Chapter 22

I was painting the next afternoon when Grace dropped by the studio. She didn't show up unannounced very often, so I was pleased to see her. Carrie was with her, and she didn't try to flirt with me, so her unintended intense sexual attraction kicked in and grabbed my dick like a clenched fist. I was wearing blue jeans, so my lengthening erection stretched out down my leg. My painting smock effectively concealed my arousal, or so I figured until I realized both Grace and Carrie had caught glimpses of the bulge. Each offered a small smile of understanding with her personal discovery.

"Don't let us interrupt you, little brother," Grace said. "Carrie wanted to see your studio and paintings. I'll show her the loft; we'll grab a soft drink, and then we'll come back down and check out your paintings."

"I hung a finished painting upstairs this morning," I said as I watched them climb the stairs. I returned to the painting I was working on but couldn't concentrate. Why hadn't Carrie flirted with me? Did she want me aroused? I mumbled a curse and started to clean my brushes, a tedious job I put off too often.

I heard laughter and soft, feminine voices without discerning any words, which was the basis of a good experiment. Did the sounds of Carrie's voice arouse without being able to see her move at the same time? Nope, not as much. My dick was giving up most of its rigidity. The combination of sight and sound was the trigger, I deduced, not one or the other, and I suspected of the two senses that sight was more important than sound, not to mention that pheromones still couldn't be discounted. Further experimentation was warranted.

You have my fidelity, Mary had told me, and then asked if she had mine. At the time, I'd remained silent. I don't know why, except perhaps to allow for the possibility of something happening between Grace and me because, other than my sister, I hadn't truly wanted another woman since I fell in love with my Mary. Although Carrie aroused me, the arousal was purely physical without a mental component. In my mind, I didn't want her.

I finished cleaning my brushes and walked up the stairs to join them. As my ascent let my eyes clear the level of the floor above, and I could see into the room, what I saw stopped me with one foot raised to step on the next tread. Grace and Carrie were locked in a torrid embrace. Grace's skirt was up around her waist, and Carrie had pushed my sister's panties to the side.

Carrie was finger-fucking my sister!

The hard-on that stretched down my leg didn't happen because of Carrie's unnatural sex appeal. It happened because I could see my sister's cunt. I didn't continue to watch to satisfy a voyeuristic need. I watched because the sight had shocked me into immobility. I stood halfway up the stairs as if rooted in the ground like the giant live oaks that fashioned leaf-canopied alleys leading to antebellum Southern homes.

I made no sound, not even a gasp. As I watched Carrie push a finger into my sister's cunt, my autonomic responses seemed to cease functioning. Grace's legs fell wider apart, and Carrie added a second finger and rolled her thumb over my sister's clitoris. Slowly my brain engaged beyond the act of watching my sister being finger-fucked, and I started to breathe again and raised my eyes, which produced an even greater shock than I'd experienced when I first saw Carrie and Grace embracing.

Grace looked back at me. She didn't look shocked. She knew I was watching, and she made no move to stop Carrie or cover herself. She stared at me. Her face was completely void of expression, so I couldn't determine from her appearance if she was upset or happy that I was watching. Had she known that I'd have a better look at her cunt when her legs drifted farther apart a few seconds back? Yes. She knew I was watching, and she'd wanted me to see her, wanted me to see what Carrie was doing to her.

"Eat me," Grace said, her voice flat, her eyes focused on my face.

In her mind, was she speaking to Carrie or me? My tongue flicked over my upper lip. Was my expression just as void of emotion?

Carrie moved to her knees and put her face between my sister's legs, closing out my view of Grace's cunt, which didn't matter. My eyes and Grace's were locked, which made everything around us peripheral, and peripherally, I sensed that Carrie was touching herself. I wanted to lower my eyes to verify what I sensed, but I couldn't. My connection with my sister was too compelling.

"Eat me," Grace said again as her dainty fingers moved to Carries head, not to guide, but to gently hold.

