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Peter, Prue Ch. 01

By: angiquesophie



She didn't move. 

She was the quiet eye of a swirling storm. The low afternoon sun diffused her slim silhouette, creating a halo around her hair. She wore a dark business jacket over a tight skirt that left her knees and calves free to run all the way down to her heeled pumps. The sun made elongated shadows run away from her feet; they seemed to extend her legs, making them look endless. One knee was locked, pushing her calf out; the other bent slightly forward. 

Standing at the corner of two intersecting streets, she was like a statue. Traffic roared by, but it didn't affect her. She stood motionless, holding a cell phone, staring at its display while the world passed her by. 

He didn't move either. 

He stood at the center of a hallway, oblivious to the multitude of people streaming past and around him. Colleagues hurried by to get home, tugging at their coats, swinging their briefcases. They wished each other great weekends - and tried to avoid the frozen figure obstructing their way out. 

The low afternoon sun slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hallway was deserted now, but he still stood there in his dark blue suit. A raincoat hung over his arm - his hand held a phone. One last girl hurried past, wishing him nice days. 

He didn't respond; he just stared at the display. 

Prue Gascoyne Hawkins was 24 years old. Her skin still had the glow of youth, like the fresh, blushing tan of a day at the beach. It was two years now since Prudence Felicity Gascoyne added the name Hawkins to her own. It happened in a small chapel. Family and friends watched her do it, a priest too, but most of all Peter Hawkins, 24 then. 

He'd been her fiancé since college. 

His vows happened to mirror hers. They were about 'forever' and 'death do us part.' But death was still too far away to have meaning for them. And forever was vague enough to live with. 'Forsaking others' seemed ridiculous: they were still so besotted with their new love that there wasn't even a concept of 'others' in their minds. 

That was two years ago. 

Now there were these few hastily typed words on her cellphone. "He cheats," they read. And they made her world come to a screeching halt. 

Peter Hawkins was 25, almost 26. He had the dark, unruly hair women love to touch. He also had clear blue eyes under thick eyebrows, an eternal tan and the stubble of fashionable rebellion. Peter knew he was on his way to become a great architect; it was just a matter of time for the rest of the world to agree, he was sure - even his father. 

Peter loved his wife Prue. 

Most of all: he knew she loved him. She'd been The Prize at university - cute, clever and popular. Falling in love with her had been a thrilling rollercoaster of feelings he'd been too pre-occupied to analyze. Peter wasn't a great analyzer of feelings anyway, like most men. Assured of her love, he basked in a sense of certainty, a warm bath of comfort. 

Peter never knew that love is the eternal antagonist of comfort. 

And now there were these two little words on his cell phone's screen, clawing at the foundations of his cozy life: "She cheats." 

*** 

Reality kicked in and Prue Gascoyne Hawkins returned to life. 

First thing she moved was her head, shaking it left and right - like waking up. Her hand rose as she dropped the phone in her purse. Finally taking a step, she scattered the halo of diffuse sunlight around her. 

She wasn't aware of anything, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. 

"He cheats," her brain said, copying the message. "He" was who - Peter? Who else? And about what did he cheat? What secret could he hide? Who sent the message anyway? And why? 

Peter Hawkins started moving too. 

He closed his phone and put it away. Looking around he noticed the empty hall. He walked to the exit, nodding at the security guard without really seeing him. 

Stepping into the slanting sunlight he blinked his eyes. 

"She cheats?" he thought. About what? What secret could she have? He had none, did she? He planned on surprising her on their anniversary; that was a secret of sorts, maybe. But it was still months away - he didn't even know yet what the surprise would be. 

He shook his head and walked to the subway. 

*** 

"Hi darling, how was your day?" 

She hugged him as always - no, not like always. There was a hesitation, ever so tiny, he thought. She was an all-out hugger, always had been - arms and breasts and belly; warm, soft and intense. He loved her for that. 

But now there was tension; not much, not obvious, but there was. 

"Same old," he said. "Glad it's Friday." 

The words sounded like always, didn't they? But it had taken him a conscious effort to make them sound that way. Why was that? And did she notice? Was that why she blinked and looked away? Her smile was there - her usual smile, causing dimples and showing off her white teeth. 

And yet... 

"What about yours?" he asked as he let go of her. 

"Nothing special," she said, already turning away. 

He wanted to reach out and stop her, but he didn't. 

*** 

The hot water fell like a curtain. 

He put his head under it, feeling the stream hit his brow and run over his closed eyes. "She cheats." What the fuck did it mean? Did it mean anything? There was no name, no number, just the two words. Should he ask her? Yes, he should. But why had she been so nervous? Had she been nervous? Or had he? 

Fuck. 

Prue heard the shower go. 

She might be naïve, spoilt or even shallow. But she wasn't stupid. She knew the cheating wouldn't be about mere little secrets from the past. Not things like old lovers, or a lie about his education or his career. 

"He cheats," the message said and she knew it was cheating now and on her. 

But Prue was brought up in a home where bad news wasn't welcome. Pretending everything was fine was the rule until reality left no way out anymore. 

So she shook her curls and went looking for a smile. 

*** 

He dried his hair and body. 

Then he put on shorts and a t-shirt. Walking from their bedroom he saw her sit at the kitchen bar, sipping white wine. She still wore her blouse and skirt, but had kicked off her heels. Stocking-clad toes curled around the metal bar between the legs of her stool. There was a second glass on the counter, red wine - as usual. He approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her. 

She stiffened, if only for a second - a fraction of a second. 

He smelled the scent of her hair. Then he let go of her and lifted his glass, standing at the corner of the console. As he sipped he saw her watch him. When he looked back, her eyes escaped. He should ask. He should, but could he? "She cheats." What does it mean? 

Ask her. 

Seconds passed and she beat him to it. 

"Kuric wants to have a talk with me, Monday," she said, finding safety in the banality of work. He tried to hold her fleeting eyes. Kuric? Her boss, almost forty, tall, dark, very successful - hero of quite a few of her stories. 

"Oh, does he? What about?" 

"Don't know. Maybe the new project. Maybe they want me to coordinate it?" 

Look at me! he screamed in the privacy of his mind. 

"Wow," he said instead. "That would be something." 

"Nothing special," she'd said when he'd asked about her day. Wasn't this special? Peter's mind ran down the stairs of his memory, stopping at each moment he'd seen the two of them together, Kuric and she; their looks, their interaction - each word he recalled her saying about him. She admired the man, she laughed at his jokes. 

He remembered her touching the man's forearm, once. 

Stop this! 

Prue let her slim finger run around the rim of her glass, finding another excuse to not look at her husband. The growing awkwardness seemed to strangle her throat, making her words sound forced. 

"Yes, wouldn't it?" she said. "Just two years and already doing a project. Scary!" 

She laughed - or tried to. Looking up she saw a smile touch his lips but it never reached his eyes - the clear blue eyes were dark now. "He cheats on me," she thought. He doesn't care. He stopped caring. He doesn't love me anymore. 

Did he ever? 

Stop this! 

"Did you see Karen today?" she asked. 

Karen Samuelson was tall, blond with blue eyes. She had great taste, great tits too. She was an award winning architect, and Pete's boss. Did his eyes shift at her question? Did hers? 

"No, why?" he asked, and she knew her question had been silly - and obvious. Damn. 

"Oh, nothing," she said, sliding off the stool. "Let's start dinner." 

*** 

They ate. 

Peter remembered the lasagna Prue made was special. It wasn't lasagna really, but a dish made of layered vegetables, sliced very, very thin, almost translucent - zucchini and tomatoes, onions, garlic and crumbled goat cheese, grilled in the oven. Lots of virgin oil. What did they call it again in Italy? 

It tasted like cardboard. 

"Mmmm," he said. "Delicious. What's it called again?" 

She looked up, smiling. 

"Tian," she said. 

"Damn, those Italians know their food," he said. 

"It's French, remember?" she corrected. "Provence." 

He shrugged, taking another bite and chewing. The food had no taste to him; so did the wine. 

Prue watched him eat while she sent her fork aimlessly through the delicious ingredients on her plate. Pete shoved it into his mouth by the forkful, she saw, but did he really even chew before swallowing? 

Tian had been their fond discovery, like so many other exotic little dishes. Good food was important to them, just like traveling, finding new places together, exploring exotic things. 

He is lying, she thought, finishing her third glass of wine. She never drank more than two. He lies about finding it delicious. Has he always been lying? 

About everything? 

Stop this! 

She reached for the bottle. His hand checked hers. She felt a sting of irritation. 

"What's wrong, Prue?" he asked. 

Of course that was the question. It had been simmering inside him all evening. It had blocked his throat, obsessing his mind. Not necessarily in these exact words - there had been terms like damn and fuck in earlier versions - but watching her reach for a fourth drink had pushed it out. 

What was wrong with her, with them? 

She cheats. 

Her eyes blinked. She blushed. Then she pushed away his hand and got hold of the bottle. 

"Nothing," she said, spilling wine as she poured. 

*** 

He left the table, his plate half-empty. 

Their apartment wasn't big, but he did have his own room. It held his computer, his books and some knick-knacks - photographs, souvenirs, trophies. And his collection of car-models. They were all of British cars and none older than 1970. It was his dream to have one for real - a convertible Austin Healy. 

But right now he didn't dream. Or did he? It was a nightmare, more likely - a daymare. 

He sat down, rubbing his temples. 

Prue had not tried to stop him when he left the table. Why did she drink so much? She's nervous. Of course she is; she cheats on you. But why nervous now - all of a sudden? She sure must have been cheating for a while. Of course she must have. So why act different now? Or didn't he look - didn't he notice before? 

He shook his head to clear it. 

Think! So she cheats. Who says so? The phone says so. Who's the phone? Damn phone. Could be anyone - any crazy asshole. The name Kuric crept in. Fuck off, Kuric. 

Why can't she just say what's wrong? 

He rose and took a narrow carton box from a shelf. "Laphroaig" it said. There was an oval, etch-like picture on it and the number 10. The bottle he pulled from it was half empty - half full? He found a glass and blew the dust out off it before pouring a finger width of the amber fluid. 

The whisky smelled of burning peat. It tasted like medicine. 

*** 

Prue pressed her empty glass against her brow. 

Through the buzz of four glasses of wine she tried to think. What was happening to them? What happened anyway? Three hours ago everything was fine; and all that happened in between was this one silly anonymous message. 

He cheats. 

No name, no proof, no specification, and yet: everything seemed different. Peter acted weird, didn't he? Shushpicioush - not a word to say out loud after four wines. 

He'd asked her what was wrong, goddammit. He cheated and then he asked her? 

What was wrong with him? 

She put down the glass and rose, grabbing the edge of the table - their lovely, lovely blond oak table, handmade by this sweet, sweet old man. "A table to last a lifetime," he'd said. "And of your children and grandchildren." 

Ah, well. 

Her legs felt weak as she rose. She stumbled. Then her head cleared. Walking over to the closed door of his room she felt her bare feet sink in the thick Berber rug that covered part of their shining parquet floor. Grey oak planks; God had they been expensive. 

She rested her hot face against the door's panel, her hand in a fist, ready to knock. 

"Peter," she said. "Pete, please." 

*** 

The whisky wasn't medicine. 

It burned his throat, but it was as tasteless as the food and the wine. It didn't clear his mind or cloud it, it did nothing; not even make his knotted muscles relax. 

"Pete." 

He heard her voice, her cheating voice. Please, it said. 

Was he a fool? He must be, either way. It was a lose-lose situation, wasn't it? Either he was a clueless cuckold, or he was played like a puppet by an anonymous liar. 

Point was: how could he be sure? 

Then it dawned on Peter Hawkins. He had to choose and the choice was easy, really, wasn't it? The choice was either to believe a total and anonymous stranger, or the love of his life - the woman he'd shared the last four years with, made plans with, slept with, laughed and cried with. The woman he loved more than himself. 

Even acting like she did: strangely - suspiciously. 

He rose and walked to the door. Opening it he caught the body that leaned into it, falling into his arms when the door gave in - the soft familiar body that fit so well in his embrace. He kissed her crying face, tasting the salty tears. 

"Ssssh," he said. "Shhhhhh," as much to himself as to her. 

*** 

"I'm drunk," she said. 

"So am I," he admitted. 

They swayed in each other's embrace, not quite knowing what to do after her flood of tears stopped. 

"You asked what was wrong with me," she went on. 

"Yes, I did," he agreed. 

Her eyes were on him now - steady but bloodshot. Her nose looked pink, as did the rims of her eyes. It made her seem very young. 

"I wonder what's wrong with you," she said. Her lips closed into a thin line after she delivered the words. 

"Nothing," he said, not realizing it was what she'd said to him after exactly the same question. 

The tears obviously hadn't washed away the checkmate - nor had the embrace helped much. She stepped back. 

"Look at us, Peter," she then said. "Is this nothing? What's happening to us?" 

"Let's go to bed," he offered. "Or I'll say stupid things, do stupid things. I'm upset and drunk; so are you." 

*** 

"Where are you going?" 

Peter had taken his pillow and a blanket. 

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said. He stood in the doorway of their bedroom. 

"No!" 

Prue took three steps forward, her hand reaching out for the pillow. Her eyes were wide with panic. 

"Don't," she went on, almost whispering. Her fingers touched his hand that held the blanket. "We vowed we would never do this. Never sleep apart!" 

He shrugged. She pulled at his shoulders. 

*** 

They lay in the dark. A faint light seeped past the curtains, washing the ceiling with a ghostly gray. 

Prue's thoughts ran in perfect circles. 

He cheats - I should tell him I know, but I can't - he acts weird, but I have no proof - should I confront him? - no, I can't, he'll deny it - he'll laugh and make me feel silly - what can I say if he denies? 

I should tell him, but I can't... 

Peter's thoughts were an equal mess. 

There was no sequence to them, no logic. They just ran around and around, making him dizzy. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the mattress press against his back. Should he accuse her? Throw it all into the open? Would she admit? What if she denied? What if she was innocent? She'd be hurt. Could he hurt her? She might throw him out. 

Everything would be lost - for nothing. 

Prue's fingers crawled over the cool, empty space between them. They found his arm. He didn't withdraw. 

"Pete?" 

He gave no response. She rose to rest on her elbow, peering into the darkness. 

"Peter?" 

He groaned as if half asleep. 

"This afternoon I had this, this text message," she said. "On my cellphone." 

More silence, a distant dog barked. 

"It said that you are cheating." 

"Me?" he exclaimed, sliding away from her as he sat up. "Me cheating? But this is..." 

An entirely new set of thoughts invaded his brain, deepening his confusion even more. Then a pinpoint of light plowed its way through the murky mess. A rusty camera seemed to slowly pan from a claustrophobic certainty to a new, panoramic view of kaleidoscopic possibilities. He'd thought she cheated on him and all the while she supposed... 

It might explain her weird actions. But was it true? 

The Peter Hawkins of old would not have doubted the truth of what his wife said. Now he did, and it didn't even startle him that he did. If she cheated on him and suspected he knew, wouldn't it be very effective to turn things around and accuse him, confusing the issue? 

But how would she know about the message he got? 

And anyway, could she be doing a sly thing like that? His Prue? 

He looked down on her gray silhouette, trying to discern the expression on her face. Grabbing behind him, he lit the small bed lamp. The pupils of her eyes retracted with the light. 

She looked pale. 

"And you believe it," he said. "You believe that message." There was no question mark. She winced. 

"I don't know what to think," she whispered. 

"I am Peter you know," he said. "Your husband, remember?" She just blinked. A quiet fury started to build at the back of his mind. 

"This hurts me," he went on, hating the whine in his voice. "Someone, anyone texts you, and you believe it." He turned away from her. "Who sent the text?" he asked. 

She kept silent until he looked at her again. 

"I don't know," she said. "It was anonymous." Her hand was on his knee. "And I didn't believe it." 

Didn't, she said, he thought. Didn't, not don't. 

So Prue got the same message - a text about him cheating, while he got a message about her cheating. Only half a day ago he might have seen the oddity of it, and suspected the whole thing to be some sort of manipulation, a sick joke or whatever. Right now he still saw the manipulation, but too many weird things had happened for him to not suspect Prue's hand in it - or at least her knowledge. 

She was trying to turn the tables. 

The fingers on his bare skin brought him back to reality. He pushed them away, ignoring her gasp. He slid off the bed, grabbing his pillow. 

"Please, Pete, don't." 

He walked to the door, opened and closed it. The couch was cold and narrow. 

*** 

Lying alone on a dark, abandoned bed is a guaranteed shortcut to troubled thoughts - especially when you have no idea what's happening, and haven't had for the last five hours. 


Peter, Prue Ch. 01



Prue stared into the murky grayness that returned to the room after Peter turned off the light before leaving. The click of the bedroom door seemed to have a self-sustaining echo; it kept punctuating her jumbled thoughts. 

Why did he leave? 

Why now after she told him about the message? She did tell him she didn't believe it, didn't she? She'd been clear about it. So why run? Did he doubt her? 

Or... 

Prue pondered what happened since they came home. His half-hearted embrace, his looking away, the forced conversation and his lack of appetite. His leaving the table, drinking whisky and getting the sudden idea of sleeping on the couch. Her eyes burned with tears. 

The ceiling gave no answers. 

*** 

Lying on cold leather cushions and under an inadequate blanket is no way to find peace of mind, let alone sleep. 

Peter hardly understood what happened or why. 

Prue had told him about her message; why hadn't he told her about his? He wondered at his suspicious thoughts - how deep they ran and where they came from. 

Prue had acted odd all evening, right from her reserved welcome through their forced conversation and her four damn glasses of wine. She never looked him in the eyes, did she? Why? And why not say 'I don't believe it?' Was he seeing ghosts? 

Why had things become so damn complicated? 

*** 

He must have fallen asleep. 

Looking up from the sticky leather he saw Prue walk into the living room. She carried two mugs, one in each hand. She was completely dressed, but looking a mess - eyes bleary, hair in a sloppy bun, no make up. 

"Coffee," she said forcing her lips into a smile. 

Peter sat up, knowing he looked even worse - sure feeling awful. His skull seemed stuffed with cotton, his eyes burned. He accepted the mug, mumbling thanks. Prue sat down in the club chair across from the couch. 

"What are we doing, Pete?" she asked. "What's going on?" 

He sipped the scalding liquid, black with a pinch of sugar. It tightened his throat on its way down. He felt an urge to tell her about his text message, but he didn't. If his suspicions were right, she already knew, didn't she? It might help to keep her in the dark. He sure needed every advantage he could grasp, didn't he? 

Yesterday Peter would have been appalled at his sneakiness. 

But, well, today was today. Ah, damn it all - yesterday's Peter was a naïve sucker anyway. Sipping his coffee, supposing it cleared his thoughts, Peter Hawkins told himself that at last he saw through it all - the phony messages, the justified suspicions, the first outlines of truth. 

"I guess you know what's going on, Prue," he said, amazed at his deep, gravely voice. 

Prue's eyes widened. Cold fingers touched her heart. Was he going to confess? 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "I know nothing. I don't even know why we are sitting here like we do; like strangers." 

She put down her mug and leant forward. Her robe opened, showing the white t-shirt she'd slept in. 

"I told you," she went on, agitated. "I told you how I got this damn anonymous slander message that I never believed anyway. It is silly: I know you'd never cheat on me. I told you. And when I did, you got up and left me alone? You've never ever done that before. What should I think? I didn't sleep a wink from worrying. I worry, Pete, about us, you and me. Something's changed. I'm scared!" 

She grabbed the lapels of her robe, closing it tight around her chest. 

Her eyes shone with tears. 

Peter sat up straight. 

His head felt as if caught in a cloud of steam. Seeing her cry hurt him; hearing her despair cut into him. Every fiber in her body screamed to be held. And yet he just sat and didn't move. 

Prue was desperate. 

She'd never felt more alone - abandoned, betrayed. How could he just sit there and not hug her, comfort her, cry with her? He really must have stopped caring for her. Who was that man sitting there, where had her Peter gone? 

"Hold me," she whispered. "Please hold me and tell me everything is right." 

Peter stared. 

He knew he should rise, take the two small steps and hold her. Why couldn't he? He felt tears run down his glowing face, his hands clawed into the seat he sat on and he was sure it was his throat that produced the low moaning sound. 

His body wanted to be with her, hug her and comfort her, but his mind was a convolution of conflicting thoughts, rolling and roiling. There was the cell phone text, there were the images of her with Kuric, there was the hesitation of her embrace, and there was a sickening pageant of Prue flirting, Prue dressing sexy, Prue being drunk and silly - Prue coming hard and loud. 

Everything that had been dear to him up till now seemed tainted. And the horrifying thing was, he knew it was all about him: his unfounded thoughts, his silly suspicions. They were all based on nothing, weren't they? Almost nothing, and yet, they turned him into a statue. 

"I... I can't," he said at last, turning away from her. "Give me time, leave me alone." 

*** 

Peter Hawkins sat on the windy terrace of a seaside bar. 

All chairs were empty, quite a few blown over by the gushing winds. He knew his coffee on the table would be cold by now. But he wasn't here for coffee. 

Staring out over the gray sea with its long, lazy rollers running out onto the empty beach, he murmured wordless curses. Why, he thought, why had everything he held dear turned to shit in only one day? How could it? Was his love for Prue so shallow or his confidence in her so weak that just one anonymous message could make him doubt her in a matter of hours? 

Obviously. 

When she told him about her message he should have told her about his. But he hadn't. Why was that? It might have cleared the air between them. Maybe he didn't want the air cleared? He shook inside his raincoat. Crazy thought; of course he wanted the air cleared. 

But he knew that wasn't true. 

He'd held his information back because he didn't trust her. How could he suddenly not trust her anymore? Because of one crazy anonymous message? The mere thought flushed his mind with guilt. 

What was wrong with him? 

*** 

Prue stared at her phone - damn phone. 

She'd wanted to call her best friend Julia to share her desperation with when she saw she had a new text message. Seeing the announcement filled her with fear. Maybe it was nothing - something totally unrelated. Spam, even. Or maybe, maybe it was from Peter, telling her he changed his mind and please, please... 

But she knew it wasn't. There was no name. 

It would be from the anonymous freak, and she should ignore it. Her thumb hovered and she knew she would press the button even if her mind was adamantly against it. 

"He is seeing her right now." 

No. Nooooo. 

Prue dropped the cell phone as if it were a hot piece of iron. It bounced off the couch where she'd stayed to after Peter left. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked slowly back and forth. 

It was all a lie, of course it was. 

Just someone playing a cruel game. Someone hating her. Who hated her enough to do this? No one, for sure. She'd been everybody's darling all of her life. No one hated Prue. No one. So why? 

And why was he succeeding? Or she? 

The cell phone lay on the carpet, the message still there. "Right now," it said. Peter hadn't showered before he left. He'd just put on his used clothes and a raincoat. No bag, no extra clothes. 

Where did he go? 

She'd begged him not to leave, of course. But she'd never left her seat. The last thing she heard was his car, roaring into the quiet Saturday morning. Then there was nothing but the ticking of the big station hall clock they'd found on this little market two towns over. 

She crawled into the corner of the couch that was still warm from his body, wrapping herself into his blanket - staring, thinking. 

She'd stopped crying. 

Julia Connors was her best friend since college. She'd shared all her highs and lows with her, and her calamities - all just minor things of course, in the sheltered cocoon of her privileged life. Nothing like this, Prue thought. 

Nothing as hurtful and confusing like this ever happened. 

She reached down for the phone, clicking the message away to speed dial her friend. The signal kept buzzing. Julia's familiar voice asked her to speak a voice mail message. She didn't. 

She sighed. It turned into a dry sob. 

After a few minutes the phone rang. Dear God, no new texts. Julia's name popped up; Prue pressed the button. 

"Hi Pruts," a tinny voice said. Pruts was a nickname only Julia used. "You called me." 

Hearing the voice caused Prue's throat to clog with new tears. 

"Jules," she said. "Oh God, Jules, everything is so awful!" 

*** 

"Damn, man, too cold out here. Let's get inside." 

Gus Rennick had the kind of big frame that easily attracts fat after you turn 30 and don't work out enough to keep it away. Gus didn't work out a lot and he liked beer. 

His hair got thinner too. 

He'd been friends with Peter ever since they'd been selected for their high school football team. They stayed friends after Peter hurt his knee and Gus lost interest, which was the next year. 

They didn't loose touch when Peter went away to become an architect and Gus got to work for his father's construction business. 

Inside they found a table in a warm corner. Peter kept his coat on, however. 

"You look like shit," Gus said after sitting down with a sigh that was echoed by his chair. Peter didn't answer. 

"What's going on, man?" 

"Prue," Peter said. "I think she's cheating on me." 

Gus stretched his body, making the chair protest louder. 

"You're kidding," he said. 

It's what you say when you don't know what to say, which was often the case with Gus - especially around the slippery slopes of relational trouble. 

Gus was an honest man, as honest as they come. 

His mind was honest, and so were his morals and his imagination. Like many men he believed that keeping things simple was a virtue in itself. And like just as many men he was convinced that life got unnecessarily complicated once women started to meddle with it. 

Duplicity was an alien concept to Gus. 

