9 comments/ 20184 views/ 5 favorites Daisy Refined Ch. 01 By: tickledkitty The sound of the explosion ripped through the golden, drowsy peacefulness of the warm fall afternoon, suddenly pitching my heart into my throat. I'd been wiping down a table with a wet rag and gazing out one of the front windows of the Shamrock Grille, admiring the contrast of the flaming reds and oranges and yellows of the foliage burning against the cloudless blue topaz sky. Fall was my favorite time of year, and this day seemed incongruous with any type of disturbance. Though I'd never heard an explosion before, I immediately knew what it was and where it came from. We all did. This was evident as I turned, heart pounding, toward the rest of the room. Everyone froze for a moment, startled and wide eyed, then sprung into action. A moment later, sirens blared from the oil refinery down the road, alerting everyone to the emergency. "Oh, God," I whispered, eyes closed, offering a desperate prayer. Most all of our customers at the Shamrock were employees of the refinery. Folks would often stop on their way home for a bite to eat or just a few beers at the bar with their buddies. I'd been a waitress there for four years and knew most of them by name. Their generous tips reflected the fact that I knew what they wanted almost before they knew it themselves and remembered what they liked. Though I liked them all and enjoyed their company and good-natured joking and flirting, my first thought was for John. My boyfriend. Well, not my boyfriend anymore. Not for a month or so. I didn't know if he was working today—hadn't seen him at all in a few weeks. His visits to the Shamrock always clued me in to the shift he was working. The plant was on a swing shift rotation, so it was always different. However, John had been avoiding the place lately, at least while I'd been there. My heart hammered as I scanned the tables for someone who would know if John was working and lighted on Dave Samuels. He was standing up, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. "Dave?" My look of dread was mirrored in his face, and I touched his arm. "Do you know if John Hollingsworth was working today?" "Aw, shit, Daisy." Dave rubbed his hands over his face in a weary fashion. "I think he's on second shift this week, but I don't remember seeing him today." "So, he'd have started at what, 3:30?" I glanced at my watch. It was 4:50. "Yeah." My eyes filled with tears, and I ducked my head so he wouldn't see. Too late. "Listen, honey." He grabbed my elbow. "It's a big place. If he's there, he coulda been anywhere. I'm going to head back over, and if I see him or hear anything, I'll let you know, okay?" Dave pulled me into a quick embrace as I nodded, too choked with tears to speak. Then he was gone. Looking around the bar, I realized almost everyone had gone outside. Fire trucks and other emergency vehicles roared by the windows, lights flashing, sirens wailing, joining the cacophony of alarms and sirens from the refinery. I had the oddest sensation just then of time standing completely still for me in the quiet vacuum of the bar, while it rushed by at a noisy, frantic pace just outside those walls. What should I do now? I couldn't bear to join the others, see the billowing smoke, the stricken faces, the emergency vehicles and people rushing by. Couldn't think about it. Couldn't let myself see what was really happening. I sat down in the booth Dave had vacated and tried to capture John's face in my mind. Tried to see him as he'd been the first time we'd spoken. The first time he'd said my name. The first time we'd kissed. But his face eluded me. Bits of him surged into my memory, the baseball caps he always wore, his hands—the lovely long fingers and rounded fingertips, the short salt and pepper hair, the way his earlobes weren't attached like mine were, the carpet of coarse hairs on his chest, where I'd so loved to lay my head. His face, though. I couldn't picture his face. My last words to him had been angry ones. Remembering them, replaying them in my mind, my fingers clenched, nails biting into my palms. I hadn't given him a chance to explain, knowing no explanation could ever make things right between us again. He'd lied, and that's all there was to it. Liars were anathema to me. There'd been too many lies and too much deceit in my life already. In the end, John had just sat there on his couch, head bowed, hands dangling between his knees, saying nothing. I'd walked out of his house and out of his life, devastated. He'd written me a letter, which I'd found in my car after work a few nights later. It still lay, unopened in the glove compartment of my car, like a hidden talisman, its magical glow fading and burning out with time. Many times I'd been tempted to open it, but something hard and cruel closed around my heart, and I left it in its secret lair, taunting me with its sweet song and gentle memories. Someday, I thought, the pain would loosen its vice-like grip, and I'd be able to read John's words without cracking and shattering into a million pieces. Some day. "Hey." Another waitress, Sandy, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pushed her body against mine, nudging me over on the banquette. "You okay?" I nodded. "Have you heard from him at all lately?" As I shook my head, my hair swung around, providing a curtain to shield my face. "Daisy," Sandy whispered. "Talk to me. Please." "There's nothing to say." Sandy sighed and tightened her arm around my shoulders. We were friends. She knew most of what had happened between John and me. "You could try calling him." "And say what?" She paused for a moment. I hated the pity in her eyes. "That you wanted to make sure he was safe. That you still love him. That you want to see him." Shaking my head, I pushed her out of the booth so that I could slide out, as well. "No. I just need to keep busy." I began wiping again, all the tables, even the clean ones. Sandy stood there for a moment before shaking her head and walking away. The bar was practically empty and still strangely quiet. Someone switched the TV to a local news station. Other than a brief mention of the explosion and subsequent fire causing a couple streets to be blocked off, there was no other news from the refinery. When I'd finished wiping down tables, I grabbed a tray full of silverware and a stack of white paper napkins. Seating myself at a back table, I bundled a fork, knife, and spoon, wrapped them in a napkin, and bound them together with a self-stick slip of paper emblazoned with the words "Shamrock Grille" in bright green. I did this again and again at a frantic pace, attempting to keep my mind and hands busy. It wasn't working. I could look across the dark paneled room and see John's favorite booth. Could see him sitting there beneath the glow of a neon pint of Guinness, elbows on the table, gazing up at the big screen TV on the wall. He'd been sitting there the first time I'd seen him, the first time we'd spoken. Finally, I let my mind wander freely, back over the months, to those winter evenings when I'd so looked forward to seeing him there, at my table, always disappointed if my tables were all full, forcing him to sit elsewhere. Still, I was lucky most of the