This was supposed to be like a five-part story originally, and it's quickly turned into a full-fledged book. I'm okay with it, though, I like where it's going. Bless you all for your wonderful votes and comments. This chapter is a bit intense, please tread with caution. The sex stuff is coming soon, I promise, but I owe it to the story to pace it carefully. Love you all so much.
There was a thick and sensual kind of irony about the way that Mary Jane and George felt about each other. Or, one can suppose, how they felt about the ideas of each other they had each projected. They had known each other for two weeks, but it seemed so much longer for the both of them.
George did not typically respond to the standard teenage girl fantasy; the innocent, overdramatic climaxers; the schoolgirl uniforms, pig tails and the lot that he'd seen in passing in dirty magazines. George liked women who, for lack of a better term, knew how to fuck. And although Mary Jane was innocent-eyed and seventeen, he suspected she knew what she was doing now that he'd gotten to know her better.
Mary Jane could feel herself growing impatient. She'd been to his house nearly eight times now in two weeks, and George had still not made a single move. However, he did not seem to mind her company, and she'd borrow records from him all the time, then chat upon returning them. It didn't happen every day, but they had smoked together quite a few times. She was fascinated with him, and he giggled at her when they would play Fleetwood Mac records and she'd spin around his attic like Stevie Nicks.
It's not like they were keeping a secret from their loved ones. They were just leaving out minor details. George had told Charis that Mary Jane dropped by occasionally to borrow his records; that she didn't usually stay long; that she was a good kid and had a boyfriend who lived a couple blocks away. Mary Jane had been very careful to not tell her mother or stepfather any information at all, because she knew her mother wouldn't allow it, given Mary Jane's history.
Mary Jane talked about her boyfriend sometimes with George, not to make casual conversation or because she wanted actual guidance, but because she wanted to make him jealous. George saw right through this, and thought it was kind of cute, so he played along. But, like always, Mary Jane tended to take things too far.
"Do you go down on your wife a lot?" Mary Jane had asked him as she was tapping her nails against his toolbox, and as George was almost done with the entirety of the new floor.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Why would you want to know that?"
Mary Jane was dressed in a white T-shirt she'd tied up at the waist, and denim short shorts, with red Converse. George was in his typical paint-splattered jeans, and no shirt, and had to physically force himself not to smile when Mary Jane stared at him.
The girl shrugged, tip-toeing on a piece of wood as if it were a balance beam, her arms spread wide, red Chucks careful. "Dunno. I guess I'm just wondering if that's something men like to do."
George liked to, but he wouldn't tell her that. Instead, he continued to nail the dark hardwood to the floor. The sun was shining directly on Mary Jane's face, and she looked quite pretty.
"Mike won't go down on me," she complained about her boyfriend. "And it's kind of bullshit because I suck his dick all the time."
She wasn't trying to make George jealous at this point. She was just genuinely pissed off. George found his face twitching in disappointment. Had he had the opportunity; rather, had the opportunity been ethical---well, no. It just wasn't right to think about her like that. To think about her legs spread and shaking under his touch. What color her pubic hair was, if she had any. What her cunt tasted like.
"That is bullshit," George agreed with her as he finished the last section.
George hummed along with the radio to The Beatles, and Mary Jane's breath was short at how deep his voice was.
"Do you like it?" she asked him, still tip-toeing on the beam, near to the left and side of him about a yard away.
George brushed the particles off his hands by clapping them together lightly, standing up and admiring the work he'd done. After he finished putting in some crown-molding and painted the place, it would be done. He was really proud.
"Do I like what?" he asked her.
"Eating pussy," she said.
He wasn't sure how to answer. Had he told her no, she would have thought he was an asshole. Also, he'd be a liar. Had he told her yes, she would have only pressed for more detail. George decided that a fag might help, and he gave one to Mary Jane as well.
"Answer me," she giggled at him, inhaling the smoke.