That didn't mean he was easily fooled. He developed what honest men do when they are betrayed once too often: he distrusted anyone he didn't consider as honest as himself. 

Most of those were women. 

The problem with Gus, as he got older, was that he started to trust his distrust. So, although he said Peter must be kidding, he was inclined to believe him. 

Gus was a divorced father, seeing his little boy every second weekend. He never understood why his wife wanted out. He was convinced he'd never marry again, ever. 

"What happened?" he asked, not sure things would improve by him knowing. 

Peter shrugged. "Someone told me." 

Gus kept staring at him, obviously waiting for more. 

"And?" he asked, eyebrows rising. 

Right then the waitress brought two more cups of poor coffee. 

*** 

Julia Connors arrived within half an hour. 

She sat in the overstuffed club chair Peter had found in a little shop downtown. Her pale blue skinny jeans had fashionable holes at the knees; her sweater was beige and baggy. She looked good in a tired way, blond hair in a tail, no make up. 

"So tell me," she said. "Where's the fire?" 

Her smile was as tired as her eyes. 

Prue was still in her robe and on the couch, legs folded under her. She'd made tea while Julia was on her way. It was still too hot to drink. 

"Pete cheats on me," she said. 

"Noooooooo," Julia exclaimed, her red fingernails finding the circle of her mouth. 

"Yes." 

The word ended with a dry sob. 

Julia rose from her chair and sat next to Prue, holding her. 

"Oh my, poor girl," she cooed. "Pete? Your Pete? Are you sure? With whom?" 

Prue crouched into the hug, letting the warmth of her friend's body seep into hers. God, she needed this. 

"I don't know," she said. 

"Did you see them together? How did you find out?" 

Maybe for the first time since yesterday Prue realized how little she actually knew. 

"I got a text," she said, shrugging. It sounded rather lame now, even to her. "It said: he cheats." 

"Who sent it?" 

"No name, no number." 

"That's all? An anonymous text?" 

"I got another one this morning, after Pete left. It said "he is seeing her right now." 

"Anonymous again," Julia said; it wasn't a question. She let go of the hug. Prue nodded. Julia sat back, looking around the room. 

"It could be nothing, you know?" she said. "A prank, a bad joke?" 

"I know," Prue sighed. "But he acted weird, Pete did, when he came home yesterday - he hugged weird, kissed weird, and he sounded weird. Everything was... odd, forced. I had made tian, you know? He loves it, but he hardly tasted it. Then he left the table halfway through dinner; he went into his room and started drinking." 

Julia picked up her mug and sipped some tea. 

"Did you tell him about the text message?" she asked. 

"Only later, when we were in bed. You know, first he wanted to go and sleep on the couch. We never ever did that. We vowed we'd never ever sleep apart; you know that." 

Julia produced some reassuring sounds. 

"Now why would he suddenly do that?" Prue went on, her voice rising to a whine. "It was weird, don't you agree?" 

"But you slept together," Julia said. Prue nodded. 

"Yes. Until I told him about getting the message. He at once picked up his pillow and left. God, what an awful night!" 

They sat in silence. 

Julia was good at playing best friend to Prue. She'd had the opportunity to hone that talent from the beginning, when Prue had asked her to share rooms at the apartment her parents had bought for her. 

Julia knew Prue didn't need her for splitting the rent, as she didn't pay any herself to begin with. She did it for company. Prue'd be lonely otherwise, and she couldn't stand being lonely. 

Julia studied on a meager scholarship, having to take jobs to get by. She knew that her newfound comfort depended on Prue's friendship and generosity. She hated knowing that. 

Julia, however, couldn't afford to hate. But she would never forgive Prue for the bitter taste of charity it left behind. 

She remembered how naïve Prue had been those first months. The girl must have been brought up crazily sheltered. She gave momentous meaning to every simple date she had, reporting every kiss and every grab. Prue seemed prepared to give boys whatever they wanted. Julia remembered wondering how the girl had ever gotten through high school without getting pregnant. She'd saved her from quite a few awkward situations. 

Then Peter Hawkins happened. 

From day one Prue dropped everything for her newfound love, including Julia. Two weeks after her first date with the boy she spent hardly a night in her apartment anymore. 

Six weeks later they were engaged. 

Julia recalled feeling betrayed. 

Prue carelessly discarded their girl-friendship and replaced it from day one with the cruel egoism of new boyfriend love. But Julia'd been patient. She'd also been practical. Breaking up with Prue might cost her the apartment, and she'd never find one as good again for the rent she paid. 

Emotionally Prue had always been a magnifying glass - after meeting Peter Hawkins maybe even more than before. Every real or imagined bump in her road to marital bliss made her run to Julia and soak her shoulder in a cascade of tears - only to deny anything happened a week later; even accusing Julia of being jealous and nosey. 

Still, Julia had always been there for her - weary and tired after yet another theatrically blown up drama - but always there. 

Just like now. 

She tried to ignore the flood of tears pressing behind moist eyes. Up until now the story had been vintage Prue: layers of emotion wrapped around zero content. 

"But he did leave," she said. "I mean: the house." 

And yes, new tears cascaded down Prue's cheeks. 

"I... ," she tried after a minute. "I brought him coffee, this morning. I wanted to talk. You know: leave all the shit behind and talk." 

"He didn't want to," Julia offered. Prue nodded, shedding new tears. 

"I cried," she sobbed. "And he wouldn't even hold me." 

Julia stared. Then she rose. 

"Get dressed," she said. "We need some fresh air." 

*** 

"A text message?" Gus Rennick asked, emphasizing the word. "That's all? And anonymous?" 

Peter waved his hand. 

"I know," he said. "But it was the way she reacted when I came home." And he expanded on the stiff embraces and the evading eyes, all the little alien things. 

"As if she was hiding something, you know?" 

Gus knew everything about women hiding things; or at least he thought so. But there was one slight problem: Prue had always been the one exception in his thick book of distrust. Okay, she was a woman - very pretty woman too - but she'd always been sweet with him, and open, hadn't she? 

But then again, you know, she was a woman. 

"Drink your coffee," he said, rising. "Let's go see her and talk." 

*** 

Peter followed his friend's battered truck. 

Gus had been driving it almost as long as he knew him. One taillight was broken and taped back into shape. Without thinking he'd given his friend the lead; the way his mind worked, he might get lost on the way to his own place. 

The house was empty. Prue's car was there, though. 

Gus hollered her name when he entered. Peter followed him reluctantly, walking into the sitting room right when his phone beeped. He had a message, the little screen said. 

"She's with him right now." It was anonymous. 

Peter stood and stared, just like he'd done the first time. He didn't hear Gus; he didn't even see the big fleshy hand taking the phone, or notice the man's low whistle. 

At last he looked up, eyes wide, shoulders hoisted up in silent despair. 

"Anonymous," Gus said, growling. "The damn coward." 

Peter walked to the kitchen, picked up a glass and filled it with water. His Adam's apple bobbed when he emptied it. He put it down and turned around. 

"Her car is still there," he said. "The bastard must have picked her up." 

Gus didn't answer. He still held the phone, shrugging as he looked up at Peter. 

"It might all be a sick joke," he said tonelessly. 

"Yeah," Peter answered. 

He walked into the back of the apartment, where the bedroom was. There he pulled a suitcase from a closet and started filling it with clothes. 

"You know, Peter..." 

Gus had followed him, standing in the doorway, watching him pack. Peter looked up. Then he got his shaving things. 

Gus shrugged once more. 

*** 

Prue shivered as they walked along the beach, right into the wind. 

Its cold breath cleaned her head, but could only pluck and tear at the big, solid lump that lay at its center - the thought that refused to budge; the thought of Peter being with another woman right now - kissing her, fucking her. 

"I feel he's with her, you know?" she said. "I feel it." 

Julia pushed the stray hair from her eyes and watched her friend. Relying on feelings is dangerous, she thought, especially when you're Prue Hawkins. She quickened her steps, then turned and walked backwards, leaning into the wind, facing Prue. 

"You feel, but you don't know," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the seagulls and the rolling waves. 

She stopped, so Prue walked into her. Taking both her shoulders, Julia held her eyes. 

"Before you destroy everything," she said. "Think. You know nothing. It might just be some bastard sending you messages. Think, Pruts. Who do you know? Who hates you enough? Who's jealous enough?" 




Peter, Prue Ch. 01



How young she looks, Julia thought. 

She studied her friend's face through the windblown strands of hair. She's the perfect victim; a toy to be played with. Look at her: what was there not to hate? Her very innocence. The way she took her privileges for granted. Her lack of understanding other people's misery. 

Her gratuitous moralizing. 

Julia sighed. It would be enough for some people to hate the brat. Quite enough. Even the mere fact that Prue couldn't imagine people to possibly hate her was enough reason, wasn't it? 

"I don't know," Prue answered, predictably, putting a pinch of despair in the last word. Of course she didn't know, Julia thought. Wasn't that just her problem? 

She put her arm around Prue's shoulders and together they once more braved the gushing wind - one good friend comforting the other. 

*** 

Motel rooms love to add despair to the misery of people who have no place else to go - lonely people, desperate people. 

Like Peter Hawkins. 

Every worn down item in the room seemed to mock him. 'Loser,' the threadbare carpet said. 'Worthless little cuckold,' teased the dusty bedspread. And the rusty shower gave a playful 'ping' when it withdrew its promise of hot water after only a minute. 

As he fell down on the lumpy mattress, Peter felt perfectly sorry for himself. It was how he should feel, wasn't it, punished for being a loser? A small-dicked travesty of a man he was, no doubt, compared to the stud who'd taken away his woman. 

Who did he ever think he was? 

"She's with him right now," the message said. Yes, of course. He is fucking her right now and she squeals with delight. His fat, big cock slides into her pussy. She arches her body and encourages him to fuck her harder, deeper - to tear at her nipples and bite her sweet little tits. And then she comes like she never did with him - screaming, sobbing. Never like this with him, ever. 

And then she sucks him hard again and begs him to take her ass. 

*** 

Prue begged Julia to stay the night with her. 

She made pasta, using yesterday's leftovers. She even cleaned most of her plate, drinking half a bottle of wine with it; white wine of course, to save her sparkling teeth. 

The buzz of the booze had been welcome, if only to drown the reasonable arguments Julia offered. Of course her brain told her she knew nothing, really, but Prue's mind always had a way of working through her feelings. And those feelings didn't doubt: Peter found one of those women she'd feared all her life - big, blond, busty and intimidating. 

Prue Gascoyne had grown up in utter security. 

There never was a reason to doubt she was the center of her world. Bad things never happened in little Prue's life, and as a consequence she had no idea there might be quite a different world out there. A chilly world where people didn't care about her thoughts or wishes, her fears or her feelings. 

When Prue went to college, she discovered that real world, and it shook her to the core. She was lonely for the first time in her life, and she might have gone crazy if she hadn't met Julia Connors. The girl was a buoy on a black, bottomless sea. She grabbed it and never let go. 

Julia restored Prue's sense of security. 

It took only weeks for her to forget how desperately helpless she'd been. It took even less time for her to don her suit of self-sufficient arrogance again, although she would never see it like that. She went out playing again, secure in the knowledge that Julia would be there to catch her when she fell, to kiss her bruises better and to make all the bad things go away. 

Then she met Peter Hawkins and everything else vanished. 

Prue had no idea how much she hurt Julia by dumping her for her new lover. How it must have felt, coldly dropping their friendship. Peter was her new buoy and she'd let him take her with him, drifting along on his amazingly vast ocean. 

Until yesterday. 

She felt like this fast-running cartoon animal, amazed by the abyss below. He'd run off a cliff - and only started falling after he looked down. 

Was it because he looked down? 

She asked Julia to share her bed, but she'd taken the couch. So now she lay alone, once more staring at the ceiling. 

"He is with her right now," the anonymous bastard had written. Images flooded her mind, of Peter holding this woman, hugging and kissing her, fondling her breasts. They were much bigger than hers. The woman was taller too, like a model. Peter stripped her and his eyes feasted on her. 

Then she took off his shirt and kissed his chest. 

Her fingers opened his belt and his fly, pulling down his pants and boxers. His cock was hard and it seemed bigger. The woman knelt and took it in her mouth, looking up. 

She had the face of Julia. 

Panting, Prue sat up in her bed. 

It was just a silly dream. Julia was next door, sleeping, wasn't she? Why did she see her face? She slid off the bed, donning her robe and tiptoeing to the door of the living room. Opening it, she looked inside, where Julia's silhouette on the couch was a darker gray against the darkness of the room. 

Prue held her own breath to hear Julia's slow and regular breathing. 

*** 

Sunny Sunday mornings have this talent to erase the dark thoughts of a restless night. 

Even through a dusty motel window the sun beamed optimism as it touched Peter's closed eyes. He opened them, and rubbed them with his knuckles the way he did as a child. 

Then his misery returned. 

Groaning, he slid off the bed and found out that there was enough hot water if you woke early enough. Standing under the showerhead he let it splash and run down his skull and shoulders, turning to make it reach every inch of his body. 

He loved hot showers. 

Even now the water relaxed his tired, knotted muscles. He cupped the slippery package of his penis and balls, squeezing it. The soft skin of his scrotum slipped and slid through his fingers like pinkish putty. 

He felt the balls roll within. 

He wasn't that small, really, was he? Maybe not overly long, but he remembered Prue once saying how she liked its thickness. Imagining her small hand holding it, he felt the flesh filling out. A familiar urge spread from deep within, and soon he looked down on his erection. 

The exposed head shone with the water that splashed down on it. 

He started to slowly jerk off the hard stem, touching the head's rim with every upward move. Recalling the precious few times when Prue's tongue had circled it, he moaned. 

"Prue," he whispered, and when he heard the name he felt all firmness leave his penis. Desperately he increased the jerking, squeezing the softening stem harder - to no avail. 

He let the shrunken flesh fall from his fist and hugged himself with both arms around his chest and shoulders. 

Showers are the right place to cry, aren't they? 

*** 

Eating biscuits and drinking juice, Prue and Julia sat at the kitchen table. Prue still wore her robe; Julia was already dressed, her hair damp from showering. 

"Please, just a bit longer?" Prue pleaded, but Julia shook her head. 

"Can't," she said, dipping the last crumbs from her plate with a wet fingertip. "Have to be at my aunt's by ten." 

"Can't I come with you?" Prue tried with the little girl's voice she always used to get what she wanted. "I haven't seen her for quite a while." 

Quite in contrast to Julia's mother, her aunt had pushed her to stay in high school and go on to college. She'd been more of a mother to her than her real mom. Then again, anyone would have been more of a mother, wouldn't they? 

Julia looked up. 

"Yes," she said. "You haven't cared to see her for two years now; since she was at your wedding, remember? I doubt she'll miss you. But you can't come anyway; it's a family thing." 

Prue sighed. She stared at her juice glass. 

"What am I to do?" she asked, still with the same baby voice. It irritated Julia - always had. She rose. 

"Call him," she said. "Talk to him." 

Julia shrugged. 

"I already tried," she said. 

"Try again." 

"Stay with me, Jules, please." 

"Can't. Sorry." 

*** 

He tried to taste the bacon. 

The Denny's was filled with families - parents, grandparents, and children. Peter's table was a quiet little island in a maelstrom of uproar. 

Did he like children? 

To be honest, not really - not now anyway. He guessed that wasn't unusual for a man his age, still coping with work and career and things like that. Besides, didn't the desire for kids often start with the woman? Prue never talked about children. Their days and nights were full enough as they were. 

Not anymore, he mused, trying a tasteless bite of scrambled eggs. 

"Peter!" 

He looked up. A blond woman in a khaki raincoat stood at his table. Trenchcoat, he thought. Bacall, Casablanca. Or was it Bergman? 

"Jules!" he said. 

Julia Connors was his wife's best friend, though she hadn't been around much lately. He liked her. She was totally different from his wife. Prue seemed like a child compared to Julia. To be honest, the woman intimidated him a bit - strong she was, self-sufficient. 

Sometimes he thought she mocked him - like now. There was a smile at the corner of her mouth that seemed more than just happiness to see him. There was mischief, he thought. Her eyes sparkled. 

"How are you, Peter? Long time no see." 

He rose, making his chair squeak. They kissed, a peck on each cheek. Should he tell her how things were? Or just say all was fine? Maybe she knew already. But if so, why the question? 

"Not at all good, Jules," he said. "But maybe you already know. Please sit down. Coffee?" 

Yes, she wanted coffee. And no, she didn't know. She got out of her coat, folding it over an empty chair. Then she sat down, her smile gone. 

Physically Julia Connors was the perfect opposite of his petite brunette wife too. She was tall and blond and had a strong, Nordic face, blue eyes. Wide mouth, red lips, lots of teeth. And a much bigger chest. Right now it pushed out a tight, fifty-ish jersey sweater - generously. 

Intimidating was the word indeed. 

"Sorry to hear that," she said when he returned with her coffee. "What happened?" 

"I left Prue," he said. "Didn't she call you?" 

Julia blinked. 

"No," she said. "Not a word. Oh my. Why did you leave her?" 

He looked away; then he returned his gaze. 

"She cheated on me," he said, keeping his voice down. 

Julia's hand went to her mouth. 

"Nooooo," she sighed. "Pruts, really? The little tramp." 

There was something odd about her surprise, Peter thought. He wasn't an overly sensitive observer, but her gestures seemed unnatural, as if rehearsed. So did her voice. 

Besides, wasn't it strange Prue hadn't called her? He'd suppose it would be the first thing she'd do. 

He nodded. 

"She did. I found out yesterday." 

Again there was something unnatural in the way her eyes widened. A bit too much, maybe. 

"The bitch," he heard her whisper. 

Then he knew what was wrong. She didn't deny it, after her first play-acted "nooooo." She should have, shouldn't she? Gus had not believed him - not for quite a while. And Julia started calling Prue names at once - tramp, she said, bitch. 

He realized she wasn't surprised - not really. 

"Did you know about it, Jules?" he asked. "Do you know?" 

He thought he saw a blush crawling up from her throat. Two little boys in pursuit of a third hit their table, making their cups rattle. When he looked up again, the blush was gone. 

"I'm so sorry, Pete," she said, looking away. 

His heart missed a beat. 

Was it proof at last? Did Julia know all along? She didn't deny it, and she was sorry, she said. He waited for her to go on. But she didn't. Her hand crawled up to his forearm, touching it as her eyes met his. The combination of the touch and the blue flash sent a rush up his chest. 

"I must say: she took her time," she then said. 

His phone rang. 

*** 

After Julia left, Prue kept sitting at her table. 

"Call him," Julia 'd said. Easy for her to say. Prue had never felt afraid of Peter, and God knows there often had been moments to fear his reactions when she'd done something stupid - like melting her credit card or flirting just a minute too long with the wrong guy. 

But now she didn't dare call him. 

Her parents gave her a small trust fund, so in fact she had her own money apart from her salary. But she vowed never to touch it for whims, and never ever without consulting him. Ah well, sometimes there was this cute dress or these heels she must have. She knew he would be pissed off, but it never stopped her confessing it. 

And Peter never carried a grudge for long. 

Same with her flirting and dancing at parties. It wasn't for sex; he knew that. She just needed the attention, she always had. And she always made sure it was just that: a bit of flirting. Not every man understood, though. Two or three times now it had caused ugly rows at public places, but she always apologized and they always made up wonderfully. 

No, she'd never felt awkward with Peter. This time, however, things were different. They were about cheating, about betrayal. And it wasn't about her this time, was it? 

It was about him. 

In the past, when she felt insulted or offended, Prue lashed out. But this was more than that. Of course she felt offended: her man had betrayed her. She felt insulted because he preferred someone else. But most of all she felt neglected. 

She wasn't his center of the world anymore. 

How could she just call him now? How could she be the one to give in? He cheated on her, and then he left her. The one single unthinkable thing had happened: Peter Hawkins had turned his back on her. 

She saw that the polish of her thumbnail was chipped as it hovered over the speed button. 

"Call him," Jules had said. "Talk to him. Try again." 

She hit the button. 

*** 

His phone rang twice and then a third time. 'Prue' the screen said. His hand trembled. Peter watched Julia. 

"Sorry," he said, showing his phone with an apologizing grimace. 

She nodded, smiling. He was so damn well behaved. 

"Yes?" he said in the phone. There was silence for a second. 

"Pete." Her voice was small. "Please come home." 

*** 

Prue hadn't meant to say that - not planned on asking him to come home at all. But it had been the first thing she said. Did that make it true? Did she want him back? 

Obviously, she thought. 

The silence after her question seemed to last forever. She'd said what she didn't want to say. And now she feared his answer. Maybe his "no" would be worse than a yes. Or was it the other way around? 

"No," he said. "You come to Baily's, five o'clock." 

Beeps followed a click. 

*** 

Peter sat in a corner of the bar called Baily's. 

They often went there, Prue and he. He liked to meet friends and taste the ales they had on draft. Prue loved Baily's for the Baily's on ice. Plus the entourage, he thought - the music, the little dance floor. 

And the men, his brain added bitterly. 

Was it true? Ah well, he'd never objected, had he? Not really. And most of the time it had been perfectly innocent - most of the time. To be honest, she danced as often with women as with men. 

She just loved to dance more than he did. 

He sipped his perfect glass of Indian Pale Ale and thought back to this morning, at the breakfast place. After he'd hung up on Prue, Julia's hand had returned to his arm. Squeezing it, she'd said: 

"So you really want to go and talk to her?" 

Her voice had been rather flat; or, well: maybe the right word was reserved, cautious. 

"No," he'd said. "Not really, I guess." 

She'd smiled with raised eyebrows. 

"Then why do it?" 

He'd shrugged. 

"I guess I want her to admit." 

Her sudden peal of laughter startled him. 

"She won't, you know," she said, chortling. "She won't admit. Pruts never admits anything. She'll accuse you." 

"Me?" 

"Of course," Julia said, spreading her hands. "You know her. And if not: I do. It's who she is: attack when cornered. Put the blame elsewhere. She's brought up that way. Remember the flirting? She always accuses the men when things get out of hand. Remember her missing her period, before you got married? It was your fault that she forgot her pill, remember?" 

Peter stared at her. 

He recalled the panic. It proved to be a false alarm, but yes, she accused him. He also remembered what Prue said last night. That she'd had a message too, and it was about him cheating on her. She accused him to diffuse the issue. He had wondered about it, and now Julia confirmed it. 

He remembered her hand returning over the breakfast table, squeezing his. 

"I guess I know her as well as you do, Pete," she'd said, closing her eyes and reopening them, making the blue sparkle. "For a while I thought you changed her, but what you tell me now is really vintage Pruts, just as I know her from before." 

"What do you mean, from before?" 

She smiled; then looked away. 

"From before you met her, of course," she said. "I never saw so many guys fight over a girl. And it was always their fault when things got complicated, you know. And my duty to support her." 

She chuckled. Then she rose, picking up her raincoat. 

"I'm so sorry," she said, tightening its belt. Even under the wide coat he could see the shape of her breasts. "You're a good guy, Pete. I thought you'd tamed the shrew." She sighed. "Anyway, don't give in if she doesn't. There's much more to her than you know." 

He had risen too. Her hand touched his face as she gave him a peck on his cheek before leaving. He smelled her perfume. 

And now at Bailey's, waiting for Prue, he picked up his phone, as the thing signaled the arrival of a new message. There was no name, no number. He opened it. 

"She just left him," it said. 

He dropped the little machine. It bumped on the tablecloth until it slid against his glass. So she'd been with him all day? Goddamn, he should leave. Why even stay and see the slut? 

His hands trembled. 

"Hi Pete." 

She looked pale, almost translucent. Tired no doubt, he thought, feeling a knot in his stomach. She'd used more make up than usual, he saw. More than she did for him, he thought. Her hair was spotless, so was the dress under her coat. 

Prue kept standing, as he didn't rise. 

"Pete?" she repeated. 

"He can't live far from here," he said. 

Confusion clouded her eyes. 

"Eh...," she said. "I don't know..." 

"Goddammit, Prue!" he cried out, jumping up. "His spunk must still be running down your legs." 

Faces turned. A deep blush darkened Prue's face. Her mouth opened and closed. 

"I...," she said. "I, I..." 

Then she turned and ran to the exit. The light of his cellphone died, erasing the short message.



Peter, Prue Ch. 02



Prue fell on a wooden bench, tears running down her cheeks. 

The bench stood on a knoll looking out over the dark sea, but she didn't see it - neither the water, nor the clouds that chased the stars. Her trembling hand went through her bag until it found her ringing cellphone. 

"Pruts?" 

The tinny voice sounded urgent. 

"God, Jules, it was awful!" 

"I thought you'd meet him about now?" 

""It's already over, Jules. I ran! It was horrible!" 

"You mean you didn't talk?" 

"He attacked me!" 

"He did what?" 

"Well... he yelled at me. He called me a slut." 

"Oh my, Prutty, you don't have to take that." 

"I didn't. I ran." 

There were a few seconds of silence. A boat blew its horn in the distance. The wind had died down a bit; it wasn't as cold anymore. 

"Where are you now, Prue?" 