time, and John seemed to know which tables were mine. I remembered looking into those deep emerald green eyes, fringed with thick black lashes and feeling something shift inside of me, recognizing him somehow, in some elemental way. He always ordered a burger or some type of sandwich with fries and drank two or three beers—Michelob Light. I'd feel his eyes on me as I moved about the room, but he'd look elsewhere when I glanced his way. He was always cordial and tipped well but never talked much. Sometimes I'd try to draw him out, engage him in conversation. He'd smile and answer whatever questions I asked in a polite but cool manner but would never elaborate. He seemed to want solitude, so I didn't press. My big break came on a night he and a few of his buddies stopped in for some sort of celebration—probably someone's birthday. They sat at a big round table and took turns paying for rounds of beers and shots. This was the first time I'd seen John drink more than his usual two or three beers. When I caught him gazing at me with those incredible eyes, he didn't look away. He grinned. It was charming and sweet and made me feel flushed. "Daisy," he'd say when I stood close, the noise of the crowd keeping others from hearing him. "Daisy." His voice was soft and sexy, his lips closing around the word. My name. Savoring it on his tongue while his eyes watched mine, waiting. I giggled. "What is it? What do you need, John?" His laughter delighted me, as his eyes crinkled almost shut, and he threw back his head. Then, suddenly, he was serious again. "Daisy." His eyes closed, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "I wish you would give me what I need," he murmured and opened his eyes. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right and leaned closer. "What?" "Oh," he chuckled. "Never mind. I just like your name, Daisy. I like saying it." "Well, thanks." I smiled. As I cleared away empty bottles and glasses and carried them away, I turned to see John's gaze following me across the room. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Lost in my memories, I was startled to find Sandy sitting across from me, that same concerned look on her face. "Bob says you should go on home, hon." "I'm fine, Sandy. I just..." "Look, we're not busy right now, and he said if business picks up, he'll call you. Besides, if the wind shifts, we all might have to leave anyway because of the smoke." They didn't need to tell me twice. My boss, Bob, kind of knew the story too. Besides, we were all upset. Our customers were our friends. An hour later, I sat at my kitchen table with John's letter in front of me, still unopened. My name stared back at me, printed in black in John's no-nonsense all capitals, and underlined twice. I picked it up and held it to my nose and lips. No scent or trace of him remained. Still, I wasn't able to conjure up his face. Couldn't see him in my mind's eye. It seemed important to remember, somehow. Important to drag him up and visualize him. Like maybe I'd know he was alright then. My mind circled back to that night in the bar. At around 9:45, I'd returned to John's table and informed the guys that I was leaving soon and asked if they'd need anything else from me. There was a lot of boisterous, good-natured lamentation at my departure and worry that they'd be deserted. John's eyes stayed on me the whole time, hungry, pleading somehow. I assured them that another waitress would be taking over and that she'd do a good job and said good night. I took care of all my last minute duties and clocked out. The cold, damp air felt good on my face as I opened the door and walked outside, and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke tickled my nostrils. John was standing on the sidewalk close to the door smoking, and said my name. "Hey, I didn't know you smoke." "Eh, I quit a long time ago. Only do it now when I drink a lot." He flicked the cigarette butt away and blew a plume of smoke over my head. We both stared down toward the lights from the refinery. It always reminded me of some sort of space-age city, with its towering, flame-topped chimney serving as a beacon, a huge candle in the night. "Uh." John jammed his hands into his coat pockets and leaned against the wood frame side of the building, seeming ill at ease. "I wondered if you'd like to have a drink with me." "Oh. Um, you know, I'd love to, but I've really been here too long. Maybe another..." We stopped talking as a couple approached from the parking lot, the woman giggling and swaying on very high heels, the man guiding her by the arm. I smiled at John as they went inside and the door squeaked and slammed shut behind them. "Well, we could go somewhere else." He seemed hopeful. "You mean another bar?" "Sure. Wherever you want." I thought for a moment. The idea of going to another bar didn't appeal to me at all. I'd had a long day and wanted to relax but realized I didn't want to pass up this opportunity either. "You could come to my place. I have some beer. It's quiet. We can talk without having to shout." "Perfect." John smiled. He followed me home, and we passed the next couple hours sitting on my couch drinking beer and talking. We seemed to have a lot in common, with similar tastes in music and books and movies. John seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to say, and I was impressed by his intelligence and sensitivity. He told me he lived alone, his children raised and on their own, his wife gone. "Gone?" I questioned. "Yeah. We're not together anymore." "Oh. I'm sorry." "Don't be." He chuckled. "I'm not." "I'm in the same boat, I guess. Divorced. Kids grown." "You have grown up kids?" I nodded and grabbed a framed picture of the three of us and handed it to him. He examined it closely. "Wow. How old are they?" he asked. "My daughter is twenty and in college. My son is eighteen and lives with his dad now." John looked at me with raised eyebrows. "They're good looking kids. How old are you?" "Thirty-eight. I started early." "I thought you were younger. Maybe around thirty. You look it." "Thank you. How old are you?" "Forty-five." He'd thought I was younger. I wondered if that explained some of his former standoffishness. My little house was not in the best neighborhood, and my decorating style leaned toward eclectic and vintage—definitely not to everyone's taste. Antiques and old things in general comfort me, and John seemed to pick up on that right away. He strolled around the living room, inspecting the things I'd collected over the years. "This is a very cozy room. I like the colors," he said. "It's comfortable." "Thanks. That's nice of you to say." "Just being honest." He shrugged and sat down next to me again. "Well, it's just that a lot of people think it looks like a bunch of junk." "Naw. It has a lot of personality. It says a lot about who you are, Daisy." He drew my name out and gazed into my eyes as he said it. "You are so pretty," he murmured, drawing the backs of his fingers down my cheek in a gentle caress. Those green eyes melted me. They seemed to contain their own burning embers deep within. I reached up to brush a fingertip over the black lashes and felt my own eyes narrowing, drifting as I lost myself in his verdant