Chapter 2

Once dad secured me in the van, I settled back in the wheelchair and gazed at the dust-streaked wooden house. Eyes wide, my mother still stared at the steps. A dark giant, the man stood; his eyes inscrutable, he watched us. Well, my mother. The aroma of his essence flooded the van. With skirt still hiked and sucking on her fingers, my mother swirled her bare hips. Wet slurps, low, came from between her shaking legs as she squeaked on the cracked leather seat.

When dad clambered inside, he glanced at her crotch, but only swallowed before starting the van. Without even glancing back, dad wheeled the van around and drove us from the dilapidated desert compound.

With a sigh, I dragged my fingers through the new dog’s silken fur. She looked up at me with bottomless jade pools before continuing to sniff everything around me. Each time she whopped me with her tail as she circled my locked down chair, I swept my fist over it. So velvety smooth.

As we bumped along desert roads, a yawn escaped me, and after checking the dog had settled, I lay back and turned up my music. Rather than the usual electronica beats, I selected a more mellow tune. Soon the music in my earbuds had my eyes fluttering. When I rolled to one side to inspect the calm dog, now curled at the side of my chariot, I swallowed. It was the first time I’d been able to inspect her collar. My heart thumped.

Branded into a rough-looking yet sturdy, deep brown leather collar was the word “Shayna.” The blackened, cursive script was—alluring. And the collar itself was also strange. Its thick, beveled leather had two rings. One in the front and its twin at the back. Each identical - solid-looking, burnished steel, and marked by heavy use.

“Shayna,” I muttered.

One of her ears perked.

It was a pretty name for a gorgeous dog. A dog for which I’d received no training. What could she even do? Heck, we’d never even owned a pet dog. So, why had dad decided to get a dog? A service dog? Why now? And why from, of all people, that man? Out in the middle of the desert?

And what had the man meant about my mother being changed?

When my mother looked at dad and spoke as the van tumbled and swayed, I turned off my music and closed my eyes to slits. It was one of my favorite tricks. Over the years, I’d learned a lot about what they really thought by playing this game.

As I let my head roll to one side, bouncing with the van, I’d no idea what I was about to overhear. That evening, as we wove down from the desiccated, rocky hills, I discovered that home would never be the same.

But first, to understand the shock that was coming my way, I must explain. My dad met my mother in high school. Many times, both told me they’d fallen madly in love at first sight. As much as dad believed mom was beautiful, she got a gleam in her eyes whenever she described first seeing him. How dad was “easy on the eyes.”

After marrying as soon as they could, they pledged to attend the same college. Dad pursued a successful banking career. No slouch either; my mother became a business operations consultant. While I’m not sure what all that meant, to hear her tell it, she had a big title. Which also meant lots of work, lots of stress, and lots of travel.

When I arrived, their world changed. My mother kept working, but my dad gave up banking to become a financial consultant. That allowed him to work from home with only limited bouts of short travel. When my condition worsened, my mother left her job to spend more time with me.

Although that worked for a while, my care became pricier. My mother was forced to take a secretary job at a logistics company to bring in extra money. And then dad started looking for a service dog and caregivers. Why? That part I didn’t catch. But I’m not sure I would’ve understood if they’d explained.

Oh, and my mother was a solid, churchgoing, church-club attending, God-fearing, Christian woman. Even around the house, she always wore conservative clothing. Another reason the outfit she still mostly wore in the bouncing van was so—weird.

As a matter of fact, the only time I ever saw her in anything revealing was when she wore a two-piece swimsuit. And that was in our hedge-lined backyard and only with dad and me. Inevitably, he would flash a hungry smile and comment on it. They would giggle together and sometimes disappear inside. I would be embarrassed, usually rolling away while turning up my music. Yes, they had sex. But they were discreet and knew the walls in our house were thin, so kept quiet. Whenever I woke up and caught groans, I would raise the music volume, thinking they were gross. Normal, right?

Several times a year, on long weekends, they’d leave me at grandma’s and stay at a resort in the mountains. Both would come back with smiles on their faces and, though they thought I never noticed, there were a lot more wandering hands. So, my middle-aged parents were happily married.

Normal in every way.

But back then, as we rolled along under the setting sun, they were not so normal. Not anymore. The way my mother had reacted. Out there in the tall man’s sandy, sunbaked yard. What she’d done in that house and afterwards. And now, as she slid her shiny fingers through her lips. That wasn’t typical at all. When the evening sun caught them, her blue eyes glinted while she glided her tongue around her fingertips and gazed at my dad.

“He’s asleep, Dave.” With a sigh, my mother moved dark hair, matted, from her face as dad glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

With her lower lip collapsed under bright white teeth, my mother’s hand slid into dad’s lap. Although his eyes blinked, they remained focused on the winding road. At the sound of his zipper, a hissing gasp slipped from his lips.

That was not routine. Nor discreet. At all. Nope. They weren’t? Oh, God, they were!

“Oh my, dear. There’s my poor little apostle.” After releasing her seat belt, my mother turned in her seat to face dad. Her arm slowly raised and lowered. “Leaking already. Oh goodness, what a sticky mess.”

“You ... You, uh, don’t have to,” dad said before gulping.

“Oh...” As her eyes shone, my mother’s arm twisted; dad’s neck went taut. “Oh, I think I do, Dave. I can’t have you like this all the way home. It’s too”—My churchgoing mother licked her glistening lips and sent a gentle puff of air into his lap—”distracting.”

Nope. Not discreet. Even as dad groaned, my chest tightened. My body reacted to my mother’s swaying, barely covered breast, and sensuous voice. As much as I didn’t want it to, my unfurling shaft swelled.

“Were you this hard”—when my mother glanced at me, I froze. But she returned to my dad and leaned close to his ear before adding in a breathless voice—”while he fucked me?”

As dad gasped, shivers raced along my spine. My mother had just said The F-Word. The woman who’d silently handed me a bar of soap when I uttered “Shit” one time, under my breath, in frustration. What was happening?

“Yes,” dad hissed through clenched teeth.

“Such a naughty boy.”

With her glossy red full lips parting, my mother dipped from sight over his lap. At a slow, wet slurp, my dad’s head rolled back until the van swerved. After a loud gulp, he lurched us back on the road.

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