"At the beach, close to the harbor. On a bench." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." She sobbed. 

"You'll catch a cold. Go into the Anchor. I'll see you there." 

*** 

"He accused you right away?" 

They sat in a niche by the window. The Anchor was an ancient fishermen's pub, and rather busy this Sunday night. They both nursed a glass of tea. 

"Yes," Prue said, sniffing her red-rimmed nose. "He supposed I must've been coming straight from "him" and his spunk must be still running down my legs." 

"Oh God, did he say that, really?" Julia said, her hand covering her mouth. "How rude. Maybe you're right. He can't care much about you if he treats you like that. Spunk down your legs? Oh my, gross!" 

Prue looked at her friend in utter misery. 

"What can I do now, Jules?" she asked, her voice thick with tears. 

Julia shook her head left and right. 

"Can't tell you, honey," she said. "Never thought he would treat you like that. Was that really Pete saying that? My God." 

She took a sip from her glass and looked out of the window into the darkening night. 

"Maybe you should talk to a lawyer, Pruts," she said. "You are from rich family, girl. You're an heir; you should protect yourself. God knows what he might do to you." 

Prue pushed herself away from the table and from her friend. 

"Lawyer? What do you mean? Divorce? Are you mad?" 

Julia took Prue's hands and pulled her back to the table. 

"I'm as amazed as you are, Pruts," she said. "But would you ever have thought Pete would act like this? That he would say things like this? To you?" 

Prue's thoughts ran around and around. 

Everything went so fast. Only Friday there'd been Pete and Prue, Prue and Pete - fast in love, unbreakable. And now... Everything was such a mess, feeling so unreal. Look what Pete said to her, calling her names, accusing her of... of fucking around.  

He really must be covering things up - something, anything. 

"You think he'll steal my money?" she asked. "It's not that much really?" 

She wondered why she mentioned the thing that was the farthest from her mind. 

Julia shrugged: so typical for the brat to call a ton not much. 

"Better be safe than sorry, girl," she said. 

Prue's eyes rested on Julia's, utterly helpless. 

"Will you hold me, Jules?" she asked. "Will you please hold me?" 

Julia came around and held her friend tightly. They didn't talk for a while. The only sound was Prue's sobbing and Julia's soft humming. Then Julia untangled their embrace. 

"Sorry girl," she said, trying to strike a lighter chord. "Nature calls." 

Prue rose as well, following her friend to the restrooms. 

The Anchor was a great little pub, but roomy ladies' toilets weren't their main strength. So Prue had to wait outside while Julia used it. Standing around she heard her cellphone beep. It made her heart race, but she didn't dare look. Only when she sat on the toilet did she open her phone. There was a message. No name, no number. 

"Such a nice cock he has," it read. "I guess you lost him, honey." 

Julia looked up when Prue returned. 

"What happened?" she asked. "God, you look awful." 

Prue slumped down. She slid the phone over. 

"Such a nice cock he has. I guess you lost him, honey," Julia read out loud. Then she looked at Prue. 

"Fucking bastard," she said. 

Prue grabbed the phone and punched a button. 

"Daddy?" she said. "I need Mr. Andersen's number." 

*** 

When you're a big concern, you don't have legal aid - you have a legal machine. 

The firm Daddy had been using since forever was just that, a machine built to process each and every legal occasion in the most efficient way possible - dispassionate, impersonal, and unstoppable. Time had honed the machine. It had oiled it and turned it into a sleek monster. 

It chewed, ate and digested every obstacle in its path. 

What Prue did was not merely phoning her father, she was pushing a big red button that started giant cogs and wheels to turn. In the end they would eat her marriage and spit it out. 

They even might eat her. 

Prue didn't realize this when she dialed old sweet Uncle Andersen's private number. She was just being little Prue Princess again, treated so very unfair by the cruel machinations of Fate. 

She'd been betrayed and she needed the pain to go away. 

The next morning she walked into the marble-and-steel cathedral of Burton, Barton and Andersen, wearing her little Chanel number while letting her Jimmy Choos click away on the shining floor. Young legal eagle Gerald J. Dunston ("call me Jerry") took her to a sleek conference room. He poured her some design water and started the first question on a time-honored road to surgically precise destruction. 

"Mrs. Hawkins, how can we be of help?" 

*** 

Peter got the papers served on Tuesday afternoon. 

The person who served them was a distinctive, elderly man in a fine suit - graying hair at his temples. His voice had a cultivated British accent. He kept it low. No need to upset anyone at the office, was there? 

Peter knew there was a prenuptial arrangement. 

He remembered signing it, agreeing that it was wise to protect Prue's trust fund and the optional shares she had in Daddy's business. Peter didn't care, back then. He'd had his own plans and his pride - he would be his own man, not needing the help of the father of his wife. 

He also recalled that the prenuptial didn't say anything about causes or reasons; nothing about cheating from either side, or other claims. 

Daddy agreed to pay for any legal bills involved. 

Receiving the papers shook him more than he thought it might. His days and nights had been weird since that awful Friday - like drifting in a misty world, hardly noticing the ground he walked on. 

He'd found a better place to stay. Not that much better, but it was closer to work, and it had a kitchen. 

On Monday he'd gone to the office. 

He was determined to drown his misery in activity. To his surprise it worked. Plunging into plans and sketches, construction problems and computer drawings helped. 

Being with colleagues did too. 

Evenings were bad, so he tried to make them as short as possible. Nights were even worse, but there were pills for that, weren't there? 

The evening of the day he received the papers, he sat at a small Italian restaurant one block away from his office. He was with two young male colleagues and most of their dinner conversation was an extension of their workday, really. 

The table was strewn with paper. 

Looking up from his notes Peter saw one of his table companions look over his shoulder, obviously seeing something interesting entering the place. He turned and saw a tall blonde walk his way, swaying on long legs - dressed to kill. She was alone and murmured a greeting in passing. Then she stopped at a table the waiter pointed out to her. 

Julia Connors sat down and smiled at him. 

He returned the smile. Then he rose and walked over to her table. 

"Jules," he said. "Such a coincidence." 

She smiled and shrugged. It did interesting things to the cleavage in her tight white top. Then she waved over to the chair in front of her. He sat down. 

"I'm sorry, Pete," she said. "I should have warned you from the very start. But the two of you were so very much in love." She reached over the narrow table to squeeze his hand. "Well, I guess at least you were." 

Time for him to shrug. 

"The bitch fucked and then she fucked me over," he said. "She divorces me." 

"God, Pete, you're bitter," she said. "And rightly so. It must have been all so sudden for you." 

Watching the woman made him feel uncomfortable. Was she really concerned? Or was she gloating? Who cared? His eyes kept returning to the firm globes of her breasts, adding more discomfort. 

"I, ah, thanks, Jules. I'm fine and, well, I'm rather busy," he said, rising. 

"Of course," she said. "But call me if you need a patient ear... or anything, you know." 

Damn, why did he have to ogle those tits again? 

*** 

Prue sat up in bed. 

She didn't want to know what time it was. She'd clicked her small reading light on and off for the last hour, too scared to lie in darkness, too tired to read. 

She had no talent for being alone - never had. 

Reaching for her cellphone she swiped through pictures. Pete, Pete and Prue, Prue and Pete smiling, hugging, posing. Short video's at the zoo, on Aruba, in the water, on the beach. The two of them in New York, Prue in her blue little Paris dress, Pete in his rented tux, Jules, Jules and Prue... 

"Jules?" 

She'd pressed the button. Julia sounded groggy. Shit yes, it was late. 

"Sorry, Jules," she said. "Just had to hear a voice." 

Julia said she didn't mind. She asked how she was. 

"Awful," Prue answered. 

Julia said she felt sorry for her. And she admired her for cutting the knot so decisively. Prue groaned at that. 

"It's so hard, Jules," she whispered. 

Julia told her to be strong; the bastard cheated on her, remember? 

Prue sighed. Of course she remembered. 

"But it hurts," she answered. "I'm so alone." 

There was silence. 

"Can't you," Prue started. "Would you... I mean, I'm all alone." 

There still was silence. 

"Be strong, Prue," Julia finally said. "You can do it." 

"Jules...," Prue whispered. 

"I have to get up early, honey, sorry," Julia said. 

"Of course," Prue mumbled. "Sorry for waking you up." 

The phone's little beeps mocked her. 

*** 

Another Friday evening yawned at Peter Hawkins. 

He couldn't believe it had only been a week since his world collapsed. Looking at the coming weekend he saw a never-ending stretch of solitude. He'd considered to just go to work on Saturday, but he knew the place would be deserted. 

Being there might be more devastating than staying at home. 

Gus had called him, asking him to spend the weekend fishing with him and a few mates. Peter hated fishing. He also knew the real action would be mainly drinking. So he thanked him, but declined, making up a lame excuse. 

Gus had been calling him all week, no doubt considering it the duty of a true friend. But Gus wasn't very good at comforting - not in person and not at all by phone. Each call was mainly a stretched silence punctuated with groans and platitudes. 

On Wednesday night they'd met in a pub. Pete's head hurt all the way into Thursday. 

Tomorrow he would go and hit the fitness club, he decided. He'd been a member for years, but had slowly decreased the frequency of his visits. Prue might be there, but damn, he had to take the risk. Working out would take a nice bite out of his Saturday. Maybe he should go Sunday too? 

But what about this Friday night? 

"Come on, Peter, join us, it's Bell time!" 

Like in a jolly Norman Rockwell painting Jake and Eric's heads peeped around the post of his office door. They pulled faces, and Jake even rubbed his shock of spikey hair with the knuckles of his fingers - Stan Laurel style. 

The Bell & Clapper was a wannabe British pub one block away. Their pride was local ales in pint-sized glasses. In better days he'd tasted one or two of them on Friday nights, throwing darts and winding down before going home. 

This time Peter pretended the beer tasted great and the jokes were good, but after his second pint he went pissing and left through the backdoor, feeling a great tiredness in every muscle of his body. 

The ale hit him hard when he stepped into the cold outside air. Feeling tipsy he followed the sidewalk. It must have been instinct that took him to the beach. Gushes of wind tugged at his hair and coat, blowing away the dizzy spell. 

Then his phone rang. "Prue" it said. 

She hadn't called him all week, but to be honest: would he have taken her calls? Would he take it now? 

Damn, the slut had been ass over teakettle to get her divorce, hadn't she? And why? Because she cheated on him. So typical for the bitch - always accusing others. 

Jules had been so right. 

He pushed away the call. But he couldn't click it away in his head. Fucking slut, why couldn't she leave him alone? Didn't she get all she wanted? Freedom and all cock she could eat? Damn, why had he ever married her? 

He knew why. 

He knew it while lying awake. He knew it while not tasting his food, not finding the fun in a joke, or walking here into the sea breeze. 

He still loved the damn whore. 

*** 

Prue cried as her phone went dead. 

Of course he wouldn't take her call - too busy fucking his slut, no doubt. She shook her head to get the images out of it. She must be blond with big tits, a real bimbo. Sucking his cock with her fat collagen lips and taking all of his meat in, no problem. She'd let him do everything Prue didn't. She'd swallow sperm and take him up her big ass. 

Damn, Peter, why? 

Her phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping silly hopes as she looked at the screen. 

"Pruts?" 

"Jules," she sighed. 

"Did you cry, honey?" 

She sobbed. 

"I'm so sorry I left you hanging last night," Julia said, her voice up beat. "You need to get out, girlfriend - letting your hair down and everything. Come, let's hit town." 

"I don't know, Jules. I'm tired." 

"Of course you are!" Julia cried out. "That's why you need to get out. What do you think the bastard is doing right now?" 

The damn flashes returned before her inner eye. Blond, tits, legs. 

"Meet me at the Zoozoom," Julia said. "Or better: wait and I'll pick you up." 

Prue sighed. 

"I really don't know..." 

"But I do! Dress up, girl. Ten minutes." 

*** 

Walking on the beach Peter remembered waiting for his company's lawyer, earlier that day. 

He had visited him to look at the papers Prue served him with - better save than sorry. He recalled sitting in the stylish waiting room, wondering if this would be what he'd be doing for the foreseeable future: waiting. 

It passed the time for sure, but was there an end to it? A goal? 

The door had opened after a few minutes, of course, and he'd listened to the smooth talking lawyer. But it had been just another bout of waiting until the man was done. Then he was back at the office, waiting for the end of the day. And after the end of the day there would be another track of time waiting for him to wait through. And then there were the dark hours, lying on his back waiting until his alarm went off. 

What was the point? 

Walking into the wind, Peter wondered if he could take this for another week, another weekend. It was like drifting in an ocean's doldrums, or crawling through a featureless desert - rudderless, pointless. Every word ending in 'less.' 

He took his phone from his pocket. 

Putting a stop to his wailing mind, he pressed a button. Turning away from the wind, he listened to the endless ringing - waiting. 

Hearing Prue's voice shook him. We all tend to believe memories are mostly about images, but it is the voices that cut the deepest. 

"Hello," she said. "You've reached Prue Gascoyne Hawkins. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." 

Getting back to him. As soon as she could. 

Peter stared at the lit up rectangle. Getting back to him. He decided not to leave a message. 

He decided to yell into the wind. 

*** 

The Zoozoom was a club, and it was true to its name: a zoo. 

Hot lights glared and swept over the darkened dance floor. It was packed with bodies - bodies that churned, arms that waved like a forest of swaying trees. Stroboscopic flares pulsed with the heart-throbbing, belly-stomping sound. Everything shifted, everyone moved. 

Prue hadn't been to a place like this in years. 

She'd danced at bars and clubs, but never at a zoo like this since she got married. Oh, she'd been here before - before marriage, before Pete. It was a boot camp for dry fucking, one endless stretch of sweaty foreplay. She saw bodies glued together, girls sandwiched between boys, tongues down throats, tits popping out, skirts riding up pale thighs, panties missing, hands groping. 

She closed her eyes and moved, arms in the air. 

The music beat the last thoughts from her brain - replacing them with mindless booming. She yelled until her throat was hoarse and had to be oiled with mean, burning shots. One drink seemed to replace the other and at last all that held her up was the surrounding sea of bodies. 

Like the strobe lights, Prue's mind seemed to pass through glaring whites and deepest darkness - from clear patches to streaks of utter oblivion. One moment she was in the Zoozoom, the other in a bar she knew but couldn't put a name on. She woke up to a place filled with naked girls, only to end up in a darkened room full of shadows and groping hands. Her tongue was down a throat, she found out, and her cunt was riding a hand. 

There was no logic anymore to her observations. 

Her head seemed a roiling box filled with cotton, her body hummed with electricity. She wasn't Prue anymore, just a tighter and tighter winding wire on its way to snap - a slowly filling powder keg getting primed for explosion. 

She never remembered exploding. 

All she knew was waking up in a cloud of foul-reeking vomit, sweat and, and... She felt the skin of her face itch and stretch where gray flakes tightened it. She smelled booze and urine. 

Retching she crawled up, only to be hit by a mighty hammer. 

*** 

The wind had cleared his brain, just like Prue's voice had cleared his mind. He couldn't help loving her, but he could very well despise her. He could call her a slut and a whore and not wince anymore. Nothing of it all was his fault. 

She was the cheater, and maybe she always was. 

Peter went home, or whatever one might call the dreary black-and-white furnished studio he lived in. He would take a long shower and go watch sports on TV, drinking beer. He didn't know which sport yet, but did it matter? Staring into any colored square with moving puppets was all right with him. He'd never really been a sports fan anyway, although he'd played most of them in high school and college. 

The night dragged on as expected. 

He didn't stay with any of the games more than five minutes. Halfway he took another shower. The chips and the beer built a nauseating lump in his stomach. He tried old movies, but his zapping speed only increased. 

In the end he went to bed. 

He couldn't read, and he couldn't sleep. But somewhere in the wee hours he must have dozed off, because the beeping of his phone woke him with a start. 

He had a message. 

Pressing a button made it materialize. The screen spread an eerie light, casting Peter's shadow against the wall and the ceiling. The message only said "watch," and there was an attachment. 

Peter hesitated. 

Then he punched, and a picture sprang onto the screen. He saw a long, naked, muscle-bound back and half of a face peeping from behind it. He knew it well. Its eyes were closed; its mouth was a perfect O. It was the face of Prue and it held an expression he'd never seen before. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 02



It was an expression of utter abandon. 

Swiping the image he saw another, taken from the left. The naked back he'd seen proved to belong to a white man, still pretty young. His face couldn't be seen. His body was connected to Prue's where their privates were. Prue arched her back and the man gleamed with sweat. Pete swiped and Prue had a fat cock in her mouth, a black man's cock. He swiped faster. Prue rode another man. Swipe. She was sandwiched between two men, one white and one black. Swipe. Swipe. 

Swipe. 

The phone pinged. Another message 

"Now you know what he looks like," it said. "Or rather: what they look like." 

Peter Hawkins rose from his bed. He walked into his den and on to a cupboard. The bottle with the 10 on it was still almost half full. He poured two fingers. Swallowing it all at once made him cough, but he poured another two fingers. 

*** 

Prue crawled out of a ruined bed. 

It wasn't hers, nor was the room as far as she could discern. She walked around on jellified legs, feeling her way into dark grayness. She was the only one in the room - in the house, it seemed. She tried using her voice; it felt like tearing her throat open. Then she found a bathroom and it was spotless. 

The shower was hot; it gave her the illusion of getting clean. 

The soap had a nice fragrance and there was body lotion. Her pussy felt raw and hot like glowing coal; her anus burned. 

She sank to her knees, letting the water drum on her back. 

When she came out of the glass cubicle, she found a towel and a fluffy white bathrobe. Walking back into the bedroom she avoided looking at the filthy bed. There was a door and it led into an apartment. 

At last she recognized the place; it was Julia's. 

"Jules?" she said, repeating it louder. 

There was no answer. 

The living room looked empty, so did the kitchen. She wasn't hungry; even thinking of coffee made her nauseous. Taking a bottle from the fridge she drank deeply. The icy coldness of the water hurt her chest. She coughed. 

She ought to go home. 

Where were her clothes - the flimsy dress, bra, stockings, and heels? The little bolero-type wrapping she'd worn against the cold? Her clutch? Her keys and her money? 

"Jules?" she yelled, only reaping a little echo. 

She went back to the bedroom rummaging through the reeking ruin on and around the bed, finding nothing. She opened a closet door. Picking up panties, a blouse and a skirt she dressed in clothes two sizes too big for her. Then she slipped into sneakers and found a jacket. 

"Money," she whispered. "I need money for a cab; it's too far and too cold to walk. Where the fuck is my wallet? And where's Jules?" 

"Wow, I look good on you." 

Julia stood in the doorway, wearing a rain-splattered coat. She brought a gush of fresh air with her as she carried a big paper groceries bag. Prue ran to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. A cucumber fell from the bag. 

"What happened?" she cried out. "What did you do to me?" 

Julia took a step back, shaking her head sideways, chuckling. 

"Moi?" she asked. "Nothing, alas. You, on the other hand..." 

She passed Prue by and walked over to the open kitchen, putting down the bag. Walking back, she picked up the cucumber, wiggling it in her hand. 

"God, girl, I guess you needed it," she said, giggling. 

Prue stood speechless. 

"Needed what?" she then stammered. "I don't remember a thing. I feel sore all over. I stunk when I woke up and had filth all over me, but I remember nothing. What happened?" 

Julia squeezed her eyes half shut and used a childish voice, while waving her hands frantically besides her head, the green vegetable still there. 

"Ooooooh! Oh yessss! Ha-harder, deeper. Oh my, yessss... Oh God! God! Haaaarder..." 

"Stop it! It isn't true!" Prue cried out, covering her ears and stamping her foot. "Stop it!" 

Julia's face returned to normal. She shrugged. 

"Have it your way, honey," she said. "But I truly feared the neighbors would call the cops." 

Prue sank down on the couch. Leaning forward, she covered her eyes. Her shoulders shook. Julia watched her for seconds. Then she rushed over and held her in a hug. 

"Now, now," she cooed. "No need to be sad. You made quite an impression on the gentlemen, honey. They walked mighty funny when they finally left." 

She chuckled. Prue jumped. 

"They?" she cried out. "Men? More than one? My God, what did I do? Did you drug me?" 

Julia pulled back, looking upset. 

"Drug you? What do you think I am?" 

She rose and stepped away. 

"This is really vintage Pruts, honey," she said, arms crossed under her breasts. "Always finding someone else to blame." 

Prue looked up, her face blotched, her eyes red. 

"S-sorry," she said. "But I really don't remember." 

Julia sank on her knees in front of the girl, holding her. 

"Stop worrying, honey," she said. "You drank a lot and you had to get rid of a lot of shit: all the stress and frustration damn Pete saddled you up with. The bastard made you doubt yourself; you had to compensate. It's perfectly normal, Prutty. Believe me." 

"I feel so... dirty." 

Julia hugged her tighter. 

*** 

To Peter half of the next Saturday was a swamp. 

One moment he sank into it, surfacing the next - there was quicksand to suck him down, stinking gas bells to belch him out again. 

He hadn't slept all night. 

Of course he'd tried not to look at the pictures every half hour, but of course he had. He'd studied the bodies, the utter, alien lust on his wife's face, the sheer aggression of the men. 

Three different guys he counted, two white, one dark. Only two photo's showed cock, big cocks - one where Prue sucked it, another that was shot right after pulling out - or was it before pushing in? 

Most of his attention went to Prue's face - her bliss, her contorted expressions, and the globs of sperm on it. Her body must be aching like mad after the relentless bending and arching and stretching. 

He shrugged. 

Maybe she was used to it? 

The one emotion Peter most prominently felt through his nausea must be jealousy. There was pain, of course, the sheer hurt of being betrayed. But all through that was a quiet bitterness. Would he ever again be able to even think of Prue without seeing these pictures - let alone if he met her? 

Paralyzing was what the pictures were. 

They mocked his very essence, tearing at a tiny, deeply buried kernel of doubt and pulling it to the surface. He knew it had always been there: the doubt that he would one day stop being enough for Prue. 

He guessed it was a doubt that lives in every married man, especially the ones married to young and attractive women. It was all pretty banal, wasn't it? He often felt ashamed about it, but the doubt kept penetrating his zone of comfort when he saw Prue flirt or dance or talk intimately with a man. 

Curiously enough he'd always had trouble blaming her for it. He rather blamed his own immature insecurity. But now, seeing the pictures, he knew his deeper, secret feelings had always been right. 

Hadn't they? 

Prue was a cheating slut, and when he challenged her, she divorced him in the blink of an eye. Which was silly, of course, but who understands women? Why did she keep it a secret all this time if she wanted out all along? Why take the action? Shouldn't he have been the one to divorce her? 

After all he hadn't been the cheater. 

The bitterness of his thoughts, his emotions, his fatigue and the ever- present nausea engulfed him like the tide - rolling in and out, in and out. 

Around two in the afternoon he took another shower, shaved the stubble off his face and went out to have a belated breakfast - ah well, just a glass of orange juice and a carefully sipped latte. 

He sat at the street window of a small place, a kind of a tearoom two blocks away. It looked out on a tiny park, frequented by young mothers, their children, and little dogs. He'd bought a paper, but he couldn't read - just skim the pictures and the headlines. 

His cellphone rang. 

It buzzed around like an angry insect on the chipped marble tabletop. Staring at it he remembered hearing about 'guilty landscapes;' paintings or photographs of places where horrible things had happened. It was how he felt about his phone. It made him hesitate to pick it up. 

Finally he did. Julia Connors, he read on the screen. He sighed. 

"Hello?" 

"How are you, Pete?" 

"I feel great." He grimaced. "My loving wife sent me pictures." 

"Pictures? Pictures of what?" 

He snorted. 

"Of her being fucked by three men." 

There was silence. Just when he wanted to go on, she interrupted. 

"She sent those?" 

"Or her lovers," he said, spitting out the word. "What do I know? Why should I care? She fucked them all." 

Another silence. 

"You must feel awful, Pete. The bitch. I'm so sorry." 

"No need for that, Jules. She did it, not you." 

Silence. Then he heard a sigh and a soft "ah, well." Her voice returned. 

"Maybe I'm partly to blame, Pete," she said. "You see, I took her out last night, dancing. At the Zoozoom, you know?" 

He didn't really know the place, but its reputation. Julia went on. 

"I guess she had to get the stress out of her system. She drank a lot and was like a tiger on the dance floor. About midnight I lost her." 

"You lost her." 

"Well, you know how packed the place can be. I just lost her for a few hours, until the crowds thinned out. She was a total mess by then. I took her home with me and tucked her in." 

"Is she with you now?" 

"Not anymore. I took her to your apartment... well, her apartment now, I guess." 

He didn't comment. 

"Still there, Pete? God, you must feel horrible. I didn't know she could be this mean, to send you those pictures." 

"Jules," he finally said. "Do you think she's always done this? I mean, fucking men, cheating on me - all the time we were married?" 

He heard her clear her throat. 

"Well, I haven't seen her that much the last two years. You know that. She was pretty wild at college, before she met you. But after? I don't know..." 

Her voice died away; he said nothing. 

"Really, Pete," she resumed. "Her actions are just as surprising to me as they obviously are to you." 