depths. "Your lashes are amazing," I said. "It almost looks like you're wearing mascara." John laughed and slipped an arm behind my back, pulling me closer. "Pretty eyes," I whispered, as his lips touched mine for the first time. John's lips were soft and dry and tasted slightly of beer. They parted slightly and sucked my bottom lip between them briefly, then let go. The coarse hairs of his mustache tickled my skin when he pressed his lips to mine again. We kissed for a long time, tasting and learning each other, hands roaming over cloth and hair and skin, memorizing shapes and textures, savoring flavors. He was delicious. I pulled back and looked at his face. His head leaned against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through pursed lips, John opened his eyes. "Wow," he breathed. Cupping John's cheek with my palm, I ran my thumb over his lush, peppery mustache, my eyes on his lips. As my thumb reached the corner of his mouth, John shifted his head, grabbing it between his teeth and laving the pad with his tongue. The heat from his mouth shot directly to my groin, causing me to gasp and pull away. I felt dazed and amazingly aroused. At the same time, I also felt slightly grungy from work. "Would you mind if I took a quick shower?" I asked. "I smell like the Shamrock. I'll be quick." "Sure. Go ahead. I'll wait." He punctuated it with a quick peck on my lips. In the bathroom, I stripped out of my jeans and green Shamrock t-shirt in front of the mirror and eyed myself critically. My hair was good, I thought, shaggy and blonde, the tips curling under my chin and fanning out along my collarbone. I knew my face was pretty, more cute than anything else, with a slightly turned up nose, good teeth, a nice smile. But the rest of me! I sighed. Too short. Too round. Breasts too big and no longer uplifted. I'd always been slightly embarrassed by them. Raising my arms above my head, I scrutinized them. Hard pink nipples stared back. Okay, so they're not horrible, I thought, and lowered my arms. The curve of my waist was okay, but my ass. God. The bane of my existence. My Italian grandmother's ass. Stop it, a voice in my head commanded. I remembered John was waiting and showered quickly, shaved my legs, slathered on moisturizer, and blow dried my hair. I debated putting on more makeup and decided against it, simply applying a light layer of lip gloss. John was asleep on the couch when I finally made it back, hands behind his head, snoring softly. Damn. Maybe I'd taken too long. Crouching beside him, I examined his face. Slack with slumber, he looked young and innocent. The curly black lashes rested on his cheeks. Parted lips revealed his front teeth, and his breathing was slow and even. His lips. The top one curved down in the middle, forming a widow's peak. I wanted to take that little divot of flesh between my own lips, the tenderest of feelings and desire causing a rush of heat to my face and chest. In the end, I couldn't bring myself to wake him. Peaceful slumber eluded me often, and I couldn't steal it from him. Instead, I pulled the quilt that was folded over the back of the sofa over him and turned out the lights, save for a small corner lamp. I didn't want him to awaken in unfamiliar surroundings and stub his toe or smash a shin into a piece of furniture. Suddenly cold and exhausted, I donned a t-shirt and pajama bottoms and snuggled into bed, curling on my side and falling asleep almost instantly. Sometime later, I was awakened by a warm body curving around mine and warm breath on the back of my neck. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, but then I remembered. "John?" "Sshhh." He smelled of soap and toothpaste, and I realized he must've showered before slipping into my bed. His hands caressed my back, down to my outer thigh, then back up, all the time kissing my neck. Parting his lips, he swirled the tip of his tongue in a slow circle on my skin, exhaling over the wetness and sending goose bumps skirling over my flesh. His hand glided down my arm to my hand, fingers spreading and slipping between my own, caressing, clasping, entwining, then releasing and continuing their light journey back up my arm to my shoulder. I tried to turn toward him, but he held me on my side with his body and hands and mouth. His hands skimmed under my t-shirt, pushing it up to my shoulder blades, and he pressed his open mouth against my back, kissing and running his tongue along my spine. Our legs entwined as one of John's slipped between mine. He pulled my t-shirt up and over my head, and I slipped my arms out of the sleeves and let it fall to the floor. As my body lifted, John slipped one arm beneath me so that I was still on my side but with my back cradled against the furry warmth of his chest. His mouth was on my neck again, and I curled one arm back and around his neck, holding him there, and snaked my fingertips into the back of his damp hair. I was breathless and squirming by then and gasped as his hands lit upon my breasts. He squeezed and kneaded them as his mouth continued to ravage my neck. His teeth grazed over my soft flesh, causing me to moan his name and arch back against him, pushing my breasts into his open palms. Daisy Refined Ch. 01 Sliding his hands down my belly, John untied the drawstring of my fleece pajama bottoms and slipped his hands inside. His fingers curled around my mound, their tips grazing along my wet slit, as I bent my knee and leaned my leg back, opening myself to him fully. He dipped his fingers inside, stroking the slick folds, coating his fingers with my essence. With his hands still inside my pants, he skimmed them down my legs and pulled them out from under me. I wriggled out of them and nestled my bare ass against him, feeling the length of his hard cock along the cleft of my buttocks. He moaned in my ear as I undulated my hips, sliding my ass cheeks along his shaft. John's hands found my pussy again, and he slid his fingers up and down a few times, teasing my swollen clit and stroking downward to the perineum. Up and down, up and down he stroked, with his mouth still working my neck. Slipping two fingers deep inside me, he pressed upward, while stroking his thumb against my clit. My pussy was sodden, lubricating the outer lips and my thighs and John's hand, and my hips thrust of their own accord. I began to quiver, my orgasm imminent, and he picked up the pace, fucking me with his fingers and frigging my clit with his thumb. I let out a low, keening moan as I came, quaking as John held me, my internal muscles rhythmically grasping and squeezing his fingers. Before I could recover, I felt his body pull away from me, allowing me to drop onto my back. His palms slid down the insides of my thighs, pushing them far apart. Suddenly, his mouth engulfed my cunt, sucking the velvet lips open, his tongue lapping my juices. The warm pressure began to build in me again, and I grabbed his head with both hands and grinded myself against his greedy mouth. His lips closed around my clit, sucking it inside his mouth, his tongue circling it. Another orgasm blasted through me, stronger this time, pulsating against his open mouth, which he held there, tongue still stroking my clit, until my bucking ceased. John's breathing