George was looking at the floor rather than her, twirling his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Mary Jane really admired his fingers.
"That's a bit personal, but sure, yeah," he decided to play it off, and then quickly change the subject. "Hey, do you happen to know what caused all the flood damage?"
Mary Jane's mood was immediately shifted, from pink-cheeked and flirtacious, to ghost-white and wretched with nerves, her stomach immediately turning. She knew exactly what had caused all the flood damage. George's handsome features scrunched together at the sight of Mary Jane feeling uncomfortable, something he had yet to see in the two weeks he had known her.
"I think they left a sink running or something," she lied.
She was a good liar. And George was at observing this. He'd also red-flagged the fact that Mary Jane had said she'd been to her Aunt Agnes' in Sacramento, and that Aunt Agnes lived in a one-story peach house just a walk from the beach. Sacramento was hours from the beach, George knew from his trips there years ago.
But unlike Mary Jane, George did not want to press her for details about her personal life, like she did with him. He knew there was something dark about this petite blonde, that although she was immensely sexual and wild in nature, she was hurt somehow. And George could not think about her being hurt; his heart sunken and his blood running with rage at whoever could hurt this girl.
"I should go," Mary Jane said solemnly. "I'll catch you tomorrow?"
"Sure," George finished his cigarette.
- - -
Mike had picked Mary Jane up that night, in his BMW Sedan that was baby blue and he washed nearly every day. Mike was otherwise uninteresting, other than his nice car and that he had a sizeable cock. His apartment was the normal one of a twenty-year old man, white walls, standard grey-ish carpet, crooked posters of his favorite bands on the walls.
He and Mary Jane had ordered pizza and were making out on the orange floral sofa his grandmother had given to him just before she'd moved into the retirement home. The light of the television glowed, along with the hypnotizing lava lamp on the beat-up table beside his couch, and Mary Jane looked up at the Led Zeppelin poster as Mike kissed her neck and fumbled around with her bra.
Mary Jane could say, with all respect and certainty, that Mike Morgan was kind of a shitty boyfriend. Her parents had been careful to not tell anyone about her stint in a mental institution, and Mary Jane was hesitant to tell Mike. Maybe she wasn't certain he would understand, or maybe she was certain he wouldn't try to.
They'd been sort of an item for about a year, but Mike wasn't really going anywhere with his life, and neither was their relationship. Mike worked full-time at a gas station, and was an assistant mechanic. All he wanted to do was eat pizza and drink beers and get his dick sucked, and Mary Jane knew that was normal, but she just couldn't settle for normal.
Mike had undone her bra, and his hands were up her shirt, his cock pressing against her abdomen. She was trying to get into it, and she usually could, but the way his palms were moving against her breasts, kneading them too roughly, made her really irritated. Also, the expression on his face was kind of disgusting, even though he was cute. He just had this arrogance, this expectation for her to be mesmerized by everything that he did.
"Mikey," Mary Jane only used his pet name when she wanted something. "Go down on me?"
He was rubbing his torso against her hard, his cock stabbing her in the abdomen awkwardly, though he looked at her like she was supposed to enjoy it.
"I dunno, babe," he said as he slid off her tiny shorts. "Not my thing."
"Please?" she pleaded with him.
She'd sucked his dick twice this week. Mike was getting annoyed with her, scoffing as he remained on top of her, his body weight heavy.
He shrugged. "It's--uh--I dunno. It's just kind of gross, I guess."
Mary Jane's mouth fell open, and her eyes were wide. "It's gross?"
Mike sighed, leaning back a bit and rolling his eyes. "C'mon. Don't get like this."
The girl wiggled out from underneath him, sitting up at the opposite end of the couch, whatever half-ass arousal she'd had completely gone now. She could have done a lot of things at that point. She could have told Mike she didn't like it when he came in her mouth, though she imagined it would actually be kind of nice if George did it. She could have told him that he was a loser, and he wasn't nearly as good of a fuck as he thought he was. But really, she'd never had any better than him. Not yet, at least.