"I guess so," he said, looking over at the little park with its children and dogs. A squirrel tore at a McDonald's box next to a dustbin. 

"Care to talk?" she asked. "Are you home?" 

Home, silly word. 

"No. I'm having breakfast at that little tearoom thing on Carlton Park. What's it called? Mitzy's." 

"Breakfast?" she said with a touch of humor. "Stay there, I'm on my way." 

Did he want to see her? Did he want to see anyone? 

He finished his latte. 

*** 

Home alone, Prue spent the rest of her Saturday sleeping. The fatigue of her body had finally overruled the adrenaline her mind kept pumping into her system. 

The sleeping pill helped too. 

When she woke again dusk darkened her window. The soreness had been transformed into an almost pleasant tingling of her muscles, a warm, rosy feeling. Like after a nice workout, she thought sarcastically. 

Except for the muted throbbing of her asshole. 

Sipping tea in her kitchen, she tried to analyze what had happened since that damn Friday a week ago. Analyzing wasn't a logical process with Prue, though. Her thoughts jumped around, associating happenings in the most random ways. 

So she'd been drunk and had allowed men to fuck her. 

But Pete could hardly blame her. She'd fucked the men after he cheated on her, and after she had papers served on him. And... and she didn't remember. She could recall nothing at all since dancing in the Zoozoom - ah, well, bits and pieces, but not really. She'd been drunk, maybe even drugged. 

Yes, of course: drugged. 

She didn't remember a thing, and for what you can't remember, you aren't responsible - are you? 

The thought was typical Prue. She didn't realize it, of course, but it was yet another reflex to put the blame outside her. It might take her only two more associative jumps to put it firmly at Peter's doorstep. 

She sipped. 

She'd always been true to Pete, hadn't she? Always. And then he came home acting weird. Everything that happened afterwards had proven why he acted weird, hadn't it? He cheated on her, the messages told her and they had been right. 

So what she did last night would never have happened if he'd not done what he did - the acting weird, the accusing her, the cheating. He was to blame. 

Yes, he was. 

And besides, she didn't remember a thing. 

She emptied her glass and rose. Heat stabbed her asshole. An electric tingling ran through her legs. She sighed. 

*** 

He saw her walk along the tall iron fence of the park. 

She wore her trench coat, but it seemed a lighter and shorter version, showing more leg. Her blond hair danced around her face. Her eyes hid behind big sunglasses. 

Even from a distance he saw the signal red on her lips. 

Why did she want to meet and talk? He'd seen her maybe three, four times in the last year. Of course Prue must have been around her more often, but why would Julia suddenly be interested in him? Their contact had never exceeded the stage of a second hand friendship - the word acquaintance might be too indifferent, but their conversation hardly ever went beyond politeness. 

The glass door opened, triggering an old-fashioned doorbell. 

She saw him, took off her glasses and smiled. He rose and they embraced. Her cheeks had an outdoor freshness; she smelled nice. Helping her out of her coat he saw she wore the same jersey sweater he'd seen before, but in a different color - a pale kind of blue. She also wore a tight, short skirt. 

Waiting for their coffees, Julia leaned forward, her eyes alive as she studied his face. 

"Poor Pete," she said. 

"So you've come to gloat?" he asked, regretting the words as soon as he saw her wince. 

"Of course not," she said. 

"Then why, Jules? Why are you here?" 

Her smile vanished; so did the sparkle in her eyes. 

"I want to come clean with you," she said, leaning back as the waitress put coffees in front of them. He waited until the woman left. 

"Clean," he repeated. She shrugged, making her breasts work. 

"Clean, yes." She touched her coffee cup. "You see: it was me who made and sent those pictures." 

Her fingers kept fondling the cup, but her eyes never left his. He shook his head to clear it. 

"I don't understand," he said. "You were there? But you said..." 

"I know," she interrupted. "I lied about that. Those photo's were taken in my apartment, my bedroom." 

Pete's eyes roamed the room before returning to her. 

"But why?" he asked. 

"To show you," she said. 

His mouth just opened and closed. Her hand found his arm. 

"To show you who she really is, Pete." 

He slowly nodded, taking away his arm. 

"I see," he said. "You set it up. You picked the men. Did you drug her too? Is that what I saw?" 

"No, Pete," she answered, her refused hand still hanging in the air. "No drugs. I would never do that. And she picked the men herself. You see, she's done it before, picking up men and using my apartment. She has a key, you know?" 

He shook his head in denial. 

"It makes no sense, Jules," he said. "She filed for divorce already. And besides, why would I believe you? You lied - your own words." 

She nodded. 

"I did," she admitted. "I was ashamed. But I'm not lying now. And anyway, why would I tell you this if it weren't the truth? Why come here just to give you a bunch of lies?" 

He tried to follow her logic. Then a thought struck him. 

"Were you also the one who sent the messages that started it all?" 

She shook her head. 

"No," she said, softly. "Those messages just forced my hand. I saw the damage they created and just had to show you how things really were." 

Pete pushed away his cup, staring silently at the blonde. 

"And how are they - really?" he finally asked. 

*** 

"Mommy?" 

A simple word can throw us back in time. It can affect our voice and influence our mimic, even change the pronunciation. The word 'mommy' certainly did that to Prue. She said 'mommaay' in a voice higher than normal - and with a whining twang. 

Mrs. Florence Vanderbilt Gascoyne wasn't a 'mommy' at all, let alone a 'mommaay.' She was a massive woman with a square frame and a face that seldom laughed. Her voice contained more steel than an ocean liner - rusty steel, for she was a heavy smoker, which gave her a rasp. Her unladylike preference for Scotch furthermore added a dark, hoarse timbre. 

No, Mrs. Gascoyne wasn't a mommy. 

But anyway, she wasn't the woman Prue was calling. The woman she called was Alice Johnson, who'd been her nanny ever since she'd been born. Alice Johnson also was huge, wiggly soft - and black. 

It had been her task to spoil little Prue rotten. And she'd been very successful. 

"Hi, mumkin," she said, her voice remarkably high and tiny for such a big woman. "How's my sweet lil princess now?" 

Just hearing the familiar voice kiss her ear caused all the stress and fear to leave her body, floating out on a rush of tears. 

"Oooooh, my lil one," Alice cooed, applying the salve she'd been using forever on the easily bruised soul of the child she'd brought up. "Wassup, sweet thing, still sad about the ugly man? Don't cry." 

Prue had been calling Alice the very morning Peter left. She'd hardly been able to push an intelligible word through her choked up throat then. But just listening to the woman's voice brought back the save, velvet cocoon she'd lived in so long, blowing away all the bad, the mean and the ugly. 

Ever since that first tear-soaked call she'd phoned Alice morning, afternoon and night - right through the inhuman ordeal of her divorce. For of course she forgot how she had started the whole thing, throwing herself into the robot-like arms of the lawyers. 

The world was to blame, and that included everyone, except her sweet-voiced mommy. 

"He... he never calls, mommy," she wailed. 

"Mmmmm, that's not nice of him, mumkin." It was the right answer, utterly useless and deliciously beside the point, so it was perfect for her little princess. 

If the world were a nice place, where would that leave Alice Johnson? 

*** 

At Mitzy's tearoom by the park, Julia gathered her thoughts after Peter asked her how things had really been. She frowned, filling her lungs, pushing out her chest. 

"I guess they're as bad as you think," she said, following his eyes on their predictable journey down. "Things, I mean." 

"You know," she went on, "Prue's world is what she decides it is. Engaged or not, married or not, her place at the center never changed. When she made me her, ehm, best friend back in college, I was just an ingredient she needed at the time - a guardian against her solitude. Then you came, the big romance she needed to complete her little girl's fairytale life. Everything fell in place, right where she needed them to fall. Knight in shining armor; love of her life, bla bla... every cliché in the book. So she dumped me." 

Pete watched her frown and saw the irritation tugging at her mouth. It surprised him. 

"You see," Julia went on, leaning closer. "Prue used us, you and me. She didn't intend to, but it's just the way she is - the way she believes the world works. Call it defense. At the heart of things she is a very lonely girl. She learned as a small child how to leave the indifferent world she found and build a brand new one for herself." 




Peter, Prue Ch. 02



"So you're a psychologist now," Peter said, fighting her invading words with sarcasm. No one likes to be told that the past few years of his life have been the life of a puppet. 

He sat up straighter. 

"You're talking about the woman I love," he said. Is it love, he thought. Shouldn't it be loved? 

Julia blinked. A smile curved her lips - an oddly wounded smile. 

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I know. There have been times that I loved her too. But she never cared, you know. She never really cares about love or friendship. We just had our duties. There is no consequence to her relations, no commitment. Whenever she was done playing with us, she put us back into her cupboard - like dolls." 

A cold shiver touched his spine. 

"I don't believe this," he said. But he knew he did. 

A young couple entered the tearoom. Tourists, probably - wearing anoraks and a backpack and all. They had the preoccupied eyes of lovers who knew they were the only persons in the world - their private world. 

Peter felt a pang of sadness. 

"I can't believe you," he said. 

The wounded smile returned to the woman's mouth. 

••• 

Julia watched Peter through lowered eyelashes. 

So he still loved the little bitch. He didn't believe her, he'd said, changing it touchingly into 'I can't believe you.' 

Was he a wimp? 

She studied his face - the strong jaw, the deep eyes. She liked his mouth, and his hair, of course - dark, thick, wavy. He'd always stricken her as energetic and decisive. But she knew that in the end he was helpless. He'd fallen hard for the spoilt brat, and never gotten back to his feet, had he? 

Not even now; not even after all this. 

'You're talking about the woman I love,' he'd said. What else had to happen before he saw the light? She chuckled soundlessly. Then again: was she so much better? Wasn't she as hopelessly hooked by the little monster? 

She reached once again for his hand - now he let her. 

"I couldn't believe it either when she dumped me," she said, allowing sympathy to seep into her words. "Until you picked her up my shoulder was constantly drenched with her tears, you know. I had to change my tops twice a day at times." 

She smiled to lighten the mood. 

"And later too, after she married. Whenever you said a cross word to her or even threw her a wrong glance, she ran back to me to blubber all over me again - even after not seeing or calling me for months." 

Julia didn't want to sound or look bitter - she wanted him to be that. 

She wanted his feet back on earth, just like she'd had to. She wanted desperation - hear the hissing breath that comes with the ice cold shower of disillusion. 

"We were lovers, you know?" she said in a very small voice. 

It wasn't true. She'd ached for Prue to be her lover, back then, and yes, they'd kissed and hugged. They'd been very close, but in the end Julia was the only one to fall in love - the only one to pay with her heart. 

The utter indifference of Prue had crushed her. 

"She's a lesbian?" Peter emphasized the last word with incredulity. 

Ah, Julia sighed inwardly, wrong question, you stupid man. She wasn't and I wasn't. Not until then and never again. It was love, not hormones. It was real - until she proved it never was. 

"Didn't you know?" she asked. 

Pour it on, she thought. Make him doubt and doubt even more. She watched his confusion and his pain. It should have satisfied her, but it didn't. 

"We fucked like rabbits until you came along and spoiled it all." 

Ah, heaping lies on lies - and it didn't work - not for her. 

But he believed it. He believed everything she told him, even if he said he didn't. It had been too easy - just dropping a line; two lines, and sitting back to watch it all go to hell. 

Should she feel bad? 

Maybe, but they did it all to themselves, didn't they? In the end: was it worth anything, all this so-called love? One anonymous message and the whole house of cards tumbled down. 

Two simple little words had smashed right through the pink windows of Prue's tiny, fragile dream world, making her shallow thoughts run around like a nest of panicked mice. Julia knew they would. 

But what about him? 

If he loved her so much, why didn't he trust her enough to talk? Why did he assume she cheated without asking her anything? What love was this? An anonymous bastard dropped a line and he let himself be hooked and dragged up like a stupid fish. 

No, he didn't deserve her. She'd proven it. 

*** 

How stupid he'd been, Peter thought. 

He looked at the woman across the table, seeing her mocking eyes, her insufferable half-smile - he'd been a simpleton, indeed - and a gullible one. 

So he'd married a lesbian. 

She must've been laughing at him behind his back - still must. But if so, why did she marry him in the first place? And why did she then go out and fuck all these men? No logic there at all. 

But when had logic ever found a place in Prue's brain? 

Maybe that was it: she was Prue and Prue just wanted what she wanted. She always had, hadn't she? She wanted a man to marry, because a real woman should have a man. But she also needed to have other men to dance and flirt with (fuck with too, it turned out), she needed clothes and more expensive clothes to buy, far away holidays, a bigger house, a career... and a woman to fuck. 

Everything Prue wanted, Prue needed to have. 

He slumped in his chair, watching his latte turn cold. 

"So did the two of you stop fucking then?" he asked, wondering why he asked. "I mean: after she and I married?" 

Julia smiled. Even without words it told him they hadn't stopped. 

"Would that be worse than what you saw on the pictures?" she asked, picking up her cup and emptying it. "Women, men? What's the difference?" 

He knew she was right, and yet she wasn't. 

Prue going on fucking her girlfriend was worse, in a sense. It meant she never stopped, even right through the first star-struck months of their romance - the months that were the turning point and the cornerstone of his life. It was the time when the whole world shrank to become her. At the same time she grew into becoming his entire world. Finding her had lifted him to a level of existence he'd never dreamed possible. Everything became light and effortless. 

She'd become his anchor and his wings. 

There had been no limit to his trust in her. But all this time she'd gone on fucking Julia - and whomever else. Behind his back she'd mocked what he thought they had, sticking her middle finger into his dreams. 

His eyes burned. He knew tears would soon run down his face. He didn't care. Or maybe he did, but that concern was too far down his list of miseries. 

Her hand was on his again, squeezing. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered. 

The words pulled him out of his trance. 

"I have to go," he said. 

"But you can't leave like this," she protested. "I can't let you go away this upset. I worry, Pete." 

He shrugged, picking his jacket from a chair. 

"Don't," he said. "It isn't your fault, is it?" 

She kept staring at him as he wrestled his body into the jacket. 

"But what if it's all a lie?" she asked. 

He didn't seem to have heard her until he was halfway to the door. He stopped and turned around. 

"A lie?" he asked. "What do you mean?" 

"Well," she said. "All you really had at the beginning of this mess were anonymous messages. They might be lies." 

"But now there is more; there are pictures," he said. "They don't lie, do they?" 

Julia rose and walked up to him. 

"She was drunk, Pete, really drunk. It must have been the stress, the misery. She doesn't remember a thing." 

He hesitated, trying to read her eyes. 

"But there is more," he said. "There are these things you told me... her seeing men in your flat... the two of you fucking after she married me...?" 

The cool blue eyes were steady. 

"Just words again, Pete," she said. "Just words from me, weren't they?" 

The silence stretched on for a while. 

"You mean you still lie to me, Jules?" he finally asked. 

*** 

"Daddy?" 

Prue feared her father, she always had. He wasn't big or strong; he was even shorter than her mother. His head had been balding as long as she recalled. When one day she saw The Soprano's she was amazed how much her father looked like a shrunken James Gandolfini. 

Only his cigar was the same size. 

"Princess," he said. He never called her Prue. Only a few times she remembered him calling her Prudence. When he did that, he usually was upset about something, like the time she told him she wanted to marry Pete. 

He didn't like Pete. 

Then again, he'd never liked whichever boyfriend she brought home (not that there had been many.) 

Endeavor ("for God's sake, call me Andy") Arthur Gascoyne inherited (beside his first name) the company his grandfather started back in the early 1900s. The old man imported machinery for textile mills from Lancaster, Great Britain, the old country from where his family had immigrated. Later on they'd started building machinery themselves, expanding into other industries. 

When Andy Gascoyne took over in the late eighties, there was a huge crisis going on. Watching the panic and cut backs all around him, he shrugged and took the greatest risk of his life: he bought three of his main competitors for a song, cut and slashed the staff back into a lean bunch of eager young wolves, and came out on top. 

It had been a crazy gamble. 

He'd hurt and ruined families and half the time he hadn't known what he did, but success against all odds gave Gascoyne the aura of being invincible - a minor God. 

He brought that divine aura home, where his wife was way too headstrong to fall for it. But his two sons and his little daughter did. In the age-honored way of the true asshole he bullied both boys into becoming arrogant but gutless men, one a coke addict, the other an incurable playboy and womanizer. 

His little girl Prue he turned into a spoilt princess. 

"Daddy, I don't want a divorce anymore." 

There was silence on the other end of the line; then the sound of a throat clearing. 

"He cheated on you, remember?" her father said. 

"I cheated too." 

"No, you didn't." 

"I did, too, daddy. There are pictures, remember?" 

"You were drunk, darling. They set you up. Maybe he did, just to have the pictures. You were raped." 

"But why would he do that? I started the divorce thing, daddy." 

"He tries to get around the nuptial, the bastard. He wants to blackmail you, get at your shares." 

Prue fell silent after that. Was it true? Did Pete set her up for her money? But he never even asked about the trust fund or the share options. 

He never did. 

"Well, it is too late anyway," her father went on, filling the silence. "All the legal work has been done. Can't go back on that." 

Gascoyne's voice was in full bully-mode by then. He knew it prevented most people from thinking on their own when he used it. It certainly did with little Prue. 

"I'm unhappy, daddy," she said, using her own lil-girl weapon against the bullying voice. 

"Come live with us again, honey," he said, melting into his devoted father role. "Leave that murky shed. Take whatever you like to keep and come over. Be my sweet princess again. Just collect your things and I'll send the movers over. No sweat." 

Prue didn't answer for a while. 

To go and live in the huge, palace-like mansion-at-sea again? The thought attracted her, while repulsing her at the same time. She'd been mindlessly happy there, but she was 17 back then. Now she was almost 25, a woman, having lived on her own, fenced for herself... ah, well, mostly. 

She should be proud of her independence, but was she? 

What did it even really mean, independence? She'd lived with Julia before marrying Peter. From daddy's Princess she'd become Roommate and Girlfriend, then Fiancée and Wife. She had her job, the one she got through Daddy. The job she'd called in sick to. 

Had she ever been on her own? Really? 

"Oh, daddy... I don't knooooow." 

"Then let me buy you a nice beach condo. There are pretty ones, brand new and only a block away - swimming pool, Jacuzzi, lots of young people." 

She sighed. 

"You are sweet, daddy." 

Gascoyne cleared his throat again. 

"Anything for my little Princess. Can't see you unhappy and do nothing." 

"I'll think about it." 

"Do that, honey." 

"Bye, daddy." 

*** 

Back at the tearoom Peter stared at Julia. 

They both stood; she was nearly as tall as he. Her red lips didn't quite close. They were moist and seemed to tremble. 

Was she nervous? 

"Maybe I lied," she said. "Maybe not. But that isn't the point, is it? The point is: you believe me. Just like you believed that first message - and the later ones. Why did you believe them, Pete? They were just anonymous words. No proof, nothing." 

Peter felt dizzy. 

"You mean," he said. "You mean: nothing could have happened? We may have fought and divorced over nothing?" 

She shrugged. 

"Hard to be sure. But more important: you don't know either. There is no real proof, is there?" 

The dizziness increased. 

"But the way she acted, the words she used, the divorce she started, the pictures..." 

She took his arm. 

"Please, let's sit down again, Pete," she said, pulling him back to the table. "You look pale. Have some water." 

She signaled the waitress, mouthing the word water. 

He sat down, suddenly very tired. Julia patted his hand. 

"She acted weird, yes," she said. "But what about you? Refusing her hugs, walking away from the table, starting to drink..." 

The water came; he took a gulp. 

"But her night out - the men, the pictures?" 

Julia shrugged again. 

"That was later, wasn't it? You'd already left her, she drank like crazy. What did you expect? And what did it mean, if anything?" 

Peter stared out of the window, seeing nothing. 

He tried to analyze what happened from the moment he received the message about Prue cheating. The things they said and did at home and in bed. The new messages. Him leaving. The phone calls. 

Then he focused on Julia again. 

"Have I been a fool, Jules?" he asked. 

She smiled. 

"Don't ask me," she said. "Maybe. But only because both of you were." 

He finished the water. 

"I have to call her and see her," he said. "We need to talk. I have to be sure." 

Julia smiled again. 

"Amen," she said. 

They both rose. On a sudden impulse he embraced her. 

"Thank you, Jules," he said, kissing her cheek. "God, have we been fools." 

Julia watched him leave, a frown on her face. 

*** 

"Prue?" 

"Oh God, Pete, it's you." 

"We may have made a mistake. We need to talk." 

"Yes... yes. Where? When?" 

"Now, at the house." 

"Yes. Yes." 

"Ten minutes." 

"Yes. Oh God. Pete?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm so glad!" 

*** 

Peter walked down the street. 

He'd sat on a bench in the little park, thinking, before he called Prue. A load had been lifted off his shoulders. He felt relieved, but at the same time insecure, as if an anchor was lost. Sure, all his securities of the last weeks had been ink black, but they'd still been guiding lights into a well-defined future - a dark and dreary future, but a future nevertheless. 

Pain and misery had become well-hated companions. 

All he now had were wishes and hopes - the wish that everything had just been a bunch of misunderstandings; and the hope that in the end it didn't destroy what they had. 

They were sweet sentiments. He distrusted sweet sentiments. 

Walking, he tried to define his feelings for Prue. Thinking of her, he felt an old thrill, a deep longing. It proved he never lost his love for her. But it seemed he'd gained something else, something he never had: distrust, an omnipresent discomfort whenever he thought of her. 

Even if all the messages had been lies, they started something he could not shake. The growing distrust, the suspicion and the fights had tainted his feelings, ruining their innocence forever, it seemed. And of course there had been the pictures.  

He sighed, waiting for a stop sign before crossing. 

His cell phone chimed. 

A damn anonymous message again, he saw. Growling he snuffed it, never reading the text. But before he could put away the phone, it pinged again. He once more clicked it away, only to hear it chime again. 

"Don't hurry," the message said. "Give the guy a chance to pull up his pants and run." 

Peter had a feeling of déja vu as he stood still, studying his phone while the world went on about him. Then he shrugged, plunging the damn phone into his pocket and crossing the road. A car honked, brakes screamed. 

He'd crossed at a red sign. 

On the other side he stopped, feeling his heart race. The text, followed by the traffic mayhem had shaken him. He took a deep breath; then he started running. After three minutes he turned into the street where his house was, one of the nice middle class homes with small lawns and a short driveway. 

Theirs was the third from the corner. 

Someone in a raincoat hurried from their driveway to a gray sedan parked in the street. The door banged shut and the car took off with squeaking tires. 

Peter stood nailed to the concrete of the sidewalk. 

He panted from the running. His phone chimed. He ignored it. Sitting down on a bench he tried to get his thoughts lined up. It felt like fishing in a soup of boiling debris. 

The anonymous texter had warned him. 

He ran to surprise the fucker. The asshole had been there, at his house, with Prue. A wave of fresh tiredness descended on him. The godawful slut. "Oh yes!" she'd said when he called to come by. "Oh yes," while the asshole was no doubt fucking her. 

"Thanks, but no thanks, Jules," he murmured. 

Pete rose from the bench and left the street. 

*** 

Prue waited. 

She wore a nice blue dress, cute, nothing overly sexy. Time had been too short for her to worry about what to wear, which make up to use, how much, or no make up at all, maybe. 

In the end she just brushed her hair and made a pot of coffee. 

Then she sat down to wait. Ten minutes, he'd said. Her heart fluttered. They'd talk. They should have before, of course. God, they'd been silly. She'd forgive him. Of course she would. And he'd forgive her. No divorce, no solitude. Prue and Pete again, Pete and Prue. 

Sorry, daddy. 

Ten minutes. God, they're long when you're waiting. 

She leafed through a Cosmo. She leafed through a Harper's. She squared everything nicely on the coffee table. Flattening a wrinkle in her skirt she watched the clock. Two minutes left. 

She sighed. 

Everything would be well again. Oh God, these weeks had been awful. The fights, the awkwardness, the lonesome nights. She watched the clock. 

One minute, tops. 

Then she heard a car tear off, roaring and screeching. Damn neighborhood teenagers, she thought. 

Time was up. 

Allow him a few minutes more. "Ten," he'd said. Well, 'ten' is a ballpark figure, isn't it? Like 'a dozen' or 'a few?' A 'couple,' she added. Then she rose and walked to the window. The street was empty. There were splashes of sunshine on the asphalt that still shone from recent showers. A few cars were parked in the street and on the driveways. 

A gray cat jumped a fence. 

"Where are you, Pete?" she mumbled. "Coffee's getting cold." 

Peter never came. 

After ten more minutes Prue called his number. It went to voice mail. She didn't leave a message, but five minutes later she did, asking what happened. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 03



To Prue an empty bedroom started feeling almost normal. 

There was the gray silence, the vast ceiling with its reflections of streetlight and leaves. She hadn't closed the curtains, nor had she closed the bedroom door. There was a draft tugging at her exposed chest. She pulled up the blanket, shivering. 

Her phone rang. 

She rolled to the side of the bed, grabbing the little machine. 

"Peter?!" 

Julia's name was on the screen. 