was fast and heavy as he rose above me, holding his stiff member in his hand and guiding it to my opening. With a rapid thrust he filled me, sliding in, in, in, until he was buried to the hilt, and a long, moaning sigh escaped his lips. He braced himself with his hands and began to thrust into me with a fierceness that stole my breath. Wrapping my arms and legs around him, I met his thrusts, my hands clasping his ass, pushing hard against him, lost in my pleasure. He fastened his mouth to one of my nipples, sucking hard and biting it, while he slammed into me again and again. The walls of my pussy squeezed his cock on each thrust, both of us moaning and gasping. His body trembled, as his thrusts quickened, and I felt him tighten, pulling in, his body coiling. Knowing he was about to come pushed me over the edge, sending my pussy into spasms, yet again. John stiffened and cried out as I felt him erupt inside of me, filling me, his strength seeming to wane with each orgasmic surge. His arms gave way, and he collapsed against me, resting his body against mine, his head at my shoulder. I loved the pressure of his weight on me, his cock still inside me. His breathing slowed as I caressed his back and neck with my fingertips, tracing meaningless patterns in the thin sheen of sweat that covered him. I felt him soften and shrink out of me and wished I could keep him there. We lay like that for a while longer, as the first milky gray light of dawn filled the room. John pulled himself up and framed my face with his hands. "Good morning, babe," he whispered and dipped his head to kiss me. I'd been eagerly waiting to taste his lips and lifted my chin to receive him. It was so gentle and sweet, that kiss, especially after the frenzied heat of our lovemaking. John rolled off of me and pulled me into his arms, and we fell asleep. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The phone ringing snapped me back in time. I was still sitting at my kitchen table with the unopened letter in front of me. Thinking it might be John calling to say he was alright, I jumped up to grab it. It was only Sandy calling to tell me Dave Samuels had been in looking for me and had given her an update from the refinery. "Two people were injured, and they think one person may be dead, but nobody will say for sure." "Okay," I whispered. I began to tremble and sat back down in my chair. "Are you okay?" Sandy asked. "Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks for letting me know." "Sure. I'm worried about you though. Do you want me to come and keep you company when I get off?" "Oh, you don't have to do that, Sandy." "I don't mind." "No. Go home to your family." "Daisy, you know they'll all be in bed by the time I get there." "Ray might be waiting for you." She snorted. "Sure. Listen, have you tried calling John?" "No." "Why don't you try?" "I don't know if I should." "Daisy. Why shouldn't you? You still love him. You're worried. Just call him." "He might be getting a lot of calls. I don't want to..." "Just call and ask if he's alright." I sighed. "Okay." "I gotta run. Let me know if you get ahold of him, and call me if you need anything, okay?" "Okay. Thanks for calling." Someone was dead. I sat staring at the letter and rocking back and forth in my chair. What if he was dead? Closing my eyes, I concentrated very hard on his face. It was no use. I still couldn't picture him. It was almost as if his face had been wiped from my mind. Why couldn't I remember? The few pictures I had of him, I'd torn up and thrown away. Damn my insufferable, blind range. I picked up the phone and with shaking fingers dialed John's number. It went directly to voicemail. I listened to his greeting and hung up without leaving a message. Hearing his voice left me even more shaken. He'd know I called, yet I still felt silly for not leaving a message, so I dialed the number again. This time, I left a message. "Hi. I just wanted to know if you're okay." I paused, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "If you could call me back, it doesn't matter how late, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks." I hung up and blew out a long, shaky breath. The letter called to me with its siren song, and my fingers reached for it, itching to open it. My heart, however, hesitated, not sure it could handle any more pain. I slit the envelope open with my finger, pulled out the lined sheets of paper, and began to read. To be continued... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I'd like to thank my BFF for her endless patience, support, encouragement, and her fantastical editing skills. I'd also like to thank my friend, Jeff, for the inspiration and information. Daisy Refined Ch. 02 Waking up with John late that first morning had seemed good and natural with none of that "morning after" awkwardness. We spent most of the day in my bed, making love. John was a sweet and considerate lover. We just seemed to fit. The days and nights rolled by, and we spent most of our free time together, usually at my house. John always said my house was more cozy and seemed more like a home than his. I supposed that was because there was no woman taking care of his house, making it a home. On the nights I worked late, he'd come to the bar and wait so that he could drive me home. I loved having him there and never felt smothered by the attention, as I might have with someone else. It felt good belonging to someone that way. Nobody had worried about my safety or wanted to take care of me in years. In May, my daughter called to tell me she wouldn't be coming home for the summer. She was staying on campus with her boyfriend, ostensibly to work and save money for the coming school year. I'd always tried not to hold my kids too tightly and encouraged their independence, but I hadn't seen her since Christmas and missed her terribly. John held me that night as I cried. He didn't try to give advice or cheer me up. He just held me and let me cry and listened when I needed to talk. We went to movies, out to dinner, and on numerous long, afternoon motorcycle rides on John's Harley. I loved snuggling up to his back, his butt between my thighs, my arms wrapped around his waist. At first, I wore an old ill-fitting helmet of John's, but in June, he surprised me. We roared up to the front of a bike shop on the Harley and stopped. John smiled as he led me inside. "What are we doing?" "You'll see. C'mon." He led me inside by the hand, still grinning. Inside, a large, muscular guy by the name of Ralph measured my head and proceeded to try several motorcycle helmets on me. Each time, he'd push the helmet down on my head, grab it with both hands and try to move it around. "How does this feel?" he'd ask. "Tight." "It should feel snug and secure but not uncomfortable." John simply stood leaning against the counter, watching, smug grin still in place. We finally settled on a shiny black three-quarter helmet with the Harley-Davidson logo emblazoned on the front. Further surprising me, John bought himself a matching men's helmet. When I looked at him questioningly, he shrugged. "Time for a new one, babe." I loved the helmet. Having my own was so empowering, so sexy. At least, it felt that way to me. Later that night, I