Chapter 11

Barb’s turn:

Okay, the agent says the publisher is excited about the piece of my story I gave them to evaluate. I’m fourteen and somebody thinks I’ve got talent. Everybody’s proud of me. Now all I have to do is keep balancing the ball on my nosewrite MORE.

Gramma and Grampa were, like I said, proud. They received the news about deadlines and Grampa pointed out that despite my free and easy schedule, I was still a student, even if home-schooled.

“I know, Grampa,” I answered. “I keep a log of what I consider to have studied each day.”

My sentence structure brought a smile to Gramma. Being a retired teacher, she knows. “We certainly can’t question her language skills, Hank.”

“Or biology,” I inserted. “I’ve been running a lot of lab work on the fermentation process.”

“And I’m working through a high school algebra book, Grampa.”

“I can see things, Barb baby,” he said softly. “I know what we’ve got with you. I just want you to be mindful. You’ll be the first in the family to get anything published as far as I know. We’re proud.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, after we get the breakfast dishes cleared I’m going over to Paul’s.”

“You could write here, you know,” he said.

“I could, but it’s easier around Paul. We bounce story ideas off each other. Gets things flowing smoothly until the next block, then talk, the block goes away, more writing.”

“I never understood how people could do that,” he said.

“I’ve read a bit about how writers work,” Gramma said. “There are many ways. I can picture Barb’s way after watching her and Paul when they’re here. The interaction with each other is easygoing and active. I can see where they might build stories.”

As I was walking towards Paul’s house, I’m thinking of the story we’re building that I can’t write down.

I know my feet on the stairs up to his front door give me away. I don’t care. I sweep through, shutting it behind me and there’s this little contest about who wraps up whom in the effort for the first kiss.

“I adore you, baby,” he says. Lips. Forehead, then he buries his face just behind and under my ear, dissolving me into a giggly mess.

“If I was naked,” I sighed.

“We’d get NO work done.”

“I know,” I moaned. “Let’s go downstairs where we can be seen. Write for a while.”

“I’m glad YOU’RE responsible. One more ‘if I was naked’ and you would’ve been. You’re too much temptation.”

“Who makes me that way?!?” I countered.

So we did go downstairs. Cool, but warming up fast. It’s November, a hundred yards from the Gulf of Mexico.

Started typing, but not unusually for me, thoughts were swirling in my head and the ones that were loudest were about my family situation.

“Paul, what does an engineer think about my problems with Gramma and Grampa?”

“Barb, have you ever considered how an engineer thinks?”

“Well, yeah, but probably not enough. Enlighten me, maybe. Gently, please.”

“An engineer looks at a problem, considers the possible solutions, and looks at the most simple solution.”

“So? What’s the simple solution?” I know I’m going to learn things now. About him. About me. About life.

“The simple solution has associated complications. For your grandparents, it involves moving them to assisted living, leaving you behind.”

I snickered. “So? Constipations, you said?”

He knows what I’m doing. “Dammit, Barb. Complications, NOT constipations. And you’re playing with me, yet again.” He did a poor job of a theatrical angry glare. “However, both apply, in this case. To leave you behind, someone has to have custody of you. For example, perhaps Taney? She could use a built-in babysitter. Would boost her social availability.”

I squeaked, “Paul, you didn’t have to use profanity! Now who’s playing with WHOM? Hmm?” Taney’s not even a cousin of some sort. NOT somebody I wanted to live with nor emulate.

“OK, but unless there are overwhelming medical issues, lawyers and judges must get involved. Legal things. After all, who’s gonna grant custody of a fourteen year old GIRL to a relatively young MAN? That makes no sense to a judge. Although, now that I think of it, perhaps I could rent you to some older guys. Just overnight, you understand.”

“Sounds like a PLAN! But you’ll have to buy me some tattoos and some plastic tits. Dow Corning, maybe?”

He laughed. “NOT plastic. Silicone, I think. Better living through chemistry and all that.”

“You could just keep me for your own personal use.”

“That’s an option, but suppose I want some of those big ol’ jello titties?”