"God, he's an asshole," Julia said, spitting out the word. 

"He promised to come over and talk," Prue said, her voice hoarse from disuse. "He never did." 

"I know," Julia said. "We talked this afternoon and I made him promise to see you and talk the whole damn mess out." 

"I guess he got cold feet," Prue supposed. 

"Hmmm," Julia grumbled. "More of a hot cock, I'm afraid." 

"What do you mean?" 

Prue's voice went up in dismay. 

"He came to my apartment around six, about three, four hours after I left him at the tearoom where we chatted - Mitzy's, you know it." 

Prue didn't answer. She knew by now that things would be bad. 

"Right at the front door he came on to me, grabbing me, pulling at my blouse and trying to kiss me," Julia went on. "I pushed him away, of course. He stank of booze." 

Prue still didn't say a thing. 

"He looked awful," Julia proceeded. "And he wailed that you cheated again and humiliated him. He said 'mummilated,' he was so drunk. And he said he needed someone to hold him. He cried, you know, tears and all." 

Prue bit her lip, holding the phone, but unable to say anything. 

"Are you still there, Pruts, honey?" 

"Yes," she whispered. 

"I made him sit down on the couch and poured hot coffee into him," Julia resumed. "When he seemed to sober up a bit, I told him to take a shower. He stank, you know. But I guess I shouldn't have offered that." 

"Why not?" Prue asked, slowly getting over her shock. 

"Because, when he returned, wearing one of my robes, he started all over again, bawling and grabbing. God, he's a real wuzz. I never knew that." 

"Where is he now?" Prue asked. 

"On my couch," Julia answered. "Totally out." 

"Can I come over?" Prue asked. 

"I... I wouldn't do that if I were you," Julia said with a hesitant voice. 

"Why not? I need to know why he never showed up." 

"That's exactly what I mean, honey," Julia said. "You see, he was at your house and he saw your lover leave. Goddammit girl, you are one stupid bitch." 

A choking panic left Prue speechless. Then she squeaked: 

"What do you mean? There was no one here, nobody! No lover, not anyone! I was alone, waiting for him. I waited for hours!" 

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. 

"He saw him, Pruts. He saw the asshole run from your door to his car and tear off, leaving rubber." 

A new flash of panic hit Prue. Hyperventilation brought her to the brink of fainting. Her voice sounded distant. 

"No, noooo. It isn't true! Nobody was here with me. Nobody! What is happening?" 

"You tell me, girlfriend." 

Julia ended the last word with a sigh. 

"Wake him up!" Prue suddenly cried out. "Get him on the phone. I need to explain. No, not explain. Nothing happened! I need to talk to him. Get him on the phone!" 

After a silence Julia sighed again. 

"Not now, honey. Bad idea. Try to sleep a bit. Call me tomorrow." 

The 'click' cut straight through Prue's desperate 'nooo.' 

*** 

Peter woke up with a hangover. 

Maybe it was the constant buzzing and hammering in his head that made him puzzle at where he was. The white ceiling could be anywhere, but somehow it didn't look like his. Turning left, he got a shock. 

He was in a strange bed and obviously not alone. 

The long blond hair on the pillow looked disheveled. A white, bare shoulder peeped from the blanket. All he saw was the woman's back, but he knew who she was. 

Memories returned and they didn't improve his hangover. 

Curiously enough they seemed to work backwards. He remembered fucking a woman, but all associated feelings were muted. Then he recalled talking to her over a lot of booze. 

The woman was Julia; her face swam in and out of his mind's eye. 

Her big mouth featured prominently, blood red lips moving over white, shining teeth - smiling, laughing, but most of all talking. Then he saw that same mouth sink over his hard penis, the blond hair bobbing. 

What happened; why was he here? 

Worming his brain deeper down into time, he recalled running into a tree-lined street, a well-known street. A wave of anger flooded the memory. He saw a man running from his house, Prue's house. He jumped in a car and raced off. Then the meaning of it all returned, and Peter groaned. 

The blond head on the pillow turned at the sound; blue sleepy eyes opened. 

"What is it, honey?" her mouth said. 

The lipstick was smeared. A long, white arm slid from under the sheet, following a crawling, red-nailed hand. 

Peter moved back, away from the hand. 

"Did we fuck?" he asked, his voice thick. 

The woman chuckled. She rose to her elbows, making the sheet slide off her chest. Two pale breasts tumbled free, nipples bloated and red. 

"Did we ever," she said, grinning. 

"Why?" he asked, not aware of the stupidity of his question. 

Julia pouted, frowning. 

"Oh my," she said. "That is a very rude question to ask a woman, Pete, don't you agree?" 

He didn't apologize. 

"Why am I here?" he asked. 

She winced. 

"Another blow to my ego I'd say," she said. "But okay, I guess your head takes time to function again. Boy, can you drink." 

As she talked, his mind cleared. The pain still throbbed at the back of his skull, but a rudimentary sense of cause and effect started to return. 

He recalled walking away from Prue's house, feeling completely humiliated and seething with rage. He'd started drinking whisky at a dark Irish pub on Main Street - Paddy's he drank, or was it Jameson? 

It had been whisky for sure, and lots of it. 

Before getting totally pissed on an almost empty stomach, he'd dragged himself to his apartment. Entering it, the booze and the musty smell of the miserable little flat, combined with his recent experiences made him race to the toilet, missing it by an arm's length. 

It must have been half an hour later when he came to, his cheek pressed into the soiled tiles. He rose and undressed, groaning at every move. 

Then he cleaned the mess and took a shower. 

Four fried eggs later, flushed down with a quart of milk and two very dark coffees, he sat down on his shabby couch and started staring at nothing in particular. 

Prue sounded glad when he'd called her, he remembered. She'd been glad and eager. He'd gone to see her and talk. But yet again he'd had a text on his phone. 'Don't hurry,' it said. 'Give the bastard a chance to pull up his pants.' 

Lying next to Julia, head buzzing, he tried to recall what the asshole looked like, running from Prue's door to his car. He'd worn a raincoat and dark pants. He had something on the head and was facing away from him. 

Useless. 

So, finally there he'd been in his flat - sitting on his couch, fed and freshly showered. He stared into space for a while, as his phone rang. Damn phone. By then he associated it with everything that went wrong, these last days. They were a curse, these fucking cell phones. But not taking a call was no option; it could be anyone; it could be important. 

It had been Julia. 

"I called you twice," she'd said. "You made me worry." 

"No need," he'd answered. "I was occupied." 

She'd chuckled. 

"I see. Good news by the sound of it?" 

"Hardly." 

"Oh?" 

"She was fucking her damned fucker when I arrived. He came running from her house. I goddamn called her. She must have been fucking him while we talked." 

"Little bitch," Julia'd said. 

They both had kept quiet for a bit. 

"Now what do we do?" she'd finally asked. 

He'd sighed. 

"Move on, I guess." 

Another silence. 

"Pete?" 

"Yes?" 

"I feel a bit guilty about what happened." 

"Why?" 

"Well, I more or less made you go to her to talk it out. Now it seems I just tore up old wounds and added to the mess." 

"That's all right," he'd said. "Not your fault, really." 

"Pete?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'd hate to have you sit at your tiny flat, moping alone. Why don't you come over? Have a bite, maybe? Watch TV together, you know? Just to cheer us up?" 

'Us,' she'd said. Maybe she was right. 

"I already ate," he'd informed her. "But I'd love to come over." 

*** 

Prue hadn't slept a wink after Julia's call, of course. 

The growing exhaustion separated her mind from reality. Her head was like a balloon, hardly attached to her body anymore; her eyes felt like stitched on buttons. 

She'd stopped thinking rationally for a while now. Images and wild associations ran amok in her skull. She saw Pete and Jules together, his face between her big tits. 

Maybe it had always been her? And for how long? 

They said cheaters were often well known by their victims. They were good friends, or family even. She tried to recall their past, Julia's and hers - before Pete and after. She'd been good to Jules, letting her stay in the apartment after she went living with Pete - not asking more rent. She thought of all the clothes and things she'd handed down to her - for free. She'd left furniture behind, a TV set and a refrigerator. 

"The ungrateful bitch," she murmured. 

She knew Julia was better looking than she. Julia always caught the first glances, being tall and blond. And second glances too, with her big tits. 

So now she'd taken Pete away from her. Fuck you, Julia. I hope you choke on his cock. I hope it tears your dry cunt open and makes you bleed to death! I hope... I hope... 

New tears ran down her face. 

*** 

Peter recalled arriving at Julia's apartment. 

He vaguely remembered the place from the time both girls lived there - well, he mostly remembered Prue's bedroom. Julia had usually been away when he visited. And soon enough Prue took up her things and went living with him. All in all he didn't know the place that well, and no doubt Julia had changed a few things after she started living there alone. 

He was amazed how good the apartment looked - tasteful furniture, a newly built kitchen. Julia showed him her new bathroom that was the en suite of the two bedrooms she'd made into one. There even was a built-in terrace. She called it a loggia. 

Julia herself looked amazing too. 

Somehow he'd never really appreciated her when things were still right with Prue - wearing the blinkers of fresh love. Now he saw what Prue had always told him: Julia was by far the more beautiful of the two - and not just her tits. 

From the moment he entered the flat, he felt the sexual tension she exuded. She welcomed him with a rather tight and long embrace, cooing how very sorry she was for his mishaps. He felt every curve and was immersed in her perfume. 

Before long his swelling penis pushed into her stomach. 

He muttered something and tried to free himself from her embrace. She just chuckled and said she was glad he felt a bit better. 

Leading the way, she showed him the flat and its improvements. When he saw the big bed he couldn't help imagining Prue on it with two, three men, like in the pictures. It killed his erection. It also made him want to leave the room as soon as possible. 

"You don't like my bedroom?" Julia asked, looking over her shoulder as she fluffed a pillow. 

He shrugged. 

"It's wonderful," he said. "So here you took the pictures of Prue fucking all these men? Does she still have the key? When did she last use it?" 

Julia looked puzzled and he knew she'd lied to him. About the pictures? About the key? 

"Come on," she said. "Let's have a drink." 

She'd prepared a pitcher of Margarita's. 

Sitting down on her new couch, she poured him one and took one herself. She toasted. 

"To better times," she said, winking. 

They drank. 

"So what happened?" she went on. "At Prue's I mean. She really is a stupid bitch." 

He remembered telling her in more detail what happened at Prue's house, feeling the anger return. After he ended, Julia was pouring his third Margarita. He protested. She stood to get snacks. 

"You're right, Pete," she called from the kitchen. "You really should move on; she isn't worth it." 

When Julia returned with the nuts and nibbles, he saw she'd changed into a kimono-like robe. It seemed to be all she wore. The thin silk allowed her tits to move freely, pushing their nipples into the shining fabric. She smiled and turned left and right. 

"Like?" she said. "Maybe you should get a bit more comfortable too." 

He rose. 

"Ah," he said, feeling awkward. "Julia, I don't think we should be doing this." 

She beamed at him. 

"Doing what?" she asked. "This is just two friends having a nice evening, no? Let's watch a movie." 

She set down the nibbles, allowing the robe to gap. Then she sat down on the couch, patting the cushions beside her. 

"I only bite on demand," she said, chuckling. 

*** 

So in the end they fucked. 

Peter remembered Julia moving closer and closer, the heat of her body radiating into his. He had no memory whatsoever of the movie they saw. He knew they drank a lot; at least he did. 

And then her hands opened his belt and the fly of his pants. 

He remembered the buzzing in his head. It overruled his feeble protests. He'd closed his eyes, maybe to pretend he wasn't there, maybe to feel more intense how her hot mouth took in his raging erection. 

He came almost instantly. 

Did he apologize for coming so soon and flooding her throat without warning? He didn't recall. He just remembered trembling, feeling the orgasm shake his body. When he opened his eyes he saw her face floating before his eyes. 

"Take me to bed," she said. 

He did, and when they were naked, she took him in her mouth again and sucked him hard. The rest was one long rollercoaster. He remembered leaving the bed to empty his sick stomach in her bathroom. 

It didn't stop her. 

And now it was morning and he sat against the headboard of her bed, fighting the aftermath of a night of boozing and fucking the best friend of his wife. She'd left the bed; he heard the shower running. 

Minutes later she came back, wearing a towel as a turban and a short, fluffy bathrobe around her pinkish body. 

"Eggs?" she asked. "Bacon? Coffee?" 

He groaned. She chuckled, and left the room. 

*** 

At last deciding it was morning, Prue rose and took a shower. 

She felt every bone in her exhausted body. The hot water helped; she stayed under it until it turned cold. Shivering, she dried herself. Then she dressed and collected her toiletries, filling a suitcase with clothes. 

Finally she called a cab and drove to the palace by the sea. 

Entering the posh hall felt like walking into an embrace. It also felt like defeat. The first one she saw was Alice. Sinking into her big soft body was like dissolving into oblivion. She felt the resonance of the woman's voice through layers of flesh and fat, smelling the fragrance of her youth - lilacs mixed with spicy sweat. 

"Oooooh, my lil mumkin," she heard. "Welcome home." 

It was a lie, she knew. This wasn't home. Home was where she and Peter were. This was the past, a passed station. But she let go of the thought, taking a free fall into defeat - soft, delicious, lilac-scented defeat. 

"My princess!" 

Of course she'd seen her father often enough after she married - Thanksgivings, birthdays, Christmases, 4th of July's. But this felt different. Her father looked different, too; he sounded different. He was smaller, somehow, and older.  

Did she see a tear in his eye? 

The embrace was... brittle. He'd always been the dominant hugger, but now it was she holding him. She searched for his eyes. 

"Are you all right, daddy?" she asked. 

He pushed her to arm's length, beaming a forced smile. 

"Never better! Never better. Especially with my princess home again." 

He tried to echo his old, self-assured voice. But it was just that: an echo. Daddy growing old - it certainly was a thing to get used to. 

"Alice will take you to your rooms," he went on. "Your old rooms. After that, meet me in the library. We have so much to talk about!" 

Prue followed the wobbling, puffing woman up the sweeping stairs. Every step up seemed one down; it was a confusing sensation. 

*** 

After breakfast Peter left Julia. 

She wanted him to stay, but he faked an appointment. He had to be alone, but mostly he had to be away from her. A sense of betrayal entered his mind as the memories of last night became clearer and more detailed. 

It made him feel dirty and that confused him. 

Why should he feel dirty for fucking a gorgeous woman after finding his wife with a man? His wife who had betrayed him earlier, and, who knows, had cheated on him all their marriage. 

He cursed under his breath. 

He had to move on. She divorced him, goddammit. What more did he need to wake up? He had it in writing, handed to him by a distinguished gentleman in a pinstriped suit. 

The morning was crisp. 

After a week of showers and gushing winds the sky was clear. He loved to call it sapphire, just for the sound of it - sapphire skies and verdant foliage. Maybe using new names for old things might give him a new start? 

Childish, but well, who knows. It might work. 

His apartment was as stifling and musty as ever, no matter what name he gave it. He opened all three windows that could be opened, allowing fresh air in. He really should move on and find something better. 

Starting his laptop he went checking his mail. 

Most of it was work-related. It reminded him that tomorrow was Monday. There was comfort in knowing he could escape into work again. Maybe men shouldn't be bothered with the intricacies of social nitpicking. He shouldn't have to care about who fucked who, who was who's friend, so who had obligations to whom. 

Maybe he should never have married. 

As he mused, he worked his way through the endless row of red dots, deleting most messages, reading some haphazardly and storing others. 

There was one from Prue. 

Moving a finger on his mouse pad to have it deleted, he was caught by the first line. 

"Dearest Pete, I have moved back to my parents'." 

How inconvenient, was his first thought. For her lovers, he meant. But maybe her parents were agreeable; they never cared much about him - too poor, too proud. Maybe they preferred her to have a rich slime ball, like her two brothers. 

The house was big enough for some privacy, that's for sure. 

Although there was more to it, he deleted the message with an angry flick of his fingers. So she moved and he could return to the house. It would be practical, and certainly a lot more comfortable than the dump he lived in now. 

But he doubted he could. 

He'd better look up some real estate offices and have it sold. There was hardly money in the place, as they'd taken their mortgage only two years ago. For a while Prue had insisted to fund a bigger down payment, but he'd proudly refused. 

His father had called him an idiot - not in his face, of course. 

No, the best course was to sell it and share the meager profits. He'd mail her to ask what pieces of furniture and things she wanted; he didn't care. There were cd's to fight over, of course, but thank God no pets. 

Deleting the last few e-mails, he heard a ping announcing a new one. 

It was from Prue again. 

"I understand," it said. "But did it have to be with her?" 

Below the single sentence was a picture of a man and a blond woman, naked on a bed, fucking. The blonde was Julia, he was the man. Julia looked straight into camera while riding Peter's hard cock reversed cowgirl. His face was visible in the darkness behind her. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 03



So Jules had taken pictures. 

Had she done it herself somehow, and sent them to Prue? Why? Out of spite; or just out of plain meanness? Who understands women? 

Or had there been someone else? An intruder; someone she'd invited or paid for. He didn't remember seeing anyone. He hardly recalled the fucking itself. 

It looked quite intense, though. 

Damn. So Prue knew what they did last night. Well, didn't she do exactly the same thing too? Worse - she'd fucked three men. Then again, he'd been fucking her best friend. 

He guessed she'd call it a revenge fuck. 

But not one moment of the night had it felt like that. Mostly, Peter had been confused, overwhelmed, numb. Okay, his cock had been an enthusiastic participant, but any orgiastic sensations he'd felt had been purely located in his groin. 

It had been like masturbating. 

If there were emotions involved, they'd not been at all sexual and rather gloomy. There had been a confusing mixture of sadness, inadequacy, insecurity - and sickness of course. With every bout of fucking Julia initiated, he'd done his utmost to finish fast and return to the misty, roiling landscape of his drunken, frustrated existence. 

The photo must be telling Prue quite a different story, though. 

'Did it have to be with her?' she asked. No, he admitted, it shouldn't. Nothing should have been anything else than the two of them together, Prue and he - cuddling, kissing, making love. 

He sighed and rose, when another ping announced a new message. 

There was no name attached to it. The title just said: Pictures. They were more of the same - ten in all. Jules sucking, Jules riding, Peter eating bare pussy, the two of them in 69, he fucking Jules's ass. The bodies were sweaty, skin gleaming, faces contorted. There was one picture where he held Julia's tits, licking their swollen tips. 

Somehow it seemed the most provocative of the bunch. 

The mail had no comments and an unknown sender. It must be the same Prue had received. Who sent it? Jules? 

His phone rang. 

"It wasn't me," Julia said. 

"You got them too?" 

"Yes. But I didn't send them. And I didn't take them, either. You must believe me." 

She'd lied before, he thought. 

"They were taken in your bedroom, Jules!" he said, speaking louder. "Who could take pictures there without you knowing?" 

"I don't know," she said, stretching the last word in despair. "Prue has a key." 

Prue. Why would Prue want pictures of them fucking - and then act upset because she got sent some? 

"Why would she do that, Jules?" he asked. "She was the one wanting a divorce and serving me. She doesn't need proof; she'll get her divorce anyway. So why take pictures and spread them around?" 

Again Julia said she didn't know, more resigned now. 

"I'm sorry, Pete," she said. "I hate seeing your privacy violated like this, and in my house. I'm sorry. But it wasn't me." 

*** 

Prue stared at the pictures. They were awful, and they hurt. 

So she'd been right: Peter fucked Julia. Maybe he did it as long as they'd been married - or even longer. The ever-present nausea in her stomach reared its head, making her belch. 

He'd been with Jules at the tearoom place before he'd phoned to come over and talk. Maybe the bitch was still there when he called. Perhaps they made fun over her despair - damn Julia. 

What had she ever done to deserve so much meanness from her husband and her best friend? 

Lying on her pink-flowered teenage bed in her pinkish teenage room, looking at the old pop-posters still hanging on the walls, she felt misery taking over, yet again. 

Or had this just been a one-off? Had it just been his way to get even for what he supposed she did that night at the Zoozoom and later? But why with Jules? He should hate Julia for setting Prue up that night. 

It had been Julia who made those pictures, after all. 

Once again Prue tried to reconstruct what exactly happened that night. But everything was as vague as ever. She must have been given something - a drug, maybe, and a lot of booze. A lot. 

It wasn't fair. 

She picked up her cell phone and hesitated before pressing a button. 

"Hello?" she heard. 

"Why do you hate me so much, Jules?" she asked. 

"Hate you?" The voice sounded baffled. "Why would I hate you?" 

Why indeed? 

"You fuck my man and send me the pictures." 

Her man. 

"Sorry," Julia said. "But last I looked you divorced him. And I did not send any pictures. - just as I told Pete." 

"You talked to Pete?" 

"Well, he called me," Julia replied. "He called me about those same damn pictures. I received them myself right before he called and no: like I told him, I didn't make those photo's or send them." 

"They've been taken at your house, Jules, your bedroom." 

There was a sigh. 

"Yes," Julia said, sounding tired. "Did you make them, Prue? You still have a key, you know. Did you hide and spy on us?" 

Prue didn't know what to say. Her thoughts ran in circles, galloping their sickening stampede. 

"Are you trying to make me crazy?" she asked, hearing the forlornness of her voice. "You and Pete?" 

"I don't know," Julia said. "You should know best, don't you think? You started it all with your silly divorce. You never talked, never asked, just: slam bam threw a bunch of lawyers at him. And now you cry crocodile tears when a healthy man decides to take you seriously?" 

Prue heard a moaning sound; it rose from her own throat. 

*** 

Monday came around. 

To Peter Hawkins it felt like relief, like taking deep breaths of fresh air after leaving a closed, airless space. Work had this exhilarating quality of normalness. Everything was clear-cut, with the encouraging perspective of a shared goal. 

There were no unreadable glances, no hints of hidden agenda's. 

Sometimes, as Freud said, a cigar is a cigar. And after a weekend filled with duplicity it was paradise to know, at least for another week, that there would be no false bottoms or secret meanings. The project they worked on was too complex for distractions. 

So his week had already reached Tuesday when disaster struck. 

It was in the mail, the slow, old-fashioned paper kind. It had the posh heading of Prue's lawyers' firm, embossed with fading gold. It said he would be summoned to appear in court - no fast track for him, no short cuts; to hell with the prenup's promise of simplicity. 

The cause for divorce had changed from neutral to horrible formulations like 'mental cruelty' and 'adultery.' Not that they would have any serious bearing on the end result, but they would certainly make the road longer, bumpier, and dirtier. 

So the bitch decided to torture him. 

After fighting his anger, disgust and nausea, Peter knew he needed a real divorce lawyer. 

Three hours later he sat opposite a tall, sharp-faced woman in her fifties. She wore a severe pearl-gray suit and the ageless type of silk blouse that had these flaps at the collar, tied into a bow. She had a voice that never rose; it was emotionless and precise in its formulation. 

A friend had assured him she was good. 

After reading the letter, she asked him to tell the story, and he did. He explained what happened from the first anonymous cell phone message to the fucking pictures and the running asshole. 

She cleared her throat and demanded more detail. So he extended his story, giving background on people and happenings. Hearing himself summing up the ever-escalating incidents, a feeling of alienation crept in. 

"So you had intercourse with another woman too." 

It wasn't a question. Neither were the comments that followed. 

"You both went off the handle after only two anonymous rumors. You ran off to a motel. And you accepted the divorce papers you were serviced with. Could I see those papers?" 

He gave them to her, together with the e-mails and pictures. 

She studied them in silence. Then she looked up. 

"This... Julia," she said, pointing at the smiling face of Jules riding his cock. "She seems to have been at all the right places at all the right times. And she's best friends with your wife?" 

He nodded. 

"And she has this apartment she rents from your wife for, let's say, a song?" 

He nodded again. 

"Is she poor?" 

Peter wondered about the question. He remembered the renovation and the new furniture. 

"I don't know," he said. "I don't think so." 

The woman nodded. 

"Where is your wife now?" 

"At her parents' house, since last week," he said. 

The lawyer went into a barrage of questions about Prue's parents, her youth, Pete's relationship with her parents, and a lot more in the same vein. 

In the end, she nodded again. 

"I see," she said, sitting straight. "I'm afraid you've been had, young man." 

*** 

Prue knew nothing about her lawyers' actions. 

She just tried to cope with the unrelenting chain of happenings that had thrown her from carefree heaven into featureless limbo. She cried with Alice and was dressed-down for her stupidity by her mother. 

Florence Vanderbilt Gascoyne returned the day after Prue came back home to her parents' house. She'd been at a rally in Chicago, attending as a board member of one of the zillion do-good foundations she was linked to. Having her youngest child out of the house when Prue went to college had been a moment she'd been waiting for with impatience. Not that she'd ever spent much time with the girl, but finally she didn't have to feel guilty about that anymore. 

So Florence Gascoyne wasn't too thrilled seeing Prue was back. 

Nor did she relish the reason. She'd liked Peter; he loved her daughter. She had no clue what it was, love, but it gave her the certainty he would always care for the spoilt little brat. He worked hard for her, kept her happy and out of the way. 

And now this. 