Grace's voice remained flat, as did her expression. She showed no emotion. She didn't moan with pleasure. Her hips didn't appear to wave, even minutely. She sat like a carved marble statue and let Carrie pleasure her while she looked into my eyes.

She could move, though. She'd laid her hands on Carrie's head. Did she believe if she exhibited passion in any form that the moment would be lost? If so, what did the moment hold for her? For that matter, what did it hold for me? I couldn't answer that question then, nor have I answered it since.

"I'm coming," she said sometime later with no more expression to her words than before. I didn't know how much time had passed. Time no longer had meaning.

"I'm coming," she said again, her voice still void of emotion.

Her eyes left mine then. They rolled back in her head, and at the same time she emitted a passionate moan of delight as her orgasm washed over her. Clenching Carrie's hair in her fingers, Grace jerked Carrie's face tighter to her cunt, and her hips started to dance to the inner pulse of her climax. Her orgasmic grimace contained a soft smile. Between orgasmic pulses, her eyes sought out mine again and remained steadfast for a long second before drifting closed.

I listened to her whimpers of pleasure as I turned and walked — limped — down the stairs.

Grace had won the arousal contest with Carrie. Had that been her purpose?

That evening after putting Little Bundle down for the night, Mary was helping me study for the GED test by taking me through the paces with the flash cards for the social studies portion of the test when Mary's cell phone rang. She answered the call and listened for a minute.

"Hold for a second, Jack," she said. She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her thumb and said to me, "It's Jack Stark. He's with Milton fucking Tucker's lawyer. Tucker wants to settle."

"What's the offer?" I asked.

"$100,000," Mary said.

"Tell him to take a flying leap."

Mary returned to the phone and repeated my words verbatim. She listened for a few seconds more, said okay and hung up. That Tucker wanted to settle hadn't surprised me, not after he'd been coerced to tell all his sins to Hagar's men. He probably figured Mary was behind the interrogation.

"Jack says to hang by the phone," Mary said. "What settlement figure do you have in mind?"

"Getting too greedy would be stupid," I said. "He'd merely declare personal bankruptcy, and you'd be forced to share his net worth with all his other creditors. Let's call the accountant who looked into Tucker's financial condition."

We moved to Dad's office where I filed phone numbers. It took me a moment to remember his name; then I located his home number and dialed it. A woman answered the call. "Mr. Kidrick, please. This is Brent Carson calling from Scottsdale, Arizona."

The woman told me to hold, and less than a minute later Kidrick came on the line. I explained why I'd called, and he told me to wait while he checked his file. When he returned to the phone, he said, "If Tucker's financial condition hasn't changed, the magic number would be $750,000."

I thanked Kidrick and told him to send me a bill. He said the call was a freebee and wished me luck.

As I pushed the end button on my phone, I said to Mary, "$750,000 cleans him out but leaves him enough to go on with his business so he won't declare bankruptcy."

"I don't care about the money, Brent, but for me, justice for my father means taking every dime he has," Mary said with passion.

"Wouldn't you rather have three-quarters of a million dollars and also see him in jail?" I said.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, yeah. That'd be perfect."

"A successful civil suit doesn't preclude prosecution for his criminal acts, Mary. After you get his money, file fraud charges with the police. With no money, he won't be able to hire a good lawyer to defend the charges. Besides, we've amassed the evidence to convict him. I suggested a civil suit first so you could recover the money Tucker stole from your father before you sent him to jail."

Mary grinned. "Machiavellian, that's what your are. I love it."

"If his financial condition has worsened since Kidrick checked him out, $750,000 could be too much," I warned.

"Won't the negotiation tell us the number?"

I grinned. "You have a little Machiavelli in you, too, pretty lady."

Fifteen minutes later, Stark called again. Mary turned down $300,000, and Stark asked her what she'd take. Mary gave him our number, and we continued to go through the flash cards while we waited. Tucker's next offer was $500,000.

"He says that's his final offer," Stark told Mary.

"Then tell him we'll see him in court. I'll take $700,000."

We waited. When the phone rang again, Stark told Mary that Tucker would split the difference.