“You’re out of luck. Mutual agreement. Exclusive. Me. You. Violate it and you lose your dangly bits while you sleep.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry I ever started you on Pratchett. Your language is changing. And I don’t remember that phrase from Pratchett.”

“I heard it somewhere. I LIKE the dangly bits, you know. I’d hate to deprive us of them.” I paused. “By the way, you’re getting stubbly down there. Needs a rework.”

Now I’m having tingly thoughts aplenty. I shave him. He shaves me. And we absolutely MUST do a test run of the affected parts in the aftermath.

Not too loudly he hissed, “I can’t write with an erection!”

“A stubbly erection,” I corrected.

“Stop that! I have a deadline.”

“Me, too. But a refreshing break might be helpful.”

“You’re supposed to be helpful.” He sighed.

“I am helpful,” I laughed. “We’re gonna be the power couple in Sci-fi and fantasy.” Giggle. “And right now I’m having trouble with the definition of ‘couple’.”

“C’mon, before we get caught in a compromising position in a public space.”

I grabbed my laptop and preceded him up the stairs.

Paul’s turn:

I get nervous, you know. I love this happy young redhead and I trust her, but trust has its limits and turning her loose around my genitalia with a pair of clippers is stretching that ‘trust’ thing to its limits.

“I’ll be extraordinarily careful,” she says, putting her growing writer’s vocabulary to work. And stretching? Nimble fingers stretch things around as she neatly wields those clippers.

Flip side to all this, of course, is having her laid back, butt on a towel, naked as a jaybird.

“You didn’t HAVE to take your shirt off, you know.” I love the giggle.

“I like being nude around you. Shows me that I have power over you.”

“You think about this a lot.”

“Even BEFORE things finally happened between us.”

Compared to what she had to deal with on me, hers was exquisitely simple, little plump mound sprouting a fine reddish stubble, giving way to a sweet promising slit that would open wonderfully under stimulation, revealing delicate pink furnishings, clitoral sheath at the top, morphing into delicate pink petals of her inner lips.

Concentrating on the task before me keeps me from a full erection, but standing at her side to gain access puts me within reach of... “Dammit, Barb! I’m trying to concentrate.”

Giggle. “You just go ahead and concentrate, then. I like it when you dangle a little.”

A warm, moist washcloth takes care of the clippings and the result looks delicious.

‘Couple,’ indeed.

“Let’s stay here a while,” she whispered after the necessary testing of our handiwork.

“Mmmm,” and I turned slightly to bring her soft form into closer contact. “You know I want you all the time.”

“I know. This is perfect.”

Indeed it is. I look at my mate, the delicate red eyebrows, lashes, closed eyes. That little upturned nose, the closed, relaxed lips. I lack the capability of designing better than this. I can see one nipple, her breast pressed against my ribs, I survey the gentle curve from her waist to the rounded curve of her butt.

Nothing will ever exceed this. Nothing could ever replace her.

I’m having this pleasant reverie when a disturbing thought surfaces. What happens if her grandparents CAN’T take care of her? Where does she go? And all the answers come up “away from here.”

She stirs in my side. “Paul. Serious.”

“Of course, little one.”

“Me and you, forever? I mean, this is wonderful. But I want forever.”

Does she read my mind?

Barb’s turn:

We didn’t mention it for a week – the elephant in the room, Gramma and Grampa moving to a retirement community.

I didn’t bring it up. I was putting away the mop after a quick pass over the tile floors of Gramma’s kitchen area. Grampa was sipping his mid-morning cup of coffee. Gramma walked in.

“Barb, we need to talk, baby.” Her voice was soft but had a worried tenor to it. I noticed her glance over at Grampa.

“Baby,” Grampa said. “We already talked about some of this with you. Our health...”

“I know. I’m helping every chance I get,” I said. The air still had the aroma of the pine-scented cleaner I’d used on the kitchen floor.

“You’ve certainly done that,” Gramma said. “But next, you’ll have to carry us up the stairs.”

“It’s not THAT bad, is it?” I questioned.

“Not for me, yet,” Gramma replied. “But Grampa...”

“It’s tougher every trip,” he admitted. “We...”

“I’m an issue again, right?” I forced the conversation.

“We want to do right by you. We see changes in you,” Gramma pointed out.