"So you cheated on him?" she asked, sipping the neat whisky she'd ached for all day. 

Prue just stared, the old awe for her mother engulfing her again. Then she shook her head no. 

"I was drugged," she insisted. "I was drunk too. They made me drunk and then took advantage of me." 

Florence sighed. 

"Of course," she said. "And Pete was drunk too?" 

"I don't know. He fucked Jules, my best friend." 

Florence pulled up an eyebrow. 

"Ah yes," she said. "That's what best friends do, isn't it?" 

Prue didn't know what to say; sarcasm had never been a thing she understood. 

"And now you want to divorce poor Pete," Florence said, rising to get the bottle for a new drink. 

"No, I don't," Prue said vehemently. 

Her mother turned around with an astonished look on her face. 

"You don't?" she asked. "Wow, honey, you have a very original way of going about that. You had him served, I hear." 

Prue felt lost, yet again. 

"Yes," she said almost in a whisper. "But now I don't want a divorce anymore." 

"Good," said Florence. "So you'll be together again." 

"Ehm...," Prue said. 

Florence raised both eyebrows now. 

"Daddy says I can't," Prue said. "Not anymore." 

"Bullshit!" Florence yelled, almost shaking the precious whisky from her glass. "My God, girl, try at least to pretend you have your own brain." 

Then she plunged into a sermon laced with words like 'independence' and 'goddammit,''be a woman' and 'it fucking is your life!' 

Then, abrupt as ever, Florence Vanderbilt Gascoyne took her glass, her bottle, her reading glasses and her Foundation folders, and left the room. 

Condemning Prue to the lonely sinkhole of her despair. 

*** 

The lawyer woman - her name was Kathryn Forbes - asked Peter what his opinions were on using a private detective. The question surprised him. 

"Why should I want one?" he asked. "They are expensive, and we already have proof of her adultery, don't we?" 

"Well, yes," Kathryn agreed. "And she of yours, but I wasn't thinking of having your wife watched." 

Peter was puzzled. 

"Who then?" he asked. 

"Julia Connors, of course." 

Peter's mouth already opened to ask 'why' when he closed it again at a sudden thought. 

"Jules," he muttered. 

"Yes," she said. "She never had money, you told me, but now she has. She was always around when things happened. And those pictures of you were taken at her place, although she denies having anything to do with it - apart from being in them." 

The lawyer sat straight again; her narrow face showed a blush. 

"I'd say Julia Connors has secrets," she said. "And I wouldn't at all be surprised that they might also concern you." 

Peter and his lawyer separated that afternoon agreeing on the employment of a P.I. she recommended. She also assured him she would stall Prue's gold-embossed lawyer firm until they knew more. 

Nothing was resolved, but he felt better. 

*** 

Prue didn't feel better; she felt worse. 

Was it Thursday? Friday? She had no clue. She felt like standing on a station's platform: trains thundered by from every direction - and they never stopped. She couldn't even read what was on the many signs. 

And the clocks didn't have hands. 

Her father kept her imprisoned with his bullying and his unstoppable lawyers. Her mother ignored her, with the exception of disgusted glances. She felt too confused to go to work. All she had was Alice's shoulder, but there were no tears left. 

Then she got a phone call. It was Julia. 

"Darling, did you join a nunnery?" she asked with an upbeat voice. 

"I'm so alone," Prue whispered. 

"No need!" the loud voice went on. "Lemme get you out, girl!" 

Was she drunk already, Prue wondered. 

"Like last time?" she asked. 

There was a loud laughter. 

"But you did have fun, didn't you?" 

How could it have been fun? She didn't remember a thing. 

"I'll pick you up in an hour," Julia went on. "Get into something nice. Or rather not too nice!" 

The laughter rang until the connection ended. 

Prue stared at the phone. Then she looked around the awful pink room of her youth. The bland smiles of James Blunt, Beyoncé - faces from days forgotten. 

"She's right," she murmured. "She's damn right!" 

*** 

The P.I. didn't need a lot of time. 

On Friday afternoon Pete and his lawyer listened to him at the shining conference table in Kathryn Forbes' office. The man was every inch the cliché of a private eye: bad suit, crumpled shirt and a tired face full of stubbles. 

Peter wondered if he wore a hat outside. 

"Julia Connors has a lover," he opened. "He visited her apartment Wednesday night and left Thursday morning. Yesterday evening they met on his yacht. They had dinner in town, returning to the marina around twelve P.M. She left this morning for work." 

Peter wondered why he should know this. His second thought was to get himself tested against disease. 

"They are quite open about it," the man went on. "No special efforts to hide the affair. I guess his wife knows and doesn't care much. I wonder though if the daughter knows." 

"Who is he?" Peter asked. 

"Well, Andy Gascoyne, of course," the P.I. said. "And the way they behave tells me they've been a couple for quite a while." 

Not knowing what to say Peter looked from the man's doughy face to his lawyer's bird beak. Her eyes sparkled like a bird's too. 

"Did Prue know, Peter?" she asked. 

He shook his head in half denial. 

"I don't know what she knows nowadays, or doesn't know," he said, shrugging. "But I can assure you I had no clue. Old Gascoyne fucking Jules... my God." 

He turned from his lawyer to the P.I. and back. 

"So you have dirt on him," he went on. "But he seems not to give a shit if people know. How does that keep me out of the courtroom?" 

Kathryn Forbes cleared her throat and turned to the detective. 

"Is there more, Alec?" she asked. 

He shrugged. 

"She's pregnant," he said. 

*** 

It took Julia exactly an hour to pick up Prue. 

Both women looked gorgeous, walking into the lounge of the Carlton Hotel, a 19th century cream cake on the seaside boulevard. Julia ordered a Tequila Sunrise for Prue and waved away her objections. 

"After a week of living in a monastery you need it," she said, and ordered an orange juice for herself. 

"You order alcohol for me and not for yourself?" Prue asked. 

Julia shrugged. 

"It's part of what we should talk about, honey," she said, looking serious for the first time. 

The drinks came. Prue took an almost non-existent sip. 

"I'm pregnant, you know?" Julia said. 

The news hit Prue like a ball of wet cotton. Her emotions ping ponged from shock to scare, from joy to dark envy, and from there back to shock and astonishment. 

"But...," she said, groping for words. "But you don't even... I... we never... who?" 

Julia chuckled. She veritably glowed now, turning her smile into a thousand watt lamp. 

"You are getting a little brother or sister, you know?" she said. 

Prue didn't hear it; she was still wrestling with her shock. They'd never talked about children, Jules and she. They'd talked endlessly about boys and men, but even after Prue married the very idea of getting children never came up. 

"When?" she asked. 

"Oh well," Jules said, sipping her juice. "In eight months." 

Prue stared at her, softly shaking her head. 

"No, I mean: when did you meet him? Who is he? Why don't I know him?" 

And then she paled. 

"Is it... is it Peter?" 

Julia laughed, petting Prue's bare knee. 

"No," she said. "Don't worry, no, not Peter. But you know him well. You've known him even longer than I do." 

Then the ignored remark returned to Prue's consciousness. 'A little brother or sister." 

She jumped to her feet and screamed, making all heads in the bar turn her way. 

"No!" she cried. "No, no, nooooo!" 

Julia grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back into the seat. 

"Yes," she said. "And he's going to marry me. I'll be your stepmother soon, honey." 

*** 

"Pregnant? From Gascoyne?" 

When Peter's mind started to work again, he closed his mouth and swallowed hard. The woman he'd fucked only days ago had been pregnant with the child of his father. 

He started to giggle. 

"We don't know if Gascoyne really is the father, of course," the P.I. went on. "But rumor has it that he'll divorce his wife and marry Connors." 

Now Kathryn Forbes chuckled too. 

"Wow," she said, "he'll surely need his precious law firm." 

"Then again," Peter said, regaining his senses, "what does all this have to do with Prue and me?" 

The detective looked at him, saying nothing, so Peter turned to the woman. She shrugged her padded shoulders. 

"Well," she said. "First there is the fact that old Andy G. will be 70 next month. He might live to be a hundred; he may have a stroke tomorrow. You can imagine what happens when he dies after first divorcing his wife of almost forty years, replacing her with a new Mrs., and adding a child to his little family." 

Peter agreed it was a mess. 

"But still," he said. "How does that affect my troubles?" 

"It explains," Forbes said, "who's behind that silly cheating game of you and your wife. The old man hates you, always did. He hates anyone who succeeds in taking away his princess, you know? And you did. Julia, moreover, hates Prue." 

Peter raised a hand in protest, but the lawyer waved him down. 

"Believe me, she does," she said. "So Julia decided to satisfy her own cravings for revenge and oblige the old geezer by getting the two of you separated and your wife back into the folds of the family. I bet a new son is being lined up as we speak." 

"Julia denies all this," Peter said. 

Kathryn Forbes smiled, but there was no humor. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 03



"Yes," she said sarcastically. "And she really is a trustful source. You see, Peter, I can imagine you still love Prue. She's a spoilt, confused child, but she never betrayed you on purpose. Julia, on the other hand, is a monster." 

She paused, for dramatic reasons he supposed. 

"From what you told me about her and what Alec here tells us, she has it all thought out, including the pregnancy. She's a gold digger and has been ever since Prue offered her to share a flat." 

"You see, Peter," she went on, "we dug into her past and we find trailer camps. We also find a mother turning tricks, an endless stream of johns and an absent father. Julia was a clever girl; her teachers did everything to get her into college. There was a small scholarship; too small to make ends meet. So when Prue came into her life, Julia had already picked up her mother's trade to survive. We found out she hardly paid any rent and still doesn't." 

"Of course she doesn't," Peter said. "They are best friends." 

Forbes paused, looking away; then returning her gaze. 

"Julia is a whore, Peter," she said. When he once more protested, she waved it away. "Maybe not on street corners, maybe not on call, but mentally she is and always has been. It is how she thinks the world works. She has no idea about loyalty or friendship. I bet she thinks helping people with no material reward is stupid. I'm sure she ridicules Prue behind her back. She might even hate her for her wealth and privileges - and Prue's silly love for you." 

Peter had no idea what to say. 

The lawyer's words opened a world for him that was utterly cold and indifferent. He recalled the times he'd seen Julia and Prue together, the easy friendship, the fun they seemed to have. 

"I can't believe it," he whispered. 

Forbes had stopped smiling long ago. It almost softened her face. 

"I know you can't," she said. "People like you and Prue have no clue. She walked like a child into a tiger's cage, supposing she'd found a lost kitten." 

She picked up the pot and poured fresh coffee before going on. 

"Julia's affair with Gascoyne must have started almost from the day Prue introduced her to him. At first it was only once a month, maybe, and very secret, but after Prue moved to Peter's apartment, Jules began to work on the old man. I guess she succeeded. And now she wants it all." 

"So we are just lateral damage?" Peter asked. 

Forbes smiled her iron smile. 

"I'd say you are, Peter," she said. "But Prue is a real target. Julia knows your wife doesn't really want the divorce. That's where this little photo gallery of debauchery comes in. Through old Andy and the new 'evidence' she got the lawyers to crank up the show, make it public and stretch it out. I guess her brothers will be targets too, soon. Manipulating a drug addict and a playboy shouldn't be too difficult for her. But I guess Gascoyne's wife will be a harder nut to crack for our little ambitious upstart." 

Peter stared out of the window. They were at the 11th floor; the view was great, but he didn't see it. 

"I get sick of this," he said. "I can't believe Julia is like this; I fucking went to bed with her." 

There was a long and painful silence. Then Forbes cleared her throat, sorting through her papers. 

"Your case," she said, reminding Peter why he was really there. 

Peter dwelt at a distant place. He tried to focus his eyes. 

"Yes, of course," he said. 

Forbes sat straighter. It made her starched blouse rustle. 

"I guess," she began, "we could work on exposing Julia Connors' machinations and blackmail Gascoyne. But I'm afraid that for faster success the key lies with Prue. She has the power to stop it all at once." 

"But will she? Will she even listen?" 

Forbes shrugged. 

"Don't ask me, you never tried, did you? Besides, I'm biased. Prue is the only one standing between a quick solution and a long dragged-out procedure in and out of court that would earn me a lot of money and make you bankrupt. I win either way, so you decide." 

She showed her toothy grin again. It must be the woman's sense of humor. The P.I. seemed to know her well, as he grinned the same wolfish grin - with less attractive teeth, however. 

"I'll call her," Peter said. 

*** 

"You're after his money," Prue said, back at the Carlton lounge. She rose from her chair again. 

Julia looked up at her, slowly shaking her head left and right. 

"What do you know about money," she said. It wasn't a question. "You were born into it; it's all around you. In fact you don't even notice it anymore." 

As she talked, Julia got to her tall heels too, towering over Prue. 

"I had to fight for it, you spoilt bitch," she went on. 

"No," Prue said, finally seeing quite a different Julia. "No, you never fought for it. You grab it and you steal it. You used me, just like you're using daddy now. You are a leech." 

The slap resounded through the lounge. 

A red blotch blossomed on Prue's cheek. For only a second she stood speechless. Then she threw the content of her glass into Julia's face, turned on her heels and walked out. 

Julia watched her leave through blurry, stinging eyes. 

A jumble of thoughts went through her head. She'd shown her hand and even dumb Prue had seen it. She'd gloated just for the thrill of it. Damn, so stupid. Julia dried her face with a napkin. Then she picked up her purse and walked to the restrooms, to check her blouse and make up - and to think. What could the girl do? Make it up with Peter? That would be fine; she'd had her fun with them. 

But what about daddy? 

After cleaning up, Julia returned to the lounge. Her phone rang. She fished it from her purse. 

"Daddy!" she said. 

"Julia," Gascoyne growled. "Where are you?" 

"At the Carlton with Prue," she said. "Getting her out of the house for a girls' night, you know - gossip, dancing, fun." 

There was a short silence. 

"Is she with you now?" 

Julia hesitated. 

"Yes," she lied, not really knowing why. "She's to the toilets. You want to talk to her?" 

"No need," Gascoyne said. "She just phoned me." 

A cold finger touched Julia's spine. 

"Ah, I see." 

"She cried. I could hardly understand her." 

Typical, Julia thought. 

"Oh?" she asked. "Okay, I'll run to the toilets and see." 

"No need, Julia," Gascoyne said again. She didn't like the sound of his voice. "She said she's on her way to Peter." 

"Why would she do that?" 

"You tell me," Gascoyne said. 

"Daddy?" Julia asked, but he'd hung up on her. 

*** 

"Peter?" 

"Prue?" 

"I've been such a fool." 

"That makes two of us." 

Silence. 

"Prue?" 

"Yes?" 

"We should talk." 

"Yes. Oh yes, Peter, we should. I'm so sorry." 

"I should be the one feeling sorry." 

"No, Peter. I've been the fool." 

"Where are you now?" 

"On my way home." 

"Which home?" 

"Ours." 

"I'll be there." 

*** 

Peter walked in. 

Prue was already there, still wearing her sexy club gear. 

"Oh, Pete!" she exclaimed and ran to him. 

They embraced. He felt her familiar sweet body against his through the flimsy fabric of her dress. They kissed; it lasted minutes, only to be repeated after they let go. Then he studied her face. His finger traced the light bruise on her cheek. 

"Jules," she said. "She slapped me." 

"She did?" 

"Yes. I called her a leech." 

He studied her eyes. 

"You know." 

She nodded. 

"She was behind it all. She manipulated us." 

"I feel ashamed," Peter said. "To fall so easily for her game. I should never have accused you." 

She ran a finger over his cheek. 

"We were both so stupid," she said, giggling nervously. 

She felt his warm hand on her exposed back. She moved closer into his embrace. His other hand was on her ass cheek now, moving the slippery fabric over her skin. 

"Oh God, Pete," she whispered. "How I missed this." 

They kissed again, their hands wandering everywhere - their bodies arching into each other. His fingers plucked at her dress, a hand slid into her cleavage. Her hands wriggled between their bodies to find his belt. 

Their kiss never stopped. 

*** 

They lie on the bed, sweat gleaming on their exposed bodies. 

Prue's fingers played with the short curls of his pubes, pulling at them. She sighed. He smiled. His arm was under her neck; he pulled her closer. She shivered against him. 

"Are you cold?" 

"No," she said with another sigh. "Never again." 

"How silly of us to believe her." 

Prue's finger touched his lips to close them. 

"Shhh," she said. 

Silence returned to the bedroom. 

Peter heard her slow breathing. He felt the pulse of her heart in the crook of his arm. Her body warmth radiated into his skin. Was this it? Was it this easy? Shame touched him yet again when he thought how quickly they had separated, believing each and every rumor - ignoring their love. 

It felt good to be in her embrace again. 

It felt natural. How could he have been fooled so thoroughly? There obviously was a crack in their once perfect love. Did that mean it could open again any moment? 

"Are you asleep, Prue?" he asked. 

He heard a little, murmuring 'no.' 

"I don't think I ever really believed the messages," he said. 

She stiffened in his embrace. 

"I did," she answered. 

The silence suddenly felt heavy. 

"I guess I did too," he then admitted. 

Prue crawled tighter against him. 

"I love you," she whispered. 

"I never stopped," he said. 

*** 

Julia called Gascoyne a dozen times that evening. 

She left long and passionate voice mail messages. He never responded. She knew she had to talk to him and repair whatever damage she'd done. She cursed herself for gloating over Prue. She'd let her need to humiliate the girl get in the way. Maybe she should never have meddled with their silly marriage at all. 

Damn. 

She listened to the tiny beeps worming into her ear as she waited for him to pick up - not really expecting he would anymore. 

Then he did. 

"Stop calling me, Julia," he said. But he didn't disconnect. 

"Andy, sweet Andy," she whispered. "I'm so sorry." 

She knew exactly which voice to use, what words to pick. 

"I guess I blew it," she went on when he didn't answer. "But I had no choice. I had to protect you." 

"Protect me?" he said, and she knew she had his attention. 

"Can't do this over the phone, honey," she said, whispering again. "Where can we talk? Please come to my apartment." 

"This better be something," he muttered. 

She knew it would be. 

*** 

Andy Gascoyne didn't scare easily. 

That's why he never believed in bodyguards and other forms of protection that were so popular with the rich and powerful. He'd always believed that personal freedom was the real wealth a person could have. 

What's the use of being rich when all it buys you is a golden cage? 

So it was just Andy Gascoyne who drove up to his mistress's apartment in his vintage Jaguar - another of his quaint tics. No armored limos for him, no chauffeurs, no overprized and overweight Silver Shadows. 

When he rang the bell, Julia was at her Victoria's Secret's best. 

Even the winged angels of their annual show would have a hard time topping her. The room was filled with candlelight, and it made the transparent fabric of her negligée shimmer like golden mist. Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders; her make up was perfect, and her tits larger than ever. 

Julia Connors was ready. 

"Honey!" she breathed as she ran to him on her heeled slippers, chest dancing, arms open for an embrace. He raised a hand, and she knew things would be harder than she thought. 

"I came to hear you talk," he said, using his business voice. It dwelt halfway between unemotional and bullying. 

He looks tired, she thought - brittle. Disappointed? 

"Please sit down, Daddy," she said, leading him to the leather couch. "Let me make you a drink." 

He sat down, but he didn't want a drink. She pouted. Then she cranked up the wattage of her smile and sat down next to him, her legs under her, her hands searching for his. 

"You hit Prue," he said. "Why?" 

The nimble fingers of Julia's mind ran past virtual rows and rows of little levers that indicated just as many dangerous subjects - subjects that would indicate that he knew. It only took her a fraction of a second to decide he didn't know anything disastrous, not really. 

Otherwise he would not have asked her why she slapped the little bitch, would he? 

Giving her best imitation of a guilty little lap dog, she looked at him and murmured an answer she knew he wouldn't hear. 

"Speak up!" he said. It was exactly what Julia wanted - making him use his bully-voice so he would feel at ease, and she could play the scared rabbit. 

"Sorry," she said with a small stutter, using the moment to crawl closer to him. "I said: I couldn't help it. She was so mean to you, Daddy." 

He slid back, raising his eyebrows. 

"Mean? My Prue mean to me? Nonsense!" 

More bullying, more alibi for Julia to play the shrinking, scared little submissive she knew he liked her to be. 

"Sorry," she repeated, shrugging to make her breasts do funny things inside their lace cradle. 

His gaze wandered, if only for a moment, but it was enough to send a thrill up her chest. She lowered her eyes and forced a blush to her cheeks. Her fingers touched his upper leg. 

"She made fun of you because of my p-pregnancy." 

The quiver in her voice made her sound close to crying. Another thrill touched her heart when his big hand covered hers. 

"I'm sure you misunderstood her, baby." 

His voice lost its metal, turning soft. And he used his sweetest endearment. Julia breathed with a shiver, letting her head sink to his shoulder. Counting seconds, she felt his hand starting to caress her shoulder. 

She allowed a sob to break through. 

"I... I can't help it... I am so... so...," she stammered into his shoulder. "I am so damn emotional ever since I know about our little Andy inside me..." 

The hand on her shoulder tightened. She crept deeper into his jacket. 

"I felt insulted... I... I felt she insulted you, us... what we have. I think she's jealous, having lost Peter and all." 

It was a gamble, but then this whole thing was one big gamble, wasn't it? She rose, showing him her blotched, wet face. Her eyes were as big and moist as she could make them. 

"Then she said she would tell Florence about us, and about me being pregnant... and the divorce. Everything." 

He chuckled. 

It made his body and the couch move. Then he lowered his face to kiss the wetness from her cheeks. 

"Why did you have to fuck Peter Hawkins?" he then asked, all the softness gone. 

Damn. 

"Prue showed me the pictures, you know," he went on, pushing her away from him. 

Julia's brain raced. 

She'd always considered herself superior to all these emotional, spoilt creatures surrounding her at college and later on. She was a street-wise alley cat, always keeping her eyes on the prize, never tricked by feelings - fighting for a better life. 

And now look. 

Spite, it had been silly spite and stupid jealousy. The race had been run, goddammit, and she'd already won. And still she had to fuck the stupid man and show it to Prue. For thrills, to gloat, and to make the bitch's life even more miserable. Then, to seal the deal, she had to rub the baby in. 

What did she think? 

"Well?" Gascoyne asked, rising from the couch. 

She looked up to him, and to her surprise hot tears ran down her cheeks. The surprise wasn't the tears, but the fact that they were real. When had she truly cried the last time? An image of her mother slapping her and kicking her out of the trailer came to mind, what, twenty years ago? 

She slid off the couch and on her knees, sobbing. 

"Don't start telling me now that you were drunk. That he raped you or whatever," Gascoyne said, his voice sounding distant. "I saw the pictures." 

When all is lost, all that remains is honesty. 

"I am young," she said, her words punctuated with sobs. "I needed it." 

*** 

It was night and Peter had stayed. So had Prue. 

It was their first night together after, well, weeks. Looking back it seemed even longer. Peter felt Prue's naked skin touch the length of his back and legs. It was how they'd always slept, before... 

He cranked his neck to see the ceiling. 

All the fleeing shadows were there, from the streetlights and the passing traffic, the moonlight maybe, stippled with the dark little ghosts of tree leaves. He remembered how they'd looked like demons during his sleepless nights. All over now, he thought. All gone. 

Prue moaned in her dreams. 

They'd finally talked, telling every detail of the painful farce they'd been part of. Damn scheming Julia. Why couldn't she just have been happy with angling the old fool from the muddy waters? Having his child and getting his fortune... why this attack on Prue and him? How resentful can you get? And why? Prue had given her everything, hadn't she? The apartment almost for free, all the furniture, a chance to finish college. 

He wondered about Julia's background - the trailer home, the absent father, the whoring mother to make ends meet... Maybe she couldn't help it. Maybe she was already lost when she went to high school. 

He tried to imagine growing up like that. 

It was hard to imagine. He hadn't been from rich folks either, but so many things had been normal - like having loving parents, money to play sports, choose a study, have a car, however old, get your ambitions taken seriously, go to festivals and concerts, having fun... 

Another moan from Prue interrupted his line of thought. 

What was he doing? Was he trying to understand Julia, the conniving bitch that spread lies to ruin their lives? Who drugged and boozed up her best friend; then sending pictures of her being helplessly fucked - raped, really? 

He groaned, slipping out of Prue's embrace, and the warmth of the bed. 

The floor was cold to his bare feet. He plodded over to the bathroom. Standing over the porcelain receptacle, he sent a hissing stream down. He wondered why he wasn't a lot madder at Julia. She'd fooled him into betraying his wife, hadn't she? Sending pictures to hurt her. 

The pictures entered his mind - animated by his memory and imagination. 

Pictures of Julia sucking his cock; her fat red lips sliding up and down; her eyes never leaving his; her tongue doing tricks he never knew existed. Pictures of Julia as she was riding him. He watches her big tits swaying from below - the huge swollen nipples standing out. 

Returning from his memories, he looked down on his penis. 

It had stopped passing water. The skin was still red from the two times he'd made love to Prue. The cock looked swollen too, being half-erect. He touched its exposed head with his thumb, watching it jump. Still very sensitive, he thought. 

Julia had praised his girth, he remembered. 