kept trying it on and admiring myself in front of the mirror. I never knew I had a secret longing to be a biker chick. Still looking amused and pleased with himself, John watched me from the bed. "You gonna sleep in it?" "Maybe. Would you mind?" "Might make sex kind of hard." Sauntering over to the bed, I untied my robe and let it fall to the floor. I kneeled next to him on the bed and flipped the faceguard up. "Since we have matching helmets now, does that mean we're engaged?" I smiled as I spoke but immediately regretted saying it. What is it about women that we always have to put labels on relationships? So, there I sat, naked, wearing only a motorcycle helmet, with my foot in my mouth. I needn't have worried, though, because John, aside from being obviously aroused, threw back his head and laughed uproariously, then pulled me close. "Something like that, babe. Something like that." In July, we strolled around our town's annual Founder's Day Festival, hand in hand, the warm wind billowing the long skirt of my flowered sundress. I hadn't attended the festivities since my kids were small and delighted in sharing them with John. I almost felt like a kid again myself. We ate powdered sugar-covered elephant ears and Italian sausage sandwiches smothered in onions and peppers and drank fresh-squeezed lemonade. We rode the Ferris wheel and crashed into each other in the bumper cars. John even won a giant blue stuffed poodle from one of the carnival games, which he presented to me with mock seriousness. "For you, m'lady," he said with a deep bow. The sticky heat of August brought an end to our idyll. Our relationship was still satisfying, and I'd never felt so loved and happy, but things took a bit of a turn, and for the first time I had some doubts about us. Mid month, John asked me to help him choose a birthday gift for his daughter, Christy, whom I hadn't met. Actually, I hadn't met any of John's family, and it bothered me. He didn't seem especially close with any of them, except for his brother, whom he would occasionally mention. Still, it seemed kind of strange, but I hesitated to talk with him about it. Christy was in her mid twenties and married with two small children. John was thinking about a gift that the whole family would enjoy. "How about something just for her?" I suggested. "What do you mean?" "Well, she's a young mom and probably doesn't do much for herself or take much time just for herself." John grinned. "What would I do without you, babe?" "You'd be in trouble for sure." I laughed. "But I hope we never have to find out." "Me neither. I love you, Daisy." I think my heart skipped a beat every time he said it. He pulled me into his arms for a kiss. "I love you, too, honey." We settled on a spa day for Christy. John called an establishment in Camden, where she lived, and they agreed to print up a gift certificate for a manicure, pedicure, facial, massage, and haircut, which he would pick up that Saturday afternoon before the party. Perfect, right? The problem, though, was that I assumed I'd be accompanying John to the party and meeting his family for the first time. I guess I figured helping with the gift kind of sealed it. John never mentioned it again though. He was on the midnight shift at work that week, and when I talked to him briefly on Thursday, he said he'd see me on Sunday. "Sunday?" I was confused. "Yeah. I'm going to Camden on Saturday, remember?" I was stunned. "Oh, right," I stammered. Had I missed something? Become confused somehow? "Alright. I better get going. Love you, babe." "Okay. Bye." I hung up the phone. Yes, I was hurt, and when John showed up on my doorstep late Sunday morning, I couldn't hide it. He seemed perplexed by my coolness. "You gonna tell me what's bothering you?" I turned to look at him, and then went back to wiping down my kitchen counter. John sat down at the table and waited. I continued to bustle about the kitchen, putting things away, sweeping up crumbs. As I passed by him on my way to put the broom in the closet, John snagged me around the waist and pulled me onto his lap. After a brief, ineffective struggle to be free, I sat resignedly still, but refused to make eye contact with him. "I missed you," he murmured, nuzzling my neck. "Don't." "Why not?" he asked, with his lips pressed against my ear. "Because." I tried again to push him away. "Damn it, Daisy. Just tell me what the problem is. I can't read your mind." "How was the party?" "It was real nice. Now, tell me what's wrong with you." "Are you ashamed of me, John?" "What? Why would you even ask me that?" I simply sat and watched realization drop on him like a bomb. "Aw, shit." He let go of me and rubbed his hands over his face. I stood and returned the broom to the closet, slamming the door closed extra hard. "I really thought I'd be going with you." "I'm sorry, babe. It just never occurred to me that you'd want to go." He shrugged. "You don't find it strange at all that we've been seeing each other for what?" I paused to count on my fingers. "Like five months, and I've never met any of your family? Do they even know about me?" "No." He inhaled deeply and puffed his cheeks out as he blew the breath out between pursed lips. "You met my parents and Jeremy." My son, Jeremy, had spent the Fourth of July with his grandparents and me. "I love you, Daisy." "Pfffft. I know you do. Just not enough to meet your family, right?" He shook his head and shrugged again. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say." In the end, I let it go. I couldn't stay mad at him when he didn't argue or try to defend himself in any way. He simply apologized and, again, told me he loved me, as I stood in front of the kitchen sink, my hands braced on the counter. His arms wrapped around my waist. "I'm sorry," he whispered against my neck. His body pressed against mine, and he kissed the skin right below my ear. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, as his hands cupped my breasts. It's funny how anger can turn to arousal in the blink of an eye sometimes. I moaned and leaned against him, covering his hands on my breasts with my own and squeezing. Since John had been working the midnight shift, we hadn't made love in several days, and I was hungry for it. I was desperate to have him inside me, to possess him, to be filled by him. Reaching for the button on my denim shorts, I released it and unzipped them and pushed them down my legs. John held me with one hand, and unfastened his pants with the other. Both of us were panting as he pushed me down over the counter and stabbed into my pussy from behind. His hands grasped my hips as he slammed into me, causing my feet to nearly leave the floor again and again. I laid my hot cheek against the coolness of the countertop and lost myself in the frenzy of pleasure. John sneaked one hand around front, between my legs, and grabbed my mound from the top, his fingertips digging into my clit as he thrust against me. My howling, shuddering climax came quickly, and John soon followed, moaning and straining against me as he erupted. He sunk to the floor then, leaning his back against the cabinets, pulling me with him and into his lap. John's attitude toward me remained unchanged, if a little bit sweeter, maybe