Fools Paradise (23 page)

She seemed to be cheering up. Her face glowed. She pouted at the top of her lungs,
“You don't really love me!”

He almost wrecked it by laughing again.
“Do so. You—uh—your eyes are beautiful. I love 'em slanty. And you look hot in those little flimsy shirts. And I love your voice.”
He let his mouth run on autopilot while he tuned his ears to any possible faint sound from next door.
“I want to drive you to work every day. I want to bring you coffee in bed. I've loved you ever since you smiled at me that night.”
His mind raced, wondering what it would take to make Marty Dit realize what a scumbucket he was and stop listening.
“But you're not depraved enough for me yet, Daisy. You have to talk dirty to me.”

“Is that what turns you on?” she whispered. She was breathing fast.

He made a “gimme-a-break” face and cocked his head at the wall.

She grinned.
“Dirty talk? Ooo, Bobbyjay, I want to be your whore! Make me scream, Bobbyjay! Make me do sick, crazy things to your body!”

“Not yet, angelina,”
he said on an inspiration. That ought to send the old man up the pole.
“You first. What part of your beautiful body do I get to fuck first?”
He bounced on the bed for good measure.
Sproing, squeak-a squeak-a.

She grabbed his hips and pulled him over on top of her. Words dried up. All the blood in his head rushed into his undershorts. Together they bounced until the mattress bottomed out and the headboard smacked the wall.

“Oh, plee-ee-ease, suck my-y to-o-oes, Bo-ob-by-jay!”
she squealed.

Marty ripped away the headphones, yanking off Wesley's headphones at the same time.
Angelina.
He dared. That punk fucker dared to use Marty's pet name to her.
Was that how he seduced my little one?

He felt his chest tighten and, when Wesley reached for the knob to turn up the gain, he slapped the boy's hand away.

“Give me that,” he whispered over the dreadful sound of the headboard thumping the wall next door. He stood, pressing his hand to his chest.

Wesley's eyes widened. “Grampa, are you okay?”

“Turn it off,” Marty said. “Now. Give it to me.”

Slowly Wesley disconnected his spy gear and handed it over.

Marty patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. It wasn't the boy's fault. Sick at heart, he stumped out with the spy gear under his arm, closing the door silently behind him.

He slunk back to the master bedroom in a state of confusion. How could she love that moron, that lowest of the low, the Morton who stooged for the moronic Mortons?

His chest still hurt. He hoped he wouldn't have a heart attack.

Of course she was impressed with his muscles. The kid was almost a hundred percent brawn, with a teaspoonful of self-preservation.
I don't eat that fishy stuff.
What an idiot. Marty could have guffawed, only it hurt too much. And when had he started calling her
angelina?
Not—surely Daisy herself hadn't asked him to call her that!

The blood rushed unpleasantly in Marty's ears. He sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling alone.

Tears filled his eyes.
I'm losing my little girl.

He remembered watching the other one, forty years ago, walk away on the arm of his rival, and for a moment he thought his heart really was breaking.
Every one.
Every girl he loved went to a Morton. Marty was no fool, he knew how appealing those brawny idiots were.

But this was his own fault.

Hadn't he set himself up for this?
Surely you knew, you
sciocco,
that you would lose the little one to some man someday? Surely you knew it was your own folly, as much as his surfer-boy looks, that drove her away from you into his arms?

For a moment Irene's face rose before him, forty years younger, her glorious hair, her kind, brown, listening eyes.

He shook his head. To hell with that. It was more important to come to grips with what was happening for his
angelina
and...and do the right thing. Whatever that was.

Of course she was attracted to the beef. But the swiftness of it, how Bobbyjay had changed her life—no, the kid gave her more than a thrill.

He hadn't missed the way Bobbyjay stood up at the table whenever Fran or Daisy got up. He'd noticed how the two of them looked at each other. Like,
What are you thinking?
There was trust between them. How had that happened?

Marty thought of his own ex-wife, gone thirty-five years now. Had he ever looked at her like that? Had he even told her he loved her? When Irene married Bobby Morton, he had thought his heart would never beat again. He had married Gloria just to be married, so Irene wouldn't look at him with pity, so Bobby Morton wouldn't feel so much like he'd won. Marty looked down at his old hands on his knees, noting how the veins stood up and the nails were black. He felt cold.

Daisy wouldn't be marrying with so little. She cared. And Bobbyjay cared. Marty could see it in his eyes, the way he was always turned a little bit toward Daisy no matter where she was. Maybe they had a chance. If the moron loved her enough. If he could give up his idiotic loyalty to those
bastardos,
his family, and give it to the woman who would need it for the rest of their lives.

Filled with an unfamiliar humility, Marty wondered just how you got that kind of loyalty from a spouse. Did you give it first and hope for the best? Could you beat it into him? If anyone could do that, it was his Daisy. He thought of the stories coming back to him through the boys, about Daisy's exploits at work. He was proud of her. Maybe he had better tell her so. The way he felt right now, he might die of old age and sorrow before the wedding.
Don't let those things go unsaid.

Tears dripped onto his hands.
Go to bed, old man.
In the morning he would think more about how to test Bobbyjay's commitment to his granddaughter. He had to find out now, before they did anything more drastic—more drastic than sleeping together under his very roof!—whether Bobbyjay would continue to put his bride before his family.