It had fit her mouth better than it did Prue's. Prue didn't like blowing his cock - only when she wanted to please him, really. Julia had swallowed its total length, to his astonishment. She hadn't even gagged. 

His cock rose from his fist. 

Its head shone with an angry purple, pushing out a clear, slimy drop of liquid. His hand started a slow, unconscious pumping. New images entered his mind. Feelings too, of how Julia's tongue played with the head, swirling around its rim. How she had licked his balls, his anus. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 04



When Monday came, Prue went back to work. 

Back when it all started going to pieces, she'd called in sick. First she'd tried to drown herself in work for a few days. Work would distract her, she'd hoped, and she needed distraction. 

But it hadn't. 

That first Monday her boss Victor Kuric, Vic, had indeed talked to her and it had been about her coordinating the next project. 

It was a promotion and a huge compliment. But somehow all the glamour had left the prospect, and he'd noticed. Grinning in his sweet Clooney-type way he'd asked if something was wrong. She'd denied, of course, but after the third day of dragging herself through the motions, they'd talked again, and she'd shared her doubts about their marriage - telling him Peter left her. 

He'd taken her out to lunch - just a sandwich - and advised her to call in sick until she was up to work again. Now, almost two weeks later, she remembered how his warm hand on her shoulder had sent little thrills down her back. 

He'd been so very understanding. 

Now she parked her car and walked to the elevators, heels clicking on the concrete floor. They were simple things she'd done hundreds of times before, but today they felt new and they thrilled her. She met colleagues in the elevator, and they were all very sweet to her, asking her how she was, complimenting her on how she looked, and telling her they were glad she was back on board. 

Walking across the office floor felt like immersing in a warm bath. 

Prue found that people liked her, and had genuinely missed her. Getting a cup of coffee was a quiet act of triumph; sharing gossip a rare bit of common-day bliss. 

Prue was back. 

She greedily drank in every greeting, every compliment. And she needed it. Seeing Peter jerk off hit her hard - hurting her ego and shaking her confidence. His lame excuses never really convinced her. She obviously wasn't enough for him anymore. 

Look what happened: they'd just made love again after weeks - twice even. She was there, naked in bed with him, and he had to sneak away to masturbate in the bathroom? 

Images of Peter and Julia kept popping up as she lie in bed with him later, desperately cuddling into him, holding on to his body; the damn pictures of him and her wouldn't go away - the riot of blond hair, the big tits and the endless legs. And of course the sight of Peter crouching over the toilet, jerking his penis. 

Did he think of her as he came, reliving their fuckfest? Had he seen Julia as they made love? 

The ghostlike images never left her that night. But she decided to swallow her pride. Give him time, she told herself, maybe it is all a matter of healing. 

They'd made love again twice that weekend, sweet and slow. And they'd gone out to eat and dance. She'd only danced with him and turned down advances and drinks. Back home they'd kissed and cuddled, drifting off to sleep. 

Give him time. 

And now she was back at work, putting away her jacket and placing her leather briefcase on her empty, shining desk when Bridget, her shared secretary, told her she was expected to see Kuric. 

A thrill touched her. 

He walked around his desk when she entered - tall, wearing an impeccable suit and his boyish grin. Ignoring her hand, he hugged her, telling her how welcome she was, and how sorely she'd been missed. His aftershave filled her head; her body felt his muscles through the suit. 

She blushed when they parted. 

Sitting in one of his overstuffed chairs she listened to him informing her about the progress of the project that had - 'regrettably' - started without her. He explained how she could still contribute until the next project would present itself. 

Prue just watched his mouth move. 

She should feel regret about missing the promotion, but she didn't. So many other things had happened since the shake up of her life: the betrayal by her best friend, the doubts about her once unconditional love. 

She tried to focus on what Kuric said, but the emotions of the weekend returned - the relief and the disappointment, the hope and the bitter taste of reality. 

If Pete wasn't totally hers, what was the use of being true to him? 

The thought invaded her mind bluntly - it didn't knock or announce itself. It just entered, startling her with its matter-of-factness. Prue knew she'd always liked watching other men, weighing their attractiveness and enjoying their attention - basking in it, even. But it had always been a superficial thing, a massage of her ego and an affirmation of her own attractiveness. 

Funny enough it had been more about ensuring her place amongst women than a sexual thing. She loved to compete by dressing well and looking good - not so much to send sexy signals to men, just to be noticed by women. 

When men really took her up on it, she'd panicked and rushed to get back into the save arms of Peter. To be true, she wasn't a very sexual creature at all, was she? It took a lot of cuddling and attention to arouse her. And the only man she'd wanted to do that with had been Peter Hawkins. 

Maybe having that certainty was the only reason she dared to do it. 

Up until now. 

Watching Victor Kuric talk and smile and grin caused a warmth to spread inside her. Not the cozy, secure feelings she had with Peter, or the exciting superficiality of flirting, not at all. There was a thrill in it she'd never felt with Kuric before - or with any man. It felt as if a door had opened inside her; as if a barrier had been pushed aside, allowing the warm feelings to spread, not as something sweet and sympathetic, but as a real, earthy, physical thing. 

It made her wet. 

It also made her feel embarrassed. 

"Are you all right, Prue?" 

She shook her head to lose the sticky, spidery web her thoughts had woven around her. Smiling wide she said she was fine, thanking him for his kind words and assuring him she was prepared to get back to work full force. 

He grinned his infuriating lopsided grin again and rose. Following his example, she felt moisture stick to her crotch. There was a slightly awkward quality to the next moments. Then he hugged her again, wishing her success. 

Prue rushed down the corridor to find the nearest toilet. 

*** 

For Julia Monday was a blur. 

She stared at the empty bottles. They seemed to be everywhere; crowding the table, lying around her bed, and even scattered throughout the bathroom. Stiff-limbed and groaning she went picking them up and dumping them in the large trash bag she dragged behind her. The clanging of the glass hurt her head and made her wince. 

It was afternoon; she'd lost an entire weekend. 

After working through her impressive wine collection, she'd attacked whatever liquor she had, ending with beer. She'd made sure to not have one clear moment all day or night; it would have too painfully reminded her of how stupid she'd been. 

There were huge gaps in her memory, where she must have blissfully zonked out. 

Collecting the empties, she found half-dried vomit and dark stains that reeked of urine. 

She'd been on drinking binges before, but never like this. Slowly returning to sobriety she thanked God there hadn't been drugs or pills in the house. After cleaning away the bottles and the filth, she responded to the three voice mail messages from work. She apologized, claiming illness, and took a shower. 

The water felt great. 

It cleaned her body and her mind, flushing ghosts and demons down the drain together with the dirt and the embarrassment. My God, she should be ashamed. The proud and independent Julia crawling through the house, boozing and vomiting, and most of all: wallowing in self-pity. And why? 

She'd gambled and lost; she'd been stupidly arrogant, thinking she was invulnerable - what else was new? 

Sitting down in her fluffy bathrobe she meticulously made up her face, covering the rings under her eyes and the paleness of her skin. Then she blow-dried her hair, making it grow into a halo of golden curls. She packed her tits into a push up bra, her freshly shaved pussy in a thong. Then she covered it all with a tight jersey sweater and a black, ass-hugging skirt. Adding dashes of perfume to the fragrances of shampoo and body lotion, she went looking for her tallest heels. 

Nothing like a pampered body to shore up the mind. 

One last check in the mirror, and Julia Connors crossed her front door sill to meet the world. 

A lioness roared in the jungle. 

*** 

For Peter Monday morning was a relief. 

Before going into work, he went by his apartment to get fresh clothes. He supposed Prue expected him to give up the dumpy place and return to their old home. He guessed it was the natural thing to do, but he had to force himself into thinking that. Being around Prue wasn't as easy as it had seemed at first. 

Something changed. 

Was it all the damn things they went through that kept sticking to them? Was it their time apart? Or the cheating they'd both done? You might think making love again would have erased the awkwardness, but it hadn't. At first there'd been the rush of relief that they'd been able to overcome the past and be together again. But Prue had just been... Prue. And the orgasms had been... tame. 

He also knew he'd lied. 

He'd masturbated to his lively memories of fucking Julia - her mouth, her tight cunt, her ass. And his orgasm, although his third in only hours, had been more intense than the ones he had with Prue. 

Maybe they needed time. 

But deep down Peter knew this wasn't true. Something'd changed between them. Maybe the change was only with him? Prue was her sweet cuddly, kissing and spooning self, wasn't she? Like a cute, purring animal in his embrace. Her orgasms had been as always - slow in the coming and discreet, with meowing little moans. No shaking, no screaming, no clawing with her toes. 

Not at all like she had been in the pictures, devouring three men. And not at all like Julia, he thought. 

Why did he think that? He'd felt disgusted after what Julia did to him - boozing him up and using him - raping? But there had been this second time when he'd looked Julia up, gone to her apartment. She'd seduced him then, hadn't she, taking advantage of his depression? Yes, he liked to think that. 

And thinking it, made his penis hard. 

Work was gloriously normal, and thank God totally absorbing. 

No one asked anything, it was all just about the things at hand - and about sports of course. Ever since his active days, Peter had developed a lack of interest in football and baseball. Basketball had never been his thing. He played some tennis, but hardly ever watched it on TV. So the never-ending comments during coffee breaks didn't attract him. 

Today they did, however; he just loved to listen and float on the utter shallowness of it. 

Then five o'clock came and he realized he didn't want to go home. He couldn't stay at the offices, though - they closed for security reasons. So at five fifteen he sat in the Bell and Clapper, drinking ale and shooting the breeze. 

Around six thirty his phone rang. 

"Pete? Where are you?" 

It was Prue. She worried, she said. Why didn't he call? She was making dinner, and she supposed... That was where she fell silent. 

"Ehm...," she then said. "If you don't want to come home yet, that ehm... is all right. I don't want to..." 

And she became silent again. 

Peter felt awful. He knew he was a coward to stay away without calling her. The buzz of the bar closed in on him. One of his colleagues called his name. He waved him away. Then he rose and walked out of the bar, into the street. 

"Prue," he said, not knowing how to go on - just filling the gap. 

"Peter," she said. "If you're not ready, I understand." 

No, dammit, he screamed inside. She shouldn't understand him. She should scream and cry. She should accuse him, make him feel what a bastard he was. 

But she didn't. 

She told him she understood, but if he please would let her in on his plans so she knew what to expect. Please, she said, for God's sake. 

Then she disconnected. 

*** 

Prue hung her jacket in the small closet at her office. 

She straightened a wrinkle, admiring the deep red of her fingernails. She was back on track, wasn't she? Three days since she'd started again, and everything was under control. Yesterday a colleague said he was glad to see she was the old Prue again. 

She took it as a compliment, smiling at the sweet old man. 

Ah, she could use compliments. For a moment she'd thought things were back to being all right with Pete and their marriage - until she saw him masturbating. She'd been sure it had been Julia's name he was muttering while pulling on his hard cock.  

My God, yes, she could use compliments. 

Looking into the body-length mirror she critically checked her outfit. Silk white blouse on a charcoal, knee-length pencil skirt; black sheer stockings, shining patent leather pumps; higher heels than usual. Her dark hair shone, framing a pale face. She blinked her huge, smoky eyes and stretched her signal red lips into a smile. 

Was it too much? 

Prue shook her head, making her hair sway. No. Her modest days were over. Opening another button, she watched her cleavage appear. She noticed what her first time ever Wonderbra did to her chest. It gave her a little thrill. 

She touched an invisible speck at the corner of her mouth, and turned to start her day. 

"Bravo." 

She'd left her door open. In its frame stood Vic Kuric, smiling. A sudden blush washed over her face and throat. Yes, he was tall; he filled the entire opening. 

"I thought I'd pick you up for the meeting," he said. "If you don't mind." 

The shock abated, and she found a trembling smile. 

"Of course not!" she exclaimed louder than she'd wanted to. "Let me get my jacket." 

Walking down the hallway next to him felt giddy but good. 

Her new heels made her ass sway a bit more in the tight skirt. They also gave her a new height and a wonderfully risky wobble to her ankles. Once she slipped and he grabbed her wrist. They had a good laugh, but she felt the warmth of his squeeze for minutes. 

Standing in the elevator, alone with him, seemed to last forever. 

She stole a glance past him into the mirrored wall. God, they made a lovely pair, she thought, feeling another blush come up. He had the perfect body for the light wool suit he wore: straight and slim, muscled, no fat. 

She guessed anything would look good on him. 

The meeting was nothing special, except for Vic's compliment on the work she'd done. It gave her the third blush of the morning. 

On their way down again he asked her if she had plans for lunch. 

It took her by surprise; she stuttered a bit as her brain raced. They'd lunched before and it had always been simple and rather functional - just two colleagues grabbing a bite and a coffee. 

So why did this feel different? 

They were in the elevator again. He grinned at her predicament, his gray eyes twinkling in full George Clooney mode. 

"Just a bite," he said. "Nothing special." 

"Ehm..., well, of course," she muttered. Then she found her smile. 

He nodded. 

"Or should we hit the Carlton?" he asked. "The Orangerie?" 

The Carlton was the posh place Julia had disastrously taken her to. It had a sumptuous dining room, but next to that was a rather cute lunch place, situated in a glass greenhouse-like restaurant called l'Orangerie. There were palms and orange trees, rare birds in cages, and shielded niches with rattan furniture. 

It was a place famous for romance of the naughtier kind. 

Before she could say anything he apologized. 

"Sorry, I guess I was a trifle too enthusiastic," he said, nullifying his apologetic words with a grin. 

"No, no!" Prue said. "Not at all! I was just, ehm... surprised." 

He chuckled. 

"Surprised," he repeated. 

Just then the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the hallway. Prue felt stupid. Why did she have to be so damn uncouth, and blush all the time? 

He stopped in the middle of the corridor, turning towards her. 

"Why would that surprise you, Prue?" he asked. "I've been wanting to ask you that for ages, don't you know? I just never dared." 

It was all Prue needed to feel her old flirting self return. 

Now it was she who chuckled, turning her face down to look from under her eyebrows. She called it her Diana-gaze, from the late British princess. It always worked. 

"Now I'm truly surprised, Vic," she said. "I wonder why you didn't dare. What could be so dangerous about an innocent little lunch?" 

He laughed. It wasn't a chuckle or a grin, but a true belly laugh. 

"Twelve-thirty," he said. "I'll pick you up." 

He turned and walked to his office. 

Prue still stood staring after he'd long gone. 

••• 

Julia Connors sat back in her rattan chair and waited. 

She realized she'd blown it with old Gascoyne, throwing away all she'd worked on so hard. She agreed that she had been monumentally stupid and arrogant not to realize the little bitch would show daddy the pictures, after their clash at the Carlton. 

Still Gascoyne's reaction had surprised her - where would the old geezer ever again get his limp old weenie sucked as patiently as she'd done, over and over? But she knew the answer, of course: by another whore. 

Julia had blown it, and she knew someone would pay for it. 

So the fool thought he had a perfect daughter? He'd pooh-poohed her cheating, calling it drugs-induced rape. He'd even tried to find out who did it. 

Of course he would find nothing. 

He'd also applauded Prue's leaving Peter as it brought her back into the fold. His daughter was his Princess - sweet and flawless, and innocent. 

We'll see to that, Julia thought. 

She picked up her tiny cup of espresso, sipping and leaving a semi-circle of lipstick on the rim. Sitting behind a trellis overgrown with tropical plants, wearing her tightest dress and her most aggressive war paint, she watched the entrance of the Orangerie. 

'Don't let me down, Vic,' she thought, frowning a dark vertical in her immaculate brow. 

She'd met Victor Kuric shortly after she went to college, even before meeting Prue. 

She'd just left her mother's house in the trailer park and a childhood marked by insecurity, abuse and abandon. She'd always been well aware how the woman paid the rent. All through her youth there had been these shady men visiting, giving her coins to stay away and have an ice cream. She remembered the many sleepovers with her aunt or friends, the quarrels at night when she was supposed to sleep. 

It should have made her a very cynical girl. And of course she was. It helped her step out of herself when she sucked dirty cocks in cheap motels to pay her rent and add to her meager allowance. 

It also prepared her for Victor Kuric. 

Maybe it takes one wolf to sniff out another, even when both wear sheep clothes? 

She remembered the first time they met, in the Zoozoom, where she sometimes picked up guys. He was older, already working. He also was very handsome, and aware of that. 

She observed him from behind the invisible battlements of her cynicism - watching his ice cold, deadly charming techniques at seducing girls. He was good, she admitted - an accomplished asshole. 

When he spotted her, she almost melted under the sudden impact of his attention. He smiled, joked cleverly, bought her drinks and exhausted her on the dance floor. She knew he aimed at making her drunk, but she knew how to hold her liquor. There had been too much secretly snatched booze in her past. 

But they had fun, my God, did they have fun. 

She teased him mercilessly and he was a great sport, even satisfied with a simple kiss when they parted. But she was back at the Zoozoom the next night, and so was he. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 04



At times their evenings ended in bed together, and the sex was great. But soon they started playing at different games, seducing innocent girlfriends and awkward boyfriends, loving wives and cheating husbands, leaving a nonchalant wake of broken hearts and disillusion - laughing at the debris and having a great time. 

It contrasted very nicely with the tedious routine of her studies, and the bland turn her life took after meeting Prue. Of course she kept the girl in blissful ignorance about her second life. 

She and Kuric started challenging each other to take ever-bigger risks. They invited danger, putting each other in reckless situations - pushing their game closer and closer to the abyss. 

'Dangerous Liaisons,' Julia thought, chuckling. 

Then she remembered the day she had to bail him out. 

He'd just made head of a new department and was unaware that he'd seduced and fucked the young wife of a colleague. He'd 'helped' her on her way with a tiny pill, and she proved allergic to an ingredient. 

At the hospital they stated she'd been drugged and soon the husband found out she'd been with Kuric, his boss. Being a rather timid man, he didn't resort to violence; he just went to the police and informed HR. 

The legal department started earning their money, finding experts to cast doubt on the hospital's findings. It also had been quite easy to bribe Julia in providing an alibi, although she cruelly kept postponing her disposition. 

She remembered that the money she got for it paid for a new bathroom and redecorating her apartment. 

After all the dust settled, she made him see very clearly how he owed her big time. 

To avoid any more scandal, the company shipped Kuric to a branch in Britain, only to return half a year ago. 

From the moment Prue told her that a Victor Kuric had returned from Europe to become her boss, Julia knew she would collect his debt. She'd seen him in town a couple of times, often too busy seducing young girls and older wives to see her. 

But on the evening of her return to sobriety, Julia'd gone looking for him at a bar she knew he frequented after work. As she'd walked in with all her guns blazing, he recognized her immediately. 

"Oh God!" he'd cried out with pathetic irony, grabbing for his heart. "Juli Cool! The one and only Queen of the fucking Night." 

Julia chuckled as she reminded herself that while being abroad he hadn't even once taken the trouble of dropping her a line or keeping in contact. He hadn't even invited her to his wedding. Too ashamed of confronting his fine news with the tramp in his closet, she thought. 

She'd had to see the pictures in the glossies. 

His milky-skinned wife gave him twin boys before they came back to the States. Seeing him feeding drinks to barely legal girls at the bar convinced her that marriage or even fatherhood hadn't slowed him down one bit. 

"Victor Fucking Kuric," she sang with her sweetest voice. "Interrupted at his favorite game." 

They'd kissed and retired to a distant booth with a bottle of wine, him dumping the girls without an afterthought. They shared memories, falling back into their flirty and strictly superficial tone of voice. 

Victor had no idea Prue knew Julia. She might have told him about her, but Julia doubted if he would have made the connection, being his good old self absorbed, assholed self. 

It took Kuric only minutes to start bragging about a 'new project' as he called it: this 'little chick that worked for him, married of course and daughter of money. "Naïve," he said, "and quite the catch. Pretty little thing." 

Basking in the egotistic certainties of the self-proclaimed alpha man he'd obviously gone to work the moment he sensed the recent changes in Prue's marriage - the widening cracks in her armor. 

Marveling at the man's predictability, Julia started feeding his ego, while refilling his glass without pause. She was stunned how easy it was to usher the man onto a path that already had proven almost fatal for him in the past. 

He really must believe he was invulnerable. 

They ended up in a room at the Carlton, but he was so drunk that fucking was out of the question. She didn't mind. 

Now sitting at the Orangerie, watching the entrance, Julia felt the heat of her anger simmering in the pit of her stomach. She wondered whom she hated more, Gascoyne who dumped her expecting his child or his spoilt, greedy daughter. She also noted that she didn't care what would happen to Victor Fucking Kuric or his sham of a marriage. 

To be very sure, she'd once more met Victor yesterday over drinks at the lounge of the Carlton, subtly milking him for the latest news in his quest of 'his new little housewife,' as he put it. 

So here she was, waiting, sipping coffee. 

*** 

Last night Peter had crashed at his old place, after drinking and eating with a few of his colleagues, one of them female. He'd danced with her and through a haze of alcohol he remembered a long and steaming kiss. 

He hadn't phoned Prue. Prue hadn't phoned him. It caused a sense of guilt lingering at the back of his head, covered by muffling excuses. It was like a dung heap buzzing with flies. Still he fought every weak lurch of it to get front stage and bother him. 

He loved Prue - he kept telling himself he still loved her. 

But why did he have to keep telling himself that? And why did he fight his guilt - why not phone her? And, finally, why did he get up in the middle of the night to masturbate to the images of him and Julia? 

When he went up in the elevator next morning, he met the girl he'd kissed the night before, and he knew work had stopped being the innocent and uncomplicated haven it used to be. He'd messed that up too, he thought as his eyes traveled down her tight body, her firm dancer's legs and up again to her face. She smiled. 

"Hi, Peter," she said. 

He wrecked his mind to find her name. 

"That was fun, last night," she added. 

He mumbled an agreement. 

*** 

Prue's heart raced like a little bird's. 

Damn, she wasn't a teenage girl anymore, was she? Not a wide-eyed innocent. She was a woman, an experienced, adult woman who'd had her choice of men. Who'd proved she could wrap them around her little finger. A married woman, a... 

Her brain came to a halt. 

She shook her head to get rid of that last thought. But then again, why should she? She hadn't seen Pete for two day and a night; no phone calls either, no explanations, no excuses. 

As far as she knew, she was on her own. 

Holding on to Victor Kuric's arm she walked up the steps to the Orangerie in her new heels, savoring the thrill and the glamour of it all. Inside it wasn't busy yet. The high, beautiful room had tall windows and a vaulted glass ceiling. Plants were everywhere and so was the twitter of birds. 

She inhaled an overwhelmingly sweet scent of blooming oranges. 

The maître d' walked up to them, asking for their reservation. The woman smiled at Victor; then she led them to the back where an intimate table waited, shielded by tall plants on three sides. As they sat down Victor ordered a bottle of champagne. Prue objected weakly, but the woman had already left. 

"You look gorgeous," Victor said. 

Sitting down, their eyes were almost level. They were also very close. The impact of his steely gray gaze made her look down and blush. He chuckled. She cursed inwardly. 

Then the woman returned, pouring the bubbly wine. 

"To us," he said. 

Us? 

The champagne was sweet, but strong. Prue knew she shouldn't drink fast, and stop after this one glass. She really should be careful. She really should. 

But then again, why? 

Picking up the menu, if only to get her eyes away from his, she felt his hand on hers. 

"Please allow me to order for us," he said. 

Prue looked up. He smiled. 

"Oh," she said. "But I'll just have a simple salad." 

His smile changed into the comical expression of a begging puppy. It made her giggle. 

"Salad it will be, madame," he said, taking away the menu. "But first let me order us some oysters. I bet you love oysters." 

The word shocked Prue. 

Of course there had been oysters in her life - at the posh Gascoyne dinner tables and when they traveled. But the first time she'd really and consciously tasted one was on her first vacation with Peter; somewhere in Europe, maybe Brussels. 

The place had been gorgeous - art deco, lots of glass and decorated, shining tiles. It was a perfect little lunch place after crossing the old city's length and breadth. She remembered a drizzly rain outside; it hadn't mattered. Nothing had mattered in those days, just she and him and all the things they did together. 

They'd fed each other the raw, salty, slithering creatures at the cute high table, drinking white wine, Loire wine, she remembered. Sancerre. It had just been a standing lunch - nothing much really, but everything. 

Prue pushed back her chair and rose. 

"Sorry, Victor," she said. "This is a mistake. I can't do this. I'm very sorry." 

"Pruts, honey!" 

The voice came from behind her. 

Prue turned her head. Julia stood there, all in tight white. The jersey dress was painted on her tits and thighs. It made her blond hair look even blonder; her red lips were a stoplight. 

"Jules," Prue said. 

"Such a coincidence," Julia exclaimed. "Didn't know you ever visit this place; and with such gorgeous company." 

She smiled, looking pointedly at Victor Kuric, who had risen too. 

Confronted with the overwhelmingly self-assured and beautiful woman who fucked her husband - on a moment of utter confusion concerning her own loyalty, caused her brain to short-circuit. 

All she could do was stare. 

"Care to introduce us, honey?" Julia asked, turning to Prue, smiling and pressing her white Prada purse against her ample chest. 