"What's your feeling, Jack?" Mary asked. "Will he go higher?"

"I don't know. This is weird. He shouldn't be offering to settle this soon, and he's already offered more than I thought we'd be able to get out of him."

"$650,000, and that's my final number. Don't call back if he doesn't accept it," Mary said.

We waited, both of us jumping from surface nerves when her phone rang. She answered the call and listened. "All right, but the funds must be transferred within forty-eight hours, or I'll consider him in default, and we'll see him in court."

She hung up and jumped in the air with a screech of joy. "We did it! You did it!" she yelled and threw herself at me, kissing me silly.

"Fuck me," she said between kisses. She stepped back and ripped open her blouse. Buttons went flying, and her magnificent breasts spilled out, giving my eyes a feast. "I'll buy a new one," she said. "Fuck! I'm hot, baby! Hot!" She ripped my shirt open, and more buttons flew. "I'll buy you a new shirt, too."

Quickly naked, she fell back on the bed. "Cover me, baby. Cover me, and fuck the livin' daylights out of me."

I fell atop her. She grabbed my cock and stuffed it into her cunt. "Yeah, do it," she said. "Ram it home."

I reared back and thrust with all my strength, burying my length with that one massive push. She helped by throwing her hips up at me, and we fucked fast and hard, grunting and huffing between moans and groans. Looking back over my three lives I couldn't remember being fucked or fucking anyone with more passion, and the passion didn't originate with me. Mary generated our fervor and took me along with her.

During the frantic, all-out fuck, I contrasted the wild and wonderful sexual woman under me with the timid creature who'd fucked me without allowing me to move or touch her in the limousine in San Francisco.

You've come a long way, baby, I thought.

Grace, Mary, Agnes and I had gathered in a multi-media conference room in Bill Evanston's architectural offices. The occasion was Bill's presentation of the preliminary design for our dream house. I doubted that it would be everything I expected it to be. My high expectations were probably unreasonable, and he'd only been working the project part time for a month. I steeled myself to be disappointed.

A secretary had provided drinks without asking what we wanted. I sipped IBC Root Beet from a frosted glass mug. Agnes held a glass of superior burgundy; Mary and Grace drank exceptional, chilled chardonnay. Bill's attention to detail down to our drinks of choice bode well for the upcoming presentation, but would his designs excite my artistic eye?

He entered the room and stepped to the unoccupied end of the conference table. He wore a dark-blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a colorful silk tie. He'd made an effort to look good. I appreciated that touch, too.

"Thank you for this opportunity," he said. "To design a dream house for a famous artist and sculptor, a future best-selling novelist, and a future international businesswoman is a challenge, an exciting challenge that I accepted enthusiastically, and not just for the money. Your dream house has become my dream job. From my discussions with you collectively and individually, some general design principles emerged. First, the exterior of the residence should be sculpturesque and fit its environment."

The lights dimmed and an image filled a screen in front of us.

Agnes gasped. I sat dumbfounded.

"Beautiful," Mary breathed.

I think Grace reacted the same as I.

"This is a rendering of the exterior of the residence. It will change slightly as the details of the floor plan and the selections of the material come together later. Also, time constraints for this presentation limited the quality of the renderings. They were sketched quickly, and I used watercolors, which for me is the best medium for quick studies. The next general principle I had to consider was subjective. I was told that the interiors had to soar, lift the spirit, and make your hearts sing. This is the main entry."

Another image filled a different screen to our left. "It soars," Bill said. "This is the great room." An image came together to our right. "It lifts my spirit and makes my heart sing. I hope it does the same for all of you."

I heard murmurs of agreement around the room.

"Initially, I opposed the third general principle. I was told the architecture should flow into water, not the other way around; a strange concept I didn't truly understand at first. I opposed the principle because I harbor a heartfelt belief that water should be sparsely used and carefully conserved because we live in a desert. I still feel that way, but I put my belief aside and approached the design principle with gusto. I also consulted with a landscape architect who doesn't harbor my belief. When I informed him about the third principle, he became as excited about this project as I. He understood perfectly what you meant by architecture flowing into water, Brent. This rendering shows one of our attempts to satisfy the third principle. It's the walkway to Grace's writing casita."