a bit more solicitous. The next day, a large vase of pink roses and daisies and baby's breath arrived with a card that simply said I love you. John. Though I was touched and relieved that things seemed to be getting back to normal, the doubts remained with me. We never spoke of the birthday party again or of me meeting his family at all. Yes, I decided to let it go, but it still bothered me. I tried to push it out of my mind, and even succeeded for days at a time. A few weeks later, for my birthday, John surprised me with a long weekend at a bed and breakfast inn in the country. We rode the bike there, and the day was cool and crisp and fragrant as a windfall apple, the first feeling of fall in the air. The quaint, graceful atmosphere of the big old house relaxed me almost immediately. Our room was tucked away on the third floor with a four-poster bed with a crocheted canopy. Dormer windows looked out over an emerald green lawn with a small lake and mountains in the distance. It was perfect. We spent the weekend wandering the countryside, picnicking, browsing through old antiques shops and Amish stores, and relaxing in the whirlpool tub in our room at the inn. It was beautiful and sweet. On the last night, we went to a Mexican restaurant in a nearby town that boasted 101 flavors of margaritas. We joked that we needed to try all of them and ended up drinking too many, laughing together the whole time. Truthfully, John shouldn't have been driving, but we made our way back to the inn without incident. Back in our room, we both tumbled onto the bed, laughing. "Oh, God, I ate too much!" I exclaimed. "Yeah, but it was good," John replied, drawing out the last word for emphasis. He lay on his back rubbing his belly and smiling at me, looking completely adorable in the pinkish glow from the bedside lamp. We'd had a wonderful weekend, and I wanted to make this night memorable. I wanted to make him feel loved and cherished and completed by me. Standing, I peeled off my clothes except for my bra and panties and tossed them on the floor, then clambered back up onto the high bed and straddled him. The smile never left John's face, as he closed his eyes and stroked his palms up my thighs. I leaned forward, bracing myself on my hands on either side of his head and kissed that smile. "Thank you for this weekend. It's been wonderful." "Mm-hmmm," he hummed against my lips, separating them with this tongue. I sucked his tongue into my mouth, tasting a hint of warm spiciness from the food we'd eaten earlier mingled with John's own taste. We continued kissing as I reached between us to unhook the front fastener on my bra and shrugged out of it. John's hands played over my bare back, the calluses on his palms rasping over my softer flesh, making me shiver. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of my panties to cup and squeeze my buttocks. I loved the roughness of his hands on me. The gentleness combined with the hardness nearly drove me wild. Most of the time I was content to let John take the lead in our lovemaking, but tonight I wanted to be in the driver's seat. My arousal at this point, however, had become so great that I didn't know if I could continue. Allowing myself to be swept along in John's wake was tempting, but I fought it, tamped it down, swallowed my lust. The key, it seemed, was to detach myself slightly, to not give in to my own hunger until his was satisfied. I rose, still straddling John's hips, and with a gentle rocking motion, ground myself against the bulge in his pants. He thrust his hips in response, rolling with me, as our eyes met. Keeping my eyes on his, I skimmed my fingertips slowly up my abdomen, arched my back, and cupped my breasts. My stiff nipples peeked out between my fingers as they brushed my skin. I squeezed the fleshy orbs, and their fullness overflowed my hands. "You're gorgeous," John murmured. I smiled as I began to unbutton his shirt. Starting with the top button, I worked my way down his body with my lips, kissing each bit of skin as it came into view, then pulled the tails free of his pants. My palms laid flat against his warm abdomen and skimmed upward, over the coarse hairs and his nipples, to his neck. I leaned forward again, ran the tip of my tongue up along the tendon on one side of his neck, and nipped his earlobe with my teeth. John groaned and tightened his arms around me. Nuzzling his neck, I worked my way back down and around to his throat, where I pressed a wide open-mouthed kiss. My tongue left a lazy damp trail down his chest to one nipple, which I circled, then sucked into my mouth. John clutched my head with his hands and gasped as my teeth closed on the hard pebble and pulled. Opening my mouth wide, I sealed my lips around his breast and sucked in, scraping my teeth slowly across his skin as my lips closed around the nipple once again. I sucked hard and pulled my head back, releasing him with a pop. "Mmmm, God, babe," he breathed, constricting his fingers in my hair. I scooted myself down, kissing and licking my way along his abdomen until I was kneeling on the bed between his legs. He watched through slitted eyes as I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and reached inside for his cock. Holding it in my hand, I kissed the tip and then sucked the whole head into my mouth. John groaned as I sucked and rubbed my tongue up and down the underside, concentrating on the ridge. My fingers tightened around the base of the shaft as I pushed the head further down my throat. John's hips began to jerk while he panted and moaned. The heat of John's arousal, not to mention my feeling of control and utter delight at my ability to give such pleasure, had me on my knees, squeezing my thighs together hard. I was so turned on, that I slipped my fingers inside the elastic at the crotch of my panties and rubbed my clit while I continued to suck John's cock. He must've been watching me, because as soon as I touched myself, he groaned and reached for me, grasping wildly at my head, then my neck and shoulders, pulling me up toward him. "Ah, Daisy," he panted. "Need to be. Inside." All but tearing my panties in my hurry to be out of them, I pulled them off and flung them across the room, then swung a leg across John's hips and slipped his cock into me. He grasped my hips so hard, his fingers bruised my skin, as I began to rock. Leaning forward on my hands so that he could thrust up into me, I matched his rhythm, and we climaxed together after only a few thrusts. The next day, feeling slightly battered but in high spirits, I rode home on the back of John's bike, enjoying the sunshine. We stopped for lunch at a family-style restaurant at the side of the interstate. A half hour from home, the sky clouded over, and the air cooled. As we pulled into John's drive, fat, cold drops of rain plopped on us. "Hey, just in time!" John exclaimed. We stood inside his garage watching the downpour, the sheets of water flowing down the windshield of my car, which sat in the driveway. I wrapped my arms around John's waist, laying my head on his shoulder, and we stood like that, just watching the rain. Finally, John said, "I have to get ready for work, babe." He kissed the top of my head and moved to pull away and