"Eh, of course," Prue stammered, returning from her black out. "Please, this is Victor Kuric, my boss. And Vic, this is Julia Connors, my ehm... friend." 

Julia chuckled, leaning her head sideways. 

"Boss eh?" she said, smiling. 

She raised her right hand and extended it to Victor, red nails blazing on slender fingers. He hesitated to take it. Then he reached out. 

"Enchanté," he said, taking her fingertips between his. "Prue has a beautiful ehm... friend." 

His eyes sparkled as he repeated the slight pause Prue had used. 

"But I must be disrupting an important, ehm... business meeting," Julia said. 

"Not at all," Vic assured her. "Prue was just leaving, weren't you, Prue?" 

Victor's eyes didn't smile, nor did his face. Prue knew she'd offended him. Of course she had; she'd acted like a silly child. He just wanted to be suave and treat her on oysters, so what? 

She tried to smile, fighting back angry tears. 

"No, I'm not," she said, sitting down again. "I'm so sorry, Vic, I..." 

Victor's face beamed as he looked from Prue to Julia. Then he shrugged. 

"Women," he said. 

Julia chuckled. She bent down, whispering into Prue's ear. 

"You naughty little slut," she said. "Go get him, but don't forget to tell me all about it." 

Prue raised a hand in a weak half-protest. Julia had already disappeared behind a flowering tree. 

*** 

His phone rang. Pete picked it up, noticing the caller. 

"Stop pestering me, Jules." 

"Don't be like this, Pete," Julia said. "You know I'm on your side." 

He guffawed. 

"You on my side?" he asked. "Just give me a second to imagine." 

He paused. 

"Imagine what, honey?" Julia asked. 

"Sssssh," he said. "I'm trying to imagine what would happen to me if you were against me." 

Julia sighed. 

"Don't be sarcastic with me, Pete. It doesn't suit you. And I don't deserve it." 

"You deserve every damn word," Pete said, raising his voice. "You're a conniving bitch." 

"If that's what you think..," Julia answered, leaving the line unfinished. 

Peter wasn't stupid. He knew she was trying to lead him on, playing the offended friend and touching the buttons of his curiosity. What was she up to? She'd been the one behind it all, hadn't she? She'd always been around - all these weeks of his slow decent into misery. Always calling, advising - understanding. 

A friend? A lying, manipulating force at least, probably more. 

"You were always there, Jules," he said. "Always pushing me, massaging me, advising me and making me doubt Prue, feeding me drinks, seducing me to fuck you and betray my wife." 

He thought he heard a muffled snicker. 

"Your truly loyal, loving wife," Julia then said, emphasizing the word. 

"You know what I mean," he muttered. 

"No, Pete," she said, lacing her voice with just a pinch of indignation. "I don't know what you mean at all. I gave you heartfelt advice when you didn't know what to do. I reported what your wife was up to, like a good friend should. And I gave you comfort when the bitch betrayed you." 

Peter shook his head to neutralize the impact of her reasoning. 

"Julia," he said. "I believe you were behind this whole thing, pushing us apart with your deliberately confusing messages and actions." 

He allowed a pause she didn't fill, so he went on: 

"Well, I got news for you, Jules: it didn't work. We are together again, Prue and I." 

"Together? Really?" 

Julia's voice was soft and sympathetic. 

"When were you at home with her lately, Pete? Not to mention: in bed?" 

A hot cloud sank over his head, tainted with anger. 

"That's none of your business!" he yelled into the phone. "Leave us alone!" 

The pause that followed was long and filled with soft breathing. Then Julia's voice re-emerged, even smaller than before. 

"Is this how you repay a friend?" she asked. 

He heard the disappointment. It sounded real and that confused him. Was he selling her short? She was no doubt a gossip and a gold digger, profiting from Prue and seducing her father. She was not a nice person. But could he prove that she really ever hurt him consciously? He couldn't even prove she was behind the messages and what followed. All Kathryn Forbes had was deduction and psychology, wasn't it? He tried to sort out his memories, the things that had happened and the role Julia played. 

"What makes you think we are friends, all of a sudden?" he asked. "When did you start being a friend? We never were friends before, were we?" 

The pause was even longer this time. 

"I'm sorry," Julia then said, sounding lost. "My mistake." 

Goddammit, Pete thought. How did she do this? Just finding these words and this hurt tone to make him feel like a heel? Was she playing him again? Or did she mean it? 

"I," he hastened to say, "I didn't mean it that way. I do appreciate your sympathy. It just..." 

"I know," Julia said, cutting in. "I always liked you, Pete, wanting you for a friend. But you were so... so into this being married to Prue that I thought it wise to keep my distance. Maybe I should have kept it this way, but seeing the bitch treat you like she does..." 

Pete missed the present tense she used. 

"Okay, Jules, sorry for all that," he said. "What was it you phoned me for?" 

*** 

"So she's your best friend, Julia?" Victor Kuric asked when they were alone again. "Beautiful woman." 

Prue shrugged, sighing inwardly. Julia's damn beauty had once more eclipsed hers, like a glittering rain cloud. Why did she have to show up right now? 

"I guess she is," she muttered. 

Then the waitress interrupted them. 

"Did you make your choice?" she asked. 

Victor looked over at Prue. 

"Oysters?" he asked. "Or will you run again?" 

His smile was meant to take the edge off his question. 

Prue closed her eyes. There were flashes of Julia in tight white jersey, and of Julia and Pete naked, kissing, fondling, fucking. They disgusted her and enraged her; they also nudged her on. 

She shrugged and smiled. 

"Oysters it is," she said. "And ehm...," looking into the menu. "A Salade Niçoise." 

Just her way to save face. 

The waitress jotted it down. Then she took the wine bottle from its bucket and refilled their glasses. 

Victor picked up his flute to toast. 

"To a fascinating woman," he said. 

They drank. Prue wondered if he meant her. 

"About the project," she said. 

He put down his glass. She felt his warm hand on her wrist. 

"Today," he said, focusing his eyes on hers. "Today I have only one project - you." 

A hot flash rose from her chest, meeting the ever-increasing buzz in her head. What was wrong with her? This was all so - corny, and yet. She retracted her hand, watching the sparkle of her wedding ring appear from under his fingers. She tried to formulate a protest. But his voice cut into her jumbled thoughts. 

"Prue, sweet Prue," he said, leaning in even closer. "You have no idea of your impact on poor me." 

She shook her head, eyes wide. Did he really say that? 

"You see," he went on, "I recall each and every second of the magical moment we met for the first time, remember? It was in the old paneled conference room." 

Prue drowned helplessly in the shoreless oceans of his eyes. 

She knew they hadn't met in that conference room, the first time, but it seemed not to matter. Why should she use her sober mind? It only hurt her. Why not prefer the sweet romance of a little white lie? So of course they'd met there, and of course all the details his mellow voice recounted were true. Yes, she'd worn the red dress that stopped halfway her thighs. Of course her hair had been up to show her graceful neck and sparkling ear bells - yes, graceful, sparkling. Her lips had been moist back then, her skin immaculate and her eyes the mirrors of a deep, sensitive soul. 

Of course. 

What he told her she would have dismissed as schmaltzy and randy, ridiculous even, coming from about any man she knew. But coming from him right now, his hand on hers, his eyes steady, she drank it up, nodding, and responding to his squeezing. 

Prue needed what she heard; so she heard what she needed. 

She needed attention, any attention. Pete had left her, hadn't he? Jules betrayed her with him, and even her Daddy had traded her in for her best friend - best fucking friend; fucking best friend. 

Why should she hang on to a sober mind if it only tortured her? 

"I fell for you back then, Prue," the voice went on. "Hard. And all it took you was an amazing minute." 

His lips touched her fingertips. 

"Oh, Vic," she said. "I never knew." 

The oysters arrived. 

*** 

When Peter walked in, they were kissing. 

Prue had moved to Vic's side of the table and now his hand was on the hot skin of her inner thigh - his tongue on its way down into her throat. Her blouse hung open, showing the lace of her bra. 

They didn't see him, of course. 

"Kuric," Peter said, pushing the word past his tightening throat. "Victor Kuric - I should have fucking known." 

Victor Kuric looked up from Prue's mouth, leaving a gleaming strand of saliva on her chin. 

Prue swallowed, eyes wide. 

"Pete," she said, blinking. 

Was that it, Peter thought, a stupid exchange of names? How fucking mindless. He looked down on the table, seeing the empty oyster shells. More than the kissing, more even than the grabbing and the open blouse, the sight of the oyster shells pushed him over the edge. 

Reaching forward he clawed at Kuric's shirt, ripping a button off as he pulled him up. Kuric's hand blocked Pete's fist on its way to his face. The table moved on screeching legs; glasses shattered noisily on the floor. The metal bucket fell, spreading ice cubes. 

A chair toppled. 

Then Kuric had Peter against an iron pillar, a hand around his throat, noses almost touching. 




Peter, Prue Ch. 04



"Go home, Pete," he said. "Don't make me do this, and don't make a fool of yourself. Go home." 

Peter gasped for air. 

Through a mist he saw Prue trying to disappear into a green wall of plants. One hand closed her gapping blouse, the other covered her mouth. Her eyes were huge. 

"Let me... let me go!" Peter groaned through his gasps. His hands pushed against the bigger man. It was of no use. 

Then Kuric's hands were gone. Peter sank against the pillar, down to his knees. He retched, touching his mangled throat. 

"Go," Kuric's voice said. 

Peter pushed himself up. His eyes found Prue. She swam in and out of the green wall. She didn't rush to him. She didn't say a word. 

He turned and stumbled out, passing the waitress and the maître d' who came running to see what had happened. 

"Pete," Prue mumbled. 

*** 

"Wow, you hit him?" 

Julia gazed at Peter with wide-open eyes. Peter shrugged. 

"He blocked my punch," he admitted, keeping the humiliating rest of the story to himself. 

They sat at the Bailey's, about two blocks away from the Carlton. Julia wore a wide beige cardigan over her jersey dress. She had an almost full glass of white wine in front of her; Peter's whisky glass was empty but for two melting ice cubes. 

Julia leaned forward, lowering her voice. 

"He didn't hit you, did he?" she asked. 

"No," Pete said, his hand rising automatically to touch his throat. "He choked me." 

Julia covered her mouth in an exaggeration of surprise. 

"Noooo, he didn't!" she whispered. "The asshole. You shouldn't accept that, honey. Go to the police; you have to report it. Whatever does he think?" 

"I attacked him first," Peter said lamely. 

Julia waved it away. 

"He is fucking your wife, Pete. I bet he's been at it for ages. He caused all the misery. Don't you want revenge?" 

Of course he wanted revenge. Somewhere amongst the trillion images that crowded his mind were scenes of murder and mutilation, pictures of smashed-in skulls and erupting arteries, gouged-out eyes and cut-off penises. It was a maddening merry-go-round of violence so distant from his usual peaceful self that it made him chuckle with disbelief. 

"Revenge," he repeated, chuckling some more. 

Julia leaned back, her blue eyes studying him for a while. 

"He's her boss, you know," she then said. 

"Yes," he said. "And?" 

"And?" she repeated. "That's sexual harassment what he's doing - using his position of power to make her do what he wants. That's illegal. You should go to his bosses and report it." 

Peter stared at her, saying nothing. 

"We're divorced," he finally said. "It doesn't matter." 

"But it does!" Julia sounded out of breath. "It always does, Peter. He can't sleep with an employee, married or divorced. They'll fire him." 

Peter slowly moved his head left and right. Julia grabbed his hands, forcing him to focus. 

"It's true, Pete! Ask your lawyer!" 

*** 

Prue sat in her office, alone. 

They'd left the Orangerie at once, after paying for their food and the damage. Victor hadn't even tried to make her stay. She supposed he'd lost the mood, just as she had. 

She shivered. 

My God, what a mess - what had she been thinking? People will know; it might cost her her job. Again she saw the utter fear in Peter's eyes, hearing the steel in Victor's voice. But what disgusted her most was what she'd felt when they fought - the thrill, the awe. 

She'd stood there and done nothing. 

She'd been this primitive stone-age woman gawking at men fighting over her - knowing she rooted for the alpha male. Her mind had shut down, eradicating thousands of years of civilization. All she did was stare and moan - a trickle softly running into her silk thong. 

Victor didn't say a word on their way back. 

When they arrived, he muttered a few things and left her standing by her office door. She knew she'd blown it - her marriage, her job. And it had been for nothing, hadn't it? There hadn't even been the start of an affair. All she got was the fall out of a never-exploded bomb. 

But it had been lethal nevertheless. 

Her phone rang. 

She left it ringing for a bit. Then she picked it up. 

It was Victor Kuric. 

"You better pack and do the clever thing," he said without introduction or emotion. 

Prue gasped. 

"What?" she hissed. 

"Your fucking dipshit of a husband called old man Jones to snitch on us, pulling the harassment card," he said. 

Arthur B. Jones was the CEO of the company; it was amazing that Pete could have reached him this quickly. The news unsettled her enough to extract an inane "I'm sorry" from her before she grasped what was happening. 

What on earth would she feel sorry for? 

"It's all your fault," she said. "It was supposed to be just lunch." 

"Whatever," he said. "I bet it was that bimbo friend of yours who alarmed hubby." 

"She's not a friend," she answered lamely. 

"Whatever," he said again. "Get out before they kick you out." 

This was all too fast, she thought. 

"What about you?" she asked. 

"What about me?" 

"Won't they fire you when I tell them you harassed me, lying about your plans for the lunch?" 

There was a short silence. Then a hard, forced bout of laughing. 

"Don't be silly, slut," he said. "I'm Kuric, director of sales, next in line for the board. I keep this rotten company afloat and they know it. You? A thirteen-a-dozen little upstart they hired to please her rich daddy. Get real." 

Reality was indeed what she felt - cold, heart-chilling reality. 

It flushed the fluff from her mind that seemed to have gathered ever since that damn two-word message had appeared on her cell phone, weeks and weeks ago. She gasped like an exhausted swimmer finally breaking surface. 

"You!" she then cried out. "You sent that fucking message! It was you!" 

There was silence - then his voice returned, sounding puzzled. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"The texts you sent me and Pete about us cheating. The damn texts that destroyed my marriage." 

"You are crazy," Kuric commented in a flat, disinterested voice. "Do as I say and get out." 

He disconnected. 

Prue stared at the dead phone. Her head spun with what she thought she'd found out. It must be true. He sent those messages to fuck up their minds until they broke up. Why? So he could fuck her, of course. 

Prue never was one for flawless logic. 

Given a choice she would always stick to the explanation that put her closest to the center of things. Someone had fucked with them - it must have been to get her. Who profited from their divorce? Victor Kuric. He'd gone after her the moment she broke up with Pete, hadn't he? He wanted her; of course: he said so himself. 

And now she had to take the fall? 

Oh no, she'd see about that. Her finger pushed the speed button of Gerald. J. Dunston ("call me Jerry") at Burton, Barton and Andersen, gold-embossed kingdom of the law. 

*** 

Kathryn Forbes didn't seem half as sharp as Peter remembered. 

To be honest, her bird face looked a bit bored. He'd told her about catching his wife making out at lunch with a colleague. He'd lied a bit by making it seem Kuric had attacked him, trying to strangle him. 

"Well," she said at last. "That is all very painful for you, I guess, but she and you already filed divorce papers. What would be in this for us?" 

Us, she said, not you, he thought. Ah well. 

"He is her boss." 

If a spine would be a metal spring it might explain the sudden snap with which Ms. Forbes sat straight. 

"Her boss?" she asked, and he'd swear he saw a drop of saliva leave her lips. 

The next hour was filled with questions, phone calls, questions, consulting ledgers and more questions. 

"Four million," she finally said. "You'll end up with a million, but we go for four." 

*** 

Arthur B. Jones wasn't a prime example of the male species. 

To begin with he was sixty-seven and showing it, but even in his younger days his pale, freckled skin, carrot hair and weak chin didn't quicken the female heart. He'd been bright, though, finishing university with three masters before he turned twenty. 

He was twelve times a millionaire at twenty-five and had been boss of this company ever since he created it. Not for long anymore, though. You see, Arthur B. Jones had hardly ever been without female companionship since he made his first millions. Agreed, most of them were paid for and the rest were gold diggers, but he dumped them all as soon as they even touched at the matter of commitment. Not that they left empty-handed; Arthur B. wasn't a miser. 

But something had changed lately - something essential. 

Arthur B. Jones yearned to retire, because he had fallen in love. Her name was Maria. She was Hispanic and a rather chubby fifty years old. She did nothing to hide her age and her extra pounds, but her cuisine could shame a star-crusted chef. 

She also never gave up on a blowjob before Arthur came. 

It might explain why Arthur Jones' company had hit a spell of bad weather, business-wise. Arthur didn't care anymore; he wanted out. So his board rebelled. They couldn't kick him out, as that would have been just what he wanted. So they proposed a deal: he could get out if he'd provide a good successor. 

That was when Arthur G. Jones asked Victor Kuric to return from Europe. The deal was for Victor to show his talents for a year and if the board agreed, he would become the next CEO. Jones would then stay on as chairman, a mostly decorative function. 

The board was more than content about Victor Kuric. 

They agreed that he was a pussy hound and an asshole, almost having put their company in danger in the past, but they also agreed that he was their asshole, who turned around their ailing sales department, fired people without blinking an eye, and hired successful clones of himself. 

Jones hated him, but he loved him as his savior. 

And now this woman with her padded suit and her bird beak told him he had to fire the guy because some slut had let him feel her tits. To make it worse: the slut herself sat on the other side of the table with three bloodhounds from Burton, Barton and Andersen, demanding the same. 

Goddammit, how he'd love to fire that stupid bastard Kuric. But he couldn't very well, could he? 

"Okay, Ms. ehm... Forbes," Jones said. "We can look at this from every moral angle the good Lord has given us, but let's save us all some time and be practical: how much?" 

A rush of whispers ran around the table. 

Kathryn Forbes never blinked. 

"Four million," she said. 

Then he turned towards the bloodhounds and Prue. 

"I see you are a way bigger firm," he said. "So I guess you'll ask for more?" 

The gray-templed Hannibal C. Barton cleared his throat. 

"As you know," he started, "Mrs. Hawkins has been gravely traumatized by this horrible..." 

"How much?" Jones interrupted. 

Barton didn't flinch. He snapped his fingers without looking, and his young assistant produced a piece of paper from a briefcase. Barton slid it over the table to Jones, maybe considering the matter too banal to deliver orally. 

Jones took his reading glasses. 

"Ten million," he said. 

*** 

From his place beside Kathryn Forbes Peter watched Prue. 

She looked pale and drawn, and her eyes were down, studying her hands on the table. When Jones read out loud the amount of money, she looked up, startled. Settling for money was obviously new to her. Or was it the amount? 

She pulled the distinguished man next to her at his sleeve and started whispering into his ear. As the whole room had exploded into murmurs and comments when Jones shared the written amount with them, he couldn't make out what she said. But seeing her gestures and watching the pink blush on her cheeks, Pete knew she was very agitated. 

Then Jones banged his flat hand on the table. 

"Enough!" he yelled into the silence he'd created. "Every damn moment we waste on this farce will add thousands to whatever amount we'll agree on. Not to mention that you are already wasting my even more precious retirement time." 

Nobody chuckled at his joke. 

"All right," he went on. "By this I officially declare Kuric an abominable asshole. I presume that admitting this should get me at least two million off your silly claims." 

Another joke fell flat in silence; or was it a joke? 

Peter studied the freckled man with new interest. He never consulted even one of his lawyers and fellow managers. This, he knew, was a man who didn't care what people thought of him. He didn't give a damn; life was a game, and so was money. 

"Next statement," Jones went on. "Ms, ehm, Mrs Whatshername won't be fired. She'll be promoted to a department that's not under the direct supervision of Kuric and her salary will be doubled. Another two million down, I'd say." 

Hannibal Barton raised his hand. 

"What kind of cheap roadshow is this?" he asked, filling his affected voice with as much fake indignation he could muster. "It's a silly carnival to ridicule the legitimate claims of my client. I must..." 

The flat hand thundered right through his objections, making the solid table tremble. 

"Mister Lawyer," Jones said, now lowering his voice to a hiss. "Don't you even try and push that pin striped ass of yours up on a stretch of moral ground that's higher than mine. You might get lost." 

Barton's muttering could be heard in the vast silence, but it died down soon. 

"Mrs. Whatshername's rights," Jones went on, "have never been taken more seriously than by this company. From the very moment she and her husband reported to me what happened, I have personally seen to it that everything would be done to come to a satisfying solution for all parties!" 

Peter saw Jones turn to Prue, his freckled face softening into a smile. 

"I saw you respond furiously to my way of translating your grievances into money, but please forgive us, honey, for that is the only language we have as businessmen to seriously express our feelings. Call it autism or a lack of true feelings, but there it is." 

Peter saw Prue slowly shake her head. 

"You could fire the bastard," she said, her voice thin and dry. "And you should!" 

Her remark threw her lawyers into a fit. 

Jones seemed to really ponder her question. 

"We could," he agreed. "Maybe we even should. But we won't because we can't." 

He placed his fingertips into a steeple and mused some more. 

"You see, Mrs. Ehm..., honey, Victor Kuric might be a despicable person, but we hauled him back from Europe to become my successor and save this company. He has been trained this year and we have put all our business trust in him. So, even if we might agree morally, this whole company would fail, duping thousands of families. Now, how morally defendable is that?" 

Prue had no answer; she just repeated that Kuric should be fired. 

After that she sat staring at the freckled man while suited lawyers whispered in her ears. She once more was the silent eye of a storm, big-eyed and lost. 

Peter felt the urge to rise and take her in his arms. 

He succeeded in rising to his feet, but then he froze as he saw the room for what it really was: a giant refrigerator filled with dead bodies, the living dead. He almost saw the plumes of icy breath leaving their mouths as they talked and talked. He also saw the threads that ran from his wrists and shoulders and hands, his whole puppet body, back to these dead men, who pulled and pushed, making him move. 

At the center of this freak show was the woman he loved, a puppet too, caught up in a jumble of threads. But she didn't move; she just faded. One by one her limbs seemed to melt away, her body, her face, until only her huge eyes floated in the air. 

And he knew what to do. 

"Prue," he said. 

The eyes found his. 

"Prue, look around. It is them who destroy us. It was them all the time. Let me get you and let's run before it is too late." 

And he pushed away his chair, walking around the table where he met Prudence Hawkins, née Gascoyne. They embraced and kissed, letting waves of murmurs and protests pass over their heads. 

Peter Hawkins took his wife and let her out of the boardroom of the Arthur B. Jones Company, leaving the suits to implode on themselves. 

*** 

Julia Connors had shared her bed with many over the years. 

It was a statistic she'd regarded as highly classified ever since she'd set her eyes on old Gascoyne. But that fact hadn't stopped her adding to the numbers even then. 

One of those more recent additions had been Gerald "call me Jerry" Dunston, rising star at Burton, Barton and Andersen, solicitors at law, and owner of a rather gorgeous and well-functioning set of male genitals. 

She called him, asking what had happened at the boardroom of Jones's company. 

"They ran," Jerry said. "The husband and the little office slut, in the middle of the negotiations." 

"They what?" 

"Jones was prepared to give them millions, but they just gave him the finger and left." 

"No firing?" Julia asked. "No claims of harassment?" 

"No. They both left, letting their lawyers fall flat on their faces. Barton is not a happy camper." 

"Fuck me...," Julia said, her voice petering out. 

"Anytime," Jerry answered. "You know that." 

And he laughed. 

"Fuck you too, asshole," Julia said, disconnecting her phone. 

Sagging in front of her laptop, she pressed 'enter.' As far as revenge goes it wasn't much, but more than nothing. The lilywhite Mrs. Elizabeth Lyndon Kuric, her entire British high-class family and the editors of at least three gossip magazines would see Victor Kuric, the newly appointed CEO of the Arthur Jones Company, with his hand and his tongue deep into a woman clearly not his wife. They would also see him with at least four other rather well-known society wives. 

The whole thing would add up to a glorious mess. 

Julia sighed. 

Then she rose, picked up her suitcase, and walked out of her front door to the waiting cab. 

"To the Planned Parenthood Clinic," she said, checking her face in her compact. 

*** 

"They'll fire you," Peter said, lying on his back. 

"I don't care," Prue said, next to him. 

They were in the bedroom of their apartment, on their bed and naked. Prue felt sweat dry on her skin, and the itch of his sperm in her pussy. Her hand was on his shrinking penis. Its head was still wet and slimy from both their juices. She had no conscious memory of ever coming as hard and often as she had in the last half hour. 

"They won," Peter said. "Kuric won." 

"I don't care." 

"Your daddy won't help you." 

She shrugged. 

"The lawyers will be after us," Peter said. "They'll demand their money." 

She sighed. 

"I want a child, Pete," she then said. "Your child." 

He rose to his elbow, studying her sweet, smudged face. 

"We won't have the money to raise it." 

She opened her eyes. The smeared mascara had turned her into a raccoon. Her hand came up in a little fist; it playfully grazed his jaw. 

"I don't care," she said. 

The End.