We looked at the image that formed in front of us, replacing the watercolor painting of the exterior of the home. The writing casita was rendered in the background. In the foreground, stepping platforms appeared to float on still water like lily pads.

"Perfect," Grace said.

"This is another example. It's a reflecting pool that starts inside the great room and moves outside to become the swimming pool, but it continues in steps to your studio, Brent. Your painting studio flows into this water, and Agnes, this is one of your metal sculptures rising out of the pool."

I couldn't help it. I applauded; I clapped my hands in appreciation and exclaimed, "You did it, Bill! You did it!"

Grace, Mary and Agnes joined in the applause.

Grace, I noticed, had happy tears in her eyes.

The rest of the presentation was detail and a lot of it, but the presentation could have ended after the first five renderings. Our architect had come through for us, exceeding my unreasonably high expectations.

We were abuzz with enthusiasm as we left Bill's offices with matted large photocopies of his renderings, sketches and working drawings in a leather portfolio.

"It's a beautiful house, Brent," Grace said, hugging my left arm. "Two houses, I mean. It fits our changing dynamics perfectly."

"His plan to add rooms to each house as needed was ingenious," Mary said, hugging my right arm.

My Mary is contemplating more children, I thought. The thought didn't put me off, but I wasn't close to wanting children of my own, not yet. I'd help raise Little Bundle, and I loved the little girl as if she was my own, but I was only seventeen, for crissake.

"What do you think, Agnes?" I said.

"I'm stunned," my friend said. "I am curious about how he'll achieve some of the unique forms and spaces that he designed. They could present problems structurally."

"His father was a structural engineer," Grace said. "And Bill's mother commented about the efficiency of the structural elements in her home. I don't think our architect will have structural problems he can't solve." She sighed. "The layout of my house is just what I wanted, and it flows into the communal spaces perfectly. And that floating path to my writing casita is awesome."

"There was enough land for a kwoon, Brent," Mary said. "That made me happy. I think you should consider a dry Zen garden outside the glass wall of the kwoon's lounge."

"Zen gardens are primarily Japanese. Kung Fu is Chinese," I said, speaking in Cantonese.

"Zen Buddhism originated in India and moved to China around 475 AD, but I'll grant you that a dry Zen garden is Japanese in origin," she said, also speaking Cantonese.

"The look of dry Zen gardens does appeal to me. They're minimalist and have clean lines. I will consider your suggestion."

My cell phone rang. I dug it out and answered the call.

"Brent, it's Katrina Leonard. I'm in the Phoenix area. Would it be possible to meet with you tonight? Dinner perhaps. I'll buy."

"That sounds great, Katrina," I said.

"And if possible, I'd like to have your friend, Agnes Porter, join us, as well."

"She's right here. I'll ask her." I turned to Agnes. "It's Katrina Leonard. She wants us to join her for dinner tonight."

Agnes grinned and said, "You betcha."

"She's free, too, Katrina. Where and when?"

"I'm staying at the Ritz Carlton on Camelback. I understand that there's a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse nearby."

"Yes there is."

"Can you meet me at the hotel at seven? I didn't rent a car."

"All right."

"I'll make the dinner reservations."

"See you at seven." I ended the call and told Agnes where and when and added that she could ride with me.

It was turning into a pretty good day. Our dream house was coming together and had the potential of being a dream come true, and with a little luck, my best friend would soon have a corporate or public commission for her work. I was, however, concerned that Katrina would try to push me for more of my work than I'd already committed to her. That, I couldn't do.

"Crap," Agnes said. "What am I going to wear tonight?"

"Shopping!" Grace squealed. "We've got time to go shopping, Agnes."

I laughed heartily when I noticed a shopping gleam in Mary's eyes.

My Mary looked at me and grinned. "I did promise to buy you a new shirt."