go into the house. Reluctantly, I let go. Maybe I had a premonition this would be the last tender moment we'd share. Maybe a part of me knew this was it. Nevertheless, I followed him into the house. He headed down the hallway toward the bathroom. "Wait for me, okay?" he asked. "Sure." I thought I might save him some time by packing his lunch. I washed and dried my hands, then opened the fridge. The sound of the shower joined the patter of rain against the window as I piled sandwich fixings and fruit on the counter. The carafe for John's coffee maker looked like it could use a wash, and I was just doing that when the phone rang. John was still in the shower, and I wasn't sure if I should answer it or not. Thinking it might go to voice mail, I let it go for a few rings, then ran to the living room and grabbed it. "Hello?" "Who the fuck is this?" a woman's voice asked. Not to be outdone by some ballsy stranger, I said, "Well, who the fuck is THIS?" "Let me talk to John." "Excuse me?" I said. This was becoming annoying. I heard the shower turn off, and the bathroom door open. "Listen, bitch. You're in MY house, so do as I say," the woman shrieked. "Let me talk to that son of a bitch. Now." Somewhere in the back of my head a tiny synapse fired with a pinprick of pain that blossomed into a headache so severe, it would not leave me for days. "Who are you?" I asked again in a much quieter voice. "Who are you?" "Daisy." "Well, Daisy, you miserable cunt, you fucking piece of shit whore, this is his wife. Is he there or not?" John had walked into the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist. Our eyes met, and he must have seen the shock in mine and known what was happening because he tried to grab the phone. I turned away from him. "There must be s-some mistake. He doesn't have a wife," I stuttered. I felt as if this horrible woman had reached through the phone and eviscerated me with her sharp tongue. "Sure he does, slut. This is Mrs. John Hollingsworth, the loving wife of twenty-five fucking years. Now, please let me talk to my goddamn husband, you cock sucking cunt." I turned back to John and handed him the phone. He looked stricken. "It's your wife," I said. Hot tears filled my eyes and splashed over to scorch my cheeks. I'd never felt tears so hot. My one wish at that moment was that the ground would open and swallow me up to smother my pain in the cold dirt. "What do you want, Donna?" John asked. I could hear the crazy bitch go off on a rant. John held the phone away from his ear for a moment, then close again. Daisy Refined Ch. 02 "Listen, you can't just call here and..." He didn't get to finish. Turning on my heel, I headed back toward the kitchen, where I'd left my bag. "Daisy, wait." John called. I turned to look at him. "I can't deal with this right now, Donna. Listen. Just shut up for a minute and LISTEN!" he shouted. "I'll call you later." After a short pause, he said, "If you want anything from me, then you'll have to wait. I'm hanging up now." He thumbed the button on the phone and tossed it onto the couch. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm so, so sorry you had to listen to that." John sank down onto the couch and ran his fingers through his wet hair. The damned tears wouldn't stop, and on top of that, my nose was running. I wiped it against the back of my hand. "Daisy." John held a hand out to me. He looked as if he might burst into tears himself. I stood my ground. "You lied to me." He shook his head and leaned his elbows on his knees. "No, I didn't." "You did." I was openly sobbing now. "You said you were divorced." "I didn't say divorced. Just let me explain." "No." I scrubbed the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my wet face. "You told me you weren't married. How can you possibly explain that?" "Please, Daisy." "No!" ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I held his explanation, the letter, in my hands. What had I done? All my life I'd seen things as black and white. My ex-husband used to say that I carried a gas can and a box of matches with me, just so I'd be ready to burn bridges. Burn them, I did, with abandon, and I refused to look back. Refused to listen to excuses or explanations in all but the most rare circumstances. I remembered my grandmother saying to me, "Daisy, you've got to learn to forgive." "No, I don't." My response was curt, the sting of some childhood slight fresh and cruel. "You do, honey, as much for yourself as for the one who did you wrong." "Never." Nana just shook her head and left me to stew in my self-made misery. Had I been like this with my children? I wondered. I'd certainly been that way with their father, taking much too long to get over each triviality, and longer and longer each time until we'd go weeks without speaking, without touching, without sex. Considering this, I wondered if I'd forced him into lying and secrecy, just in order to get along with me. I wondered if, in the end, he'd simply turned to someone else less judgmental and more forbearing. Isn't that what it means to love someone, to be able to forgive transgressions, no matter how great? Didn't it also mean respecting them enough to listen to what they had to say? Maybe I hadn't loved my husband enough, but did I love John that much? Could I let it go? Nana's words came to me again. As much for myself as for him. I made the decision to let go of the resentment, the bitterness right there. I pictured it as a balloon filled with hot accusations, anger, bile, and, yes, my gas can and matches. In my mind I let the balloon go, and it floated slowly upward toward my Nana in heaven, where she smiled down at me. Nana's girl had learned her lesson at last, and it felt good. I just hoped it wasn't too late. I picked up the phone and dialed John's number. Again, it went directly to voicemail. "Hi, it's me again. Please, please call me. I really need to talk to you. It doesn't matter how late. I love you. Bye." There. I'd said it. Maybe he didn't feel the same way about me anymore, but that didn't matter. Maybe he'd already found someone else. I pushed that thought out of my mind and called Sandy's cell phone to see if she'd heard anything else. She hadn't. Next, I called the local hospital. The rather harried sounding receptionist told me they had no patient named John Hollingsworth. Yes, all the injuries from the refinery had been taken there. No other information was available. Where was he? I knew he'd call me back if he could. At least, I thought he would. Hoped he would. All I could do was wait. I tried reading to occupy my mind for a while but was too restless to concentrate on the paperback novel. I tried to watch TV, but nothing there could hold my attention for more than a few minutes either. It was after midnight by then. I paced back and forth in the kitchen, then in the living room. I tried John's number again. Still no answer. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I pulled on my coat, grabbed my car keys and the letter, and drove to his house. For a long time I simply sat in the driveway staring at the apparently deserted house. No lights were on inside. Only the porch light shone in the darkness. John's face still eluded me, no matter how hard I tried to see it. The awful truth, the terrible thought that he must be dead brought the ever-present tears to my eyes again. I got out of the car, still clutching the letter in my hand, and knocked on the front door. He could simply be sleeping, I thought. Of course, he didn't come to the door. I knew. I knew. There could be hundreds of explanations, my tired inner voice said. Maybe he went away. He could be visiting Christy. Maybe he'd taken a vacation. Maybe they'd made a mistake at the hospital. It could be anything. Right? Anything at all. But I knew. The horrible truth was there all along. Sinking down onto the cold concrete of the top step, I opened the letter again and read John's words by the dim light of the porch fixture. Dear Daisy, I always knew this day would come. I tried to protect you from it for as long as I could. How could I tell you the truth? I knew the kind of person you are. I knew you'd never stand for lying. The thing is, I didn't really lie to you, babe. I knew you believed I was divorced, and I probably should've told you otherwise, but I never actually lied. Maybe what I did is just as bad, but I wanted to tell you why. Yeah, Donna and I are still married. It hasn't been any kind of marriage for a long, long time, but on paper we are still man and wife. She hasn't lived with me in four years. Before that, we didn't even sleep in the same bed for almost ten years. That was all her choice. It hurt at first, but after a while, I just didn't care that much anymore. I guess I loved her at first. We were young, and she got pregnant. So, we got married. It seemed like the thing to do. I love my kids, so I never regretted it. She's real sick, physically and mentally. You talked to her, so you know what she's like. She can't help it though. It's been hard on her. Not feeling good has affected her mind and made her age way before her time. On top of all that, she started gaining weight with each one of the kids and never stopped. You know I like a woman to have some meat on her, so that wasn't an issue for me. It was for her though. It was just another thing that made her bitter and ugly inside and more unhappy. She was a really good mom at first, and the kids love her. Later on, though, she stopped doing things with them because of her weight. She had a hard time getting around, and other kids made fun of her. She knew our kids were embarrassed. Her mental illness became worse after that, and she stopped going out of the house unless she absolutely had to. No, I'm not blaming all our troubles on her. I wasn't always the best husband. There's no reasoning with her, and a lot of the time she's just downright mean. She's resentful and jealous of what other people have and the things they can do. That's the thing I never could stand, and there were a lot of times when I just lost it trying to deal with her, especially when it came to the kids. Anyway, I've done the best I could for all of them. Her and the kids. I probably should've divorced her years ago, but I feel like I still need to take care of her. It was my fault she got pregnant and we had to get married in the first place. Seems like that's where it all started. Sometimes I think if I'd have been a better husband, maybe she wouldn't be how she is. Like maybe if I'd have loved her more and been more understanding. Just been there for her more. She can't work, so she can't take care of herself. She lives in an apartment in one of those assisted living building, and she takes lots of medication. There's no way she could afford all that on her Social Security. I try to make sure she sees the best doctors, and I keep hoping she'll get better, but I don't think it's going to happen. I can't just desert her, Daisy. She's the mother of my kids. They love her, and I don't think they'd ever forgive me. What kind of man would I be if I let her fend for herself? I know you'd say I deserve a chance at happiness too. Maybe I do. I thought I'd found that with you. I wish I could make you understand. I know it hurt you when I didn't take you to Christy's party. I had to take Donna, though, so she could visit with the grandkids. I'm so sorry about that. I wish there'd have been some other way. I never wanted to hurt you, and now look what I've done. My heart is aching for you, and there's nothing I can do to make either of us feel better. I used to think that love made everything OK. Now I know it's not enough. I do love you, Daisy. So much it scares me sometimes. I loved you the first time I saw you, and that's the truth. I'm so sorry I hurt you, babe. I hope you can believe that and forgive me. Please talk to me. There's got to be some way we can work this out. John Tears plopped on the paper, blurring the ink. When I tried to brush them away, my hand smeared it even more, obscuring some of John's last words to me. His last words. I knew he was dead. He had to be. He'd have called me or come home. I'd lost him, and I still couldn't remember his face. Suddenly, a shadow darted at me from around the side of the house, causing me to cry out in terror. John's crotchety old cat, Fussbudget, who normally paid me no attention at all, wiped herself against my side and meowed. I pulled her into my lap and wrapped my arms around her, one hand still clutching the letter. "Where is he, Fussy?" I asked. Fussbudget curled herself into a tight ball on my knees and leaned her head against my stomach. I knew John would never have left her out all night. It was too much. Holding the crumpled letter to my face with one hand, the other arm wrapped around the cat, I sobbed and rocked my body to and fro. I didn't know what to do or where to look for him next. I'd reached the end of my tolerance and sunk into a hopeless pit of despair. My head ached from crying, and my eyes felt like they were nearly swollen shut. So, I simply sat there, with Fussbudget in my lap, my cheek against her silky warmth. The darkness in the eastern sky was just beginning to diminish, the first glimmer of light showing on the horizon, when I closed my eyes. I don't think I slept. I was much too cold and upset for that, but my mind just went blank for a while, Fussbudget's purring warmth lulling me into an exhausted trance-like state. A flash of bright light swept across my closed eyelids startling them wide open, as a vehicle turned into the driveway, its high beams swinging and bouncing across the front of the house and coming to rest. I was blinded for an instant, and then I saw it. John's truck. The door opened, and he stepped out. He hesitated for a moment, and then walked toward me. My stiff muscles refused to move, my stubborn mind refused to believe, and my stunned heart refused to beat, so I simply sat staring at him with my mouth open. Fussy jumped off my lap, and I finally forced myself to stand on the step just as John reached me. His face. How could I have forgotten that beloved face, even for a moment? Wrapping his arms around me tight, he laid his forehead against my shoulder and breathed my name. "You're alive," I whispered, holding him close and vowing to never again let him go. "You're alive!" ~* The End *~ ***Once again, I would like to thank my BFF for her excellent editing skills and endless patience and support.