"It's fine," she said. "I need to use your bathroom."
"Okay," he sensed her resentment.
Mary Jane used Mike's bathroom, which he had probably not cleaned since he moved into it, and carefully crafted her plan as she smoked a cigarette and exhaled out the window, trying to make little rings like George did so easily.
She wondered what George was doing at the moment. Charis Daniel was so lucky, with her stupid friendly smile and her stupid job buying vases for people. She got to fuck George whenever she wanted, and Mary Jane felt so guilty because Charis seemed so nice, but she really hated her.
Mike was already a bit heavy-lidded when she walked into the living room again, though he was still giggling at the television as Taxi reruns played. He'd finished all the pizza and was smashing a can of beer in his first, sprawled out on the couch,. Mary Jane flopped down beside him, and put her head on his shoulder, because she just wanted comfort, even if it was just from him.
"There's my girl," he smiled at her and kissed her forehead. "You still in the mood, hmm?"
"I got my period just now," Mary Jane lied.
Her parents had taken Dr. Metaxas' strict advice to put her on birth control, and her Aunt Flo didn't come visit often . Not that she minded.
"Oh," Mike was a little disappointed. He also knew it would be rude to ask her to give him head, seeing as he wouldn't give her any.
Instead, he curled his girlfriend's body into his, and continued laughing every so often at the television until he fell asleep about half an hour later. Mary Jane did not want to sleep over, not did she want this Friday night to go to waste.
She stole $30 out of Mike's wallet and started walking.
- - -
The night sky was haunting, all purples and blacks and fast-moving clouds. Mary Jane's parents were worried about where she was, and they'd let all the neighbors know she was supposed to have came home at 10, but it was now one in the morning.
When Frank Brand, Mary Jane's stepfather, had nearly kicked Mike's door in, he was disrupted from his sleep and swore he didn't know where Mary Jane was. And when Helen Graham-Brand had rang George and Charis Daniel's doorbell, teary-eyed and worried about her only daughter, something shifted inside of George.
Charis had been asleep, but George had not. He had been trying to read, but every sentence turned into something he related to Mary Jane. He'd tried painting, too, because he did that in his spare time, but the cornflower yellow reminded him of Mary Jane's hair. George was considering moving, though he had no decent explanation for his wife.
Helen said she was going back home to call Mary Jane's friend Betty Yu, and left after Charis gave her a hug. Frank was patrolling a five-block radius continuously, in search of her. Frank had been the one who found her, three months ago, when she tried to kill herself.
Although he was mild-mannered and made corny Dad jokes, Frank Brand had a bit of a dark past, and only four fingers on his left hand from getting it blown off in Vietnam during the beginning of the war. Still, even seeing all of those bodies laid out as a young soldier, it was nothing like seeing Mary Jane nearly dead.
Holly Crane had scared the shit out of him three months ago, when she nearly ran through his front door. He was just reading the paper, drinking his third cup of coffee, and eating a cheese danish his wife had made. They weren't really ones to go to church, but their neighbors the Cranes were, and they had just dropped their daughter off afterwards, because she didn't want to tag along at the department store.
That wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Holly wasn't supposed to find her. Frank wasn't supposed to have saved her life.
It was Richard Crane who was supposed to find her.
When Frank had spilled his cup of coffee after Holly burst through his door, he knew something was wrong. Holly was an incredibly talkative teenager, and she couldn't speak. She just kept saying "MaryMaryMaryMary" and her eyes were swollen with tears, and her shoes were wet, though it was a dry winter day.
Frank ran then, faster than he had in decades, into his neighbor's house, still in his blue pajamas Helen had bought him for Christmas. The first thing he heard, over Holly's sobs, was water, and Holly pointed upstairs, to the attic. Frank was running so fast that he didn't realize there was water trickling down the stairs until he had almost climbed all of them, and he saw her in the bathtub.