Looking down in her face while he bounced on top of her, Bobbyjay felt his erection like a red-hot wire running straight up his body into his heart. She was so beautiful. Thank God he had his jeans on. She was staring up at him like Christopher Columbus looking at the Staten Island ferry, kind of amazed and kind of,
How did you get here first?

He had to be giving her a serious bruise on the thigh.

“Am I,” he panted quietly, “too heavy?”

She clutched his hips. “No,” she breathed when his ear came close to her mouth. A shiver ran through him. He never wanted this to stop.

The box spring bongoed on the floor and the headboard hit the wall, boing-whack, boing-whack.

A murmur of voices came from next door. Daisy clutched his shoulders and whispered, “I think it's working! Don't stop!” She raised her voice.
“Don't stop! Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus!”
she shrieked, and then she punctured his eardrum with a scream that deafened him in one ear and made him jizz in his undershorts. The headboard whacked the wall a few more times. Bobbyjay concentrated on not passing out from the sheer relief of sexual pressure, and tried not to smother her under his shoulder.

She puffed against his tee-shirt. Her heart hammered through her body into his chest. Her hands clutched his back. “Bobbyjay,” she whispered.

Well, that was embarrassing. Fun, though.

He relaxed. Every muscle in his body switched off. Beneath him, Daisy seemed to flatten out.

“Ya big lug,” she wheezed. “Move.”

He rolled over on his side. “I hope you're happy. I creamed my jeans.” She fit nicely into the hollow of his side. His lips rested naturally against her forehead and his eyes drifted shut.

“Well, I didn't,” she whispered, so quietly that it was hard to tell what she might be thinking. He realized that her body, warm and soft and molded against his, was not relaxed.

“Bobbyjay?” she whispered. She twisted in his embrace and looked at him. Her almond eyes turned up at the corners. She looked serious and open and wound-up-tight. “Mom told me specifically not to let you fall asleep on me.”

“Urk?” he said, regressing again.

“She says it happens with guys sometimes. They come really fast, especially young guys without a lot of self control. You have to stay awake.”

He swallowed. “That Fran. What a kidder.”

Daisy smiled up at him. His heart, still trying to calm itself, thudded harder. “My wonderful fiancé does not conk out on me. Mom said.”

It was the smile.

Now he got it. Suddenly he was wide awake, with ten itchy fingers. He smiled back, not believing his luck.

“‘Mom said,'” he mimicked. “‘Mom said.'”

He reached down, far down Daisy's leg, and slipped a finger down the top of her sock.

“This woman is gonna ruin her son-in-law's sex life,” he whispered. Red hot lava rushed up his backbone.

If she played along, he was in.

If she raised her knee, he was a soprano.

Eyes locked on his, Daisy slowly raised her knee. He slipped off her sock. Triumph roared through him.

“Tell me again how you want it,” he whispered.

Marty Dit heard a knock on his door. “What?” he said listlessly. His ex-daughter-in-law poked her head in.

“Marty? You okay?” Fran slipped into the room. “Don't look so mournful,” she said, sitting beside him on the bed and patting his hand. “It's for the best.”

Then she saw the spy gear he had taken away from Wesley still resting on the bed. Her expression darkened.

Oh, shit.
“Now, Fran—”

But it was like trying to hold back a typhoon.

“What have you been doing?” she began in a freezing voice.

“C'mon, Daze,” Bobbyjay whispered, looking not just smart for once, but handsome and adoring and incredibly kind. “Pretend I'm not some scumbucket journeyman waitress-hound. Pretend you hafta coach me, 'cause—” His breath caught. “'Cause I'm so dumb.”

She felt really dumb herself. She had not clue one what to tell him. Her pulse hammered in her chest, in her panties, in her ears. For something to say, she whispered, “Rub me all over?”

He smiled just as if this he'd been praying she would say that, so she felt better. And then he started to rub.

He reached down to her ankles again and took her foot in his hand. Suddenly she felt helpless. Dizziness made her sink back against him, she breathed in, and then something like music started playing inside. Gently, he squeezed. A rush of comfort and peace and happiness flew up through her body from that foot. She moaned.

He made a “Mmmm” noise and very slowly pulled his hand up her ankle, squeezing in gentle pulses. The rush was so strong that she gasped. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh.”

“Ssshh,” he whispered to her temple while his hand massaged her calf. “Give me the other foot.”

She bent the other knee and spooned herself against him. He did the thing with her other foot and she thought she would pass out. “How do you know to do that?” she murmured when the rush eased.

“When I tickled your foot,” he whispered, “you didn't stop me. And you blushed and got sweaty. And you looked away.”

“How does that tell you anything?” She twisted so she could see his face.

He blushed. “Uh, Weasel told me that stuff.”

“What, all that?”

“About the sweating. And he said, uh, girls won't look at you when you're doing something that makes them horny.”

Her heart felt like it would jump out of her chest. “Oh, is that so!”

“Shhh!” He leaned forward and touched her lips with his. A little happy sigh bubbled up in her chest. He looked so serious. She wanted to touch his face. When she licked her lips, she tasted his sweat.

“Well,” she whispered, less haughtily than she had intended, “for your information, Weasel doesn't know everything.” She writhed against him until they faced each other on the creaky old bed. “Do it again,” she whispered.