully considered his answer. "I do . . . but I want you sober and very much in the moment when we . . . re-consummate our relationship. So, sweetheart, I will have to tell you that I don't think it would be a good idea . . . tonight."

"Oh," she pouted, disappointed. "Well, how 'bout I take off my blouse now?" she asked him.

He nearly swallowed his tongue. She was really out of it. "Please, keep your clothes on. We have to walk from here to the apartment."

"Then, I'll take off my blouse," she told him, dissolving into giggles. "An' I'll show you my bra."

"I'll count myself blessed," he told her. "I didn't even have to light your cigarette."

The Apartment

Somehow, he managed to get the drunken Lacey back to the apartment and straight up to her bedroom. Despite her inebriated state, she was able to wrap herself around him, kissing him soundly before he could extricate himself.

He couldn't quite stop himself and realized that he was kissing her back. He felt her hands on his shirt, pulling it out of his pants and then he felt her slipping her hands under the material next to his skin.

He pulled back, "Missy, you are going to bed," he said sternly.

"My idea too," she told him, speaking into his chest.

"By yourself," he told her.

"Oh," she frowned. "Well, help me undress," she asked, swaying as she tried to stand upright under her own power. She turned her back to him, "Unzip me . . . please."

He closed his eyes, but immediately realized he would have to peek to negotiate the zipper. As he drew it down, he could see she was wearing some little blue confection . . . a bustier or corset or some lace and satin complex designed to augment the feminine form. In the dim light, it did seem to match the color of her eyes. Before he could move away, she slipped the sleeves off her shoulders and allowed the dress to fall to her feet. She turned around and he gaped.

"Jefferson helped me pick out dis one. He often would go on an' on . . . 'bout how im-por-tant good foun-da-tion gar-mits were to one's a-ppear-ance," she told him, struggling to speak clearly.

"Jefferson knows altogether too much about women's underclothes," he managed to get out. His mouth was dry and he thought his eyes must be about to pop out.

The little one-piece garment pulled in her waist and lifted up her bosom. She looked good enough to eat.

"Dis wuz horribleee ex-spen-sive, but it do gimme cleavage," she looked down at herself.

"It does," he had to agree. What else could he do?

"Help me out o' dis?" she asked.

"I think not. Get on the bed and I'll take off your shoes, but that's as much as I will do for you."

She fell backward onto the bed and he kept his word, removing her shoes.

"One more kiss 'fore you go?" she asked plaintively. "Sos I know you're not mad at me."

Emotional blackmail. He'd been subjected to this enough times to recognize it when he heard it.

But he wanted to kiss her and he wasn't mad at her. "No hands," he admonished her and he sat on the side of the bed. He tried his best to keep things on an avuncular level but he felt her open her mouth and heard her moan, a small whimpery sound. He deepened the kiss and felt her go limp.

Then he heard a little snort . . . or was it a snore. She was asleep or passed out.

Well enough. He carefully tucked her in, spreading her hair out on the pillow, and left her for the night, curious to see if she would beat him down the stairs the next morning.

Morning

"Mornin' Sunshine," he greeted her as she dragged down the stairs. For a change, he was the first up. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been chewing on gym socks all night. My mouth is dry, my head hurts . . . my hair hurts," she told him. "I don't understand. I just had that one drink . . . Hey, you don't, you don't think that . . . do you think Keith slipped something into my drink?"

"I had wondered. He's capable of that type of thing, isn't he?"

"I'm sure. I guess, I'm lucky I made it out of there and I have you to thank," she told him. He poured her some water and handed her a couple of aspirin.

"Your dad and a bunch of these little guys all helped me get you out to the car and they were going to try to keep Keith at the reception, so he couldn't follow us back here. I guess they were successful."

"Well, I'm here and I'm safe and sound. I . . ." she hesitated. "I really don't remember too much after Keith had first come over to us last night." She bit her lip, unsure of herself. "Did I do or . . . say anything . . . inappropriate last night. Anything that I need to apologize for?"

"You were a perfect lady," he told her with a straight face.

"Oh good. I was afraid I'd shown you my bra or something."

He smiled gently. "No such luck."

Educational Progress

She thought her job was likely much harder than his had been.

After all, Lacey had been a lady beneath the thin veneer of hoochie clothing, flamboyant makeup and her lazy accent, but she knew that the good man that he was, that he might become, was buried deeply beneath the layers of sarcasm, contempt, and cynicism. He'd learned to put up barriers to protect himself – from his parents, his wife, his lover and now, that's who he was. He believed he was unworthy and he expected abandonment - and that's what he got. Lacey knew that she had contributed to his mindset, for she too had abandoned him.

But she had come back.

But now, he was slowly softening, slowly beginning to trust, slowly accepting that he wasn't this completely objectionable human being.

The next morning, she found a red rose by her place at the breakfast table. "Thank you," she told him. He ducked eye contact and made no reply.