Mary Jane Graham had went into the Crane's house, turned on every sink, shower, and bathtub in their three-story Victorian, swallowed two handfulls of pills, and tried to drown herself in the clawfoot bathtub in the attic. Richard Crane was having the attic redone at the time, as a dressing room and master bath for his wife. Mary Jane thought really hard about how to ruin Richard's life, and this way seemed so fitting. To ruin his life and take her own.
But, of course, she didn't die. The plan was to lie down, head under water-level, of course, in the bathtub and succumb to the effects of the pills. She would be in a sleepy, fairy-tale dream when she drowned. She wouldn't even know she was drowning.
Again, that didn't happen. Because she was so little, she had more or less passed out just as she slid her body into the bathtub, and her head was out of the water, neck bent sideways, hair draped over porcelain. The pills had definitely worked, and probably would have killed her, had the emergency room doctors not pumped her stomach about twenty minutes after Frank found her.
It all happened so fast. The legs of Frank's pajama bottoms were soaked, and he pulled Mary Jane out of the bathtub. She was naked, but that didn't matter. Frank screamed at Holly to call an ambulance, but Holly was traumatized and seventeen and frozen, so Frank did what any ordinary hero and good police officer would do. He analyzed the scene, noted she had taken some pills, and stuck his fingers as far down her throat as they would go. Still unconscious, Mary Jane vomited all over the floor, some of the pills coming up partially dissolved.
Frank had never known Mary Jane when she was a small child, but the way he carried the girl in his arms downstairs, and draped a throw blanket over her body before calling 911, he really did feel like she was his. And his heart was so broken, because he knew that something had to have gone wrong, so wrong, for this girl to have done this.
Helen had been at a luncheon at the time, thank God. She wouldn't have been able to handle seeing her little girl that way. Frank Brand held the girl in his arms, with Holly by his side almost completely silent other than the occasional quiet sob that would erupt from her lips, until the ambulance arrived. Mary Jane was still breathing, but her pulse was low, Frank already knew.
The emergency technicians were assessing Mary Jane quickly, and had began loading her onto the stretcher. Frank was so lost in this moment that he almost didn't recognize that Richard Crane and his wife Elizabeth had just pulled up in their luxury sedan.
"My God, what's happened?" Elizabeth Crane had shouted, practically jumping out of the car and grabbing her daughter and only child.
Elizabeth Crane was really lovely, but she was kind of a snob, and she was squeezing Holly tight, looking back and forth between her husband, Frank Brand, and Mary Jane's unconscious body. The entire block had came out at this point, all of them watching in horror as the events unfolded.
The funny thing was, Richard Crane was the only one who didn't look confused. He looked upset, sure. Guilty, definitely. But confused? No.
Frank Brand had this uncanny ability to sense things weren't quite right. It had saved his life more than once, and now it had saved Mary Jane's too. And when he crawled into the ambulance, and Richard Crane stared at him, that sickly, slimy attempt at being human, Frank Brand vowed to seek justice.
But that was then, and this is now.
The house Mary Jane Graham had almost died in wasn't the same anymore, because George Daniel had fixed it all up. Made it better. Prettier. Stronger. His wife hugged Helen again, and wished her good luck. When she closed the door, she smiled uneasily at George.
"They're overreacting a little, right?" Charis yawned. "She's probably just out with a friend."
George's heart was racing. He hadn't been scared in a very, very long time.
"Maybe," he said as Charis turned off their porch light. "I-I think I should help."
Charis blinked at him, confused. "George, I'm sure she's fine."
"I don't think so," George said, sliding his big feet into his ever bigger boots.
His wife tugged her cotton robe closer. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"No," George shook his head, trying his shoes. "Just get some rest."
Charis stroked her husband's hair, and kissed him briefly. All George could note that after two and a half years of being together, he should maybe tell her that she wore too much perfume.
George Daniel got into his Impala, and went to look for the girl.